#every time i try to use blender it feels like this

[hyunebunx]

˖˙ ᰋ ── highlighter? what's that?

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. genre: fluff

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. a/n: very much inspired by the video hyun did with risabae <3 very self indulgent; hyun's a cutiepie and i wanna squish his cheeks. i hope you enjoy!! <3

“Baby, what is this?”

Hyunjin looks up from his phone in wonder, raising both eyebrows as you thrust a pink, round, and strange-looking sponge in his face.

He pauses, gaze finding yours, scoffing as your smile widens.

“A beauty blender. How stupid do you think I am?”

You can't help but laugh, putting the item away to cradle his face and place a soft kiss on his forehead. “Stupid isn't a word I actively associate with you, my love.”

You can feel him melt at your words, and as he leans into the touch to capture your lips, you pull back to get another product, as committed to the bit as one could be.

“What about this?”

Hyunjin is confused, a pout settling over his pillowy lips. He studies the pencil in your hand, stopping at the blunt tip that can barely tell him what color it's supposed to be anymore.

“Is this one of my drawing pencils? But I don't remember owning such a shade.” He takes it from your hand to have a closer look, studying it curiously. “A crayon?”

“A crayon, baby?”

He nods, smiling brightly. “I didn't know you got back into coloring! I'm so glad!”

He's too cute to disagree with, so your only response is a smile full of fondness as you turn away from him once again, setting the lip liner aside.

“What are you doing?”

“I saw this on tiktok.” Hyunjin groans loudly, letting his head fall back against the couch in the most dramatic manner he could muster. “It’s looked like so much fun! All you have to do is name these products you've seen me use hundreds of times.”

Your boyfriend shakes his head, staring at the ceiling in contemplation. “Nothing from that app can be fun.”

“So, you're not having fun?” You pout, trying to meet his eyes and weaken his defences.

Silence greets your question for a few heartbeats which aids you in hearing the gears in Hyunjin’s head working overtime, pondering over his next words.

Eventually, he sighs and grumbles under his breath. “I didn't say that...”

When Hyunjin returns to sitting properly, you hold up a familiar product he is bound to guess even with his eyes closed.

“That's lipstick. Your favorite one. You love peppering kisses all over my face while wearing it just so it would stain my skin.”

Your grin is so wide that your cheeks start to hurt, happiness contagious as it pulls the same smile from your previously grumpy boyfriend. “Great job, baby!” You clap, reaching out to run your hand through his short hair, the texture that has him resembling a hedgehog pleasant on your skin. As expected, he leans into your touch once again, like a moth drawn to a flame, or a cat craving affection after a whole day spent apart. At this point, you’re sure he’s not even aware of how often he does it.

“I got it right.” He mumbles, grabbing your other hand before you can run away to plant soft kisses all over your knuckles. “Now where’s my reward?”

“A reward?” You ask, raising a curious brow while your hand stills on his head. “What do you want?”

“You.”

Your heart flutters, somehow still not used to his characteristic boldness that never shies away from expressing what he desires, making you go weak in the knees without fail.

You weren’t done with him yet, but Hyunjin did have a point – his patience deserved a reward after getting roped into another one of your schemes, even though you could always tell he loved your spontaneous mind and silly ideas.

Without a word, you dip down to plant a sweet kiss on his awaiting lips, one that lingers for as long as you’re both willing to get lost in each other. Which is a long time, an eternity if only your need for air didn’t butt in every few minutes to ruin the moment.

His strong arms circle your waist, keeping you in place as he kisses all of your thoughts away. His cheeky tongue caresses your bottom lip as if politely asking for entrance. You comply, only for a fleeting moment, allowing him to taste you as your hands squish his cheeks together, unable to help yourself.

When you pull away, you’re both a little out of breath, lips red and slick with each other’s saliva. Hyunjin’s looking up at you after resting his chin above your stomach, eyes full of the love only you can ignite in him, and the sight doesn’t fail to pull on your sensitive heartstrings.

Gently, with utmost care, you wipe at his bottom lip, causing his hold on you to tighten and pull you even closer, almost seating you on his lap.

Somehow, you manage to twist your body in his embrace and reach for the next product, still not willing to give up on your game.

“Baby,” you coo, caressing his jaw, “do you recognize this one?”

Releasing you, Hyunjin reaches for the small product that looks even tinier in his big hands, inspecting it thoroughly. He’s turning it around, analyzing it from every angle, before finally figuring out how to open it. A gasp escapes his full lips as a cloud of glitter greets him, the particles flying in his face like they too longed for a chance at his love, to touch and kiss his face like you were just doing minutes prior.

“It’s so shiny.” He mumbles, in awe of all the colorful hues he can see in the white powder. “Is this the thing you put on your eyes? What was it called?”

You can’t help but laugh, your heart growing in size at the adorable look on his face, the furrow between his eyebrows you had to hold yourself back from kissing away. “I guess you can use it on your eyes as well, yeah.”

“It’s a highlighter, Hyun.”

“Highlighter?” Hyunjin whispers, still as lost as ever, searching his mind for all the memories in which he’s witnessed you use this thing.

You nod, grabbing his hand to help him dip his fingers in, gently. “See how it sparkles?”

Hyunjin is mesmerized, staring at the swatch you just did on his hand with the curiosity of a little kid that just received a new, shiny toy he couldn’t bring himself to tear out of the package yet.

The sight is so endearing that your heart threatens to jump out of your chest at any second, leaving you behind in favor of finding a new home among Hyunjin’s other organs, deeming him more worthy. That’s why, you let her dictate your next move, leaning down to sweetly peck his lips once again, a kiss he returns automatically.

Now, he’s frowning because of a whole other reason, holding himself back from chasing after your lips. “I got it wrong though?”

You shake your head, beaming. “It doesn’t matter. Your cuteness deserves a reward either way.”

The last thing you see is his bright smile before you turn your back to him again, reaching for the eyelash curler that is bound to give him some trouble.

Once Hyunjin’s doe eyes settle on the small piece of metal in your hands, his smile vanishes as an emotion resembling fear clouds the chocolate color.

“Absolutely not! Get that torture device away from me!”

Oh, how much you loved your boyfriend and his dramatic antics.

[itsnotyouithink]

AFRAID

pairing: tara carpenter x fem!reader

summary: tara feels like she knows you - your charm, busted ankle, and the desire to be the best. but, after attending mindy’s long-awaited student film festival, she realizes she barely knows what’s underneath the obsessed artist you are.

warnings: mature language, torn acl (rip)

word count: 6.1k

author’s note: not so sure about this chapter but here it is!

previous part | next chapter

——————

The second the front door clicks shut behind you, a collective exhale leaves your group like you've just disarmed a bomb. You all freeze for a second, waiting for some noise from inside — a thud, a groggy Sam scream, the unmistakable sound of Tara trying to use the blender at one in the morning.

Nothing.

Mindy silently throws her head back, arms raised to the sky like she's seen God. "Holy shit. I didn't think we were gonna make it."

"She kept saying her key was in her boot," Chad adds, wiping a line of sweat from his forehead. "She wasn't wearing boots."

"I'm still emotionally recovering from when she tried to kiss the doorknob goodnight," Anika says, tugging her oversized cardigan tighter around her shoulders as you all start heading back toward campus. The pavement is wet with leftover rain, glistening in the streetlights. The air smells like hot dog water, weed, and victory.

"She thought the doorknob was a person," Mindy corrects. "She said, and I quote: 'You've always seen me for who I really am.'"

You laugh — harder than you mean to — and your breath clouds up in the air in front of you. Everything feels a little surreal. Your ankle still aches from the game, your voice is half-gone from yelling, and there's a dried smear of Gatorade on your sweatshirt, but none of it matters.

Because you won. And Tara was there. Watching. She showed up to the party, drunk off her ass from frat-party vodka and looking at you like you'd hung the moon.

"Okay, but," Chad says, suddenly grinning. "She was kinda obsessed with you tonight."

You glance at him, playing dumb. "What?"

"Oh, don't 'what' me." He bumps your shoulder. "Every time you touched the ball, she gasped like she was watching a murder documentary. And when you hit that floater in OT? I swear to God, she grabbed my arm and whispered, 'That's my favorite play.'"

"She doesn't even know what a floater is," Mindy mutters.

"She knows now," Chad says, wiggling his eyebrows. "Because her hot jock crush did it."

"I don't have a—" you start, but Anika cuts you off, spinning around to walk backward in front of you.

"Oh please. She was basically wrapped around your shoulder the whole walk home. If she had been even one tequila shot more coherent, she would've proposed."

You shove your hands in your pockets and look down at the sidewalk, trying to hide the way your face is heating up. "She was drunk."

"Drunk minds, sober hearts," Mindy intones like it's gospel.

You roll your eyes, but it's no use. They've got you cornered, and they know it.

And maybe it's not just teasing. Maybe there's truth under it — in the way Tara had leaned against you like you were gravity, or how she'd looked at you with those sleepy brown eyes and whispered, "You smell like orange Gatorade. I think I love you." You'd laughed at the time, brushed it off like a joke.

But now? Now you're not so sure.

Your friends keep talking — Chad's going on about post-game waffles, Mindy and Anika are arguing over the ethics of shipping real people — but your mind stays back at that house, with that girl.

The night's cold, but you're buzzing.

And you're not sure if it's the win, or if it's her.

Your dorm is quiet. Everyone else is probably passed out — teammates drunk off cheap beer, fans still posting shaky game clips to Instagram. Your ankle's elevated, still sore from overtime. You've showered, iced, changed, but your brain hasn't shut off. Not with the win. Not with her. Not with the amount of alcohol you should've never touched an hour ago.

But you were used to this - your brain never quite shutting up. Celebratory parties had been a normal occurrence for the basketball team this past year with your sudden burst of talent. But nonetheless, it still hit you like a truck.

You're lying on your bed, one arm behind your head, scrolling through your camera roll — not looking for anything in particular, just avoiding sleep. You stop when you get to a photo someone AirDropped after the game. A blurry shot of you mid-jump shot.

And in the background — Tara. Sitting just a little too close to the court. Hands cupped around her mouth, eyes locked on you.

Your phone buzzes.

Tara Carpenter [2:11 AM]

question

if i showed up at your door right now

would you make me food

or would you kiss me

just wondering

Tara Carpenter [2:13 AM]

ignore that

tequila and shame

i'm gonna disappear now

You [2:14 AM]

depends

what kind of food

what kind of kiss

Tara Carpenter [2:15 AM]

food: grilled cheese

kiss: the kind that makes people sit down after

You [2:15 AM]

damn

you're aiming high for 2am and no warning

Tara Carpenter [2:16 AM]

you played good tnn

i'm vulnerable

Tara Carpenter [2:16 AM]

and you won the game

and looked stupuudly hot doing it

so maybe this is your fault actually

You don't respond right away. You're reading every word like it's written in code, like she's going to take it back the second you answer wrong.

Then:

You [2:19 AM]

i'd let you in

grilled cheese first

kiss second

then you can pretend it never happened in the morning if that makes it easier

There's a pause. You stare at the message. Your heart is a little louder now.

Then:

Tara Carpenter [2:22 AM]

i wouldn't want to forget

just wouldn't know what to do after

That one stays on your screen for a long time.

You don't move.

You reread it five times.

Then you type:

You [2:25 AM]

maybe don't think about the after yet

just think about the now

and the fact that i want you here

Typing... Then:

Tara Carpenter [2:26 AM]

that makes two of us

fuck

goodnight

And that's it.

No emoji. No follow-up. No jokes to soften the edge.

Just honesty. Brief and blazing.

And now you're just lying there, heart pounding, wide awake at 2:30 AM — smiling like a fucking idiot.

⸻

Tara Carpenter is ninety percent sure she died last night and this is purgatory.

She's seated on the lowest step of the auditorium stage, hunched forward in a hoodie she stole from Mindy three months ago and never gave back. Her hair is pulled into the kind of messy claw clip arrangement that says I've given up, and her sunglasses are oversized, crooked, and doing a barely adequate job shielding her from the blazing overhead lights Mindy insisted on turning to "full stadium brightness."

The room is a disaster: folding chairs half-unstacked, extension cords snaking across the floor like live wires, glitter already stuck to Tara's socks. There's a faint buzzing from the AV booth that's threatening to break her last functioning brain cell in half. And through all of it, Mindy is marching around the room like a caffeinated auteur on the verge of a nervous breakthrough.

"Can someone explain to me why the projector screen is hung at a 73-degree angle?" Mindy calls, pointing dramatically at the ceiling like she's directing Inception. "I said cinematic, not asymmetrical trauma!"

"Those are the same thing," Tara mutters from her corner.

"I heard that!"

Tara slumps further into herself and presses her forehead to her knees. She is not built for this. She is built for drinking four and a half tequila shots, dancing to Rihanna, sending risky texts at 2 a.m., and then disappearing for a full 24 hours. Not public service. Not ladders and paper lanterns and Mindy yelling things like "non-linear aesthetics."

"You good down there, T?" Chad asks from a few feet away, where he's unraveling yet another string of tangled fairy lights with all the enthusiasm of a man serving time.

"I'm thriving," she mumbles, deadpan.

"I think I saw your soul leave your body ten minutes ago," Anika adds, stepping over an extension cord with a roll of black gaffer tape in one hand and an iced chai in the other.

Tara lifts one middle finger, then rests her head back on her knees.

And then—

The doors open.

They creak a little too loudly, and Tara winces like a vampire mid-sunrise. But when she lifts her head and looks toward the light, the glare fades — and there you are.

Hoodie on. Sweatpants. That familiar confident walk that says you definitely slept in. And in your hand: a brown paper bag, slightly grease-stained, clutched like a talisman. You scan the chaos, zero in on her like a heat-seeking missile, and start walking.

Tara's stomach flips.

It's you. With food. And a smile she absolutely does not trust.

She immediately looks away. Bites the inside of her cheek. Tries very hard to pretend she didn't send a string of late-night texts about kissing you and sandwiches — in that order — and then double texted. It's fine. You probably didn't read them. You probably forgot.

But then you're right in front of her.

"Morning, Princess of Darkness."

She peers up at you over the rim of her sunglasses. "Are you here to help or just to mock me?"

"I brought you breakfast." You shake the paper bag like it's a peace treaty. "Which technically makes me a hero."

She stares at it, suspicious. "What is it?"

"Grilled cheese. Fresh off the griddle. Or, like... fresh-ish. I stole it from a freshman who looked like he might cry if I made eye contact."

She sighs. "You are so full of shit."

"And cheddar," you say, winking. "Come on. I figured you were still deciding between kissing me or eating, and I didn't want to make you choose on an empty stomach."

Tara turns fully toward you, pulling her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose like a judgmental librarian.

"So you read the texts."

You grin. "Printed them out. Had them laminated. Gonna hand them out at the next team dinner."

She narrows her eyes. "I hate you."

"But," you say, crouching beside her and placing the bag in her lap, "you're also currently accepting my grilled cheese."

She opens the bag with caution, like it might bite her. The sandwich is slightly flattened, a little too crispy on one side, but it smells amazing. She takes a bite before she can stop herself and immediately closes her eyes.

You watch her chew with a smirk.

"See? Better than your drunk imagination."

"I was imagining more cheese," she says flatly. "But this is... acceptable."

You fall back onto the floor beside her with a satisfied sigh, arms behind your head. "I bring you comfort food and witty banter and you still insult me. Incredible."

Tara glances sideways at you. Her voice softens just a touch. "You didn't have to bring anything."

"I know," you say, looking up at the ceiling. "But I wanted to."

There's a beat. Her fingers tighten around the sandwich.

Across the room, Mindy is shrieking about someone using duct tape on the "vintage projection screen," and Chad is pretending to care. But here, in this little corner of the chaos, it's just you and Tara — her hoodie sleeves too long, your shoulder brushing hers, the ghost of last night's texts still hanging between you.

She nudges your arm with her elbow. "If I was drunk when I said I wanted to kiss you, does that mean you're gonna hold it against me forever?"

You glance at her. "Nope."

"Really?"

You smile.

"I'm gonna hold it against you now. You know. Just in case you want to say it again — sober."

She stares at you. Eyes sharp. Mouth twitching.

Then she takes another bite.

"Shut up and eat your own grilled cheese," she mutters.

"You didn't bring me one."

She leans back against the stage with a sigh and tosses you a crust. "Sucks to suck."

An hour later, lights are strung, the banner's (slightly crooked) but finally up. Chad's been gone for at least forty minutes, Mindy's yelling about lens ratios from behind a stack of folding chairs, and Tara — uh, well — Tara is sitting at the edge of the stage again, legs dangling, your half-eaten grilled cheese in one hand, the other tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Her sunglasses are finally off. Her eyes are tired but clear now — and every time they glance at you, it's like the rest of the room fades.

You're standing just a few feet from her, tangled lights still wrapped loosely around your arm, pretending not to notice how she's watching you. Like you didn't spend the night texting each other things that neither of you have acknowledged since.

She licks a bit of melted cheese off her thumb and mumbles, "This is terrible, by the way.

You smirk. "And yet you're still eating it."

"I'm fragile and easily manipulated by carbs."

You walk over, gently toss the rest of the tangled lights onto a plastic chair, and say, "I'll keep that in mind next time I bribe you."

She hums. "Next time? Oh, you wanna hang out with me more, Varsity?"

You freeze for a second. You weren't expecting that, you never do whenever she calls you a stupid nickname. But then your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out.

You feel the shift before you even check the time.

It's subtle — a change in the way your heartbeat settles, the way the lights on stage suddenly feel too bright, the way your chest starts to tighten like something's wrong.

1:06 PM.

Shit.

The press junket started at 1.

You were supposed to be there fifteen minutes early. Hair neat. Posture perfect. Answers locked and loaded — the same way you've been doing since you were fifteen, since the day they threw you in front of a local news camera after your first 30-point game and said, "Smile like that again, kid, and you'll get a full ride."

You've been smiling ever since.

You were the one who never broke routine. The one who never flinched. Early to every team meeting. First out on the court. Face of the program. Captain. Role model. The "serious one." You didn't have time to mess around. Didn't give anyone room to doubt you — not your coaches, not your family, not the girl who said once, "You never shut off, do you?"

But now?

You're in a dim auditorium filled with tangled fairy lights, folding chairs, and a last minute Postmates half-eaten grilled cheese cooling in a paper bag next to Tara Carpenter.

She's sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of you, hair up in a loose clip, hoodie sleeves swallowed over her hands. There's a streak of red marker on her wrist from the banner she was working on earlier, and she's squinting up at the projector screen like she actually cares if it's perfectly centered.

You were supposed to stop by. Just for a second. Mindy asked for help. You said sure.

But really — it wasn't about the projector. It was never about the projector.

You wanted to see her.

Tara, who hasn't brought up your late-night texts.

Tara, who took the grilled cheese without flinching.

Tara, who hasn't stopped looking at you like she knows you're off your game, but hasn't said a word.

You tear your eyes away from her, throat dry.

"I have to go," you say, already backing up. Your voice comes out tight. "I'm—I'm so late."

Tara looks up, blinking like she just realized you were still here. "What?"

"Press. I was supposed to be at media by 11:40."

Her brows raise. "You're over an hour late?"

You grab your bag. "I lost track."

"Since when do you lose track?"

The words sting more than they should. You offer a tight smile. "Guess I'm slipping."

She watches you. Doesn't say anything. Just picks at the corner of the sandwich bag.

"I'll see you later?" you ask.

She shrugs. "You know where to find me."

That one hits low.

You don't say anything else. You turn, push the auditorium door open, and walk out into the light. Your heart's in your throat. Your legs feel heavier with every step.

For the first time in months, you feel like you're walking into something unprepared.

⸻

You don't see her at first.

You're running — not sprinting anymore, but that focused, panicked jog that says you know you're already late. Your legs ache. Sweat's pooling between your shoulder blades. Your chest is tight, but not from exertion. It's the shame. The spiral.

You shouldn't have stayed at the auditorium that long.

You shouldn't have forgotten what time it was.

You shouldn't have let her get to you like that.

And then you round the corner — cut behind the old campus bookstore — and she's there. Like a trap you didn't see until it was too late.

Leaning against the back of the brick wall like she's exactly where she was always meant to be. Hoodie unzipped. Leg up on the wall. A crutch tucked under her arm. Messy curls. Faded knee brace visible just under the hem of her biker shorts. And eyes locked on you before you can even process what's happening.

Riley.

You stop short.

Your breath catches. Your heart — already sprinting — stumbles in your chest.

She hasn't changed.

Still has that smirk that dares you to do something reckless. Still wearing her hoodie like armor, sleeves shoved up to her elbows. Still chewing gum like she owns the sidewalk.

"You're late," she says, voice cool and unbothered.

You blink. "Riley."

"I heard you dropped forty last night," she adds, straightening slightly. "Big win. Real press-junket shit."

"I have to be there now," you say, already trying to step past her. "I can't—"

She moves just a little. Not blocking your path. But not exactly making it easy, either. "I'm not gonna keep you," she says. "Just thought it was funny. Watching you run like that."

You don't answer.

She cocks her head. "You always used to walk. Strutted like you didn't owe anyone anything."

"That was a long time ago."

"One year," she says. "Not that long."

You glance at your watch. Time slipping like sand.

"I can't do this," you mutter.

Riley exhales a laugh — sharp and low. "Why? 'Cause it's not part of your little routine? Wake up. Stretch. Get coached. Smile for the cameras. Pretend the game still matters."

Your jaw tightens. "It does matter."

"To who?" She steps in, voice low now, less mocking — more real. "You used to play with teeth. You remember that? You'd claw for the ball like it owed you rent. Elbows out. Head down. Angry. Mean. Beautiful."

You look away.

"I remember," she says. "You were fire back then. You played like the world hurt you and you were gonna hurt it back."

"I had to."

"No, you wanted to. That's what made you better than everyone else."

She's closer now. You can smell her — vanilla and sweat and old gym floors. You remember late nights in the rec center, the sound of rubber on concrete, her laugh echoing off empty bleachers. You remember splitting a pack of Sour Straws and a warm water bottle between you and calling it dinner. She was your best friend - your role model in the sport of basketball, but since her injury the two of you had never been the same.

You took her spot as the best player on the court and she hated you for it.

"You've gone soft," she says.

You flinch.

She nods toward your chest. "Press junkets. Gatorade deals. You used to burn. Now you just, kind of… float."

"I've changed."

"Yeah. You have." She says it like a compliment. But it feels like an insult.

Your voice is small when you say, "That's a good thing."

Riley looks at you — really looks at you — and for a second, there's no smile.

Just honesty.

"You don't even look like you believe that."

You inhale sharply. Stare past her. Focus on the double doors to the athletic center. Focus on anything but the guilt blooming behind your ribs.

"I have to go," you say.

She steps back, slow, letting you pass.

"You always do."

You're already walking away when she calls out behind you. "Hey. You were more dangerous when you were angry. Now? You're just trying to be liked. Hope that works out for you."

You keep moving. You don't look back.

But something in you flickers.

Something old.

Something red and hot and loud.

You tell yourself you're better now.

You tell yourself she's wrong.

But God, it would feel good to play like that again.

You shove the door open to the athletic wing and instantly feel it — the shift in temperature, the sterile fluorescent light, the silence that isn't really silent.

The press room is just down the hall, past the trophy case and the wall of grainy team photos. You can hear muffled voices inside, the tap of a mic being adjusted, someone clearing their throat. And standing just outside the door, back to you, arms crossed so tight his biceps strain against his quarter-zip?

Coach Ryan.

He turns before you can even open your mouth. "You wanna explain to me what the hell this is?"

You freeze.

He walks toward you in three long strides, and suddenly he's too close — the way he gets when he's really mad. That sharp cologne. The clipboard clutched in his hand like it's the only thing keeping him from throwing something.

"I gave you one job. One. Show up. Look sharp. Represent this team."

"Coach, I—"

"You're over an hour late," he snaps. "An hour. Do you know how bad that looks?"

"I was—"

"Don't say film club," he growls. "Don't give me that bullshit again."

You clamp your mouth shut.

"You think you're untouchable because you dropped forty last night? You think that means you get to roll in here whenever you want, looking like you just crawled out of bed?"

Your jaw clenches. "It wasn't like that."

He jabs a finger at your chest. "Then tell me what it was like."

You open your mouth. Close it again.

You can't say Riley's name. You won't say Mindy’s.

So you lie. "It was tutoring."

Coach stares at you.

His voice goes quiet — which is worse. So much worse. "Don't test me."

You look away.

"I stuck my neck out for you," he says, still low. "Told them you were the future of this program. Told them you were a leader. You're lucky your teammate's been covering your ass in there. You're lucky the press is obsessed with you right now. But that shine fades fast, kid."

Silence.

Then: "You think you're focused, but I see it. You're slipping. Just enough. Just enough for someone to start wondering if you're worth betting on."

That one lands. You feel it deep. In your chest. In your stomach. In your legs.

You finally meet his eyes. "I'm still locked in."

Coach steps closer.

"Then prove it. Get in there. Own the room. And stop letting whatever—whoever—is pulling your focus drag you off the court."

You nod, stiff. "Yes, sir."

He doesn't step aside. Not yet.

"You screw this up again?" he says, voice deadly quiet. "You're not starting next week. I don't care how many points you drop. I need consistency. Not drama."

You swallow hard. "I understand."

Finally, he moves.

You walk past him toward the press room, trying not to feel how heavy your feet are. You swipe your hoodie sleeve across your forehead. You adjust your posture. You smooth out your face.

By the time you open that door, you're someone else. Smile tight. Shoulders straight. Answers ready.

But in the back of your mind, Riley's still there.

And Coach's words echo louder than the flash of any camera.

"You're slipping."

⸻

The lighting is low and warm, the air smelling like popcorn, eucalyptus body spray, and a flicker of something sweet from the nearby snack table — maybe pink lemonade punch or store-brand cupcakes with too much frosting. Fairy lights zigzag across the ceiling, flickering slightly, and someone's pressed a red filter over the projector so the entire room glows faintly like an afterparty no one invited you to — but everyone showed up for anyway.

And then there's you.

Not overdressed. Not showy. But the kind of unintentionally perfect that turns heads anyway. You're wearing a soft white tank-top over your favorite push-up bra — too much, in your mind, actually — right above your loose jeans. Your jacket is cropped, dark green, slightly faded at the collar, the kind you've worn to death and still get complimented on. Hair half-up with a claw clip, a few strands falling in that soft, face-framing way. Lip balm. Gold necklace layered with a team pendant. Nails painted — chipped, but still pretty.

You enter with your team behind you — your teammates trailing like a tide. All chaos and all clearly dragged here against their will.

Zoey, in bike shorts and a "Property of Women's Basketball" hoodie, is yawning dramatically while balancing a snack plate in one hand and a Gatorade in the other. Tasha, always dramatic, has a silk headscarf and a matching mini-purse slung over her shoulder, even though she's wearing sweats. Naomi, queen of judgment, is already critiquing the zine like it's a Yelp review. "Why are there six films about grief and none about revenge? Film kids are so unserious."

You settle into the back row with them, dropping into the middle seat like a queen returning to her court. You tug your jacket sleeves over your hands and glance forward —

— and you finally see her for the first time since the morning.

Fourth row. Burgundy dress with a slouchy knit cardigan thrown over it now, sleeves pushed up. She looks the opposite of death - a contrast of how exhausted she looked that morning. Her boots are laced all the way, but one sock is slightly rolled. Her hair's up, her gloss is fresh, and she's surrounded: Mindy, pacing like a tiny director; Anika, lounging with a lollipop in her mouth. They look like a perfectly styled trio of indie film festival royalty.

Tara hasn't looked back.

But her shoulders tense when you laugh.

And when your teammates loudly drop into their seats behind her row, exchanging gum and talking way too loudly about how "the girl in that poster kinda looks like you," she adjusts her cardigan like she's trying to focus. Like something is under her skin.

You lean toward Zoey and take a sip of her drink without asking. "You think anyone here knows what a pick and roll is?" you whisper.

Zoey scoffs. "No. But they definitely know what sexual repression looks like. And I think you're the cause."

You huff out a laugh — but your eyes flick back toward Tara.

She still hasn't turned around.

But she knows.

You're here. You're watching.

And she's wearing that dress like it's armor now.

Mindy taps the mic at the front, the room buzzing low with whispers and last-minute texts. "Welcome to REEL LOVE, a night of short films, long feelings, and no budget," Mindy deadpans. "Please don't leave during the one that's silent and sad. It's about grief, and also bees.”

Laughter rolls through the room. You smile without meaning to.

The lights dim. The screen flickers. A lo-fi opening title card appears. And as you shift in your seat, tugging your jacket a little tighter, you swear Tara glances over her shoulder.

Just once.

Long enough to see you.

Long enough to know she's not winning tonight.

Not when you look like that.

Not when you don't care if she looks or not.

⸻

Tara Carpenter is not the type to overdress.

But the maroon dress isn't overdressed — it's calculated. Soft velvet, subtle square neckline, sleeves that hug her wrists. Her hair's up, gold clip catching under the theater lights every time she leans in to whisper something to Anika. The kind of outfit that says: I came to support my friends. I came to look hot doing it.

And maybe — maybe — she came to see if you'd say something.

You're two rows back, stretched out with your teammates like you own the row. Laughing too loud. Throwing popcorn at each other. Every time the light from the screen flickers just right, she swears you're looking at her.

The festival's going well. Mindy's lineup is tight. The shorts are weird, sharp, short enough to keep the crowd from shifting in their seats. Everyone's relaxed. Comfortable. Tara even laughs once — really laughs — when a claymation character swan-dives into a bowl of tomato soup.

She leans in toward Anika, "I need to pee. Save my seat."

Anika nods without looking.

Tara stands, smooths her skirt, and slips into the glowing aisle light.

The hallway outside is jarringly bright. Stark white. Cold tile floors. The overhead lights buzz faintly — the kind of artificial hum that makes you feel like you're waiting for something to go wrong.

Tara rolls her shoulders back, stretching out the tension from sitting. She glances toward the restroom, already halfway there, when she hears them.

Two girls.

Standing by the water fountain, dressed in layered thrift-store cardigans and vintage skirts that scream effortless film major. One of them is fiddling with a camcorder keychain. The other's reapplying clear gloss, talking with the ease of someone who always assumes she's being listened to.

"I saw Riley last night at the club off Main Street and now I see Y/N tonight? Such a small world, to be honest. But, I still can't believe Y/N just walks around like nothing happened."

"Right? Like, full smile, no guilt, just... laughing with her little team."

"It's so insane. Everyone knows she's the reason Riley doesn't even go here anymore."

Tara slows mid-step.

Her brow furrows.

“She didn't break her knee, obviously, but she made sure that spot stayed closed, you know? Riley tried to come back."

"Yeah, and Coach just 'couldn't make room' Please."

"Exactly. And now she's all over Mindy and Tara like she's some reformed jock lesbian with a Letterboxd account."

“She’s totally trying to date Tara.” The girl with the lipgloss snickers, “I heard she asked Carpenter to tutor her.. classic athlete stereotype.”

Laughter.

The mean kind. Shiny and sharp and fast.

"Honestly, I give her a month. Tops. She'll ghost both of them, she’ll stop acting dumb in school and date a junior in a varsity jacket who thinks Carol is a foreign film."

"Tara's so smart. Like, how does she even fall for that?"

"Because she thinks she's different around her. They always think that."

Tara goes still. Fully still.

Not angry.

Not shocked.

Just — hit.

Like someone tossed cold water at her chest, and now she's trying not to react. The voices around the corner don't lower. They're not trying to be quiet. They're trying to be right.

She stares ahead at the wall, blank. Posters curl at the edges. Someone's missing cat flyer flutters in the AC vent breeze and for the first time tonight — maybe the first time since you showed up in her world with that lopsided smile and quiet confidence — Tara thinks:

Who are you? Like… actually?

Because yeah, you bring her grilled cheese when she's too hungover to move. You show up to study sessions half-asleep but still remember the exact timestamp of the scene she couldn't stop analyzing. You lean into her space like it belongs to you, throw her looks across the quad that make her forget how to breathe. You flirt like it's your first language, but every now and then — every rare now and then — it softens into something that feels like maybe you mean it.

And maybe she started to believe it.

But you also have this whole other version of yourself tucked away like it doesn't exist — a version she's only just starting to glimpse through whispers and side-eyes and conversations she wasn't supposed to hear. A version that makes her realize how much you've chosen to keep from her.

Not lies.

Just... silence.

That's almost worse.

Because now she's re-running everything. The study sessions. The walks home. The near-moments that could've been something more if either of you were better at being honest.

And she realizes:

She doesn't really know you.

She knows about you. The things you let people see, the cool detachment. The jokes that always come before sincerity, the way you brush off compliments like they're nothing but flinch when someone says your name with real weight. She knows you're good at math, that your coach rides you harder than anyone else on the team, that your teammates trust you but don't really get you.

She knows your dad's a sore spot. She knows there's something buried there — something bitter and sharp — but you've never said a word. She's guessed at it, sure. She's pieced things together from the way your face hardens when family gets mentioned, from the times you go quiet after a win, like celebration doesn't feel safe.

She knows. But not because you told her.

Because she watched.

Because she paid attention.

Because she wanted to understand you without you ever asking her to.

And maybe... maybe that was the problem.

Because Tara does the same thing.

She hides behind precision. Behind snark and sarcasm and perfect eyeliner. She controls her space — her image — like it's armor. And the worst part? She thought maybe you understood that. She thought maybe that's why this thing between you felt different. That you saw each other's closed doors and knocked gently instead of barging through.

But tonight — hearing people talk about you like they know you — Tara realizes something gutting: She doesn't know if you'd ever open the door at all.

And it's not that she thinks you're cruel. Or calculated. Or cold.

It's that maybe you're just like her.

Too used to surviving to let anyone all the way in.

And that terrifies her. Because if she was letting herself hope — if she thought this meant something — then what does that say about her, falling for someone who never promised anything real?

She thought the flirting had weight. She thought the silence between jokes mattered.

She thought maybe you were waiting, like she was.

But maybe you were just good at pretending.

And she was just easy to believe it.

She walks back into the auditorium quietly. Shoulders straight. Dress clinging just enough to feel present.

She takes her seat next to Anika.

Doesn't look back.

Doesn't lean sideways.

Doesn't laugh when your teammates burst out giggling during the next short's credits.

She crosses her arms. Picks at her thumbnail. Tries to focus on the screen.

But your laugh carries.

And suddenly, it sounds a little different.

————

second author’s note: this was written at 4am no proofread so bare w me

[charliemwrites]

Still thinking about Nikto, and that anon ask I answered just a bit ago.

Content: Dissociation/Depersonalization, Unhealthy (not harmful) Coping Mechanisms, Codependence, Trauma/PTSD symptoms, Sexual Themes

After the hallway incident you’re a bit shaken. A life of a heavy burden, but your shoulders are used to the weight; you’re a medic. But what Nikto offered you in the hallway — no, not offered, but gave, devoted. It makes it hard to breathe.

You’re not sure if what he’s seeking (or perhaps found?) is solace or penance. You don’t think you have much say in the matter really. If God asked His disciples to stop worshipping, would they?

The comparison feels too bold, even in the privacy of your own mind. Smacks of narcissism and ego. You don’t feel powerful. You feel scared. Of what it means to hold this broken, burdened man in the palm of your hand, trying to keep all the pieces together without cutting yourself on them.

Don’t be so careless with your life, you told him.

He’s taken those words as religious creed. He doesn’t storm around corners, guns blazing anymore. Doesn’t drop from heart-stopping heights to stamp-sized targets. Hes not the first one out nor the last one in anymore — though he never lets you get out first or hop in transport last either.

Suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise.

He cares for his wounds now, too. Cleans and changes them regularly, doesn’t over exert them before they’ve healed. You’re so dizzy on pride in him that you kiss the front of his mask one day, telling him “thank you”.

He grunts in something that sounds almost like shock and shakes his head at you. You figure he doesn’t feel he deserves praise for doing as you’ve told him. You do it anyway.

Things start to settle into this new normal.

Until you can’t find him anywhere. He’s become your new shadow, another limb, and suddenly he’s gone like so much smoke. You’re both fresh off a rough, but successful mission. You’ve just finished a stint in the infirmary and your debrief. Usually hed take that time to clean off and change in privacy, back before you could miss him.

Where is he?

You find him bleeding in his room, trying to care for his own wounds. Mask off, shirt gone, a new knife wound added to his macabre collection. You scramble to his side and collapse at his feet, snatching the needle from his shaky, slippery hand.

“Don’t you ever—” you choke on the words, unusual tears welling. You’re a medic; you’re not allowed to cry during treatment. But all you see if Nikto and blood and—

“I am okay,” he says in that low, crackly voice. Gravel in a blender. “It is not bad.”

You swallow and don’t answer, can’t because you’ll start weeping into his wound. Just stitch him up, hands steady even as you sniffle and the rest of you trembles.

When it’s done, you start wiping away the excess, prepping a bandage. He’s so silent you can even hear him breathing, but you feel his eyes like a physical touch. Finally make yourself look up at him meet his piercing eyes.

“You come back to me from now on,” you say. Quiet, firm, fervent. “I don’t care what it is, you return to my side always.”

The silence stretches and stretches, and he just stares with that unfathomable gaze.

“Understand?” you insist.

“Yes.”

Those two commandments become that basis of his new existence. Nikto once thought he survived it all because he still had work to do. He was wrong; it was because he still hadn’t found his purpose at all.

He’s found you now though, and you are a demanding god. But not a cruel one

Your first commandment is atonement. This vessel requires so much work. Food and water and rest. Maintenance for every abrasion, upkeep to stay strong enough to stand at your side, to protect you. It is endless, bitter work. He doesn’t care for the labor itself, but it must be done.

It is made bearable with you.

Your second commandment is salvation. Your quiet chatter during meals, the lingering taste of your mouth on his water canteen. Your kind hands mending tears and holes, keeping whatever he is now whole and hale. Your company in the gym, on sparring mats, at his side at the gun range. The smell of your sweat past the mask, your laughter goading him into another round.

You let him sleep in your bed. Let him wake you with nightmares or memories. Keep him warm because this thing he inhabits doesn’t always remember it’s not dying anymore. You are so very alive, the realest thing in any room. Your touch is the only thing he can feel sometimes.

It takes him a long time to realize that his body (because it is a body you tell him, a living one that needs care) reacts to you.

That some mornings the press of you against him is especially sweet. That there’s more than relief and pride when you pin him down. That, at most points of the day, his body wants your touch for more than just grounding.

He’s hard most times that he’s with you, simply for the fact that you are there. And he is with you almost always.

(That it is not actually always grinds at him, niggles in the back of his mind. A sticking point. He wants it to be always, you with him at all times. Like when he used to wear a cross pendant.)

You notice, of course you do, sensitive to your most loyal devotee. He can’t tell if you’re offended, but you haven’t sent him away. Sometimes you flush and he thinks he’s certainly upset you, but for all he’s survived it would kill him to break your second commandment. And so he stays, even if he waits to be told to leave.

“Nikto?”

You never need to call his name, he is always listening. He likes the sound of it anyway. These syllables and sounds that have a meaning, that you use for him.

“Do you… want to do something about that?” you nod to his crotch. There’s a blatant bulge pressing at his tac pants. At some other time, he would probably would have found it uncomfortable.

“Do what?” he asks.

You shrug. “Get off? I could leave—“

“No.”

You blink but don’t seem surprised. “Do you want to just ignore it then?”

He shrugs a bit. There’s a flicker of amusement in your eyes. You like when he makes gestures. He tries to remember common ones, and when to do them, and tries them out for you. Though you never seem to mind his stillness either.

“It does not bother me.”

You hum, look like you’re going to go back to your tv show.

“Does it bother you?”

Your eyes dart up, mouth parting in surprise. You didn’t expect him to continue the topic. Neither did he.

“It doesn’t bother me,” you reply, tilting your head. “But if you want to do something about it, we can.”

We.

“We?”

“If… if you want me to do something… I would.”

He couldn’t ask that of you. Not ever. He’s not allowed to want anything of you when you’ve given him everything.

“No,” he says quietly finally. “Just ignore it.”

“Okay.” You smile at him, touch his hand. It is bare, mangled tattoos on display. He wishes he could feel it more. “Come snuggle in?”

Snuggle in.

Such a quaint turn of a phrase for a creature in your room, wearing a man’s face. He climbs in, shoes gone, mask gone. You wedge yourself against his side and he stares absently at the screen as you continue your show.

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Masterlist

[p13rc3-th3-m4tt13]

such a pretty doll

part two of my little brat, but can be read alone!

pairing: erik campbell x y2k!spoiled!girlfriend reader

genre: fluff

warnings: sitting on erik’s lap, reader lovesss makeup and fashion and nails, erik is a bit of a dick, erik uses pet names, reader calls erik “kiki,” no use of y/n, slightly suggestive themes

summary: After Erik complains about carrying you home, you decide to get back at him by doing his makeup… and his hair and his nails.

word count: 1.6k

the idea for this fic was proposed by @vin-taege!

Erik knew what he was in for when he decided that he wasn’t going to carry you the entire way home. And as much as he liked to act like he didn’t want you to pretty him up, you knew how much he loved it when you did. So, of course, that night when the two of you got back home, you sat down on his lap and just about begged him to let you make him over.

“Please, KiKi?” You murmured the words against the skin of his neck as you straddled his lap, knowing that he couldn’t resist you when you were like this. You were right. This convinced him much better than just sitting at the end of his bed ever would have.

Erik let out a sigh and rolled his eyes. “Fine. If that’s what you really want to do, then go on ahead,” he huffed. You knew he wasn’t actually upset about this, though. You saw the way his lips curled up when he looked in the mirror every single time after you were done doing this, and no matter how much he denied it, he loved looking at himself with makeup all over his face and hair chalk in different streaks of his hair.

You excitedly squealed, hopping off of his lap and looking in the place in his room where you stored your belongings. You almost lived at his house nowadays, so more of your things were here than at your own place.

You grabbed your bag of makeup, your hair chalks, and a headband to hold his hair back when you were doing his makeup, which was what you typically started with. It was the process that took the longest, and also the one that he acted like he disliked the most.

One of the main things that you knew Erik loved about this process was getting to be so close to you. You sat on his lip every single time and his hands were always on your hips, your thighs, caressing your face. Sometimes, he would get a bit too bold and thrust his hips up into yours. You had to remind him that you were doing his makeup, not trying to fuck.

Tonight, he seemed a bit more over it than usual. Likely because you had just forced him to carry you home and you decided that you wanted to turn him into your Barbie doll. Well, more like Monster High or Bratz, but still, you wanted to turn him into your doll. More so than usual, too, because you wanted to put some of your press-on nails on him, maybe even one of your pretty dresses.

You hadn’t told him that part yet, though. You were going to make it a surprise.

You began by cleansing his face and then applying a primer to it, seeing as you wanted to make sure that you were taking proper care of his skin. He groaned when you put the primer on his face.

“The shit always makes my face feel all sticky and gross. I hate it.” He closed his eyes tightly before opening them again to look at you. You giggled and poked his nose with your pointer finger.

“It’s supposed to make your face feel sticky, silly boy. It helps the makeup stick better and gets rid of patchiness.” You just smiled at him as he rolled his eyes at you. Even with his attitude, his hands stayed on your hips. His fingers were under the fabric of your clothing so he could trace light circles into your flesh. It was very calming for you, so you knew it was for him as well.

You continued by putting concealer in a few areas on his face, blending it out with a damp beauty blender. Erik was already beginning to get a bit frisky, his hips rolling up into yours slightly as you blended out the concealer. You swatted at his shoulder.

“Erik,” you said, your voice slightly harsh. He just chuckled, looking up at you with that devilish smirk that he knew drove you wild. Not when you were like this, though, so focused on doing his makeup. You couldn’t let your mind slip. You had in mind an eyeshadow look, and you wanted to ensure that it was absolutely flawless. You needed to execute it perfectly, so you couldn’t let Erik distract you.

You finished off the base of Erik’s makeup before moving onto his eyes, the part that was going to be the most difficult out of everything. You knew you would have to take your time on it, which would either soothe or irritate Erik. You didn’t know which it would be just yet.

Sometimes, he liked when you took a long time. That meant he got to have you on his lap for longer, got to enjoy the feeling of your weight on him, the feeling of your hips beneath his hands. He couldn’t look at you like he wanted to while you were doing his eye makeup, though, and that was slightly irritating for him.

You began with Erik’s eye makeup, making sure that he didn’t crinkle up his eyes when he closed them. “Don’t do that, KiKi. It’ll mess me up and then I’ll have to start all over.”

“Oh, gods, no. Please don’t do that.” His voice was rough, causing you to giggle. He was so bad at acting like he didn’t like this when you knew that you would have crescent moon shapes on the skin of your hips from how much he loved sinking his fingertips into your flesh while you were on his lap like this.

You worked for a while with his eye makeup, ensuring that the eyeshadow, eyeliner, glitter, mascara, and the false lashes were all perfect as well as symmetrical on each side.

Once you perfected Erik’s eyes, you moved onto his lipstick. You decided on just a simple hot pink color for this part. You overlined his lips slightly and then applied a bit of glittery pink eyeshadow over the lipstick, just to make it pop a bit more.

When you were finished with Erik’s makeup, you smiled at him and ran your fingers through his hair. “You’re so pretty already. But you know I’m not done yet.” You giggled and leaned forward to press a soft kiss to his nose.

Erik sighed, leaning his head back against the headboard. “I know. Spray that shit on my face and then start on my hair.”

“Erik, what have I told you about that attitude?” You furrowed your eyebrows and rolled your hips on Erik’s, causing a low moan to escape his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, causing you to giggle once more. You put all of your makeup back in the bag and grabbed your hair chalks and colored hair spray that you would be using to highlight certain parts of his hair in different shades of pink.

You got started immediately, taking a few strands and rubbing one of your favorite light pink chalks on it. It brightened his hair so that you could layer it with the hot pink hairspray you had to make it show up better. You found all of this out by experimenting with his hair rather than your own, but it definitely made it easier for you to know how to use these on your own hair.

You sprayed the hot pink hair spray on top of where you used the hair chalks, nodding your head in satisfaction at the result. You did this a few more times in other places until there were chunky highlights all across Erik’s hair.

“The fumes from that hairspray are really aggravating.” Erik watched as you scooted off of his lap. You rolled your eyes and scoffed.

“It doesn’t even smell like anything! Don’t lie, KiKi, it’s not nice.” You frowned, digging through a box of your things before you found just the set of nails that you were looking for that would look absolutely amazing on Erik.

“I have a surprise for you,” you said in a sing-songy voice. Erik didn’t give you much of a reaction, his eyes just stayed on you as you made your way over to sit on his lap again. He looked at what you held in your hands and shook his head.

“No. No, I will not be wearing those.” Erik’s voice was stern. He seemed like he really meant what he was saying. But you knew that with just a little bit of convincing, Erik would do pretty much anything you asked of him.

“Erik, please?” You almost whined. “You know you’d look so pretty with them on. And I can take them off after! It might take me a bit, but I can do it.” You looked at him with the puppy dog eyes that you knew would make him give in.

And of course, he did.

“Fine. Do it.” He splayed his hands out to you, spreading his fingers so that you would be able to apply the nails. You smiled, giddily taking them out of the package and beginning to fit them to Erik’s nails according to the size.

After you found the ones that fit, you used the nail glue to fix the nails to Erik’s fingers. You occasionally had to tell him to be still so that you wouldn’t mess up and to ensure that they were on straight, but other than that, Erik did a pretty good job with you putting the nails on him.

Once you were finished, you looked at Erik with a bright smile on your face. “You look like a doll,” you said happily.

Erik chuckled and nodded his head. “Just like you. Such a pretty doll.”

please consider liking and reblogging if you liked this! more erik campbell x y2k!spoiled!gf reader content to come! :)

[obvithe-bestsoph]

I loved the last fics you made of Kenan😭 I want to request a sugestive of reader provoking him by using just one of his t-shirts and a underwear bc she knows it gets him turned on/excited

playing with fire.

masterlist requests word count: 820

a/n: this is like kinda cringe but oh well lol genre: suggestive. warnings: suggestive content.

summary: kenan comes home to a surprise.

It’s not exactly an accident.

You might pretend it is later, flash him a half-apologetic smile, murmur something about laundry day, but right now, standing in the kitchen with one of Kenan’s oversized black Juventus shirts barely covering your thighs, you know exactly what you’re doing.

And you know exactly what it does to him.

The cotton falls just below your hips, loose and lazy. His name is stretched across your back in bold white lettering, and when you bent down to get the oat milk earlier, the hem had ridden up just enough to tease a peek of your underwear. White. Lacy. Barely there.

You hear the front door unlock before you see him. He’s coming back from training, keys jingling in that familiar rhythm, and you don’t move. You let him come to you.

You hear the pause first, a break in his footsteps the second he sees you.

Then: “Seriously?”

Your head turns slowly, all fake innocence. “Hi.”

Kenan drops his gym bag by the door like it weighs nothing. His eyes drag down your body, slow and deliberate, lingering on the shirt that’s unmistakably his.

“That’s what you’re wearing today?” His voice is low, skeptical. Dangerous.

You shrug. “It’s comfy.”

His eyes flicker. “You’ve got your own clothes.”

“Do I?” you ask sweetly, turning back to your smoothie like you don’t already know how tightly wound he’s getting. “Didn’t notice.”

You know he’s watching. The sway of your hips, the hem of the shirt rising with each step. He’s probably clenching his jaw, gripping the edge of the counter or the wall or whatever he can grab before he snaps.

It’s not the first time you’ve done this. But it might be the worst one yet. Or the best. Depending on how you measure success.

He walks up behind you quietly, not touching, not yet. The air shifts. You feel it in the back of your neck, in the way your pulse skips like it’s been caught.

“You know what that does to me,” he murmurs.

You pretend not to hear him.

He exhales. You feel it more than you hear it, soft and frustrated.

“Don’t play dumb, schatz.” His voice is all heat now. “Wearing just that. You know what you’re doing.”

You tilt your head, still facing the blender. “It’s just a shirt.”

“And panties,” he adds, sharp.

You laugh - soft, almost wicked. “Would it be better if I took those off too?”

Kenan moves before you can finish your smirk. His hand slides around your waist, firm but not rough, and pulls you against him. His chest is warm from training, solid behind your back. You feel the tension in him, every inch of restraint. He’s not mad. He’s not annoyed. He’s just… trying not to lose it.

“I just got home,” he whispers, mouth near your ear. “And this is what I come back to?”

“You missed me,” you say, faux-innocent, letting your head fall back on his shoulder. “Right?”

He makes a quiet noise, somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “You’re the devil.”

You hum. “You love me.”

“Too much,” he mutters, nose trailing along your jaw. “That’s the problem.”

His hands slide lower, fingertips brushing your bare thighs. The shirt rises slightly. Your breath catches, just a little. Just enough.

He doesn’t press. Doesn’t do anything more than let his fingers rest on your skin. But it’s enough to make your heart flip.

“You want me to lose my mind?” he murmurs.

You smirk. “You say that like you haven’t already.”

That gets him. You feel the way he tenses behind you, like he’s considering whether now is the moment he gives in completely. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he pulls back just enough to turn you around. His eyes meet yours. Dark. Focused. Desperate in the most delicious way.

“You wore this for me?”

You nod slowly. “You like it?”

“I hate it,” he lies. “And I love it.”

You grin. “So I should do it more often?”

His gaze drops to your lips. “You shouldn’t. But you will.”

You reach up, resting your hands on his shoulders, tugging him closer.

“That a threat?”

“That’s a promise.”

And then he kisses you, it’s not rough, not yet, just enough to melt your knees. His mouth moves against yours with purpose, like he’s memorizing the curve of your lips, the way you taste, how your breath hitches when his hands finally, finally slide under the hem of his own damn shirt.

You kiss him back harder. Let your fingers curl in his hair. Let him walk you back until your thighs hit the counter.

And then you pull away, breathless, looking up at him through your lashes.

“You’re gonna be late for your recovery session,” you whisper.

He looks at you like he could set the kitchen on fire. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to recover here.”

[rageserenity]

It's 2024. Are you still thinking about movieverse!Cherik? Because I am.

For the past several months, there's only been a very slow trickle of posts/fics in the xmcu cherik tag. Let's try to breathe some life back into this incredible pairing!

With one clear winner of my poll, here's thirty prompts for the thirty days of April. (This is a super chill, laid-back event---do these in any order, interpret them as loosely as you like! Create in any medium! Fic, art, gifs, meta, incoherent screaming about the otp…all winners in my book.)

The only rule here is to cherik too close to the sun. Alright. Here are the prompts.

Mutual Pining

Doesn't really even need elaboration! Write that horrifically slow slow-burn. Gif every time McAvoy made insane fuck me eyes on screen. Make a playlist of songs about impossible love.

2. Alternate Meetings

There are endless quotes about how these two complete each other in a way no one they'd met before or after ever did. How else could they have met?

3. Erik Has A Telepathy Kink

This is basically canon. Let my boy get freaky!

4. Canon Fix-It

All the times Fox fucked it up. There are endless options.

5. Hurt/Comfort

Put them in that Situation. Put them in that Blender. Break them apart and put them back together ❤️‍🩹

6. Canon Compliant

Draw that missing scene! Gif your favourite cherik moment!

7. Beach Divorce

Make it worse. Make it better. Show it to us exactly how it was. Break it down in a 3,000 word meta. Go wild!

8. Domestics

Sometimes you just want to see them doing normal couple things. Erik put the gun down.

9. Found Family

The real heart of x-men!

10. Time Travel

There are SO many possibilities here. Stick them in a time loop. Give them a chance to change their past.

11. AU

Love a good AU!

12. There Is Only One Bed

Had to get this one in here. What better way to amp up the tension?

13. Genosha

By some miracle, cherik actually did end up together at the end of 2019s trash bag disaster Dark Phoenix. We aren’t making a big enough deal about this.

14. Declaration(s) of Love

Who says it first? How do they say it and when? Have they said it…without saying it?

15. Jealousy

Need I say more.

16. Reunion

These two have absolutely no chill.

17. Soulmates

Classic prompt, had to get this in here too.

18. The DOFP Aircraft

The TENSION here. Break it down for me. How does Charles feel about his injury? How does Erik feel about his injury?

19. Gay Mutant Road Trip

You already know.

20. Body Swap

SO fun when people have superpowers.

21. First Kiss

When? How? Who initiated it?

22. The Mansion

Mansion!content is a genre of its own.

23. Conflicting Ideology

Give me your theses. Who’s right? Can they ever reconcile completely? Write a fic where it drives them apart.

24. Sebastian Shaw

A trope unto himself.

25. Team As Matchmaker

They had to have known something was going on, didn’t they?

26. Cooking

Charles deserves a good meal. Also, imagine Erik using his powers in the kitchen. The sheer domesticity…

27. Hurt No Comfort

Plenty of scope with these two 🥲

28. Growing Old Together

Giving Sirs Ian Mckellan and Patrick Stewart their props as well!

29. Making Up

*pushes chess board across the table* sorry babe

30. Charles Xavier Did More For Mutants Than You'll Ever Know

Rising to each other’s defense. Only I can insult this man.

I will be tracking #revivecherik to reblog stuff! Here’s a fic collection for the same. Let’s get this ball rolling! Please feel free to send me an ask if you’ve got anything to say! And most importantly, let’s all have fun 😁

*I know a few of you preferred something like a gift exchange because of the commitment factor—I’m super down to organise a tiny one for the handful of us! If this promptathon doesn’t flop horribly, we can hopefully do a whole bunch of stuff :)

If you read this post all the way through, please reblog for reach! Thank you! Hoping you participate come April.

Shoutout to @inmymagnetoera for reaching out and helping with this!

[blackiron11]

Be careful what you wish for

Pairing: reader x rio vidal

Trigger warning: body shamming, self harm, suicide attempt, hate self (if you find more, pls let me know)

English is not my first language, etc etc etc. I don't know how to write romance very well either, but I tried. besides, I'm sure I exaggerated the amount of "you" written. I hope you like the story

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

You are tired of the daily humiliations and an unhappy life, you want to die. Luckily, a certain Lady Death has a few things to say about your life.

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

You come home tired every day. Tired of the humiliations at work, of having to report every mistake made by employees, of your boss yelling at you, all for a mere minimum wage.

You even asked for a salary increase, but he laughed in your face. A promotion would mean that you would have to present yourself to the shareholders and he couldn't allow that, you know why; to get ahead in life, you need to have the right weight and the right face. You don't have that. You know it, your parents know it and your boss knows it, because he looks you up and down, while denying all your dreams.

"But you are a good employee, who knows next year?" he says before you leave. You feel the humiliation run through your veins.

Yes, next year. If your size "L" becomes "XS", if you put on contact lenses and don't wear glasses, if you do facial harmonization. Yes, you have a chance.

Your colleagues don't like you either. They focus on your appearance and the fact that you're too shy and introverted. They've never invited you to Happy Hour after work, or to one of their birthdays either; you don't like drinking, but you've always wanted to fit in.

You decide you don't care. But the truth is that you care so much that it's hurt so bad, and you need to do something to stop this pain.

You also get tired of your parents asking for money or wanting to get a boyfriend to you, never asking how you are or coming to visit you. You get tired of not having friends, or anyone to lean on. You get tired of life.

You sigh as you change your clothes. You always wear long-sleeved shirts and jeans. You don't want anyone to see how ugly you are... inside and out.

You look at yourself in the mirror, only in your underwear. You analyze the cuts on your skin, everywhere you can reach, you made a lot of cuts, especially on your arms and thighs; some are older, most are recent, leaving blood stains on the clothes you wore.

Your reflection stares back at you, looking amused. You hug yourself, trying to hide from your own gaze, but to no avail. You feel dirty, your sagging skin falling apart in tour hands.

In a world where there are Avengers, supreme wizards, witches, heroes and villains, you feel like nothing. You are nobody.

With no desire at all, you take a shower, using a sponge forcefully on your body, as if that would wash away all the extra pounds. Your hard movement causes the fresh cuts to reopen and you see blood going down the drain along with the soap and water. You are numb.

You remember the ways to calm down your therapist taught you, but they don't work. They never did.

When you see your sleeping pills, you decide that this suffering is no longer worth it. You are not worth it. This will be the first and last time you put yourself first.

You won't leave any letters or explanations, it's not necessary. No one will miss you.

You gather all the medicines you can find and put them in the blender along with the alcohol, there's no going back. You know won't be, you don't want to go back.

No amount of stomach pumping will solve it, in case some gossipy neighbor decides to help you. You've made sure of that.

You need peace. If what's necessary for that is for you to face death, you'll do it with a smile on your face.

You put on the first pajamas you find and drink the entire contents of the glass, grimacing and choking as the liquid burns your throat.

Finally, you lie down on your bed one last time, ready for a dreamless sleep, and then, never to wake up again.

-----------

You opened your eyes, still groggy, and found a vision. A woman in a black robe stared at you. You just thought she was beautiful.

Y/N doesn't believe in God; But if there is an afterlife, you always thought you would be punished for killing yourself. At the very least, you are at the Valley of Suicides, and would suffer in mourning for ages. Either that, or you would go to hell.

However, looking at this woman in front of you, you thought you were in paradise.

The figure softened her expression, smiling a little bit, as if she had heard your thoughts, but soon closed herself off.

"Why did you do that?" she asked you, worried.

Y/N couldn't understand where she was or who that woman was... Maybe she was a neighbor? She thinks she's never seen you in her life, but her vision betrays you, completely blurred.

"I didn't mean to," you answered automatically, not used to someone talking to you for more than five minutes.

The woman didn't believe you. Rio saw your arms and the scarred cuts, but chose not to comment; she didn't want to scare you.

It wasn't the first time Rio had been called to a death by suicide and it certainly wouldn't be the last, but you were intriguing. Usually the others had someone by their side, but you were alone. She didn't want to leave you like this, not when you looked so fragile.

"Who are you?" Your conscience was leaving you, but you wanted to understand.

"I'm Lady Death , my dear." Rio approached you. "I'm here, because you called me."

Was that supposed to make sense? No coherent thought was going through your mind, the various medicines you had swallowed doing their job.

"Am I still alive?" You asked rhetorically, before your body shut down from the pressure.

Rio sighed, wondering where she had gotten herself into.

As the natural order of all things, she could simply heal you and leave, but that wouldn't solve anything. Death can't heal someone's psyche; and once your senses returned, you would try to kill yourself again. Rio couldn't let that happen. She would help you, even if it meant saving you from yourself.

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

For weeks, Rio healed your stomach and your injuries a little at a time, and you were getting better, with no more risk of complications because of it in the future.

She would make you food, wake you up and help you to eat, staying with you until you fell asleep again, your body still very weak.

She started to notice you more, how you slept peacefully, the dimples that formed on your face when you smiled, or how your eyes looked at her curiously, even though you couldn't hold a coherent conversation for long.

You don't remember any of this. Your consciousness came and gone the whole time.

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

Until one day, you woke up completely lucid. On autopilot, you went to get ready for work and saw yourself in the mirror. You were horrified when you remembered...

You...were alive? You're not even good enough to kill yourself, my God! How is that possible?

You wanted to scream, throw yourself off the building, hit your head hard against the wall until blood came out, anything. You were confused, your mind was all jumbled up. You had planned everything!! Did someone save you??? Why would someone do this?

You were going to puke. You ran to the bathroom, trying to hold on to the walls, shaking. You needed to calm down. You needed to understand what was happening.

The easiest thing to calm you down was your old friend; but when you made the first cut, you noticed that all the others were missing.

No. No. NO!

This can't be happening. It's a nightmare, right? A medication-induced nightmare. Soon it will all pass and you will be dead. Just as it should be.

Meanwhile, you made all the cuts you could, your hand shaking more and more. It didn't work, you hadn't calmed down.

You got up with unsteady steps and went to the kitchen, looking for a knife. You couldn't find one. You also didn't notice the presence behind you, until she spoke to you, her tone mild.

"You need to stop this, Y/N."

Rio was collecting some bodies from the other side of the world, when she felt a tug towards you. You needed her. She hoped it wasn't too late.

"Leave me alone," you shouted, feeling your eyes water. Rio tried to get closer to you, but you backed away. It took you a while to remember who she was, but the clothes she was wearing helped. Death... you almost didn't believe it. You felt betrayed. The only being you thought would truly welcome you with open arms took everything you had; including your reminders.

"You... You saved me," you accused her. Rio had the decency to look guilty. "You took away my free will, you healed me without my permission! You hurt me more than anyone else, you took everything I had." Y/N cried freely now. Tears blurred her vision.

Rio knew what you were talking about. It hurt her that you felt that way. She never wanted to hurt you, only to help you. Lady Death wished she had permission to kill everyone who hurt you throughout your life.

"You don't need them, Y/N." Rio still spoke softly, you could barely hear her.

"Why do you care?"

"I... I fell in love with you." Rio admitted what she had been thinking for days. At some point while taking care of you, she fell in love. Death had never loved anyone before.

Y/N stared at her, motionless. Then, she laughed.

"Is this some kind of joke?" she asked when she caught her breath. Rio shook her head. "Some kind of dirty game between the cosmic entities to attract the weak human's attention?" Rio shook her head once more.

"Seriously, look at me," you shouted, not understanding.

And Rio looked at you. Even with your face red from crying so much, even with the fresh cuts and so much self-loathing, Death found you beautiful.

"I'm looking at," Rio whispered. His heart heavy with your suffering.

"No!" Y/N thought Rio didn't understand. "Look at me!," you shouted with contempt this time. "How can someone like you fall for something like this?" you pointed to yourself.

Rio saw you, she understood you more than you remember. You talked a few times, even with the loose and incoherent words, Death heard you. And she was saddened by every word you said. With the self-loathing that society forced upon you at every step of your life.

Vidal didn't know how to calm you down, so she did the only thing that came to her mind at the moment. She ran to you, grabbed your face and kissed you on the mouth.

It was just a light brush of lips. Rio wanted to show you that she liked you, but you hadn't stopped talking. She wanted you to listen now.

"I see you, S/N" the woman in front of you tried to wipe away your tears, in vain. They kept coming freely. "I see you and I understand you" you found yourself relaxing your face towards the hand that caressed you. "I want to kill all those idiots who once hurt you, because you, Y/N Y/S, are an incredible woman. And not a "it thing", I am sure".

You wanted to complain, but Rio didn't let you. She wasn't finished.

"S/N, you're so sweet, so selfless, you have such a good heart" Rio continued. "Never believe anyone who tells you otherwise, because you are beautiful. Beautiful inside and out. Your life is worth living" by the look she gave you, you saw the truth in her eyes. She truly believed the words she said, even if you didn't. "I think you are the prettiest girl in the world, and The Death doesn't lies, sweetie".

Y/N couldn't answer, your body gave out and you passed out. Rio caught you before you fell and carried you to your bed.

"It's okay, my love" Rio whispered, kissing you on the forehead "I can be strong for both of us, until you make it"

-------

You woke up completely healed. Rio would leave you alone now, if you wish. It would break her heart, but she wanted you happy.

You didn't need to look around to know she was still there.

"Are you ever going to leave?" You stood up, sitting up.

"Only if you want to" Rio approached you, this time you didn't back away, but you didn't answer her.

With the physical healing, you began to remember the previous weeks and found yourself enjoying her presence; the moments you spent together. A smile escaped your lips and it did not go unnoticed by Rio.

"May I?" Vidal pointed to the space next to you and you nodded. You felt the bed sink with the new weight, and you looked down at your hands; you were suddenly embarrassed, very aware of yesterday's closeness.

"Thank you," you thanked, realizing that the cuts from yesterday were still present on your skin.

Rio nodded. "I apologize for before, I shouldn't have done that without your permission, if they were important to you."

Rio didn't apologize for saving your life. That, she didn't regret it for a second. She would do it again if she had to, but Rio really hoped it was the first and last time.

Y/N didn't answer, instead asking another question.

"Do you really like me?" You were afraid of the answer, both the "yes" and the "no."

"Yes, I do." That simple sentence made Y/N look into Vidal's soft eyes. You saw the same thing as yesterday: Unconditional love. You still.don't know how it's possible for Death to fall in love with someone like you, "And I want to be with you."

You opened your mouth, but quickly closed it. Everything that had happened to you flashed through your mind.

"The heart doesn't choose who it falls in love with, Y/N." Rio realized that you were afraid of getting hurt again, maybe it would be better to leave you alone.

"You don't have to answer, dear. I won't take up any more of your time." Death stood up, ready to leave and never see you again, if that was what you wanted.

"Wait..." you asked, your voice barely louder than a whisper, "stay." You grabbed her hand and squeezed it lightly.

Rio turned around and listened carefully.

"I... I like your company." you continued.

The "I like you too" was still stuck in your throat. You couldn't say it yet, it was too early. Fortunately, Death is a patient being.

"And from what I remember these past few weeks, I had a lot of fun with you," you sighed. "But I can't return your love." You looked at the floor, embarrassed. "I don't know how to love someone or be loved, I don't even know how to love myself."

Rio was silent for a few minutes. Y/N was sure she had lost her chance at happiness.

"Oh, darling," Rio knelt in front of you and caressed your face, softly. You could get used to this every day. "I can teach you to love yourself, like I love you...if you let me. I want to spend my eternity by your side."

Her eyes were so beautiful and bright, you could get lost in their immensity. You could love her over time, you know that. You just have to let yourself.

You nodded slightly and Rio smiled, moving closer.

"May I?" She asked for the second time that day, but this time it was to kiss you. You smiled, taking the initiative now.

It would be a long journey for the two of you, with some ups and downs, but Y/N would never feel hated again. Rio Vidal would kill everyone before they had the chance to hurt you.

[captonite]

Too Small for This World

The adorable, ever-present height difference between Chubs and her gigantic brothers—starting from baby to teen. Expect fluff, found family love, and lots of forehead kisses.

Baby Chubs.

At first, she was a dot.

A literal dot.

Dean said she looked like someone shrunk a person down and hit copy-paste, and now she was this tiny thing bundled in blankets and too-big sleeves. She toddled around the bunker on shaky legs, bumping into walls, barely tall enough to reach the doorknobs, let alone the counters.

“Why is she so small?” Dean whispered one night, watching her try to climb onto the couch with all the determination of a soldier scaling a wall. “Like… her hands are so little, man.”

“She’s four,” Sam said dryly. “You were that small once.”

Dean gave him a side-eye. “I highly doubt that.”

It didn’t matter. Chubs, in all her pint-sized fury, never let her size stop her. She made demands with a stomp of her foot, stood her ground even when the person she was yelling at (usually Dean) could pick her up with one hand.

Sometimes, Dean would crouch down to her level—just to make her feel big. “Go ahead,” he’d grin, tapping his cheek. “Get it all out, Bambi.”

She’d huff and bop his nose.

Every time.

Toddler Chubs.

By the time she was six, Chubs had grown to the grand height of “shorter than the table, but taller than the salt container.” A major accomplishment in her book. Sam and Dean, however, were still skyscrapers.

“You’re like… a tree,” she told Sam once, blinking up at him while holding a juice box. “You ever get nosebleeds from being so tall?”

Sam had choked on his coffee. “I—what?”

“It’s a thing,” she insisted. “I read it.”

She started to notice how she had to look up every time one of them talked to her. Her neck got sore just from conversations.

But she didn’t say anything.

Not until Sam bent down one day to hand her a book—and stayed down.

Face to face.

And smiled.

She blinked. Then kissed his nose.

“Thanks,” she said softly.

That became a thing. Dean did it next. Cas tried it too, a little awkward, but endearing all the same. Every time they crouched? She’d kiss or bop their nose. Without fail.

Dean started crouching way more often after that.

---

Preteen Chubs.

At eleven, Chubs had entered her awkward noodle phase. Her hair was too long for her face, her limbs too long for her body, and her feet kept tripping over themselves. She wasn’t as small anymore, but the height difference between her and the boys was still comical.

Dean used her head as an armrest.

Sam offered to help her reach the high shelves and lifted her with one arm like it was nothing.

Crowley, on the other hand, snapped his fingers and floated cookies down to her just to be smug.

It annoyed her. She huffed. “I’m not a baby anymore.”

Dean grinned and fluffed her hair. “Nah. You’re a kid now. It’s worse.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re adorable.”

She rolled her eyes, but the soft, quiet way Dean helped her climb up on the Impala’s hood just to stargaze reminded her he never meant it to mock her.

Being small wasn’t a weakness. Not with them.

---

Teen Chubs.

By the time she was seventeen, she had to accept the cold truth: she was never going to be tall.

Five foot nothin’, eyes barely reaching Dean’s chest. Sam still had to duck through doorframes. Dean still called her “Short Stack” and let her sit on the counter when they talked.

It should’ve annoyed her. She wanted it to annoy her.

But then came the nights she’d curl on the couch, Dean tossing her a blanket like clockwork. Or when Sam pressed a kiss to the crown of her head before heading off on a hunt, just because he could reach it without bending much.

“You okay, shrimp?” Dean would ask softly, kneeling down at her feet after a hard case. “You look like you’ve been through a blender.”

She’d smile, exhausted. “I’m fine.”

And when she wasn’t, she didn’t need to say anything. They were always eye level when it counted.

---

Now.

One day, she stood next to the boys in front of a mirror.

Dean’s arm around her shoulders, Sam’s hand on her head.

She looked like their tiny, mismatched keychain. Her face scrunched.

“I look like a child.”

“You are a child,” Dean smirked. “Our child.”

“Dean,” she groaned.

But he pulled her close anyway. Sam rested his chin on top of her head. And she let herself melt into the comfort, their warmth, their height.

She might always be small—but with brothers like these, she never felt lesser.

If anything, she felt protected.

Sheltered.

Loved.

---

Later that night…

Dean crouched next to her bed just to tuck her in. She was seventeen, for god’s sake, and still he tucked her in like she was five.

“What?” he said as she raised an eyebrow. “You’re fun-sized. Makes me want to take extra care.”

She snorted. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I’m your idiot.”

And then he kissed her forehead.

Because no matter how tall she grew—or didn’t—she’d always be their little sister.

Always.

[venusmage]

I'm baaack with another game recommendation!

Tainted Grail: Fall of Avalon was not on my radar. That is until a friend who is interested in the board game told me about it. Now that it's out of Early Access, I tried it! And it's really good! Since so many of my followers came from Elder Scrolls, it feels like a disservice not to recommend this title. It takes a lot from the bones of Bethesda and Fromsoft RPGs and throws it all in a blender - and I feel like I've played enough now to say that the dev team succeeded in mixing elements of both.

You're consistently rewarded for your curiosity in this game. Almost every time my nosy ass takes a peek in a crevice, there's treasure to be found. Combat has a lot of elements to consider and becomes a blast when you start dabbling with different load-outs. The magic system is VERY fun; complex but not frustrating. You can also re-spec your character so trying new builds isn't a nightmare.

There's a lot of little details in this game that I really did not expect just looking at it. While its little dated in terms of graphic fidelity - the art direction is strong enough that I eventually got over the knee-jerk observation that it looked like "modded Skyrim". Even if the 3D assets can't quite match the concept art, you get the gist well enough to still be impressed. The way the team used the assets they DO have has been nothing short of spectacular.

I love TES, but we all know TES is best when it's "fixed" by the fans and modding community. Things to make it more interesting, more thoughtful, more challenging. This game was clearly built to be that right out of the box. It has a lot of heart and I've gone from being lukewarm to massively charmed by it.

I don't want to spoil more - so if it sounds interesting please try it yourself. If you're torn between it or Oblivion Remastered - they're the same price on Steam, and this one wins easily. Wait for Skyblivion later this year and get Fall of Avalon instead.

[sashiimee]

Your Love Settled Into Me Too Well |Part 1

💬 ask | ✨ masterlist | Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Pairing: Jealous Wreck!Namjoon x Not-As-Healed-As-She-Pretends OC

Summary: You see him before he sees you. It’s not cinematic. It’s worse. A party, a silver chain, and the girl who didn’t have to ask. You’re unraveling quietly — again.

Themes: heartbreak, jealousy, second chances, spiraling, emotional tension, slow burn

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: this was supposed to be 2k words of angst but apparently my fingers had other plans 🧍‍♀️ buckle up. I promise the angst won’t be too much but have so much saved up

….

Scene: Present Day, College Year three — House Party

Are you even listening?”

Jimin’s voice yanks you back to the present. He’s sprawled on your bed, head dangling off the edge, a hoodie bunched under his neck for support. He’s halfway through a rant about his psych professor, but you’ve heard maybe ten percent of it.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “I spaced.”

He squints at you. “Spaced or spiraled?”

“Bit of both.”

He flips upright in one fluid motion, crossing his legs like a Disney princess with a grudge. “It’s happening again, isn’t it?”

You look up from your notes. “What is?”

“The Namjoon Spiral. Capital N, capital S.”

You say nothing.

Jimin sighs. “We need a distraction.”

“I have class.”

“We need a better distraction. Party tonight. Jungkook’s throwing it. Tae’s bringing half the dance department. It’ll be hell.”

“That sounds like a terrible idea.”

He grins. “So, we’ll pregame at my place?”

You should’ve said no.

You should’ve stayed in.

Instead, you let Jimin curl your lashes and steal one of Dana’s black crop tops. You let him smear lip gloss over your bottom lip and hum something soft under his breath while doing it.

“Trust me,” he’d said. “You’ll feel better.”

You don’t.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

It’s laughable, really, how someone can be gone and still manage to haunt a space like they own it.

Namjoon isn’t here. Not physically. You’d know if he was—you always know.

And yet… his presence is thick in the air. Lingering like cologne on an old hoodie you can’t bring yourself to throw away.

The party is loud, humid, and packed with too many people you almost recognize. People brush past, loud and alive, but you can’t seem to sink into it. Not really. Not like you used to.

You cling to a red Solo cup and pretend it’s a shield. Jimin has already disappeared into a crowd of flirty smiles and loud laughter. You spot Yoongi on a couch, half-listening to Hoseok while quietly peeling the label off a beer bottle. Taehyung is in the kitchen—laughing too hard, eyes flicking away from you every time you glance his way.

Bass from a portable speaker thuds beneath your feet, floorboards humming with every beat. Someone yells something about shots, and a blender whines from the kitchen. You try to pretend this is fine. That you didn’t spend half an hour sitting on Jimin’s bed, debating whether to come at all.

But now you’re here—and it’s like the air’s made of static.

Jimin pulls you through the doorway, glitter on his cheekbone and a drink in hand. His energy buzzes loud enough for both of you. “Let’s make some mistakes,” he says, grinning, and you nod like you’re ready.

You’re not.

You haven’t been ready for anything since him.

Jimin disappears for a bit, like a party host at an event that isn’t his. It’s not out of character—if anything, it’s perfectly on-brand.

You feel it again. That crack in the group. The split no one talks about.

It started around the time you left.

No one says it was your fault.

But no one says it wasn’t either.

You settle into the rhythm, a back and forth in your mind, just you and deep loneliness. Just in time for Jimin’s return, you stick to him like a shadow—your buffer, your anchor, your soft place to fall.

Jungkook appears not long after, shirt half-buttoned, neck glittering with a gold chain. He throws Jimin a smile that’s too sweet, too intentional.

You try not to feel like a third wheel.

You sip your drink. Laugh when you’re supposed to. Float through conversations like a ghost.

Across the room, Yoongi shifts on the couch.

He’s still half-listening to Hoseok, still peeling the label off that beer bottle like it owes him something. But his eyes flick toward you — just once, just long enough to notice the tight line of your mouth, the way your grip on your cup hasn’t relaxed all night.

He doesn’t say anything.

He just holds your gaze for a breath too long.

Then looks away.

That’s the thing about Yoongi. He never says much. But he always sees it first.

It’s only when you let your guard down—when you’ve just started to forget—that it happens.

You see him before he sees you.

It’s not dramatic—no movie moment with slow motion and a broken wine glass.

No, it’s worse.

It’s casual.

Namjoon walks in like he hasn’t been avoiding this party for weeks.

Like he didn’t turn down every invitation from Hoseok, Yoongi, even Jungkook.

Like he decided to come on his own.

He walks in like he owns the floor beneath him. Like the air adjusts for him.

And god help you—

he looks just like he did the first time you met.

Tall, effortless, dangerous in that quiet way that sneaks up on you. His black slacks sit low on his hips, casual but precise, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled to his elbows, forearms carved and golden under the lights.

A thin silver chain glints against his throat, delicate where he isn’t.

And somehow, that’s worse.

It’s worse because you remember the first time you noticed that chain.

Worse because he wore it the night he first kissed you.

Worse because he still wears it like it means nothing—

while you’re over here remembering everything.

His hair’s a little longer now, and he’s let the curl show. You hate how much that matters.

How much you miss touching it.

How your fingers ache with memory.

He walks in like it was his idea.

But you know better.

Because Sohee is right there.

Tiny skirt. Perfect hair. That smug, effortless air she carries like perfume.

The kind of girl who doesn’t have to try. Doesn’t have to chase. Doesn’t even have to ask.

She just… receives.

She looks good. Of course she does. Girls like her always do.

It’s not even the outfit — it’s the way she wears attention like it was made for her. Like it belonged to her before anyone else noticed.

You hate yourself for looking too long.

But you do.

Because you don’t remember what it’s like to be looked at like that without earning it first.

You’ve always had to explain your softness. Justify your want.

Sohee just exists, and people follow.

And Namjoon—

He came.

For her.

She’s the reason he’s here, not Yoongi, not Jungkook, not you.

Sohee didn’t need to beg. Didn’t have to text. Didn’t even have to ask.

She just showed up — and he followed.

And in that moment, it doesn’t matter how much he once loved you.

It only matters that he doesn’t now.

Your drink tips, just slightly, just enough to chill your wrist — and still, you don’t blink.

It was never a competition you think.

The music doesn’t stop. The crowd doesn’t part.

But your breath catches.

You want to look away. You try.

Instead, you plant yourself beside Jimin, fingers curling tighter around your drink, and pray that no one sees your chest cave in.

Jimin doesn’t notice at first. He’s too busy pretending not to flirt with Jungkook.

Their banter hums beside you, soft laughter and shoulder nudges, and you try to blend in—smile when they smile, sip when they sip.

But your eyes drift.

Back to him.

Namjoon is nodding at someone across the room. Saying hi to Hoseok. Smiling—but only a little.

You used to know the difference between all his smiles.

This one? You don’t recognize it.

Sohee presses close to whisper something in his ear, and your stomach lurches.

You’re not even jealous, not exactly. You’re just—

Displaced.

It’s like walking into your old bedroom only to find it redecorated. Nothing violent. Just unfamiliar.

Like you were erased.

⸻

You try to breathe.

The lights flicker pink and gold across the ceiling. Someone passes you with a tray of jello shots. A girl in rhinestone boots laughs too loudly behind you.

And still—your eyes won’t leave him.

He’s nodding at someone across the room

Sohee knew exactly what she was doing, didn’t she?

She’s the reason he’s here.

Because no one else could get him to come—not Yoongi’s birthday, not Jungkook’s art showcase, not even that stupid “Low Key Friday” night Hoseok threw two weeks ago.

But her?

Of course she could bring him.

And he came.

For her.

[ilovetoxicfictionalmen]

PUT A WIFE BACK IN HER PLACE

KINKTOBER DAY 25 - SPANKING WITH MARTIN

Pairing.| Martin x fem!reader

Summary.| When Martin’s attempt to win your heart back with a nostalgic trip on a secluded Scottish island fails, he has one last resort to remind you who’s wife you are.

Warnings.| Dubcon, dry humping, spanking, arguing, infidelity, implied breeding.

Word count.| 1.4k

Notes.| This ain't that good but yolo because Martin is hot.

In Martin’s defense, you couldn’t say that he didn’t put in his all to revive your marriage, it’s been on the rocks for months now, every opportunity for intimacy always resulted in bickering at the best outcome. The arguments were daggering to the heart, zero remorse on either of your ends at times. But Martin was devoted to you, you were his world, he needed you more than oxygen. 

His marvelous plan on resparking your attraction to one another seemed to be working like a blender unplugged from the power outlet. This will mark your third time vacating on the secluded Scottish island. You were quiet the whole boat ride, but it went unphased by Doug, he merely chatted on with Martin. Your husband would glance over at you every now and then, but you were in a different world. 

With every day passing, Martin lost a handful of hope. Nothing was working like it used to. The way you’d smile at him when he’d come back after fishing had vanished. The gratitude for the small things he did for you was no more. Your marriage was flatlining. The small talk felt unbearable, turned shoulders made him want to rip his hair out. He only wanted to look at you, hold you, feel you. When you hid yourself in the bathtub, Martin felt his stomach turn in a mixture of shame and pleasure. How could you shy away from your husband? But then when was the last time he had even seen you naked. 

He ran across the coastal shore, his expression was stern as he sprinted as fast as he could. His ears went blocked, heart pounded uncontrollably in his chest as the aches in his muscles grew. When he reached the top of the cliff, his hands formed into balls as he smacked the air. 

“Fuck!” Martin roared, a vein popped out in his forehead. 

Martin heaved out, his hands rested above his knees as he tried to catch his breath. After inhaling his asthma pump, his hands searched into his pocket for his phone. His fingers jabbed at the screen, then he scrolled to keep his motivation alive. He flicked through the countless screenshots of evidence, his grip tightened after each swipe. 

I want to be with you. 

I think of you every night. 

You’re in my dreams, I picture the day when we’re together. 

Now, Martin wasn’t sure of the details of your affair, only the little love messages George would send you, you’d always respond with something similar back, but your level of passion was lower, he was sure of it. 

I love you. 

He stared at that message for the longest, because it was sent by you the night before you two left. Why didn’t you love Martin anymore, your husband, the man you declared your vows to, the man you devoted your life for. In sickness and in health, you were his. 

Martin decided to walk back to the cottage, for the chaos would unfold that night. Every few steps, Marin would roughly rub his eyes. The smell of the seaside did little to ease his stresses, the wind was picking up, the scent of rain grew.

When he entered the cottage, you took a moment to even acknowledge him, your attention drawn to the book you were reading. You gave him a small smile, his jaw locked, he turned his heel and headed to the kitchen. Martin did try hard to remain calm, he poured himself a large glass of red wine, then another for you. As he handed the glass to you, he sucked on his lower lip. 

You thanked him, oblivious to his boiling anger. Impulsively, Martin took a large swig of the nectar and clinked it onto the table. His eyes burnt into you, but you ignored him completely, you were driving him mad. 

“So, does he fuck you good?” Martin abruptly asked. 

You choked on your wine, your eyes darted up at him as you analyzed him, surely he couldn’t know? It was as if you were a deer caught in headlights, Martin could swear he could hear your heartbeat race. You were waiting for the punchline, but eventually realized it wasn’t coming. 

“What are you going on about?” you replied, trying to remain cool as if you weren’t a kettle boiling on the hot stove. 

“Does George fuck you good?” Martin clarified, huffing out in anger, his name tasted like venom on his tongue. 

“Martin” you warned. 

“I should have figured it out sooner, I always knew he had the hots for you, but I didn’t realize you were such a little whore” Martin insulted. 

George worked with you, and yes, he did always have the hots for you. Despite your constant rejection, he kept on making sly advances on you. Until one day, when you were fed with your sickening feuds with Martin, that you just gave in to George’s affection. 

In a childish manner, you abruptly stood up and turned your direction to the hallway. Martin followed you just as quickly and you flinched, he looked unhinged. 

“Step back Martin!” you demanded as you hurried to the hallway. 

“Where are you going to go! It’s just you and I honey, a husband and his wife” Martin teased harshly as he followed after you. 

When you didn’t stop, he yanked you back by the shoulder and shoved you against the wall. You cried out as he pressed his body up against yours, his face drew close to yours. 

“You think I’m not manly enough for you? Aye!” Martin shouted by your ear, you winced at his behavior. 

“No Martin!” you cried. 

Martin’s eyes squinted together as he felt the tears forming. His hand smacked on the wall besides your head in anger, you shrieked out. 

“Why don’t you fucking love me anymore” Martin snarled, his face twitched. 

There was no response from you. His hands gripped onto your curves and you gasped out as you felt his erection grow against you. His stubble brushed over your heating cheek, you shuddered out. Quickly, he flipped your front onto the wall, you gasped out and swallowed down the ball of spit in your throat.

“You’re my fucking wife, you’ll stay with me” Martin determined with a nod. 

“O-okay, just calm down” you shuddered. “Martin!” you yelped out as he yanked your comfy pants down to your thighs. 

“Shut it, just giving you what you deserve” Martin responded harshly and he forcefully pressed your face on the wall. 

You choked on your sob as he smacked your rear harshly. His hand pressed against your shoulder blade, you were confined against the plastered wall as he spanked your cheeks. Never has your husband been so rough with you, he was always gentle, kind and thoughtful. Martin would mutter curse words under his breath as he felt his cock twitch in his athlete shorts. The sounds of his slaps echoed throughout the walls, you bit back your moans, your eyes almost rolling back as you unknowingly squeezed your thighs together to create friction. 

“I love you” Martin confessed, his lips pressed to your ear as he continued to bring his palm to your flaming skin. 

“I know you do, Martin” you panted out, your breathing rugged, hips shifting. 

“I’d do anything for you” Martin grunted as he hit you with full force.

“I know you would!” you whined. 

His blue eyes could see how your body was reacting, how horny you were becoming. Martin heaved out, his body molded against yours as he rubbed his erection over your stinging cheeks. Your knees felt weak, his body weight was holding you up. Desperately, his humps humped against your ass, Martin could hardly control his desires. 

“You want a baby?” Martin whispered, almost romantically. 

“W-what?” you whimpered out. 

“Do you want a baby, my darling? I’ll put one in you right now if it’d fix everything” Martin explained, his hands rubbing your hips. 

You stammered out as you tried to think logically. A baby was all that you wanted, for so long. But Martin just always put his job first and shooed away the possibilities of creating a family together. You hated him for it. But now he wants to change?

“Come on, how many arguments did we have over it? How badly does it make you despise me?” Martin continued on, his head rubbed against yours. 

You mumbled out, you tried to think of George, of your plans. But he seemed to be disappearing from your mind. Martin’s hands caressed over your stomach, you moaned out gently and turned around to your husband, your lips neared his.

[efflorescencesims]

→ t-shirts with a bunch of random things i enjoy! ☆ new mesh, bgc ☆ 11 swatches + 2 bonus swatches ☆ feminine frame / teen-elder ☆ custom thumbnail ☆ disabled for random please lmk if there are any issues, since this is my first real piece of cc!!

*ೃ༄ download (sfs)

since this is a thank-you gift, you will find the thank-you notes under the cut (quite cheesy + long)

first of all: thank you so much for 100 followers!!

i especially want to thank all my mutuals for being such amazing people, hyping me up every time i post and blessing my feed with their incredible talent. i don't normally like singling people out because of my fear of leaving people out but i wanted to give a special special shoutout to @miralure and @simulatd because they are literally the sweetest people ever!!

my page is almost a year old but i've only been consistently active since october and if you look at my earlier posts you can definitely tell my edits have gone through a few transformations. even now i’m not entirely sure what my niche is. i wanted to thank you guys for supporting me even when i give you whiplash while trying to figure out what i want my page to be!

i feel a little proud with the progress i’ve made last year, or rather in the last few months. i’ve started learning how to use blender (which i never thought i’d do) and honestly it’s the most fun i’ve had in a while!! it allows me to realize my silly ideas and has almost no limitations. i’m still very new to it, but i’m looking forward to the this year and to all the progress i’ll make.

as for cc making, i have so much respect for cc creators and what they're able to do. going into this with no experience and time to practice (because i gave myself a stupid time limit) was definitely not my smartest move. these shirts honestly don't look the best, which is a little disappointing but if you don't want them, just ignore them and look at the preview instead (which kind of sucks as well) !!

if you read all of this: thank you!! and if you didn't: thank you still!!

i know i'm a little late but nevertheless i wish everyone a happy new year!! i'm so excited to see what this year has in store for us <33 much love & see you soon (because i do need a short break after this...)

[hanjicakes]

꒰ 𝜗𝜚 ꒱ beware

synopsis .ᐟ - you and chris were never meant to work out, but when he shows up again, can you actually resist?

content info .ᐟ - nonidol!chan x gender neutral!reader, but the word 'girl' is used for reader once but in a slang way yk?, they both ain't shit, lots of mentions of alcohol, reader has canonically been to jail and has an alcohol problem, chris is an alleged cheater, chan referred to as chris

word count .ᐟ - 4.1k words

author ' s note .ᐟ - hey... it's been a while... my phone broke so lowkey wasn't focused but i'm here now!! this was in the drafts for a while and also can we tell i CANNOT write toxicity?? go easy on me guys

my mastrlist ૮₍›ᆺ ‹ ₎ა

You should’ve listened to your friends.

Your subconscious replays those words over and over again. You weren’t made for each other. You were terrible for each other. What made you think this could possibly work? Jealousy seeped into your bones, ran through your veins, and ruined every relationship you ever had. This time wasn’t any different— it never was.

You lean against the cool bar as you down the most recent drink you ordered. You had lost track of the number of glasses you sent back to the bartender. It didn’t matter much, anyways. They weren’t going to stop a paying customer, no matter how intoxicated they already were. The loud music doesn’t help the pangs in your head. The bass rattles through your core. It feels like you’ve been chucked into a giant blender with all the hateful words, the sour tears, and the glass bottles you finished alone and the only thing you can do is continue to drown yourself.

Slowly, you move away from the bar and towards the dance floor. Drunk, sweaty bodies crowd together to thrust and grind against each other in a practice that is nowhere near elegant or appropriate. You know you came with your friends and you glance around in hopes of spotting one of them. You spot one of them squished in a leather booth with a man you certainly didn’t know. Their mouths are connected in an almost animalistic way and they don’t seem to be letting go anytime soon. You look away and shudder slightly. Turning around to return back to your sanctuary at the bar, you recklessly run into a man standing off with his friends.

You barely recognize that you spilled your drink until the coldness seeps through your outfit. You mentally curse yourself for wearing something that stains easily. Your mind whirls with a possible response for this accident and the one you choose is to get defensive. You immediately stand up to your full height and grip your glass.

“Why the hell are you standing in the middle—” You begin, only for the words to die on the tip of your tongue. Bile bubbles inside your gut as you look eyes with the man who wasn’t much of a stranger at all. He stares down at you with a furrowed brow, his plush lips curled downwards into a disappointed scowl.

“You drink too damn much, you know that?” Chris says. His voice is low and you’re sure you are the only person who heard him. Despite all the music blasting, his words rattle through your core and shake your mind into a jumbled mess. You try to speak up again but nothing escapes your mouth except a weak whine. He looks at you as if you were nothing more than a waste of time— a disappointment who drained the life out of him. On one hand, you did. You sucked out everything he had to offer and then more. On the other hand, he made your life a living hell.

Maybe you were meant for each other. In some sick, disgusting way.

The crinkle of fast food wrappers is almost like music to your ears. You and your friends had just spent the last few hours walking around the new shopping mall in your city and were, quite frankly, worn out. You sat on the hard, plastic food court chair, slurping on your slushy while two of your friends bickered over which movie you all would see later. One argued that a thriller was getting better reviews online. You didn’t care too much about what you guys would go see. You reach across the table and break off a piece of the soft pretzel you purchased.

A warm feeling of comfort settles over you as you watch your friends chatter away with each other. Life had gotten so busy for all of you that you rarely spent time together anymore. As the argument over movies gets more heated, you decide it’s time to intervene before they claw at each other’s throats. Parting your lips to speak, a deep masculine voice speaks up and causes your friends to go silent.

“You guys are trying to go see Scream?” He asks. His lips raise into a smile and he shows off a pair of teeth that are white enough to make even a dentist envious. His cheeks dip slightly and two dimples make their appearance. He was undeniably handsome with slightly ruffled hair and loose curls. He had an accent when he spoke, too. You weren’t sure where it was from— it wasn’t British but it didn’t seem American, either.

“Yeah… What about it?” Your friend, Sana, speaks up. There’s a slight smile forming on her face as she looks over him. You almost chuckle at how she isn’t able to hide her attraction. Part of you can’t blame her. He looks like he could’ve been sculpted out of marble. His smile widens a bit at her sharp response. Your head tilts slightly as you watch him formulate a response.

“Me and a few of my mates,” He says, gesturing to two other men sitting in another booth. One wears a black tank top while the other is basically drowning in his hoodie. “We were plannin’ on seeing that movie too, y’know? Thought you guys might want to see it with us.”

You glance over to your friends and raise your eyebrows. You weren’t completely opposed to going out with them… This man— who you still didn’t know the name of, oddly enough— seemed nice enough. You lean in closer to your friends to whisper between each other.

“He’s cute.” You mutter, letting your eyes flicker over his sturdy frame for a second too long. He spots your gaze easily and gives you a small wave.

“Please, don’t start right now…” Soyeon says. Out of the quirky characters that made up your friend group, Soyeon seemed to be the most level headed on. She was headstrong and made the better decisions of the group. Still, most people didn’t take her advice.

“We should go.” Sana blurts out, “Him and his friends are cute. And, the movie theater is a public place. They can’t axe murder us there, right? We could use some fun…”

After a few moments of hesitation, Soyeon nods her head. The three of you pull back and look back at the man in front of your table.

“What’s your name?” Soyeon asks. Her tone doesn’t allow him any chance to avoid the question.

“Just call me Chris, yeah?”

︶︶︶︶

The movie theater is almost dead silent as the audience waits for the unexpected twist. Unfortunately, the movie wasn’t as good as the reviews made it seem. While it did have a few comedic moments, the plot was rather predictable and the same as any other slasher movie. Your fingers drum on the side of your leather recliner and your eyes are glued to the screen. You know if you look away, you’ll make a fool of yourself. After a minor argument with Sana, you managed to claim the seat next to Chris. She and Soyeon sat next to his friends, who were decent guys in their own right. 

You can’t help but steal a glance at him. He seems to be focused on the movie. Your nails dig into the seat before turning back to the large screen in front of you. Just as you were about to forget about the ungodly handsome man beside you, he leans in to whisper to you.

“Are you nervous?” He mutters. His warm breath fans over your ear and you swear you feel goosebumps form over your skin. You take a moment to mentally prepare yourself to look at him.

“No,” You lie. You were nervous, just not because of the film. You were nervous because you were already ridiculously obsessed with a guy you know damn near nothing about. Your mind ridicules you for being so careless with these things but Lord knows you could never stop wearing your heart on your sleeve. “Just… Bored, I guess. This movie is kinda shitty.”

He snickers at your statement and that simple sound sends butterflies whirling around inside your stomach. A small grin forms without your control.

“Shitty, yeah? Well, I’d have to agree with that.”

“Mh…” You hum. “Uh, hey… Where are you from?”

He lets out a faint hum in acknowledgement of your question before actually responding. “Australia. Why?”

“You just have an accent. I couldn’t figure out where it was from.”

“Yeah, I mean, I get that a lot. Have you ever been to Australia?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I could take you, y’know.”

You look over to him and meet his eyes. Something in you tells you he is being dead serious and you furrow your brows.

“Why would you do that? We just met, you don’t know me.”

“Yeah, well…” He murmurs, glancing back towards the screen. The main character is trying to find a hiding place but clumsily trips over a loose extension cord. There’s a few quiet groans emitted from the audience. Chris turns back to you.

“Maybe I want to get to know you.”

The bitter taste of cheap alcohol lingers in your mouth and forces you to lick your lips. Your mouth felt so damn dry, it was insane. You pull your knees up to your chest while shifting slightly over the leather seats of Chris’s car. You weren’t sure when you left the party. Part of you could still hear the music ringing in your ears so mauve you were just parked outside? All you really remember was your friends telling you not to leave.

“Girl, we just got here!” Sana protested. Soyeon stood beside her with crossed arms and a grimace.

“Are you seriously leaving us for a man…?” Soyeon muttered. She sounded like a mother. One who was most certainly disappointed in the choices her too drunk daughter was making. You rolled your eyes.

“We’ll only be gone for, like, five minutes… We’ll come back before the party ends, alright?”

The words were pretty disingenuous. You weren’t sure when you and Chris would come back and, frankly, you didn’t care. He could keep you all night if he really wanted to. You are pulled back to your reality when you feel soft tugging on a strand of your hair. Chris is sitting beside you in the backseat, mindlessly fidgeting with the locks of hair. You brush his hand away and stare at him slightly. The corners of his eyes were tinged with red, but he held a big gummy smile on his face.

You poke your finger inside his dimple and chuckle slightly. “What are you smiling for? We’re just sitting here…”

“Well,” He murmurs, “You’re pretty and I’ve got you in my car. I think that’s a reason to smile.”

“And, why exactly are we in the car…?” You question. Your hand moves down to caress the curve between his neck and shoulder. He leans faintly into the touch and you feel his hand begin to roam over your back. His palms were soft and warm despite the air being on in the car.

“Why don’t you tell me why?” 

The both of you are quiet for a second. The alcohol flowing through you has you feeling a bit bold— more bold than you probably should. You snake your hand into his dark brown locks and tug on the curls. He lets out a faint grunt, one that you probably wouldn’t have noticed if it were anyone but him. It’s like all of your senses are on high alert around him. You don’t want to miss a single detail about him. You pull his head down a bit so you can meet his lips in a drunken kiss. It’s rough at first, trying to guide his head, but you both manage. His lips are soft and the faint taste of bubblegum and beer linger on his tongue. His fingers dig into the soft skin of your hip as he leans in closer, absorbing the heat you emit.

“Damn,” Chris mutters. His words only add fuel to the fire inside your gut and don’t let him go— not until you both are breathless and weak.

You pant lightly while pushing back some of your hair. Looking up at Chris sends a slight shock through your body. How could one kiss leave you feeling electrified?

“Do you wanna head back now…?” You ask quietly. The whirl of the air conditioning in his car fills the quiet between your words.

“Nah, I think we can stay here…”

︶︶︶︶

Six months was a hell of a long time. You weren’t sure the last time you committed to something for that long, but you managed to commit to Chris. Unsurprisingly, many people doubted that you would last. Well, basically everyone did. Your friends always told you to take things slow and now to rush things because that’s how you get your heartbroken. It’s safe to say you didn’t listen because after two months of dating, you had already met his parents. Now, on the six month anniversary, you were about to make the biggest commitment of your life.

“A tattoo!?” Your friends say so loud, it makes a few people standing nearby uncomfortable.

“It’s not like it’s going to be his face or anything…” You murmur, stirring around your coffee with a wooden stirrer. “It’s a cute thing, stop acting like I’m fucking crazy.”

Soyeon scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You sure as hell are if you are getting a tattoo with this guy. It hasn’t even been a year! You always rush these things and—”

“You’re going to be looking for tattoo removal places in three months, y'know. Your relationships never last…” Sana says.

You groan heavily. “You guys always do this. I’m happy with Chris, alright? Stop meddling, we are fine… Maybe for once, you guys could be supportive?”

Sana and Soyeon share a concerned glance before Soyeon speaks up. “You know, the last time we did that, we had to bail you out of jail.”

“That guy was an asshole! Chris is different…”

“Maybe,” Sana says. “But, you are also… Reckless, when it comes to break ups.”

You bite your bottom lip slightly. They were being ridiculous, they always were. You never did anything that was unjustified— at least, in your eyes they weren’t unjustified. Maybe you did have a problem. Everyone else did. You raise your coffee mug to your mouth and continue your outing in uncomfortable silence.

Maybe you were too reckless.

The bright light from your phone screen illuminates your face as you scroll on Instagram. Okay, scrolling is a slight understatement. You were stalking. A bad habit, you know, but it was necessary.

You shift under your blanket as you scroll through your boyfriend’s following list. Your eye twitches whenever you see him following another girl, but you try to ward off that feeling. Eventually, you decide it’s time to give up. You didn’t have any reason to be worried, after all. You power down your phone and begin to focus back on the movie you had turned on. It was a Scream sequel, and it was just as bad as the original. While you reach for your bowl of chips, your phone vibrates with a message from an unfamiliar account. You stare at your phone for a while before picking up the device and reading over the message.

"hey, ik u dont know me, but ik chris and like hes been flirting with this girl all night and ik u two r dating, so i thought u should know"

You chuckle slightly at the message, not completely believing it at first. This was just some random person trying to ruin your day. You begin to type out a response to give them a piece of your mind when another message pops up. A series of photos, all of them depicting Chris being comfortable with a pretty girl in a green dress. Too comfortable, you think.

Your eyes scan over the photos again and again. It looks like Chris, but maybe it’s photoshop. Maybe it’s AI. Maybe you are just being paranoid. But, you remember seeing him leave in that jacket earlier. And he’s wearing the same watch he always does. Your lungs hitch when you see the final detail— a dark butterfly tattoo on his wrist. One that matches the butterfly on your ankle. It seems like the world around you quiets and disappears, leaving only you and the images. After that, all hell breaks loose.

You barely have time to think when you open your contacts and press the dial. You call his phone again and again to no response. That’s when you open your messages.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

R u joking me rn? Ur fucking CHEATING on me??

U have to be insane

This is crazy

UR CRAZY

Do u want me to die?? Is this how u treat me??

Answer ur damn phone Chris

Miserable fucking bastard

Chris <3: What the hell are you talking about?

Answer my damn calls

Where are u right now??

Ill find u rn

Im going to kill u

In the middle of your next spew of texts and violent threats, your phone rings. You hardly think before pressing the answer button and immediately yelling into the speaker.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you? After everything I’ve done for you—”

“First of all, you haven’t done shit. Why are you blowing up my phone?”

His voice is quick to cut you off and his tone is sharper than you’ve ever heard. He’s pissed off, probably just as much as you are. Your grip on the phone tightens.

“Why am I blowing up your phone…? Are you serious? You’re out all damn night, feeling up other girls, and I should just stay quiet? What, did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

“I’m not with other girls? I told you I was going to Changbin’s party. Stop acting fucking crazy.” He retorts.

“Crazy?” You repeat. Something about the word sends waves of heat running through your body. You push back the blankets and sit up. “You think I’m crazy? I’ll show you fucking crazy. Don’t call me again.”

There’s a faint scoff on the other line. The sound of house music can be heard muffled in the background. “Yeah, wasn’t planning on it.”

︶︶︶︶

You weren’t ready to accept that your friends were right. You fell in love too fast and ended up getting burned. The last few days have been spent hiding away in your apartment, trying not to rip your own hair out. Part of your heart yearned to crawl back to him, like a dog looking for water in Arizona heat. Another part of your heart wanted to watch him suffer the same way you were. You still watched his stories on a burner account. Seeing him still go to parties, still visiting friends made you outraged. You were supposed to be the best thing that happened to him—  He got a tattoo for you, after all. You were supposed to mean something to him.

The familiar taste of hard liquor helps you manage the stress, though. As unhealthy of a habit it was, it worked surprisingly well to help you forget. Well, you could never forget. You could never forget the lingering kisses and longing touches that set your skin on fire, but you could numb the pain of missing it.

You fidget with the empty, your mind blurred with heavy thoughts. You couldn’t understand the strange feeling of grief in your heart. How could you miss someone so badly when they only lived a few blocks away? At the thought, an idea pops into your head.

You slowly move from the couch and towards the storage closet in the hall. It was just as messy as your life was, but that wasn’t the point. You search deep into the back until you find exactly what you were looking for. Your old softball bat.

The walk to his house felt enthralling. Your entire body buzzed from head to toe with adrenaline and it seemed like for once, you were able to forget all about how upset you were. You could hardly care about the time of day, or night for this matter. Your feet drag along the concrete as you turn the block and spot the house he shared with a few buddies. Parked just outside the garage was Chris’s car. The same one that you shared your first kiss in. That was where you bawled your eyes out or indulged yourself in all his sweetness. The sight of it brought back a disgusting amount of memories. Memories you were ready to destroy.

Approaching the vehicle, you glance up towards the house. All the lights were off, so you assume everyone must be asleep. You let out a shaky breath and wind your arm back before swinging full force. The way the steel warps from the hit is almost mesmerizing. You wind up again and take another hit. This one sets off the blaring car alarm. You could care less if someone wakes up from it. You move to the side and take another hit, knocking out the passenger window. 

“What the fuck are you doing!?”

You are pulled from your stupor at the sound of someone yelling at you. Not someone, Chris. You could tell before turning around and even then, the sight of him looking at you from his open window brought a drunken smile to your face. His brows were so furrowed that they basically became one. He still manages to ignite such a fuzzy feeling inside of you no matter how much you convince yourself you hate his guts.

“Get the hell away from my car!” He shouts out, his hands gripping the windowsill. A few of the neighbors have begun to peer their heads out their doors or look through the blinds. You could care less about their eyes watching you. All you could focus on was Chris.

“I told you I would show you crazy, didn’t I!” You reply to him, holding out the bat for him to see. “This is your last time calling me crazy!”

Chris stares at you for a moment, completely bewildered. He grunts before slamming the window shut. You can only assume he’s coming down to stop you so you get your arm ready for one last hit. You raise your bat before slamming it down on the windshield. The glass cracks around the spot of impact and just as the front door opens, you take off running.

In a split second, you are returned back to that club. And he’s in front of you again, staring at you like you are nothing but garbage from his past. Your mouth is suddenly dry and it feels like no amount of alcohol will help it. You finally break eye contact and look down at the ground. In your peripheral, you noticed his bare wrist. He must have rolled his sleeves up. Despite that, something sticks out to you.

“You kept the tattoo…?” You murmur, looking back up at him. His face relaxes slightly and it was obvious he wasn’t expecting that question from you.

“Reminds me not to make mistakes. Like you.” He says, his tone flat.

“Geez, you’re still a dick…”

“You broke my fucking car windows.”

“I wouldn’t have to do that if you didn’t cheat on me.” You say. His lips twitch slightly like he wants to say something. He doesn’t. The air settling around the two of you is heavy.

“Something tells me you aren’t ready to let go.” He says as if it were fact.

“Really?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, really.”

You bite down on your bottom lip. Something in you didn’t completely trust him. You know you shouldn’t. But, you know he’s right. Even months later, you weren’t ready to let go. You weren’t ready to let go of the memories and the dreams. You weren’t ready to let go of the man who gave you the best few months of your life.

“You ruined my life.” You say.

“You ruined mines, too. Let’s call it even.”

“... So I can call you again?”

Chris tilts his head at your question. After a moment, though, a sly smirk forms and you catch a glimpse of those beautiful dimples.

“Yeah, you can call. Only if you lay off the alcohol.”

[charliegyrth]

A Milkshake a Day - Part 1 of 4

Gary and I Make an Oscar Bet

As the Oscars played, I munched on kettle corn. I knew I shouldn’t. I’d gained 32 pounds since last summer and I’d already had to change my pants size twice. My shirts had upgraded from mediums to XLs. Worst of all, my jawline had softened to the point where I genuinely looked like a different person.

I was never vain about my looks, but I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious sitting next to my roommate Gary. (Even at my thinnest, I felt self-conscious next to him.)

We sat together on the couch, watching the show. He didn’t snack, of course. He never did. He was wearing his skin-tight Barbenheimer shirt. His pecs were so large that they absolutely warped Barbie’s smiling face.

“It’s coming up,” he said excitedly. “Get ready to admit defeat.”

Every year, Gary and I made bets on what would win best picture. This year, I was all-in on Oppenheimer. (And based on all the awards so far, it looked like I’d made the right choice.) Gary went for Barbie. Despite being a gym-obsessed muscle hunk, he was a bit girlish in his taste in movies. I found that very cute.

We sat through the final commercial break, both a bit nervous about the last award of the night. Our previous bets had always been pretty low-stakes. The loser would have to pay the winner twenty bucks. Or take him out to dinner. Or sing an embarrassing song at karaoke.

This year was different. Whoever won the bet had to wash the dishes every day for a year. We both hated doing the dishes (mostly because the blender that Gary used for his protein shakes was an absolute bitch to clean out).

“I dunno, man. I feel pretty confident right now.”

He stared at the TV, trying to hide his nervousness. “Barbie’s a freakin’ masterpiece. How could it be anything else?”

The award was announced (Oppenheimer, of course), and Gary jumped off the couch. He knocked the bowl out of my hands and popcorn scattered onto the floor. (Thankfully, it wasn’t a lot. I’d already eaten almost of all it.) “No!” he screamed.

“Sorry, Gare. Looks like you’ll be spending a lot more time in the kitchen this year.” I felt the thrill of victory, but I also felt a bit sorry for him. Not only did his favorite movie of the year lose out on all the important categories (minus Billie Eilish’s iconic song win, of course), but the thought of all that dish-washing had left him looking genuinely panicked.

He sat back down, grabbing me by my shirt. He pulled, exposing a sliver of my new belly. “Please, man. If I’da known Barbie had any chance of losing, I never would’ve agreed to this stupid bet.”

“A deal’s a deal, man,” I said, handing him the empty popcorn bowl. “Here. You can start with this.”

“Isn’t there another chore I could do? I could… I could take out the trash!”

“Too easy.”

“What about dusting? I could dust every room once a week.”

“Sorry.”

“Please, Bry! Anything but dishes. Just name it. I’m sure there’s something else you want.”

I looked down at my exposed belly. The only thing I really wanted was to lose weight, but I just didn’t have the self-control. My biggest issue was the McDonalds right down the street. I walked by it every day on my way home from work, and I had zero self-control. It was those damn milkshakes. Since that restaurant opened, I’d been bringing one home every single afternoon. I tried to stop, but I think I was addicted.

He couldn’t help with that. I’d sort of resigned myself to the fact that I was destined to keep getting fatter and fatter.

(He’d tried to take me to his gym a couple times, and I hated every minute of it. No will power. Plus, I felt so awkward being the tagalong fat friend surrounded by all his ultra-hot gym buddies.)

Then I had an idea. A ridiculous, weird idea. “How about, instead of doing the dishes, you drink my McDonalds milkshakes for me?”

“What?”

“Hear me out. You know I have this compulsion. Every time I walk by McDonalds, I have to buy a milkshake. I can’t stop myself. How about… I bring them home and you drink them instead of me? It obviously won’t affect you, since you basically live at the gym. It’ll be like I’m vicariously drinking them, but I won’t get all the extra calories.”

“That’s… weird.”

“I know, but it’s better than doing the dishes, right?”

“True.” He was really considering it. He looked down at my belly, which was once again covered by my shirt. I knew he was worried about how quickly I was gaining weight. I also knew that he didn’t quite understand my logic, but that’s okay. I didn’t really understand it either. “You got a deal.”

We shook on it.

For the first time, I felt optimistic for the future. I think I found the motivation that I needed.

***

The next day, I got home with the usual milkshake in my hand. It took a lot of effort not to drink anything on my walk down the street.

Gary was waiting for me in the living room. He was shirtless, still sweaty from his trip to the gym. He was pretty much the most handsome guy I knew, but we’d lived together so long (both cycling through different boyfriends) that I only saw him platonically. I appreciated his pecs and abs without lusting after them.

I handed him the shake. “You ready?”

“You know how weird this is, right?”

“I do.”

We sat on the couch. He held the cup nervously, like he was handling radioactive material or something. I don’t think he’d ever had a McDonalds milkshake in his entire life.

He sucked on the straw. “Ugh. It’s too sweet.”

“Try to enjoy it, please,” I said. If this was going to work, I needed to watch him drink it down and trick my brain into thinking that I was the one drinking.

He sucked some more. I could tell he didn’t like it, but he did his best to hide the look of disgust on his face. He drank it pretty fast, though, both despite and because of his disgust at the taste. He stopped about halfway through.

“You sure you don’t want to have the rest?”

I did. More than anything. My mouth was literally watering. “A deal’s a deal, right?”

He grumbled and kept drinking. Soon, his straw started making slurp noises. He’d finished the whole thing. He leaned back against the couch, holding his still-flat stomach. He did not look happy.

“You’ll get used to the taste,” I said.

“I better.”

Read Part 2 here. You can find the full ebook here. And you can find all my stories here.

[screamingforests]

Hi, hello ,:^

I have come here to ask about your Catshifter!reader AU. I wanted to ask, how does Simon feel about reader not liking him and how do we show it(? >:) because yes, we will bite the one masked man that called us strays, how dare he, but what else? Do we go feral every time his mask comes into view?

And also, maybe if we can get some more instances where Kyle is minding his own business and reader decides that yeah, actually I want attention and if you don't give me it, I will go tell on you to Price.

Happy to have found your blog, by the way, welcome >:)

Omg im sorry this took me so long to respond!! Totally forgot my asks were open 😅

Simon is 100% jealous, he wants the love. Especially after you start opening up and spending more time around the boys. I imagine you stay in cat form for cuddles because of the ability to purr and show general contentedness. He tries to be nicer but he's a big man and he's not quite right. That's alright though, he'll do something in the main story line that will help :)

Kitty 100% launches themself at Kyle when they want attention. No doubt of it in my mind. I'm sorta basing them off of my cat(Blender) bc he's a chaotic gremlin but he's also super sweet too.

If Kyle doesn't give you cuddles? Easy, you'll just try and trip him when he gets up.

Obligatory cat pic of Blender:

[g-hughes]

Let’s talk Nico Hischier in the form of a request shall we? "I just want you to be happy! And perhaps a little bit naked."

The Girl from Across the Hall - N. Hischier

masterlist || g's graduation celly

synopsis: Ever since he moved in, Nico has had a crush on his neighbor, but she doesn't feel the same way. . . or does she?

word count: 3.0k

warnings: idiots to lovers, mentions of hookups/sex, cursing, drinking

Nico had a crush. 

At age 25, Nico Hischier, captain of the New Jersey Devils, had a crush on his best friend. 

It wasn’t like Nico planned on falling in love with his best friend, it just kind of happened. He wasn’t sure when it happened, but it did, and there was nothing that he could do about it. 

Nico could remember the day he met her like it was yesterday. He had just been drafted by the Devils, and was moving into his apartment, by himself in Jersey City. He wouldn’t ever admit it out loud, but he was terrified; being in a new country, a new city, about to embark on a brand new journey in his life. Nico thought he was doing a good job at hiding his nerves, but apparently, he was not. 

On the second week of being on his own, Nico had ventured out to get some basic things for his apartment that his mother hadn’t already supplied him with. He was thankful that his parents had flown across the ocean to help him move in. He hadn’t ever lived on his own before, and found himself calling his parents almost every single day. Nico had gotten by for two weeks with the basic supplies and amenities he had, but he wanted to get some more things like a blender and a waffle iron, and maybe some decorative pillows. 

But Nico was a lot like his mother, and ended up buying a lot more than what he had wanted to get. With his arms full of shopping bags, Nico made the trek up to his tenth floor apartment, breaking a sweat by the time he got to his front door. He grunted as he shifted the bags around, trying to grab his keys out. 

“C’mon,” He said to himself, trying to adjust his keys in his hands, his arms beginning to hurt from the bags cutting off circulation, “Fuck! Fuck!” He cursed as his keys clattered to the ground, “Fuck!” 

“You okay?” A gorgeous girl in a pair of shorts and a tank top stood in her doorway, a confused look on her face. 

Nico sighed, and looked down at his keys, “Yeah.” 

“You sure?” She asked and Nico shook his head. 

“I dropped my keys,” He said in defeat. 

“I see,” She said, stepping out of the door, “You just move in?” He nodded, and she bent down to grab his keys, easily finding the one to the door, “I’m Y/N,” She introduced herself, putting the key in the lock, and turning it, “My sister and I live across the hall.” 

“Nico,” He said, and she pushed the front door open, “Thank you.” 

“No problem,” She nodded, “But you know. . . the doors have their own key fob you could’ve used. Hell of a lot easier than fiddling with a key,” Nico’s jaw dropped dumbfoundedly, as he watched Y/N skip back across the hall, “Nice to meet you, Nico!” 

And now, nearly 7 years later, Nico lived in the same apartment with Y/N still across the hall. Though things had changed over the years, such as Y/N’s sister moving out and Nico becoming the captain of the devils, their friendship never changed. They got closer as the years went on, both of them being the same age, having some of the same interests. But Nico was drawn to her personality; confident, sassy, smart, a beautiful person both inside and out, but also a bit intimidating. Nico had witnessed her first hand hold her ground against pissed off hockey fans, and dudes who think they are entitled to get something after a first date. 

And maybe that was why Nico was afraid to tell her how he felt. Or maybe it was because he didn’t want to lose her as a friend. Y/N had been one of the first people he had connected with when he moved to Jersey. She was there through it all, his tough rookie season, bad losses, exciting wins, being named captain, a run in the play-offs, a miserable season following. She was his person, his best friend. And he was going to be damned if he did anything to mess with that. 

So Nico kept his feelings a secret, and kept on playing the dutiful best friend role that he had been playing for the past 7 years. Even when all he could do was sit on a barstool and watch as she danced with some random guy at the bar. 

“You know,” Jack said, sitting down next to Nico, “This is getting pathetic.” 

“What is?” Nico asked, looking at his alternate captain. 

“You,” Jack said, honestly and the Swiss man furrowed his eyebrows, “And her,” Jack then pointed to where Y/N was, her back pressed against some guy as they swayed to the music. 

“She’s having fun,” Nico shrugged, “And I’m making sure he doesn’t disrespect her.” 

“Oh you are such a hero, Nico! A stand up guy! Oh please have my babies!” Jack feigned, batting his eyelashes in an exaggerated move, “You’re making me sad! It’s a bar! We just clinched a playoff spot! And you’re making me sad!” 

“Then don’t look at me,” Nico sassed back. He grabbed his beer and took a hefty sip, before looking back at the dancefloor where Y/N was still with that guy. She was facing him now, whispering something in his ear, as his hands sat dangerously low on her hips. Maybe they were discussing going home with each other. It wouldn’t have been the first time that Nico spotted her coming home with a guy or watching a guy leave out her front door. It broke his heart every single time, but he would never tell her that. 

“Look,” Jack said, sitting his beer down, “I am just looking out for you, okay. It is painfully obvious that you have a thing for Y/N, and it’s kind of obvious that she doesn’t feel the same. I don’t want to see you get hurt. And I feel like that's where this is heading.” 

Nico sighed, hanging his head, “So what do I do?” He asked honestly. 

“You find yourself a hottie, take her home, and bang her,” Jack said as if it was the simplest thing in the world, “Hey, I know that you haven’t had your dick in something other than your hand since you broke up with Macy eight months ago.” 

Jack was right, Nico hadn’t been intimate with anyone since his ex. Macy was a great girl, fantastic even. She never got mad or upset about him always being going or putting most of his focus on hockey and the team. The only issue was, she wasn’t Y/N. Nico hated that every time he kissed Macy or touched her, he would imagine she was Y/N. When Nico broke up with Macy, she wasn’t mad, and it was almost as if she expected it. She even told him that she knew his heart wasn’t completely in it, and that it belonged to someone else. 

“I don’t do one night stands,” Nico said. 

“How do you know? Ever had one?” 

Nico was silent for a moment, “No.” 

“Then?” Jack encouraged, “Just get it out of your system.” 

Nico pondered it for a moment, looking around the bar. It was packed, girls in scantily dressed clothing, and men with fake designer clothing on. The loud music felt like a second heartbeat in Nico’s chest, and the air was thick with sweat. 

“Her,” Jack said, pulling Nico’s attention, and pointing to a girl on the other side of the bar, “She’s just your type, she looks like Y/N.” Nico hated to admit it, but the girl on the other side of the bar did look a lot like Y/N. A tall-ish build, with beautiful curves and a bright smile. However this girl had a certain aura about her, as if she was commanding all eyes to be on here, where for Y/N, all the eyes in the room naturally followed her. 

“I’ll be back,” Nico said, chugging down the rest of his beer before going to the girl. 

It was about five minutes later that Y/N came bouncing up to the bar, out of breath, and in dire need of a drink. She loved going to bars and clubs like this. She loved feeling the bass in her bones, the bright lights robbing her of her site, the layer of sweat on her body. She knew that Nico hated it, but would grin and bear it just for her, he hated her going to these places alone. But the Devils were in the playoffs and so coming to the club was a must for celebration. 

“How ya been, Dancin’ Queen?” Jack greeted her. 

“Dying of thirst!” Y/N answered back, draping an arm around his shoulders. He held up his beer in offering and she shook her head, “Water, please. I don’t like drinking alcohol at the club.”

“You’re so weird,” Jack shook his head, but knew her reasoning. Y/N only liked to drink in a ‘controlled environment’ as she would call it, the comfort of her apartment or Nico’s or Jack’s, or anywhere that wasn’t in public. She was just naturally a ball of fun at the club, sober.

 Jack waved down the bartender and asked for a glass of water, which Y/N thanked him for. The cool liquid felt amazing down her dry throat, “Where’s Nico?” 

“Overthere,” Jack smirked, nodding towards the other side of the bar. Y/N’s eyes widened as she saw her best friend, leaned up on the side of the bar talking to a gorgeous woman, “Where’s your date?” 

“My date?” Y/N asked, looking back at Jack. 

“Yeah,” He shrugged, “The guy you were dry humping on the dance floor.” 

“Logan?” Y/N asked again, a laugh tumbling from her lips, “He’s been my friend since elementary. He’s just here for the weekend.” 

“Mhm,” Jack nodded, rubbing his lips together. Y/N looked back over towards Nico, a weird feeling in her chest as she watched him move in closer to the girl, and brush a strand of hair behind her ear. 

Y/N swallowed down the rest of her water, “I think I’m gonna call it a night. I’ll order an uber or something.” 

Jack snapped his head towards her, “What? No? You love this club!” 

“Yeah,” She sighed in defeat, “But I’m tired and my feet hurt and the music is starting to give me a headache.” Jack looked at her incredulously. Usually Jack and Nico were dragging Y/N out of the club at the end of the night, hardly ever did she want to leave before last call. Jack looked over at Nico, and then at Y/N, realization settling on his features. 

She was jealous. 

“Are you-” 

“I’m leaving,” Y/N ordered, turning on her heel, but Jack grabbed her arm. 

“Hey,” Jack said, “One, you’re not going to get into an uber by yourself on a friday night in Jersey City. I’ve watched enough SVU to know that’s a recipe for disaster.” 

“Thanks detective Tutuola,” Y/N crossed her arms over her chest, her breasts being pushed up over the top of her silver slip dress, “Are you coming then?” 

“Yes,” Jack grumbled, “Hold on.” He turned back towards where Nico was standing, waving his hand to get his friend’s attention, but Y/N was growing impatient, not wanting to stand there and watch Nico talk to some girl who was giving him ‘fuck me’ eyes. 

“Uber is two minutes out.” 

“Fuck it! I’ll just text him.” Jack groaned, slamming back the rest of his drink and getting up from his barstool, “C’mon.” He put his hand on the small of her back, leading her hastily out of the bar towards the awaiting bar.

“That’s seriously so cool!” The girl, whose name Nico learned is Megan, said, “I have only been to Switzerland once, and it was the most beautiful place I have ever been too. We went up to the mountains and ugh. . . that’s a sight I still have dreams about.” 

“Yeah it’s def-” Nico was cut off as his phone buzzed in his pocket, “Excuse me,” He blushed as he pulled his iPhone out of his pocket, seeing a message from Jack. His dark eyebrows furrowed as he read it and then looked up, seeing Jack slam his glass down and all but run out of the club, his hand on Y/N’s back. Nico looked back down at the message, anger blooming in his chest. 

‘Going home with Y/N. Don’t wait up.’ 

Nico clenched his jaw, sliding his phone back into his pocket. He huffed and turned towards Megan, “You want to get out of here?” 

Megan licked her lips and nodded, “Sure.” 

— — — 

This is what the walk of shame must’ve felt like, though she had little shame as she walked down the hallway on the tenth floor to her apartment. It was more like she didn’t want anyone to see her current state of dress, a large oversized t-shirt, a pair of men’s boxers, and white nike socks all courtesy of Jack Hughes. After they left the club, Y/N didn’t want to return to her empty apartment, instead she went back to Jack’s place, where Luke had escaped to earlier in the night. She had crashed in Jack’s bed after many more drinks and rounds of UNO. 

Now, she was making that fateful walk back home, her silver dress strewn over her arm and her heels in her other hand. Her hair was a mess of curls and hairspray, her face felt disgusting with the remnants of last night’s makeup. Y/N was almost home safe, when her neighbor opened his door, startling her. 

“Hey,” Nico said, standing shirtless in nothing but a pair of running shorts and sneakers, “You’re just getting home?” 

“Yeah,” Y/N nodded, “I ended up staying at Jack’s last night after we left.” 

Nico felt his heart speed up, “Seriously?” 

“Yeah,” Y/N said again, this time shrugging, “I felt like I had been home alone so much this week with you guys gone, and didn’t really want to come back alone so I-” 

“But you weren’t alone,” Nico crossed his arms over his chest, “You had Jack.” 

Y/N’s eyebrows furrowed at the shift in Nico’s tone, “But I was tired of looking at the same scenery, I need a change. What’s with the interrogation?” 

“Just didn’t know you and Jack were like that.” 

“We have been for a while,” Y/N shifted on her feet, “Usually he comes over here cause Luke is-” 

“Luke knows?” 

“He lives there,” Y/N was growing confused and a bit annoyed, “Look, it’s not that deep. I crashed at his place last night. I don’t know why I’m getting grilled like a criminal right now.” 

“Cause he’s my teammate,” Nico grumbled. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, anger, jealousy, sadness. “And we’re about to go into the playoffs and I don’t need some chick messing with his head.” 

Y/N was taken aback by Nico’s words. ‘Some chick’? Y/N wasn’t just some chick. She was Nico’s best friend, and considered an honorary WAG of the Devils organization. Everyone loved and adored her, inviting her to sit in the same section with the rest of the WAGs or on roadies or to watch parties. The coaching staff knew her on a first name basis and knew that if anything happened to Nico, she was the first person to call. Y/N L/N wasn’t just some chick. And Nico knew that. 

“Fine,” Y/N pursed her lips, “Good luck in the playoffs, Nico. I’ll leave you and the rest of your team alone.” 

“Wait, Y/N-” Nico was cut off by the loud slam of her front door and the lock turning. He groaned, cursing himself in his head as he walked up to her front door, pounding his fist against the wood. 

“Go away!” 

“No!” Nico protested, continuing his loud knocking on the door. 

Y/N rolled her eyes as she yanked the front door open, “Go away and quit knocking on my door like a lunatic!” Y/N went to slam her door in his face again, but Nico stopped it with his strong hand. She let out a huff as she turned on her heel, welcoming him into the apartment. 

“I’m sorry,” Nico said, running a hand through his hair, “You’re not just ‘some chick’. . .” He took in a deep breath, gathering up the courage, “You’re everything to me.” 

“Nico,” Y/N sighed, looking up at him from the couch. 

“Just listen,” Nico stood in front of her, “I’m in love with you. And I have been for a while. And I-I know you don’t feel the same way about me, and I’m okay with that. Well, I’m learning to be okay with that. It sucks, okay,” Nico shook his head with a self deprecating laugh, “It sucks because I just want you to be happy! And maybe a little naked with me,” His cheeks turned red and she couldn’t help but giggle, “But if that’s not what you want, then I’ll deal. I want what’s best for you and if Jack is what is best-” 

“Wait,” Y/N held her hand up, cutting Nico off in the middle of his confession, “Jack?” 

“Yeah,” Nico nodded, “You said that you guys have a-” 

“Oh my god,” Y/N couldn’t help the laughter falling from her lips. “Oh my god, Nico.” She closed the gap between them, placing her hands on his stubbled cheek, “Jack and I? We are friends. There is nothing and I mean nothing between us,” Her eyes searched his for a moment, as she drew in a breath, “I love you too. And I have for a while.” 

Nico didn’t hesitate to place his lips on hers, pulling her flush against his body. Years of pent up tension and wondering what the other was thinking washed away in an instant. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his brown hair. When the two of them pulled away for air, Y/N rested her forehead against Nico’s. 

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” She asked. 

“Me? Why didn’t you?” Nico laughed, “God, we’re dumb.” 

“Yeah,” Y/N smiled up at him, “But you love me.” 

“That I do.”