#pts chic reading

[mswild1]

🌸 Lace Me with Grace: Change is the Game 🌸

(Daily Message) Once I thought I’d never have what I desired, But it came upon me like a fire 🔥. Now I blaze with passion, burning bright 💥, Every day, I fight to change the world’s light 🌍. The game has shown me the truth in disguise, Some things stay the same, while others arise 🔄. We stand in both heat 🔥 and cold ❄️, Yet we seek the unknown, so bold 💫. To be known is to fear, to break…

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 10

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, family issues, generational trauma, self-growth, personal issues (and dealing with it), hurt and comfort, hmmmm…. let’s leave it at that for now :) A/N: Final chapter, guys! Thanks so much for reading <3

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10

“Oh, what the hell—since when do you cook?”

“Bitch,” you laugh, nudging past them, the ceramic pot still steaming in your hands. “Do you want the risotto or not?”

The scent of garlic and pecorino permeates the air as you stand in front of the small foyer of the duplex where your friend—questionable, at the moment—lives. Your most recent culinary masterpiece, deemed safe (enough) for public consumption, rests between your hands in silent offering to the skeptic figure who’s barring you from crossing the threshold. 

It’s still warm, and you’re not one to brag, but you think you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Not that it matters—everybody’s a fucking critic these days.

“Risotto?” Khol parrots in disbelief. “You don’t show up in forever, suddenly you’re all cuoca straordinario or some shit. Get out of here with your Mario ass–”

“Don’t mind them,” Anna interjects from behind your biggest hater, all cheer as she plucks the pot from your hands. “This smells amazing, actually. Come in!”

With that, she vanishes inside, leaving you and Khol alone in the doorway. You give them a knowing look.

“Oh wow,” you remark, all mock surprise. “You live together now?”

Khol rolls their eyes, already tired of you. “You missed the biggest arc of the last five months, but yeah.”

You step inside, and right away, something feels… different. It could partly be due to how much time has passed since you last visited, and it’s clearly still their place—the brooding industrial-emo aesthetic remains intact, still suspiciously close to resembling the lair of an angsty comic book antihero on acid—but it’s been overtaken by bits of boho-chic scattered all over the space.

Where there was once nothing but charcoal, vinyl, and concrete, there are now textures. Colorful woven throws drape artfully over the arm of the leather Eames sofa they won off a Craigslist bid. Tasseled pillows have multiplied across every seat surface like some kind of fabric-based contagion, while pothos vines dangle lazily from macramé hangers, stretching towards the moody Edison bulbs like they’re trying to escape the existential crisis of living here.

And then there’s the rug. Oh god, the rug. 

A comically massive tufted ‘Flower Power’ rug sprawls across the center of the room, a swirling explosion of pinks and oranges—a final, cutesy fuck you to the apartment’s formerly depressing atmosphere before Khol’s new roommate staged her cheerful coup.

It should’ve been a hilarious sight, like a chaotic school art project where every kid picked a different medium to color and refused to compromise. But somehow… it works? 

Against all odds, the goth cryptid and the hippie gremlin have found domestic equilibrium.

“Love what you did with the place, Anna,” you call out, toeing off your shoes at the door. “It doesn’t look like a twelve-year-old’s fantasy bedroom anymore.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Khol laughs, shaking their head. “As if you’re one to talk. Last time I visited, you still had that stupid-ass sofa. Is it still there?”

You sniff haughtily. “Excuse you, but that’s a custom piece. You wouldn’t get it.”

"Alright, you two," Anna says, leaning against the archway between the living room and kitchen, one hip propped against the frame. "Both of you have terrible taste in decor. Now, I have a fabulous Prosecco to pair with the risotto." She tilts her head, shooting her partner a pointed look. "Khol, darling, be a dear and grab the crystal from the cupboard?"

"Whipped," you sing as Khol, predictably, does exactly as told. They don’t even bother with a comeback, just flashes you a lazy middle finger over their shoulder as they disappear from view.

You grin, shaking your head. The moment stretches into something easy, comfortable. It’s nice—being here, bantering like no time has passed. You let yourself sink into it, tugging off your beanie as you cross the room.

The creaky couch welcomes you like an old friend, and you flop down unceremoniously, stretching your legs out, rubbing your feet against the oversized monstrosity of a rug that is... honestly, pretty fucking comfortable, actually.

Anna follows suit, settling beside you with far more grace, tucking one foot under the other.

She watches you for a moment, expression warm but slightly inquisitive. “We haven’t seen you in a while.” 

You exhale, tipping your head back, staring up at the beams on the ceiling. "Yeah, sorry. Been a little out of it these past… couple of months, I guess."

Anna makes a quiet noise, something between understanding and acknowledgment. "You’re doing okay now?"

The easy answer sits on your tongue—yeah, of course. An automatic response, a reflex built from habit. Another front to put up, another lie to slip behind.

But you’ve been working on this. So instead, you take a breath and say,

"Not… really." 

The words feel foreign, heavy, but oddly freeing as they leave your mouth.

Your gaze flickers to the side table—framed photos of Khol and Anna, smiling, sunlit. You don’t linger.

“I mean, better now compared to, maybe, a few weeks ago. I’m getting there.”

Anna’s brows lift slightly—not in surprise at the sentiment itself, but at the fact that you admitted it out loud. There’s something thoughtful in her expression, something softer around the edges. “Good. That’s good.”

You can tell she means it. Maybe even more than you expected.

"Yeah."

There’s a brief lull. You catch yourself tugging at the edge of your cardigan—a nervous habit you never quite broke. The warmth of the apartment is settling in you quite comfortably, but there’s something about sitting still under Anna’s gentle scrutiny that makes you restless.

From the kitchen, there’s the unmistakable clink of glass, followed by a muffled, “shit.”

Anna exhales, long-suffering. “I don’t know why I even bother buying nice things.”

“‘Oy,” Khol’s voice carries from the other room, “get in here and help. We have, like, seven things to carry.”

You take that as your cue, trailing after Anna into the kitchen. Between the three of you, it’s quick work—bowls of warm, brothy risotto in hand, glasses of white wine balanced carefully between fingers.

By the time you step back into the living room, Khol is already dropping onto the blue accent chair near the window with all the dramatics of someone who’s worked far too hard for far too little.

You settle into your usual spot, Anna beside you. You don’t touch your food. Your appetite’s still in remission, though it’s been steadily improving lately.

Khol notices. “Now, why the hell aren’t you eating?” They shoot you a side-eye like you’ve personally offended them. “I knew it. You put something in this, didn’t you?”

“Jesus, Khol,” Anna sighs, exasperated, already two spoonfuls in. “Your diet was literally gas station burritos and eight-pack Coors before I moved in. You’ll live.”

She pauses, though, casting you a look. “Don’t get me wrong—this is really good.”

“Ha,” you retort as Khol prods suspiciously at a floating mushroom. You glare. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

“Alright, alright.” With an exaggerated sigh, Khol finally takes a bite. They chew once, twice—eyes narrowed in concentration, acting like some hard-ass seasoned judge from Top Chef. You can practically see them digging for something snarky to say—until, begrudgingly, they nod.

“Shit. This is actually pretty good. Who are you?”

You preen at the praise.

For a while, there’s nothing but the quiet clinking of spoons against ceramic, the occasional satisfied hum. It’s… nice. Comfortable in a way you haven’t felt in what feels like forever.

You’ve missed this.

Missed being here. Missed being with people.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the last few bites of risotto, Khol angles their head toward you, their curiosity piqued. “How come you’re free today? You on leave or something?”

You swirl the drink in your hand, watching the light catch on the amber surface before answering. “Oh, I quit my job.”

There’s a beat of silence. You don’t know what reaction you were expecting, but Khol just blinks at you. "Huh. Finally."

Anna looks mildly more concerned. "You quit?"

You nod, stretching your legs out beneath the coffee table. “Yeah. The OT was getting ridiculous, and they had me working night shifts again. That was kind of the last straw for me.”

Khol grunts in agreement. “Good fucking riddance. That job was killing you.” They pause for a beat, turning serious, contemplative. “You’re not hung up about it, are you? You’ve been bitching about that job for ages.”

You exhale through your nose, staring at the rim of your glass. “Yeah, no. I’m glad I left.” The words come easily, and they’re mostly true. But still—there’s something about suddenly having all this space, this aimless in-between, that makes you antsy. 

A thought strikes you, and you glance up. “Hey, you know if Marion's still looking for someone to work part-time at the bistro?”

Khol raises an eyebrow. "You looking to apply? It’s minimum wage, just telling you in advance."

"That’s fine," you assure them. "I just need something on the side. I’m doing freelance work right now, I just want something to fill in the gaps."

Anna perks up at that. "I think that’s a great idea. I can hit up Marion later, but I’m pretty sure they’re still looking."

Khol stares at you, and for once, they don’t have a quip lined up. No sharp-edged humor, no quick banter—just a quiet look of something almost foreign on their face. Pride. Maybe even relief. You’ve worried them. The realization jars you like a pebble dropped into a clear pond, sending ripples through the stillness of your self-imposed isolation. You hadn’t meant to, not really. It wasn’t like you deliberately wanted to disappear... But you did, didn’t you? You let the days blur into weeks, then months, telling yourself naively that no one would notice if you just—vanished for a while. Five months, to be exact.

You press your lips together, clearing your throat against the tightness creeping in. “Thanks,” you say, quiet but sincere. “Really.”

Khol snorts, and the moment shatters. “You can show your thanks by knocking ten percent off the cocktails when we visit.”

You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation. “Get me the job first, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Anna grins, raising her glass. “Now, that’s the spirit.”

––––

You get the job.

You stand in front of the fogged-up mirror, dragging your palm across the wet glass. The reflection that stares back is warped, smudged—half-formed, half-there—but unequivocally yours. 

A month ago, you wouldn’t have been able to say that with certainty. Back then, the figure in the mirror had been more ghost than person—distant, spectral. Fractured. Someone you watched from the outside, not as a host of the flesh you inhabit. 

Now, though, the pieces are starting to slot back into place. Some are still missing, and others don’t quite fit as they once did. You doubt it will ever return to how it was… But slowly, a familiar shape is coming back into focus. More than the shadow of a woman, but you.  Time moves like water carving through rock—gradual, barely perceptible, but steady. Inevitable.

The shifts are diminutive. A morning where you wake up feeling less crushed by the weight of grief in your chest. An afternoon where you suddenly break into laughter, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard it in weeks. A quiet night where you go to bed without feeling like you’re stuck frozen in an endless loop of wishing, waiting for the impossible.

You’re here, alive. Present. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re doing more than just holding on.

(You think he’d be proud of you.)

And the thought doesn’t leave you aching the way it used to.

––––

“You think I can handle taking care of another living thing? Like a plant?” You ask Maru, glancing at him lounging by the window, right where a sliver of afternoon sunlight spills across the floor. “I mean, I raised you well enough, I think. But you’re pretty self-sufficient anyway.” Maru looks unimpressed. His tail flicks once—dismissive, uninterested—before he returns to grooming himself, utterly indifferent to both your question and your sudden enthusiasm for gardening. “Well, if your dad can grow plants in that dungeon he calls a base, I’m sure I can manage,” you mutter unconvincingly. “How hard can it be?” 

–

By the middle of the second week into your little project, you begrudgingly admit that your tiny repotted begonia isn’t exactly thriving. You don’t want to be a pessimist, but the (browning) margins seem to curl inward—more than they should, if the reference pics on that “Indoor Succulents” blog you’re subscribed to are anything to go by. 

You eye it dubiously, trying to stay gung-ho about the whole thing, forcing yourself to look up care tips again. It’s just a plant. Not rocket science. So you do the research, gather more supplies, and give it another shot. You reposition it closer to where the sun lands—earning a disgruntled hiss from the sunbathing feline—and sprinkle a careful amount of water just beneath the leaves, closer to the root. Then you lean back, waiting, tapping your foot impatiently like it’s supposed to just... fix itself.

–

The next few days pass with you watching it more than you’d care to admit—checking, hoping, second-guessing yourself. 

You narrow your eyes at the leaves, more russet than Inca Flame red, still hanging limp like a sad testament to your lack of skill. 

But you keep at it, because you’re nothing if not stubborn.

–

A single flower has bloomed.

You stand there, spray bottle in hand, caught in quiet awe at the metallic pink sprout peeking through the foliage. It’s small, delicate, barely more than a bud, but unmistakably there—nestled among heart-shaped leaves that, for the first time in weeks, look alive. Brighter. 

A faint smile tugs at your lips. It’s not groundbreaking, not by a long shot. But it’s something.

The fragile blossom clings onto dear life, stubbornly seeking the sun rays, inching toward the warmth it needs to grow—larger, stronger.

You can’t wait to bear witness to it. 

––––

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up in this situation; all you could recall past the sweat blurring your vision is the memory of being in front of the reception desk, pen in hand, scrawling your name onto the sign-up sheet for beginner boxing lessons. 

It’s not… something you planned on doing, really. You’d been showing up for the past week, trying to convince yourself that fitness was something you could get into. Something you could stick with. But this one’s more of an impulse decision, fueled by a mix of post-workout endorphins and the misplaced confidence that sometimes follows after an extra few—unpremeditated!—minutes on the elliptical. 

It all started with a casual glance at a flyer taped to the wall beside the water dispenser.

GET TOUGHER, FASTER, STRONGER! SIGN UP NOW!

The cheesy tagline stared you down as you were in the middle of refilling your teal green AquaFlask. And for some dumb reason—sheer curiosity, definitely not because it reminded you of a certain someone—you thought: Why not?

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you’d marched straight up to the nearest staff at the counter, credit card in hand, and asked to sign up. Now, as you stare at the buff woman currently goading you to hit harder, reality sets in and you feel a little lightheaded. Even slightly delirious.

“Up, up–” your trainer urges, somehow not even remotely out of breath, despite being thirty grueling minutes into the session. Meanwhile, you’re standing there, red-faced and sweating like a fucking pig. “Keep your arms up at all times, alright?”

You pant, nodding weakly, fixing your posture. She gives you an approving nod in return.

It’s part of the whole self-improvement thing, anyway. Pushing yourself. Fitness, jazz, and all that. You’ve never had much inclination for sports or anything remotely physically taxing, as far as you can recall.

…Or maybe that decision was made for you the moment you tried out for volleyball in high school and took a spike straight to the face. A memory so humiliating, that your brain did you a favor and buried it deep in the recesses of your mind. 

But things are different now! You’re trying new things. You’ve done wall climbing, aerobics, even pulled a hamstring attempting HIIT Tae Bo. And if getting punched in the face is the next step in this… wellness journey, then, well, so be it. You’ll take it with a brave face and, hopefully, minimal bruising to both body and ego.

You slog through two sets of combos and thirty jab-straight-hook-uppercuts, punching like your life depends on it. You’re wheezing like an asthmatic child, and you’re about one bad punch away from toppling over.

Then, mercifully—

“Okay, that’s enough for today.”

Oh, thank god.

“You did good,” she tacks on, flashing you an encouraging smile, like you didn’t just spend the last half hour flailing at the focus mitts with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

You stare at her, unconvinced. Did I? Because from where you’re standing—wobbling, really—you’re pretty sure you looked closer to an overstimulated toddler throwing hands with gravity, but sure. It must’ve been in the fine print, to segue in a little positive reinforcement. Probably to keep people from bolting after the first session. 

Not that you’re planning to. No, of course not. You’re just... reevaluating some things. Like your life choices. And your capacity to lift your arms tomorrow. As you trudge your way out of the yoga-studio-turned-boxing-area, still gulping for air and very aware of the soreness settling into your limbs, someone calls out.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You turn your head, blinking in confusion. A guy—mid to late twenties, give or take—jogs up to you, looking offensively too fresh compared to how you feel. “Oh, hi. Sorry, do you mean me?”

He laughs as he slows to a stop, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Yeah, you. I saw you training with Coach. Just wanted to say—you’re improving.”

You blink. Wait, what?

A wave of mortification rolls through you. Shit, you didn’t know you had an audience. “Uh—thanks, I guess?”

You shift your weight awkwardly, clutching your boxing gloves tightly against your chest.

His grin turns sheepish, as though he realizes how that might’ve come off. “Fuck, sorry. That came out weird, didn’t it? I swear, I wasn't, like, watching the whole thing or anything.” He makes a vague gesture to his left. “The studio’s right in my line of sight when I did my TRX reps. Hard not to notice.”

You force a smile. “Ah, yeah. Figures.” 

“I’m Byron, by the way,” he offers, sticking out a hand.

Now that you get a proper look at him, you notice he’s got this kind of… geeky charm going for him. Curly hair, sleepy brown eyes behind round, rimless glasses, and shy boy-next-door vibes—except for the fact that he’s jacked.

(Honestly? Work.)

You give him your name, still smiling awkwardly. You’re about to wave goodbye and turn away when— “So, what are you doing later?”

Um.

You hesitate. “I’m, uh… heading straight home after this?” Your voice comes out a little more uncertain than you intended, mostly because you’re not really sure why he’s still talking to you.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he replies quickly, glancing down like he’s suddenly nervous. “I just… thought I’d ask if you’d wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Oh.

It takes a moment for the question to fully register. The first thought that pops in your head is: Wait, how does he know I’m a barista?

… The second thought is one of pure disbelief. Holy shit, did I just get asked out? At the gym? By the Temu version of Peter Parker?

Your face burns hotter than it did mid-workout, caught completely off guard.

“I—woah, um.” You stumble over your words, eyes quickly darting away from him. “Sorry, I already have… a boyfriend. If—if that’s what you’re leading up to.”

You say it like a question. He picks up on it.

“You don’t sound too convinced,” he comments with a light chuckle, shaking his head. “If you’re not interested, you can just say that, you know.”

A prickle of irritation flares up, followed by something sharper—something that stings. You push it down. “No, he’s just… not around.” “Ah.” He clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Long distance?” “…Yeah.” You have no idea.

He shrugs, undeterred. “Alright, no pressure. We could always just hang out as friends, if you want.”

I… don’t think I do. “Um, maybe?” you answer instead, forcing out a laugh.

“Oh, come on,” he says, his grin widening. “You can even introduce me to your boyfriend,” he emphasizes the word out, “when he gets back. Does he work out? We could all hit the gym together.”

Social anxiety is afraid of this man, you think belatedly. Unfortunately for him, you’re the very embodiment of what fears him.

You’re so out of your element that all you can manage is, “He boxes too, actually.”

“Yeah? He any good?” 

That gets an involuntary snort out of you. Unthinkingly, you say, “Could probably beat you up.”

Byron laughs, startled but amused, shaking his head as he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—message received.” He flashes you a wide smile. “Well, if you change your mind about the coffee, I’ll be around.” He jerks his chin toward the pack fly by the corner. “There, usually.”

Okay, nerd. Despite yourself, you can’t help but find the whole thing slightly hilarious. Then again, you find humor in the dumbest things. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You offer him a quick, half-hearted wave, trying (and failing) to mask your embarrassment with an exaggerated, too-casual show of nonchalance. It’s so painfully awkward, you can feel yourself internally dying from the cringe of it all.

Without another word, you spin on your heel and start speed-walking away, practically running back to the safety of your personal space.

Smooth.

––––

It’s another relatively easy night at the bistro. You’re on the last two hours of your shift, and you’re carrying a single glass of roseberry mule to serve at table four. As you round the corner, you catch sight of a student, glasses perched low on her nose, completely absorbed in a thick coursebook on Programming Languages. Papers are scattered across the table, and she looks to be utterly engrossed in her readings, unaware of the world around her. 

You don’t want to bother her more than necessary, about to set the drink down on the only clear space—by the iPad propped up on a tablet holder to her right—when something red catches your attention.

A familiar pair of crimson eyes stops you dead in your tracks.

For a moment, you feel like you’re suspended in time. The sharp memory of a similar instance where you’re in her place, and he’s there, keeping you company while he’s polishing a gun burns through your brain, and you don’t–you can’t think—

You stand there, rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and unmoving. Then, the girl’s gaze shifts to you, and a hot flush spreads across her cheeks, betraying her surprise.

With swift fingers, she locks the screen with a quick flick on the power button, pulling you away and breaking you from the echoes of the past.

“Oh, shit,” she giggles, a nervous edge to her voice. “That’s embarrassing.” 

You shake your head, forcing yourself back to the present moment. “No—no, don’t worry about it,” you chuckle weakly, setting the drink down beside her with shaky hands. “Cute guy, honestly.”

That makes her giggle louder, her eyes bright with an almost conspiratorial glint. “Oh my god, you have no idea.”

Fuck—you can’t breathe.

––––

The night hangs thick with stifling heat, accompanied by the steady ticking of the clock as you catch your breath, your broken moans too loud in the heavy silence. The sheets cling to your feverish skin, damp and uncomfortable, as your body moves in a rhythm that feels unnatural now, but still—but always—familiar.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths as you force the draconic toy deep inside you. The heat, the fire—it licks at your skin, making your whole body yearn for more. To chase more of the feeling, to chase more of the memory of him. 

Errant strands of hair stick to your forehead, your chest flushed and burning, a quiet throb spreading through you with every friction, every desperate movement.

Your body aches, a relentless thrum urging you to push deeper, to find something—anything—to fill the gaping hole inside you, a wound you’ve tried to stitch shut over months, now threatening to tear its way open again, once more ripping from the seams. 

A sharp pressure builds inside you. Your body stretches too far, too much, struggling to take in what it can’t quite handle. It burns in a way that hurts, but you need it. You need to feel more, to fill the emptiness, to grasp at something that feels real.

“Yours, yours–” you tremble, desperate. “Yours. Just yours. Please.”

-

-

-

You lie in the wake of it—pleasure fading into something heavier, regret creeping in like a shadow, waiting as always.

“I miss you,” you whisper in the dark. You always do.

You try to ignore the pull of it, the sharp descent that comes with the high.

You were doing so well.

But it’s fine. You’re fine. 

Everything’s fine.

The words swirl and echo in your mind, until they’re swallowed by sounds that ring hollow. You let the moment wash over you, sinking beneath the weight of the tides, where sorrow and longing blur with the fleeting warmth of what you can’t keep.

Tomorrow will be another day. Another chance to try again.

For now, you let go of your grip on the fragile raft of sanity you’ve built, painstakingly, for months on end.

Tonight, you let yourself drown once more in the somber depths of loneliness and despair, confined within these four walls that feel—once more—like a penitentiary.

––––

The plane begins its slow descent, and through the window, the world comes into view—large swathes of land interrupted by winding roads that seem to follow no rhyme, nor pattern. A river glints faintly beneath the fading sun, while the sky turns a dull blue, a washed-out slate, streaked with the last embers of daylight.

Below, the small city stirs.

Tiny specks of color flicker to life, lanterns strung along the streets like beads on a thread, marking the season, an ending, and the inevitable turning of time. A chill hangs in the air, the wind whipping past you from the half-open window of the taxi, sharp and crisp in a way that you can only find in the province.

Your hometown. 

It all rushes past in a blur of light and shadow, an eclectic mix of old and new—some buildings unchanged, others unfamiliar, as if they’d sprung up in the years you’ve been away. It’s been a while since you last came back, long enough for the roads to feel... foreign, almost. Though muscle memory stirs when the car takes a turn. One you could have easily navigated even with your eyes closed.

Only your sister lives here now, her and her family—a couple of hundred miles far. Far enough to feel like another world, yet close enough for the past to catch up the moment you lay eyes on the old two-story house tucked away on the quaint cul-de-sac of this suburban neighborhood. 

The residential property was left to her, scrawled onto the title in an act of generosity, perhaps. Or maybe as a weight your mother never intended to carry, something meant to anchor her eldest child while she carved a different life for herself elsewhere. Free-spirited as she is, she left with the ease of someone shedding an old coat, slipping into the shoes of another, barely a glance over her shoulder.

But houses remember. And as you step out of the vehicle, your feet meeting the rough asphalt that once belonged to your childhood, you wonder if they remember you too.

"Maru, Maru!" Your five-year-old niece cries the moment she spots the grumpy feline peering through the mesh of his portable prison.

"What—no excitement for me too?" you tease, ruffling her hair. She giggles, scrunching up her nose.

"Auntie, hi! Hi!"

You snort at her enthusiasm, setting the carrier down. The second you pull at the zipper, Maru springs out, landing with a soft thud before stalking off with his usual air of disdain. Your niece shrieks with delight. 

"Ah! Cat!"

"Well, there go the chances of her socializing with her brother," your sister remarks dryly from the doorway, sauntering closer. "Hey, stranger."

"Hey," you greet, hoisting a handful of paper bags. "Where do I dump these?"

She eyes the bags. "Any of those for me?"

"You have three kids, and one of them insisted on a Lego set. Do you know how much those cost?" You shoot her a flat look. "You’re getting socks."

"Wow, stingy." She huffs but takes some of the bags anyway, hitching one onto her hip as she grabs your other hand-carry.

You step inside, and the house greets you with a riot of lights and color. Plastic tinsel and bright string lights drape across every visible surface—along the bannister, around doorways—leaving no space untouched by the festive chaos. A Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner, nearly buried beneath an avalanche of baubles and sentimental ornaments collected over the years.

The room feels swallowed by the exuberance of it all, an almost overwhelming jamboree of holiday cheer.

It’s gaudy, excessive, and completely over-the-top, but beneath it all, the bones of your childhood home remain unchanged—familiar in a way that settles deep in your chest. The Narra wood floors are still scuffed with the marks of time, there’s still the distinct tang of turpentine mixed with waxy resin and citrus you’ve long since associated with home, and the odd decorative masks still line the far wall, their painted expressions frozen mid-celebration.

Your eyes land on the canvas floater above the mantel—a whimsical cross-stitch of three women flying kites, their stitched dresses rippling in imagined wind. You remember it well, though you never quite understood why your mother had chosen that particular scene to painstakingly sew into existence. Still, it belongs here, another piece of the house's patchwork history.

Your gaze shifts to the couch, where Andrew, your sister's husband, is sprawled out, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the other holding his phone.

He flicks his gaze up at you, offering a half-hearted wave before turning back to whatever has him so absorbed on the screen. Beside him, your three-year-old nephew is perched on his knees, bouncing with energy as he mirrors Bluey's movements on the TV with exaggerated enthusiasm, his tiny arms flailing in childlike glee.

You sigh inwardly, rolling your eyes. Typical.

“There’s a few more hours before dinner. Want to hang out in the kitchen while I roast the ham?” She asks casually, setting down your bags by the foot of the stairs. “Actually, scratch that—you’re in charge of the punch.”

“You just want a head start on the drinks,” you tease, the banter flowing easily between you. “Hey, where’s the little squirt?”

She points toward the small crib, near the island counter. “She finally stopped crying, thank god. Don’t wake her up, or you’ll be the one in charge of putting her back to sleep.”

The two of you slip into the kitchen, where the air already carries the promise of dinner—cloves and brown sugar blending nicely with the lingering scent of citrus. A tray of ham sits on the counter, prepped and ready, the scored surface glistening under the fluorescent light. 

Your sister pulls a bottle of Luisita Oro Rum and Agimat Gin from the second-to-last cupboard and places them on the counter in front of you.

"Go ham," she quips.

You give her a flat look. "You think you’re funny.”

She shrugs, unfazed, and turns her attention back to where she’d left off before your arrival. 

The two of you fall into a natural rhythm, the kind that comes from years of cooking together. You work your way through cans of Del Monte, the metallic clinks filling the space as you drain the syrup and dump chunks of mixed fruit into the large punch bowl.

Your sister leans against the counter nearby, arms folded, her gaze fixed on the oven door, as if sheer willpower alone could make the meat cook faster.

In the background, the soft drone of the TV drifts in from the living room, punctuated by your nephew’s occasional giggles.

There’s no rush, no need to fill the silence with anything more than the occasional clang of utensils against glass and the low humming of kitchen appliances. The day is winding down to a close, and for now, everything is alright.

“So, Mom called,” she says casually, one arm braced on the counter as she leans in, glancing at you. “Kept calling, actually.”

“Mm.” You reply noncommittally, shaking the last can’s contents into the crystal bowl, watching as the fruit chunks bob lazily in the pool of alcohol.

“She’s worried about you.”

You don’t answer.

“She was. She is.” Her voice shifts, more serious now. She watches you closely, noting your lack of reaction. “You know that, right?”

Your fingers tighten around the can opener, but you pull your gaze away from the bowl. “I know.”

She sighs, resigned, already familiar with this song and dance. Familiar enough to know there’s no winning this one, not tonight. Not anytime soon. “I am too.”

You blink, before looking away. “Oh.”

And maybe she does worry—your mother. But any hope of truly knowing is swallowed by the chasm between you, the one that keeps your conversations at surface level, never breaching the depths beyond. 

Your body, born from hers, perhaps more alike than you realize, might have been brought into this world with the same pains that she’s carried. The pains of separation. The unresolved hurt of being unwillingly removed from your person—her former husband, your father—and that if you and your mother were closer, you could have opened up about your own situation. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t feel like a ship that has lost its ballast, drifting endlessly in the same turbulent seas for the longest time.

But you are your mother’s daughter, and she is her mother’s daughter. There is the truth that the women in your family are not the best communicators, nor do they wear their hearts on their sleeves. So you were born mute and overly sensitive. Pain drips from you, unnoticed, like a purposeless leak in the heart. You’ll carry it with you until you die.

“But you look… okay,” she observes, cocking her head. “Are you okay?”

You swallow. For the same reason you compare your mother to a storm you can't outrun and your sister to an intermittent drizzle, you find it easier to admit, “I haven’t… been okay for a while.” 

Not wanting to bring the mood down, especially on a day like today, you quickly add, “Things are better now, though.”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Could be a little more specific there, but I’ll take it.” She gives you an exasperatedly fond look. “You let me know if that changes anytime soon, ‘kay?”

Your lips quirk in the faintest semblance of a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

–

It’s ten minutes before midnight.

You’re leaning against the island counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, nursing a glass of the fruit punch (though it’s mostly gin, with the teensiest amount of fruit), watching your sister’s family at a distance as they eagerly wait for the clock to strike twelve. The blinds of the large living room window have been pulled up, giving an unobstructed view of the sky, ready for the first firework to light up the dark.

For a moment, you feel like an outsider, watching through a lens, as if you’re not quite part of the scene. There’s a strange sense of detachment—voyeuristic, almost—as though you're peering in on a private, intimate moment. 

Your sister cradles the infant in her arms, and that all-too-familiar pang stirs to life—the same one that always does when you look at her.

You can't quite place what you're feeling, exactly. It’s tumultuous, and it’s complex. Andrew’s practically dozing off in his seat, and you see your sister shake her head in mild annoyance. Your nephew, fighting to keep his eyes open, starts to fuss.

Something tightens inside your chest.

“Andrew,” she hisses, startling the man awake. He blinks, disoriented, before spotting their son and the early signs of an explosive tantrum.

He sighs, and pulls the boy closer to him. “Hey, hey, little guy. Look at the sky. In just a couple of minutes, the lights are gonna go boom-boom.”

Your nephew sniffs, his eyes blinking up at him as he processes the words. “Boom-boom?”

“Yeah! Just like the one we watched on TV!”

The kid’s face visibly perks up at that, bad mood quickly forgotten. “Boom-boom!”

You watch as your sister’s gaze softens, and a small smile replaces the earlier frown on her face.

And in that instant, you understand.

You look at your sister and, for a brief moment, all you see is a wretched mirror of yourself. She is all of your fears, all of your failures, and all of what you could’ve been rolled into one. Barely in her mid-thirties, and yet already carrying the weight of a family: three kids, a husband who feels like a faded echo of your father—a man who didn’t quite measure up, who never did, and just as unreliable. 

You feel the suffocating weight of it all, of being tied to a place that’s meant to be a home but feels more like a tomb, marking the passing of dreams unrealized. She’ll grow old here, buried in the same soil you both sprang from, fading into the landscape of this town that swallows its own.

You look at her and you almost feel the repressed pain of missing the last semester of college to give birth, the lament of a missed opportunity that life has stolen from her. 

You feel her pain as if it’s yours. You feel it in the marrow of your bones—her blood flowing through you. “3…” You look at her, and it feels like seeing someone bound, held down by an anchor around her foot, unable to break through the surface of freedom. You look at her and you see dreams once aglow, reduced to cinders. You look at her and see—

She glances up at you.

Oh. “2…” In the fleeting moment where your eyes meet—eyes you two share with your mother—you feel so small.

Just a kid. Shortsighted and unfairly dismissive. Too blind to see your sister’s quiet victories, too selfish to admit you’ve diminished them just so you could feel less alone about your own failures. A child grasping for meaning, unfair in the ways only children can be. “1…” And in the fraction of a second before midnight, it's as if you’ve been doused awake. 

You see her anew—what seemed like monotony is really the bedrock of stability; tenacity in place of routine. An almost single-minded doggedness to make something out of this life. You see the steadfast strength she possesses, the kind that gets her up every morning, to face the world and all its demands without question. With purpose. 

You see resilience. Compassion. Traits that you’ve always lacked, that you’ve long resented, the same traits your mother never learned to embody.

And now you see your niece in her arms, born from this, and you name the indescribable feeling that dwells in you—borne from the pure look of adoration in your sister’s eyes for her youngest daughter—as envy.

You know, with utmost certainty, that she will be okay, because she has your sister as her mother, and she is so, so loved.

As you watch them, something inside you shifts—a deep, aching realization. 

You see… home. Something you've always longed for but never truly found. “Happy new year!” The spell breaks. The two of you startle at the sudden eruption of fireworks, the distant chorus of car horns blaring from the streets outside.

Your niece and nephew jump and shriek, their laughter ringing through the room, celebrating something they barely understand but find joy in anyway. The baby in your sister’s arms lets out a wail at the commotion, and she is soothed instantly with murmurs of soft assurances. Her father struggles upright—then, with no small amount of effort, leans forward to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

The image before you is far from perfect, but it’s theirs.

“Auntie, auntie!” The little rascals cry out in unison, their voices overlapping in excitement. “‘appy n’year!”

A breathless, almost pained laugh escapes you. Still, you smile as you respond with your own, “happy new year!”

You’re tired—tired of running, of measuring yourself against the ghosts of your past. Tired of carrying the weight of a childhood that’s left you with more questions than answers, of making excuses for wounds that should have healed long since. You've spent so much time mourning the growing pains, the irreparable, that you never stopped to see what’s in front of you. 

This moment, this realization, feels like the final missing piece in the fractured puzzle of who you are.

The new year arrives, marked by the crackle of fireworks and the loud cheer from your family.

This time, you won’t hesitate. You’ll choose to embrace the change, both good and bad, with open arms. With the quiet resolve of someone finally ready to move forward.

You lift your gaze just as a brilliant burst of red explodes into the night sky, its iridescent glow bleeding into a softer silver before fading into the dark. 

A warmth settles deep in your chest—bittersweet, but steady. A quiet peace.

Happy new year, my love. . . . . . . .

.

.

.

.

. . .

The air at the threshold of Vagrant’s land is restless. Volatile. A hazy distortion ripples through it, folding and unfolding, like a lost mirage—an area of transition between worlds. Porch collapse, he calls it. 

Sylus has stood here countless times, watching the way this anomalous disturbance twists the very fabric of this reality, how it flickers in and out of form, erratic. Impossible to predict. 

It had taken him longer than he likes to admit to understand the phenomena for what it’s truly worth. Not just an alternate space caused by some spartan energy field. Not just any other protofield. But a thread. A connection. A door. 

A fault line between realities, an entryway that hums with the possibility of you.

Since the moment the idea took hold, he had thought of little else. It has consumed him in every waking moment; his entire being seeming to bend toward a singular purpose—getting to you. He had torn through endless streams of data, followed every unstable pulse of energy, mapped its fluctuations down to the smallest inconsistency.

Nights bled into days, and days bled into weeks, until he can no longer keep track. Not that the passage of time meant much to him at this point. 

He’s worked tirelessly through the stillness, through the storms of uncertainty, through the aching silence left by your absence. Ever since you’ve exchanged your temporary goodbyes. 

He had measured everything he could—the unstable frequency of radio signals streaming through the interstice. He had traced the influx in real time; recording the rate of deterioration, isolating the waveform, and filtering out outside interferences. 

But for all the data he gathered, for all the precision in his calculations, the core of this phenomenon remained just out of reach. His knowledge on the matter is rudimentary at most. He could waste years observing for abnormalities, trying to decipher how its presence has disrupted the very threads of this universe, but the why and how of it all will still elude him. 

Still, theory matters less than function. He doesn’t need to understand the full depth of it. He only needs to harness it.

It’s a gamble.

Contrary to whatever reputation he’s earned for himself, Sylus has never been one to play his cards recklessly. He deals in certainties, in probabilities stacked in his favor, in risks that—while dangerous—are still within his grasp to control. He has never been the type to leap without knowing where he’d land.

But this is different.

He has never needed to, before. Never had a reason to throw himself into the unknown with no assurance of survival, no way to predict the outcome.

He had no reason to—until you.

Now, it matters less whether or not the odds of his survival are abysmal, that he has no precedent to follow. That your world might reject him entirely. None of it matters. Because if the choice is between staying and never reaching you, or plunging into the great, endless unknown—

He’ll take the leap, every time. Without hesitation. 

He’ll leave this world behind, step beyond the edges of everything that has ever defined him, and venture into lands unseen, uncharted. Unknown. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side. If he’ll make it there in one piece. If he will make it there at all.

Sylus has never really questioned why he’s the anomaly in this world. The curiosities of his existence are yours to ponder. After all, he finds that he doesn’t care much of the answer as much as he cares about being with you.

Because wherever you are—that is home. 

He takes a step forward, and the universe dissolves into a blinding light.

-

-

-

Sylus wakes to the sensation of weight.

Something presses on him heavily, sinking into his limbs like gravity itself is wrapping around him for the first time.

The ground beneath him is unfamiliar, uneven—tangible in a way he’s never felt before. His fingertips press into the damp earth, leaving the faintest imprint, yielding beneath his touch. The scent of soil rises around him; a rich, bitter brown. 

This world does not recognize him, yet it cradles him like its own all the same.

Above, the sky erupts.

Fireworks split open the night, streaks of color exploding and dissipating in an instant—too fleeting to hold, too bright to ignore. A flashbang of incandescent reds and fluorescent greens, followed by bursts of crackling gold and shimmering silver scatter into tiny pinpricks before fading into the darkness.

The air is heavier here, denser in a way that feels almost… alien. It clings to the contours of his new form, seeps into his lungs with every breath. 

And oh, how it burns. Not in pain, but in its sheer presence. It rushes into him not as mere oxygen but as something real. Something palpable. He’s lost in the sensation. 

He exhales. Then winces. 

Immediately, he feels it—the weakness. The brittleness of this new body. Gone is the invulnerability he once wielded so effortlessly, the certainty that nothing could touch him unless he allowed it. 

That certainty is gone now, stripped away the moment he crossed the threshold.

He is flesh and bone. Finite. Mortal.

A lesser man might have feared it.

But in the middle of this empty field, miles away from civilization, Sylus can only laugh. 

He tips his head back, reeling from the sheer impossibility of it all, eyes tracing the brilliant display above—as if committing it to memory, a coronation of sorts. Of existence. Of arrival. Of a life finally his own.

Reborn. And for the first time in his existence, he is alive.

––––

It’s summer—the summer that marks two years since he left. 

Two years. It’s enough time to feel the weight of it, but not enough to make the events feel like something that happened a lifetime ago. 

The seasons cycle once more, as they always do, pushing time forward with a steady, indifferent rhythm. And with that change comes a familiar pang—a bittersweet ache, neither grief nor regret, just the weight of knowing that nothing stays the same. Mono no aware. 

You’re closer to thirty now, and the thought doesn’t terrify you as much as it did before. Your hair’s in a pixie cut—short and sleek, although the edges are a little ragged from the half-assed trimming you gave it a few days ago. 

It would have made you feel stupid, once upon a time, for trying out something drastic for a new look. Instead, you just take it for what it is—one more thing you did because you wanted to. Like the rest of the choices you’ve made over the past two years. It’s yours. Uneven, impulsive, maybe a little questionable. But yours.

It’s liberating. Even if it makes your head look like a pencil. 

The voice—the one that picks at your face, your body, your thoughts, everything down to the last imperfection—never really shuts up. It’s quieter now, easier to ignore, but it still lurks in the background, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness. Maybe it always will. Maybe that’s just the price of being human.

But you don’t fight it anymore. You don’t let it drag you down to a breaking point. You carry yourself differently now, you'd say. No pep in your step just yet, but you don’t feel the need to drag your heels either. Literally and figuratively. 

The change has come in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh—but it’s there, marking you, marking the passage of time. Just like the earth, just like the seasons, you’ve shifted and grown. And perhaps that’s enough.

The sky is ablaze now, a deepening canvas of pinks and purples as the sun sinks lazily to the west. The fiery orange light spills through the large windows, bleeding into every corner of the room, and the world outside seems to slow, caught in the hour before dusk.

You’re behind the counter, wiping down plates with the kind of ease that comes from repetition, the motion so ingrained in you that it barely registers anymore. It’s all routine—the rhythm of it, the quiet hum of the bistro, the clinking of porcelain. The air is thick with the sticky smell of warm pastries, and it’s the sort of evening that feels almost liminal. A moment suspended in time.

You hear the soft tinkling of the door chimes, signaling the arrival of another customer. 

It’s a soft, unassuming sound, barely noticeable against the evening lull. You swipe your hands across your apron, turning on instinct, your mouth already forming the usual greeting. 

“Hi, welcome to—”

The words die in your throat.

It’s a slow unfolding—almost a gradual realization that stretches across the seconds like the last rays of sun dipping beneath the horizon. He stands in the doorway, a figure outlined in gold, and his presence fills the space between you, no barrier that separates, and it feels... impossible. Unimaginable. Inevitable. 

His height is the first thing you notice. He’s taller than you expected, and you know he’ll tower over you, even at a distance. His hair is dark now, the color of midnight, almost—not the silver you once traced with your fingers in your mind. The cut is still similar to what you’ve always known it to be, though a little more unkempt, as if he’s lived in this body long enough for it to take on its own wear.

Then his eyes. The red is gone—no longer the shade of crimson that used to see right through you, those sanguine pools you once loved. In its place, a stormy grey, deep and impossibly expressive, pulling you in like an undertow. The color is striking, alien in its own way, yet there’s a warmth buried beneath it—and the familiarity of it tugs at you.

Even with the changes, even though you’ve never met the person standing in front of you, you’ll know him anywhere. 

There’s a shift in the room, a subtle, yet unmistakable change in the air. It’s as if the whole bistro has drawn in a breath—and you with it. Time stretches thin, each passing second expanding into what feels like an eternity.

Your eyes lock—and for a moment, nothing else exists. 

It’s as if the world has shifted off its axis. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s as though a piece that’s always been missing has finally snapped into place.

Something settles in you, something foreign and indescribably familiar at the same time.

Sylus smiles.

“Hello, my love. Have I kept you waiting?”

It feels like home. 

____

“Now I found myself this kind of love, I can't believe it I'll never leave it behind I thought I'd never get to feel another fucking feeling But I feel— This love, this love, this love Oh, I feel it.”

End A/N: So this is done! Wow! I'm kind of proud of myself for writing something this long in the span of, idk, three months? Basically, the entire duration of my "vacation" back home. Now with another term and a busier schedule coming up, I really wanted to finish this series before life catches up to me. *sobs* Anyway, I'm so, so happy about the reception of this fic, and you've all been so sweet :') Again, thank you for reading! I'll see you in the spin-off, or whatever shit I put out next haha <3 Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira

[lipstick-and-libraries]

New Dorm, New Chance? PT. 1

𓋜 Pairing: Minho (XO, Kitty) x fem! Reader

𓋜 Series: The Roommate Exchange

𓋜 Summary: You are Kitty's new Roommate, after she decided to switch Rooms to avoid Yuri and Juliana, and it's not long until you get the opportunity to meet her first roommates.

𓋜 Notes:

Hey <3

I don't know if anyone is gonna read this at all, but I decided to get back into writing, and due to Season Two coming out, I have an unhealthy obsession with XO, Kitty. So, I sat down, saw the lack of XO, Kitty fics and created a little something, I hope you enjoy! I'd be grateful for any kind of feedback

The second semester at KISS was off to a chaotic start, as usual, but for Kitty Song Covey, things were finally starting to settle down. After pleading with the principal, she’d managed to switch dorms and move in with a close friend of hers, (Y/N). It was a decision that made perfect sense—Kitty needed a break from the awkward tension of her old room, and (Y/N)’s calming presence was exactly what she needed to focus on her whirlwind of romantic and academic entanglements.

(Y/N) had been nothing short of the perfect roommate. She was effortlessly chic, deeply intuitive, and, unlike most students at KISS, refreshingly down-to-earth. Kitty often marveled at how (Y/N) could command attention without even trying. The girl had a natural elegance that seemed to enchant everyone she met.

One Saturday afternoon, Kitty left their shared dorm to meet up with Yuri to continue the search for her family. “Dae, Minho, and Q might stop by later,” she called over her shoulder. “I told them they could hang out until I’m back.”

“Got it,” (Y/N) replied, lounging on the kitchen counter with a book in her hands.

When Minho, Dae, and Q arrived at Kitty’s new dorm, Minho was mid-rant about his latest gym mishap.

“Who even uses the elliptical when the treadmill’s free? It’s practically a crime—”

“Minho,” Q interrupted, rolling his eyes. “You’ll live. Just knock on the door.”

Minho sighed dramatically before rapping his knuckles against the door. When no one answered, he opened it cautiously.

“Kitty? We’re here—”

But it wasn’t Kitty who greeted them. Instead, they were met with the sight of (Y/N) sitting on the kitchen counter, one leg crossed over the other, a book perched casually in her hands. The sunlight streaming through the window seemed to frame her like a painting, catching the soft waves of her hair and the slight smirk on her lips.

Minho stopped mid-step, his usual self-assured demeanor faltering.

“Oh,” (Y/N) said, glancing up from her book. Her voice was smooth, effortlessly composed. “You must be Kitty’s friends.”

Dae offered a polite smile. “Yeah, I’m Dae. That’s Q, and… Minho.”

(Y/N) nodded, her eyes flickering briefly to Minho, who was still standing frozen by the door.

“Kitty mentioned you might drop by,” (Y/N) said, closing her book and hopping off the counter with a grace that made Minho’s heart stutter. “She’s out snooping with Yuri again, but you’re welcome to wait here.”

“Cool, thanks,” Q said, settling onto the couch. Dae followed suit, but Minho hesitated, still trying to gather his thoughts.

“She’s—” Minho started, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. He coughed, trying to sound casual. “She didn’t say her new roommate was…you know, you.”

(Y/N) raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She wasn't exactly popular by any means, but she also wasn't completely unknown. She leads a couple of language and study courses, and word spread that its not only brains, but beauty too that convinced people to visit her student courses.

As the afternoon wore on, Minho found himself increasingly distracted. While Dae and Q scrolled through their phones and chatted, Minho’s attention kept drifting to (Y/N). There was something about her thsn threw him off, and not in a bad way. Where most people at KISS seemed eager to impress or compete, (Y/N) seemed content just to exist in her own world.

She didn’t try to fill the silence with small talk or flashy gestures. Instead, she moved with an easy confidence, offering the occasional witty comment that left Minho scrambling for a clever response.

At one point, she caught him staring.

“Something on your mind?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Minho flushed. “Uh, no. Just…trying to figure out what book you were reading before.”

(Y/N) held up the cover—an old, leather-bound edition of Wuthering Heights.

Minho blinked. “You’re reading…that? Isn’t it, like, super depressing?”

“It’s beautiful,” (Y/N) countered, a faint smile playing on her lips. “And complicated. Kind of like people. You should borrow it sometime”

Minho didn’t know how to respond to that, so he settled for an awkward nod.

After an hour, Q and Dae decided to head out to grab food. “You coming, Minho?” Dae asked, already halfway out the door.

“I’ll catch up,” Minho said quickly, waving them off.

(Y/N) lead the two boys to the door, giving them the spare key Kitty had told her to give to them, and apologizes for Kitty being this late. Once the door closed, the room fell quiet.

Minho shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say.

“So…how do you know Kitty?” he asked finally, leaning against the back of the couch.

“We met at orientation,” (Y/N) replied. “She’s…unlike anyone else. In a good way.”

Minho chuckled. “That’s one way to describe her.”

(Y/N) grabs her book and puts it away on the small shelf standing in the living room and looked at him, her gaze steady but not intimidating. “And what about you? How do you know Kitty?”

“She’s…” Minho hesitated, then shrugged. “Complicated.”

(Y/N)’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “You should know a thing or two about that, based on what i've already seen from you”

For the first time, Minho felt like someone had peeled back the layers of his carefully curated persona. Most people saw him as the charming, confident playboy, but (Y/N) seemed to see through all of that.

The turning point came when (Y/N) decided to make tea.

“Want some?” she asked, holding up a kettle.

“Sure,” Minho said, joining her in the kitchen.

As they stood side by side, he found himself relaxing for the first time all day. (Y/N) handed him a mug, her fingers brushing against his. The brief contact sent a jolt through him, but he played it off, sipping his tea like nothing had happened.

“This is good,” he said, gesturing to the tea.

“Thanks,” (Y/N) replied. “It’s an old family recipe.”

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” she said, her smile teasing.

When Kitty returned later that evening, she found Minho still in the dorm, sitting on the couch with (Y/N). They were deep in conversation, their laughter filling the room.

“Am I interrupting something?” Kitty asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Minho said quickly, standing up. “I was just—uh—leaving.”

As he walked past (Y/N), he hesitated for a moment. “See you around?”

“Maybe,” (Y/N) replied, her tone light but her eyes warm.

After Minho left, Kitty turned to (Y/N), a knowing grin spreading across her face. “What was that about?”

(Y/N) shrugged, but her cheeks flushed slightly. “Nothing. Just talking.”

Kitty didn’t buy it for a second. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

(Y/N) gives her a grin of her own and links her arm with Kitty's.

"While we're on the topic, how'd your little date with Yuri go?"

Kitty's eyes go wide, nudging (Y/N) playfully while laughing

"Hey! I'm the one asking Questions, not you!"

That night, as Minho lay in bed, he couldn’t stop thinking about (Y/N). The way she smiled, the way she seemed to see right through him, the way her laugh made his chest feel lighter.

For the first time in a long time, Minho felt something real—something that scared him but also excited him.

Part 2

[koiiiji]

I would...you tenderly roughly

my favourite russian songs + lookism boys (pt.2)

тебя нежно грубо (by TARAS) = Gitae Kim

author's note ; i will never stop romanticizing bad boys. im not even gonna say that this is ooc bc we don't even know his character yet, but i feel that gitae that type of men who mercilessly outside, but in bedroom can be completely different. but yet having his... moments...

author’s note 2 ; for better immersion in the atmosphere try to search akuma_asmr on reddit [masked yan] (or just dm me, i’ll send you link)

pairing ; gitae kim x reader

tw ; gitae kim himself is an a threat, DNI IF YOU ARE MINOR, f!reader, angst, toxic, stalking, non con, slight knife play, pet names, sensual but rough sex. this fic contains non consensual sex, read on your own risk

summary ; reader being a model who came to Mexico on her indefinitely long vacation to reconnect with herself and find some peace from loud and bright paparazzi, only to catch some certain attention.

꒰꒰・┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄・♡・┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄・꒱꒱

00:00 - 00:30 "you're on repeat in my dreams who are you, my naked drug? and if you are my thrill, dissolve yourself in me up, up, up your hands, you raised your hands up"

the sun dipped low over the Mexican horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the sprawling villa where you resided. villa, perched on a secluded beach, was meant to be a sanctuary for the weary, a place where the soul could find peace. a villa located on a secluded beach, surrounded by hills and rocks was supposed to become your shelter for about the next year, this place was supposed to become your healing, a place where you could hide from the stuffiness and dust of the big city from which you came, a place where your body finally then you could take a break from endless shows, filming, flashes of paparazzi cameras and the endless pursuit of fame and money, a place where your soul would find peace and solitude. this place was supposed to be a refuge… instead it became a gilded cage.

it’s not that you knew Gitae well - you were from different worlds - you are from the world of endless fabrics, chic, camera flashes, gloss, all kinds of bags, heels, suits and other rags, all this is your everyday life - shows, changes in looks, flights, new countries, jetlag and again and again. Gitae was from a world of violence, pain, blood, dirty money and endless fights. wars for territory and business, illegal deliveries and prohibited fraud, with everything that could be imagined were his daily routine, and this suited him quite well.

it seems one day, the owner of the agency - on behalf of which you worked, - threw a big party in honor of his birthday, just at one of the luxurious resorts in Mexico, and through Gitae’s people, various types of drugs and other illegal substances were delivered to that party. by this time, Gitae's business had grown so much that he rarely personally attended these types of transactions, but when did he refuse an invitation to secular parties? that's when he laid his eyes on you.

1:53 - 2:40 "i gently suffocate you i'll either choke you or you'll be mine and you put a knife to my throat - either i’ll stab you or will be yours i’ve never met anyone more cunning than you, but you’re making yourself look stupid but you know, it doesn’t matter much whether today you were voluntarily or by force i would take you gently, i would take you roughly i would...you gently-gently, i would...you roughly i would take you gently, i would take you roughly i would...you gently-gently, i would...you roughly" <...>

bare feet quietly padded on the white marble of your villa. the hem of a white, light silk robe silently trailed behind you as you got out of bed and headed towards the balcony. it's about three in the morning, and you still couldn't sleep. throwing the doors wide open as you step onto the terrace, the warm, gentle breeze from the ocean softly caresses your skin, carrying with it the faint scent of saltwater and tropical blooms. the night sky is filled with countless stars that twinkle like diamonds scattered across a velvet blanket. the Milky Way is clearly visible, its dense cluster of stars creating a shimmering river of light that stretches across the sky. the moon a glowing orb, casts a silvery reflection on the calm surface of the ocean, creating a path of light that seems to lead directly to the horizon.

quiet and solitude are rare and precious opportunity to reconnect with nature and yourself. as you breathe in the night air and gaze up at the star-studded sky, a profound sense of peace and contentment settles over you, until... '

"what are you doing here?" - your quiet voice cut through the distant noises of the night.

<...>

Gitae had eyes and ears everywhere. you have more than once noticed men in the crowd, - usually there are three of them - here and there, at the beginning of the street, from the other end of the market where you came for fresh fruit - a better choice than paraffined, plastic fruits in the supermarkets - and one is always in the car just few meters away, they were everywhere you went, keeping their distance, but making their presence known.

Gitae liked watching you, it was calming. there was so much lightness and calmness in your every movement and gesture that it seemed to him that you were producing the same effect on him… even from a distance. he liked to know where you were, who you were with - even if you spent almost all the time here alone or had small talk with lady from house keeping, who came a couple of times a week, and with the women at the market where you usually came to buy fruits or vegetables [the only thing you don’t know, is that this sweet woman was the mother of someone from the cortel, this small market was under their protection, and the fact that you periodically traveled several kilometers just to buy fruits from her honestly added adorability points to you in Gitae's eyes]- he liked control, and he knew that he was completely in control the situation is under control. although, to be honest, this could not be said about his… thoughts and desires, he would never admit that he felt anything other than desire towards you.

he would never admit to himself or anyone else about what emotions your sight awakens in him in the morning, when you, still half asleep, go out onto the terrace with a cup of tea clutched in your thin, slender fingers, or in the afternoon when you are basking in the rays of the sun, allowing fall asleep again while you are reading a book, or while you are sleeping. oh, this awakened in him the most familiar feelings for him, when he silently stood over you in your house, enjoying your sleeping look, your light, unobtrusive smell, looking at your cute face, looking at your things, maybe even taking that cute couple of lace panties with a bow for himself. at such moments blood rushed to his dick so much that it became painful.

<...>

it seemed to you that hours had already passed since he threw you onto the bed, bowing right in front of the bed and throwing your legs over his shoulders. contrary to the first impression that might have been formed about him, he was gentle… more precisely, his tongue on your pussy, but his hands roughly squeezed the skin on your thighs, rising higher, squeezing your waist, running along your ribs and going higher, to your chest, roughly kneading the delicate skin in his huge palms. Gitae wasn’t rough with you, kissing inner side of your thighs, your tummy, your clitor, but each of his touches felt like hot metal on thin, soft skin. maybe it was the huge knife with which a few minutes ago he, oh so carefully cut your panties and the cute little blouse in which you usually slept. oh, he said that if you turn away from him or fidget too much, he'll have to start using it.

but right now he was too busy with his tongue in your tight hole - “you like being humiliated like this, don’t you, bunny?” a deep growl vibration touched your bare pussy when he almost buried his nose in you. wet sounds filled the entire room, and you were embarrassed to admit to yourself that it was pretty hot. now one of his hands was squeezing both of your wrists on your tummy, while the other was caressing your thigh, moving his hand back and forth, not allowing you to twitch and sway your hips away from him, keeping you in place. Gitae is agonizingly slow, he likes to slowly coax your first orgasm out of you, lightly licking and teasing the tender bundle of nerves and the entrance to your tight slit. you are so pretty, lying on your huge bed, the sheets are rumpled, the blankets and pillows are scattered, half fell to the floor - the result of the little cute resistance that you tried to give to Gitae when he pushed you back into the room and threw you on the bed. even though he was now kneeling in front of your bed, burying his nose in your tight, sensetive cunny, you couldn’t help but feel the strength and dominance with which he was squeezing you, completely suppressing any attempts to resist. all that you could oppose to him was your sweet moans and quiet pleas for him to stop. he even liked it.

when the heat engulfed your entire body, trembling began to break through your legs and thighs, and without controlling yourself, you began to lean forward yourself, towards his tongue, searching for more friction. Gitae let out a low groan more like an animal growl, “there you are... good girl, now cum. cum on my tongue,” he growled protractedly letting go of your hands and cupping your ass cheeks with his huge, harsh palms, slightly lifting you above the bed, making you gasp, arching your back more and throwing your head back.

with a quiet hum, Gitae slowly licked the remains of your finish, teasing the sensitive, heated skin, allowing one finger to slip inside you, earning another pitiful moan.

“so sensitive and wet… and all mine…” his voice boomed somewhere above you as he stood up from his knees, his finger still inside you, probing the hot, gummy walls while your body instinctively tried to shrink into the fetal position and close yourself off from him. Gitae just grinned, leaning lower, crushing you under him, clinging to your plump pink lips, persistently sliding his tongue further, only to hiss a moment later and pull away from you, “fuck. did you just fucking bite me?” a loud slap rang out across the room and you yelped from the sharp, burning pain spreading across your butt cheek.

“come on, do it again,” he growled in your ear, slapping loudly again and pressing you harder into the mattress with his hips. his hands found yours again, grabbing your wrists and pressing them into the sheets above your head, pinning you completely to the bed. you felt your shoulder blades touching his bare chest, and something heavy was pressed into your ass and it clearly wasn't a knife in a sheath on his belt. “tell me, doll, you didn’t think that was all, yeah?” you felt his smirk on his lips and that mocking tone in his voice as he pinned you down on the bed with all his weight. “oh don’t worry bunny, i have so many plans for this night,” he purred in your ear, slightly biting your earlobe and slowly and persistently moving his hips, making you feel his boner in his jeans more strongly.

꒰꒰・┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄・♡・┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄・꒱꒱

it doesn’t matter to listen whole song just this part bc i got inspiration just from there🤟🏻🤌🏻

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: Xavier had been acting cagey for weeks, a fact you hadn't had the heart to address since Maddie's disappearance. but with his dubious return to school and how he loitered in the periphery of Nicole and Simon's orbit, you thought it was about time to get answers. too bad one pale, cow-eyed jock had other plans.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.4

Xavier knew that whatever oddness you displayed, it was done with intention.

Sticking wads of gum in your hair at recess? Hana's brother had shaved a strip off the top of Hana's head in 5th grade and you'd needed to give your mom a reason. Giving Xavier's dad a casserole in a pan he'd have to return? He and Xavier hadn't had a homecooked meal since Xavier's mom went to visit her sister in 8th grade. Now every other Wednesday was circled on the calendar in Xavier's kitchen, Family Dinner scrawled in red sharpie.

So, whatever had possessed you into your uncharacteristic choice of outfit, Xavier knew there was a reason.

"Don't." You warned as soon as you opened the door.

Xavier smirked, eyeing you as you climbed into the passenger side of his truck. Of your friends, Mathilda was the one who layered herself in dark colors; a walking shadow with sass and a violent streak. You, on the other hand, tended toward a more eclectic wardrobe and never reached for black on black, especially since...

Well. Since.

Xavier recognized your leather jacket, the lapels boasting a collection of button pins and silver studs, and band patches stitched into the sleeves. An accessorized exhibition of your taste in music and social commentary.

The jacket made sense.

What didn't was what was undoubtedly your uncle's Black Sabbath hoodie paired with black skinny jeans tucked into pointed-toe, matte black booties, the small heels on which had click-clacked down the walkway from your front door to the truck.

"Your mom's?" Xavier guessed, referring to the jeans and booties.

"Shush."

"No, no, no," Xavier said mildly, pulling into the road, "I happen to think you make it work. It's giving—" He swept the air in front of him dramatically with one hand, setting the scene, "—Crime in the Dead of Night."

You shoved your backpack into the footwell and buckled your seatbelt before leveling him with a glare. Well, maybe. He couldn't really tell through the enormous sunglasses you'd chosen to complement your peculiar ensemble, but your lips were pursed in that way they got when you were grumpy about something.

"Shut up, Zav."

"No really," Xavier insisted, "Incognito Chic. Doesn't look like you're hiding something at all."

You smacked him on the shoulder, unable to suppress a lighthearted chuckle. "No questions asked." You said, invoking a years-old promise you'd made in the aftermath of what had happened to you that third week of 7th grade.

It was an appeal for support without having to reveal things that didn't make sense yet. Perhaps never would. Just unconditional thereness from someone you trusted to have your back.

A knot curled in Xavier's gut. His grip tightened on the steering wheel for a short second before he managed to tamp back the haunting feelings to the darkest corner of his brain.

He'd taken advantage of that pact in recent weeks. Had asked you a few times to cover for him if Maddie asked after him; even had you send texts about band practice on random days when the schedule hadn't changed since last fall. Every Saturday in Lucas and Hana's garage.

The whole thing with Claire made him feel rotted from the inside out. He could only vaguely remember how it'd started. A dumb decision made at 3am on a Tuesday, swaying from too many hits of his vape and two shots of his dad's whiskey.

And you never questioned him. Not once. Just honored your end of the deal because you believed Xavier was your friend and wouldn't make you aid and abet his sleaze.

Fuck.

A few blocks from school, you reached across the bench seat and placed a hand on Xavier's forearm, tone warm, "You sure about this?" You asked, "Cause we could go to the mall. Or drive up to the lake." Meaning his dad's cabin. "Or into the city."

Xavier gave you a weak smile, "Sounds like you're looking for an excuse to skip." He couldn't blame you. Still, "I need to do this, kiddo. Not just because I don't want the fucking trolls to win, but because there is someone in there who knows what's going on."

"So...what? You're going to track down leads and find Maddie yourself?" You raised an eyebrow. Again, Xavier couldn't quite see it with how much of your face the sunglasses masked, but your forehead shifted in a way to suggest it.

"Hey, I'm open to ideas if you have any you'd like to share."

You sighed heavily, shook your head. "Nah, B, I got nothing. But if you need help, just let me know." You smiled, patted his shoulder, then bent forward to grab your backpack.

Pulling into an empty spot in the parking lot, Xavier wrestled with asking you for another favor. After all the deceit, he should take responsibility for his own shit, but he didn't have the mental fortitude to deal with Mathilda's—albeit well-meaning—stance against his choice to return to school.

She'd made a fuss in the group chat the night before, words all capitalized and stressed in bold, and Xavier wasn't looking forward to listening to the barrage he was sure she'd prepared for him. Hana, Lucas and Eli, Xavier could manage, even if they shared Mathilda's point of view. But Mathilda? Was a force of nature.

You'd just slid out of the truck, were about to shut the door, when Xavier swallowed and forced himself to ask, "Do you think you could run interference?"

You studied him for a moment, likely wondering if it was worth it to take the bullet on Xavier's behalf, and then, "Sure thing, I got you."

Xavier was profoundly grateful to count you as a friend—hell, after all you'd been through together—a sister.

He put every ounce of sincerity behind his words, "Thank you," and offered you a proper smile, all teeth and crinkled eyes. You responded with a smile of your own, bright and buoyant and a boon to the anxiety rending his confidence.

"I'll see you in there." You chirped, stepping back and giving a mock salute, "Good luck!"

Xavier sat in his truck until you disappeared into the school, waited for the door to shut behind you before he leaned over and opened the glovebox. His vape sat on top of a mess of empty takeout wrappers and vintage CDs—the latter a testament to how old his truck was.

He hovered, stock still, chewed the inside of his cheek as his lungs and brain yearned for a taste of sweet-cotton-numbness.

"You know, you don't have to lie to me." Maddie's disappointment was palpable, pressing under Xavier's skin like cold fingers.

"Okay, fine, I'm a total burnout who is skipping class to get high in his car. Congratulations, you got me." He nonchalantly responded.

Maddie smiled, cute, dimpled, and said, "For the record, you're the worst liar in the world."

Xavier's heart broke.

Abruptly, he smacked the glovebox closed and opened his door, hauling himself out of his truck in a blur of movement. He needed to get his ass in gear before he changed his mind and fucked up again.

Today, he was going to make damn sure he did better.

💀___________________________

PART THREE - PART FIVE

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

[glowup-princess]

ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀᴜᴅʀᴇʏ ʜᴇᴘʙᴜʀɴ

Becoming like Audrey Hepburn is less about mimicking her outward style and more about embodying the qualities that made her a timeless icon of grace, kindness, and elegance.

1. Cultivate Inner Grace

Kindness: Audrey was known for her compassionate heart. She dedicated much of her life to humanitarian work, especially with UNICEF. Practice empathy and kindness in your daily life.

Confidence with Humility: She was confident yet humble. Focus on your strengths, but stay grounded and genuine.

2. Adopt Her Elegant Style

Simple, Timeless Fashion: Audrey’s style was minimal yet chic. Invest in classic wardrobe staples like little black dresses, tailored pants, and ballet flats.

Accessories: Embrace pearls, oversized sunglasses, and scarves to add a touch of elegance.

Natural Beauty: Her makeup emphasized simplicity—think bold brows, a subtle cat-eye liner, and a fresh, clean look. Keep your hair neat and polished.

3. Develop Poise

Good Posture: Audrey carried herself with poise. Practice standing tall and moving gracefully.

Soft-Spoken Charm: She spoke with warmth and sincerity. Cultivate a calm and confident tone.

4. Embrace Lifelong Learning

Audrey was multilingual and loved to learn. Pursue knowledge and interests with curiosity.

Appreciate arts, culture, and creativity. She was passionate about acting and dance.

5. Live with Purpose

Audrey’s life was centered on making a positive impact. Find a cause or passion that aligns with your values and dedicate time to it.

6. Exude Joy and Humor

Audrey had a playful and lighthearted spirit. Smile often, laugh freely, and don’t take yourself too seriously.

7. Stay True to Yourself

Despite fame, Audrey stayed authentic. Know who you are, and embrace your unique qualities.

If you want to dive deeper into her life for inspiration, watch her classic films like Breakfast at Tiffany’s or Roman Holiday and read her biographies (Audrey Hepburn: An Elegant Spirit by her son Sean Hepburn Ferrer is a great start).

Be gentle w yourself <3

Pt. 2??

Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated <3

[littlemissthunderstorms]

warp speed chic pt.1

“the shining city on the fritz”

a tranquility base hotel and casino alternate universe.

———

you were in awe.

warm, glimmering lights hung down from the ceiling, the soft glittering reflections painting the walls like a mirrorball. smooth jazz filled the reception area, muddled by various chitter chatter and conversations. the whole atmosphere was warm and welcoming, but you couldn’t help the shiver than ran down your spine when you caught a glance out of one of the big windows, vast space scattered with stars and nebulas stretching on and on above the spectacular intergalactic city lights.

you caught yourself staring, jaw agape.

“can i help you miss?” a man with a sleek suit holding a clipboard looked up at you through his thick rimmed glasses, waiting for an answer. “oh- um, yes! i’m actually supposed to meet um..” you glanced at your card, “alex turner?” the man raised his eyebrows. “mr. turner you say?”

you nodded, not really aware of his importance, or if he had any at all. you just knew you were supposed to meet with him first thing. the man glanced down at his clipboard, shaking his head and scurrying over to the phone at the desk, where he fumbled with the buttons, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose while he waited for someone to pick up.

you clacked your nails on the desk, looking around as you waited, still breath taken by the gorgeous architecture, the way design flowed so beautifully throughout the space. “good evening mr. turner! sorry to trouble you sir, i’ve got someone who’s apparently supposed to be meeting- oh! great, i’ll send her right up. thank you- you too sir.”

you smiled at the man, nervously biting your lip. another dude in a sleek suit came up to the desk, annoyed. “jeremy, i’m the phone guy. what are you doing?” the man with the thick glasses, presumably named jeremy, rolled his eyes. “mark, i don’t want to hear it. go take this young ladies luggage up to her room,” he snapped back, quickly clacking away on his keyboard. “room 505.” mark scoffed, mustering a fake smile for you as he took your luggage and scurried away.

“sorry about him. he’s got a knack for directing calls... anyway, mr. turner’s been expecting you, follow me.” you smile and nod awkwardly, following him as he treks down a long, red carpeted hallway.

———

turns out, it’s a little frightening riding the elevator up to the top floor. you’ve never been too afraid of heights, but this elevator is a round tube of pure glass, giving you a chill inducing view of all the buildings as the lift rises, just getting higher and higher, the tops of the neon buildings getting lower and lower.

it was frightening for sure, but interesting nonetheless. the booming metro city outside was a design of neon lights and intricate architecture. surely there were many lives and different storylines sprawling and networking throughout the city, as there was everywhere but it seemed so much more captivating on the moon. you wondered what it was like to live here.

once the elevator reached the peak of the building, dinging as the doors slid open, you happily slid out into the hallway. “go straight down the hall, through that big door. that’s his office.” you nodded, a little intimidated now. “thank you sir.” he smiled. “have a wonderful evening miss.”

and with that he was gone, the elevator dinging once more as it closed, followed by the low hum of the lift descending back down, leaving you on your own. the top floor was eerily quiet, the lights dim. you took a deep breath before walking towards the huge door at the end of the hall, noticing the shiny gold plaque in the middle that read alexander turner, founder of tranquility base hotel & casino.

great. you were set to be talking to the goddamn owner of this place. you seemed very mentally unprepared, all you knew is that you would be working on designing the new wing that was just built, along with a team of designers. of course you were qualified for the job, and it was an honor to design for a place this spectacular, you were just a bit intimidated.

you quickly fluffed up your hair and smoothed down your shirt before knocking, your stomach knotting up. a muffled shuffling sound followed by a few heavy footsteps were heard from behind the door before it swung open.

the man that greeted you on the other side was quite striking. you didn’t quite know who you were expecting, but he was much younger than you imagined, probably no more of an age gap of 3 years between you and him, you assumed. the man wore a crisp, perfectly tailored navy blue suit, the cream button up below equally sleek. his dark hair was slicked back, his vampire-esque hairline on display.

“hello, it’s lovely to have you, i’m alex,” he shook your hand and you smiled, trying not to show your nerves as you introduced yourself. “come, have a seat,” he moved your chair out from under the desk, sitting in his own across from you after you’d sat down.

his office was a bit of a contrast from the rest of the establishment. instead of sleek, polished furniture and vast space, the room inhabited more of a homey, lived in essence. you could tell he’d actually done work here. mahogany bookcases lined the whole wall behind his desk, sprawling with books and journals. various paintings scattered the walls, an occasional sticky note or reminder stuck to a golden frame. instead of overhead lighting, vintage lamps scattered the room, basking the space in a comforting warmth that soothed your nerves.

he ran a hand through his gelled hair, fidgeting with the fold of his sleeves. “we’re really excited to have you here. i’ve got to say, i’m a big fan of your work.” this comment surprised you. “thank you, it’s an honor, really.” you smiled, your cheeks starting to hurt. “i just wanted to see you so i could get you all set up. just before you arrived, i emailed you everything you need to know, so um- just be sure to go over that.”

you nodded attentively. “tomorrow you’ll have a meeting with the other designers in the conference hall, which shouldn’t be tricky to find, there’s a map of the place attached to the email as well,” the man rambled on a bit, telling you a bit about the place, sometimes starting sentences just to never finish them, getting lost in his own thoughts.

you liked the way he spoke, his accent, the dreamlike quality his tone held. “any questions?” he chimed after telling you about the library. you shook your head. you had a lot of questions for him, so many you couldn’t even pick, and plus, you didn’t want to worry him anymore, so you saved those questions for another time, storing them in your mind as if they were books on his shelves. alex sat up, smoothing a hand over his blazer.

“well then, i’ll walk you to your room,” he smiled. “oh, that’s alright it’s no worry,” you stood up. surely he was busy, you didn’t want to bother him. he tilted his head. “do you know where it is?” you were silent for a moment, thinking of the plethora of hallways this place had, your chance of finding the suite on your own was small. “no…” you shook your head, smiling awkwardly.

———

“here you are, room 505,” he smiled, holding out a keycard for you. the walk to the suite area had been silent for the most part. the hotel was starting to quiet down since it was getting late. every so often he’d look back and give you a gentle smile before turning back, his heeled boots clacking against the sleek wood flooring. he was so intriguing to you, unlike anyone you’d ever met. you wouldn’t be surprised if he melted into the shadows, seeping away into darkness, like some sort of creature. you couldn’t explain it.

“thank you, mr. turner,” you smiled, grabbing the keycard. “it’s no problem, and call me alex,” he added, stepping away slightly as he realized he might’ve been a bit too close for comfort. “it was nice to meet you, alex.” he grinned. “it’s been a pleasure, have a wonderful night.”

as his footsteps faded off into the darkness, you held your keycard up to the scanner, eyes widening when the door clicked and swung open.

the place was stunning. a large, circular bed sat in the middle of the room, adorned in plush maroon and silky red pillows, with a matching maroon comforter. a white sheer lace bed curtain was tied to each of the four wooden posts, making a gorgeous canopy. the room was tasteful, soft, consisting of intricately designed carpets, sleek 70’s style furniture, and a plasma tv that slid down from the ceiling with a click of a button.

you almost squealed at the sight of the bathroom. the rooms porcelain tiles were pink and cream, matching with the patchwork carpet that sat in front of the clawfoot tub, which was filled with expensive soaps. you opened another sliding door to find a nearly empty walk-in closet, a cherry red silk robe hung on one of the racks, a matching pair of slippers below.

once you were snug in bed, practically melting into the mattress, being engulfed by the soft pillows, your eyes began to feel heavy. you slowly turned your head over to the exterior wall, sleepily gazing out of the large window. most of the city lights were off now, leaving only the inky black void of stars to lull you to sleep.

———

stepping into the conference room, you felt a little underdressed in your button down and slacks. there were about six other designers, all clad in an array of vibrancy. shiny space-age metallic tops, dynamic head scarfs, eccentric glasses. they all looked like they were set to walk a runway show, clearly you missed the memo.

you were a teensy bit late, thanks to the warm, soft bed that didn’t fail to keep you asleep through your alarm. you gave an awkward smile when they all turned to look at you, the door slamming a little too loud. you flushed, quickly setting your laptop and purse down as you pushed yourself into the seat across from alex, who gave you a gentle smile.

settling in, you looked up at the designer who was giving a presentation on his ideas for the new stargazing room. you fought to not scrunch your nose. white curtains? white furniture? white walls with gold detailing? it was cute, maybe for a suburban mom but it didn’t match the energy of the hotel whatsoever.

once it was your turn to present ideas, you couldn’t help but feel a little nervous. some of the other designers had okay ideas, but some were also good, and although you loved your plan, these people seemed intimidating.

for the stargazing area, you’d envisioned a more cozy, dreamlike room. the furniture and carpeting would be warm toned, various soft lamps and fairy lights scattered across the room. while you were walking everyone through your presentation, your nerves seemed to ease. when you turned back around to sit down, everyone was quiet, unreadable. great.

after each presentation was done, it was time to discuss. everyones attention redirected to alex. being the owner, he got a big say in the final decision. your heart raced once you heard him murmur your name. “i liked yours. we’ll go with that,” he concluded. “meeting over, see you guys tomorrow.”

your jaw was agape. no discussion, no nothing, he chose yours immediately. the other designers didn’t take it well either, mumbling and grumbling a bit as they gathered their things and stumbled out of the conference room.

the following week, you were in the conference room once again. everyone was discussing plans for the day spa, and you found yourself falling quiet. someone had suggested sleek wood paneled walls, which alex had liked. others had suggested fluorescent lighting installments, to which alex said no. you sat there, observing until alex turned to you. “what about you? any ideas?”

your cheeks flushed a bit. “i was thinking dim, hanging lights, a bunch of different kinds, all warm toned, it makes it more calming.” he fiddled with his pen, nodding and scribbling something down. “i like that.”

a designer across the table from you rolled his eyes subtly. you shrunk in your seat, feeling gross. you didn’t want to be known as some sort of suck up. you couldn’t help the way alex singled you out, agreeing with all your ideas.

nevertheless, it didn’t stop. you’d suggest paintings for the wall, he would agree, you’d bring up an interesting wallpaper, he’d find somewhere to put it, you’d point out curtains that complemented the room well, he’d nod approvingly and scribble it down on his notepad.

eventually, you learned to be quieter, trying to let the other designers have the spot light but sure enough, alex would ask you to share again, his eyes narrowing at you as he dismissed the annoyance that stifled the room.

every single time, you’d receive a subtle scoff or an eye roll from one of the other petty designers. you understood, it was annoying that they’d worked hard to get here and the majority of their ideas were being turned down, but still, were their egos just so fucking big that they couldn’t be at least a little happy for you?

———

the next morning, you found a loup mask outside your door. it was adorned in black satin and lace, small gold detailing outlining the eyes. underneath was a small, metallic gold envelope with an invitation inside.

you have been invited to the tranquility base masquerade party,

tonight, 7pm, @ the information action ratio, live music and free drinks.

so now here you were, clad in a black, lace dress, which mysteriously had showed up at your door later that morning, along with a stunning pair of gold earrings and a dainty necklace that matched the detailing on your mask. the black satin hugged you perfectly, making you wonder how they managed to nail your size and proportions.

chandeliers with bulbs of stars hung down in clusters, emitting a gentle glow. people danced and chatted, jazz flowing through the room from the band on the stage, the martini police. tons of different people wandered around, all masked and dressed in a variety of colors and textures.

letting your eyes linger, you spotted the group of designers all chatting at a booth. instead, you headed towards the bar, figuring they already hated you enough, why annoy them now. the bar was beautiful, lights lit up the whole structure, and as you ordered your martini, you couldn’t help but notice how good looking some of the bartenders were.

as you sipped your drink, you felt someone’s presence directly behind you, a little too close for comfort. you turned, trying to distinguish who was under the sparkly white cat mask. “so, are you fucking him or something?”

your eyebrows raised “huh?” the girl scoffed, and immediately you recognized her as one of the other designers. she had a model figure, super tall with platinum blonde hair, and a menacing scoff. she’d be a really good bully. “are you fucking alex? is that how you get him to pick all your ideas?”

you shook your head, cheeks flushed. “no. i have no idea why he favors me,” you stated, turning back to your drink when you felt a cold liquid down your back, making you gasp. you turned again, the blonde pretending to be shocked as she held her empty glass. “i’m so sorry! i’m so clumsy.”

you rolled your eyes, getting up and deciding you’d had enough. you just wanted to go back to your suite, shower and lay in bed. since you’d arrived, the crowd almost doubled in size. you fought your way through, bumping into a few shoulders as you tried not to step on dresses. a lady in a swan mask turned and bumped you, her feathery dress catching on your shoes. you lost balance, stumbling over your heels, about to fall onto another group of people when you felt strong hands on your waist, and in a whirlwind you were upright.

it was alex. he pulled you close to him and swept you away onto the dancefloor, his hand on your waist, a hand interlocked with yours. you almost didn’t recognize him at first. he wore a black masquerade mask, with dark shimmery sequins adorning the sides. his hair was fluffier, much unlike his usual slicked back look.

you looked up at him, noticing how your hand gripped his shoulder. he’d swept you away so swiftly, leaving you speechless. his dark eyes shimmered under the mask as he peered down at you, waiting for you to speak first. “i- i was just leaving,” you stuttered, hyperfixating on the way the spill made the wet satin stick to your skin. he made no remark, keeping his languid gaze, his mouth twisted into a subtle grin.

“there’s vodka all over my dress,” you added. alex shuffled, taking off his blazer and wrapping it around your shoulders. it didn’t help much, but you didn’t say anything. it was a nice gesture.

the mystery lingered in the back of your mind, you wanted to question him about his decisions to constantly favor you but his position of authority made you bite your tongue.

his position of authority. you noticed how many people were staring all of a sudden. you could sense it in his sharp suit, the expensive, musky cologne he wore. it was entrancing, he was quite entrancing himself, you couldn’t ignore it but you couldn’t do this. you didn’t want the taboo boss employee type of perception cast upon you and him. you wanted to be taken seriously. the other designers were already perceiving you as some sort of teachers pet. the thought instilled momentary nausea.

“alex, i’ve got to go,” you whispered. he looked down at you again. “i’ll walk you back.” you shook your head. “no, no thank you, i’ll manage.” you slipped out of his arms before handing him his blazer, maneuvering your way through the tight packed crowd, slipping around torsos and arms until you finally made it out into the secluded hallway.

you took a deep breath, the chatter, music, and clinking of glasses now muddled. the hall was dark, not counting the floor to ceiling window that casted a murky blue into the space. you pressed your hand up against the window. staring out, you still didn’t comprehend it all was real, convincing yourself that it was a dream, and dreams were merely fragments of space cut out and glued together, playing like a glitched out film reel in your sleep.

you snapped back to reality, the smell of vodka on your dress pungent. quickly, you headed back to your suite, heels clacking on the marble, loud in the silence.

———

hii! let me know what you think so far. sorry if this part is a little uneventful, i mostly wanted to set up the environment but trust, better things are coming.

taglist (let me know if you want to be added/removed)- @ultragirrl @inmyownfantasywrld @almluv @raven-ql @ohladymoon @yourstartreatment @missbabyjay @andulina567 @blair-s-world @rentsturner @indierockgirrl @kittyrob0t @averyzversi0n @michelleisheres-blog @kennedy-brooke @madeinuk @mathdebate00 @sstar-ggirl @tangointhequango @nela-cutie

[maneaterluvr101]

FRANCIS FOREVER| PT.1

ART DONALDSON X READER

SYNOPSIS: In which Evelyn has idolised Art from the moment they first met, from his dirt blonde hair to his devotion to tennis, to the way he looks at her. Until the great tennis player, Tashi Duncans, catches the attention of her best friends, Patrick and Art. And as Tashi integrates into their once trio, she realises that her devotion has slowly turned into infatuation throughout the years.

WARNING: CHALLENGERS SPOILER, mature language, sexual themes, angst, slow burn, series.

Word Count: 3.4k

“Dr.Auclair?” The hostess confirming as she scanned the reservations list before looking up, the woman in front of her gave a nod.

She gave a polite smile before leading Evelyn to her seat with a light blush painted on her cheeks, dumbfounded by her looks.

Her heels clicked against the tile floor of the restaurant she had reserved at. Though busy, it felt as though the customers and worker’s eyes were on Evelyn the moment she entered the building.

Tuesdays night lights glimmered in dimly lit restaurant as her waitress led her to her seat with a calming view of the city, thanking her with a soft but genuine smile as she took her seat before looking down on her attire for the evening.

Evelyns day-to-day scrubs were no where to be seen, replaced with a simple but chic outfit that still hugged her body to perfection. And though she looked stunning and composed, her palms were sweaty and she felt like her heart was having palpitations as her pointer finger tapped the wooden table with a certain rhythm.

Anxious wouldn’t begin to describe how nervous she was to talk to the man she still thought about even after a decade of no communication.

STANFORD UNIVERSITY, 13 YEARS AGO.

“But Professor, you were the one who specifically instructed us to quote this extract when we’re faced with this question!” Evelyn spat as her manicured finger pointed to her script on the psychology lecturers desk.

To say that she was furious would be an understatement. For most of Evelyns life, academics had been the primary part of her existence. Never getting anything lower than an A was something she will forever pride herself in.

Until now.

As she faces her psychology professor with her brows furrowed in confusion and jaw clenched. Between the two was her first major psychology test of the semester with a large B written on it.

Professor Lynn slowly shaking his head as he pursed his lips. “There’s nothing I can do for you, Evelyn, the marking system has changed from the past few years,” he stated, as he tried to keep his composure.

Professor Lynn wasn’t unfamiliar of the infamous Evelyn Auclair. Every one of teachers had at least one story to tell about her. Like how she sat by Mrs Jackson table for 4 hours in a silent protest to change the book that they were assigned to read, as she said “This book is too elementary for the amount of money my parents pay for me to be here. Point blank.”

Whether good or bad, you’ve heard of Evelyn Auclair at least once.

Evelyn stays silent for what seems like forever as she tries her best not to curse him out, ‘He’s just trying to do his job, Eve. This isn’t personal and you shouldn’t raise your voice like that. It’s been 30 minutes since class has been over and your next class starts in 15. Come up with a solution quick,’

She thought to herself as she tapped her manicured pointer finger on his desk.

She nods her head slowly as she straightens her back, purposely connecting her eyes with his as she plastered a fake closed mouth smile.

“I'm sorry for lashing out on you like that. It was disrespectful and completely unnecessary, but please take into consideration the hard work i put into learning everything that you’ve taught us in psych and understand my frustration when the first B-” she pauses as she realizes her voice was getting louder.

Taking a deep breath in and releasing the air she continues, “when the first B I have ever gotten is a major exam which counts 45% of this semester mark” she finishes calmly.

They both stay silent for a moment, Professor Lynn trying to maintain the eye contact with Evelyn, to only look away after a moment of Evelyn intimidating eye contact.

With tension so thick you can cut it with a knife, Professor Lynn hesitantly nods his head as he lets out a sigh of exhaustion. “Okay, I'll recheck your paper, when I have the time to do so. How does that sound” he suggested weakly as he was convinced and mostly tired realizing that he had just spent 30 minutes arguing with Evelyn, ‘Who still looks like she can go for another 1 hour or two.’ Professor Lynn thought to himself

She paused for a moment, as she furrowed her brows and bit her bottom lip pretending to be deep in thought, when in actuality she knew this was the best she could get.

Finally, Evelyn nods with a neutral face, “Thank you, sir. I’ll take my leave now, enjoy the rest of your day” she offers him a soft genuine smile which he returns with a tired one.

And as she picks her bag up from the desk. She reaches for her phone in her front pocket, checking the time.

“Shit." she murmured as she practically ran out of class, she had 8 minutes left to reach her next class, which was Chem, on time.

As she sped walked through the practically empty corridors, she grabbed her phone once more to call one of her friends who shares the same classes as her, Amira.

‘Hopefully she can save me a seat in the first rows, I’m not sitting anywhere near the back. All the frat-’ Her thoughts interrupted as she bumped into someone. Almost dropping her phone in the process

“So-”

Ah.

And as she raised her head from her phone to utter out an apology, her brown eyes connected with hooded blue ones for just a moment before they looked away. It felt like, for a moment, everything had slowed down as she surveyed his appearance, taking notice of how he looked. He had almost mouse-like features, his well-kept eyebrows furrowed as he looked ahead jaw clenched. He had to be standing at, what seemed like at least 5'11 as he walked past not once looking back at her.

Finally snapping out her trance, Evelyn quickly realizing that she still hadn’t issued out her apology, "Sorry!", cringing at how loud she had sounded for some boy who didn't seem phased by the fact that she had bumped into him.

She stood there staring at the back of his form as it disappeared, fascinated by his aura, which has never happened. Most of her friends gush over boys, spewing all about how attractive they were just by how they carried themselves. Evelyn never truly understood what her friends meant by this, until now.

Almost as though she set a reminder for herself, her phone blared. Amira, read on the screen with a large print as clicked on the green button to answer.

“where are you? Class is about to start in 4 minutes,” an angry whisper inquired on the other line. Her and Evelyn had a few things in common, being punctual was one of them.

“Uh, yeah. Im almost there. Save me a seat?” she stuttered out as she began her speed walk to her next class.

It had been almost 2 weeks since the bump in with the stranger and Evelyn still thought about him.

And the more she thought about him, the more she seemed to look for him everyday. It also didn’t help that Amira had no idea who she was talking about as she stated, “Please, with the description that you gave me you just described 90% of the white boys in Stanford.”

So for now, Evelyn unconsciously settled on looking at every blonde curly head, her heart stammering hoping to find him only to be met with disappointment each time.

“Eve, you have got to join some sort of sport. You cant be waking up and breathing books every chance you get.” Amira currently tried to reason with her friend, as they sat in the cafeteria.

Evelyn shook her head as she scrunched up her face in confusion, “Why? It’ll just drain me as if Im not a premed student who isn’t already stressed by the shit ton of modules and tests i have this semester. Plus I’m a first year, i need to make this year count.” She stated before taking a bite of her apple.

The brown girl quick to respond, “That’s what Im saying! It’s your first year in college and all you can think about is books? C’mon, if not partying at least have yourself a hobby,” and before Evelyn could respond, Amira quickly shut it down. “And reading old literature doesn’t count as hobby.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes as she sighed.

“Right. Tell that to the book club which I was the president of in 10th Grade” she defended playfully with a grin.

“Im serious, Eve! I want you to enjoy your years in college.” Amira lectured as she stared at the girl whose only personality were her grades and fighting teachers because of her grades.

Evelyn sighing once more before forcing a small smile on her face, “I’ll look into some sports that don’t include ice, grass, water or having to grind or push up on anybody. How’s that?”

“Sounds like you crossed out 80% of sports by that list alone, but I’ll take what I can get.” Amira pointed out as she smiled at Eve, her eyes widened as she had an idea,

“There’s a match on Wednesday. Mens tennis with Fire and Ice playing, maybe you can accompany me?” suggested Amira with a wide smile.

And to quickly end this tedious topic of sports, Evelyn answered with a nod before changing the subject.

Wednesday had came too quickly for Evelyns liking as Amira dragged her to the tennis courts.

“This is going to be so fun! Aren’t you excited? I’m excited. Your first sports match that you’ve watched in college!” Amira babbled on as she walked past seated people, muttering out ‘excuse me’s’ between every 3rd to 4th word she said before finally sitting down in the 2nd row of bleachers right in the middle, Evelyn following suit.

“Im literally shaking out of excitement.” Evelyn narrated with faux enthusiasm as she lifted her hand towards Amira’s vision making sure her hand stood completely still.

Amira slapped her hand away making Evelyn giggle, rolling her eyes Amira was about to lecture Evelyn before her eyes caught onto the 2 boys on the court. “There they are, Fire and Ice.” Amiras manicured finger pointing to the two on the court.

And as Evelyn turned her head towards the court, her heart dropped as she realised who was on the court. Her stomach twisting as the mystery boy she had been looking for for the past two weeks had finally been found, She didn’t even know how to explain the emotions she felt when she stared at the dirt blonde who seemed to be in his own world as he stretched with his partner.

Her face must’ve given it away as she felt her friend nudge her slightly, “Theyre hot right? The brunette is Patrick Zweig, he doesn’t go to school here but he’s like really talented when it comes to tennis. he actually doesn’t go to school at all right now just doing him, i guess. I’d like to do him too but we can’t always get what we want. Then we have the blonde one,” Amira points towards him, glancing at Evelyn amused by how she seemed so invested in what Amira was saying, she leans towards Evelyn, “he’s Art Donaldson, he studies here at Stanford and is a year above us. Not sure in what he studies though, he’s got talent but not as comparable to Patricks. I feel like, and this is just my opinion, Art doesn’t really think that much of tennis as much as Patrick does. And-oh the match is starting.” Amira quick to shut her mouth as she watched the double match begin.

And as Patrick hit the first serve, Evelyn fell in love. Watching as the ball went back and forth between the two pairs, her lingering on Patrick and Art each time that hit the ball back. With each grunt and whimper that came with each stroke, the determination to win as both team’s faces are scrunched up with concentration. Evelyn cant help but lean forward as the direction of her head travelled with the ball.

And as this game played in front of her she couldn’t help but feel at peace though her palms sweated for the so called, “Fire and Ice” duo to win.

This was one of the reasons why she hated sports, it was simply unpredictable. It could reward you or leave you high or dry if it truly wanted to. Sports needed a certain type of trust from the viewers to the players, creating this bond that resembled a relationship between the viewer and the supporting team. And this match made her realise how right she was, but how oh so wrong she was to believe it was a bad to feel this way.

Her heart stammers as they were on the last set, the whole court quietly watching. And as Art served the last winning hit, Evelyn could help but stand up. “Let’s Go!” She screamed, her always composed self nowhere to be found, as some of the crowd also stood clapping.

And as she clapped she could’ve sworn she made eye contact with Art from across the court but that thought was interrupted as she felt Amira stand next pushing her playfully, “I’ve never seen you jump and scream like that before. Not even when you got first place in the Science Olympiad, looks like we’ve found your sport.” Amira teased with a grin. Evelyn smiling back at Amira as she felt light from the win of the game.

“We’ve definitely found my sport.”

Tennis was a shit sport.

Well thats what Evelyn thought everytime she couldn’t hit an ace or tripped on herself chasing the ball when she’d play with Amira. She hated not understanding something at the first try, so you can imagine her disdain when her first try turns into 4th, 4th turns into 10th and she still stumbling and missing the ball. Though she studied every video on the internet with famous tennis players and listened to each video on tennis terms for the past week, it felt like she knew nothing when she reached the court. But one thing that’ll forever remain true about Evelyn Auclair’s character was that she was no quitter.

She proved this point,as she walked inside the indoor tennis court with long strides in her tank top and tennis shorts reading the text from Amira stating that she’ll be running late. ‘When has she ever been on time?’ Evelyn questioned walking to their usual court, about to place her bag on one of the benches between the courts. And as she lifted up her head from her phone her movement came to a halt as she made eye contact with the match in front of her.

Art.

Her eyes landing on the dirt-blonde, her stomach immediately erupting with butterflies as she watched the match between him and Patrick. Though she had expected to see them here practicing sooner or later, she still felt shocked to see them. She stood in the middle of the courts bag still attached to her back completely forgetting about it, just observing the game in front of her.

Today’s practice courts were coincidentally empty , only housing the three and nobody else. So the only sounds heard where the two boys’ grunts and the ‘thwack!’ of the ball as it makes contact with the rackets.

And as the ball was passed between the two white boys, she noticed how precise Patricks serves were compared to Arts. Delivering accurate hits each time that had no clear formula to study but was simply driven by the determination to win at all cost necessary. She had also realized that she had walked in on their last set as Patrick delivered a perfect backhand that Art missed, crowning Patrick as the winner of the match.

Though Patrick won, Evelyn couldn’t help that her eyes were glued on Art after the game. How out of breathe he seemed to be and though he lost he still playfully smirked at Patrick as he walked towards him, his sweat glistening on his skin in the brightly lit court,his tongue darting to moisture his lips.

His eyes focused on Patrick who greeted him with a sly smile as he pulled Arts arm towards him, creating little distance between themselves, wiping Arts face as he began saying something that Evelyn couldn’t quite catch before lightly tapping Arts face. As he took a few slow steps backwards creating distance between themselves grinning ear to ear before turning completely around walking off the court and seemingly towards Evelyn direction.

Evelyns hands sweaty as she watches Art following behind Patrick rolling his eyes, saying something she still couldn’t decipher with a smug grin. Walking closer, Evelyn realising that they were literally walking directly towards her. She looked around for Amira as she was still nowhere to be found, only making eye contact with the bags that were placed messily on a bench near her.

Oh

She stood right next to their bags so obviously they’d be heading in her direction. She internally rolled her eyes as she thought of how delusional she was for almost thinking that they were coming to her. Evelyn stood and watched them walk past her to their bags paying her no mind as they continued to chat amongst themselves.

“Cmon Art, that backhand serve was cinematic, admit it!” boasted Patrick as he shoved his items into his bag, Art doing the same with a ghost smile while listen to the brunette ramble on about their match.

And as Art picked up his bag, he locked eyes with Evelyn, maintaining eye contact for a moment before politely smiles at her.

And even though it was just a smile that had no real intentions behind it, at that moment Evelyn experienced feelings she felt the first time she had watched them play. The indescribable emotions she felt that day came rushing back.

Evelyn smiles back almost immediately, her dimple making an appearance, clutching the strap of her bag.

“You were amazing,” she blurts out catching the attention of both boys, she internally cringes at how direct and poorly she worded that,straightening her back as she corrects herself. “in the game that you just played obviously. And last week’s double match. You both were.” She states darting her eyes to Patrick for just a moment before her eyes went back to Art as she couldn’t seem to keep them from the dirt blonde.

Smiling softly Art utters out a thank you about to say something else interrupted by Patrick wrapping his arm around Arts shoulder with a cocked head and toothy grin.

“You’re too kind. i actually thought this game was horrible. In particular, this asshole was half assing it the whole game” Art just rolls his eyes, shoving him off him. Patrick paying him no mind as he placed his hand on his chest with the same grin,“Im Patrick.” introducing himself even though he knew that she was aware of who they were by the glint in her eyes. “And this is Art.” he stated, pointing to his best friend.

“I saw you last week at our game. You were the one who screamed ‘Lets Go!’ right?” Patrick questioned as he stared with amusement at Evelyn, who nodded with an embarrassed smile on her face. “Never heard anyone shout like that at any of our games.” Patrick stated,smiling he continues, “I didn’t catch your name by the way.”

And with a small smile and a heated face, she softly introduced herself,

“Evelyn.”

CURRENTLY,

“Evelyn?”

Evelyns head slowly lifted up to the source of her name, to be met with the same hooded blue eyes she fell in loved with.

taglist: @jointherebellion215 @jackierose902109 @killjoycrashkitty @ms-longbeach @literarydesire @n-slayaaaaa @jesuistrestriste @theitgirlnetwork @gcfshyegi @londonnnnnnnnnn @lietomevpr @saintwrld @bambisbamboo404

[imahgined]

the rosy blog project - episode 3

꒰ঌ pt. 3 on how we made 2024 actually feel like 2014 ໒꒱

hiii sweethearts! this is the final part of this series, i hope you’ve loved reading the episodes as much as i’ve enjoyed writing them <333

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. my take on how we made 2024 really feel like 2014 - part 3

section 3: fashion, beauty, and lifestyle

coquette style going viral: even though the viral coquette aesthetic this year wasn’t exactly like the og tumblr-era coquette, it embraced all the girly vibes we love—soft pinks, dainty bows, pearls, and those feminine silhouettes that made us feel like princesses. it felt like it was a revival to the girly style cherished back in 2014, bringing back the elegance and charm that we’ve missed in mainstream fashion for so long!

the rise of bows, ribbons, and lace: feminine details were everywhere in 2024. from hair accessories to clothing with bows, ribbons and lace, these added a dreamy, fairytale feel to outfits. i love that we’re embracing big bows in our hair and dainty clips, even featuring our fave sanrio characters. they evoke vibes of simpler times, and reminded me of the bethany mota’s videos where she shared her accessorizing tips for the seasons!

uggs and ballerinas everywhere: our 2010s classics made a full-on comeback this year. uggs were styled with everything from oversized sweaters to cute mini skirts, just like we used to do back in the day. and don’t even get me started on ballet flats—they became the it shoe again. so many brands launched modern versions of these staples, it felt so nostalgic yet fresh at the same time.

clean girl makeup: the effortless, natural makeup look became a huge trend this year, and i couldn’t help but think of the soft glam aesthetic we adored in 2013-2014. the clean girl vibe with glowy skin, soft blush, glossy lips, and fluffy lashes reminded me so much of early madison beer and ariana grande selfies!

VS fashion show comeback: okay, i have SO much to say about this. i personally loved the victoria’s secret fashion show comeback. of course, it wasn’t exactly like the original shows we obsessed over in the 2010s, but it was still such a moment. iconic models walked the runway, i loved watching kate moss doing her debut on VS, barbara palvin honestly slays, and adriana lima left me SPEECHLESS. alessandra ambrossio, candice swanepoel and maty fall were some more of my faves! i really liked the fact that you could shop the collection this year, that detail made the show feel so more connected to us. it was definitely the event of the year for the girlies! like, we used to sit and watch these shows religiously back then, and now we’re doing it again!! i’m honestly so glad their runways are back <3

dress to impress: 2024 saw the return of nostalgic fashion games, with dress to impress going viral. from asmr videos of girls playing to coquette, y2k and gyaru outfits being created in the game, this year it was so cool to spend time playing dress up online! i used to do it all the time back in the 2010s.

“that girl” being the new “it girl”: remember when lauren conrad’s books and the 2010s blogger era were everything? well, 2024 reinvented the “it girl” in the form of “that girl.” influencers and creators who share glam lifestyles, productivity tips, and chic jobs like fashion marketing are basically the modern-day version of the 2010s fashionista bloggers. everyone wants to emulate her! i’m so here for it.

back to analog: if 2014 was all about tumblr aesthetics, 2024 was about living that aesthetic. scrapbooking, instant cameras, and physical journals became trendy again, bringing back the charm of analog creativity. decorating a journal or filling a photo album with polaroids felt so personal, almost like reviving the simple joys we cherished in the rosy blog era.

and that’s a wrap on my series! 2024 truly felt like a love letter to 2014 in so many ways. i’m so glad we got to experience all of these nostalgic moments from those golden years. thank you for reading honey, it’s been the loveliest way to end the year!

wishing you the happiest 2015, loves! it’s literally our best year to come 🧚🏻‍♀️

[looosey]

Literary London: the Modern Life of a Socialite pt. 2

A non-fiction piece.

Reading Mrs. Dalloway was very relevant for my travels here in London, a city full of luxurious temptations that would treat my wallet quite poorly. Mrs. Dalloway is a book about a woman, born into a plain middleclass upbringing, who marries into a high social class, and loves the lifestyle. The whole book follows a day in her life, as she is throwing Her party, where everyone will have no choice but to see how Born-to-Be-a-Wonderful-Host she is.

In Korean there is a slang that would be used to call this set of symptoms: 된장녀 (doen-jang-nyeo), a pejorative neologism for a girl who desires, buys, and flaunts luxury items, without the means to pay for it herself (hence the connection with "gold diggers"). The wikipedia definition goes further to say, she will often pinch pennies on basics in order to afford "conspicuous luxuries." I might just be a 된장녀, which is concerning! I have to remind myself that I am living in London for a month, and cannot spend like I'm on vacation for a week every week, or else I'll have to find work first thing when I return to campus!

To explain my first point about Mrs. Dalloway relevance to today, I argue that if born in my generation, Mrs. Dalloway would've been an influencer to a whole market of TikTok viewers: "how to attract provider men," "how to manifest your dream life," "how to build an elegant Instagram feed," "how to look expensive (cheap and affordable!)." More relevant to me, Mrs. Dalloway represents a desire for seeing and having nice things, and mingling with important people, which is viewed by other characters in the book as snobbish and out of touch with the reality of the general population.

Being in Soho, Covent Garden, Piccadilly, and many markets, and seeing marble statues, gold stitching on historical fabrics, the glittering diamonds of the crown jewels, the neurons in this same greedy part of my brain fires so much more often. This journal entry will be dedicated to all of the luxuries, London specific, that have tempted me successfully. This is a slightly shameful haul.

1. Coffee

I am addicted, and I have one a day, either at home or at a cafe or both. The alternative milk here is at no additional cost, which makes everything come out to about 3.8 pounds on average for a flat white! This is a steal, in comparison to American coffee spots! Or so I tell myself.

2. Nice Dinners

Namaaste Kitchen ⭐⭐⭐ (2.5/5)

Dishoom ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ (5/5)

Ukiyo Handroll Bar ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ (5/5)

Blacklock ⭐⭐⭐⭐(4/5)

Kanishka ⭐⭐⭐⭐(4.5/5)

3. Fancy Dresses

OddMuse: These are beautiful dresses, more expensive than any dress I own, but made out of cheap synthetic fabric. They have a beautiful chic storefront in Covent Garden, and I'm still on the fence about whether I will return these!!

4. 100% Wool

So the wool coat was a purchase I made for my own Christmas gift, on 40% off at Aritizia before I left for London. Was the three piece suit necessary? It might have to be the suit I wear to my own wedding at this point.

5. Afternoon Tea, English Breakfast

Clotted cream is delicious. Scones are in fact dry, but with cream and jam are delicious. Finger sandwiches are delicious. Blood sausages are okay. Those scrambled eggs are delicious. Flat whites are delicious.

6. Performances

From Left to Right: The Kit Kat Cabaret, Giselle, Les Misérables

I was checked hard when I watched Les Misérables and was reminded of the power of money to blind those who are wealthy to the pains of the rest of the world. And even without watching Les Mis, at the end of the day, my reality check comes in the form of a hefty credit bill and no presents for most of the people I care about, and no financial plan saved for some of the more important projects I have coming up soon. So with this, my Mrs. Dalloway lifestyle will have to come to an end.

[mswild1]

Get excited I’m answering $20.00 now love

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banner id: a 1600x200 teal banner with the words ‘please read my dni before interacting. those on my / dni may still use my terms, so do not recoin them.’ in large white text in the center. the text takes up two lines, split at the slash. end id.

demhipschicenic: a gender related to the demon hipster chicks from 'scott pilgrim'

[pt: demhipschicenic: a gender related to the demon hipster chicks from 'scott pilgrim'. end pt]

for anon! colors are from the comics and show versions of the characters (since they're easier to colorpick from than the live-action ones) and the term is 'dem' from 'demon', 'hips' from 'hipster', 'chic' from 'chicks', + 'cenic'!

tags: @radiomogai | dni link

[bvqvmdblogspotcom]

Vestido Boho Um Ombro Manga Longa Mini ou de Pendurado Gola Morcego Manga Solta

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[jackrussle]

My new fav unfounded assumption to make is that people hate pete doherty bc their fav white musician from the 00s-10s was not a fashion muse. Their fav was trying on costumes and pete doherty was 1 of the costumes 👋 peter's life style that he philosophically, ideologically, believed ought to be shameless, was abject but unfettered and that "purity" is ofc aesthetically inspiring to artists. Fashion (never innocent) is cannibalistic and amoral and fashion loved him for being l'enfant terrible junkie as well as being somewhat of an original of his era. A la punk in the 70s. keen eye etc etc inevitable commodification, diff post to make. not a lot of celebs can be that for fashion imo. its not an act of strictly dressing them up. Its genuine attraction to the celebs' strong aesthetics otherwise. Kim K's and Kanye's porno chic and how designers gravitate and adapt to that. ethel cain, obvi not for the same reasons. hayden has a potent, highly personalized aesthetic that bulls people over. shes a muse to her fans and not to a 'designer' like pete was, but enfants riches deprimes and miu miu recognized that her aesthetic can either fit into their brand or that it makes their pieces look all the more fashionable by association. shes cool in a way that only she is capable of being cool (cool isn't moral either). pete doherty degrading designer (that he inspired) by treating it like clothing + being a filthy bohemian dandy bc of the poetry he read is more compelling than alex turner dressing up as a greaser, johnny cash or jim morrison. Sorry. no hate on alex turner, he's sexy but I'm not looking to him when I think of fashion pillars that defined an era. He made music that defined "cool" but wasn't himself a figure of cool, especially in hindsight. what is there to take from alex turners 2010s greaser aesthetics right now? Its super cute but its a sgt peppers album art moment of the 10s. its a pt of the menagerie i guess. I'm not looking at matty healy either when I think of 2010s mens fashion. Hes a personality and honestly more of a 2020s fashion icon which means nothing since the 2020s so far is defined by micro trends, fast fashion, drop shops etc. relevant to how shallow he is. I think of Justin Bieber, shia lebouf, Pharrell Williams, Tyler the creator. too bored after writing all this out to explain why these men in particular but think about it idk

[cyarsk5230]

Here are the 2024 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductees in the performer category:

• Mary J. Blige

• Cher

• Dave Matthews Band

• Foreigner

• Peter Frampton

• Kool & The Gang

• Ozzy Osbourne

• A Tribe Called Quest

Read more:

Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Announces 2024 Inductees: Cher, Jimmy Buffett, Mary J. Blige, Dave Matthews, Peter Frampton, Foreigner and More

Chris WillmanApr 21, 2024 5:40pm PT

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has revealed the names of 16 artists or other musical figures who will be inducted in 2024. It’s a diverse list that stretches from R&B/rock pioneer Big Mama Thornton to pop superstars Cher and Dionne Warwick, and from ’70s-rooted rockers like Peter Frampton, Foreigner and Ozzy Osbourne to ’90s icons the Dave Matthews Band, Mary J. Blige and A Tribe Called Quest.

Surprisingly, Jimmy Buffett pops up among the inductees — unexpected because not only was the late singer/songwriter not on the ballot this year, but he had never even been nominated before. But the Rock Hall’s committee was clearly in a sentimental mood after his death seven months ago, and took the liberty of ushering Buffett in via a separate, non-voted category, for “musical excellence.” 

That honorary category is also the side door through which the committee installed two other performers who had been nominated before without ever being selected by voters: Warwick and MC5. The latter group had been nominated six times without ever being voted in (only Chic had been nominated more times and remained shut out); with the “musical excellence” classification, the Rock Hall finally took matters into its own hands in installing the influential 1960s trio.

Popular on Variety

For the first time, the inductees were announced as part of an “American Idol” broadcast, during a Sunday night episode themed around the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Following is the complete list of inductees for 2024:

Performer Category:

Mary J. Blige 

Cher

Dave Matthews Band

Foreigner

Peter Frampton

Kool & The Gang

Ozzy Osbourne

A Tribe Called Quest

Musical Influence Award:

Alexis Korner

John Mayall

Big Mama Thornton

Musical Excellence Award:

Jimmy Buffett

MC5

Dionne Warwick

Norman Whitfield

Ahmet Ertegun Award:

The eight “performer” inductees are the ones selected by a ballot sent out to the Hall’s voters after the 15 nominees were announced on Feb. 10. 

That leaves seven nominees from this year who will have to wait for another crack at getting in: Mariah Carey, Jane’s Addiction, Sade, Sinead O’Connor, Oasis, Lenny Kravitz and the duo Eric B. and Rakim.

One question mark now is how Cher will react to her induction. Just last December, in an appearance on “The Kelly Clarkson Show,” she aid, “You know what, I wouldn’t be in it now if they gave me a million dollars … I’m never going to change my mind. They can just go you-know-what themselves.” At that point, though, she had never received so much as a nomination, so the odds favor her changing her tune on that vow, now that she got voted in her first time actually appearing on the ballot.

Five out of the eight voted in this year were first-time nominees: Osbourne, Cher, Frampton, Foreigner and Kool & the Gang. 

A Tribe Called Quest got in on the hip-hop collective’s third time on the ballot (and their third year in a row being nominated). Blige and Matthews both got in on their second try (she was previously up for it in 2021; DMB had a prior nod in 2020).

Frampton, for his part, beyond the merits of having had one of the biggest albums of all time, may be a sentimental favorite this year, due to his being in the acknowledged twilight of his musical career. He has been out on a farewell tour off and on since 2019, following his diagnosis with the debilitating disease inclusion body myositis in 2015. The rocker just wrapped up the last round of dates he had scheduled, although he has not said there won’t be more. 

It does not come as much surprise that Oasis did not make it in, after the defunct group’s singer, Liam Gallagher, went out of his way to disparage the Hall as an institution after the nomination (perhaps preemptively, given that no one considered the band an automatic first-ballot shoo-in). More surprising, to some, may be the fact that O’Connor did not make the voters’ cut, even after a wave of newfound appreciation for her following her death last July.

Osbourne becomes a second-time inductee this year; his group Black Sabbath was voted in all the way back in 2006. Sometimes there is contention over whether singers who are already in the Hall of Fame, as group members, really need to be pushed to the front of the line as solo artists, too, ahead of other contenders. In any case, voters decided that Osborne’s post-Sabbath career established him as one of rock’s major icons, even apart from his initial round of influence and success as a frontman.

De Passe is getting her flowers for a career that included a long stint as one of the major players at Motown, developing the Jackson 5 into superstars and signing the Commodores, among other triumphs, before becoming a film and TV executive. She was profiled by Varietyabout her long and wide-ranging career in 2022.

Motown is also being celebrated with the induction of Whitfield, a songwriter and producer whose astonishing catalog of hits in the ’60s and ’70s included “I Heard It Through the Grapevine,” “Just My Imagination,” “Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone,” “War,” “Ball of Confusion,” “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg,” “(I Know) I’m Losing You,” “I Wish It Would Rain,” “I Can’t Get Next to You” and “Car Wash.” He died in 2008.

Coming on under the “musical influences” umbrella, Alexis Korner may be the name among this year’s inductees that is least known to contemporary music fans. He was a major player in the British blues scene of the 1960s and became a popular broadcaster as well; he died in 1984 at age 55. With John Mayall also being selected by the committee for the same honor, it’s an unexpected banner year for British blues-rockers.

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Congratulations 🎊🎉🎈🍾 inductees !

[madisondaft]

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