#shrinks in sneakers

[shrinksinsneakers]

🧠 Can β-Blockers Really Delay the Onset and Progression of Huntington's Disease?

💡 Huntington’s disease (HD) is a devastating neurodegenerative disorder that affects individuals and their families on multiple levels. Over the years, I’ve worked with many patients suffering from HD, and it’s difficult to overstate the physical, cognitive, and emotional toll this disease takes. Beyond the progressive motor dysfunctions that eventually rob patients of their independence, the neuropsychiatric symptoms, including severe depression, irritability, and even psychosis, can be equally debilitating. Tragically, suicide risk in this population is alarmingly high, particularly in the early stages when patients are still aware of their prognosis.

👉 One of the greatest challenges we face in treating Huntington’s disease is the lack of disease-modifying treatments. While therapies exist to help manage symptoms, such as tetrabenazine for chorea or antidepressants for mood disturbances, these interventions only address parts of the disease. To date, there has been little that offers hope for slowing its relentless progression.

💪 However, a recent article published in JAMA titled “β-Blocker Use and Delayed Onset and Progression of Huntington Disease” by has introduced a glimmer of hope. The study explored the potential role of β-blockers in altering the course of HD.

🔗 https://shrinksinsneakers.com/2025/01/26/can-%ce%b2-blockers-really-delay-the-onset-and-progression-of-huntingtons-disease/

[geekintofeet]

You try to approach closer to get a whiff at the godly arab men’s sneakers who come to train in this gym. The smell is so pungent it permeates through their sneakers’ fabric. You wonder if these men ever wash their gym socks.

You’re so tiny and they’re so focused on their training there is no way they would notice, so you enjoy yourself.

but suddenly your heart skip a beat when you hear « What are you doing here little faggot? You want to die? »

[dreax01]

In you go

[lightseoul]

So excited for this ask! #24 🥹💐💐

hello, lovely! thanks for playing <3 ik i said i'd write "short" drabbles, but this one kind of got away from me... nevertheless, i hope you enjoy it!

(this is lightseoul's 2k milestone event ft. bakugou katsuki! to play, view the numbered list of prompts here, then simply send an ask with your chosen number and i'll whip something up!)

24. "THERE YOU ARE." (1.5k)

you feel his commanding, unmissable presence before you even catch a glimpse of him.

yet despite yourself, you still startle at the sound of his booming voice when it inevitably comes.

“there you are.”

almost instantly, you cringe at the sheer volume. no doubt he’s caught the attention of at least three people in this particular area of the bookstore.

tightening your grip on the book you just spent the last ten minutes admiring from where it stood on the ‘newly released’ table, you, however, don’t look back to the source.

you know it’s stupid. but maybe—just maybe—if you didn’t see him, you could just pretend he didn’t exist.

which is ludicrous, because he’s literally your boyfr—

“oi.”

before you even get the chance to react, a hand grabs you by your left shoulder and spins you around, leaving you face-to-face with #6 hero pro-hero dynamight, decked out in his hero gear.

and he’s looking mighty pissed.

“did you fucking lie to me?”

he spits the blatant question—no, the accusation—so harshly that you can’t help but shrink into yourself ever so slightly.

when you don’t say anything, he only shakes his head. “i thought you said you had to work overtime and stay in the office?”

he pauses, as if to hear you out, but he continues before you can get a word in. “so you can only imagine my fucking confusion when i got there and that dickhead of a supervisor of yours said you went home on the dot.”

“i thought you agreed to cover for kiri tonight…” you mumble, more to yourself.

but bakugou, sharp as ever, barely catches it. “what?”

you look up from where you were staring at your feet, finally meeting his gaze. you try not to let the pained expression on his face chip away at your resolve. “what were you doing at my office? i thought you were working a double shift today.”

at that, he sneers. “oh, so we’re answering questions with questions now, hah?”

“no, i just—”

“i told eijirou last minute that i couldn’t ‘cuz i was planning to surprise you and spend the night together. happy?”

a wave of guilt courses through you at his admission. you shift to look at the stack of novels behind him instead, effectively ending your staredown.

“so you did lie to me,” he declares definitively, voice clipped. “can’t even look me in the fucking eye.”

not knowing what to say, you resort to scanning the relatively big area around you, clocking the curious faces attached to which are most definitely eavesdropping ears.

“people are staring, kats…”

the pro-hero doesn’t miss a beat. “i don’t give a single fuck.”

you heave a sigh as you wrack your brain for a way out of this. adjusting your grip on the book you’ve been cradling, you settle with: “it must’ve been a long day for you, you should go home and—”

“why are you avoiding me?”

you barely stop yourself from choking. “what?”

“you are. shit’s been going on for a while now—can’t believe it took me this long to put two and two together. you’re always working overtime, you always have errands to run on your own, you’ve been turning down my offers to—”

“excuse me, mr. dynamight, sir?”

the both of you whip to look at the source of the timid voice, only to find what has to be a six or seven-year-old child quaking in his notably orange and black hi-top sneakers.

“what?” comes bakugou’s curt response, obviously annoyed at having been interrupted. you, on the other hand, bask in the momentary reprieve the kid has unknowingly granted you.

you instinctively take a step back from the two.

“can i p-please have a p-picture with you?”

bakugou purses his lips in a tight line, “look, kid, i’m actually in the middle of some—”

“just do it, kats,” you cut him off, feeling empathy for the boy. the child looks at you in surprise, as if he just remembered you were standing there, before tossing you a grateful look.

at that, the man sighs, before beckoning the kid to come close next to him. the younger male beams in joy, hurriedly handing you his smartphone. bakugou crouches down on his knees so he’s more or less at the same height as the kid, an arm looped around the latter.

and as you say ‘cheese’, the two grin, one genuine and excited while the other comes off as a bit strained.

the kid jumps in glee and rushes off to you right after catching the hero off guard with a tight hug to his muscled leg.

looking up at you, he smiles. “thank you, miss!”

you ruffle his hair, “no problem, …?”

“eiro!” the child offers enthusiastically. “and you are?”

you’re about to say your name before you catch yourself in the nick of time.

“no one, really,” you chuckle, although it comes out a bit stilted. through your periphery, you can sense bakugou’s stare boring holes into the side of your face.

a look of perplexion crosses eiro’s innocent features. “really? for a second there i thought you were dynamight’s girlfriend, or something. you can’t be just no one.”

“i’m just a random bookworm,” you raise the book you’ve been holding and wiggle it to prove your point. “see?”

the child merely gives you an unconvinced hum before deciding he doesn’t really care enough to keep pressing. with one last look at his favorite hero, he lets out a squeal of delight, exclaiming thanks and dashing off to who-knows-where.

you take that as your cue to turn your back and make a start for the exit.

you can always just order this book that you’ve been waiting months for, anyway.

but you barely get to take a step forward when bakugou reaches for your wrist and pulls you unceremoniously close toward him, the distance between the two of you around only a foot apart.

your heart starts hammering—whether at the proximity or in anticipation of what’s about to come, if the tight grip on your appendage was any indication—you don’t know.

“the fuck was that?” he hiss-whispers.

at least he’s minding other people now. “i just felt for the kid. he just wanted to take a picture with you.”

“quit playing dumb with me, princess,” he growls. “why the fuck didn’t you just say your name?”

you gulp before you get to talk yourself out of it. bakugou notices, his eyes darting down to your throat and back up to your eyes, his crimson ones wordlessly demanding an answer.

when you don’t utter a single word, bakugou pushes. “you don’t want to go public about us, is that it?”

you almost gawk unabashedly at the man. you sometimes forget how perceptive he can be.

before you can even attempt to deny it, you get stopped in your tracks as you witness first-hand the palpable hurt that flashes across the pro-hero’s features.

and nothing could’ve prepared you for what tumbles out of his mouth next.

“…are you ashamed of being with me?”

“what?” you blurt out, an amalgamation of emotions washing over you in an instant. “no! why the hell would you think that?”

at that, bakugou frowns, “what else am i supposed to think, dumbass?”

“a million other things! like how villains might kidnap me to get back at you, or that your popularity and general ranking will drop, or that i’m not fucking good enough for you!”

the second you say the last thing, bakugou’s gaze turns indescribably stony.

“take that the fuck back.”

“no,” you say, trying to sound firm. “i’m being serious, katsuki.”

“no, you're being fucking ridiculous,” he spits, and if you were judging him just by his tone you wouldn’t believe he’s the one defending you right now.

“is that why you’ve been avoiding me, hah? because you don’t think you’re good enough for me?”

“don’t say it like that,” you grumble, shame now churning in your gut. “you’re making it sound stupid.”

“because you are being stupid, dumbass.” the man huffs, evidently frustrated but you’ve known him long enough to recognize the traces of relief etched on his face.

bakugou reaches for your shoulders, his big, firm hands encasing them as he gently squeezes the flesh. you finally bring your gaze up to look him in the eyes, and the sincerity in them would’ve made you stumble if it weren’t for his hold that’s keeping you in place.

“you’re fucking good enough for me, you got that?”

he says it so certainly that you can’t help but nod, even though you know the insecurities won’t vanish overnight.

“and don’t worry about my ranking—i want to reach number one with you by my side. as for those shit-faced villains, they won’t lay a finger on you as long as i’m alive. okay?”

“okay.”

seemingly pleased enough, bakugou releases his grip on you, pulling a few inches away.

“good. now be a good fucking girl and come home with me, alright? we're gonna talk this shit out.”

[princessbrunette]

ᡣ𐭩 ｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅PRINCESSBRUNETTES SCREAM SALON INTRODUCES … ໒꒰ྀི ˃̵ ࿁ ˂̵ ꒱ྀིა

GIBSON GIRL ࣪𓏲ּ ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃

♩ethel cain — gibson girl ♩

pairing: toxicbf!jj x reader

cw: jealousy, manhandling, exhibitionism, outdoor sex, cnc, degradation, toxic relationship, one spank.

you are responsible for your own media consumption. welcome to kinktober day four.

you’d liked to think you’d done nothing wrong.

jj knew what you were when he started dating you — friendly, sociable, a party girl, infact you’d even say those were some of the things that drew him to you in the first place.

as you step up to the chateau, having walked there in a pair of sandals that were rubbing your feet just a little too much, and your eyes dry from last nights drinking antics at the kegger — you could already tell jj wasn’t pleased with you from the look on his face.

he’s leaning up against that big tree outside the house, smoking a cigarette. jj was an avid stoner, yes — but he only smoked cigs when he was mad. you sigh, leaves crunching under your tread. in the back of your mind you note the uncharacteristic, slight chill in the air too — an introduction to the muggy autumn weather the obx briefly gets once a year.

“yeah i’m like shocked you even came.” jj calls out before you’re close enough, glancing between you and the cig he was now stomping out beneath his sneaker, twisting his ankle to smush it into the dirt.

“why?” your voice rasps, still that little bit hung over. jj laughs, bitterly and he doesn’t look at you— whipping his hat off and raking a hand through matted blonde hair before shoving it back on. oh, here we go.

“thought you’d like — leave to go fuck some other dude. y’know, seein’ as our relationship just means jack shit to you.” he shrugs like he doesn’t care but the look in his eyes tells you everything.

“what have i done now, jj?” you lean on your hip and he meets you in the middle on the grass, licking over sore, thin red lips.

“so you’re just gonna pretend you weren’t shakin’ your ass for the whole of the cut last night? lettin’ juuuust everyone see up your skirt? you got a man so like, you can’t just act single — i dunno know, that’s just my opinion—”

“you’re mad at me for dancing? at a party?” you step up to him which you know was a mistake as soon as his eyes flutter slightly as he glares down at you, suddenly pinning his mouth shut— jaw slightly clenched.

“yeah you’re right. i’m crazy, huh?” his nostrils flare, eye contact persisting. truthfully, yeah — he was, which is why you struggled to stand on business, not knowing what his next move might be. you shrink a millimetre in stature but you know he notices. “nah, don’t back down now. say it. say m’crazy mama.” he enters your space, filled was rage and smelling like marlboro reds.

“i’m not doing this—” you go to move past him, but he grabs you by the waist, even when you fight. “jj get off!”

“yeah we are, yeah we’re fucking doing this babe—” you speak over eachother frantically as you struggle until he’s wrestled you to the ground on your front, pressing your cheek into the dirt with a hand on the back of your head. you feel those thick cheap rings digging into your skull.

“acting like you don’t like this shit or something.” he scoffs as he straddles the back of your thighs. he’s rough, rougher than usual because there’s real anger behind each move and your heart pounds in your chest. what’s it called when you love someone so much you let them do whatever they want to you? even if it’s not warranted? it seemed like every guy round here was the same. no different from the rafes of the world — just violent and dirty and cruel. yet you couldn’t live without jj.

“jj, you’re — i don’t —”

“you didn’t mind showin’ off infront of everyone last night so you don’t mind if i just take what i want right here, right? nah, course you don’t.” he mutters, not even considering expecting a reply from you as you starts to fight your wriggling hips out of your denim shorts, sliding them down your ass. anyone could come by and see this obscene act, so naturally you felt hot all over and sadly, sickeningly aroused despite the thick knot in your stomach.

“s’not like that.” you whine, tears in your eyes as you turn your head toward the house— coming into direct eye contact with john b, who stood in the window with a mug of coffee.

he wouldn’t admit it, but john b didn’t mind all the borderline violent scuffles that you and jj would get into. bruises on your body from the rough and degrading sex showcased up and down your thighs when you’d lounge on the boat with the pogues, or red scratching of the word ‘MINE’ carved into jj’s back from your fingernails when his insta following would go up. for the most part he figured it was just kinky sex, nothing he wasn’t familiar with — but he had to say, he took a weird sick pride in hearing about you getting punished.

since dating you, you’d eaten up a good chunk of the time john b gets to spend with jj alone. jj used to be down for anything, would drop anything and anyone to be at his best friends side— and maybe john b had been selfish in letting that continue on to the point of expecting it. anytime he’d get time with the blonde, there you’d be nagging at the corners of the conversation or arriving unannounced to start something. it had gotten to the point where he too had began to indulge in violent sexual fantasies toward you, getting his own chance to put you in your place. you’re not one of us, he’d say — because he’s tired of being the kind and mature one.

“jj, j—john b is there you can’t—”

he’s already got your panties down, spreading your folds open to look at you a little too widely to the point you wince, jerking.

“alright and so what, it’s just john b. you didn’t care ‘bout all the extra eyes last night.” he shrugs one shoulder which surprises you. for someone so possessive, he really didn’t care.

when he pushes himself into you, you’re still locking eyes with the brunette through the dusty window. john b was typically courteous and would pretend to look away when jj would get to aggressively fondling you, but now he stares — puppy eyed and unabashed like he was doing nothing wrong, bringing the mug to his lips to take a leisurely sip as his best friend fucks you in the dirt. you even swear you see him shaking his head, all disappointed and dad like.

despite your walls clasping and clenching around jj, your head pounds and eyes burn with humiliation so you continue to squirm. maybe, somewhere deep in your mind you only squirm because you know that jj wants the fight, he wants you to struggle and suffer and pay for what you did. learn a lesson, so he’d say. despite everything, despite this — you just wanted to please him.

“had to make sure no one’s been breakin’ in these pretty tight holes babe, you understand right?” he pants, hands pressing into your back to keep you still. you already know the front of your clothes is ruined with dirt and mud.

you let out a pathetic groaned whimper similar to a ‘hnnnng’ sound as your brows furrow in defeat, eyes dropping to the way john b strains against his shorts, only turning to walk away when you watch him adjust himself. somehow, it makes your cunt flutter more and you wait for the blow of jj’s realisation.

a hard smack on your ass, there it is.

“my god, dude of course you’re gettin’ off on this. i knew you were a slut but jesus, way to prove it to me.”

[bearforcecaptions]

Alex and Bryan had always been close, the kind of friends who made a pact over soda and pizza to turn things around, to finally hit the gym and build some muscle. They’d been nerdy, skinny guys their whole lives, and they felt awkward and out of place as they stumbled into the gym’s locker room after their first workout, faces flushed and sore from the exercises. Both of them wore cheap workout clothes they’d picked up from Walmart just that morning — faded T-shirts that hung loosely on their frames and ill-fitting, generic sneakers.

“Dude, my arms feel like noodles,” Alex groaned, shaking out his skinny limbs as he looked at Bryan.

“Right? I think I pulled something just trying to lift those dumbbells,” Bryan chuckled, but his laughter quickly turned into a grimace as he rubbed his shoulder.

Their voices echoed in the empty locker room, and the fluorescent lights flickered slightly as if the room were stretching itself, adjusting to accommodate these two new, inexperienced bodies. They walked over to the sink, looking at themselves in the mirror, barely recognizing the sweaty, tired faces staring back at them.

But then, almost imperceptibly, something started to shift. Alex leaned closer to the mirror, and he noticed his reflection looked… different. Just a little. His face seemed somehow sharper, his cheekbones a bit more defined.

“Hey… do I look weird to you?” he asked, glancing at Bryan.

Bryan squinted at him. “Maybe? Or maybe I’m just so tired everything’s blurry.” But then he stopped, staring as Alex’s T-shirt started to tighten around his chest, like it was shrinking or his chest was expanding. He looked down at his own shirt and noticed the same thing happening. The fabric stretched and then almost melted away, like it was dissolving into thin air.

Underneath, their chests were broadening, muscles slowly forming in places they’d never had them before. Alex stared, mesmerized, as his pecs seemed to inflate, one solid inch at a time, swelling until they were firm and full. He was startled to see a dark line beginning to etch itself over his right pec, the beginnings of a tattoo forming. Bryan looked over, his eyes widening as he saw the same tattoo mirrored on his own left pec.

“You’ve got the same one!” Bryan pointed, his voice trembling slightly, as he stared down at his own chest​. Both of them were transfixed, watching the tattoos slowly darken, bold lines taking shape, though Alex’s tattoo was slightly clearer and etched on the opposite side of his chest from Bryan’s. Their bare chests shone under the locker room’s bright lights, and it felt almost surreal, as though they were watching themselves transform from afar.

As their chests solidified, so did their arms. Alex flexed instinctively, watching with wide eyes as his biceps bulged out, the veins snaking along the surface like thick cords. Bryan mirrored him, mimicking the same pose, even though he wasn’t sure why he was doing it. Their shoulders broadened, traps rising like hills beneath their skin, framing thick, muscular necks that hadn’t been there moments ago.

The cheap Walmart sneakers they wore started to warp, reshaping into sturdy gym shoes, and they felt a strange tickle as white athletic socks rolled up around their ankles. Their old, ill-fitting shorts slowly lengthened and changed texture, becoming soft gray sweatpants that clung to their powerful, thickened legs.

Bryan felt a sudden pressure on his head, and reaching up, he realized he was now wearing a black baseball cap. He turned to Alex, who was wearing the same cap, the brim low over his eyes, shading his gaze in a way that felt… different. He felt his thoughts slow, like they were softening, melting into something simpler. He wanted to look good, feel strong, and—

“Yo, dude, check it out,” Alex said, his voice deepening, each word sounding slower, less articulate.

Bryan grinned back at him, an identical expression on his face, as his mind began to echo Alex’s excitement. They stared at each other, an odd tension hanging between them as their minds dulled, syncing up, their personalities flattening into something singular, something almost blank.

At some point, Bryan found himself staring at Alex, watching him flex. His own arms lifted in the same way, though he wasn’t sure why he was doing it. He felt a strange compulsion, a need to mirror Alex’s actions, to match him move for move. As he flexed, his mouth moved of its own accord, saying the same thing Alex was saying, their voices blending into one deeper, dumber tone.

“Lookin’ good, bro,” they said in unison, their gazes fixed on each other, and yet somehow, only on their own reflections.

The locker room seemed to shift, as if walls were moving subtly, altering to create the illusion that there was a mirror between them. Bryan blinked, realizing he was standing opposite Alex, but his own reflection now felt hazy, as though he was losing himself in it, becoming less real, less independent. The only thing he could think was how good it felt to flex, to see his thick muscles rippling beneath his skin.

With each passing moment, Bryan’s sense of self faded further, and he became more of an image, a reflection. He could feel his mind flattening into a mere echo, a shadow of Alex’s thoughts, his individuality dissolving as he mimicked Alex’s every action and word. Soon, there was only one real man left in the room, looking into the mirror.

“Lookin’ huge, bro,” Alex grinned, his voice a low, slow rumble.

And Bryan, now only a reflection, grinned back, saying the same words at the exact same time, a perfect mimic. The tattoo on his pec was a mere shadow, reversed and less distinct, as if to signify he was nothing more than Alex’s reflection. With one final flex, Alex turned to leave, leaving the locker room behind, and the reflection vanished, leaving nothing but an empty mirror.

[jesuistrestriste]

codependent!art donaldson who’s scared to make you mad.

he’s actually afraid of making you feel any sort of negative emotion at all, actually. and it’s not the kind of ‘afraid’ that he can laugh off.

no, no, no; it’s the kind that motivates him to shrink himself down into something more digestible for you. something that you can chew up and spit out and discard repeatedly, over and over again—like gum. it’s a sickening cycle that he enables, even if he won’t admit it.

he lets you suck the flavor and enjoyment out of his life in favor of making you happy. he’ll always make himself smaller for you if it makes you feel powerful and in-control.

so when you yell at him after he’s done nothing but try to make you feel worshipped all night in front of your friends, he can’t help the tears that well in his eyes. his entire expression crumples.

he whimpers and paws at your hips, big drops of sadness rolling down his flushed cheeks as he sniffles, and then pushes his hips into yours.

“i’m sorry,” he breathes out, his voice breaking, “i’m sorry, baby, i’m so sorry… please…”

when you don’t budge, he steps back with a sense of frantic urgency and begins stripping off his clothes. his shirt falls down to the bedroom floor, then his sneakers are kicked off, and then his pants. he’s tenting achingly in his boxers with the need to make everything better.

art reaches out again, but for your wrist this time. his thumb brushes your soft skin. he hiccups wetly. he slides his touch to rest over the back of your hand, and then directs it down to press against his pelvis. his fingers curl over the backs of yours, silently encouraging you to grope at him.

he’s taller than you, but you can feel the way he’s mentally curling into himself. it’s pathetic and it’s sad and it’s doing nothing but making you feel guilty. you don’t want to have sex with him, you want to shut him out.

“touch me,” he gasps, his clothed boner pressing into your palm desperately as he steps closer, “please, touch me… use me.. you can fuck me however you want.. i need—i love you..”

he buries his face into your neck, his arms both moving to wrap around the back of you, before his strong legs go shaky and he’s slowly sliding down onto one knee. and then the other goes. he cries into your frame, his cock bobbing and leaking in his briefs.

it takes another minute or two of your continued silent treatment for him to look up from his seat on the floor, fingertips digging into the meat of your thighs. his eyes meet your own; all wet lashes and puffiness over his lids.

“please don’t leave me.”

[ectologia]

I don't know how to explain this but bear with me! Reader and Tomura have a dynamic of a popular girl who is secretly a total masochist and a nerdy incel guy who is a degenerate freak and gets off humiliating and degrading the reader. Not sure if that was coherent but it's been rotting my brain and I needed to share

♱ ˖ ࣪࿐ 𝒟𝐼𝒞𝐻𝒪𝒯𝒪𝑀𝒴 ؛ 𝓉𝑜𝓂𝓊𝓇𝒶 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝑔𝒶𝓇𝒶𝓀𝒾

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 ؛ dubcon ﾉ noncon ﾉ quirkless au ﾉ college au ﾉ bullying ﾉ abuse ﾉ graphic violence ﾉ unhealthy relationship ﾉ blood ﾉ profanity

“Hey, Tomura.”

Blood-reds peer up at you through fluttery, moth-like lashes. Pale and silken like an angel’s. He tugs his headphones down to rest around his neck before setting his phone in his lap. “Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?” You thumb a lock of hair behind your ear.

He’s dubious by the way your friends chitter behind you. Petite hands and manicured nails swat at each-other, hissing between smirks. His ankles uncross, planting themselves firmly on the ground as though in preparation. He winces through his response. “Yeah.”

“What’s wrong with your skin?”

You’ve barely finished your sentence before you’re doubling over with witchy cackles, the girls behind you following suite.

Tomura doesn’t find it funny at all, in-fact, he doesn’t even understand the joke. Dull nails rake at his protruding collarbone before sinking further into the pool of his hoodie, swimming nose deep in the black fabric. “I have a skin condition..”

A piggish voice squeals from behind you. “What’s it called? Not washing?”

He scowls, biting a scabbed-over chunk of blood from his lip, shrinking further into his hunched position in an attempt to make himself as small as possible, or as small as you can be after being picked apart by a bunch of snot-nosed bitches.

You get the last laugh as you strut off with your group, leaving him boiling with rage. Clutching his phone between a set of white knuckles and wringing the strap of his bag in the other. His palms split inside his fists, wretched and shaking with ire.

Of course, that was only the first of many instances.

He remembers on another account, when you’d pulled his hood down in-front of everyone and sneered in disgust at the powdered nest of matted white hidden beneath. Or when you and your gaggle of other titless twats thought it would be fun to fling food at him during lunch, sealing the deal by dumping a fresh load of apple juice into his lap. He’d waddled home that evening, quivering at the sticky feeling of liquid squelching in the pocket of his underwear. Or another time, when you’d tripped him up on the way to his seat, howling with laughter along with everybody else as he laid face down in the middle of the classroom, snivelling with a scuffed chin and bruised cheek.

But, despite everything.. all these things added up — just makes it that much more delicious when he finally gets to face you alone.

Tomura’s palm collides with your face, once on the left side and then on the right, knocking you about with a heavy hand bludgeoning you to the brink of death.

Your whimpers only spur him on as he kicks your heels in, sending you flying, knees splitting atop the sharp gravel coating the ground. “Tomu—”

“Shut the fuck up.” A rubber sole plants itself onto your cheek, imprinting it’s swirled pattern into your skin in a heap of dust. He stands above you, stoic and proud, uncaring of the sickening crunch that erupts from your broken cartilage. “You shut your fuckin’ mouth, I can’t be asked to listen to your whinin’ right now. I’ve already got a fuckin’ headache.”

You heave through the stream of bubbling crimson pooling on your tongue. “I’m sorry, Tomur—”

“Oi, what’d I just say?” He kicks you again, digging the tip of his red sneakers into your stomach. Swinging his leg back, he clobbers you, battering your, no doubt, already bruised body further. “Stupid — fucking — dumb — ass — bitch.”

A spill of blood accompanies your gasps, left retching and writhing and clutching at the ground, clawing at the loose stones dotted about the pavement.

“You like that, huh?” He crushes your fingers, twisting and grating them into the concrete as you scream, clinging to his shins in prayer. “Yeah, you do. You fuckin’ love it.”

He squats down to cradle your chin in his palm, craning your neck back into a painful arch. “Who’s my little bitch? — That’s right you are.” He coos at you through grit-teeth, pressing down on your popped lip with the pad of his thumb. “You are..” He whispers before letting the weight of your head fall again.

“I hope you’re thirsty.”

The zip of a fly has your ears perking, squinting through your lashes at the pale length throbbing in his palm, slit already frothing with pre. “Get that fucking tongue out.”

“Wait, Tomura, please!—”

“What? — I don’t think I asked you, you cock-sucking little bitch.” He brandishes his cock like a weapon, squeezing it between dangerous fingers. “Get that tongue out now, before I do it myself.”

You comply with a whimper. Statuesque as you point your tongue out wide, leaking thick globs of drool over your chin and onto your shirt.

“Better.”

It wouldn’t be uncommon to expect the plush velvety feel of a salty tip prodding at your mouth, snaking its sweaty shaft down your gullet. But this time, you’ve been particularly naughty.

“You think it’s fuckin’ funny, huh? Gettin’ your little boyfriends to jump me in the bathroom?” He clutches your neck in a vice grip, jostling your spooked form. “Well, since you seem to like playin’ around toilets so much — I’ve got you a little gift.”

His fat dick jumps while a stream of urine accompanies his harsh jerking. “Yeah, get it down ya’.” He whistles, shooting the acidic stream of piss straight to the back of your throat, making a game of it as you gag and cack at the air.

“Had enough?” He angles his cock down, allowing you a burst of air but soiling your clothes in the process.

You nod frantically, gurgling with bubbles foaming.

“That’s cute.”

He sprays the last few acrid droplets over your forehead, letting it drench your hair to the root and then some.

Your nose wrinkles at the smell, putrid and pungent and most likely undiluted by the amount of water you know he drinks, or lack of.

You’re hoisted onto your feet by a pair of hands. Looking down, you see how the curve of his cock slaps against your hip. Propped up against the wall, he hikes your legs up over his elbows, pinning you into a tight hold where you’d have no chance at escape. He only peels the crotch of your underwear to the side, letting your chubby folds do the rest of the work by holding it in place while sliding his uncut prick up and down the little triangle placed between your thighs.

“Preparation isn’t needed when you don’t deserve it”, Is what he whispers into your ear, stale breath warm and ticklish against your canal as he begins to sheath himself inside, chunky mushroom tip popping through the first ring of muscle before feeding the rest through. It’s akin to being impaled in the awkward position, sat without a centre of gravity on a hot, girthy pole, just twitching to tear you through the middle and come out the other end.

Tomura’s eager to hurt you, already humping you against the bricks, bouncing you up and down with guttural and down-right animalistic grunts. The noises are purposeful, he doesn’t need to make such strange sounds but he much prefers the curl between your brows to the foggy look in your eyes.

“I’m fuckin’ you.” It’s an odd but factual statement. “I’m fuckin’ your pussy. My dick is inside you. You get that? Raw.”

“Uh, huh.” Your jaw whips up and down, soft as your tongue hangs out.

He’s unsure whether to scowl or smirk — so he settles for a bit of both, catching a lip between his stained teeth. “You’re a freak.“ Forehead to forehead, he puffs into your mouth, loving you down with a thumb digging into your crack “What would all your friends say, hm? That you like gettin’ your ass beat and raped after school everyday.”

Sharpened fingernails dig into the flesh of his striped neck, crying out with dewy eyes falling, rolling behind sunken eyelids. “Ngh.. I’m.. I — gonna’..”

He smacks your face for the umpteenth time, a litter lighter than the others. Perhaps even a tap. “Don’t you dare.”

“Ca..”

Your toes curl inside your socks and your pussy tightens, twisting and pulling on his engorged manhood despite his obvious protests. He drops you on your rear, startling your spinal cord as you hit the concrete with a thud, legs still shivering and clitty still pulsing with the shattered remains of your ruined orgasm.

Tomura growls with a livid expression as his cock spurts, still throbbing with the remembrance of your gummy hole massaging him. His balls tighten and he throws his head back, canines bared as he lets the white darts shoot out onto your face.

“God — shit — wasn’t meant to fucking cum..” He murmurs, dabbing a knuckle over the damp sheen across his forehead.

He cracks his neck, then zips up his pants, shaking off the tension held between his shoulders before snapping his fingers, nudging your crouched form with the toe of his shoe. “Come on then, hand it over.” He demands with an almost exasperated sigh.

Panting, you turn to rummage through your bag. With two $20 notes crumpled in your palm, you offer them to the man with timid, shaking hands.

Enthusiastic as he snatches the paper from you, he eyes the green with scrunched carmines before clicking his tongue. “Seriously, $40 bucks? That’s it? I even made you cum you stingy cunt.” He looms over you with a menacing glare.

“Uhm.. I.. there’s..” You search through your pockets in a frenzy. “I don’t have any more on me..”

“Well, that’s gonna’ be a problem then, isn’t it?”

“I.. I can give it to you tomorrow! I’ll get you another 20!”

He tuts, narrowing his eyes at you before turning on his heel. “Make it 30.”

As he moves to make his leave, you begin to crawl with desperation, reaching out for him with an outstretched arm. “Wait!”

“What.”

“..Do.. Do you want to hang out this weekend?..” He thinks you resemble a love-sick puppy with the way you blink up at him. “..Please?.. Tomu-kun?..”

There’s a hint of a smile that plays on his cracked lips as he looks down at you, still thumbing the creased bills in his pocket. “Hm.. Actually—”

“Make it another 40.”

[manonssunset]

"CHEERLEADING"

pairing: cheerleader!daniela avanzini x basketballplayer!reader

synopsys: in the lead up to the final, you struggle with the weight of expectations and pressure, but you find solace in daniela's support. the long-awaited day comes, the score is tied and there are only seconds left. you and your team fight hard, actually securing the win. the victory is sweet, but there's something else that makes the moment unforgettable.

tags/warnings: language, fluff, established relationship, a lot of comfort, daniela reassures reader, some suggestive jokes, kissing, hugs, they're so cute I'm gonna cry, mention of newjeans minji

wc: +3,9k

a/n: I decided to do basketball because idk shit about football, so yeah... and also because it was the only other sport that I knew had a cheerleader team. I'm also sorry guys, we don't really see a lot of cheerleader!dani in this story, maybe I could expand it someday...

you let out a deep breath as daniela, your girlfriend, rubbed your shoulders. her fingers worked into your muscles, easing the tension that had built up until now, circular motions kneading your flesh with a pressure that made you sigh in satisfaction. you were sitting on a bench on the side of the basketball court while the rest of your teammates moved quickly up and down the playing area. their movements were accompanied by the squeaky rhythm of sneakers rubbing on the polished wood floor and the echo of bouncing balls. 

the training had been especially intense in the last few days, your team had won several matches, securing a spot in the grand final of the tournament. this meant double the afternoons spent at the sports center and going home at absurd hours. you couldn’t lie and say that these circumstances weren’t weighing you down. 

an additional difficulty was finding time to see your girlfriend. you were either too busy with training or too exhausted to even watch a movie together. however you considered yourself to be the luckiest person alive. why? because not only was daniela part of the cheerleading squad, meaning you could always count on her presence during games. but also because, even if she had a free afternoon, she always made the effort to come and support you, taking care of you by bringing you water and drying your sweat with a towel. 

today was no different. after finishing her cheer practice, she came over to watch you play. she had been busy with her squad, running through routines, exhaustion clear on her face. however, even when she had the option to go home and rest after training, she decided to make her way over to your side of the centre, calling you out when you took a break.

that’s how you found yourself in this situation: your head dropped forward, hands resting on your knees while your fingers played with the hem of your shorts. your eyes were closed, enjoying your girlfriend’s ministrations. your shirt hung loosely around your neck after you had pulled it off when daniela offered to massage you, leaving your glistening back and abs exposed. as you relaxed into her hands, shoulder shrinking, neck loosening, your thoughts began to drift. you were so absorbed in the quiet comfort of her touch that time seemed to slip away.

what you didn’t notice was how your girlfriend couldn’t quite keep her eyes off you, her gaze lingered on the way the lean muscles of your back flexed under her touch. she quickly looked away, her cheeks flushing slightly as thoughts that weren’t entirely appropriate crossed her mind. she silently thanked the universe that you were too lost in your own thoughts to notice her flustered conditions. 

when you snapped out of it, you jerked your head back, glancing up at daniela. “oh my god dani you’re doing such a good job!” you obnoxiously fake-moaned, raising your voice in pitch as a playful smirk tugged at your mouth, watching her reaction in amusement. “stop it! you’re being weird…” she complained in embarrassment, face heating up as she slapped your arm jokingly. hearing your loud laugh, she couldn't help but join in, her own laughter bubbling up in response. 

you loved making your girlfriend laugh, whether it was with silly jokes or with your ridiculous antics. you loved the way her eyes crinkled, her cheeks flushed, and her dimple flashed as she tilted her head back. she just looked so… warm, so effortless, like everything you ever wanted. the thought that she was actually yours still made you pinch yourself sometimes.

but as the laughter faded, a different feeling began to settle in. the playfulness in the air softened, and a quietness formed between you two. the moment felt like it was slowing down. she wrapped her arms around your shoulder, pulling you against her chest. you sank into the embrace, her warmth surrounding you, cheek resting gently against your shoulder. her heartbeat drummed softly against your back, a steady, rhythmic pulse that was reassuring, like a constant reminder that she was right there. 

as you turned your head back just enough, you met her eyes, wide and bright, and her smile. that smile… it had a way of making everything feel safe, like you could be completely honest with her, without fear. 

in that exact moment, the thought of the final, the pressure and the expectations felt too much to bear, you felt it physically, like the weight of everything you were pushing in the back of your mind came crashing forward. you were afraid of this sudden fragility, but you remembered that you were with her, and it was okay to be vulnerable.

your face lost some of its brightness as you took a deep breath. “dani” you started, your voice coming out quieter than expected. your fingers were fidgeting nervously with the fabric of the shorts as you melted further into her embrace, finding solace in the blanket that her arms created. you stared deep into her orbs, seeing a glimmer of concern forming in her eyes, but she waited, her gaze gentle and expectant, giving you the space to speak. “my mind has been a mess lately, jesus, the thought of the final is hunting me, I-I… what if I’m not enough? what if I can’t handle it?” your voice was barely audible, the vulnerability catching in your throat, finally expressing how you truly felt.

the smile on your girlfriend’s face faltered just slightly, her eyes softening as she listened. her embrace grew tighter, her fingers lightly traced patterns across your arms, a small, comforting gesture meant to remind you that she was there for you. “hey, listen,” daniela whispered, her voice firm but gentle. “I know how overwhelming it can feel. trust me, I’ve been there too,” her eyes never left yours, the sincerity in her gaze unwavering. 

“but don’t forget that there’s a reason why you are here. you have proven time and time that you’re able to play extremely well and, most importantly, that you’re capable to win” you heart lightened as you weakly nodded along and softly hummed in response. 

“and, remember, you’ve got all of us: your friends, your teammates, your parents, me” she emphasized the “me”, pointing a finger towards her chest.

as her words sunk in, you couldn’t help but feel a newfound confidence build inside of you, slowly replacing the doubt. “you’re stronger than you think. I believe in you.” she leaned forward, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss on your lips, a gentle gesture that sealed her words, a promise that she would always be by your side.

the kiss also silently communicated that she wasn't just giving out empathy for free, she was paying you back for the numerous times that you held her crying. in fact, it wasn't uncommon for daniela to find herself engulfed in the warmth of your arms, venting about her worries and frustrations. the way you soothed her by gently caressing her hair, whispering reassuring words into her ear, made her feel like she was protected by a cocoon. you both had created a safe space for each other to share your feelings.

when she pulled away, you felt an instinctive urge to give back, to thank her for all the unconditional love and support. you thought about how every time the pressure seemed unbearable, her presence was always the anchor you needed to stay afloat. she wasn’t just the person you leaned on, she was your strength. 

you sat up a little straighter, turned around and reached for her, your hands moving almost without thinking. you wrapped your arms around her waist, pulling her as close as you could from the position you were in. you buried your head in her chest, feeling the soft fabric of her top under your cheek, the slight curve of her body fitting perfectly against yours. your hands found the soft skin of her back, her warmth making everything feel still and safe. 

you tightened your hug, making daniela squeal in surprise at the sudden strength. her body stiffened for a second before she relaxed into your embrace, but you didn't loosen your grip. you held her close, the weight of the day, the stress, the pressure, all flowing out of you through the tension in your arms.  

“you have no idea how much you mean to me, dani,” you started, the weight of your words filling the air as you took a deep breath, the familiar scent of her floral perfume was mixing with the tension you were releasing. she gently stroked your cheek, appreciating the tenderness of the moment. you lightly softened your hug, head moving away from her chest to look deep into her eyes. “I don’t know what I would do without you, really.” you said, your voice carrying the sincerity of everything you had been feeling. 

daniela’s cheeks flushed a soft pink, the genuineness of your words making her heart flutter. “stop, you’re making me blush,” she laughed lightly, but it was clear that the depth of your sentiment had taken her by surprise. she couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face, using the hands that were resting on your broad shoulder to cup your face. “you mean the world to me too.” she added, the sincerity in her eyes mirroring your own.

“hey man! you coming back or what?” minji’s voice cut through the bubble of intimacy, sharp and demanding. both of your heads snapped toward her, and you couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of your teammate standing with her arms spread wide and eyebrows raised in a mock-stern expression. the playful interruption broke the moment, but it quickly reminded you that your team still needed you, pulling you back to the present.

you locked eyes again with daniela, as if to ask for her permission to leave, she nodded, a smile still plastered on her face. “come on, get back in there, they’re waiting for you,” she encouraged, pulling your arm and making you stand up, patting your butt as a signal for you to go back into the court. 

you quickly pulled your shirt back on, still chuckling. with a final, lingering glance at her, you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. "I love you," you whispered, the words feeling like they carried more weight than usual, as if they were a reminder of everything she had just said and done for you. she wasted no time in saying it back, but her voice was also urging you to actually go back, the concept reinforced by the light push she gave you. and that’s what you did, running towards the rest of your teammates, not before sending her a teasing wink.

-♧-

the loud whistle of the referee marked the start of the second half of the match. your eyes were blinded by the overwhelmingly bright lights, their relentless glare directed onto the court, making it impossible to escape the spotlight. as if the intense artificial glow wasn’t enough of a reminder of the high expectations, the merging of the crowd’s voices, creating a deafening roar, hit you like a physical force, surrounding you from all sides. it was unpredictable, the eruptions of sounds following the action happening in the game. each burst of noise was a jolt to your nerves, leaving you with a rush of adrenaline that surged through your veins.

however, the cheering was almost completely silenced by the rapid pounding of your heartbeat. erratic thumps were echoing in your ears, as if they were trying to keep up with the intensity of the game. sweat dripped down your face, trickling over your skin. your shirt clung to your back, soaked and heavy with effort, and you could feel the damp fabric tugging at you with each movement. 

the overhead lights caught the sweat on your body, making it glisten like beads of glass, a visible sign of the intensity of the game. fatigue weighed you down, your body running hot from the quick, snappy movements. but it wasn’t just exhaustion that pressed on you now, it was also that damn scoreboard.

it flashed before you like a challenge, the numbers were too close, too dangerous. a harsh reminder that everything was on the line. your mind raced. what if it’s not enough? what if we lose? your stomach twisted, anxiety gnawing at you. you swallowed hard as the doubt started to creep in. the pressure felt suffocating, and for a moment, you couldn’t focus on anything but the numbers glaring back at you. was it too late?

the swish of the ball snapping through the net jolted you back to reality. you quickly glanced at the scoreboard, your worst fear confirmed: the other team had scored, and the game was now tied. the roar of the crowd on their side felt like a punch in the gut, their celebrations loud and unrelenting. you froze, as though your body hadn’t caught up with what your eyes had just seen. 

you then sighed heavily, hands covering your face in disappointment as your head and shoulders dropped. “damn it!” you whispered-shouted to yourself. the flickering numbers on the board only deepened the weight on your shoulders. this is it. your mind kept repeating the same words over and over. this was the moment where you were going to lose.

but as the doubt threatened to swallow you, you fought against it. squeezing your eyes shut, you inhaled deeply, trying to shake off the negativity. you couldn’t afford to fall apart now. as you reopened your eyes, you looked around, scanning the faces of the crowd in search of her. you finally found daniela’s gaze, the loud noises of the spectators fading in the background as you lost yourself in the warmth of her eyes. 

she shot you a loving smile, paired with a slight tilt of her head, a gesture that added tenderness and vulnerability to her expression. there was a glimmer of hope in the way her lips curled, as if she believed, no matter how tight the game, that the outcome would tip in your favor. it was a smile that silently urged you to push through, as if saying “you’ve got this”. 

her gaze made you realize that the game wasn’t over yet. there was still time, and you were gonna fight for it. fight for your team. fight for yourself. fight for her. it gave you a burst of energy and strength, the pressure that had been crushing you lifted just enough for you to breathe. with this newfound determination, you straightened your shoulders and refocused, mentally and physically preparing for the last play. 

you looked at the clock, a relentless reminder of how little time was left, just a few precious moments until the buzzer. you glanced around, catching the determined looks of your teammates, knowing that this was the moment that could define the game. if your team could stay focused, if you worked seamlessly together, this was your opportunity to win. you had fought too hard to back down now.

as the action began, everything around you seemed to slow down. every step you took and every movement on the court felt drawn out, as if time itself had stretched. your heartbeat echoed in your ears, a steady pulse that anchored your focus. we’ve got this. you were confident in your team’s abilities.

the ball was moving fluidly, passed between teammates with calculated precision. the team moved towards the basket like a practiced dance, every motion was a step closer to the victory. as the ball landed between your hands, you saw it: an opportunity, a fraction of space where you could make a pass. without thinking, you moved, stepping into position, your hands guiding the ball into your teammate’s waiting grasp, perfectly placed for the shot. 

you watched as the ball flew through the air in the perfect trajectory. it was the result of the seamless teamwork that had led to this moment. when the final buzzer echoed through the arena, your team erupted in uncontainable joy, jumping into the air, arms raised above your head as multiple ecstatic shouts could be heard. you and your teammates exchanged high-fives and laughed with unrestrained enthusiasm. 

you were then pulled into a tight embrace with the rest of the team, the smell of sweat and the roaring of the crowd amplifying the rush of victory. you couldn’t stop grinning. excitement and relief washed over you, flooding your chest with warmth as the group celebrated together, savoring the success you had all fought for.

in that instant of celebration something inside you stirred. an unsettling feeling that made it impossible to stand still, as if staying where you were would cause you to burst with unspent energy. your leg trembled with nervousness, and you realized that you had no choice but to follow your instinct and commit to it.  

so, suddenly, you pulled away from the group, sprinting towards the stands. your teammates all shared a confused and perplexed expression on their face, watching as you leaped with ease over the low barrier that separated the crowd from the court. to be completely honest, even you weren't entirely sure where this impulse came from; all you knew was that you just felt a rush of excitement that made you want to share your joy with daniela. 

and that's exactly where you were heading: swiftly moving towards the cheerleading section in the stands. and then you saw her. her face mirrored the slight confusion of the crowd, but her smile was still there, welcoming and reassuring. when you reached her, the world around you seemed to stand still. she met your gaze, her eyes filled with something unspoken, something just for you. the moment probably lasted only a few seconds, but to the both of you, it felt like an eternity.

without a word, you gently cupped her face in your hands and pressed your lips onto hers. the kiss was almost urgent, as if it were releasing all the pent-up stress and anxiety from the match. you both moved in perfect harmony, savoring the sweetness and softness of her lips, a stark contrast to the saltiness caused by the sweat of your own. the warmth of her skin against your hands only added to her already inviting and comforting presence.

when you pulled away, the calm you felt was like an indescribable breath of fresh air, a much-needed escape from the overwhelming ocean of anxiety that had consumed you ever since the final weighed on your mind. your thoughts were interrupted by a sudden wave of surprised and teasing noises from the crowd. you looked around and saw people leaping to their feet, applauding you; others wore shocked, caught-off-guard expressions, gasping in disbelief; and your teammates’ excited cheers engulfed you from behind.

when you heard a distant voice shout “get a room!” you realized just how sudden and unexpected your gesture had been. a flush of embarrassment spread across your face as a shy smile tugged at your lips. daniela, mirroring your redness, laughed softly, her eyes wide in surprise and her hand was covering part of her face.

your locked eyes again, exchanging a silent moment of affection as you softly squeezed her face. a quiet reassurance for your girlfriend that she had nothing to worry about. then you turned to head back to your team, still chuckling. your teammates playfully patted the back of your head and your back. 

“I’m gonna need a replay of that man! I swear it was more exciting than the win.” one of your teammates commented, making you laugh at the hilarious remark. “honestly, cutest shit ever.” minji said, looking at you supportingly as she held out her hand, ready for another high-five. a proud smile crossed her face, and you sighed in relief, happy that the kiss had been so well received.

the team triumphantly made its way to the trophy, gathering around it to make sure that everyone had a chance to touch it before lifting it high into the air, pride evident on every face. in all honesty, your pride wasn’t just for the victory, you were mostly proud to have shown everyone that daniela was yours, secretly hoping to have sparked a bit of envy over your relationship.

-♧-

when the team made its way back to the locker rooms, the teasing about the kiss continued. “okay we get it, you’re winning at life. winning the game, winning the heart… I’m honestly jealous!” one of your teammates remarked, laughing as she threw her arm around your shoulder. you rolled your eyes, already knowing that this wasn’t going to die down anytime soon. “no seriously, next time we win, I’m sprinting to the stands and getting me a kiss too!” another teammate chimed in, mimicking a running motion with exaggerated gestures. 

“come on, jesus, I just gave her a kiss, nothing too scandalous,” you tried to shut them down, but it didn’t quite go as planned. “yeah, sure… let’s see if you just give her that tonight,” another teammate teased, making an obvious innuendo that sent the whole room into a fit of laughter. “shut up man! at least I’ve got game.” you shot back, whipping her arm with your shirt, the room erupting in a chorus of “ooh”s at your response. 

as the teasing slowly quieted, one by one, every teammate started to leave the locker room. you decided to stay behind, soaking in the rare peace after all the excitement: both the chaos of the crowd and the energy of your teammates. when you finally stepped outside, you were met by daniela running towards you, jumping straight into your arms. you wrapped her tightly into a hug, and she did the same. the softness of her hair brushing against your cheek and the sweet, floral scent of her perfume that engulfed you, made you feel completely at home.

you spun her around, both of you laughing and letting out joyful sounds as the cold air whipped your hair around. when you stopped, you finally took a good look at her. the blush still lingered on her cheeks, and her beautiful eyes gazed at you, holding an unspoken question, as if she was waiting for you to notice something. “no way…” your voice trailed off as you realized what shirt she had changed into. 

“yes way, it even has your name on the back!” she exclaimed happily, bouncing excitedly in your arms. she was wearing one of your basketball jerseys, your number boldly printed on the front, with the team logo stitched onto her chest. “no fucking way,” you repeated, deeply touched by her gesture. “I love you so much dani,” you murmured, feeling more grateful than ever. she had proven, yet again, that she was the best girlfriend anyone could ask for, and you wouldn’t trade her for anyone else in this world. 

“I love you too,” she whispered back, holding your face. and in that moment, everything felt perfect.

a/n: I hope the last part doesn't feel too rushed, and I'm really sorry if the dialogue with the teammates sounds too corny 😭

[starryhutcherson]

━━ A NEW FAMILIAR

author's note: crawled out of my hole for this one guys. sorry for being so ghost mode im working on putting out more stuff, apologies if this isn't of the highest quality as i'm running on sugar free redbull and three hours of sleep ! love my life hahahahaAHHHH

'୧ ‧₊ pairing: best friend!mike schmidt x reader warnings: 18+ sexual content! oral sex (f!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, dirty talk, swearing word count: 4600+ ⋆ ✩‧₊

Mike’s expression always glooms when you bring up the next date you’ve arranged. He knows how this story plays out; he knows the truth behind the men you’ve matched with on whatever sketchy website you’ve wasted your time on. They’ve molded themselves into the embodiment of perfection, through falsified photos and fabrications buried in their bios. His patience crumbles like fireplace ash as you skip around his living room and drone on about whatever dickhead you’ve set your poor, precious heart on.

He knows, always, the the outcome is running makeup and salty cheeks, sobbing on the floor of his living room in a creasing satin dress and his welcoming arms, a bitter exclamation of “you were right Mike” leaving your lips in the knowing silence and him gritting his jaw and pretending that it doesn’t bother him the the only habits you ever find yourself falling back into are the bad ones. 

It’s no different today. 

Mark or Matt or Mitch – you really were killing him, because it should be Mike. It should be him. Him that you���re getting ready for, him that you’re daydreaming about. And it’s an odd feeling, like a movie where your favorite character dies and then movie finishes and you have to accept that they aren’t coming back, no matter how long you sit glued to the reclinable chair, popcorn crunched beneath your sneakers and the credit-scene reflected in your shrinking pupils. 

Mike’s not the type to be happier with the hope – he’d let the truth swallow him up, sink into his creaking bones, he’d live with the loss. But he still has hope for you. He has hope that your eyes will open and you’ll seep into his brain and his breath and his bed. He hopes you’ll start seeing him instead of just looking. Maybe it's wishful thinking. Ignorant optimism.

It feels like it. 

It feels like it, right now, when he’s leaning against the doorframe of his bathroom and watching you get ready, your animated chatter reverberating around the small space between coats of mascara. He offered to give you a ride before you’d even asked, and he’ll tolerate the sting of watching you get out of the car looking all pretty for someone who isn’t him, just to make sure you get there safely. It’s the type of sacrifice he’ll make for you. 

“I can’t even feel my face, I’ve been smiling so hard all day!” You squeal, powdering your cheeks with more purposeless product – he thinks it’s all pointless. You’re radiant, even in the harsh lighting of his bathroom. 

He offers a low grunt. What is he supposed to say? He’s not happy. And he’s not gonna pretend he is. 

You either don’t notice or choose to ignore, continuing to doll yourself up to whatever standards you have for yourself. “I mean, he says he’s been skiing since he was 6. He’s practically an olympian.” 

Mike scoffs. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” he grumbles, shaking his head. “Can you hurry up?”

“Alright, grumpy. Calm down. I gotta do my lips and then I’m ready. Plus, nobody told you that you gotta stand here.” 

A fleeting flush of fuchsia permeates his cheeks, but he looks down at his worn shoes to hide it. It’s true. He didn’t have to stand here. But if an angel was populating your bathroom you’d want to take a peek, would you not? That’s how he thinks you look. Angelic. Glowing from your soul, a content smile knitted on your lips. You might as well have a halo and wings – that heaven-sent aura is reinforced when you douse yourself in lingering washes of that sweet perfume that’s branded itself to you. He’d recognise that floral aroma anywhere, the way a shark detects a drop of blood amongst saline scattered seas. 

“Okay, I’m ready. How do I look?”

Cruelest question of them all. “You look… fine. Good.”

A knot forms in your brow. “All this effort for that terrible answer?” Playful, but with a truthful undertone. Why do you value his opinion so much? He doesn’t want to assume anything. 

“Well I’m not the person you’re dressing up for.” I wish I was. He doesn’t say the other words, but he thinks them so hard he’s half convinced if you were listening in the right spot, or looking into his eyes for long enough that you’d hear it anyway. 

“Okay, okay, whatever. Let’s just get going, don’t wanna keep Mack waiting.” 

Two letters. That’s all it would take. That’s all he’d have to swap to make it him.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

✩‧₊˚

Even if you aren’t aware, even if he did offer, he drives begrudgingly. He focuses as much as he can, on the road ahead and not your glistening figure beside him in the passenger seat, the very definition of temptation. 

The mall parking lot is barren, a few gleaming cars scattered amongst the otherwise desolate area. He pulls into a space, sets the car in park, rakes in a greedy sigh of air. 

“If anything happens, call me.” 

You sneer teasingly. “Don’t be so pessimistic. It’s gonna be great, he could be my future husband, y’know.”

Yep. Mack, the 35 year old you've met online, who’s only notable talent seems to be skiing and his greatest life achievement to date is shooting a deer, whose head is mounted to the wall in his bedroom, typically visible in the background of his many instagram posts which involved his shirtless figure straining to flex his overly pronounced bulk. A match made in heaven. He wants to scream. 

And how can you even tell him to not be pessimistic? How can you look him in the eyes and act like this moment hasn’t happened time after time, the point of no return before an evening spent crying in his arms as he reassures you that your failed dates are never your fault, even though by now it seems like you must be seeking out the same genre of shitty man if you’re this good at getting your heart broken. He’s sick of picking up the fragile little pieces of his bathroom floor, cutting himself on the shards of a heart that’ll never be his. You deserve more than these half-baked, single night romances. He could show you that. 

“Yeah, sure,” he grits. “Future husband. Just call me, seriously.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you.” 

And with that, you’re off, disappearing into the gaping mouth of the mall’s entrance, and he watches with an alkaline feeling growing in his stomach. Your hair is caught up in the wind like clothing on a washline and he thinks his hope is all drained out. 

✩‧₊˚

Mike spends a good two hours back at his house. His movements feel vacuous, staring ahead at the screen, barely processing the raging garbage that masquerades as reality TV. The rain has picked up outside, licking at the window panes with a growing intensity. 

He’s not happy about the jean skirt and tiny little tank top you’d clad yourself in prior to leaving, you’re probably frigid by now in the cold. You did however reassure him that Mack was gonna drive you home, or even worse, take you back to his place, so his stupid fucking elk head trophie could watch with it’s empty eyes while the pair of you fuck on the bed that his mom still has to make for him because he never can quite manage those fitted sheets, can he? Fucking manchild. 

Shit. Mike’s feeling so so bitter. Maybe it’s because he’s finally realized that this is the dreaded pattern he’s going to have to endure with you until death. Or until he braves up and actually tells you that he’s been in love with you since the fifth day of second grade, when you mouthily confronted Jerry Murdoch and told him to give Mike his crayons back.  

With a weak sigh, he turns the TV off with a click of the remote still encaptured in the loose hold of his fist, and decides to see if he can melt into any form of sleep – but the knock on his door prevents him from doing so. 

He arises lethargically, not having much on his mind but the denial of his slumber as he shuffles over and turns the handle, but then, it’s you. 

Fluttery lashes melted to black smudges beneath your eyes, a mixture of rainwater and tears, completely drenched and dripping all over his doormat, your body is trembling and you’re wracked with tiny little cries and he’s feeling so many emotions he believes he might implode. 

He pulls you inside and into his arms, stroking your back in gentle, soothing motions, and it kills him that this has become routine. He’s angry. He’s sick of this. 

“What happened this time?” He grunts softly. 

“He didn’t even show up. He couldn’t even send a message as to why, Mike,” you sniffle into his warm chest, drunk off the even echo of his heartbeat. 

A moment’s silence rots like aged fruit. He draws a breath in, then out, then in again. 

“Why didn’t you call me?”

You crane your face upwards to meet him, instantly bathed in a nervous shiver when you see how serious he looks. 

“My phone was dead.” Is all you can manage to mumble. 

“What?” He’s pissed. “Why didn’t you charge it? You could have charged it there, they have outlets at the mall. Or you could’ve used someone else’s, so you didn’t have to walk home in the rain, because you’re drenched.” 

“I don’t–”

“Y’know how dangerous it is to walk around alone in this shitty neighborhood? Half the street lights don’t even work, and I don’t even know any of my neighbors, or what kinda people walk around here at night.” He grumbles. “I shouldn’t have to tell you all this, I’m sick of explaining all this to you.”

You roll your eyes irritably, releasing yourself from his arms and crossing your own across your dripping wet torso. “How was I supposed to know he was gonna stand me up? You’re telling me I should just expect it?”

He blinks like a deer in headlights, silence settles into his flesh.

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

You scoff. “It’s what you implied.” 

“It’s not what I—” He grumbles weakly under his breath, cutting himself off, deciding reasoning with you is somewhat of a useless attempt. “Why can’t you just listen to me?”

“What, charge my phone next time? Bring a raincoat? Yeah, great help, seriously, don’t know where I’d be without you,” your sarcasm hits like gunshot wounds to the teeth. 

“Or maybe you should try to meet actual people, instead of fake ones from some stupid website.” 

After a cold shiver bites up your spine, your expression deepens with defense. What is his fucking problem? “At least I try to get out of the house! At least I don’t spend every hour of every day moping around and feeling sorry for myself!” 

The pair of you fight, sure, every good relationship, friend or romance or family or whatever should, but nothing like this. This is stone-set, it’s been coming for a while, the wild gesticulations and the pacing and the raised voices. It shakes the bones of the weakened house. 

“Don’t,” Mike says with a furious edge, fists tightening and untightening like he’s about to take a swing at the wall, like this is going to end with bleeding knuckles nipped with shards of worn plaster. “Don’t throw that in my face, I do everything I can, for you and Abby. It’s not like I have a choice.”

“So what, you’re so fucking miserable in your own life that you have to try and control mine?”

“Control? You’re like my child! You don’t even know how to take care of yourself half the time, so yes, I try to help you not to make such shitty decisions!” 

You scowl. “You’re not obligated to do anything for me, y’know Mike. Why do you keep me around if I’m that much of a chore for you!”

He snaps, the tension in his fists bleeding up into his throat, his mouth, the words clot behind his gums and suddenly they tumble out in a fury-fueled shout. “Because you’ve got no one else!” 

You deflate, wilting like a flame without oxygen, and Mike deems the silence to be more cruel than anything else you’ve said to him tonight. He’s feeling everything and nothing all at once, the quiet crumbles around him like a burning building and he fears he’ll become rubble beneath the debris. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just… god, just–” His eyes flick to you, and then retreat back down to the faded living room carpet. He can’t swallow his guilt this time. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”

“It’s fine,” you say coldly, knuckling away an angry tear. The salt water is the trick of nostalgia, you’ve cried like this so many times. Your breakage of those promises to yourself. It’ll be different. And it never is. 

“No. It’s not – I’m a dick, I just… I hate watching other people ruin your life. You deserve better.”

Better. What is better? Some twisted fantasy that some people are indulged with and others are left longing for. That you’re left longing for. You know he’s tired of the same bullshit that you force yourself through, convincing yourself of change, painting yourself up to be fit for presentation, and hoping that whoever you’ve leeched onto likes what they see, so you don’t have to feel so alone anymore. You’re oblivious, painfully so. Because Mike could plaster together the cracks in your splintering psyche, if you’d just let him in. 

“Whatever, Mike. It’s true anyway.”

There’s a hole in his heart in the shape of your name. He begs you. Fill it. A part of him shatters at the defeat in your words — he’s crumbled you to the bone, to the marrow. He’ll build you back up. You deserve it. 

“No it isn't. No it isn’t. You have me. You’ll always have me.” 

A silence pervades; the look in his eyes is one of pleading, that you’ll stop and see what he’s offering you, that you’ll stop chasing your own tail, that you’ll stop the cycle. 

“Mike…”

“And Abby.”

You indulge him. 

“You have me. And you have Abby. And I know that’s… not much, but she loves you. So much. And I’m sorry, ‘cause I know I don’t say it enough, I don’t…. I don’t say how much you mean to me, but I just—”

“Mike.” 

He wallows in the waters of your rain kissed eyes, the way your pupils pulse and the words are falling before he can swallow them back down. 

“I love you.”

He gives you that stare. That stare that’s the color of black coffee, the look that you can feel, unearthing the graveyard of wilting feelings you’ve tried to bury, the heart that beats for him him him, lodged between the ivory bars of your ribcage. He maps you out with his eyes, he looks at you the way the sun hungers for daybreak. 

He’s waiting. He’d wait forever. 

“And… and seeing you with these… shitty people who don’t even care about you, it just…” He sighs exasperatedly, dragging a sweaty palm down his face. 

His sentences can’t seem to finish themselves. This is harder than it looks in the movies. Harder than when he’s practiced in the mirror, when Abby’s walked in and giggled at him and told him to just fess up. 

“You love me? Like…”

He looks up at you like a kicked puppy. “Yeah. I do.”

You’re beyond bewildered. He loves you. He loves you. 

“What– but… you—”

“You don’t have to… say anything. I just, I can’t… I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t do it.”

You reach for his hand. It’s a little clammy, a little trembly, but it’s a perfect fit. Just like you. 

“I love you too, Mike.”

What?

“You… do?”

He’s skeptical, but he’s also swooning. A stone man is slowly cracking. 

“I just didn’t… didn’t think I could have you. I mean, you’re so… you’re everything, y’know? You’re a good brother, and you work so hard, and you’re… I’m just… I don’t think I deserve you,” you whisper, confessing. With a newfound stroke of confidence, he approaches, one hand snaking around to the small of your back, another on your cheek. He’s gentle. In his eyes, you’re porcelain. Precious. Fragile. At least, at this moment. But you love him too and that’s all he needs. It’s all he’s ever needed. 

“You deserve everything.” He says it so quietly it’s barely audible. And then, nothing is audible because he’s carefully pulling your lips to his, linking you in every way, his hands tangle into your damp hair and he’s kissing you. 

His lips chase yours in messy, uncalculated movements. He’s starting small. It’s been a while. And he’s gonna take his time with you. He’s gonna show you what you deserve. Soft sounds squeak past his lips as they flutter against yours, and you’re closer and closer and closer still, impossibly so. 

Within moments he’s whisking you off to his bedroom, his hand tangled with yours, an interlace tight enough to cause ropeburn. His skin chafes with yours, and then he’s kissing you again atop his navy comforter. 

He’s gentle, respectful, but you understand what he’s trying to tell you, what he’s been trying to tell you. He speaks through silken drags of his tongue, through the hand that holds your cheek steady— he feels as though he’s gripping the very cusp of a constellation. You taste like stardust. You glow like the waning moon. 

He breathes heavily in the expanse of his throat, his pants have become tight and wet and filthy; he’s been subconsciously grinding down into your lap. You’re a little shaky and your pupils have darkened with lust and he is going to show you what you mean to him. What you’ve been missing. 

His hand falls lower, into the slope of torso that dips into your hips. His eyes travel back and forth, searching, hunting for the desire that he feels mirrored back at him. Do you want this, the way he does? Do you? His hardened stare doesn’t speak loud enough. He elaborates.

“Can I… uh… do you wanna…?”

Do you want to? You need to. 

“Shit, okay,” he croaks out, jaw tense and tight as he traces you beneath calloused fingers. You didn’t realize you said that out loud. 

He’s endearingly awkward – you know from languid late-night conversations that he hasn’t done this a lot. Maybe even at all. But he’s sweet, so sweet, like lapping up sugar and feeling it dissolve on your tongue, feeling him dissolve on your tongue, giving you comfort and cavities. 

“Can I take this off?” He asks nervously, fiddling with the hem of your camisole. A short nod, and he’s sliding it over your sweat-pricked figure, admiring your contours in the whisper of evening moonlight that bleeds through holes in his moth-eaten curtains. You’re perfect, and he knew you would be. 

He caresses your skin gently, drunk on the mellow feeling of your bare stomach beneath his fingertips. Your bra is black, a little lace peering along the straps, your breasts spilling into the fabric. He reaches around your back, fumbling at the clasp. When the garment drops, his hands are replacing it before you can even blink. 

“Beautiful,” he manages to get out, thumbing over your nipples. 

“Mngh, Mike—”

“Sh. Just let me… just let me. Let me make you feel good. Please?” He grunts out under his breathless voice, and how could you deny such a request?

The moment you agree, he’s grabbing you by the thighs and tugging you towards him slightly, so your back is nearly flat against his mattress and he’s settling himself in the gap that you create for him. 

Your skirt comes off first. Your panties are undeniably soused, his fingers trace the big wet spot that’s dripping all for him, teasing you through torturously thin cotton. 

“Mike,” you mewl gently, fingers settling in his nest of chocolate curls that are damp with sweat. A firm tweak and he’s groaning, his voice melting away into nothing like hot tar. 

“You’re so wet,” he mumbles to himself, like he’s never seen anything like it. Probably not in a while. His finger hooks beneath the waistband, pulls it out gently, and lets it go. It slaps against your hip bone and another fresh sound seeps from your lips.  

“Mike, shit, please just do something—”

“Okay,” he whispers, more to himself than you, carefully sliding your panties from your waist, down past your ankles, and he’s tossing them to join the pile of clothes that has begun to collect on his bedroom floor. 

You’re here, before him. The girl he waited for. Your soft flesh is glistening, clenching painfully around nothing, and he’s salivating at the sight of you. He pries your legs out further with his warm hands, leaving them to linger on your bare flesh for a few drawn out moments, before he claims what’s rightfully his. 

He presses a trialing kiss to your clit, and your back curves delicately, fingers tightening their grasp in his hair. He moans into you at this action, and you, in turn, moan as well. Confidence creates itself in him with each little whimper that he gets you to release, and he’s answering back, hearing your cries, your calls of his name with his own unabashed exclamations of pleasure. This is just as good for him, as it is for you. 

“Mike,” you whine gently, and he’s mumbling weak praise right into your cunt. 

“Fuck, you’re so pretty. Wanted this for so long.”

It’s barely audible between his languid sucks; he’s lapping at your drooling entrance, fingers subtly creeping closer, up and along your thighs and settling right above your throbbing clit. He presses his thumb against it, tracing sinful circles against your bud— once, twice, and then you’re far too close to the edge. 

“Oh, Mike I’m gonna come,” you choke out between gasps. 

“Do it. Please.”

He’s begging you. 

And you oblige. With a trembling sob, your thighs tense around his head, keeping him locked in place, capturing him and making sure he finishes the job, and oh does he plan to. When you soar, he’s still holding you in place, soothing the electric sparks pulsating throughout your body. 

He savors your sounds, and when they stop coming, he presses a lingering peck on your inner thigh, stubble scraping at the sensitive dermis. He then raises his face to your level, the light coruscating off the filthy souvenir etched all over his face, your glittering arousal that he wears so proudly. 

He steals a proper kiss from you, rubbing your side as a gentle comfort. He’s completely hard now, tenting his sweats, leaking against the fabric. You gingerly reach out, tracing what you assume to be the head of his cock, and he sags, boneless, against your touch. 

“Fuck, baby I—”

“Baby?” You chuckle softly, still hazed from the candy-coated afterglow of your orgasm. The first of many, he hopes. 

“Mngh— g… got a problem?” He grumbles softly, almost quivering as you begin to palm him with purpose.

“It’s out of character,” you tell him gently. 

“Shit, can I be inside you?” He asks you, voice ripped raw. 

And once again, Mike Schmidt leaves you breathless. 

“Yeah. I need it. I need you.”

He groans, slipping off his pants and boxers without so much as another word from your swollen lips. He’s hard, angrily so, his cock pulses violently and a little whimper escapes through the crack in his bitten lips when it slaps against his stomach. 

He’s stroking himself slowly, base to tip and then back again, collecting the pearls of precum that dribble from his slit. He’s never been so ready for something. For you. It’s all for you. 

He’s holding you, thumbing your hip bones and gently nudging himself into your hole, cooing at every cry that crawls from the crevices of your throat. When he bottoms out, finally, it’s safe to say that he gets a little dumb. “Oh, shit, I’m not— not gonna last long, you’re so tight, shit…” He’s rambling a little. It’s cute. 

A few wandering kisses land on you the way dandelion spores decorate a skyline – your cheek and your chin and your jaw, as he waits for you to let him move. You’re squeezing him for all he’s got and he’s three seconds away from spilling before he’s even so much as thrusted. You do this to him. 

All those days, staring into your eyes and wondering if you’d ever see him the way you do, all those nights, stroking your hair and softening your saddened sobs after failed date after failed date. They’re all worth it. 

You’re clamping down on him, warm and wet and wavering, and you’re exhaling softly through your nose and telling him to move, begging him to move, to make you feel good, and it’s what he does. 

He pumps into you with passion, magnetized to your every movement. He’s satisfying a decade worth of insatiable craving, he’s chasing your hips with his. You end where he begins. 

The headboard creaks and slams against thin plastered walls, one hand grips onto it with alabaster knuckles and the other one holds your hips for better leverage. He doesn’t need to say it, but each knocked kiss of his pelvis to yours is a silent I love you I love you I love you. 

“Oh my god Mike,” you sob, and he slides himself deeper, hitting everywhere he wants to reach. Everywhere to make you quiver beneath him.

“You d—don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he moans lowly. “How many times I’ve imagined you like— like this.”

He’s blabbering, every stray thought that passes through his head is already blossoming on his tongue and out into the air before he can even think twice. Admittedly, you’re too blissed out in your own mind to really respond, but it’s arousing all the same. 

“You’re so… so beautiful,” he’s flushed and he’s faltering, and you know he’s close before he even announces it. 

“Shit, baby, I can’t— can’t last much longer,” he stammers, his bruising pace beginning to shake. 

“Do it in me, Mike, please, please,” shit, are you trying to kill him? Your word is the only law he knows, and he’s wrapping his arms around your torso and diving his head in the elegant slope of your collarbone, biting down into the skin and spasming somewhere deep in your welcoming walls. 

He tries to keep himself quiet, but it’s really a futile effort. His hips jut sporadically as he empties himself inside you, and the sudden flood of subtle heat is all it takes for you to topple over as well. 

Bliss teeters back into reality after a seemingly ceaseless moment. He peels his head from its previous position to admire you, to stroke a stray lock of hair from your forehead and nervously greet it with a kiss.

He doesn’t let go of you. Not now, not ever, he thinks to himself. His arms snake around you tighter, and somehow it’s even more intimate after the fact. His bare chest collides with your back, his nose rests comfortably against the crown of your head. The pair of you follow each other into a dreamless sleep, safe in the sanctuary of a warm bed and an even warmer embrace. 

He’s found his new familiar. 

masterlist

✩‧₊

[kirammanswifey]

《Beneath the Armor》

Vi

writer's note: writing about vi make my legs go weak fr, i crave this woman for breakfast, lunch and dinner. btw this little (pretty long) scenarios comes from my arcane imagines, i'll let the link down there for anyone is interested, also i'll be posting a story for each one of those scenarios for this week, tomorrow it's caitlyn's turn ;)

link:

warnings: smut, cute lesbian sex (kinda hard but not that hard), shower sex, praising kink, dirty talk because why not, mention of eating disorders, a lot of fluff, vi is such a softie with reader and we love it.

The gym is unlike anything you've ever seen before. It’s more than a place to train; it’s a cage filled with beasts, a space where weakness is unacceptable. The clash of weights and the guttural cries of effort create a charged atmosphere, thick with tension and adrenaline. You feel out of place in your oversized hoodie and sneakers that haven’t touched a treadmill in months. But you’re here. You have to be.

At the far end of the gym, she stands out like a queen in her domain. Vi. Her short, red pixie-cut hair clings to her face, slick with sweat, and her sportswear hugs a body sculpted for battle. Tattoos snake along her arms, dark ink on powerful muscles that flex with each precise movement. There’s a scar cutting across her upper lip, giving her an edge that makes your stomach twist. She doesn’t just command attention—she demands it, without a word.

She isn’t lounging at the reception desk or scrolling on a phone like the other trainers. She’s in the thick of it, standing over a hulking man at a bench press. Her voice cuts through the clamor like a whip.

"Come on, don’t give me excuses!" she growls, her tone sharp, almost feral. "Three more reps. Unless, of course, you want the whole gym to watch you quit."

The man grits his teeth and powers through, the barbell clanging as he finally racks it with trembling arms. Vi smirks—not satisfied, but victorious—and tosses him a water bottle without another word. Her eyes sweep across the room, landing on you.

You freeze under her gaze. It’s cold, calculating, and, somehow, full of curiosity. There’s no warmth in it, but neither is there scorn. It’s like she’s stripping you bare, measuring something unseen.

Then she moves. Every step is deliberate, confident, and magnetic. The tattoos on her arms ripple with each movement, as if they’re alive. She stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell the faint tang of sweat and something sharper, like steel. Her presence is overwhelming, her stature daunting, but it’s her eyes—piercing, unyielding—that make you feel like you’re shrinking.

"You’re the actress, right?" she asks bluntly, her voice low and rough, like gravel.

"Y-yeah," you manage to stammer, hating the way your voice wavers.

Her gaze drags over you, not in judgment of your appearance, but in search of something deeper. Something you don’t even know if you have.

"Alright. Are you ready to start, or are you gonna turn around and go back to whatever cushy life you came from?"

The challenge in her tone is like a slap. Your pride flares to life, stifling the nervous flutter in your chest. You straighten your spine, lifting your chin as if you’re not dying inside.

"I’m ready."

Vi crosses her arms, her lips twitching into something that might be a smirk—or a dare. "We’ll see about that. Warm-up first. Treadmill, ten minutes at eight kilometers per hour. If you can’t handle that, there’s no point in wasting either of our time."

She jerks her chin toward the row of treadmills, and you swallow hard before moving. As soon as you step on, you can feel her eyes on you, an invisible weight heavier than any barbell in the room.

The first few minutes are manageable. But as the pace picks up, your legs burn, your chest tightens, and sweat drips down your face. You glance at her from the corner of your eye, hoping for some sign of mercy. She doesn’t move, her arms still crossed, her gaze fixed on you like a predator watching prey.

"Don’t stop," she calls out, her voice cutting through the pounding in your ears. "If you can’t even finish this, how the hell are you gonna handle what’s next?"

Her words hit a nerve. Anger sparks, mixing with desperation and something else—admiration. She’s intimidating, yes, but there’s a rawness to her, a strength that’s both terrifying and magnetic. You can’t let her think you’re weak. Not her.

The timer finally beeps, and you stumble off the treadmill, your legs trembling, your breath coming in shallow gasps. Vi approaches, her boots thudding softly against the rubber floor. She stops in front of you, tilting her head as she looks you over.

"Not bad," she says, though her tone suggests she’s not impressed. Her lips quirk into a crooked smile, one that highlights the scar slicing through her lip. "But let’s see if you’re really serious. Battle ropes, three rounds, one minute each. And don’t give me any half-assed waves—I want those ropes crashing like a damn hurricane."

You grab the ropes, their weight a promise of pain. The first few seconds are easy, but the burn in your arms quickly turns into fire. Each movement feels like dragging a mountain. The world narrows to the ropes, the ache in your muscles, and the sound of her voice pushing you forward.

"Keep going! Don’t stop unless you want to prove me right," she barks, her voice sharp but steady.

When it’s over, you drop the ropes and collapse to the floor, gasping for air. Vi steps closer, crouching in front of you. Her hand is calloused but steady as she offers it to you.

"Decent effort," she says, her tone softer but still edged with challenge. Her eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you think you see something other than scrutiny—maybe respect. "But don’t get cocky. This is just the start. Strength isn’t just about showing up. It’s about commitment. Are you ready for that?"

Her words dig deep, stirring something inside you. You look up at her, her imposing figure framed by the harsh gym lights. She’s everything you’re not—strong, unyielding, fearless. But maybe, just maybe, she’s what you need to become.

"Yes," you say, your voice firm despite the exhaustion.

Her lips curl into a grin, this one warmer, almost approving. "Good. Take a minute to catch your breath. You’ll need it. This is just the beginning."

You can’t stop thinking about your mother as you change in front of the locker room mirror. Every curve of your body, every little angle that doesn’t align with her ideal, screams back at you from your reflection. “You should eat less,” she used to say. “You’ll never land an important role like that.” Her words never left. They’re tattooed on your mind, each syllable chained to the next like a life sentence.

This role isn’t something you want. It never was. But your mother wants it for you, and somehow, her voice always drowns out yours. She was a legend on stage; you’re just a shadow trying to hold itself together under her blinding light.

When you step out of the locker room, Vi is already there, leaning casually against the wall with her arms crossed. Her eyes sweep over you, taking in every detail. There’s no malice in her gaze, but it’s far from gentle. She sees everything.

“Ready?” she asks, her tone edged with challenge.

“Yes,” you answer, the word more reflex than truth.

She leads you to the weight training area. The barbells seem more intimidating up close, and sweat starts pooling in your palms before you even touch them. Vi’s sharp eyes remain fixed on you, calculating.

“Today we’re focusing on building muscle,” she says, her voice steady as she grabs a barbell and starts adding weights with a precision that speaks of years of practice. “It’s a slow process, but if you listen to me, you’ll be amazed at what you can do.”

“Sure,” you mumble, though the thought of lifting anything heavier than a water bottle sends a pang of anxiety through you.

Vi demonstrates the correct form for a basic lift, her movements fluid and strong. When it’s your turn to mimic her, your attempts fall short. Your stance is awkward, your grip weak.

“Lower. You’re not engaging the right muscles,” she says, stepping behind you. Her hands land firmly on your shoulders, adjusting your posture. Her touch is professional but firm, and yet, you can’t help but tense up under her guidance.

“I am doing it right,” you mutter, not meeting her eyes.

Vi exhales sharply, taking a step back. “No, you’re not. And if you keep insisting on doing it your way, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” you snap, your frustration boiling over.

Her brow arches, her surprise quickly replaced by a measured calm. “Look, I’m here to help you, but if you can’t handle a little constructive criticism, maybe this isn’t the place for you.”

Her words cut deeper than they should. They echo everything your mother has ever said about you. Shame and anger bubble to the surface, and before you can stop yourself, the words spill out.

“You have no idea what it’s like to be criticized all the time.”

Vi’s silence is heavier than any weight in the room. Her expression shifts—surprise melting into something more contained, almost understanding.

“Everyone’s got their baggage, princess,” she says finally, her voice quieter but no less firm. “But if you let it drag you down, you’re never going to move forward.”

Her response fuels your anger. How dare she reduce something so complex to a throwaway piece of advice? Without another word, you turn away and head for the battle ropes. You don’t need her telling you what you can and can’t do.

You grab the ropes and start moving them with everything you’ve got. Your arms burn, your legs shake, but you keep going, fueled by frustration more than anything else. Vi stays back, watching silently. She doesn’t intervene, doesn’t offer advice—she just waits.

Finally, when your body gives out, you drop the ropes and lean over, hands on your knees, gasping for air. Vi walks over, a bottle of water in hand. She offers it without a word, and though part of you wants to refuse, another part knows you need it. You take it but don’t look at her.

“Anger can be a great fuel,” she says after a moment, her voice steady but laced with something softer. “But only if you know how to control it. Otherwise, it’ll burn you alive.”

“What would you know about that?” you challenge, your eyes meeting hers with defiance.

Vi smirks, but it’s a small, humorless thing. “More than you think. But we’re not here to talk about me. This is about you.”

Her response catches you off guard. You didn’t expect that honesty. And while you’re still angry, there’s something in her words that makes you pause.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, the words almost inaudible.

She nods, accepting your apology without making a big deal of it. “It’s fine. But if you want to get anywhere, you’ve got to leave your emotional crap at the door. There’s no room for it here.”

Her words are blunt, but there’s something in her tone that takes the edge off. It’s as if she’s saying she gets it, but she also believes you’re stronger than this. And though you’d never admit it out loud, that belief means something.

In the days that follow, the tension between you becomes a constant. Vi pushes you hard, and you, raw and defensive, often lash out. But something starts to shift. She begins to notice things others don’t—how you avoid eating around people, how you linger too long in the bathroom, how your energy drains faster than it should.

And you, despite yourself, start noticing her too. The way her eyes soften when she thinks you’re not looking. The strength that isn’t just in her muscles but in the way she carries herself. How, no matter how difficult you make things, she doesn’t walk away.

And though neither of you says it out loud, something unspoken starts to build between you, a connection forged in sweat, anger, and the tentative beginnings of trust.

That morning, Vi notices something off about you. You show up late to training, hair disheveled, eyes distant, as if you haven’t slept in days. She’s used to clients making excuses to avoid hard work, but with you, it’s different. There’s something more—something you can’t hide, no matter how hard you try.

“You’re ten minutes late,” she says as soon as she sees you, her tone sharp but not accusatory.

“Sorry,” you mumble, avoiding her gaze as you hurry to stash your things in the locker room.

Vi doesn’t press further, but her eyes follow you as you move like a shadow through the gym. She’s learned to read people like maps, and yours is littered with scars she can’t yet decipher.

The session begins with something simple: rowing reps. Your movements are sluggish, lacking the usual strength. Vi frowns, stepping closer.

“What’s going on with you today?” she asks, crouching down to meet your eyes.

“Nothing. I’m fine,” you reply too quickly, the words sharp and defensive.

“‘Fine’? You don’t look fine. You’re weaker than usual. Did you sleep last night? Eat anything this morning?”

Her questions strike a nerve. You avoid her gaze, pretending the seat adjustment on the machine is suddenly the most important thing in the world.

“Of course I ate. Stop worrying,” you mutter, but your voice wavers, betraying the lie.

Vi doesn’t push, but something in her expression shifts. It’s as if she’s piecing together a puzzle she hadn’t realized existed.

In the weeks that follow, she continues training you with the same intensity, but now she watches more closely. She notices how you refuse the protein shakes she offers post-workout, how you disappear into the restroom at odd moments, how your body seems to shed strength faster than you can build it.

Then one day, after an especially grueling session, Vi drops her usual casual tone.

“What are you hiding?” she asks, her voice direct, cutting through the air like a blade.

The question freezes you in place.

“What are you talking about? I’m not hiding anything.”

Vi crosses her arms, her piercing gaze pinning you in place.

“Don’t give me that. I’m not stupid. Something’s wrong, and I’m not going to ignore it. So, what is it?”

Your heart pounds. Heat rises to your cheeks, and for a fleeting moment, you think about telling her the truth. But fear wraps around your throat like a vice. How could she possibly understand?

“It’s none of your business, Vi,” you snap, your voice louder than you intended.

She doesn’t flinch. Her eyes stay locked on yours, unyielding yet laced with concern.

“It is my business. I’m your trainer. It’s my job to make sure you’re healthy, and you’re not.”

“I don’t need saving,” you mutter, grabbing your things to leave.

Vi steps in front of you, blocking your path. For the first time, she looks genuinely frustrated.

“This isn’t about saving you. If you’re doing something that’s putting your health at risk, I need to know.”

“You don’t have the right to meddle in my life!” you shout, your words a mix of anger and desperation.

Vi takes a step back, startled by your outburst. But instead of retreating, her expression softens. Her voice lowers, steady but sincere.

“Look... I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to try and carry everything on your own. And I know how hard it is to admit you need help.”

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut. How can she know? How can she say something that feels so close to the truth without even knowing the full story?

But instead of responding, you grab your bag and storm out, leaving Vi standing alone in the middle of the gym.

The days that follow are tense. Vi doesn’t bring it up again, but her watchful gaze lingers. You avoid eye contact, unwilling to face the questions you know are still there. Yet you can’t ignore how her demeanor shifts. She’s more careful, more patient. Even her small gestures—like handing you water or adjusting your form—carry an unspoken care that you don’t know how to accept.

Then, one day, after a particularly draining session, Vi finally speaks again.

“Why do you keep coming here?” she asks, sitting across from you as you struggle to catch your breath.

“What kind of question is that?” you reply, too exhausted for a fight.

“I’m serious. You’re here every day, pushing yourself to the edge, but it doesn’t feel like you’re doing this for yourself. So who are you trying to please?”

The question hits harder than any punch. A familiar shadow creeps into your mind—the memory of your mother, the weight of expectations, the endless need to prove yourself. Your throat tightens.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mumble, looking away.

“Maybe I don’t,” Vi admits, leaning forward, her elbows resting on her knees. “But I know what it looks like when someone’s fighting a battle they think they have to face alone. And that’s you.”

You don’t know what to say. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall.

“I don’t need your pity,” you whisper, your voice shaking.

“This isn’t pity,” Vi says softly, her tone unwavering. “It’s respect. Because I see you fighting, and I want to help you win. But I can’t do that if you keep shutting me out.”

Her words linger long after you leave the gym. What if she really does understand? What if letting her in is the only way to move forward?

The tension between you and Vi feels like walking on a minefield. Every word, every glance carries an unspoken weight, like you’re both waiting for the other to finally break. That evening, after another grueling session at the gym, everything finally explodes.

The gym is nearly empty. The last rays of sunlight stream through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. You’re gathering your things when Vi steps in front of you, her arms crossed and her posture screaming defiance.

“We need to talk,” she says, her tone serious but calm.

“Now?” you mutter, trying to sidestep her. “I’m tired.”

She blocks your path, her voice firm. “You’re not running away this time. Not from me.”

The determination in her voice makes your chest tighten. You grip your towel a little harder, your hands trembling as you look away.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” you finally snap, frustration and something deeper breaking through your voice.

“Because I care about you, damn it!” Vi’s voice rises, then softens as she takes a small step closer. “And because I know what it’s like to be stuck in something that feels like it’s swallowing you whole.”

You freeze, her words cutting through your defenses. Still, you don’t respond. She exhales, running a hand through her short hair before dropping it to her side.

“Do you want to know something about me?” she asks, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

You glance up at her, surprised. Slowly, you nod.

Vi crosses her arms again, her gaze fixed somewhere far away. Her jaw tightens before she speaks. “I went to prison. Years ago. Did some things I’m not proud of. At the time, I thought I was doing the right thing, but… life doesn’t always work out the way you want it to.”

Her confession hits you like a punch to the gut. You blink at her, your mouth dry.

“Why are you telling me this?” you whisper.

“Because I want you to know I get it,” she replies, her voice rough with emotion. “I know what it’s like to carry something heavy, something you don’t want anyone else to see, something you think defines you no matter how hard you fight it.”

Her eyes finally meet yours, and you see a raw honesty there that takes your breath away.

“I lost a lot because of it,” she continues, her voice cracking slightly. “My sister… she hasn’t spoken to me in years. I let her down. And even though I’m trying to be better, there are days when I feel like I’ll never be enough.”

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in her words. Vi, always so tough, so sure of herself, now looks as fragile as you feel.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” she says after a moment, her voice steady but gentle. “But I can see you’re fighting a battle you can’t win alone. And I don’t want you to end up like me—pushing away the people who actually give a damn.”

A lump forms in your throat, making it impossible to speak. Before you can stop yourself, the words spill out.

“I’m not like you, Vi,” you say, your voice breaking. “I’m not strong. I don’t even want to be here.”

She frowns, her brows knitting together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Tears sting your eyes, and you lower your gaze, unable to face her. “I don’t want to be an actress. I never did. I’m only doing this because… because my mother made me. She always makes me. She tells me I’m not good enough, that I’m not pretty enough, that I’m not… enough.”

Vi’s expression softens, her usual sharpness replaced with something tender.

“Is that why you barely eat?” she asks, her voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper.

You flinch, your body going rigid. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” Her voice is firm but not unkind. “I’ve seen it. It’s not just that you’re thin. It’s the way you disappear after every session, like you’re hiding something.”

Her words hang in the air, and you can’t deny them anymore.

“I didn’t want anyone to know,” you admit, your voice trembling. “It’s the only thing I can control.”

Vi sighs deeply, dragging a hand down her face. When she speaks again, her tone is softer, almost pleading.

“Look, I’m not great at this kind of stuff,” she says. “But you don’t have to go through this alone. You don’t have to hurt yourself for something that’s not your fault.”

“You don’t understand,” you snap, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. “My mother… if she knew I wasn’t perfect, she’d hate me.”

Vi’s eyes narrow, and she steps closer. “And what about you?” she asks, her voice sharp but not unkind. “How long are you going to hate yourself for something you can’t change?”

Her words hit you like a tidal wave. You look up at her, expecting judgment, but all you see is compassion.

“I want to help you,” she says quietly. “If you’ll let me.”

Her proximity feels like a lifeline. Slowly, she lifts a hand, hesitating before resting it gently on your shoulder. Her touch is warm, steady, grounding.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of your pain.

Vi nods, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but not suffocating. It feels like, for the first time in a long while, you’re not completely alone.

When you finally meet her gaze again, there’s something different in her eyes—something that makes your chest ache, but not in a bad way.

And for a moment, you think that maybe, just maybe, you can trust her.

The days following your confession crawl by with a heaviness that lingers, but something shifts between you and Vi. She becomes more attentive, more protective—not in a way that invades your space, but in a way that makes it clear she’s there. She doesn’t judge you. Instead, she watches you with a mix of patience and unyielding determination that you’ve never encountered before.

One afternoon, after an especially grueling workout, Vi stops you before you can slip away like you always do.

“Got a minute?” she asks, holding a small insulated bag in her hand.

You eye her suspiciously, trying to read her expression.

“Depends on what you’re about to spring on me.”

“For this,” she says, pulling a neatly prepared container from the bag. Inside is a salad with grilled chicken, avocado, and a couple of slices of whole-grain bread on the side.

“What is this?” you ask, though the answer is obvious.

“Your lunch.”

Your stomach twists.

“Vi, you can’t just—”

“I’m not forcing you to do anything,” she interrupts, her voice firm but steady. “I just want you to try. And I’m not leaving until you do.”

The weight of her words hangs in the air, but there’s no judgment in her tone. Only that inflexible determination that makes it clear she won’t back down.

With a sigh, you drop onto one of the benches, taking the container from her with shaking hands. Vi sits beside you, keeping just enough distance that you don’t feel cornered, but close enough that you can’t pretend she isn’t there.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter, stabbing a piece of chicken with the fork.

“Maybe,” she replies with a casual shrug. “But if it means I don’t have to worry about you passing out mid-training, I’m fine with being ridiculous.”

Despite yourself, you let out a quiet laugh. And as you take slow, hesitant bites, you feel something begin to loosen—not just in your chest, but in the way her presence doesn’t feel like pressure but support.

Vi doesn’t stop there. Every day she brings something different: a salad, a wrap, even a small homemade burger on one of those days when you feel like you have nothing left to give. She never leaves until the food is gone, and though it infuriates you at first, you start to begrudgingly appreciate it.

“You’re like a guard dog,” you tell her one afternoon after finishing a chicken wrap she insisted you eat.

“I prefer ‘guardian angel,’” she fires back with a smirk.

“Too dramatic.”

“And you’re too stubborn,” she retorts, bumping your shoulder gently with hers.

The tension between you begins to ease. Vi keeps pushing you in the gym, but she also pushes you emotionally, constantly reminding you—whether with her presence or her persistence—that you’re not in this alone.

Your progress in therapy is slow but steady. Vi is with you every step of the way. She never pushes for details, never pries. She’s just there—a steady, unshakable presence you can hold onto when it feels like everything else is falling apart.

“How was it today?” she asks one afternoon after your session as the two of you walk down the street toward the gym.

“It was… weird,” you admit, staring ahead as you process the swirling thoughts in your mind. “I think I’m starting to understand some things, but it’s like I’m opening doors I’d rather keep locked.”

Vi nods thoughtfully, her hands stuffed deep into the pockets of her jacket.

“Yeah, opening those doors sucks,” she says, her voice low but certain. “But sometimes, it’s the only way out of the damn room.”

Her words catch you off guard with their depth. You glance at her out of the corner of your eye, noticing how the sunlight hits her hair, drawing out its fiery undertones.

Gradually, you begin to notice something different about Vi. The way her gaze lingers on you a little longer than it used to. The way her smiles feel softer, less teasing, as if they’re meant just for you. She’s always been careful with you, but now there’s something more in her gestures—a tenderness that feels deeply personal.

And you feel it, too. You can’t help it. Her unwavering presence, her unyielding support, they begin to shift something in you. Suddenly, Vi isn’t just your anchor; she’s something more.

One evening, after an especially tough training session, you’re packing up your things when Vi approaches you. There’s something in her expression—something serious but not intimidating.

“Hey,” she says, her voice casual but carrying a weight that makes you pause. “Got any plans for Saturday?”

The question catches you completely off guard.

“Why?”

“Because I was thinking…” She hesitates for a moment, scratching the back of her neck in a way that feels almost bashful. “We could go out. Not here. Not to train. Just… you and me.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“Like… a date?”

Vi’s lips twitch into a small, slightly awkward smile, and for the first time, you see a vulnerability in her that takes you by surprise.

“Yeah,” she says, her voice soft but sure. “Like a date.”

Despite the nervous flutter in your chest, you can’t help but smile.

“Okay.”

Her grin stretches wide, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to believe that something good might actually be starting.

Vi isn’t the type to plan extravagant outings or overly complicated surprises. She’s direct, intentional, and focused on what matters: making you feel comfortable and, most importantly, seen. On the morning of your date, she texts you early:

Vi: "Meet me at 7 in Central Park. Wear something comfy, but don’t go full gym rat. Trust me."

The message is simple, but it leaves you curious. And as much as it excites you, it also stirs a small knot of anxiety in your chest. What does she have in mind?

From the moment Vi sent you that message, your heart began to race—a mix of excitement and nerves. This wasn’t just a date. There was something else simmering beneath the surface, an unspoken bond that had been building from the moment your lives intertwined.

When you arrive at the central park, you find her leaning casually against a lamppost. The leather jacket she’s wearing hugs her athletic figure, and the warm glow of the park lights catches the reddish tones in her hair. She’s holding two cups of coffee, and when she spots you, her lips curve into a small, crooked smile.

“You’re right on time,” she says, pushing off the post and handing you one of the cups. “I’m not exactly an expert at this whole dating thing, but starting with coffee felt like a safe bet.”

The warmth of the cup seeps into your hands, mirroring the way her presence always seems to calm you, even when your emotions are in turmoil. You smile, trying to mask the whirlwind of feelings her simple gesture ignites.

“It’s a good start,” you tease. “Though, should I be worried about what else you have planned?”

Vi arches an eyebrow, that familiar look of playful challenge lighting up her face.

“If I told you, it’d ruin the surprise. Just trust me.”

She leads you to a nighttime fair hidden within the park, a kaleidoscope of colorful lights and cheerful music. The aroma of fresh food fills the air, and the vibrant energy of the place draws you in, making it impossible not to relax.

Vi is completely in her element. She pulls you from booth to booth, her enthusiasm infectious. At a shooting game, she demonstrates her impeccable aim, easily winning a plush toy. When she hands it to you, there’s a shy pride in her eyes that makes your heart skip.

“Take it,” she says. “Something tells me you could use a pet.”

You laugh, clutching the plush against your chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

“Do you have to be good at everything?”

She shrugs, a playful smirk on her face. “Not everything. But I try.”

As you stroll through the fair, she buys cotton candy and tears off small pieces to offer you. You hesitate at first, and she gives you a look that’s part exasperation, part tenderness.

“It’s just sugar,” she says softly. “I promise it won’t hurt you.”

There’s something vulnerable in her tone, as if the gesture carries more weight than it seems. You accept the cotton candy, and the smile she gives you in return makes the world feel a little brighter.

Later, Vi leads you to a quieter part of the park, away from the noise and lights. You find a secluded spot near a softly lit fountain, the sound of water providing a serene backdrop.

“I thought this might be a good place to talk,” she says, sitting on the fountain’s edge and patting the space beside her.

You sit down, your shoulder brushing hers, and the closeness feels more significant than usual. There’s an undeniable tension in the air, not uncomfortable, but charged with something unspoken.

“Thank you for tonight,” you say quietly. “I needed this more than I realized.”

Vi turns to face you slightly, her arm resting on her knee as she looks at you intently.

“I wanted it to be special for you. You’ve been working so hard, and I just… I wanted to give you a night where you didn’t have to think about anything else.”

Her words catch you off guard. Vi’s always been direct, but there’s a softness in her voice now that you haven’t heard before.

“It is special. But mostly because I’m with you,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, she looks away, as if gathering her courage. Then, her gaze returns to yours, unwavering.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she says, her tone more serious. “I know I’m not always great at putting this kind of thing into words, but… you’re important to me. More than I think you realize.”

Your breath catches, and she continues, her words gaining momentum.

“I care about you. A lot. Seeing you work through everything, watching you fight to heal, it’s… inspiring. I don’t just want to be here for you now—I want to be here for you, period. In your life. For as long as you’ll let me.”

Her honesty is raw, unguarded in a way that feels almost sacred. Your heart is pounding, and for once, you don’t overthink.

You lean in, closing the distance between you. When your lips meet hers, it’s as if the world fades away, leaving only the two of you. The kiss starts soft, tentative, but quickly deepens, fueled by emotions you’ve both kept bottled up for too long.

When you finally pull back, you’re both breathless and a little stunned.

“So…” Vi says, her trademark smirk making a reappearance. “Did I completely screw up this date?”

You laugh, taking her hand in yours and holding it tightly.

“No. It was perfect. Just like you.”

Vi’s smile widens, and as she squeezes your hand, you realize you’ve found something in her you didn’t know you were missing: a partner, a friend, and maybe something even more profound.

The day after your date, the gym feels different. There’s an electric charge in the air, and the thought of seeing her sends a nervous thrill racing down your spine. You tell yourself it’ll be like any other day, but the moment you walk in and spot her, you know you’re lying to yourself.

Vi is at the weight rack, adjusting plates on a barbell. She’s wearing a sleeveless shirt that shows off her toned arms and that tattoo you can’t help but stare at every time you see her. When she notices you, a lopsided grin spreads across her face, but there’s something else in her expression—a spark that sets your pulse racing.

"You’re early. Didn’t recognize you without your coffee," she teases, stepping closer with an easy confidence that makes it impossible to look away.

"I wanted to beat the crowd," you reply, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest.

Vi moves closer than necessary, her presence overwhelming in the best way. The faint, clean scent of her perfume surrounds you, and for a second, you forget where you are.

"Good. Then let’s see what you’ve got today," she says, her voice tinged with a challenge that sends a thrill through you.

The workout begins, but Vi’s proximity makes it impossible to focus. Her hands are firm yet careful as she adjusts your posture during deadlifts.

"Keep your back straight," she murmurs, stepping behind you. Her hands graze your shoulders as she makes the correction, her touch lingering just long enough to leave your skin tingling.

You glance back at her, and your eyes lock. There’s a fire in her gaze, something raw and unspoken.

"Like this?" you ask, your voice softer than intended.

Vi’s lips twitch in a smirk as she steps back, her eyes not leaving yours. "Exactly. Now, let’s see those squats."

But squats are no reprieve. She demonstrates beside you, her movements precise and controlled, her body impossibly close. At one point, she kneels to check your form, her hands skimming your waist as she positions you.

"Relax your shoulders. You’re too tense," she whispers, her breath warm against your ear.

Your body betrays you, stiffening further under her touch. Vi chuckles, low and rough, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

"If you don’t relax, you’re going to hurt yourself," she says, her voice teasing but laced with something deeper.

You can’t tell if it’s your imagination or if she’s enjoying this game as much as you are. Either way, it’s intoxicating.

The final challenge comes on the rowing machine. Vi crouches in front of you to adjust the settings, her face mere inches from yours. Her eyes flicker down to your lips for a split second, and the air between you thickens.

"Ready?" she asks, her voice lower than usual.

"Always," you reply, trying to match her intensity.

You row with everything you have, her gaze on you the entire time. When you finish, she steps forward, offering her hand to help you up. The contact is brief, but the heat lingers long after her fingers leave yours.

"Good work," she says, her voice softer now, almost intimate.

Your heart pounds as you follow her to the stretching area. The gym is nearly empty, the usual noise reduced to a distant hum. It feels like the two of you are in your own world.

"You pushed me harder today," you say, attempting to lighten the tension swirling around you.

Vi grins, but her eyes betray something deeper. "I wanted to see what you’re made of."

There’s a vulnerability in her tone that catches you off guard, and before you can think better of it, you respond, "Thanks for always looking out for me."

Her smile softens, her usual cocky demeanor replaced by something gentler. "I like looking out for you."

The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. Your breath catches as she steps closer, her hands finding your waist. Her touch sends a jolt through you, and before you know it, her lips are on yours.

The kiss is slow at first, exploratory, but it quickly deepens. Her grip tightens on your waist as your fingers tangle in her hair. The world fades away, leaving only the heat between you.

The gym is silent now, the last patrons long gone. Vi locks the door behind her as you both head toward the showers, the tension between you thick enough to cut.

"We shouldn’t stay too late," you murmur, but there’s no conviction in your voice.

Vi smirks, tossing her towel onto the bench. "Perks of having the keys. No one’s kicking us out."

“Isn’t that abusing of your power?” You joked, beginning to strip off your smelly, sweaty gym clothes.

Vi mimicked your movements and responded with a lopsided smile. "Sometimes I can get a little too obsessed with power."

That was a pretty open statement, one you decided to let slide since you didn't know exactly how to respond. You just knew that it had turned you on, a bit fucking much.

And before you knew it, you were both naked. It was the first time this had happened, you had seen her in underwear before when you changed together after an extensive workout routine, but nothing like this. You were both totally exposed and it felt so natural, so right.

You step into the steamy shower and the sound of running water echoes off the tiles. The air is humid and envelops you as you turn on a nearby faucet. Vi steps into the stream of water, drops falling onto her bare skin. You stare in awe as the water slides down her broad back and lands on her hard, juicy ass. Vi tilts her head back, enjoying how her muscles slowly relax. God, you wanted to jump on her, scratch her and bite her all over. You wanted to leave your personal mark. A warning to the world that that gorgeous woman was yours, only yours.

You can’t tear your eyes away. Her confidence, the way she moves, it’s magnetic.

"Need help rinsing off?" she asks, her voice teasing but her eyes dark with something else.

You swallow hard, your pulse racing. "Please," you actually begged, approaching her without any hesitation, in fact you had a sudden urge to get on all fours and crawl towards her, like a little cat in heat.

Vi reaches out, her fingers brushing against yours. The shower’s heat pales in comparison to the fire igniting between you as she closes the distance. Her hands slide to your hips, pulling you against her as the water streams over you both.

You moaned in surprise as Vi pushed you against the bathroom tiles, your face pressed into the surface, your back bent and rubbing against her hard abs. Vi gently grabbed the back of your neck and whispered, "I'm going to help you bathe. Don't move."

You nodded, and even though you no longer had the pressure of her hand or her body on you, you stayed in the same position, refusing to move a single muscle. You wanted to be a good girl for Vi. You wanted to show her that you were obedient. You heard Vi open the bottle of shower gel, the clean scent of the soap reaching your nostrils, and before you could think of what flower it smelled like exactly, you felt Vi's hands on your skin again, and then your mind went blank.

Vi's calloused hands rubbed the gel over the pale skin of your back, her fingers tracing indecipherable, invisible shapes. She smiled and took you by the hips, pressing her pelvis against your steep ass, admiring your submissive position, admiring the beautiful body differences between the two of you. While Vi was all muscle and iron, you were scrawny and soft all over. So soft that Vi wanted to chew you up and swallow you whole. Vi began to thrust into you as if she had a penis, hitting you with the prominent bones of her hips, rubbing her clit against you in a pretentious and shameless way. She was driving you crazy with pleasure.

"You know, you used to have a nice ass, but with my exercises it has become more toned and lifted. It's irresistible. Every time I look at you from behind I feel like putting you on all fours to eat your ass." She gave you a little spank, it was obvious she didn't used even one percent of her strength, it was a light spanking. A loving spanking. Of course, if there was such a thing.

"Harder," You moaned shamelessly, turning to the side to face that woman.

The redhead had an almost beastly expression on her face, her brow was furrowed, as if she was upset, her teeth were out, sharp and defiant, ready to strike at any moment. The scar on her lip looked more tempting than ever. You wanted to turn around and kiss her. But you didn't. Because you were a good girl. You were her good girl.

Vi ran a hand through her wet hair, pushing it back so it wouldn't impede the stunning view of your body, and that gesture was so fucking sexy.

Vi moved closer to you and planted a soft kiss on your cheek.

"Oh no, sweetie. I'm going to treat you nice, just like a princess like you deserves. No hitting for now, okay?" She kissed the tip of your nose and continued groping you.

When you went to protest you felt her palm on your pussy. Rubbing a little water beneath it. Clearly teasing.

"Vi," You sobbed loudly. The urge to cry invaded your being. You hated being kept waiting. You had never been a patient person, damn it! You liked to have everything you wanted exactly how and when you wanted it, so it was quite normal that you were so irritable and grumpy right now.

"What's wrong, princess?"

God, you wanted to punch her in the face. She clearly knew what was going on. She knew your childish, spoiled personality perfectly. She was just asking to tease you, because she wanted to play with your patience, to show you once again who was in power.

"Fuck me," You looked at her with a pitiful expression, as if you were going to die if you didn't haved her right there, right now.

Vi's eyes sparkled, you had clearly provoked her. And your attempt of manipulation would have worked perfectly if we weren't talking about Vi. Vi was a prideful person with some pretty marked egocentric traits. Plus, she was someone with a lot of discipline due to her job. It wasn't going to be easy to make her fall into temptation.

"Patience, princess," With a wicked smirk, Vi turned you to face her.

She slowly sank to your knees, letting her lips and tongue trail kisses down your neck, chest, and stomach until she was face to face with your dripping pussy. She inhaled deeply, your scent making her head spin with need.

"Mmm, listen to this greedy little pussy... it's begging to be filled, sweetheart. Begging to be stretched and stuffed full of my fingers... my tongue...," Vi's voice was a sinful rasp, dripping with promise and dark intent.

You stifled a moan and bit the back of your hand in an attempt to cope with both the physical and mental stimulation. If you thought Vi was sexy in her natural state, Vi cursing and saying dirty words was even sexier.

She leaned in, letting her lips just barely brush over your slick folds, her hot breath making you shudder. "But I'm going to take my time with you, sweetie. I'm going to tease and torment this pretty cunt until you're sobbing for my touch."

With that, Vi flicked her tongue out, giving to your clit the lightest, quickest lick before pulling back with a evil grin. She could feel how badly you needed more, and she intended to make you work for every ounce of pleasure that she was going to gave you.

Vi's heart raced as she felt your body go rigid, your pussy clamping down like a vice around her fingers as you came with a scream. She could feel your release gushing out, coating her hand and dripping down her wrist. The feeling of your pleasure was intoxicating, and it only fueled Vi's own desperate arousal.

Without pausing, Vi scooped you up into her strong, muscular arms. She cradled you against her chest, holding you close as she carried you both out of the shower. Your naked body pressed against her own, your skin slick and glistening.

Vi's breath caught in her throat as she gazed down at your flushed, satisfied face. You looked utterly breathtaking—like a goddess fresh from the bath. The urge to worship every inch of your flawless skin surged through her, but Vi had other plans first.

Holding you securely with one arm, Vi used her other hand to continue your pleasure, slipping her fingers back into your drenched, spasming your cunt without warning. She set a fast, hard pace, pumping and curling her digits as she pinned you against the nearest wall.

Leaning in, Vi nuzzled into your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin as she spoke, her voice a low, lust-filled rasp. "Mmm, you're so light, princess... so fucking perfect in my arms like this. I could carry you anywhere... anywhere I wanted to claim this sexy cute little body."

She punctuated her words with a particularly deep thrust of her fingers, feeling your velvety walls flutter and clench around her invading digits. Vi groaned, her own clit throbbing with the need to be touched.

"You like being treated like my personal little princess, sweetheart? Like being manhandled and owned by a rough bitch like me?" Vi's lips curled into a wicked smirk as she gazed down at your face, searching for any hint of hesitation or discomfort. She found none. On te contrary. You were enjoying it too much. And it was because you were having the best sex of your life.

Vi's fingers never ceased their relentless assault on your sensitive, dripping core. She could feel your body beginning to tremble and quake in her arms. Your breathing growing more and more ragged with each passing second.

Leaning in close, Vi captured your lips in a searing, demanding kiss. She plundered your mouth, swallowing your moans and whimpers as she continued her brutal pace. Her tongue tangled with yours in a dangerous dance.

Breaking the kiss, Vi's lips moved to your ear. She nipped at the lobe before growling, "That's it, baby... I can feel this greedy cunt throbbing on my fingers. It's like it never wants to be empty, isn't it? Always hungry for more..."

To emphasize her point, Vi pressed her thumb against your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight circles as she curled her fingers deep inside the clutching heat. She could feel your walls starting to flutter, another climax approaching.

"Come on, princess... give me another one. I want to feel this pretty pussy spasm and squeeze my fingers as you cream yourself all over them. Fucking soak me, sweetheart..."

Still pinning you against the wall with her body, Vi used the hand not occupied with fucking your brains out to grab your thigh, hiking your leg up and over her hip. The new position allowed her to sink her fingers even deeper, to reach that special spot that made you see the stars.

"That's it, sweetie... fuck, you feel so good wrapped around my fingers like this. So hot and tight and fucking perfect," Vi growled, her lips brushing against your face.

Vi felt your body go taut, your pussy clamping down on her fingers like a vice as another intense orgasm ripped through them. You let out a choked sob, tears streaming down your face as you came completely undone in Vi's arms.

The sight of your pleasure, that raw, unbridled ecstasy, filled Vi with a fierce sense of pride and possessive hunger. She held you close as the last waves of your release ebbed, Vi pulled back just enough to cup your face in her hands. She brushed away the tears with her thumbs, her touch surprisingly gentle for someone so used to force.

Gazing down at your face, Vi felt her heart clench in her chest.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Vi leaned down and pressed her lips to yours in a tender, affectionate kiss. It was a kiss filled with unspoken emotion, with a depth of feeling that made Vi's heart race and her skin prickle with anticipation. Her lips moved softly, coaxing your mouth to open for her, to let her in. And when you did, when your lips parted and your tongues met... Vi felt like she was coming home.

She held the kiss for a long moment, savoring the taste of your tears and the salt of your skin. When she finally pulled back, Vi's blue eyes shimmered with a vulnerability she rarely showed to anyone.

Her voice was a low, tender rasp as she spoke, her breath mingling with your own. "Shhh, I've got you, baby... I've got you. You did so good for me, sweetheart. I'm so proud of you..."

The sound of water cascading from the gym showers blends with the echo of your heartbeat. The thick steam fills the space, erasing all traces of what just happened. Your skin still burns, marked by the intensity of the moment you shared. The mix of sweat and Vi's scent lingers in the heat, and every fiber of your being feels alive, every inch of you recalling her touch.

You stand there, catching your breath, when Vi's eyes meet yours. Her usual confidence has been replaced with something raw and unguarded. Vulnerability. Her gaze searches yours, full of questions she’s too afraid to voice.

“Do you want to be my girlfriend?” Vi’s words break the silence, soft and almost hesitant, but unmistakably clear. Her voice carries a weight that shakes you—like she’s offering a piece of herself she’s never let anyone touch before.

The pause that follows feels endless, and for a moment, you're frozen. But then something ignites inside you. You feel it in your chest—a light, a warmth, a clarity you’ve been longing for.

“Yes. Of course!,” you reply, the word spilling out with such conviction it surprises even you. The ever-present fear you’ve carried seems to vanish entirely.

Vi’s lips curve into the gentlest smile, one you’ve never seen before, and she steps closer, her hands finding yours. Her touch is soft but grounding, her presence a shield against all your doubts.

“I’ll take care of you, princess” she whispers, her voice steady. “Always.”

Your lips curl into a matching smile, and for the first time in a long time, hope replaces the ache in your heart. The world outside doesn’t matter anymore—this moment, with her, is all that exists.

Weeks turn into months, and your life begins to shift. Therapy becomes a safe haven rather than a daunting task. The battles with bulimia, the grueling workouts, the days of overwhelming self-doubt—all start to feel like pieces of a puzzle coming together. Slowly but surely, you begin to see someone new when you look in the mirror. Not the girl your mother used to criticize, not someone trapped by impossible expectations, but someone strong. Someone whole.

And through it all, Vi is there. She’s more than your trainer—she’s your anchor. The one who helps you piece together the shattered parts of yourself. She’s there on your hardest days, steady as a rock, fighting the voices in your head alongside you. And for the first time, you don’t feel alone.

One day, as you walk into the gym, you see her waiting for you like always. Her signature smirk is in place, but there’s something different in her eyes—a softness, a pride that makes your heart skip a beat.

You approach her, nerves bubbling under your skin, and before you can stop yourself, the words you’ve been holding back spill out.

“I don’t need you to be my trainer anymore.”

Her smirk falters, confusion flashing across her face. She straightens, her brows furrowing as if bracing for a blow. “Did I… do something wrong?” Her voice is quieter than usual, tinged with a rare uncertainty.

You shake your head quickly, reaching out to take her hand in yours. “No, Vi. You’ve done everything right.” Your voice cracks slightly as you gather the courage to continue. “But I’m not that person anymore. I’m not the girl who needs to be fixed. I’m stronger now… because of you.”

Her eyes search yours, the tension in her shoulders easing, but she still seems unsure.

“I’ve decided to follow my dream,” you continue, your voice steady now. “I want to study nutrition. I want to help other girls like me, girls who’ve been through what I’ve been through. I want to be someone they can turn to, the way I had you.”

For a moment, Vi just looks at you, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a smile spreads across her face. Not the cocky grin she flashes in the gym, but something soft and genuine, brimming with pride.

“I’m so damn proud of you,” she says, her voice thick with emotion.

Tears well up in your eyes, but this time, they’re not from pain or frustration—they’re from relief, from joy, from knowing you’ve finally found your path.

Vi pulls you into a hug, her arms wrapping around you tightly, and you sink into her warmth. In her embrace, you feel a sense of safety and belonging you’ve never known.

“You’ve got this,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against your ear. “And I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

[shrinksinsneakers]

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[jaikoyaki]

False Alarm

!Kang Haerin x Reader!

"Getting blamed for pulling the fire alarm and almost getting suspended? Annoying. Getting paired with the actual culprit for a project? Fucking mint. Falling for them— wait what?!"

Tags: Enemies to lovers, Highschool au, wedding booth, happy ending, overachiever kang haerin, SLIGHT academic rivalry, idk

Warnings: cursing, Haerin is a nonchalant dreadhead, meddling friends, bad pacing, rushed ending IDFK I JUST WANT TO GET THIS SHIT OUT OF MY DRAFTS😭🙏🙏, this is so long for no reason, but I was too lazy to shorten it, Not proofread😝😝👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

words: 8k(I think)

You pace back and forth, your sneakers scuffing against the dull classroom tiles. The ceiling fan hums faintly above, but it does little to ease the stiff air. The clock ticks loudly, grating against your nerves. But the real culprit isn’t the clock—or the room. It’s Haerin.

She’s sat on the teacher’s desk, one leg crossed over the other, her arms resting casually on her lap. Her sharp, cat-like eyes follow your every move, unreadable. You try to ignore the way her gaze makes your skin crawl—or how it quickens your pulse—but it’s impossible.

“Stop pacing,” she finally says,

You whirl around to face her, exasperated. “Stop locking doors!”

“I didn’t lock it on purpose.”

“Right. And I didn’t follow you because I thought you were up to something sketchy.”

Her head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing with quiet amusement. She hums softly, the sound brushing against your nerves. “You’ve got a pretty vivid imagination for someone who’s terrible at sneaking around.”

Your face burns. “I wasn’t sneaking!”

“You tripped over a chair in the hallway,”

“I was investigating.” you counter, defensive.

“Sure you were.”

The room feels like it’s shrinking, the tension pressing in on you. Maybe it’s the way her gaze locks onto yours, steady and just a bit too intense. You shift your weight, crossing your arms over your chest—not because it makes you look tougher, but because it feels like the only thing holding you together right now.

She doesn’t look away. Not once.

“Why do you care so much?” she asks eventually, breaking the silence.

The question catches you off guard, and for a split second, your bravado falters.

Why do you care?

You open your mouth to respond but realize you don’t actually have an answer—or at least not one you’re ready to say aloud. Flustered, you wave your arms in frustration. “Because you’re suspicious.”

Haerin raises a single eyebrow, “Suspicious enough for you to follow me for—what, 40 minutes?”

“Forty-five,” you mutter under your breath before you can stop yourself.

Her lips twitch, and then—just barely—you hear it. A laugh. It’s quiet, light, and so brief that for a moment, you’re not even sure you imagined it. It throws you off balance,

And you hate how much it surprises you.

How much it almost makes you smile.

You clear your throat, trying to regain control of the situation. “Are you gonna tell me why you’re even here?” you ask, leaning against the door. You attempt to look relaxed—cool, even—but you’re painfully aware of how stiff and awkward you must appear.

Haerin regards you with an air of detachment, her expression betraying nothing. Then she shrugs. “No.”

“That’s suspicious.”

“That’s none of your business.”

The silence between you crackles with tension. Neither of you moves. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, but her posture remains perfect, completely unbothered.

Finally, she stands, brushing past you with infuriating ease. Her arm grazes yours, and the faint scent of her shampoo lingers—clean, sharp, unmistakably her.

You freeze.

She doesn’t even glance back as she reaches for the door handle. “Let me know when you’re done playing detective,” she says casually

The door creaks open without resistance.

It was never locked.

You stare after her, dumbfounded. Your shoulders slump as frustration bubbles in your chest.

“Damn you, Kang Haerin,” you mutter, the words too quiet to reach her as she disappears into the hallway.

Damn you for being so pretty.

The thought slips out unbidden, and you run a hand over your face, groaning softly.

Liking someone who almost got you suspended wasn’t exactly the highlight of your senior year, but here you were.

You didn’t even know when it all started.

Or maybe you did, and that was the worst part.

Let's go back a few months.

“L/N, it’s the first week of your senior year, and you’re already in my office.” The principal’s voice carries that mix of disappointment and irritation that makes your stomach twist. He leans back in his chair, exhaling heavily as though the weight of your alleged crimes is just too much for him to bear.

“Not exactly the note we want to start on, is it?”

Detention. For a month.

And it wasn’t even your fault.

The whole mess started when you got lost—an innocent enough situation, right? You were wandering the hallways, clutching a crumpled schedule, trying to find your history class in this architectural monstrosity they call a school. Then, chaos erupted.

Someone—some GENIUS—pulled the fire alarm. Students poured into the hallways like water bursting through a dam, everyone shouting and shoving. In the middle of the commotion, a voice rang out: “It was her!”

And just like that, you were the scapegoat.

By the time you were dragged into the principal’s office, you’d barely had time to process what was happening.

“Principal Kim, I didn’t do it!” you’d pleaded, gripping the edge of the chair so hard your knuckles turned white. “I can’t afford to lose my scholarship over this—it wasn’t me!”

He’d pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly weighing whether he cared enough to believe you.

After a long pause, he sighed. “I’ll give you detention instead of suspension. But, L/N, if there’s another incident, my hands are tied.”

Fast-forward, You storm out of the office, phone in hand, thumbs flying across the screen as you rant in your group chat. Rage boils under your skin, making your fingers tremble as you type. You’re so focused on venting that you don’t even notice the person in your path until you crash into them—hard.

A metallic clatter echoes on the tile floor.

You look up, already muttering an apology, and freeze.

It’s her.

The girl who pulled the fire alarm.

“You!” you blurted, pointing an accusatory finger.

She stares at you for at least five seconds before tilting her head, her expression calm, almost detached.

"Do I know you?" she asks,

Your blood pressure skyrockets. “You know exactly who I am! I’m the one who got blamed for your little stunt!”

Her brow furrows slightly, like she’s genuinely confused—or maybe just a really good actress. For a split second, doubt flickers in your mind.

Was it her?

But then you see it.

The half-finished graffiti on the wall behind her. A vibrant swirl of colors, interrupted mid-spray.

It's definitely her.

“Do you realize how much trouble you caused me?”

“Do you realize how loud you’re being?”

Her calm demeanor only fuels your anger and before you know it, you’ve snatched the spray can from her hand.

She finally reacts—a surprised yelp, quickly changed to a glare. “What the hell’s your problem?”

“My problem?” you snap, voice rising. “LISTEN YOU CRETINOUS BLUNDERBUSS, I ALMOST got suspended because of you! And if I get suspended, I’ll have a record. If I have a record, I can kiss my dream college goodbye. If I don’t go to my dream college, I won’t get into any college. And if I don’t go to college, I’ll end up broke, homeless, and probably dead in a ditch—”

You stop, chest heaving. Maybe a little dramatic, but who cares? You're frustrated.

She raises an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “You done?”

Your hands clench around the spray can. “I hate you,” You sputter, too stunned to even form a coherent insult.

“You know, I’d run if I were you.”

You blink. “Run from wha—”

“Student!”

Your body goes rigid. That voice—it’s a teacher.

You whip around, dread pooling in your chest. Sure enough, a teacher stands at the end of the hall, their stern gaze locking onto you.

You, with a spray can in hand, standing in front of the vandalized wall like a walking, talking confession.

“Stay right there!”

You do not stay right there. Your brain short-circuits. You’re running before you can think, adrenaline kicking in.

You tear around a corner, heart pounding so hard you swear it’s trying to escape. The girl’s ahead of you, her jacket flapping behind her as she darts into the girls’ bathroom. You hesitate for half a second before diving in after her.

You stumble inside, gasping for air, bracing yourself against the sink. “What the hell?!”

She’s by the mirror, calmly washing her hands like she’s got all the time in the world.

“I warned you,” she says, not even glancing your way.

“You warned me?!” You stare at her, incredulous. “You—ugh!”

She grabs a paper towel, dabbing her hands dry with infuriating nonchalance. The dripping faucet is the only sound in the tense silence that follows.

You gesture wildly to the graffiti on the walls. “Let me guess—this is your handiwork too?”

She doesn’t answer, just tosses the paper towel into the trash and heads for the door.

“I could report you,” you snap, desperation creeping into your tone.

She pauses, one hand on the doorframe. For a moment, you think you’ve gotten through to her.

Then she looks over her shoulder, her expression cool and detached. “Go ahead.”

Her words are like a punch to the gut.

And then she’s gone, leaving you standing in the stinky dingy bathroom with nothing but your anger and the faint scent of paint lingering in the air.

Who the hell does she think she is?

“Kang Haerin. Top student, perfect grades, a shelf full of awards, always getting called up at recognitions."

You slump back in your seat at the cafeteria table, staring at the picture on Ryujin’s phone like it’s going to change if you just squint hard enough. But nope—it’s the same as it was five minutes ago.

She's pretty.

"Are you sure she was the one who pulled the fire alarm?” Hyunjin pipes up, snatching one of Ryujin’s fries before she can swat his hand away.

“Yeah… I mean, with that kind of reputation, it does sound crazy,” you admit, your voice trailing off. Your eyes linger on the screen. The photo is a little blurry, but it’s enough.

Long, sleek black hair.

Straight bangs that frame her face perfectly.

And those stupid cat-like eyes.

Too pretty.

It’s her. It has to be her.

“Uh-huh.” Hyunjin gives you a skeptical look, biting into the stolen fry. “Maybe you should stop skipping your meds, Y/N. You’re starting to sound like a conspiracy theorist.”

You glare at him, swatting weakly in his direction. “Shut up. It really is her.” Your voice is firm, but there’s a small crack of doubt that you hate hearing.

Across the table, Ryujin snatches her phone back, narrowing her eyes at Hyunjin. “Can you not?” She punctuates her words by smacking his hand when he reaches for another fry.

“I believe you,” she says, offering a small shrug “I mean, Kang is… mysterious. Who knows what she’s hiding under all that? She could totally have a rebellious side.”

“Thank you!” you groan, practically collapsing forward onto the table. It’s the first time anyone has taken you seriously since this whole mess started.

Ryujin nods, shoving another fry into her mouth with a look of satisfaction. “People always act like the quiet ones are angels, but those are the ones you gotta watch out for. You ever see those crime documentaries? It’s always the straight-A students who turn out to be arsonists or something.”

Hyunjin snickers. “Okay, but setting a fire alarm off is a little different from being an arsonist.”

“Exactly!” you snap, slapping the table for emphasis. A little too hard, judging by the sting in your palm. “She’s too perfect. Nobody’s that perfect without hiding something.”

“Or,” Hyunjin says, smirking, “you’re just mad you got detention and need someone to blame.”

You open your mouth to retort, but Ryujin beats you to it, jabbing a fry in his direction. “Shut it, Hyunjin. You weren’t there."

"And yesterday? She didn’t even flinch when I called her out. Just stared at me like I was crazy. Who does that?” you huff

“Someone who’s got nerves of steel, apparently,” Hyunjin says, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head.

“Or someone who knows you can’t prove it.”

The comment hits harder than you want to admit. Because it’s true. You’ve got nothing. Not a shred of evidence that anyone’s going to take seriously. Straight-A Kang Haerin, the school’s golden girl, secretly pulling fire alarms and vandalizing walls? It sounds ridiculous. Even you know that.

so you decided to let it go...for now.

or not.

It's been days since that whole thing went down, and you're still stuck in detention. Of course. Ever since then, there's been this weird tension between you and Haerin. Every time you pass each other in the hall, it turns into a silent showdown of eye contact. First one to look away loses. Which, honestly, feels a little...gay? Anyway, she wins most of the time, but whatever—it's not like you're keeping score.

Today seems like another regular day of Haerin being her usual know-it-all self. That is, until you suddenly speak up.

“What’s the point of giving people ‘equal chances’ when they’re starting from completely different places?” you ask, your voice sharper than you intended.

Haerin blinked, caught off guard, but quickly regained her composure. “Because without a system of clear rules, any attempt at equality becomes chaotic. How do you decide who gets what without creating even more inequality in the process?”

You lean back in your chair, forcing yourself to sound relaxed. “Easy. You focus on the people who’ve been left out the most—actually listen to them and adjust the system to fit their needs.”

“Adjust the system?” Haerin repeats, her voice smooth but with a faint edge of disbelief. “That’s a nice thought, but in the real world, people in power don’t just hand over control. Change has to come from within the system.”

You can’t stop yourself from scoffing. “Within the system? Right. Because the people who created the problem are totally the ones who’ll fix it.”

Her lips twitch, like she’s holding back a smirk. “So, what’s your plan? Let people just figure it out themselves?”

“Pretty much,” you shoot back, “It’s not about swooping in to ‘fix’ things for them-”

Haerin’s eyes narrow just slightly, but her voice stays annoyingly calm. “That assumes everyone has the resources or education to organize themselves effectively. Not everyone’s equipped to lead change. That’s why structured solutions work better.”

You don’t miss the implication—like she’s saying you wouldn’t be equipped to handle it. You bristle, your words coming out sharper than intended. “Wow, sounds like someone doesn’t trust people to think for themselves. That must be nice, deciding what’s best for everyone else from your perfect little bubble.”

Her eyes flash, and for a moment, you think you’ve hit a nerve. “Better than standing on the sidelines, throwing ideas around with no plan to back them up. Guess some of us prefer action over aimless complaining.”

Your classmates exchange looks, some clearly entertained by the impromptu showdown. “Action, huh? Like pulling fire-"

The teacher finally sighs, holding up a hand. “Enough, you two. This isn’t a competition.”

You shut up, mostly because you don’t want a month of detention turning into two.

“Now,” the teacher continues, “since you’re both so enthusiastic about participating, you’ll have the perfect opportunity to work together.”

Your stomach sinks.

“For the upcoming group project, Kang and L/N, you’ll be partners.”

Are you fucking serious?

just as you thought detention for a month couldnt be worse.

YOU just made it worse

you sigh as you slumped back in your seat, you take a glimpse at haerin brows furrowing as you see her...holding back a smile?

Weird.

Haerin kept her face neutral when the professor called out your names as partners, but inside? She was buzzing.

You were different. No one ever challenged her in class—most people either agreed with her or kept quiet. But you? You stood up and fired back without hesitation, and you surpringly made sense. You weren’t just smart; you were sharp. Every argument you made earlier was solid, like you’d thought about it for hours instead of coming up with it on the spot And the way your eyebrows scrunched when she pushed back with her own point? That was unfairly adorable. Not that she’d ever admit it out loud. She wouldn’t even admit it to herself—not fully.

She told herself it was annoying. You were annoying. But it didn’t feel annoying. It felt… like you were getting under her skin in a way no one else ever had. And the really frustrating part? She didn’t hate it.

She liked it.

She liked you.

She wasn’t sure when it started. Maybe it was the day you stormed up to her, finger pointed and accusing her of pulling the fire alarm. Sure, she might’ve pulled it, but was it her fault you got blamed? Not at all.

She should’ve been defending herself or at least rolling her eyes at you, but all she could focus on was how your hair fell perfectly into your face while you were ranting. Or the way your voice got higher when you were mad. And your eyes. Even when you were glaring at her like she was your mortal enemy, there was something soft about them, like you weren’t capable of actually hating anyone.

She hated that she noticed all of that.

And she really hated that she didn’t hate it at all.

-A month ago-

"You know her?" Haerin asked casually, though her voice was just a little too steady as she looked over at Danielle.

Danielle, ever the social butterfly, didn’t even need to ask who Haerin meant. She tilted her head toward your table and squinted. "Which one? Ryujin? Oh! She’s the guitari—"

"No," Haerin interrupted quickly. "The one holding her phone."

Danielle’s eyes narrowed as she tried to place you. Just then, you slapped the table, the sharp sound cutting through the room. A few heads turned briefly before everyone went back to their conversations.

"Ohhh," Danielle said, finally making the connection. "Y/N. L/N Y/N. She’s the new transfer, senior, SUPER pretty, Super kind—" Danielle rambled, sipping from her orange juice.

'Super kind? Yeah, sure.' Haerin thought.

But the super pretty part? Yeah… she wasn’t about to argue with that. Not even a little bit

"Why? Why do you ask?" Danielle asked, turning her full attention to Haerin. Her head tilted slightly, and her eyebrows knitted together in curiosity. Then, as if struck by lightning, her eyes widened.

"Wait a second. Don’t tell me you like her."

At that, the whole table froze.

Hanni stopped mid-game on her Nintendo, her head snapping up. Minji put her phone down entirely,

"Haerin likes who?!" Hyein chimed in, leaning forward, her eyes sparkling with interest.

“No one,” Haerin said quickly, groaning as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “I ran into her yesterday. I just… wondered why I hadn’t seen her before.”

The table stayed quiet for a second, then erupted in disbelief.

"Yeah, okay," Minji said, smirking.

"Sure sure," Hanni muttered, clearly unconvinced.

Hyein just went, “Ooooh,” dragging it out long enough for Haerin to want to crawl under the table.

"Are you cert-"

"Shut up."

Working with you wasn’t THAT bad. Haerin wouldn’t say it out loud—obviously—but you were a lot more organized and reliable than she’d expected. No slacking off, no ghosting. Honestly, you made the whole project way easier than she’d thought it would be.

Somehow, you’d both slipped into a routine. After class, meet up, work on the project, exchange a few sarcastic remarks, rinse and repeat. It worked. Eventually, you agreed—reluctantly—to swap numbers 'for better communication.' Not that Haerin hesitated. If anything, she grabbed your phone and typed her contact in like it was no big deal. Suspiciously fast.

Somewhere along the way, the bickering shifted. It wasn’t annoying anymore—it was… kind of fun? Almost normal? Maybe even nice??? Everytime she teases you, everytime you call her out, there was this flicker in her eyes. Amusement, maybe? Whatever it was, it made you forget to be annoyed.

And then there was her calmness. Like, even when you got frustrated and started spiraling. Her soft, steady voice was like a hand pulling you back from the edge.

Not that you’d ever admit that either.

You didn’t want to think about it too hard. But you also couldn’t help noticing these little things about her: the way she tapped her pen when she was thinking, or how she hummed quietly while fixing her notes. Stuff you wouldn’t have picked up on before.

Weird.

Haerin knocks on your door three times.

Three. Times.

She knocked on YOUR door.

Why was she at your house again?

Haerin's phone buzzed as your text lit up her screen. She clicked the notification immediately, her lips pursing as she read your message.

"Sorry can't meet up today, I'm sick."

Haerin raises an eyebrow, her fingers hovering over the keys as she types a reply.

haerin: No you're not.

y/n: Yes, I am.

haerin: What sickness do you have? A mental one?

She leans back in her chair, barely suppressing a laugh at her own comeback. You stare at the message for a moment, eyebrows furrowing.

y/n: SEVERE COLD, HAERIN.

haerin: You're probably faking it 🙄

y/n: WHY WOULD I FAKE HAVING A SEVERE COLD?

haerin: Idk, so you wouldn't work on the project, ig...

Your eyes widen. Typing out a response as you scroll through the project files on your laptop.

y/n: WE'RE LITERALLY ALMOST FINISHED.

haerin: What's your address?

You blink at the message.

y/n: Why? So you can bomb my house?

haerin: So I can come over and see if you're actually sick.

You smirk, flipping over onto your bed with a dramatic sigh.

y/n: You just want to see me... omg, are you worried about me? ❤💜😋

You laugh as you send it, but your heart skips a beat as you wait for her reply. Haerin’s fingers freeze for a second, the playful edge in her expression faltering. She inhales, trying to cover up the slight warmth that creeps up her neck.

Haerin: Worried ur face, what's your address? I'm coming over -_-

You laugh at her response, shaking your head as you type back.

Y/N: You idiot, do you not know severe cold is contagious?

Haerin: And?

Y/N: YOU'RE GONNA GET INFECTED BY ME????

Haerin’s fingers types back, repeating your sarcastic tone earlier.

Haerin: Omg, are you worried about me? ❤💜😋

Y/N: Yeah, if you get sick too, who's gonna finish the project? 🥺💔

She stares at her screen for a moment, her expression softening despite herself. She types quickly, trying to cover up the sudden warmth in her chest.

Haerin: Just send the address.

You grin, sending a pinned location.

And that’s how Haerin ends up standing in front of your door. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, balancing a plastic bag with a small container inside in one hand and her laptop tucked under her arm.

When you open the door, Haerin’s breath hitches for just a moment as she takes you in: the messy bun perched high on your head, the oversized pajama top slipping slightly off one shoulder, revealing the curve of your collarbone, and black shorts that hang loosely on your frame. Your nose is red probably from sneezing, but your eyes, tired as they are, still carry that spark she’s always noticed. The way the light catches on the little stray hairs framing your face, the faint glisten of chapstick on your lips

What flavor is it? Cherry? Mint? She clamps down on the thought immediately. No no stop gay thoughts

"You actually came?" you say with a hoarse cough, your voice scratchy but still teasing.

She nods subtly, unable to tear her eyes away. There’s something disarming about seeing you like this—unguarded, cozy, real. You catch her staring, and she quickly looks away, her cheeks heating.

She pretends to inspect the plastic bag in her hand, as though it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Come in, weirdo,” you say, snickering, stepping aside and pushing the door wider.

Haerin steps in, her gaze darting around.

The place is clean—just as she expected—but noticeably quiet.

"You live alone?”

You close the door behind her with a shrug. “Yeah.”

Her eyebrows lift slightly. “Oh.”

"Where are your parents?"

“They died,” you add, deadpan.

Haerin freezes mid-step, her face falling. “I’m so—”

“Kidding!” You burst into laughter, which quickly turns into a series of harsh coughs. “They live across the country.”

Haerin’s jaw tightens as she smacks your shoulder lightly. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s hilarious,” you wheeze between coughs.

She rolls her eyes though there was a hint of worry as she toes off her shoes, setting the bag on the table.

“What’s that?” you ask, sniffling as you flop back onto the couch and burrito yourself in a blanket.

“Samgye-tang,” she mumbles, awkwardly standing in the middle of your living room, laptop still tucked under her arm.

“For what?”

“For you.” The words slip out before she can stop them. She fumbles. “It’s… uh, good for colds. I Googled it.”

You chuckle, your voice raspy. “How sweet.”

“Anyways,” she mutters, trying to mask the flustered tone as she pulls out her laptop, “we need to finish the project.”

You laugh at how quickly she switches topics. “How swift.”

“Ahh, let’s start,” she whines, failing to hide her smile as she plops onto the couch beside you.

Before opening her laptop, she pulls something from her pocket: a white face mask.

“I’m kinda offended,” you say as she slips it on.

“Don’t wanna get infected.” came her muffled voice through the white mask.

You rolled your eyes, slumping deeper into your blanket cocoon. “I thought you said ‘and?’”

Haerin didn’t answer. Instead, she just smirked, her eyes narrowing playfully, and flipped open her laptop. The hum of the device filled the air as she pulled up the project files.

Time flies and the once stillness of your house is now filled with the faint hum of Bruno Major’s Nothing playing in the background. The comforting melody wove through the air, blending with the soft clink of your spoon against the bowl as you sipped the soup Haerin had brought.

The soup was warm, richer than anything you would’ve bothered to make for yourself. It coated your throat, easing the lingering scratchiness from earlier. It was good—surprisingly good. And she’d bought it for you.

The thought made you pause, your spoon hovering mid-air.

When did this happen?

When did you and Haerin get this close?

Just months ago, she’d been the girl who pulled the fire alarm as a stupid joke(?), leaving you to take the blame. You still remember the awkward shuffle to detention every day for a whole month. You hated her then.

But now...

Now, she was here. In your house. On your couch.

Her laptop sat abandoned beside her, her head resting against your shoulder, her breaths slow and even.

She was asleep.

on your shoulder.

You turned your head slightly, careful not to wake her, and caught a glimpse of her face. With her mask pushed below her chin, her lips were slightly parted, her usually sharp features softened by the glow of the lamp. Her hair framed her face like she was the main character in some cheesy movie scene.

Your shoulder should’ve been aching by now, but it wasn’t.

Instead, there was a strange warmth blooming in your chest.

You stared at her, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around you like the blanket you were cocooned in. The realization crept in slowly, uninvited but impossible to ignore.

When did you stop hating her?

No—when did you start liking her?

Your heart gave an unsteady thud, loud enough that you were half-convinced she’d wake up and hear it. You looked away, setting the now-empty bowl on the coffee table, trying to stop the thoughts in your head.

This doesn’t mean anything, you told yourself. She’s just here because of the project.

But that didn’t explain the soup. Or the way her head fit so naturally against your shoulder. Or why, for the first time in a long time, you didn’t want to push her away.

Because even as you turned back to the glowing laptop screen, the weight of her head on your shoulder grounded you in a way that felt... nice.

Too nice.

You couldn’t stop yourself from glancing at her again. Just one more time. Her lashes cast faint shadows on her cheeks, and her lips twitched ever so slightly, like she was dreaming.

And for the first time in a while, you weren’t annoyed with her. You weren’t frustrated or rolling your eyes.

Instead, you felt something else entirely.

"This is seriously gross. I hope they get kicked out," Hyein fake-gagged, pretending to shove her finger down her throat.

"Call me delusional, but I've NEVER seen Haerin smile that much in one day," Hanni whispers, leaning over her textbook.

“Right?” Ryujin chimed in, flipping a page of her notebook like she wasn’t dropping a bombshell. “Can’t believe they’re not together yet.”

“They’re not?” Hyein and Hanni’s heads whipped around so fast you’d think they’d snapped their necks. Their voices rang out louder than intended, drawing a sharp glare from the librarian across the room.

"You guys didn't know?" Ryujin raises a brow.

"No!" Hyein and Hanni hiss in unison, which earns them another sharp glare from the librarian across the room. They duck their heads, covering their mouth.

Minji, equally scandalized, glances over at the two of you. "Wait, so... why not?"

Ryujin shrugs like she couldn’t care less, though her smirk says otherwise. "Beats me. Guess no one’s got the guts to confess."

“They’ve got to be, like, this close to confessing, though,” Hanni whispered, holding her thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart.

“Not happening,” Ryujin replied without looking up from her notes. “Y/n’s definitely not confessing first. She’d die before admitting she likes someone.”

From their point of view, it looked more like a cozy date than a group study session. Haerin had insisted on sitting apart from the others, claiming the group was "too distracting." Her excuse for picking you instead? “You’re less distracting.” The irony wasn’t lost on anyone.

At your table, Haerin was mid-rant about the superiority of tomatoes over avocados, her words spilling out like a flood. You weren’t even sure how the conversation had started, but she’d gone from mildly passionate to full-on Eminem-speed enthusiasm. The right earbud of her headphones in your ear, the left in hers, the music was playing "flaming hot cheetos" by clairo. this is so gay, omg wait.

And you? You were absolutely useless. All you could do was nod along, every word she said melting into background noise as your focus stayed glued to her. The way her lips curved into a smile every time she made a point. The way she'd playfully hit you when you occasionally tease her. The little crease in her brow when she was trying to organize her thoughts. The warmth in her voice when she was really, truly excited about something.

She was so... Haerin. There was no one else like her. She was warm but guarded, quiet but opinionated, reserved until she wasn’t. And, as much as you hated to admit it, you were a goner.

"Yeah- Wow. Y/N is GONE," Minji whispers, pointing in your direction.

"Awwh, shes looking at Haerin like she’s the only person on earth," Hyein mutters, earning a snort from Hanni.

"You know what we need to do?" Hyein suddenly perks up, her grin nothing short of mischievous. "We should bet on who confesses first."

"10,000 won on Y/N," Minji declares immediately, pulling a crumpled bill out of her pocket and slapping it onto the table. "No way Haerin makes the first move."

"I'm in," Danielle says, jolting awake from what everyone thought was a nap. She stretches lazily and plucks out her own contribution.

"Hold up. Isn’t this, like... morally questionable?" Hanni asks, though she’s already digging through her bag.

"Okay, but since when were you morally anything, Hanni?" Hyein quips, raising an eyebrow. Hanni gasps, clutching her bag like she’s been deeply wronged, before casually tossing in her money.

The group splits quickly—Hyein, Minji, and Ryujin bet on you, while Hanni and Danielle side with Haerin.

"Okay hear me out," Hanni leans in conspiratorially, her tone serious. "Haerin’s shy, yeah, but i feel like she's the type to make a surprise move when no one’s expecting it."

“Haerin? A surprise confession?” Minji deadpanned, her tone dripping with skepticism. “Y/N’s been pining for weeks. They’ll crack first.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night” Hanni retorted. "I have faith in Haerin’s game bro.”

The debate continues in hushed whispers, the occasional glare from the librarian barely slowing them down. Eventually, Hyein claps her hands together, her grin wider than ever.

“WAIT, What if neither of them confesses?” Ryujin said, leaning back in her chair.

"Okay, so if neither of them confesses by the end of the week, we *make* it happen." hyein says

“Meddling feels kinda wrong, though,” Danielle said, frowning slightly. “Doesn’t it?”

“You’re already betting on them,” Minji pointed out. “May as well go all in.”

"Exactly," Hyein says, the gleam in her eyes downright devious. "They’re both gay oblivious disasters. Someone’s gotta give them a little push."

The group nodded in agreement, the stakes set. They whispered plans and strategies, the quiet library filling with the sound of low murmurs and barely stifled laughter as they decided whose side to take and what meddling might be necessary.

Across the room, you and Haerin were oblivious, still locked in your bubble. Her rant about tomatoes had derailed into a tangent about guacamole, and you hadn’t stopped smiling once.

“You’re not even listening, are you?” Her voice broke through your internal spiral.

“Huh?” You blinked, heart stuttering when you realized she was looking right at you, her head tilted slightly in mock suspicion.

“I said,” she leaned in closer, the scent of her shampoo soft but overwhelming in this moment, “you’re just nodding to everything I say.”

“I… agree with you?” you tried, hoping your smile wasn’t as obvious as it felt.

She laughed—a soft, melodic sound that made your chest ache.

“So, Valentine’s is coming up…” Her voice dropped a notch, softer now, almost hesitant.

Your heart skipped a beat. She let the sentence hang there, unfinished. Hope flickered in your chest, reckless and eager. Was this it? Was she—?

“…If you would like to help me with our booth?” she finished, though something in her voice wavered, like it wasn’t what she’d really meant to say.

Oh.

The flicker of hope sputtered, dimming.

“Hahaha…pleaseee...We’re friends, right?” Haerin laughed, but it was tight, strained. Her eyes broke away first, dropping to the textbook in front of her like it had all the answers she couldn’t find in this moment.

Her thoughts were spinning wildly, one plea looping on repeat. Please don’t say we are. Please don’t say we are. She just needed a sign—something to confirm that this wasn’t all in her head.

“Yeah, we are.” You nodded, forcing a smile, feeling the words land heavy on your tongue. "I'll help"

No, we aren’t.

But you said it anyway, and Haerin swallowed the ache that came with it.

She wished it were different. She wished you’d called her bluff.

You were perched at your desk, half-heartedly flipping through your notebook while trying to focus on your chemistry homework. "Focus, Y/N," you muttered, rubbing your temple. It was supposed to be a free day—a rare reprieve during the school festival, when most students were outside enjoying the chaos of booths and events. So why were you stuck inside, pretending to be productive?

Oh, right, because the last thing you needed was to run into her.

The mere thought made you groan, slumping further into your seat. It wasn’t like you were avoiding her—okay, maybe you were—but could anyone blame you? It was only a few weeks ago that you convinced yourself she’d friend-zoned you, and ever since, you’d been determined to distance yourself before your feelings spiraled further out of control.

You sighed, flipping a page. “This is fine,” you whispered, as if convincing yourself. After all, who needed cotton candy and cheap prizes when you had stoichiometry and self-loathing?

"Y/N!" A sudden pat on your shoulder startled you. You turned to see your seatmate, who gestured toward the door.

There, standing with unsettlingly grins, were Hanni and… Minji?

"Y/N L/N?" Hanni called out.

"Yeah?" you replied cautiously. That was all the confirmation they needed. In an instant, they were heading straight for you.

"Come with us," Minji said, not waiting for a response as she helped you up.

“Wait—what’s going on?” you asked, but Hanni was already tying a blindfold over your eyes.

"Am I getting kidnapped?” you muttered as Minji tugged you out of the classroom.

Several minutes of stumbling through hallways, bumping into walls, and almost tripping down the stairs later, they finally guided you into another room.

You heard hurried shuffling and faint whispers before everything went eerily quiet.

Wait… was this their booth?

Your mind flickered back to something Minji had mentioned yesterday about a wedding booth, and unease crept up your spine. Before you could say anything, wedding music suddenly blasted through the room.

"EVERYONE PLEASE TAKE YOUR SEATS, THE CEREMONY IS ABOUT TO BEGIN!!" Ryujin’s unmistakable voice echoed through a microphone, and the room erupted in cheers and laughter.

"Hold up—" you started, but Hanni and Minji were already leading you onto what felt like a raised platform. A veil was suddenly placed over your head, and you could only stand there, bewildered.

"Today, we are gathered here at this most sacred… uh, classroom corner… to witness the union of these two lovely individuals!" Ryujin’s voice rang out again, brimming with mock seriousness.

Laughter and cheers filled the room again, but one pair of eyes wasn’t laughing.

"You may now remove your blindfolds!" Ryujin announced dramatically.

Your hands fumbled behind your head, untying the knot. As the cloth slipped from your face, you blinked, your vision adjusting to the light

What the hell?

Hyein leaned against the booth’s table, lazily sipping on a soda while sneaking glances at Haerin. Perfect timing. Right on cue, she spotted Minji and Hanni practically manhandling you down the hallway. You, blindfolded, were stumbling and muttering protests while they cackled like maniacs.

“Oh. My. GOD!” Hyein gasped dramatically, slamming her soda can down on the table.

Haerin looked up, “What?”

“Do you SEE that?!” Hyein pointed, her eyes wide. “Minji and Hanni are—oh my gosh—they’re dragging Y/N! AND she's blindfolded!”

Haerin’s brows furrowed, her gaze immediately snapping to you being dragged down the corridor. “Why are they—”

“No idea,” Hyein interrupted, grabbing Haerin’s arm with a gasp that was so over-the-top it bordered on comical. “But we havee to follow them. What if they’re kidnapping Y/N?!”

"Why are you speaking like tha—"

“Come ON!” Hyein didn’t give her time to finish, already tugging her along.

"Dude?"

And there he was—Hyunjin. In a suit. Or, more accurately, some half-baked attempt at one. He stood in front of the makeshift wedding booth, the blindfold finally off, wearing an expression that screamed he'd rather be anywhere else.

Your eyes widened. “Uh… what is this?”

Hyunjin tugged at the collar of his ill-fitting costume. “Wedding booth,” he said flatly. “Don’t look at me—I got roped into this. Apparently, someone actually paid for it, so just… play along.”

10 minutes ago...

Hyunjin groaned dramatically as Minji and Hanni hauled him through the hallway, his sneakers dragging against the tiled floor. "I’m on Y/N’s side. Why am I even helping you guys?"

"Just shut up," Minji snapped, yanking his arm harder. Hyunjin stumbled over something on the floor—probably an abandoned textbook, or maybe just his own pride.

"Minji, you’re on Y/N’s side too, you traitor—ow!" He gasped in mock betrayal as she gave him a little shove.

"The bet is off," Hanni groaned, throwing her hands in the air. "It’ll be the apocalypse before they confess to each other. We’ve given them so many chances."

“Exactly,” Hyunjin grumbles. “Why are we still doing this then?”

“Because we’re desperate,” Minji retorts, dragging him forward. “Now quit whining.”

"Fine, whatever, but is the blindfold really necessary?" Hyunjin wiggled his eyebrows, trying to peek under the fabric tied snugly over his eyes.

"Yes," Minji said firmly, steering him to the right. "Watch your step."

They stopped outside a classroom door, and Hyunjin immediately perked up at the sound of Ryujin’s voice.

"Jin! Good, you’re here." Ryujin slapped a bundle of fabric to his chest. "Here, put this on."

"What's this?" Hyunjin asked, holding the mysterious item at arm’s length.

"It’s a costume, obviously," Ryujin said, barely hiding her amusement. "Hurry up! They already went to fetch her."

Hyunjin groaned again, "Can I at least take off the blindfold?"

"No."

“What… is this?” Haerin asked,

“OhHh my god,” Hyein whispered, nudging her. “It’s a wedding booth! Look, they’re marrying Y/N and Hyunjin. Isn’t that, like, sooo cute?”

Haerin’s jaw tightened as she stared at the setup, something twisting in her chest. “It’s… stupid,” she muttered.

“Dearly beloved,” Ryujin began, her voice overly solemn, “we are gathered here today to witness the union of Y/N and Hyunjin in holy—uh—festival matrimony.”

The room filled with laughter as Ryujin continued, but Haerin stood frozen near the doorway.

It's just a booth.

A stupid booth. She repeated the thought like a mantra, but it did little to supress the sharp ache in her chest. Her fists tightened at her sides.

"Now, Hyunjin, do you take Y/N to be your unlawfully wedded wife in sickness and in health, in poverty and in wealth, and be true to her in all things until death alone shall part you?" Ryujin said, trying way too hard to sound like a pastor. She squinted at Hyunjin, her expression screaming, just go along with it, dude.

"I do," Hyunjin sighed, finally giving in.

Ryujin nodded and turned to you, clipboard in hand. "And Y/N, do you take Hyunjin to be your unlawfully wedded husband in sickness and in health, in poverty and in wealth, and be true to him in all things until death alone shall part you?"

You hesitated, glancing at the amused faces around you. "I guess…?"

From the sidelines, Hyein smirked and nudged Haerin. “They’re actually doing it. You’re just gonna stand there and let Y/N and Hyunjin get fake-married?”

Haerin’s chest tightened. Her breath hitched, sharp and uneven. “It’s just a booth, Hyein,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

Yeah, Haerin. Just a booth.

But if it was just a booth, why did this feel like someone had pulled the ground out from under her?

Why did it feel… real?

"Then by the power vested in me—”

Hanni nudged Ryujin. “Dude, you forgot the thing.”

“Right,” Ryujin cleared her throat, adjusting her glasses for effect. “Before we proceed, if anyone has objections to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Haerin froze. Her mind was suddenly everywhere and nowhere. Did she even have the right to object? It was a school festival. A dumb booth for laughs. But watching you stand there with Hyunjin (WITH A MAN.)—it made her stomach twist like she’d swallowed barbed wire.

“Haerin,” Hyein whispered, her voice low and teasing. “You’re just gonna let this happen?”

“I—” Haerin’s voice caught in her throat, sticking like gum.

Ryujin glanced up, sensing the hesitation. “Any objections?” she repeated, louder this time, her words hanging in the air like a challenge.

You turned your head, searching for her in the crowd. Your eyes locked onto hers, and for one fleeting second, you silently pleaded. You wished—no, hoped—she’d say something. Anything.

But she didn’t.

Haerin stood there, lips pressed shut, heart pounding like it was trying to make up for her silence.

The pause dragged on, and with it, everyone’s expectations crumbled.

Ryujin sighed. “Alright then. Let’s proceed.”

“By the power vested in me, by solid, liquid, and gas—”

“Ryujin, stop,” Hanni groaned.

“Fine. I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

“You may now kiss—”

“I OBJECT!”

The words burst out before Haerin even realized what she was saying. Her hand shot up on instinct—like it always did in class. But this time, for the first time, she didn’t have the answer. She didn’t know what to say next.

Everyone froze. The air seemed to thicken as all eyes turned to her. Hyein stifled a laugh behind her soda straw while Ryujin’s jaw dropped in mock disbelief. Minji, Danielle, and Hanni exchanged victorious smirks, clearly pleased their plan had worked.

Haerin stood stiffly, her chest tight and her fists clenched at her sides. Her heart raced as she realized the weight of what she’d just done.

Okay, what now?

What was she supposed to say next?

This wasn’t part of the plan—except there was no plan.

Her eyes found you.

And suddenly, she knew.

Without a word, Haerin marched toward the altar, her resolve as sharp as the gasp that rippled through the crowd. She grabbed your wrist, her grip firm but not rough, and pulled you out of the classroom.

“Okay, I appreciate you saving me back there, but where are we going?” you asked, trying to keep pace as Haerin dragged you down the hall.

She didn’t answer. Her grip was firm—not rough—but she wasn’t slowing down either. The faint chatter of the festival behind you started to fade, leaving only the sound of your footsteps echoing down the empty hallway. Finally, she stopped outside an unused classroom, chest rising and falling like she’d just finished a sprint.

“Haerin,” you tried again, but she turned to face you. Her eyes were locked on yours, a mix of determination and something else you couldn’t pin down. It made your stomach do that annoying flip thing it had no business doing.

“I—” she started, then stopped, running a hand through her hair like she was stalling for time. “Ugh, this is so… messy. I don’t even know where to start.”

You raised an eyebrow. “How about with why you just crashed my fake wedding?”

“Because—” she stopped again, visibly bracing herself. “Okay, I’m just going to say this before I lose my nerve.” Her voice was steady, but she kept fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. “I… like you. A lot. And not in the ‘begrudging respect’ way or whatever you’re probably imagining.

Your brain short-circuited for a second. “…What?”

“I’m serious,” she said quickly, “I didn’t plan on this happening. You hated me back then, and honestly? Same. But somewhere along the way, I started noticing things.” Her voice softened, like she was remembering each detail as she spoke.

“Like how you always hum when you’re concentrating—off-key, by the way, but it’s cute.” She smiled a little, her cheeks coloring. “And the way you tuck your chin into your sweater when you’re cold, even if it stretches out the neck. Or how you always carry extra pens even though you lose them half the time, just so no one else runs out during class.”

She glanced at you, then quickly away, like she wasn’t sure she should keep going. But she did.

“You chew your bottom lip when you’re trying not to laugh. And you never drink the last sip of your coffee because you think it tastes weird—but you’ll still offer it to someone else like it’s no big deal.”

Her gaze dropped to her hands, but then she looked back at you, like she was steadying herself. “At first, it was just curiosity. You’re loud, opinionated, stubborn. Basically everything I’m not. But working on that project with you? I don’t know—you made me want to do better. For once, I didn’t want to screw around and ruin things. Not when you were watching.”

She laughed softly, more at herself than anything else. “And the worst part? I wanted you to notice me. Not the version everyone else sees, but the real me. The screw-up who pretends not to care but actually does. And when the project ended, I realized…” She hesitated, her voice quieter now. “You make me feel like—”

You didn’t let her finish. Grabbing her collar, you pulled her into a kiss. It wasn’t smooth—your noses bumped, and it was kind of messy—but it got the point across. For once, her brain seemed to stop overthinking. She froze for half a second, then leaned into it, her hands hovering awkwardly near your shoulders before finally resting there.

When you pulled back, she looked completely stunned. Her eyes were wide, lips parted, like her brain was buffering. Then, slowly, the corner of her mouth curved into the tiniest smirk.

“I wasn’t done,” she muttered, her voice steady again.

“But I’ll take it.”

“LET’S GOOOOOO!”

Both of you jolted apart like you’d been electrocuted, turning toward the doorway as the sound of cheers and a confetti pop filled the air. Minji and Hanni stood there grinning like lunatics, Hanni holding a party popper in one hand and Minji, holding a camera.

Haerin groaned, her face going so red you thought she might actually combust.

“Haerin!” Hanni teased, drawing out her name with a dramatic gasp. “You didn’t tell us you were capable of romance!”

“Stop.” Haerin sputtered, flailing a hand in their direction.

“Not the Haerin confessing her feelings AND kissing someone all in one day,” Hyein added, clutching her chest like she was genuinely overwhelmed. “Who are you, and what did you do with the monotone gremlin we know?”

You covered your face, torn between laughing and dying of secondhand embarrassment. “You guys followed us?”

“Obviously,” Hanni said with zero shame. “How else were we supposed to know if she’d finally grow some balls?”

“Haerin, the WAYY you went full rom-com just now? We’re so proud,” Minji added, wiping an imaginary tear. “The heartfelt speech, the kiss—it’s like a movie.”

Ryujin smirked, tilting her head toward Haerin. “For someone who I usually hear speak in, like, three-word sentences, that was… impressive.”

“Right?” Hyunjin chimed in, still crouched dramatically. “Ten out of ten performance. I might actually cry. WAIT- Someone get me tissues.”

"Our Haerin is so grown up now." Danielle sighs

“For real, I feel like a proud bird mother watching her child fly,” Minji mock-sobbed, dabbing her eyes with her sleeve.

Haerin groaned again, burying her face in her hands. You reached out and gently bumped your shoulder against hers. “For what it’s worth, I thought it was cute,” you said, grinning.

She peeked at you from between her fingers, still red-faced but smiling despite herself. “You’re not helping.”

“Good. You owe me after dragging me through half the school, my arm's kinda sore.”

[nomie-11]

Between Worlds

masterlist!

synopsis: When a shimmering portal pulls you into the magical city of Piltover, you forge an unbreakable bond with Caitlyn Kiramman, a curious girl who shows you her glittering world. Years later, the portal reappears, but the Piltover you return to is darkened by war, and Caitlyn is now a cold, battle-hardened general. As you struggle to rekindle your bond and navigate the city’s buried secrets, you must confront the scars of time and war to rediscover the magic you once shared—and the promise you made to return.

pairings: caitlyn kiramman x reader

You had read Narnia when you were six, everyone read it at some point in their childhoods where you were from. You had read Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, and The Magic Treehouse, but magic wasn’t real. Magic was a thing of stories, a world that didn’t exist and a medium that wasn’t possible. But this, shimmering, shifting, living entity in your closet was magic. 

It looked like an iridescent web, shifting and gurgling every time you reached your hand toward it. It acted as if it would like to swallow you whole, to transport you to another world, another dimension. 

But still, you couldn’t resist reaching out and brushing your hand against its pearly white colors. You touched first with one finger, then pressed another one down, until your whole hand was flush against the entity in your closet, and then you pressed your arm into it, up until your elbow. 

It happened all at one. A pull—sharp, yet soft—like the tide dragging you into an ocean of light. You couldn’t scream, couldn’t think, only tumble into a spinning abyss of sound and color. When the world stopped tilting, you landed hard on your knees, your hands sinking into something cold yet soft. Grass. 

Looking up, your breath hitched. This wasn’t your room, your world. The sky above was a shade of blue more vibrant than you’d ever seen before, streaked with clouds that looked almost painted. Strange, towering gold buildings jutted up all along the skyline, their surfaces glimmering like glass. Even the air smelled different—sweet, electric, and sharp. 

You turned, your heart hammering. That’s when you saw her. 

A girl about your age stood a few paces away, her wide, curious eyes locking onto yours. Her hair was a cascade of deep indigo, tied neatly, and her clothing—a tailored vest and high boots—looked straight out of a storybook. 

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice crisp yet cautious. 

For a moment, all you could do was gape. How were you supposed to explain? Your clothes—a plain t-shirt and jeans—felt glaringly out of place, as if the entire world had turned to stare at your modernity. You opened your mouth, closed it, and tried again. 

“Are you a princess?” 

“A princess?” She echoed, tilting her head. 

“Yeah. A princess, like from Disney, or… England!” You snapped your fingers, hoping she would know at least what England was, even if Disney didn’t exist in this… universe(?) you had somehow fallen into. 

“I hate to be rude, but I’m not a ‘princess,’ whatever that is,” she replied, her lips quirking upward in a faith smile as if amused by the strange terminology. “My name is Caitlyn Kiramman. And you… well, you’re not from Piltover, are you?” 

Piltover. You repeated the name in your head, trying to place it on the map that hung on the wall of your homeroom. Piltover, piltover… Piltover doesn’t exist. “I’m… not sure where that is. I mean… no. I’m not from here.” 

Her eyes scanned your clothes—your jeans, sneakers, and the faded cartoon character printed on your shirt. She looked utterly perplexed, but there was no malice in her expression, only curiosity. 

Before you could explain further, a deeper voice interrupted. 

“Cait, who is this?” 

An older man approached—a man with kind eyes holding a box of gadgets and cogs. You stiffened under his gaze, shrinking as you struggled to piece together a coherent explanation. 

“Jayce! She’s…” Caitlyn hesitated. She glanced at you, then back to him. “A traveler. I found her in the garden. I think she might be lost.” 

The man frowned but didn’t press further. “Come on, let’s get the two of you home. Your mother will know what to do.” 

—--------------------

The days that followed felt like something out of a fever dream. Caitlyn’s family assumed you were from a distant, eccentric city. They marveled at your strange dialect and unfamiliar clothing, but chalked it up to ‘cultural differences.’ 

Jayce, the older man Caitlyn was friends with, seemed weirdly interested in the Nintendo DS you had stuffed into your back pocket, asking how the screen worked and how the game played, despite you not knowing because you had bought it at a store and didn’t build it yourself. When you asked if he had a cell phone so you could call your mom to pick you up, he spent 20 hours interrogating your over cellular data and wi-fi and what a phone number was. 

And Caitlyn? She became your guide, your lifeline to understanding this glittering, bewildering world. She showed you the bustling streets of Piltover, the towering spires of the academy district, the clockwork marvels that hummed and whirred like living creatures. She laughed at your questions and called you “peculiar” with a warmth that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. 

But as quickly as it began, it ended. 

One morning, you awoke to find the shimmering portal in Caitlyn’s room—a mirror to the one in your own closet at home—pulsating with light. A whisper in the back of your mind told you it was time. Time to go back. 

Tears burned in Caitlyn’s eyes as you explained. She argued at first, begging you to stay, but deep down, you both knew it wasn’t possible. 

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Promise me.” 

“I will,” you swore, linking your pinky with hers (another thing you had taught her one day when you made her promise to save you a cookie at lunch). “I promise.”

But promises made by children are fragile things. 

—-----------------------------------------

Years passed in your world, though they felt strangely muted. After stumbling back through the portal into your closet, you’d collapsed on your bedroom floor, clutching at your chest like you’d left your heart behind in Piltover. Your parents found you hours later, dazed and rambling about ‘clockwork cities’ and a girl named Caitlyn. They assumed it had all been a vivid dream, a figment of your overactive imagination spurred by too many fantasy books. 

At first, you fought to hold onto the memories—scribbling sketches of golden spires, random doodles of Jayce’s kind eyes and his gadgets, charcoal drawings of Caitlyn’s smile and the warmth behind her blue eyes. But as days blurred into years, doubt crept in. Had it been real? The glow of the portal, the hum of the streets, Caitlyn’s hand clasped in yours—was it all just a child’s desperate attempt to escape the terror of reality?

Life continued. Schools, jobs, growing up. Yet something always felt missing, like a part of you had been carved out and left in a faraway world. Your friends talked about travel, of finding their heart in a foreign country or a far off place, but no country on any map called to you. 

It wasn’t until you stumbled upon the cave during a hiking trip—its walls etched with shimmering patterns—that the memories flooded back. The portal stood before you, alive and beckoning, just as it had all those years ago. 

You didn’t hesitate this time. 

The pull was familiar, a spinning rush that left your stomach in your throat. When you landed, the air smelled of oil and smoke, sharp and acrid, and so different from the sweet electric scent you remembered. The skyline of Piltover had changed—darker, more imposing, with huge spheres rising up out of pillars, airships being shot into space with a beam of blue light. 

Clutching the strap of your hiking back, you made your way down the familiar streets of the once golden city down to the Kiramman estate. But as you rounded the final corner, your steps faltered. The once-grand house stood as a fortress now, its once open and ornate gates replaced with cold, closed iron and armed guards. 

You hesitated, lingering in the shadows as unease crept up your spine. This wasn’t the home you’d left behind. The Caitlyn you knew wouldn’t need walls to protect her. What had happened to Piltover?

Before you could decide your next move, the sharp clang of metal boots echoed behind you. 

“State your business,” an enforcer barked, his rifle trained on you. 

You raised your hands, stammering, “I’m looking for Caitlyn Kiramman. Please—I knew her years ago.” 

The enforcer’s face hardened. “You’re trespassing. Come quietly, or we’ll make this difficult.” 

Fear prickled at the edges of your mind, but before you could protest, a voice sliced through the tense air. 

“Let her go.” 

The enforcers immediately straightened, their weapons lowering as a figure emerged from the shadows behind the iron gate. 

Caitlyn. 

Or at least, the woman she had become. 

Her indigo hair was tied up into a perfect ponytail. Her once curious eyes were colder, her posture rigid in a crisp uniform adorned with medals. She was taller, her presence commanding and distant. The girl who had laughed with you under Piltover’s painted skies was nowhere to be found. 

“Take her to the station,” Caitlyn said without sparing you a glance. 

Your chest constricted. “Cait, it’s me!”

She paused, her expression flickering for a split second before the mask of authority returned. 

“Take her,” she repeated, turning on her heel. 

You struggled against the enforcers as they dragged you away, shouting her name until your voice was hoarse. But Caitlyn didn’t look back. 

It wasn’t until hours later, after being confined in a holding cell in Piltover’s industrial heart, that she finally appeared again. This time, she dismissed the guards before stepping inside, her boots clicking sharply against the cold floor. 

“Who are you?” she asked, her tone detached, but there was a tremor beneath it—a crack in the facade. 

“It’s me,” you whispered, stepping forward. “Don’t you remember? The traveler who stumbled into your garden? The one who promised she’d come back.” 

She flinched, just barely, but enough for you to notice. 

“You… remember me,” you said, hope threading through your voice. 

Her jaw tightened. “It doesn’t matter. That was a lifetime ago. Whoever you think I was, she’s gone.” 

“No.” Your voice shook, but you stood your ground. “You’re still you. You’re Caitlyn Kiramman. You’re the girl who taught me how to climb the academy steps without tripping. The girl who shared her sweets even when I didn’t ask. The girl who pinky-promised to save me a cookie at lunch. You’re still her.” 

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, almost imperceptibly, her shoulders slumped. The mask she wore cracked, and for the first time, you saw the weight she carried. 

“I waited,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “For years, I waited. But you didn’t come back and things changed. People died.” 

“I couldn’t find the portal again,” you admitted, tears welling in your eyes. “I thought it was gone forever. I thought maybe… I imagined it all. But I didn’t, and I’m here now.” 

Caitlyn’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You don’t understand what you’ve come back to. Piltover isn’t the same place you left. We’re at war and I’m the leading general. I’m not the same person.” 

“Then let me understand,” you said, stepping closer. “Show me.” 

For a long moment, she simply stared at you. Then, slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing against yours. 

“Maybe,” she whispered, “it’s too late.”

request for @multi-muse-transect <3

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

[revelboo]

Heya~ hope your doing well! And I hope you had a swell bday!! 🎉

It's been a bit since you've done anything for Prowl, are you still writing for him? Have you seen the new Earthspark season? 🥺🥺

I haven’t seen the new season, just yet, but will. I don’t really track these, just writing whatever as it occurs to me so my posting schedule can be a bit… weird

Stand Too Close Pt 4

IDW Prowl x Reader

• Sitting in his palm, clinging to a servo since he’s not holding you in his hand like normal and you don’t want to fall, you try to gauge his mood from his blank expression. And to figure out why he’s not yelling, yet. As much as the rest of them seem to think the tactician is always in control, always calm- you’ve seen the other side. That anger he tries so hard to hide from the other Autobots, but not you. “Do you hate me?” He asks, tone almost bored as he walks to his quarters.

• “You locked me in a drawer,” you retort, shifting so your back is to him so he can’t try to analyze your expression. “Remember?” You sound more tired than angry to him. And by some miracle you don’t feel the need to point out that he’d ruined your life, your favorite jab. Venting, he mulls over that and wonders if maybe he should have left you with Bumblebee or any other Bot. Someone you could relax around and not constantly fight with. Why does that thought bother him so much? Because some twisted part of him enjoys the verbal sparring and the challenge of someone as poisonous as he is. As angry.

• “Then behave,” he says and despite your decision to ignore him, you glare up over your shoulder at him. “You ran out in front of me that day. You didn’t watch where you were going,” he adds and you’d almost swear one corner of his mouth is twitching like he’s trying not to smile. Like it’s funny to him as your face reddens. You don’t even realize you’re already back to his quarters until he tilts his palm and you’re forced to slide off onto his desk as he pulls out his chair. And the reaction is immediate and unthinking. Yanking off one of your sneakers and beaning him in the face with it.

• “Excuse me?!” You screech, face redder than he’s ever seen it as he just stares. You’d dared to hit him one of your little feet coverings? Challenge him? “I was in a crosswalk,” you yell, throwing out an arm and your level of fury is almost endearing, because you don’t have to play nice. You can scream all you like and what must that be like? To not bottle everything up all the time? You’re pulling off the other covering to throw when he places his palms on the desk and mass shifts, vaulting up onto the surface with you as he shrinks. And you scramble backwards, tripping and going sprawling on his data pad. Mouth falling open in shock, but still managing to throw that stupid covering at his him.

• Swearing as your shoe bounces off his chassis, you scramble to get away as he stalks your way, optics pale and angry. Your mind clawing for sense of the fact that he can apparently shrink, that fact second to that he’s angry and you don’t want those big hands on you when he’s this livid. A hand grabs your ankle to drag you back and you kick him in the jaw with the other leg without thinking, catching him by surprise as his head snaps back. And you freeze as he reaches up to slide a thumb over his lip, growling as it comes away wet with energon and oh, no. You really shouldn’t have done that. His glossa slides over his thumb, door wings trembling. “Come here,” he snarls.

• Little brat. You try to crawl away and he drags you back again, flipping you into your back and straddling your hips this time so you can’t kick him in the face again. And you go ballistic, screaming profanity in his face, your own face scarlet as you try to hit him and he bares his denta, capturing your wrists and pinning them above your head when you slap him, squirming under him like a wild thing. “You only landed a blow because you caught me by surprise,” he growls as your eyes flash with hate and you bare your little teeth at him, hips bucking under him. “Clearly no one’s ever taught you how to defend yourself.”

• Swearing, you try to wriggle your hands loose and give up when he tightens his grip in a subtle warning. Your anger faltering when he slaps a palm against the desk by your head and leans over you. Too close, you can feel him venting against your throat, his face right above yours. Suddenly very aware of the way he has you pinned and the heat of him. “Next time, put up more of a fight. Make it last,” he whispers, one corner of his mouth curling and it’s like a punch to the gut, the shock of that rueful little smile overwhelming you until you can’t breathe. Too aware of him and the fact that you like that cocky smile as much as you hate him. Panic claws at you, because you’re not sure this is anger anymore just that you want him off of you. Can’t get free of his grip, but he’s so close and he freezes, optics narrowing when you lift your head. And bite his already bleeding bottom lip as hard as you can.

Previous

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[justanothervoreblog]

Big Brother's Indulgence

Martin had been warned so many times about the noise. Once was an honest mistake, two was recklessness, and three was just a blatant disregard. Kyle had to lay down the law. He pardons himself from the game chat that he was on and makes his way towards Martin's room. Martin had a friend over, Sam, the two of them together were a nightmare. However, both of them together would be delicious.

Kyle opens up the door and interrupts both of the noisemakers. Right before he was about to grab them, he could see cans of Coke all over the floor. So not only had Martin failed to entertain his guests at unreasonable noise levels, but he went right into Kyle's secret stash of sodas. Now this was more than just punishment, this was earned gluttony.

Kyle's belly growled out in anticipation and Martin immediately realized that he had fucked up. He had watched Kyle swallow up a couple of religious solicitors once. Martin was fully aware of what his brother could do and began to plead for his mercy. Sam foolishly believed that this was a punishment was relegated family members to try to make a subtle exit. Kyle grabs him by the shoulders and opens his mouth possibly wide. Sam screams but it is immediately cut off by the muscled walls of Kyle's throat. To make sure that Martin doesn't try a similar stunt, Kyle seizes Martin by the shirt. He gets a front-row ticket to his brother's gluttony.

Kyle shoves Sam into his mouth. The saliva slicks up the shoulders and helps them slide past that pink tongue. Afterward, the lean chest and abs follow quickly. Martin's room is filled with Kyle's gluttony and satisfied moans. His stomach greedily awaited the arrival of Sam. It gets its first bit of food when Sam's head pops past that tight stomach ring. It was an uninviting and hostile place, Kyle's belly. Inside was digesting Pizza and leftovers, and he was pretty sure that there was a Best Buy t-shirt. All that remains of the unhelpful worker that Kyle had snapped up.

Martin watched as Sam's legs uselessly outside of his brother's maw. His thighs are slowly reduced down to the calves. Kyle removes the sneakers from Martin's feet. He leaves the socks though, it was always a bit of a kink of his. Then Martin watches as Sam goes from best friend to brother food with a single gulp. The bulge passes down into Kyle's throat and then expands inside of his belly. Martin can hear Sam's cries from inside. He watches Kyle rub over that belly and Martin trapped within. Martin knows that it was fucked up way to think, but he silently hopes that Sam was enough for Kyle's hunger.

For a moment, Kyle just pushes his brother's face up against his expanding dome. Martin could feel every twitch that Sam made and realized that if he ever wanted to see Sam again, he'd have to ask Kyle to lift his shirt. Kyle didn't usually let his meals go and this wasn't the first time that he had snacked on Martin's friends. Billy, Josh, and Steve had all made their way down Kyle's throat.

Then a rumbling vibrates Kyle's belly and Martin knows exactly what was about to happen. With a loud burp, the nastiest-smelling air is expelled. It was wet too, bits of spittle landing on Martin's face. All of it, unfortunately, smelled like Sam. The dome slightly shrinks to reveal Martin continuing to struggle. The fight inside the belly becomes clear for a moment. Then the belly expands again leaving the prey obscured.

Kyle's eyes then drift down to Martin, his little brother. For a moment there is an exchange, no words. Could Kyle eat his brother? His own flesh and blood? Was that a line that he could cross? Martin hoped that there was some limit to Kyle's gluttony. Maybe eating one of his friends was enough and Kyle would let him go? Perhaps, there was a chance. Kyle lifted him so that Martin was close enough to smell Kyle's Sam-scented breath. The pool of saliva building up at the back of his mouth was intimidating. Still, Kyle wouldn't actually do it right, right?

Martin's hopes get dashed as Kyle licks his lips. Martin doesn't remember what Kyle says after that. Something about how the second course is always sweeter or something along that line. What Martin does remember is Kyle opening up his mouth and his world turning to darkness…

Kyle could feel the weight of his gaming chair creek. Other chairs he had owned would have broken by now, but this one had been properly reinforced. If Kyle was going to eat like a pig, then he should have a chair that fits him like one. Martin and Sam had saved him only one Coke. So who is the real pig here? It was still Kyle, now with Martin and Sam trapped inside of his belly.

The struggle had calmed down a while ago, both boys accepting their fate as food for Kyle. Kyle savors their taste with a refreshing Coke as he texts the game chat that he will be a moment. He was going to order some more food for himself and in a way, Martin and Sam. Of course, if they ate the food that already came down, it was their business. Kyle had already gotten his.

So while Kyle waited for the food delivery, his hands roamed over that mighty gut. His little brother was trapped inside, wondering if he would see the sun again. Kyle wasn't sure if his little brother would be let out. Sam would be a permanent resident, much like his other little friends. Kyle thought about the questions his dad might ask. It was enough to make him reconsider or… Kyle could just show his dad where Martin had gone. The thought of that makes him chuckle as he rubs his fat gut. As he daydreams about the scenario, Martin plays with his belly button.

The doorbell cuts him out of his delusions. He stands with his hefty belly and stretches realizing that the food was here. Right before he was about to head to the door, his belly growled.

The question is this: Did Kyle want thirds?