#he’s still winning but he could be sweeping more
Text
SOLUTION.
Art Donaldson x Reader | 5k words
SORRY SERIES LINK.
warnings: pregnancy, implied discussion of abortion, a boy groveling on his knees for his family, there’s a dog (a real one, not just Art), talk about Art’s forced weird athletic borderline disordered eating.
okay, i lied last time. THIS is my best work. this is very out of my brain and i hope you love it. holy shit.
Have you ever sat and listened to a leaky faucet? I mean, really listened?
Steady. Like a heartbeat, if you think about it.
Sometimes, though, if the leak is slow enough, it’s more like the kind of heart rate that sends the nurse with the crash-cart sweeping into the room to shock you out of an AFIB pattern. Or however that worked.
[Y/N] was listening to it. The dripping. The kitchen sink. It hadn’t stopped for days. When it began, it was steady. Now, it was irregular. It started the day Art left
Art had been away at an early season tournament. [Y/N] had an impossible work week, so Art had told her he was happy to go for the better part of the week on his own. They both knew Art really did hate to be alone in situations like that. He had always had one of his people there. His mom, Patrick, [Y/N]; one of them was in his corner at these things. This time, he was truly on his own. Art could not stand to travel alone. He had his team of physios and coaches, but not his family. [Y/N] was going to swing by and surprise him at the end, but her boss had leaned into her for trying to take more days off during release season for the big summer blockbusters. Plus, someone did have to watch the dog.
This context about Art’s being away is important. It’s not that Art was the epitome of a handyman, but he really liked to feel like he was contributing to their home’s ecosystem when a lightbulb went out or a switch needed replacing. The man was incredible with the small things. Yet, [Y/N] sat at the kitchen table with a frown on her face, trying to rough in an outline for an article. With the faucet dripping. If Art were there, or if she was with Art three states over, the faucet wouldn’t be dripping against the porcelain basin.
It wasn’t like the wifi signal was strong enough anywhere else on the property for her to up and move either.
drip drip drip. Said the faucet.
[Y/N] was damn near the point where she was going to run upstairs to the bedroom and get the baseball bat Art kept with the express purpose of running down the stairs in his briefs and cracking up on possible intruders. All she could think about was bringing the wood down against the glass and cheap metal on her kitchen counter.
A new house would have a working sink and a bathroom counter that wasn’t too small and a halfway decent wifi signal.
Instead, [Y/N] set her face down upon the cool blue faux granite countertop. The temperature helped ease the feeling of the hyperbolic corkscrew being driven between her eyes. The dripping kept dripping and [Y/N] wanted to cry.
This agony wasn’t all the sink’s fault, though.
[Y/N] saw on the tennis channel before she even got a call from Art that he’d won that weekend. He still hadn’t called. The lack of a call from made her feel ashamed. Not a soul there to celebrate the success with him. She felt an immense sense of guilt slide across her skin because she wasn’t there to witness that smile he got when he won. Sweaty and angry, but relieved every time. He still got that look when he won. Art was a machine on the court, and a competitor not worth counting out at this point in his career. He still looked surprised and delighted every time he, of all people, hit the winner. [Y/N] loved that look. Art loved how she would celebrate with him after a win, too.
[Y/N] prayed Art made his flight without delay that evening. Selfishly, because she wanted her boy back. Also because Art was mortally terrified of airplanes. Planes made him feel out of control due to lack of trust with the pilot. Without that phone call from him, [Y/N] was scared knowing he was out on his own and that he likely felt anxious enough to give a horse a heart attack. She would have no way of knowing if something had happened between the match end and now.
She did know that the sink was leaking.
She also knew her period was two weeks late.
That, Art couldn’t fix on his own. In fact, it was fairly obvious that the delay was more or less Art’s fault.
[Y/N] hadn’t yet taken a pregnancy test at that time. If she took the time to take one, it would make everything the obvious answer a reality she would have to deal with. She had scares before. Ones that she had never, and would never, tell Art about. She would wait for her delayed—not missed!—period and everything would be fine. Like the other times. It had to be fine.
She checked her phone. It was a blue slidephone with small rhinestone stickers she had applied to the back. Still nothing from Art. He said he would call first right after the match, but he still hadn’t actually called, so maybe it was time to call first. It had been hours since he said he’d ring up. It wasn’t a major concern that Art would blow her off. Ideas of danger and uncertainties flooded her head.
“I’m the one that wants marriage so bad. Not Artie. What if he says no? Or not now…?”
[Y/N] sat on the beach with her back against Patrick’s shins. Art and [Y/N] were completing their first year completely post college. [Y/N] and Patrick were twenty-four and Art was almost twenty-four. His November birthday set him behind.
Patrick’s hands were on her shoulders and his body in a beach chair behind her while they both stared off over ocean as the sun set. “You’re actually stupid if you think he’ll deny you, [Y/N].”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to step on his game, or whatever. The guy is supposed to ask. Isn’t this going to be… emasculating or something?”
“Emasculating for Art? For pretty baby? Yeah, okay,” Patrick teased. [Y/N] threw a fistful of sand at him. “Christ, okay, okay. Cool it.” He spit.
Art had run back up toward to hotel to grab his water bottle, while Patrick and [Y/N] stayed at the dunes. [Y/N] wanted to propose to Art by trip’s end. She thought it would be sweet. Art was extremely forward when it came to her her, but he hadn’t been forward about the whole proposal business. He seemed scared about marriage. [Y/N]he would do it herself.
She was grateful for the time alone with her best friend too. Sitting and doing nothing, or partying. Either was more than welcome. “He’s not going to say no,” Patrick continued. His mouth casually leaned close to her ear. “Because it’s insane how whipped you’ve got him.”
“Don’t say that—“
“He wants to have your babies. Ask him. Trust me, he’ll say yes and he will be all the hell over you.” His fingers worked into [Y/N]’s shoulders, feeling the tension there. He took his hands off of her when Art came running down the beach.
[Y/N] heard a click in the lock. Her head flopped to the left, still pressed against the counter, to glance at the door. Her heart rate increased. She was so tired and the speed of the situation so fast, that she didn’t both moving or attempting to defend herself.
Most fortunately, when the door swung open, it was her Art. The sun was going down behind him. He looked a bit ragged and had a racket bag over one shoulder and two duffels in the other hand. She sat upright sharply on the kitchen barstool. “Pretty baby!”
All Art’s gear hit the floor. The door was left open behind him (taking a big chance that their Labrador mix, Cheese, didn’t run down the stairs and bolt out and away). Art walked toward [Y/N], arms extending. His strong arms pulled [Y/N] in close to his chest. She rested her head against his soft gray t-shirt. Her own arms embraced him back and one of her hands tucked comfortably into the back pocket of his jeans. “[Y/N]… I missed you.” Art said into her hair.
“I missed you… I-I… You didn’t call. How did you get here—“
“Final match actually started on time, so I gambled on moving my flight to the earlier one. I didn’t have time to call if I was taking the early one. I should’ve texted. I got nervous with the-the flight. I’m sorry. Forgive me?”
[Y/N] leaned back to look at him. There was no more welcome sight in the world than Art Donaldson. Irish genetics saw to it that Art was freckled from the spring sun. With shaggy hair boyishly covered by a baseball cap tipping back dangerously, he practically glowed. Even though he looked like shit. His sunglasses were hanging on his shirt. [Y/N/] tilted her head up, signaling for a kiss. Hungrily, Art leaned forward to take as many kisses as he wanted. His lips tasted like spearmint gum. Like always.
Cheese did run downstairs when Art’s hand climbed up the side of [Y/N]’s throat and when her own hand started to squeeze from under the fabric of Art’s back left pants pocket. Art had to pull regretfully away to grab Cheese by the collar and shut the front door.
Delightedly, Art did gteet Cheese with ear-scratches and a belly rub. Art received the customary licks and a tailwags in return. Cheese was always pretty down when the whole family wasn’t together. He walked and played a bit, but when his dad wasn’t around, Cheese kind of deflated. He had spent most of the time laying flat on Art’s side of the bed. It was obvious the dog was grieving the disappearance of his boy.
When Art bent down to pat his beloved Cheese, [Y/N] stood from her chair and bent at the waist. She pulled Art’s hat off and set it on the counter. Gently, she kissed Art on top of the head. With a scratch not unlike the ones he gave to the canine to the back of Art’s neck, the man looked up at her from the ground with a half-smile.
“Congrats, baby,” [Y/N] said. Art cut his eyes curiously from her to the tennis channel on the TV playing in the next room. That had him realizing where she would have gotten the information of his win from so efficiently. “How was the tournament? I’m sorry I couldn��t—“
“Sure, sure, but I bet Cheese here is pretty glad you were home,” Art said and stood up with one final pat to Cheese’s flank. “The whole thing was great. I… I’m kind of surprised I won, if I’m being honest.” Art said, wrapping an arm around [Y/N]’s waist.
Naturally, her hands flattened against his toned chest when he tugged her towards him. “I’m not. You’re fucking good at tennis, Art.”
His ears reddened in embarrassment as he tucked his face into [Y/N]’s neck to hide his face. Art was used to praise and loved it more than anything, no matter where it came from. Every compliment from [Y/N] was worth a hell of a lot more. Art hated thinking about why that was the case. He knew why, though. She had seen he and Patrick play and even then thought Art was good. Art still won the match when it came to [Y/N] and he would never tell her that.
“Hush…” He mumbled into her neck, planting a biting, teasing kiss there. She laughed. He laughed. “I played against an eighteen year old kid yesterday. He played really well,” Art leaned back to look at her again. “You saw, I’m sure,” he indicated the TV with a nod. “He would’ve won this weekend if I hadn’t won that match. Just… I’m twenty-six. Made me feel old.”
“…Glad you won, then.”
“I said if I hadn’t…”
“Well, if you’re sooooo down on your win then congrats on flying home all by yourself like a big boy.” [Y/N] smirked.
“Oh, you’re gonna be like that, huh?” Art withdrew his hands from his wife’s body and put them teasingly on his own hips.
[Y/N] nodded. “Yeah. If you’re old, imagine how I feel.”
“Ancient, probably.”
Art leaned in for another kiss. She pushed him back playfully. “No! You called me old!” [Y/N] laughed.
She leaned one way, then the other to avoid Art’s beautifully wrinkled nose and smiling mouth. “Please? I’m sorry, I’m sorry! You’re-you’re not old!” Art said and attempted to trap her with his arms and give her a kiss.
[Y/N] turned hard over her shoulder and ran up the stairs. Cheese gave a woof from the couch when Art chased after her. Art spent his life chasing after her.
“No! You can’t kiss me! Doghouse! Bad Art! Bad!” [Y/N] accused jokingly. Art jumped up the stairs. He took them two and three at a time.
Art backed her against the bathroom door. Nowhere left to run. His rough hands settled on her hips. “Gotcha. You’re pretty fast for an old lady, y’know. Late for bingo, or—“ Art smirked when he leaned in to kiss her.
[Y/N] shut him up with a kiss. She had missed his stupid boy babbling. His mouth was soft against hers. Art put one of his hands on the wooden door beside her face to hold himself up. The other hand found her belt loop, keeping her body close to his.
“I love you,” Art whispered between kisses. “I love you so much, honey. I missed you.”
[Y/N]’s head leaned back against the door with a soft thud. Her breath caught in her throat. “I love you t—mmh!” Art leaned in for another kiss.
The joy of being Art Donaldson’s wife was that he never got tired of touching her, or being physically close. Sometimes, [Y/N] would look over at him while she was writing, or making dinner, and he would be staring, or slowly extending his hand to her and seeing how long it took for [Y/N] to acknowledge his presence. It never ceased to make her feel beautiful. “Can we…” his fingers danced over the button on her jeans.
“Can we what…?” She asked coyly.
Art blushed, but smirked and lowered his lips by [Y/N] ear. “Can we fuck? Please?” He asked too politely for as dirty as those words were. Like the good midwestern boy that he was.
She tipped her head back further. Art kissed her neck with all the energy he could muster. “Can I not make you dinner first? You-you a cheap whore as well as old now, too?” [Y/N] jeered. Art snorted a laugh. The warm air from the giggle spread over [Y/N]’s skin, causing goosebumps to raise. “I’m never letting you leave home alone again, then.”
Art nodded against her skin, sucking and licking a spot they both new would bruise dark. The sound she let out was absolutely disgusting and Art loved it. “I would prefer to never be let out of your sight, personally.” He said when he pulled away.
“Come on, house boy… We’re havin’ dinner. And you’re gonna eat some bread,” [Y/N] said, pointing a finger at Art’s chest. He started to put up a fight about the ultra-low nonexistent amount of inactive carbs he was eating during the season, but [Y/N] kept chattering. “Stop talking. Your brain doesn’t work right without carbs. Braindead. Come on, dinner.”
“You’re bad for me.”
“I know.” [Y/N] smiled.
Normally, [Y/N] drank a cup of coffee when the pair made dinner. Art knew the pattern. He made her the cup of coffee every time. It sat mostly unfinished that night, though. She found herself heating and reheating it in the microwave as they cooked. She started to space out as he recapped the tournament in full detail, as she requested. If Art noticed, he didn’t let on. [Y/N] noticed, though. Little stood between her and coffee. She didn’t want to drink it. That was violently unusual.
“Hey, I’m gonna go piss. Can you—“
“Watch the sauce?” Art asked, indicating the creamy pesto she had on the stove while Art cleaned and cut vegetables.
“Mhm.” [Y/N] confirmed. Art slid over to take the spoon from her. He placed a hand at the bottom of her back as she walked away. Art fit perfectly into her life. It wasn’t fair how right he was for her.
She went to the upstairs bathroom instead of the downstairs one. She hoped that didn’t set off Art’s sixth sense about the way-things-had-to-be. Once upstairs, [Y/N] wasted no time yanking open the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. It was overflowing, naturally. Makeup, supplements, condoms, hair ties, pill bottles, loose painkillers. It was a disaster. There was also a pregnancy test.
A laughing Art had given it to [Y/N] as a joke the morning after their wedding night and she had hit him hard enough to bruise across the chest. The test sat wrapped and in the box behind the mirror every day since. Just in case.
[Y/N] had officially arrived at just in case.
She gingerly tossed the empty box under the sink so Art wouldn’t see it without looking for it. Then, [Y/N] undid the buttons on her overalls and, well, took the test.
Lacking the time to sit and watch it come back positive or negative, [Y/N] tossed the clean cap on the stick, slid it into the pocket of her overalls, washed her hands and went downstairs like nothing was wrong.
Except she knew something was wrong. Now she felt like she had a loaded gun in her pocket. She was too cautious with her movements due to the fear that the test would slip out of her front right pocket in front of Art.
She was damn near about to step into the pantry and shut the door just to see if the pee stick had one line or two. If he wasn’t already suspicious, that would do it. [Y/N] felt that the anxiety created was easily the worst anxiety she had ever had. Oops.
[Y/N] got quiet. She was talking less and listening more. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but she was a chatterbox. Art would notice her blanched face and wrinkled brow eventually, she worried.
Ever the perceptive bastard, Art did. When he sat beside [Y/N] at the counter to eat a bowl of pasta with more inactive carbs than he had eaten in six months, he kept cutting his eyes at her. His bare foot nudged her ankle. Her dish was relatively untouched. “You good, babe? You’re being weird.”
“I’m not being weird.”
“You are being weird because you’re not being you. I’ve barely asked you how you’re doing with all the excitement. Long day?” Art asked, setting down his fork to drag his hand across the back of her shoulders.
“Yeah, a bit.” [Y/N] said. What she meant to say was I have a pregnancy test and I bet it is positive in my pocket right now and I’m so terrified that I can practically smell my pit stains right now, baby. But she didn’t say that.
Art spun to face her, taking in her expression and demeanor. There was that contemplative knot perched between his eyebrows. The back of his hand landed calmly on [Y/N]’s forehead to check her temperature. “Art…” [Y/N] said, pushing his hand down.
“No, hang on.” Art said firmly. He tried to put his hand back on her face. Instead, not having a clue what it said, [Y/N] reached into her front right pocket and slammed the pregnancy test down between them. Art retracted his hand and flinched back a bit at the sudden movement. The test was face down on the counter.
Art’s eyes cut from the test back to her. His face was suddenly very solemn. “Are you—“
“—I dunno. I didn’t-I couldn’t look. It’s been in my pocket for twenty minutes. No idea.”
“Do you think you are?”
[Y/N] shrugged and looked at her bowl. It looked too green. sick sick sick. drip drip drip said the faucet.
“Do you want to know if you are?” Art asked wide-eyed. “I want to know, personally. Do… Do you?”
Again, [Y/N] shrugged. “If we don’t look, it’s not real.”
“…That’s stupid.” Art shook his head.
“You’re stupid.”
Art sighed. “I’m gonna look. I mean, I’m going to turn it over,” his eyes frantically reached for [Y/N]’s. He grabbed her hand with his to get her attention. “I’m going to look. Is that okay with you?”
“Yeah.” She whispered and it was okay.
And she was pregnant.
Two blue lines stared at them.
“Fuck.” [Y/N] said. She felt both elated and humiliated. She wanted so badly to be a mother. She wanted to cry. How could they keep it? The timing was wrong. She hadn’t agreed to this. The two of them had so many fights about it. She barely understood how this happened. She thought they were being so careful. It didn’t make any sense. Every precaution she could think of had been taken at one point or another.
And the fucking faucet was still dripping. She could hear it. drip drip drip. Over and over.
“Fuck.” She said sliding out of her chair and standing unsteadily. That wasn’t the result one should feel when they get something they have spent so long wanting.
Art ran his hands through his hair. He knew he shouldn’t be smiling when she looked so worried. His face betrayed the wide smile he hoped to hide. That’s exactly what he wanted to see. Fuck.
“Honey… Hey, hey. You’re okay. This is awesome. C’mere.” Art said like he was diffusing a bomb. His arm were wide open to hold her.
“Art…”
“No, uh-uh. Just come here. Please.”
Cautiously, [Y/N] made her way into her favorite pair of arms in the world. “It’s not supposed to be like this.” [Y/N] choked out as Art held her.
“Shh, I know, I know,” Art said calmly. His left hand’s fingers brushed her hair away from her face. “But that’s how it is now. We have to accept that and solve for the next move, right?” It was silent for a while after that. [Y/N]’s arms were tightly wrapped around Art’s shoulders and their bowls of pasta were certainly cold. She felt that she had ruined everything.
She glanced at Art’s face. The small smile betrayed him. “Art… We can’t. Not now.” she had told Art not now so many times that it felt forced and rehearsed. Now that [Y/N] that was actually pregnant, she wanted nothing more than to stay pregnant. The timing was far from good. She had articles that were still very due the next day. She had a husband who very much traveled often for work (who she traveled with too). She had Cheese, who was staring at her weird over the back the couch because he didn’t understand crying.
“What do you mean we can’t?” Art said quietly. “We-We can. We… have. We are… Actively.” He fumbled.
“We can. We did! But… You know now’s not a good time, baby.” [Y/N] countered weakly.
Art’s hands never left [Y/N]’s waist. “Let’s run pros and cons.”
“Pretty baby.” She said accusatorially. Good old analytic Art…
“Let’s run pros and cons.” Art repeated unflinchingly. He sprang up off of his barstool to gather a sharpie and a legal pad from some drawer. Art uncapped the marker harshly with his teeth. Cap between his teeth still, he asked: “Do you want it?” while he found a clean, smooth page.
Before she could respond with her head, [Y/N] responded with her heart. She nodded a yes to him immediately. “Do you?”
Art capped the back end of the marker to free up his mouth. “More than anything ever, I think. It would probably kill me a little bit, actually, if… Yeah. I understand and it’s all up to you, honey, but… Yeah.” His hand created a PRO column and a CON column on the page.
Under PRO, Art added the items he knew would cause no trouble in his blocky capitalized handwriting:
FINALLY START FAMILY
NATURAL/EASY START
SEASON ALMOST OVER
[Y/N] HAS FLEXIBLE HRS
DREAM COME TRUE??
WILL BE GR8 PARENTS
[Y/N] nodded in approval. She couldn’t think of more pros, but Art handed her the marker and she started in on the CON list:
OLYMPICS??
ART’S NEVER HOME
EXPENSIVE
SMOKING/COFFEE
CHEESE JEALOUS?
TOO YOUNG!
Art drew the line at giving up stimulants and assigning the dog human traits and struck both of those off the list with a frown.
Frankly, Art thought the cons list turned out rude.
“I haven’t qualified for the Olympics yet,” he protested. “And if I do, imagine how early on that would be. Before all the hard stuff.”
[Y/N] replied with the thing they both knew was the most real problem. She had waited forever to say it out loud. “No offense… You are never home anymore. You’re busy all the time. Which I get. It’s your job. You’re good at your job. But look how excited the fuckin’ dog got to see you because you were gone so long. You are never here. We can’t put a human in doggy day camp all the time. It would be fucking impossible to raise—“
“I’ll quit,” Art said, wincing. He wouldn’t. [Y/N] felt that this was a bluff. He tried in vain to hide his expression of shame. “I’ll quit tennis.” He said. He wasn’t going to.
“That would worsen the problem. No money.”
“I’ll work at the 7/11. I’ll be a construction worker. I could be a fuckin’ coach. I actually have a degree, y’know, I can use it. I’m more than a racket. I don’t want you to feel alone here. I want to be here for all of it, I can—“
“You know I’m alone here a lot, babe. A lot. You don’t… You’re in a position where you’re unable to help constantly. Because you’re gone. That’s okay. I married you knowing that, right? But a baby, Art? That’s not fair.”
“I’ll bail on a season. I will. I just…” Art stared at her. “Please. I’m begging you. See this kid through with me.”
The sharpie was forgotten on the counter along with dinner. Art’s knees landed on the floor before [Y/N]. Art practically lived on his knees in front of [Y/N]. He gathered [Y/N] hands in his. “Please. It’s your call, but hear me out. Because that thing is part of both us. I don’t want you to hate or resent me or the little stinker forever, but you want it. I know that. Hear me out.” His beautiful two-tone eyes stared up at her.
“Fine. Go ahead.”
“I will give you anything. Please, my world is you. Not tennis; you. I’m telling you, I-I would leave that behind to be anything you need right now. Just ask it. You’re my fucking priority, you got that? I just.. I… Please? I’m not going anywhere.”
“I want to keep it too, but—“
“Then what’s the big deal?” Art asked hopefully.
“It isn’t a good time. It’s too soon.”
Art’s mouth trailed kisses across his wife’s stomach and hips and hands and arms. He let this go on for several minutes. “Please,” Art whimpered pathetically into the skin of her wrist. “Please, please, please. I will do anything, my love. I’m on my knees here,” Art looked up at her through thick lashes. “We can do this. Both of us together. I’ll do whatever you want. You know I will. This can be good for us. I’m really sorry we’re here, but here we are, hon. What time’s going to be the right time? Please. I love you.” Art pleaded desperately.
[Y/N] knew this was going to be a disaster. But she wanted to keep it. What time’s going to be the right time? rung in her ears over and over, like the faucet. They had put so much time into arguing about the time and the place that would be right for a family. Now it was right in front of them. Her hand caressed Art’s face. She loved it when he groveled like that. This time, on his knees and everything. On instinct, he nuzzled his face into her hand and looked up at her through long lashes.
“Will you fix the faucet? It’s been dripping all week.”
“Anything.”
“I’ll… I’ll think about it. I’m going to think about it. The baby.”
“You will?” Art’s teary eyes widened.
“Objectively, this is a terrible fucking idea. We both know that. But if it’s really so terrible, why do I feel, like… happy about it…”
Art’s face lit up. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either. [Y/N], honestly, found it very hard to say no to Art. His arms wrapped carefully around her thighs while his head rested against her middle as he knelt. [Y/N] could feel his silver ring through the denim of her overalls. “God, I love you. I love you, [Y/N]. We’re not going to regret this. Holy shit…”
“Love you too. We’re gonna… We’re gonna try, maybe? This doesn’t feel real. Does this feel real? I…”
“It feels like a dream is what it feels like,” Art mumbled into her clothes. “I love you.” Art said, pressing a kiss to her stomach.
“I love you.”
“I’m gonna be a dad…” Art almost wept. “If you, y’know, but… Shit. I’m sorry.” Which part he was apologizing for was unclear.
At that, [Y/N] laughed and tangled her fingers in his curly blonde mop of hair. “Yeah, you’re gonna be a fucking dad, pretty baby.” She smiled.
[Y/N]’s next instinct was to say: I have to call Patrick. Then she remembered couldn’t call Patrick.
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#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson imagine#art donaldson x you#art donaldson#challengers movie#challengers#patrick zweig#patrick zweig x reader#sorry series#father art
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𝔼ℙ𝕀𝕊𝕆𝔻𝔼 𝟙 - 𝕀ℕ𝕋ℝ𝕆𝔻𝕌ℂ𝕋𝕀𝕆ℕ𝕊 ℙ𝕋. 𝕆ℕ𝔼
Discord 18+ - Twitter - Last Episode - Masterlist
Pairing: JJK Men x Female Reader
Episode Summary: After a drunken night of binge watching your (least?) favorite show, you find yourself making a grave mistake.
STORY TWIST: READERS WILL VOTE AFTER CERTAIN CHAPTERS TO CHOOSE WHO GETS A ROSE AND MAKES IT TO THE NEXT WEEK. KEEP A LOOKOUT FOR THE VOTING LINK AT THE END OF CHAPTERS
Story Warning: DRAMA, lying and scheming, REVERSE HAREM, profanity bc I can only be me, arguments, fights probably, heartbreak and tears, (more to come)
Artist Credit: momoya348, Umbra3terna, ilameys,maoyaoyao519, _0_0219 Divider Credit: Cafekitsune (Tumblr)
A/N: sorry it took so long! i said it would be up the next day but yall know i lie
Apparently, you were the perfect pick for the show. At least, that’s what the producers had told you as they spent weeks screening you for this and prepping you for what was to be expected.
“She’s not heavily involved in society, but can still see curses,” they’d said.
“And none of the Sorcerers would know her either since she’s practically nobody in society,” they’d note.
“No expectations from someone like her,” they’d comment.
And all the while, you sat there, letting them pick apart your life.
A window – hardly useful, new to Kyoto so the chances were slim that you had met any of the men who had signed up for the show, a nobody, just…there. Unimpressive, plain, hardly a step above the non-gifted. And somehow, you were supposed to win the heart of one of these men.
- - - - - -
Jesse stands before you, a wide smile on his face when he asks, “Feeling nervous?”
“Just a little.” That feels like an understatement
“Anything you’re looking for in one of these Sorcerers?” Jesse pushes. You’ve honestly got to give it to Jesse. He’s a great host. You’ve gotten more comfortable with him in the short time you’ve been speaking. You think he’s a nice person. At least while the cameras are on.
“Nothing in particular, Jesse,” you respond. “You know, I’m pretty open right now. Just looking to find someone who speaks to my heart.”
Now you’re just pulling things out of your ass, because where did that come from?
“Good, good.” Jesse pauses briefly, taking a dramatic inhale of breath before he speaks your name. “Alright, listen. The first man who will be competing for your heart should be pulling up here shortly. Best of luck. But, I have a strong feeling there’s going to be someone out here for you that will end up sweeping you off your feet…” He leans forward and embraces you once more. Then he turns and speaks directly into the camera, where all the viewers at home can see. “Remember, this is a very special season in more ways than one. While our Bachelorette tries to find her soulmate, you, the viewers at home, are in charge of choosing who will not be receiving a rose for eliminations.”
Your head snaps to the camera and you see the cameraman swivel the large machine so that Jesse’s head blocks your wide eyed, open mouthed stare.
“Hopefully these men know how to make an impression, because that will greatly sway you viewers. Be sure to tune in…” He claps his hands together. “And with that…let the journey begin.”
Jesse is off before you can even call after him, not sparing you a glance as his assistants swarm around him out of view of the camera. There’s a lot of movement that follows as Jesse leaves you standing outside of the Bachelorette mansion in what now feels like the frigid cold. Was it always this freezing? Was your dress always so tight, so suffocating? You feel like you can’t breathe.
The viewers. That’s what Jesse had said on live television. The viewers would be deciding who moved forward?! That was not what was advertised! This was not what you were told would be happening! You were supposed to be choosing for yourself!
How could you possibly find the love of your life among a group of Sorcerers you’d be meeting for the first time in your life. Not to mention, you had to depend on the viewers of the world to decide who was your soulmate?! They didn’t even know you! How could you trust them with your heart? How would they know who would be the one best suited to take care of it?
Hell, you don’t even know who would be the one best suited for that. But the only thing you are certain of is that this is a mistake. A very big, very stupid mistake.
How could you have let Utahime talk you into this? Let this be the last time you’re swayed by that drunkard!
Your eyes dart around, trying not to catch the attention of the many people surrounding you at the moment. The crew is busy fiddling with the lighting. The sound team is checking and adjusting mics. The cameramen are moving into position to catch every possible angle. And suddenly you feel more exposed, more vulnerable than ever. You need to get out of here, quickly.
Spinning on your heel, you take a single step forward in an attempt to dart past all of the commotion, hopefully unnoticed. But the moment you turn around, you hit a wall. At least what feels like a wall. But the only thing standing between you and your escape is one very tall man dressed in a nice and clearly incredibly expensive suit.
Your gaze climbs up this man’s body and you’re met with a pair of the most insanely (and downright terrifying) pair of blue eyes you’ve ever seen in your life. They sit behind a pair of sunglasses (it’s nighttime?) so dark, you can’t see a thing through them. And atop this man’s head sits a head full of stark white hair. He’s so…unnatural looking. Almost alien-like, but beautiful nonetheless.
Still. It doesn’t change the fact that less than two seconds ago, you’re absolutely positive that this man was not here.
“Hey there,” he says, a lopsided grin on his face.
It’s then that reality crashes down on you. That this strange-looking man appearing out of thin air feels real. And you let out a blood-curdling, earsplitting shriek that has the staff gasping and screaming along with you. You quickly stagger backwards. And because you seem to be blessed with nothing but bad luck tonight, your heel of course catches in the ridges of the outdoor tile. You’re sure to be tumbling to the ground soon and you can only pray the cameras aren’t trained on you when you inevitably hit the floor. You squeeze your eyes shut and wait for the impact to come.
But it never does. You’re sort of just…floating there. You hesitantly peek through one eye, aware that you’re now in the arms of the man who had appeared out of nowhere. His eyes stare down at you, a hint of amusement behind them as he holds you to his chest. Well, you think it’s his chest? It feels like you’re touching him…but not? It’s such a strange sensation. Is this his cursed technique? It has you reaching up and almost pressing your hand to the man’s chest. That is, until you realize what you’re about to do. Aghast, you scramble out of his hold and straighten yourself up.
What was it the producers had told you in preparation? Stand tall and confidently. Even if you don’t feel confident, you’ll at least be able to look confident.
Well, you definitely don’t feel confident, and you doubt you look confident either. But you clear your throat quietly anyway, folding your hands in front of you and offer this man a polite smile.
“Thank you,” you mutter.
He chuckles, slipping his hands into his pockets as he peers at you from over the rim of his glasses. He purses his lips together, taking you in. Then that grin from earlier is back, like he approves of what he sees. “Any time.”
You’re not sure who the hell this man is. If he’s a contestant on the show, he shouldn’t be here yet. He’s supposed to be pulling up in a stretch limo and let out in front of you so that introductions can be done properly. You wait for him to introduce himself, but instead he just stands there, a shit eating grin sitting on his lips. Like you’re just supposed to know who he is.
Should you? Maybe you should.
He waits there…staring, annoyingly if you’re being honest.
So you wait, too. Because isn’t he supposed to be impressing you? Not the other way around. He’s clearly a sorcerer. You can feel the light airiness his cursed energy exudes, but you can’t for the life of you pinpoint who he is. Maybe it’s your nerves. Maybe you’re still on edge from this entire experience. Or maybe it’s the way your heart is still racing from him scaring the absolute shit out of you fifteen seconds ago. Either way, this guy seems awfully sure of himself and his expectation for you to show him some sort of reaction to his presence.
But you can’t place who he is. Mentally, you want to kick yourself for the way you always checked out, daydreaming about cheese fries instead of listening to Utahime give you the 411 on all of the sorcerers she knew. It would probably come in handy right about now.
When you don’t give this stranger the reaction he’s waiting for, you watch as his brows slowly knit together behind those glasses of his and his mouth turns down with a scowl.
“I thought a sorcerer would be more…” He waves his hand in the air lazily. “...excited about this.”
You fix him with a deadpan look. “You popped up out of nowhere, then almost knocked me on my a–”, you glance over to one of the cameras quickly. It stares back at you, one of many giant eyes suddenly hovering to catch every expression and word from you and televise it to the world. So really, you should be more careful about what you say. “I mean…you came out of nowhere and scared the crap out of me!”
You toss in a laugh to lighten up the mood, and let the man know you’re not upset even though deep down your heart is still hammering against your ribcage from his annoying little stunt.
Annoying…
…Stunt
Suddenly it hits you. Through the fog of cheese fry filled memories, you can hear Utahime’s drunken slurring come through.
“Everything’s a fucking joke to him. He takes nothing seriously. I hate that guy so much! Him and that dumbass blindfold and that damn forcefield he keeps up around him. Gojo Satoru can kiss my ass.”
And because he’s Gojo fucking Satoru, he can see the instant you realize he’s him written all over your face.
“Looks like you finally figured it out.” He’s as cocky as Utahime told you he was.
Even still, you hadn’t paid it any mind because you hadn’t expected the strongest sorcerer in a thousand fucking years to be standing in front of you on a damn dating show.
He saunters over to you, long legs quickly closing the distance. Then he’s taking your hand in his and bringing it up to his shiny pink lips. And you must look like a deer in the headlights, staring up at him with wide eyes, mouth open slightly as The Strongest, places a soft kiss to the back of your hand.
“I’m Satoru,” he breathes against your skin, and from your peripheral, you see the cameras move closer to catch this gesture.
They’re so close, you can even hear the staff whispering worriedly behind you: “Wait, wasn’t everyone’s montage supposed to be in black and white?” and “Why are his photos in color?” and “Something about his eyes? I don’t know.” and “Management’s gonna kill us.”
When Satoru pulls away, he’s smiling down at you. You don’t know if you’ll ever get used to his height. “You’re…stunning,” he speaks with an air of disbelief. And you can’t help it. You swoon for him immediately. It’s kind of pathetic, really. “As The Strongest, I think I’m the only one here capable of taking care of your heart.”
Again, you hear the staff behind you, men and women alike sighing and quietly squealing. You respond with a sweet smile and a genuine laugh because, although a little cheesy, that was definitely a good line. “Maybe so.”
You think he likes your cheekiness, because he’s beaming now. “Definitely so. And I can’t wait to prove it.” He kisses your hand again. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m looking forward to getting to know you.” Satoru gives you his most radiant smile and you can’t help but return it. “I’ll see you inside.”
And with that, he’s gone in an instant, like he was never there. It’s just you, with your hand still in the air and the impression of Satoru’s cursed energy before you…and the impression he’s already left on your heart.
You turn to the camera, pressing your hand to your rapidly beating heart. “He’s so charming.” It comes out as more of a sigh and you think you can hear Utahime groaning, see her rolling her eyes all the way from her couch. But you can’t help it! You just met the Satoru Gojo!
Unfortunately, you don’t have time to dwell too much on Satoru’s unique entrance because shortly after he poofs out of sight, you hear the sounds of tires approaching. With a wide grin to the camera and the audience watching, you spin back around and try to calm your nerves for the next arrival.
“We’re already off to a good start.” The cameras move into position, ready to capture everything. “Looks like the next contestant’s coming. Wonder what he’ll be like.”
Just as you finish speaking, a long, black and luxurious limousine rounds the corner and pulls into the lengthy driveway. You steady yourself, feeling optimistic after your first meeting. It’s as though all the nerves and apprehension you’d felt earlier were washed away. You can’t help but feel giddy now, eager to meet this next contestant as the limousine comes to a stop.
But as the driver exits the vehicle – a small, sweaty and almost sickly looking man – he comes around to the back of the limo and opens the door...only to see that the backseat is empty. He peers inside, then whips around when he finally sees there truly is no one in there. You can see his face begin to go almost green, his black rimmed glasses fogging as he stutters out, “H-has Gojo-san a-already arrived?”
He’s trembling, this poor man, and you simply give him a nod. Was he supposed to be bringing Satoru to you? If so, he failed miserably at his task.
The driver looks like he’s about two seconds away from passing out and the camera crew pick up on it, scurrying forward to catch his expression. He’s panic-stricken, murmuring to himself and it’s just loud enough for you to make out a “I hope Gojo-san doesn’t hit me when he’s back. How did I not notice he wasn’t there anymore? It was so quiet in the backseat. I must have simply enjoyed the rare peace I was given and didn’t question it...Oh, I’m so dead–”
He hurries back around to the drivers side without sparing a glance back, quickly hopping inside and taking off. The tires smoke and screech as he speeds around the corner, driving far too fast for any limousine to be moving.
The cameras pan back to you, and you smile uncomfortably, an equally uncomfortable laugh bubbling up from your chest. You shrug to the audience because what can you even say to that?
Dealing directly with sorcerers is already proving to be more chaotic than you imagined.
The next limo pulls forward not long after Satoru’s and the nervous pale man, and one of the most striking men you’ve ever seen steps out easily. He makes eye contact with you immediately, confidently. And it sends chills up your spine. He’s just barely shorter than Satoru, with a face carved by the gods, shiny blonde hair that looks so soft and probably smells incredible, and deep brown eyes that have definitely seen some shit in his line of work. They house deep bags under them. You wonder when the last time he got a good night’s rest was.
The man strolls across the driveway, so handsome in his khaki suit. You take that time to let your eyes rake over his form. Utahime didn’t tell you that these sorcerers were so damn big. If you had been given a warning, you’re sure you wouldn’t look like an idiot drooling over only the second guy you’ve seen tonight.
When he’s about arms length away from you, he stops suddenly and bows. It’s a perfect 90 degree formal greeting and you return it politely. This man must really care about customs and tradition. Surprisingly, you find that quite attractive.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he greets when he stands. His voice ignites goosebumps along your skin. It’s deep, rough and if you’re being honest, fucking sexy. “I’m Kento Nanami.”
“For now, you can simply refer to me as Nanami until we become more familiar.”
His words confirm your first impression of him. This man carries an air of confidence that makes you feel like you can trust him with your life. You know that sounds dramatic, but it’s a trait that is highly valued in the Sorcerer world. You’ve never seen a battlefield in your life, but you think that if you had a cursed technique, you’d want to go head to head against a curse with Nanami.
The cameras have moved forward again, just in time to catch you grinning like a goofy idiot. Nanami is the polar opposite of Satoru, in a good way. He’s far more serious and stoic than Satoru, but for some reason, you have a feeling that there’s more to him beneath the surface. You’re willing to bet he’s a lot more sensitive and caring than he lets on. You’re hoping you get to see that side of him soon.
“It’s so nice to meet you too, Nanami. You can call me by my first name. No need to be formal with me.”
Nanami presses his lips into a thin line. Like he doesn’t want to agree to that, but he doesn’t argue about it. And though brief, you see his eyes quickly snap up and down your form, taking you in so fast you almost miss it. “You look beautiful,” he tells you. And while his voice gives nothing away, you see the tips of his ears grow a little more crimson.
‘Cute.’ You can’t help but think. Yep, he’s so clearly adorably soft and shy underneath that hard exterior. Interesting. It gives you a small boost in confidence for a second. Someone as attractive as Nanami finds you beautiful. Of course you feel good about yourself.
“You’re very…”
‘Very what? Sexy? Ripped? Built like a fucking house?’
“...good looking yourself.”
‘Yeah, reel in the horny, please.’
Nanami gives you what looks to be the smallest smile you’ve ever seen and much like how you reacted to Satoru, you swoon for him too, heart racing in your chest. You can't help it. He’s just so cute!
“I’m happy to be here. Really lovely meeting you. I'll be seeing you again soon.”
With that, he gives you another bow and that shy smile that you can’t wait to see again. Then he’s moving past you and into the mansion to join Satoru. The cameras face you now and you mouth “wow” into the lens. When you turn back around to ready yourself for the next contestant, you hear the mansion’s door swing open behind you and what you swear is the faint sound of Satoru screaming, “NANAMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII”.
You hope to know more about Nanami soon. He really seems as though he has a lot to offer once he opens up. You’d love to be the one he opens up for.
Just like after Satoru, the next person arrives shortly after Nanami and the cameras move into position quickly. The limo has barely parked when several people who are definitely not contestants (how did they all fit in there?!) jump out from the vehicle and swiftly form a line along the pathway to you.
There’s a shirtless man with heart-shaped nipples that opens the door and after one very long minute has passed, a man exits the vehicle.
Right away, you’re taken aback by how breathtaking this man is. His long black hair is lustrous, voluminous and hangs freely down his back with half of it tied up in a top knot. He’s as beautiful as the two men before him, standing tall in a dark blue form-fitted suit.
His deep violet eyes scan along his surroundings until they land on you at the end of the path, waiting for him. He meets you with a smile so sweet, it almost scares you. And as he strolls towards you, you see why. Every person who had lined the path previously falls forward as the man passes, bowing at an even more perfect 90 degrees than Nanami did just moments before. They offer him praise as he goes.
It’s freaky, downright strange. It’s almost like they worship him.
Now, while everyone in the Jujutsu world knows who Satoru Gojo is because of his reputation, he was actually quite a rare sight. Always busy, always out and about keeping Japan from being wiped from the earth. It wasn’t easy to catch sight of Satoru unless he wanted you to see him, you were a student or staff at the Tokyo campus, or unless you were an unfortunate curse coming face-to-face with him. And so, a little small town Window like yourself had no idea what he looked like in person and a brief description from Utahime hadn’t helped much.
But this man heading your way? Everyone, even Windows, knew who he was and what he looked like. His reputation preceded him, and not in a good way. His air is a lot more intimidating, menacing even. And he’s just as pretty in real life than in any picture you had seen. They did not do him justice. So you were ill-prepared when you realized that heading towards you, with the most stomach churning aura was none other than the worst Curse User of all time, Suguru Geto.
When he reaches you, without a word, he waves a hand and those kneeling behind him shoot up to standing position immediately. They chant “Thank you, Master Geto” in unison, bowing once more before they all pile into the vehicle and leave the vicinity.
It’s creepy…and intriguing all at the same time. You’d never seen anything like that before. So all intel given to Sorcerers and Windows alike weren’t exaggerating. This man really was operating as some strange cult leader. And now the show has captured all of that live on camera.
How was he even able to get on the show anyway? He’s a curse user, not a Sorcerer.
He peers down at you, brows knitted together as he takes you in. He’s quiet for quite some time. Even the crew is on edge, the tension palpable.
When Suguru meets your gaze, it’s almost as though he’s not looking at you at all. More like he’s looking past you. He raises a hand, reaching towards the side of your head, and your eyes drift shut, only for a brief second before you hear a soft whirring right behind your head, and can just make out a soft blue glow highlighting the man’s features.
It’s over as quickly as it began, and when Suguru brings his hand back, he holds a small black and gold ball in front of your face. You peer up at him again, and his eyes are closed in a pretty crescent shape as he beams down at you.
“There must be some mon– humans on staff if there are little flyheads buzzing around freely like this.” He’s making a face, like he’s holding down vomit just having to utter the word humans and for some reason this makes you laugh. Out of finding it genuinely funny? Out of fear? Out of nerves? Who knows? But, your laughter dies down after a few seconds and your eyes fall to the ball in his hand again.
“Did you just…absorb a curse?” You’d heard of his cursed technique, but obviously hadn’t seen it in action before. Until now.
Suguru chuckles softly, the sound making you shiver. You’re not sure if it’s in a good way or not. “I would need to swallow it later to truly absorb it, but I’ll spare you the sight for now.”He tucks the curse into his pocket, then he’s taking your hand in his and bringing it up to his chest where he presses his lips to the back of your hand sweetly.
Right. Him and Satoru used to be the best of friends. You’re sure they’ve used the same pick up lines on other people that they’ll probably end up using on you. You’re only hoping they’re here for genuine reasons. But more than that, you just hope that they’ll be able to coexist with each other.
“Absolutely breathtaking,” Suguru purrs, his lips curling into a bright smile. “More than I was expecting.”
You’re not sure what he means by the last part, but who cares? You’re fucking swooning again.
No wonder he and that blue eyed bastard were so close at one point. Two beautiful men that know how to say all the right things. It makes you feel shy, like a child trying to talk to her schoolyard crush and the cameras are quick to capture your expressions and broadcast them to the world.
“Thank you so much. You are, too.”
And because he’s Suguru Geto – charismatic, playful, manipulative – he leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek. It’s your first kiss of the night from any of the men so far, and this one has your stomach doing flips, has your heart crawling up your throat.
You give him a wide smile and he shakes his head like he’s just in disbelief. “Beautiful.”
“Thank you,” you acknowledge again.
“I’m so glad to be here. Can’t wait to get to know you more.”
“Likewise.”
Suguru kisses your cheek again before he waves goodbye and heads towards the mansion. You watch as he retreats, and for a second you think he doesn’t seem that bad. Except…he’s a fucking mass murderer.
You really need to pull yourself together.
There are still four more people to meet, but so far, you’re enjoying this experience. You don’t think you’ll mind meeting the others and you’re definitely looking forward to spending more time with the men already inside.
At least, you think so. Because just as the director calls “CUT” for commercial break, the hairs on the back of your neck stand high as you feel the telltale rush of two very opposite sources of cursed energy flare from inside the mansion. Those in the crew with even a smidge of cursed energy feel it too, because their heads snap over towards the building the men will reside in as well.
IN THE MANSION
“And then Yuji was like– what if we just put Panda in the exhibit? How much do you think it will freak everyone out when he stands up and just starts talking?!” Gojo speaks to Nanami enthusiastically. He’s waving his arms retelling the story, bursting into raucous laughter. “I swear that kid is hilarious!”
Nanami stares patiently at the wall ahead of him. In all honesty, he hasn’t heard a word Gojo has said. That’s usually how things go between them. Gojo rambles, Nanami grunts with feigned interest and eventually, Gojo gets bored and leaves to bother someone else. Unfortunately for him, with none of the students around or Principal Yaga, Nanami is now his sole target.
But Nanami doesn’t care about that right now. He’s thinking about you, and how he should have said more, made more of an impression. Now he’s inwardly beating himself up since he stepped into the house and was greeted by his colleague. He wonders if he’ll stand out among the other contestants. He should have put himself out there with you instead of scurrying off as soon as he had the chance.
It’s just that…you’re a lot more stunning than Nanami had anticipated and the moment he saw you, he’d reverted into formalities and awkwardness. It reminded him of how he was in high school.
Nanami is drowning out Gojo with thoughts of you and how he could possibly get more one-on-one time with you later tonight when he hears Gojo suddenly shut up. He peers up briefly, catching sight of Gojo’s scowl, brows furrowed harshly as he stares hard at the entryway. Another contestant must be here, one that Gojo isn’t particularly fond of.
And Nanami knew exactly who that would be.
The moment those soft steps carry in Curse User, Suguru Geto, Nanami instantly finds himself in the center of a pissing match of their cursed energies fighting for dominance in the room. Unlike most Sorcerers and curses, Suguru doesn’t fear Gojo in the slightest. Most people would cower away, move to the other side of the room and take a seat. But not Suguru. In fact, he strides right over to where his two old classmates sit on the sofa – Gojo on the end, Nanami in the center and now, Suguru on the other end of the sofa.
He grins tauntingly at Gojo, who holds his stare. “Nanami,” he greets, not even bothering to look at the blonde. His eyes are locked on his target. “Satoru…”
“Geto-san,” Nanami nods curtly. “Didn’t think we’d be seeing you here.”
Suguru hums cheerily. “Well, I suddenly found myself in the market for love.”
Satoru snorts, rolling his eyes. “You? Like you’d know how to love anyone besides yourself.”
Nanami sighs between the two men, already feeling his annoyance begin to build up. He had not missed these petty arguments.
“Oh, you know I’m capable of loving more than just myself,” Suguru purrs and Nanami can feel Gojo’s cursed energy waver slightly. Beside him, Suguru chuckles happily. Probably because he got the reaction he was looking for and so easily, too. “Anyway, Nanami, I’m truly surprised to see you here. You don’t strike me as someone interested in romantic relationships.”
Nanami doesn’t reply. Instead, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, feeling a headache already coming on. There were days where he had hoped to have Geto and Gojo be able to coexist in the same space again, as chaotic as they were together. But if it was going to be like this, they may need to get sent home quickly.
Wait–
Nanami’s eyes shoot open, scanning the room until his gaze falls on the bar across the massive living area. This is the perfect chance to get some time alone with his thoughts.
“Excuse me,” he interjects, pardoning himself from whatever was going on with the two men beside him.
It was time to think about how he can make a better impression, get some time with you after the others have arrived. Maybe even secure a rose tonight. He’s only interested in moving forward with you. And while Gojo and Geto are too busy taking sly digs at each other on the sofa, Nanami’s thoughts are cooking up a petty scheme to get rid of those two as soon as he can.
“You’re lucky I don’t blow a hole through your head right now, Suguru,” Satoru threatens, scowl deepening if possible.
But Suguru just smirks, leaning back against the sofa. “Well, you always were good at blowing my head, weren’t you?” He closes his eyes, smiling wide, like he’s reminiscing on some sweet memory.
It makes Satoru…feel weird. Suguru knows just how to get under his skin in ways that remind him of the old Suguru. But he’s not him anymore. Outside of this, he’s his enemy. In this house, he’s just his competition.
Satoru is here for you. He hasn’t seen his ex…friend in years and it’s bringing up all of these strange feelings that he hasn’t had to face in so long. And to make matters worse, Suguru is here for you, too. Now there’s just another person in the way of him winning your heart. Suguru was always popular with women and men.
Nanami? Satoru could absolutely win against him. Don’t get him wrong, he loves Nanami, thinks he’s great and respectable and maybe he’d be a great fit for you. But Satoru would be an even better fit for you. Perfect, even.
But with Suguru here now, there was real competition. And now The Strongest was beginning to doubt himself.
BACK OUTSIDE
“When’s the next contestant supposed to show?” The director calls to someone in the cast.
You’ve been waiting for a while now, and you’re pretty sure you should have been on commercial break twenty minutes ago.
“They’re having car issues,” someone calls back, a phone pressed to their ear.
Great, more waiting. Not that you have anywhere to be. You’re simply here to look pretty and smile when a Sorcerer shows up.
The mansion seems to have calmed down, those cursed energies dissipating and you hope that wasn’t the result of the guys killing each other in there. You don’t know all the gory details of Satoru and Suguru’s relationship. You just know they’re the strongest modern day Sorcerers at the moment, that they used to be extremely close when they were kids and then when Suguru snapped, their friendship quickly went up in flames.
If they had any contact after Suguru’s defection, you’d have no clue. But with the way those cursed energies went into overdrive the moment Suguru entered the mansion, you’re concerned with how their history will affect their time on the show.
You can’t say that you’d hate to be stuck between the middle of those two. How could you? You’re literally on a reality show about being the center of attention for multiple men! And so far, everyone is sexy and charismatic and–
The intense screech of metal scraping along the concrete disrupts your thoughts, and the cameras pan around just in time to catch a limousine rounding the corner and approaching the driveway. The rear tires are completely blown out, the metal wheels barely carrying the vehicle forward. The sounds make you want to cover your ears and hide. The car’s bumper hangs from the back, dragging and knocking loudly along the road as the car moves along. Sparks fly haphazardly across the ground and the smell of burning rubber almost has your eyes watering.
From the corner of your eye, you see another camera swinging around to catch your reaction which is that of astonishment.
“Who is this?!” You speak into the lens, eyes wide like saucers.
The sudden noise of the engine popping and sputtering, surely giving out, pulls your gaze back to the vehicle. It’s stopped for all of three seconds before one enormous fist bursts through the blacked out windows and sends shattered glass flying. Behind you, several people on the crew gasp. That same hand pats around the outside of the car, tattooed muscles flexing until it finally lands on the handle of the door. The chauffeur exits the limo and backs away as quickly and quietly as possible, abandoning their passenger.
And it isn’t until that large hand tears the entire car door from its hinges with little to no effort and tosses it aside carelessly that you see why. Out climbs the largest being you’ve ever seen in your life. No shirt – because how could you dress the four tattooed arms he possesses?! And surely wearing a shirt has to be quite uncomfortable when you have a mouth on your stomach!
It’s clear who this is, because everyone in the Jujutsu world is educated on the strongest curse to have ever existed. And yet you still can’t believe what you’re seeing with your eyes. You need someone else to confirm it for you. And so you turn your head towards the camera, staring straight into it as you shakily ask the audience…
“Is that **BLEEP** Ryoumen Sukuna?!”
#jjk x y/n#jjk fanfic#jjk x reader#jjk fic#getou suguru x y/n#jjk x you#anime x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#gojo satoru x reader#sukuna x reader#toji fushiguro x reader#nanami kento x reader#hiromi higuruma x reader#choso x reader#suguru geto x reader#fushiguro toji x reader#kento nanami x reader#higuruma hiromi x reader#higuruma x reader#nanami x reader#gojo x reader#geto x reader#toji x reader#choso kamo x reader
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in splat 2 i think i was team friends but sorry shiver i need you to lose more....let someone else have a turn
#you know i thought big man would win more often bc hes popular#but ppl consider his team choices to always be like....the worst ones#like sometimes it feels equal like the pokemon and zelda themes...#even tho shiver swept the zelda theme#like idk it just feels like there was no point in making it 3 teams instead of 2 like the past two#now 4 teams.....i dunno....that could be interesting or the hypothetical popular idol could still sweep it#anyway im team frye this time#its both a truthful team and i want her to win more :(
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Hello!! Would you be able to write a request for finnick? Just like he’s the capitols darling, reader is the capitals hound dog. Known to be fiercely protective and exceptionally violent and brutal. During the third quarter quell, katniss’ group is afraid of reader because they haven’t seen her all match, but they run into her and she defends them brutally against something? Sorry I know it’s specific:) love your writing!
my body is a cage
finnick odair x reader
synopsis: his focus was protecting katniss, but he sleeps with an eye open as long as you’re still out there..
a/n: i made some changes, jus go with it lmao
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“she’s still out there, katniss.” finnick had made this pointedly to katniss, who wanted to go out hunting for the remaining victors with johanna. you were shrouded in mystery, out of all the victors, finnick knew the least about you.
“where would she be?” peeta looked at finnick, who sighed, shrugging, “the arena is different than the arena she won in, i assume somewhere low to the ground-“ finnick sweeped the beach, eye catching on a rustle in the bush, straight across from them, “and close.” he remembered now how you had won your games.
you had tracked all the tributes like prey, manipulating their surroundings to kill them, it had been one of the most invigorating games for the capitol ever. “she’s a bloodhound, probably sniffed us out before we realized.”
johanna watched the area that finnick had saw you, but still offered her commentary, “she’s brutal, katniss.”
katniss looked at them all, surrounded by skilled people yet found herself doubting their abilities, especially her own. none of them were sure they’d win, not against her.
“the careers are the least of our worries with her out there.” peeta noted. finnick looked at him and shrugged, “she might just kill them herself.”
they knew getting back on the island was a bad idea. katniss ducked at the sound of a mysterious voice, feeling as something flew past her head, stabbing cashmere right in the chest.
“get up.” katniss looked up to see you, standing over her. you had an array of weapons on you, and you were reaching for another one. katniss felt the panic in her throat until you launched it at enobaria, who had thrown herself at katniss. “get up!” your voice sounded more frantic and katniss did, struggling from keeping her eyes off of you.
suddenly the island began to spin.
your grip was loosening, and you groaned with slight fear as you felt the cold water thundering against your feet. katniss reached out for you, “grab my hand!” she screamed, but the water trashing drowned her out.
you could see her hand amidst all the water and grabbed it tightly, closing your eyes as the island slowed to a stop.
you sat on the beach, alone as the others argued over you. katniss had defended you, deciding she wanted you as an ally. but finnick and johanna deemed it too risky, “she could kill us all in our sleep, then what?” johanna had made that point as one of your methods, and you inhaled sharply.
finnick glanced at you, noticing the solemn expression on your face. he had known that expression far too many times, and it made him change his mind.
“johanna.” finnick called her name and sighed, “she saved her life. that’s not something we can just ignore, we don’t even know her.”
there was silence between them all, katniss had looked to johanna, watching as she fought internally before giving in. “i’ll go get her, maybe threaten a little.” she stood up, taking her axe with her.
finnick looked to katniss as johanna left, “i’ll keep an eye on her. for you.” he knew that once katniss settled on allies, she settled. her choices weren’t always the best, but somehow it would work itself out.
“why did you save her?” finnick had taken the first watch with you. johanna had convinced him, as just having you as watch would be ‘asking for it’.
you shrugged, “why not.” there hadn’t been much decision making on the island. it was either her or cashmere, and you didn’t see much of a choice.
finnick looked at you, “i don’t believe that.” his eyes slid themselves back to stare at the beach and you scoffed, “and why is that?”
finnick shrugged, “no one would just randomly save someone without an ulterior motive.” he said it like a fact and you smirked, “do you have one?”
“have one what?” he looked confused, obvious by the furrow in his brow.
“do you have an ulterior motive?” you repeated the full length question and watched as finnick practically whipped his head around.
“no.” he stated plainly, and you rolled your eyes, “i saw you saved katniss, similiar to how i did. you and johanna can’t just be doing this,” you glanced back to katniss and peeta sleeping, “for nothing. whatever it is, finnick, is an ulterior motive.” finnick pursed his lips, almost as if he couldn’t believe it.
“i’ll let you have yours if you let me have mine.” you finished, catching his gaze. finnick knew there were layers to you. you were different than most victors, your brutality is what made you like the rest of them, the willingness to kill. but you were turning out to be way more than what meets the eye. whatever your motive was, finnick sensed it wasn’t malice.
finnick settled to watch the sun rise upon your face, ending the conversation with a nod.
finnick watched as you sat by the beach. it had been post jabberjays, you, him and katniss had all been trapped with the birds, fluttering and screaming your names. now it seemed, like you had decided to decompress by the beach, just as he was going to.
he piled up next to you, close but far enough to give you a good amount of space.
it was then that finnick realized you had been crying, tears evident on your cheeks. he had heard katniss yell her sister’s name, and he had heard annie. you had just screamed in response, as if you were trying to drown out the birds with your own voice.
“i’m sorry.” you apologized to finnick, wiping your eyes as he settled down. you sniffled, watching as the waves moved.
“don’t apologize, there’s no need.” finnick spoke, “who did you hear?”
there was silence for a moment, until you spoke, “my best friend.” your mind shuddered back the sound of his screams and you laughed, painfully. “he’s been dead for years. i killed him.” you admitted, “he died because of a mistake i had made during the games.”
your mind flashed back to the games, where you had accidentally launched a knife to his chest, thinking it had been another tribute.
“he had spent all of his games searching for me. and once he found me, i had killed him.” it was cruel for him to be your district partner, for only one would survive, but you “never thought it would be me.” you glanced at finnick, who had been listening.
“it was supposed to be him.” you cried, “i killed everyone else to get to him, and when it was down to four, was when he came to get me.” you shook your head, “there is nothing in this world that i loved more than him, finnick. now that he’s gone, there’s nothing left for me.”
finnick shook his head, “stop. you know that’s not true.” he tried to comfort you, your words mirroring his own thoughts.
“that’s my motive, finnick.” you revealed, “my body is a cage, and i can’t stand to live in it much longer.”
johanna had woken up abruptly. she clutched onto her weapon, eyes glancing around before she settled on the two figures on the beach. she squinted and made out finnick’s hair, and you. the only two missing from the group. you had your head leaned on finnick’s shoulder, as the two of you watched the rising sun.
#finnick odair x reader#finnick odair angst#finnick odair smut#finnick odair fluff#finnick odair x you#finnick odair x female!reader#thg#thg fanfiction#thg imagines#thg finnick odair#finnick odair oneshots#finnick x reader#finnick x you#finnick imagine#hunger games finnick#finnick odair
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Zoro is fuckboy material.
Sanji is boyfriend material.
Shanks is husband material.
Mihawk is BDSM Dom Daddy™ material.
Earlier I refused to elaborate.
Now, I will elaborate no further than the sources below the dotted line.
dottedlinethedottedlinethedottedlineth
Zoro
He'll pull you into a broom closet without any warning at all, turn you around, pull your panties down under your skirt, and have you right there when the mood strikes.
Then he'll catch your eye across the deck half an hour later and give you a little smirk that makes your cheeks flare bright red. You're not sure if you want to either kick him in the shin or go for another round right that moment, if not both.
He's not looking for anything serious because he's just not that good at getting close with anyone or being emotionally available in general.
There's a lot of time between port towns, and you're a good match for each other's physical needs and desires, but not much beyond that.
Sanji
Even if he is a relentless flirt, he's just such a complete sweetheart. It's difficult not to swoon at those subtle little touches at your waist and hips, at his seductive murmur in your ear.
He respects every last one of your boundaries; if you tell him something he's doing bothers you, he's going to back off from it. No protest, no questions asked. He's still going to make it clear that he thinks you're incredible, but he wants you to be comfortable and happy above all else.
He's still as sweet as candy even once he does win you over. Playful and flirty and constantly planning the most romantic dates. Picnics on the beach, preparing candlelit diners just for the two of you, laying out a pallet of blankets and pillows with a bottle of wine under the stars—doing everything possible to make you feel special.
It's difficult to tell where it will go, but he's sweet and doting and fun, and he puts every ounce of effort into treating you like literal royalty.
Shanks
You're his lover just as much as you are his best friend. He doesn't hold anything back from you, good or bad, trivial or important. He wouldn't ever consider keeping a secret from you because the thought simply wouldn't even cross his mind—whatever he knows, you know. If anyone else tells him something in confidence, they tell him knowing that he's going to tell you the second he sees you.
His gestures of romance are more subtle and revolved around camaraderie than worship. If you're cooking or cleaning, he wants to be there, both to help lessen the load and to just be there with you. If he sees you washing dishes, he's right there next to you with a towel to dry them and put them away. If you're cooking, he's helping clean up after you. If you're sweeping the floors, he's apt to just take the broom from you, kiss you on the cheek, and tell you to go take a load off and relax.
Absolutely nothing could ever stop him from being with you. There could be an entire armada of Marine warships between you and him, and he would still find his way to you.
Every hope or dream you have ever had in your life is also his now. Literally all of them. It doesn't matter how long ago it was or how unobtainable it seems—if you still want it, he wants to make sure you achieve it. Does't matter what it is. He's never going to tell you it's silly or impossible or unachievable—he's going to exhaust every effort to find a way to make sure you can achieve it.
Mihawk
Hopefully you didn’t have too many plans of your own, because if you've managed to catch his interest, he's going to make sure that you're his, and probably within the next twenty-four hours or less.
He isn’t completely unreasonable. You will have the option to refuse. But he isn’t going to beat around the bush, either. He's going to pull you against him by your hips, comb his fingers through your hair and grasp it to pull you in and ask you outright if you want to belong to him.
He won't pressure you if you say no. That's your choice. He'll just leave you with a deep, passionate kiss that makes your knees weak, a light brush of his thumb across your lips, and he'll let you go.
But if you say yes...then good luck. You're his now, and he's never letting you go.
#opla#dracule mihawk#mihawk one piece#one piece fanfiction#fanfic#fluff#mihawk x reader#one piece headcanons#shanks opla#shanks x reader#zoro opla#zoro x reader#sanji x reader#sanji#opla headcanons#one piece#zoro#shanks#zoro one piece#shanks one piece
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❊ be sweet - yuuta okkotsu
. . there's no love quite like this one.
yuuta okkotsu returns home to the smell of ginger, root vegetables, and spice.
it's your night to cook dinner, and it seems like that's exactly what you've been doing. a pot of unidentifiable, fragrant broth is simmering over the stove. the kitchen is a little bit of a mess; it usually is on your turns to prepare dinner. a slight smile graces yuuta's face as he recalls you explaining it away as part of your 'method.'
you are, however, nowhere to be seen. the living room and kitchen of your shared apartment are recently deserted. you must've been here recently, though, and you should still be close, considering the heat on the stove and a newly lit candle settled on the kitchen counter by a vase of flowers. dropping his bag down in the corner of your shared apartment, yuuta is about to make his way to your bedroom to come look for you when he hears footsteps.
he knows they're yours. there's nothing of yours that he couldn't recognise. he'd know your footsteps anywhere. he'd know the way you exhaled, and he'd know every individual freckle or mole or scab or scar on your body. you're committed to his memory.
you don't notice him at first. instead of coming to greet him like you usually would, he watches as you make your way over to the kitchen from where he stands by the entrance to your shared apartment. you mill about the kitchen, sweeping away some preliminary food scraps— garlic peels, the tops of carrots, onion skins— into your palm, before depositing them into the waste bin. he likes to watch you cook. there's music coming from your phone; it's a song he showed you the other day. you hum along like you've loved it your whole life.
he could probably stay and watch you forever. to yuuta, there is magic in the way you move. pure, utter adoration; that's all he feels for you. but if there's one thing he loves more than simply being around you, it's talking to you, and he can't quite talk to you if you don't know he's there. he calls your name, delighting a little in the way your eyes widen and you swivel to face the direction of his voice almost right away.
"yuuta," you beam. your smile is one that might rival the sun and win. you walk over to him, onion skins still stuck to the palm of your hand, not like you'd notice. taking your boyfriend in an embrace, his hands cradle the back of your head like you're made of precious gemstone. his face is buried in your hair. you smell like root vegetables and home.
"hi," he mumbles into your scalp. you pull away, arms still loosely wrapped around him, and grin. "hi, yuuta. i was just about to call you. how long've you been here?"
"not long."
"good," you reply, finally releasing him and moving back to the kitchen, "dinner's almost ready. i'm trying a new recipe— yuuji told me about it. don't remember what it's called, though."
yuuta follows you, leaning on the counter with his forearms, gaze fixed on you. "it smells good."
"does it? i think i've gone nose blind. all i can smell is onion."
your boyfriend laughs, and you smile. he loves your smile.
a brief silence lapses. it's not uncomfortable, it never is. the sounds of a wooden spoon clanging around a pot and bubbling broth echo through the small kitchen. music still hums from your phone, which now lies discarded and forgotten about next to the candle. he notices the flame flicker a little too close to the flowers next to it. yuuta gingerly shifts the two away and blows the candle out— you'd likely forget to do it later.
the stove clicks as you turn the heat off. "i guess the last thing left to do is let it cool. that might be a while— can you wait?"
yuuta nods. "i need to change anyways."
you turn back to him, nimble fingers tugging at the sleeves of his white jacket. "how was your day?"
it's moments like this where he can forget the world. he can forget the horrors of his career, the tragedy of the world he was unable to save, if only just for a moment. he can chase happiness by its tail. he can find home. there are few things that bring him solace anymore; his friends, the few he can save, and you. he'd always have you. maybe the one person who could fully understand him. the one person he could be honest with.
and he knows he can trust in you. he knows you'll catch him if he falls. so he exhales, and lets himself breathe. "could've gone better."
you frown lightly. taking his face in both hands, you study his expression like you're searching for something. wordlessly, with all the gentleness of a saint, you lower his head into the crook of your neck. he's sure his breath tickles the skin exposed to it, but you're unflinching, unmoving. he feels safer than he ever has, with your hands roaming the planes of his broad back in comforting circles.
"i'm sorry," is all you say. he'll be okay, though. it'd be okay so long as he had you. and he pulls away, and smiles a little, and tells you just that.
he likes the way you look bashful all of a sudden, as if he wasn't yours forever. how long have the two of you known each other now? since he transferred into gojo satoru's class, years ago now. you'd been hesitant like the rest of them at first. but he'd fallen for you— your kindness, your occasional dramatics, your tendency to leave candles unattended near very flammable objects. and somehow, some way, it'd worked out. he used to be so shy, then. timid. he could be sometimes still, but yuuta likes to think that he's grown alongside you. the thought makes him smile. he chases that joy he finds in you. "tell me about your day. i hope you used your first break in forever well."
you give him a teasing, dirty look. "please. of course i did. i'd never choose to go to work."
he laughs again, because it's just so easy to do when he's around you. he loves you more than life, he thinks, as you explain how you and maki got stuck at a train station in kawasaki. while you talk, he picks a piece of vegetable out of your hair. no wonder you were smelling onion everywhere.
yuuta would always be there to look out for you. he'd be there to put out the candles you'd forget about, and clean up your messes, and love you unconditionally, always. and he knows you love him like that, too. you love him in the way you hold his head when he's not feeling his best, and you love him in the way you'd always greet him with a bright smile and a big hug, and you love him in ways he never thought of himself as deserving of.
and it's nights like these, yuuta thinks, that prove that there will be no kind of love to come close to this one.
flowers chosen: jasmine & daisy
. . sweet love, amiability & innocence
❊ send a request! ❊ 5k masterlist ❊ event info ❊
#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#okkotsu yuuta x reader#yuuta okkotsu#okkotsu yuuta#okkotsu#yuta okkotsu#yuuta okkotsu x reader#yuta okkotsu x reader#okkotsu x reader#okkotsu yuta x reader#yuuta x reader#jjk imagines#jjk fanfic#jjk fluff#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#jujustu kaisen#reader insert#mitsies 5k
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Steal My Girl
Ethan’s roommate has the girl of his dreams, and he hates it.
You laughed, then screeched when Chad picked you up and spun you around.
“Chad put me down.” You demanded, rolling your eyes at his antics. He had a crush on you and constantly flirted, but it served more to annoy and amuse you than to win you over. “Oh my god. Stop.”
“There you are!” Chad exclaimed, still keeping you over his shoulder as he spoke to someone out of your line of sight. “Ethan, my man.” Your stomach twisted as you peered around Chad’s waist, seeing an upside down version of your friend.
“Hey E.” You laughed, waving and staring at his outfit. “What the hell are you dressed as? A robot?”
“I’m a knight.” He sighed and Chad finally put you down but swung an arm over your shoulders. “Chad didn’t give me much notice so I could get a costume.”
“Look at this snack.” Chad told you, pointing at Ethan. “I’ve been trying to find him a girl all night. Got any suggestions?”
“Ew, get off me.” You wrinkled your nose, pushing him away. “I’m not helping prostitute Ethan off on some sorority sister.”
“Suit yourself.” Chad said, grinning down at you. “Speaking of hookups, though,” he lowered his voice, playing with the strap of your dress. “Wanna go upstairs?”
“Ugh.” You moved away towards Ethan, grabbing your friend’s hand. “Save me from him. Please.”
“My heart longs for you, Y/N!” Chad yelled, making your face warm when several people gave you a curious glance.
“I need a drink.” You told Ethan, grumbling a curse under your breath.
-
You and Ethan had gotten tipsy fast and now stood in the kitchen, laughing as he told you a story about…what was he saying?
“What?” You asked, leaning closer to him to hear. He seemed nervous, but then he always did around girls. You thought nothing of it. “Speak up, E.”
“I was saying you look really pretty.” He smiled shyly, pointing to your outfit. “Your costume is cool.”
“It’s a dress, E. Nothing special.” You said, grinning, but still felt flattered. “I like your cardboard robo-suit too.”
“A knight. A knight.”
“Y/N.” You turned your head and met Chad’s eyes, his smile warm and friendly. Despite yourself the alcohol made you looser and you allowed him to take your hand. “Come on. I need a partner for beer pong.”
“Ask Tara.” You laughed, tugging your hand out of his grip. “I’m talking to my baby boy Ethan.”
“Your son can fend for himself.” Chad scoffed, raising an eyebrow at his roommate. “Can mommy and daddy leave you on your own, or do you need a babysitter?”
“Oh my god Chad.” Your grin was wide as you looked at his expression, his features filled with fake concern.
“I need my girl to annihilate people in beer pong. Do me a service, bro.”
“Yeah that—” Ethan glanced at you, then quickly away. “That’s fine. I don’t need a…a babysitter.” He winced and you frowned, opening your mouth to say more, but Chad was already pulling you away. You looked over your shoulder though, and saw Ethan looking dejected, before he pushed through the party and towards the door.
“Wait, Chad.” You said, pulling out of his grasp as you shoved your way through the party. “Ethan!” You called. “Ethan wait!”
He turned his head at your approach, brows furrowing as you slipped out the front door, his feet pausing on the driveway.
“What’s wrong?” You asked, panting slightly. “Aren’t you going to watch me win? You know I’m the best.”
“I’m tired.” He said, eyes sweeping across your face. “I think I wanna go home. But thanks. See you tomorrow.”
“Wait, no—” You grabbed his arm, unsure of why you were desperate for him to stay. “I’ll come with you. We can go to my place and have movie night like we used to.” Before you’d started receiving attention from Chad, you didn’t have to say. “Come on E.”
“I’m not sure if that’s—”
“Hey, what the Hell?” Chad asked, leaving the house and approaching the two of you. You let go of Ethan’s arm as he made it to your side. “You okay, man? I was just about to make you a Chad Supreme. He said, referring to his noxious concoction of tequila, vodka, Malibu, Sprite and fruit punch, a drink you secretly called Alcoholics Anonymous behind Chad’s back.
“Im tired.” Ethan said, avoiding your eyes. “Im gonna go—”
”Watch a movie with me.” You interrupted, giving Chad a wide smile. “Make me a Chad Supreme to go, will you? There’s empty water bottles in the kitchen.”
“You’re not staying?” He asked, confused. “But you..” He shook his head, forcing a smile. “Fine. Just because you’re so hot, and you know I love you. One Chad to go.” He turned and dashed back into the house as you valiantly ignored his strongly worded remark.
“Listen,” you said, glancing back at Ethan, who was watching where Chad had ran off to with a pained sort of look. “we’ll get pizza and do pickle shots and watch Stab. What do you think?”
Ethan took a moment to respond, biting his lip, before he nodded.
“I’m gonna need at least half that Chad Supreme, though.” He said, glancing at you with amusement in his brown eyes. “After hearing Chad call himself daddy I think I need a healthy blackout to make me forget.”
“Do you need a babysitter?” You teased, grinning as you reached out to flick his nose, and he caught your wrist in his hand.
“Listen here, young lady—”
“For the angel present." Chad declared, jogging up to you and passing you a bottle filled with suspicious looking pink liquid. "Keep your junk wrapped, E., if you’re planning on making moves on my girl. Y/N, are we still getting Dunkin in the morning?"
"We'll see." You responded, rolling your eyes. You still weren’t sure if you liked him calling you my girl. "Goodnight, Chad." You batted him away when he attempted to kiss your cheek and he grinned, running back into the party. "God, he's a mess." You scoffed, turning to give Ethan comically wide eyes. "Ready to go?"
-
You placed your head in Ethan's lap and stretched out on the couch, your skin practically buzzing. You two had split half the Chad Supreme, leaving the rest in the fridge, but you were almost certain you were going to have a headache in the morning.
"We need to chug water." You said, peering up at Ethan. He smiled and played idly with your hair, his eyes moving back to the movie. You were halfway through Stab, a pizza split between the two of you. "Hey E?" You asked, staring up.
"Hmm?"
"What do you think of me and Chad?"
His face dropped a fraction and he shrugged.
"I think he's...Chad." At your no-nonsense expression he laughed. "What? If you're happy with the ridiculous frat boy types, you do you."
"Shut up." You grinned, poking him in the stomach. But then your smile fell, and you bit your lip. "I think he really likes me. But I don't think.." You looked up at the ceiling, unsure of how to say it. "I don't like...just him. You know?"
"You don't?" Ethan asked, shooting you a surprised expression. You shook your head no, and a tentative smile pulled on his mouth. "Who's the lucky guy?"
"Ugh." You groaned, sitting up and moving off the couch into the kitchen. "Forget it. It's unimportant."
“Hey, wait, tell me about him.” Ethan laughed, following you into the kitchen. You both were tipsy as hell and he grabbed your hand, tugging you back towards him. “Come on. Best friends don’t keep secrets, right?”
“He’s—” you glanced down at his hand, your stomach twisting when he ran his thumb across your knuckles, making no move to let go. “it doesn’t matter, E.”
“I wanna know.” He insisted, his brown eyes soft and sleepy from the alcohol. “Come on, Y/N. I can keep a secret.”
Your smile was wide as you pulled away, backing up towards the fridge. He followed you every step, his brown eyes glued to your face as he subtly admired you, your indifference something like a knife to his gut. He liked you. God he liked you. And if you were going to have a crush on someone besides Chad, he wanted to at least put a face to the name he was going to resent.
“Tell me." He said again, watching as you pulled the Chad Supreme out of the fridge and took a sip. "Come on, how bad can they be?"
"Ew." You wrinkled your nose, passing him the bottle. "Drink first. Then guess."
Ethan took a swig, holding eye-contact, before setting the bottle on the counter.
"Do I know the guy?" He asked, searching his brain. There wasn't a single other guy in your friend group, nor anyone that he saw you with on a regular basis. A mischievous little smile curled on your lips as you nodded, then your eyes widened, surprised, as he moved forward and touched your chin, tilting your face up to his. "What does he look like?"
"He's...really cute." You admitted, biting your lip as you stared up at him. "And he's really smart."
"Tell me more." Ethan laughed lowly, moving closer to you and backing you up against the kitchen counter. "Would I like the guy?"
"I..." You swallowed, your hand reaching out involuntarily to clutch the fabric of his shirt. "Well he um...he's really kind. He's always there for me." Then you grinned. "But he has horrible taste in movies. I always have to pick them out."
Ethan rolled his eyes, looping his arm around your waist. Your heart was pounding in your chest, stomach twisting as he spoke, his hand moving from your chin to clasp the back of your neck.
"And do you see yourself...being with this guy?"
"I don't know." You said, searching his brown eyes for any hint of what he was thinking. You'd never seen him act so confident before. It was like every ounce of shyness had gone out the door since the moment he'd stepped into the apartment. "I'm hoping he'll make the first move."
Ethan stared for a moment, his chest rising and falling with his breathing, before he asked, "and are you...really into this guy? Like more than Chad?"
"Yeah." You licked your lips subtly, but his eyes still caught the movement. "He's all I can think about sometimes."
"Then what are you waiting for?" Ethan asked, moving closer, his jeans brushing your legs. "Tell him how you feel." His voice was low and raspy and you almost shivered. His hands slid to cup your face and you couldn't breathe; you stared at him, eyes slightly heavy, as you glanced from his mouth to his eyes.
"Ethan..." You whispered, eyes closing at his words and the feel of his hands.
“Tell him how you feel, Y/N."
"I can't." You whispered, your heart pounding in your chest. He was hardly two inches away, and the smell of his cologne was intoxicating. "I'm scared."
Ethan's breathing seemed unsteady as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, murmuring a soft, "What's there to be scared of?" As he peered down at you.
"What if he doesn't want me?" You asked, glancing up at him. Still, though, you reached out, fisting his shirt in your hands and pulling him an inch closer.
"I..." Ethan's mouth went slightly dry as he watched you. "I think he does."
You stared up at him, heart pounding, and, before you could change your mind, leaned up to kiss him, pressing your mouth to his with as much force as you dared. Ethan's fingers tightened a fraction on your jaw as he kissed you back, making a low noise of pleasure against your mouth.
"God, Y/N." He whispered, his hands sliding into your hair as he kissed you again, then again. "I've wanted to do that for way too long now."
"It's you." You whispered, chasing after his touch. "It's you I want. Not Chad."
"I was hoping you were talking about me." He laughed, resting his forehead against your own. "This was going to be really awkward if I was touching you like this and then you said you had a crush on Tanner from Econ."
You laughed and tugged his face down to yours, kissing him again.
"We still have pizza. And Chad Supreme. And Stab." You said, looping your arms around his waist. "Wanna go?"
"Yes." He said, then gave you a coy smile. "Text time I see Chad, I'm calling you my girl."
#ethan landry fanfiction#ethan landry x reader#ethan landry#ethan bailey#ethan landry oneshot#ethan landry x y/n#ethan landry imagine#ethan landry x you#scream six#scream 6
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König x Stubborn! Reader
ＳＵＭ．You and König end up giving each other the silent treatment. Right when he thinks you'll give in, you shock him, causing him to come crawling back to you.
A reminder that long-term silent treatments over petty arguments are not girlboss and slay!!
'Girlfriend' and German 'mouse' used, implied short reader <3 (but also who isn't short in comparison to this giant)
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You and König had been in a petty argument the day before (something about keys going missing), it got to that point that, last night, he slept on the couch.
Little did you know, it was all a part of his elaborate scheme: he'd always been the one to come back to you, so for once, he'd like to see you do the same. So when he took away your nightly cuddles, he knew you were deprived of him.
He walked into the kitchen and caught sight of your morning mug. Smirking, he strolled over to it with a pep in his step and tucked it away into the tall cabinet; far enough in that it won't fall, but far enough out that you can easily spot it. He made sure to put any other mug out of reach, too.
He carried on with his routine of making himself a coffee before his oh-so-beautiful girlfriend walked in. He leaned his back onto the kitchen counter and lifted the mug to his lips, concealing his smile that showed how excited he was to see you break your winning streak of silent treatments and ask him for help.
You internally groaned at the sight of the distance between you and your mug. You glanced over at König before rolling your eyes; from his cheeks raising ever so slightly behind the mug, you can tell he's laughing to himself.
When you look back at König, he's making eye contact with you, eyes staring with anticipation.
But you just smile innocently before walking over to him, holding eye contact. König stands up properly as his ego inflates, straightening his back and setting his mug down, his smile turning into his infamous smirk. All before you bring your hand over to the gap between the counter he was leaning on top of and the fridge, bringing out a foldable stool.
Little did he know, however, was that you had bought a foldable stool a few days before since you wanted to bring up the topic of missing keys and knew you were both a bit too stubborn for anyone to confess to anything (even though you knew you haven't done anything).
Absolutely flabbergasted, all König can do is stare and watch as you grab your mug with a gleeful smile. He waits for you to set it down and, before you can get off the stool, König comes over and sweeps you up in one smooth motion, your stomach on his shoulder and your arms flailing around behind him to let you go.
He makes his way over to the sofa in the living room and practically manhandles you so you're stradling his lap. He wraps his arms gently but tightly around your waist and pulls you in close so you can't do anything but let him hug you. You can hear him muffle out a 'when did you get that stupid stool...' into your collarbone. You just laugh before wrapping your arms around his neck.
"You gonna tell me what you did with my keys yet?" You ask, attempting to pull away but he doesn't budge. He stays quiet for a bit before pulling away himself, still keeping you in his grasp, just not as tightly so that he can see your face and gauge how he should proceed.
"I may have hid them so you could stay a bit longer." He grumbles. You feign an offended look. "You're never late, mein maus, you could spare a few more minutes with me..."
You chuckle again before you take your hand and squish his cheeks together, forcing him to pout. "You're so silly. Just ask me next time." You say before pulling him into a cuddle. You force your bodyweight to the side so you've both gone from sitting to lying down and cuddling, laughing and kissing each other's faces off with small pecks.
There was a moment of silence where you just stared into each other's eyes before he got up all of a sudden, squishing you into the sofa as he got on top of you to get off and onto the floor on the other side of you.
"I'm gonna break that damn fuckin' stool." He said, grunting like an old man when he got up.
"WAIT, BABE, WAIT-"
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Requests are open!! I don’t do smut :))
#konig#könig imagine#könig x you#könig fanfiction#könig x reader#könig modern warfare#könig mw2#könig smut#könig call of duty#könig#könig cod#cod modern warfare#cod mw2#cod mwf2#cod x reader#call of duty mw2#call of duty mwii#cod könig#cod konig#konig x you
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Shared Interests Pt. 1
“...and that’s where we will be ending things for tonight!” Eddie says, clapping his hands together and leaning back in his chair while the children cry foul.
“We’ve only been going for three hours!”
“We didn’t even do anything except go shopping!”
“But what about the tip we just got to find Lolth’s lair?”
Eddie’s expression darkens and he smacks his hand on the table to shut everyone up, “We will continue with all of that next time but tonight Steve and I have plans.”
“What kind of plans?” Will asks, he’s the calmest of all of them and generally enjoys hearing about Eddie and Steve being happy in their relationship.
“Stevie is taking me to a baseball game.” Eddie replies and Mike and Dustin explode.
“You’re ditching Hellfire for a sports game?! What the fuck man?” Mike shouts, almost sweeping his things off the table with his arms flailing about so wildly.
“Language” Eddie says before getting a thousand yard stare briefly as he realizes the words that just came out of his mouth. Christ, Steve really was rubbing off on him… in more ways than one.
“So you can tell us to just go find a replacement instead of rescheduling but when you decide to take the night off we just have to deal?” Dustin bites out causing Eddie’s eyes to snap to him and then briefly dart over to Lucas.
Eddie had apologized profusely from his hospital bed, even before Steve had chewed him out for replacing Lucas with his sister. He knew Lucas still felt a bit wary around him when he got manic, which was understandable after everything he'd been through. They had been doing better though, Eddie would rather die than admit it but Lucas had good relationship advice. And he spoke jock so Eddie could ask him for things to say to impress Steve, usually it just made his boyfriend laugh but Eddie still counted it.
“Why a baseball game?” Lucas asks, Eddie turns to him and scrubs a hand through his hair.
“Because Steve likes the Cubs.” It had been the primary source of bonding between Steve and Wayne, both of them finally happy to have someone to talk about sports with.
“So?” Mike is looking at Eddie like he doesn’t recognize the older man anymore.
“Because couples generally like spending time together?” He’s not sure where the confusion here is.
Dustin scoffs, “Steve already goes to your shows and hangs out during d&d, how much more time do you two need to spend together?” Mike nods in agreement but Lucas has a small smile now and Eddie reaches out to squeeze his shoulder and ruffle his hair with a grin.
“Boys, what do those two things have in common that me seeing a baseball game with your babysitter doesn’t?” he asks as Lucas bats his hand away.
“Your things are actually cool?” Mike
“They’re in Hawkins?” Dustin
“They’re Eddie’s hobbies.” Lucas for the win! At Eddie’s confirming nod the other two turn to Lucas looking confused.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Lucas sighs at Mike and pats Will’s shoulder consolingly. His friend really needs a better guy to crush on. “And this is why El is done with your ass dude. You gotta share in your partner’s hobbies too man. Steve goes to Eddie’s shows even though he’s not a fan of metal because he likes Eddie. It wouldn’t be fair to Steve if Eddie wasn’t willing to do the same.”
“It definitely doesn’t make your partner feel good when you just dismiss their interests.” Eddie fidgets with his rings as his eyes drop to the table. He knew that he wasn’t used to relationships, Steve being his first boyfriend ever, and learning the hard way that compromise was a very necessary thing had been a difficult concept to wrap his head around at first. He’d complained about Steve trying to invite him to ‘normie’ events or playing his music until Steve, tired of feeling like Eddie didn’t actually care about him, told him that maybe they were better off seeing other people.
Eddie had reacted poorly and it wasn’t until his bandmates called him out when he’d tried to complain to them about their fight that he’d figured it out. He still wasn’t a fan of baseball but seeing Steve light up as he’d explained to Eddie why everyone was cheering about a specific player or hit made sitting through the games more than worth it. And Steve wrapping Eddie up in his members only jacket in the parking lot before sneaking a little kiss hadn’t been too bad either.
So they would go see the occasional home game, season tickets being one of the ‘expensive presents definitely make up for the fact we’re shitty parents’ gifts Steve got for a Christmas present last year. Or sometimes when Eddie has a game or just isn’t feeling social Steve will take Wayne and Eddie gets the trailer to himself for several hours. He can take a nice long shower, practice voices for his campaigns, make himself a snack while naked in the kitchen. Or go to Steve’s and cook him something nice for dinner then head upstairs and open himself up on his boyfriend's bed before pulling out a book and waiting for Steve to get back and rail him through the mattress.
"So what, you're going to sit at a baseball game and just pretend to be interested in it so you can score points with some washed up jock?"
"First off Wheeler, check the fucking attitude. I don't know what it is with you and your sister that you think you can just say the most awful things about Steve and face no repercussions but I will absolutely ban you if you don't start treating Steve with some basic human decency. Second off, I don't have to like baseball, it’s the same way with Steve not being super into my music. We are very different people so we sometimes struggle to find common ground, and when our interests don't line up we have to find ways to make it work. Because, as I'm still figuring out, that's kind of a big part of being in a healthy relationship."
Pt 2
#stranger things#eddie munson#steve harrington#steddie#steve harrington x eddie munson#steve x eddie#dustin henderson#will byers#mike wheeler#lucas sinclair
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Okay, writing prompt if you're interested. LuciferXreader, making out in a pile of rubber ducks. It may be weird as hell, but also really cute and funny. AND!! Laughter is a healthy part of any relationship!
Yes I’m interested!!!!!!!!!
I hope this is what you’re after, it kind of got away from me and I spent way too long thinking about what all those little duckies could do.
Lucifer had a problem, one of his own making that was yellow and sometimes quacked, maybe barked, there was even ones that spoke backwards and in riddles. They came in all kinds of colours and did all sorts of things. He had a purple one that could teleport, a rainbow one that shot confetti out of its mouth when it was squeezed, he even had one that glowed in the dark and played lullaby’s. The point was that Lucifer had made a lot of rubber duckies over the years but he didn’t realise quite how many until he was looking for one specific duck.
“Where are you, you little piece of…” Lucifer grumbled, his words trailing off as he dived into another mountain of ducks, sending them tumbling down to join the rest that had spilled over the floor. He had been at this for a while now, sending his work room into chaos and all because Charlie had been telling Vaggie all about one she had seen him making when she was a child. She hadn’t asked him for it and Lucifer had honestly forgotten it existed until she had brought it up but she seemed so enamoured with it that Lucifer had decided there and then that he had to gift it to her as a reminder of happier times in her childhood. The only problem was that he couldn’t find the damned thing and he was quickly running out of patience.
“You alright there love?” Lucifers head jerks up and round at your amused voice, blinking dumbly at the sudden brightness of the room. Your leant against the door frame, eyebrows furrowed slightly but a teasing smile tugging up the corners of your mouth. You were a vision, a ray of sunshine through the grey cloud that had been steadily forming over him. “Yep! Everything’s fine. Hahaha. A oh kay. What erh, what are you doing here darling?” Lucifer laughed nervously, his cheeks heating up with embarrassment at being found in such a state.
He had abandoned his hat and jacket ages ago, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and his gloves somewhere within the sea of ducks. Lucifer had unbuttoned his collar at some point, his bow tie pulled loose and hanging around his neck like a sad flat little snake. His face must be flushed by now and his hair that was once neat and styled probably looked more like a birds nest now, stick up in every direction and clinging to his forehead.
“Charlie called me. Seems someone has been ignoring her calls and texts for the past couple of hours and she wanted me to check in and make sure they hadn’t gotten so involved in a project they forgot to eat again. Clearly she was right to worry.” You gave him a pointed look, clearly expecting an answer for his current predicament. Bitting his lip Lucifer let his eyes sweep across the carnage that was his work room and the vast amount of ducks he still had to get through. He needed help or he was never going to get through all these, not any time soon anyway and who better to help him than you? He always wanted to spend more time with you and this would keep you in close proximity for quite some time. It was a win win in his books and he was damn sure going to take full advantage of it.
Groaning Lucifer let his shoulders slump and looked back to you, finding you in the exact same position you had been in before though your eyes had softened slightly now, worry starting to creep in at the edges. “I’m looking for a duck,” he stated, nodding slightly after he had spoken like it was that simple of an answer. “Oh really? Never would have guessed.” Lucifer glared at your sarcastic reply, huffing loudly and crossing his arms over his chest in an overly obvious display of indignation that you both knew was just for show. The gentle laughter his behaviour got him sounded sweet, even as you rolled your eyes and pushed away from the doorframe. He always liked the sound of your laughter, like music that soothed his soul and made his heart ache all at once.
“Alright your majesty, are we looking for one in particular or is this a know it when a see it situation?” You raised an eyebrow at him in question as you sank down onto one of the few spots of clear floor. “It’s made of crystal, has a really cute teeny tiny crown on its head.” You hummed at Lucifers words, your attention now firmly on the ducks that surrounded you. “And when did you last see it?” Lucifer winced at your question, tugging at his already loose collar and refusing to make eye contact with you when you glance in his direction. “I don’t know, maybe a couple of centuries ago. Charlie was about five or six at the time.” You made a weird choked off noise when he said centuries, Lucifer catching a glimpse of your hand slipping on the pile of ducks you had been looking at and sending a couple more tumbling to join the ones that Lucifer was already half buried under.
He offered you an apologetic smile and hopefully his best puppy dog eyes in an attempt to soften any sort of regret you might be feeling at having sat down to help him. It must have worked because you sighed heavily before rolling your shoulders back and sitting up straighter. “It’s fine, we’ll find it and when we do you are sooo going to make it up to me with back rubs and kisses.” Lucifer agreed readily, nodding his head and promising you that and a thousand things more. “Right! We are going to do this one duck at a time, sorting as we go. We will have four separate piles, one pile for the ones that are just rubber ducks with a unique paint job and another for the ones that do something useful.” Lucifer opens his mouth to protest because all his duckies are useful but a quick glance from you has him closing it before he can even get a sound out. “There will also be a pile for ones that do pointless things and another for the ones that are just plain dangerous.”
“They are not dangerous!” Lucifer insisted, snatching up a random duck and squeezing it to prove his point. There was a loud click followed by sound of metal grinding together and Lucifer looked down in horror as the barrel of a pistol slid out of the ducks now open mouth. “Hahaha, how did that get there?” Huffing you held your hand out expectantly and Lucifer reluctantly handed the traitorous thing over, making sure the postal was safely back in place first. Without a word you leant over and pushed a section of the ducks out of the way, clearing a patch on floor in front of you. The gun toting duck was place down gently, looking way too sweet and innocent for what it hid within.
You picked up one from next to you and held it out towards Lucifer. “What does this one do?” He squinted at the thing, turning his head slightly to the side as he tried to remember what this one did. It was yellow like most of them except this one had a red rimed beak that made it look like it had lipstick on. “Lipstick!” Lucifer shouted out triumphantly, his sudden outburst causing you to startle. “It’s lipstick, retro rouge if I’m not mistaken.” You turned the duck toward you, tilting your head quizzically as you squeezed at its sides. It’s beak parted as a stick of bright red lipstick emerged. “Huh,” you said, loosening your grip on the duck so the lipstick went back in before placing it on the floor a few inches away from the other duck. You picked up another, this one yellow with black spots and held it out towards him. “What about this one?”
This goes in for hours, one duck after another and though it would normally be a rather tedious Lucifer is having fun. Some of his duck creations really are bizarre, like the one that changes colour depending on the time of day in Hawaii or the one that screams whenever someone says pineapple. There are some good ones though, like the one that generates a personal forcefield that’s lasts up to an hour when placed on your head or the one that cleans your bath after you’ve used it. The useful pile was a lot smaller than the others though, the useless ones needing a whole corner of the room to themselves. You had even found one that said ‘I’m quackers about you’ in a squeaky voice when squeezed, a little heart shaped box of chocolates with Lucifers hat emblazoned on the front held between its wings.
Lucifer had refused to hand that one over, especially when he realised you intended to put it in the useless pile. A had sat there, cooing at the thing and stroking its head whilst you glared at him. So preoccupied with the duck Lucifer didn’t have time to prepare himself as you suddenly lunged across the space, hands grabbing for the sweet little ducky. The two of you had spent far too long rolling around the floor and tussling for the duck until finally you came to a stop, sprawled across Lucifer and the both of you breathing heavily. You were close, head hovering above his as you stared into one another’s eyes. All Lucifer would need to do is tip his head back and then he would be able to kiss you, one of his favourite things to do these days. His eyes dropped to your lips as your tongue snuck out to wet them, your teeth nipping at your bottom lip enticingly. Lucifer sucked in a deep breath, his hand flexing on your waist where it had ended up in your little play fight. Your head lowered slightly, eyes darting down to his lips then back to his eyes as if asking permission that you really didn’t need. From down by his hip there came a loud quack followed by ‘I��m quackers about you’ then another quack effectively bringing a sudden end to the tension growing between the two of you.
The two of you dissolved into laughter, Lucifer wrapping his arms around your middle as you buried your face in his neck. You lead there for a while, laughing softly until that trailed off and the two of you when just lead there, holding one another and surrounded by ducks. It had been nice if a little weird but Lucifer wasn’t complaining. “It’s true you know,” he said softly, not wanting to ruin the moment but his words had you shifting, pushing yourself up slightly so you could look down at him with confusion. “What is?” Your voice was just as soft as you spoke, the hushed tone adding to the intimacy of the moment. Sighing Lucifer reached up, cupping your check and rubbing his thumb gently across it. “I really and quackers about you,” he deadpanned.
The stunned silence that hangs between you goes on a lot longer than Lucifer thought it would and despite how hard he tries he can’t help the large smile that spreads across his face or the laugher that comes bubbling out. Groaning loudly you finished pushing yourself up into a sitting position, shoving Lucifer back down when he tried to follow. “You’re terrible,”you mumble, shifting back over slightly to avoid nocking into a stack of ducks. Lucifers still chucking when he sits back up, effortlessly catching the rubber duck you half heartedly throw at him. “Mmmm, and yet you still love me.” Lucifer wiggled an eyebrow at you, leaning in slightly to emphasise the ridiculousness of the gesture. This time it was you who couldn’t help but smile, huffing in amusement and shaking your head at him. “Yeah, I do.” Lucifer beamed like the cat who go the cream at your words, always feeling like his heart could take flight every time you told him you loved him. Truly a bizarre phenomenon that would need much more research done into it, requiring you to tell him often and in multiple ways how you felt about him. “Now come on, this bloody duck isn’t going to find its self.” Lucifer took the duck you held out to him, a hot pink one with a flame branded on its chest, and quickly lent forward to place a kiss on the back of your hand before he started telling you all about the duck and how it could be set on fire and wouldn’t melt.
That had been a good few hours ago though and night had settled heavy over the city since then. Over half the room had been cleared now, Lucifer having opened a portal and dumped all the colourful, boringly normal ducks onto a sleeping radio demon to create some extra space for you both. There was still no sign of the duck he was after though and the both of you were clearly tired, the process having slowed down considerably in the last half an hour or so. He’s beginning to think it’s a lost cause, the duck long since lost or broken.
You yawn loudly, arms stretching out above you before you fall back into the heap of ducks behind you. The groan you make sounds almost painful as you wiggle in an attempt to make yourself more comfortable amongst the ducks. Your eyes close, hands disappearing into the sea of yellow above you. Despite how horribly uncomfortable it must be you look content and Lucifer wants nothing more in that moment than to crawl over there and join you, curling up against your side and resting his head on your chest so you can both get some much needed sleep. As much as he wanted to give into temptation Lucifer was determined to find the duck for Charlie, fixated on giving her that little moment of happiness and wonder that had stayed with her since childhood. That didn’t mean you had to suffer with him though.
“I think it’s time you were getting to bed darling, I can finish up in here.” Your eyes open slightly at his words, brows furrowed and your smile slipping into a frown. “Lucifer.” There was an odd tone to your voice, one that he probably should have paid more attention to but Lucifer assumed he knew what you were going to say so he kept on talking, turning away from you to continue looking through the ducks as he did so. “I know. I should be trying to get some sleep as well but you know I won’t be able to, (Lucifer), not till I’ve found this duck anyway and I really just want to surprise Charlie with it. She seemed so happy when she was talking to Vaggie about it and I just wanted to, (LUCIFER!)” Your loud cry of his name had Lucifer jumping, dropping the duck he had been holding to the floor with a loud splat as it oozed out like a marshmallow melting in the sun.
Laughing nervously Lucifer turns back to you, an apology already on the tip of his tongue but it quickly disappears when he sees what you’re holding. You’ve sat up, eyes fixed on your hand that you’re holding out towards him. In your palm sits a crystal duck, a small black crown sat atop its head styled similarly to Charlie’s own. Lucifer sucked in a breath, reaching out to take the thing from you with trembling fingers. He can’t believe you had found it, just when he was starting to lose hope. You truly must be heaven sent.
Without warning Lucifer lunged at you, flinging his arms around your neck and sending you sprawling back into the ducks with a yelp. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” Lucifer said between peppering your face with kisses. “Lucifer,” you laugh, turning your head to the side and giving him access to your neck. He places a few more quick pecks along your neck and the top of your shoulder before placing one final one on your lips.
“She’s going to be so surprised,” Lucifer beamed, pushing himself back up and turning towards the door, a wide smile on his face as he stared down at the crystal duck clutched in his hand. He didn’t get more than two steps towards the door before fingers wrapped around his wrist and stopped him in his tracks. Frowning Lucifer looked back over his shoulder at you, finding you looking at him just as confused as he was you. “Where are you going?” Lucifer blinked down at you dumbly because surely that was obvious? “To give Charlie the duck?” It came out slow and sounding more like a question, Lucifer even holding up the duck in case you had forgotten.
Your confusion smoothed out into understanding, a small smile curling up the corner of your lips. “Lucifer,” you said almost teasingly, tugging gently on his wrist until he turned to face you fully. “It’s the middle of the night love. She’s going to be asleep, and even if she isn’t she’s probably going to be doing something she doesn’t want her dad walking in on.” You look at him pointedly, waiting for your words to sink in. “Oh…ohhhh,” lucifers eyes went wide, looking down at the little duck in a mix of horror and embarrassment.
You chuckle gently, tugging on his arm and causing him to take a step towards you. “So why don’t you,” you plucked the duck from his hand, leaning back to place it on top of the coffee table before turning back to him and wrapping your hands around his wrists, “come back here and finish giving me my reward hum?” You tugged him forward and down, Lucifer’s knees hitting the floor on either side of your waist with a dull thud. You used your hold on his wrists to lift his hands and place them on your shoulders before gripping his waist and pulling him down and closer until he was sat in your lap. Lucifer blushed, licking at his lips and swallowing slightly. “I eh, I can do that.” You hummed at his words, lifting one hand to cup his cheek and guiding his lips down to yours.
The first few kisses were soft and slow, Lucifer humming gently at the addictive feel of your lips moving against his. He sank into you, getting more comfortable on your lap and letting his arms drape over your shoulders. The two of you stayed like that for a few long minutes, Lucifer content to spend hours just like that but it seemed you had other ideas. Pulling back you nipped gently at his lip, Lucifer letting out a little whimper at the sudden sting. Resting your forehead against his you slid both your hands up his back, pressing him as close to you as he could get. “Hold on tight,” you mumbled, placing a kiss against his lips.
Lucifer barely had time to register what you had said before you were moving, effortlessly tipping him to the side and rolling him onto his back. He landed within the ducks with a dull thud, several of the stupid things tumbling down to land on his face. Your laughter was sweet as you helped remove the offending ducks off his face, leaving the ones that had fallen around his head and shoulders. “There you are handsome,” you smile as you remove the last one from his head, clearly delighting in the bush your words get you. “Your erh, looking rather radiant as well.” Lucifer cringes at his own awkward attempts at flirting, refusing to look at you because of how awfully that was. You would think he would have gotten better at this sort of thing over the centuries but there was something about you that just left him flustered and unable to say what he means when in your company. When you’re not around he can wax poetry about how your smile lights up the world like a sunbeam or how your eyes sparkle like the stars, but now? With you looking down at him like he’s your whole universe? Not happening.
You shift to the side slightly, slotting one of your legs between his and pressing up against him. “Only when you’re the one looking,” you whisper before pressing your lips against his, using his startled gasp as an opportunity to deepen the kiss. Lucifer moans softly, wrapping his arms around your neck and pulling you in closer. There’s a duck digging into his back and the sound of muffled quacking coming from somewhere above him as their movements caused another wave of ducks to fall down in them. It was ridiculous, kissing in a pile of ducks that were threatening to swallow the two of you up but Lucifer found he didn’t really care, especially when your tongue swiped across his lips, seeking permission that he readily gave. This here, this was the closest to heaven he had felt in eons and he was content to stay in this moment for eternity. Well at least till Charlie woke up anyway.
#answered asks#hazbin hotel#lucifer morningstar#lucifer magne#reader insert#you#gn reader#gender neutral reader#rubber duckies#lucifer morningstar x reader#hazbin lucifer#lucifer morningstar x gn reader#lucifer magne x gn reader#lucifer x gn reader
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In reference to Going with the Times: we are getting ready to go to a club with Angel only for Alastor to intervene when he recognizes our “dancing boots”
He couldn’t let us go out dressed so scandalously modern (the horror), so he distracts us
I somehow grew fond of this pairing - so hell yeah, let's do it ;>
❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
Goody-Two-Shoes
The knock on the door came at the worst timing ever.
You were almost finished, one of the tight, skin-hugging black overknee boots Angel lent you on your left leg, secure and safe.
The other one however put up a fight. Inch by inch you had wiggled and wormed your leg down the shaft, cursing under your breath. Your foot was almost down to the heel, but all the work and struggle with this damn fabric made you break into a sweat, resulting in even more friction to overcome.
“Ugh, come on you god-damn, stupid, fucking... COME IN!”, you stuttered, violently pulling at the top of the boots it made you lose your balance. The door opened, and while you fell you could see a very surprised looking radio demon in the door frame before your ass hit the ground and your back bumped against your dresser.
Alastor rushed to your side, reaching his hand out to your groaning figure.
“Oh, my dear, normally I sweep ladies off their feet after I enter a room.”, he joked, pulling you back up. You didn't dare to let go of his hand, still wobbly from the ill-fitting left boot and the pain in your back from the impact.
“Hilarious, Al, really nice to pull my leg like that when I'm hurtin'. Ouch...”, you grumble, rubbing your sore behind. He chuckled at your little quip but led you carefully to your bed, where you sat down, sighing. Only then did he recognize the very thing that had you in such a struggle. His brow rose, his face displaying a dangerously condescending expression.
“May I ask why you are binding yourself in these... atrosities?”
Ignoring the throbbing pain in your back, you returned to pulling the unruly shaft up your leg again.
“They... are... overknees...”, with another hard tug, your heel finally slipped through. You sighed with relief and brushed your sweaty fringe out of your face. “Angel invited me to go to a club with him and Cherri, and he lent me these!”
You stretched out your legs and tapped your heels together, grinning at him. “They look just like the ones in the photo, right?”
“Indeed.”, he said, but even though he didn't lose his smile, his eyes traveled from your heels over your legs and the seams of the boots to the bare skin of your thighs, only broken by your shimmering hot pants. “And just as outrageous.”
Alastor tilted his head, eyes narrowed. “You do not intend to wear this in public, do you, darling?”
“After spending half an hour just putting those on? Of course I do.”
His disbelieving look made you laugh. It was a never-ending discussion between you two, a tug-and-pull between your sometimes vastly different opinions of modernity. You often fought with him, always in good nature, and everyone in the hotel was convinced you had a golden tongue for how often Alastor let you win these arguments.
Alastor hummed thoughtfully, brows furrowed and staring at the crushed black leather. You were already moving to stand up when his hand suddenly grabbed one of your ankles and he pulled your foot up, making you fall onto your back into your mattress.
“Hey!”
“Half an hour, you say?”, his eyes glimmered with impish mischief. “So much effort, just for the meager fun of catching the eye of a lowly, no-name sinner in a dance club? You can do so much better than that, my sweet.”
He hooked a claw under the seam of your boot, leg still up in his firm grip, and you watched with anger and confusion as he slowly pulled the fabric down.
“AL! Stooooop, I'll never get them up again.”, you whined, hands reaching out to stop him but he shifted his weight, puling your leg even higher while he turned his body, kneeling – no, towering - over you. He rested your ankle between his shoulder and his cheek, eyes still fixated on you as his other hand joined the already working hand in his efforts to get you out of the tight sleve of your shoe. It looked.... sinful almost, oddly hot, and the way his eyes burned into yours made you 1. shut up and 2. flush in deepest magenta.
“Why searching for the companionship of strangers, dressed in such a mundane way, when one could keep the company of a dear friend who doesn't care about what you'll wear?”
He gripped the heel and pulled the loosened sleeve off in one, swift motion. You gulped, the atmosphere had shifted to something other than playful banter.
He seemed almost seductive, the way his voice lost most of his standard radio filter, reducing into a dark whisper.
“I.. um.. “, you said eloquently when a sudden, loud “HOLY SHIT!” made both of your heads turn.
Angel looked like he'd just seen a naked, tap dancing James Dean, he was beet-red (likely rivaling your own color), dressed up to the nines in fur and latex and his mouth stood wide agape.
“Y-You know what, toots, I, um, You... fuck, yeah, you'll take a rain check, seems like you are otherwise... Yeah. See 'ya!”, the spider stuttered, completely floored at this display, backing out slowly and slamming the door shut.
You covered your face with your hands – tomorrow the whole hotel will know about this.
“I guess I won't go out tonight.”, you mumble, embarassed. You tried to sit up, but Alastors sly smile didn't fade as he let your now undressed leg slide down and began to slip the other shoe off.
“Don't worry, darling, I'll make sure you'll have fun anyways.”
#hazbin hotel#hazbin alastor#alastor#hazbin hotel fanfiction#alastor x reader#quick fic#oneshot#fraugwinskawrites#add a little spice
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"The Alchemy" = Karlie's POV of how she's going to take Taylor from Travis?
"I haven't come around in so long
But I'm making a comeback to where I belong"
Karlie showing up at the Eras Tour! Taylor didn't spend long enough with either of the beards for "so long" to make any sense as being about them. How do you make a comeback when you're barely a thing to begin with? Karlie's comeback was headline news though.
"So when I touch down
Call the amateurs and cut 'em from the team
Ditch the clowns, get the crown"
Her football fan baby ("fly like a jet stream") is touching down and coming to sweep away the understudies, users, narcissists and clowns. King of my Heart coming to reclaim her crown! We can only hope 🙏
"Cause the sign on your heart says it's still reserved for me"
Taylor can rewrite history all she wants, but Tratty was never a thing and no-one with a brain can buy the idea that he was the love of her life ten years ago, while Kissgate was happening right in front of him. Peak Kaylor era. When we all saw with our own eyes how she looked at Karlie! But, no, it was Matty all along! Sure, Jan.
Meanwhile, even the "anyone but Karlie" Gaylors who hate her can't deny Taylor has been writing songs about Karlie for a decade now. Even they think she's not over her. So who "still" has Taylor's heart and could make a comeback? Mmhmm.
"I circled you on a map"
Flashback to Taylor highlighting Kaylor-related towns on the weather map in the Lavender Haze music video. Uh-huh.
"Who are we to fight the alchemy?"
Alchemy is the process of turning things into gold. Are we really going to sit here and pretend this isn't Ms Gold Rush, Ms "it's like your eyes are liquor, it's like your body is gold"? Are we really going to pretend Karlie hasn't been gold coded since the beginning? But no! This is about Travis! Totally! Does your blindfold fit snugly enough, babe, or do you want me to tighten it some more for you? 🙄
"Hey, what if I told you we're cool
That child's play back in school
Is forgiven under my rule?"
The child's play is the bearding. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. It's getting so old to never grow up. Karlie is saying it all means nothing.
"These blokes warm the benches
We've been on a winning streak"
Her British beards have just been keeping Karlie's seat warm. While she and Taylor have privately been on a winning streak.
(Seriously, the construction of this song makes no sense if you believe it's about Travis. How could she have been "on a winning streak" with him, while "these blokes" were present-tense warming the benches? Or are we supposed to believe they're just waiting on the sidelines for Taylor to get back with one of them? Even though things are so great with 🚜 and she's said multiple times she doesn't want that? So . . . how is any of this working, exactly? What benches are they warming? Are we SURE the "we" is Travis? Hmm?)
"He jokes it's heroin but this time with an e"
People are so distracted by this "dig at Matty" they can't see what's right in front of their faces. Heroin with an e = heroine. As in, the female hero of a story. The joke is that the one to "save" Taylor won't be any of these jokers dressing up as kings. It's a woman. A HEROINE. Not a hero.
And then we get a football metaphor everyone will assume is about Travis, even though Karlie's love of football is well-documented. Do we really think Travis cares more about the beard he's made his meal ticket than he does about winning a trophy? Yeah, right. The days of wasted celebration with no Taylor in sight really give that impression. The thirst traps he was liking on Instagram while "dating" Taylor really show he only has eyes for her. Totally.
Meanwhile we have a million songs where Taylor tells us all her obviously-Karlie lover ever wanted was her.
I can't see The Alchemy any other way than as a Karlie comeback song. Bring it home, Karlie! We're all rooting for you! Go! Fight! Win! 🏆
Wow, Anon! I love this take! Lots of food for thought.
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Songbird Hannibal x Operareader
Yandere hannibal tw obsessive reltionship, controlling behavior,manupliation, and briefly mentioned baby trapping
You were his song bird, he'd always say it, it was his Nickname for you. He wasn't ashamed of it either infront of a crowd of all his dinner guests he'd call out for his song bird to come make a host
Such a nice reminder of how you met and fell in love, you even had the ticket Hannibal bought to your opera show framed so it was nice he was also sentimental
But it was much diffrent from hannibal's view
He saw your performances many times before you even met him. Every time he was smitten
Your voice it came from deep down as if it was your soul singing
It indirectly brought him to his childhood your look,voice,and even smell reminded him of his mother's room, the smell of all her perfume and the admiration he had for all the beauty and small details, it was hard to fully put into words but he just knew he had to have you
Although he wanted to simply sweep you up have you in his arms, he had to be patient if he wanted you to sing
A song bird could be trapped in the prettiest golden cage and fed the best quality food but never sing, they'd fall into depression being aware of their lack of freedom.
So he moved slowely charming you one night after a performance when he spotted you in the lobby. He'd take you ok the finest dates and gift you the finest golden jewelry he could find
Of course you were charmed, a respectable well groomed well educated man wanting to give you the world would charm anyone he was like a winning lotto ticket sticking out from any deadbeat,messy,rude, or childish boyfreinds you've had before
If the song bird is unaware of their captivity, the golden bars too far away for them to feel trapped, too busy with toys to want to fly away and it'd be content singing
This is what he did you thought you could go anywhere but he made very sure you'd never be too far away, not that you would wonder off he would do so much with you that you were too tired to go out without him.
He loved hearing your voice In the theatre and seeing how you moved everyone. But his greed was far more powerful, he wanted your voice to only move him to speak directly to him your voice only sung for him. At every performance he'd imagine your voice hitting a note so high everyone but him would shatter like glass leaving him the only one worthy to enjoy your melodies
So he played the long game soon wrapping your finger in a wedding ring, to lure you into the grand cage
After that it was easy to get you to abdonen your career with phrases like, "why work for others when I am more than able to provide", "you could write your own songs with the free time",and the one that hit the hardest "if we had children won't you want to be around them, of course I support working mothers but all the time you spend practicing and when you perform in other states even countries woudnt you rather be with them"
Of course there were a ton mire tactics he used to persuade you, he was very manipulative part of that is what made life to him a game if chess always needing to plot your next move or words
Soon it worked, his song bird was in the cage clueless about the trap and he locked the door
It took years but finally he had his pretty song bird in a golden cage where only he could be blessed with the singing, where only he held the key to free the bird but it remained unaware happily singing
You were happy either way wrapped around him
It was funny you worried that he didn't love you at times or that you were a bother due to how stoic he was and how hard it was to read him
Of course he'd assure you how loved you are but it was funny, you were worried that you were annoying him when he did so much for you to "annoy" him
Everyone saw through the bars even you, you were lucky you married a rich respectful docter who loved you
You'd still sing for the public but not as a profession whenever there was a open mic or any exuse he'd happily watch his songbird sing and the awe in others
He saw it as a blessing to the strangers a rare moment where he'd bring his golden cage to the public to allow others to hear the singing
He'd sketch you alot, you'd be drawn as many Greek Goddesses frequently as aphrodite, or on a stage singing to a audience that was empty exept for one man, him
He never shown you the sketches but he wasn't ashamed its just what he did to keep his mind busy you woudnt show him your middle school doodles
If you ever saw them he'd just admit that he drew them and move on
Though he'd ask you to model for paintings drawing you in so many poses some erotic but some classical, as if you were a medival monarch
Though he usually painted from real life he had one he painted without your modeling, it was you wearing flowing silk while in a golden swing in a golden cage seeming unaware
Oh how he favored it, it was hung in his office for any patients or freinds to see. You felt unease when seeing it but could never put a finger on it
Because a happy songbird was unaware of its cage,it didn't see itself as trapped so it woudnt recognize any depiction of themselves as trapped
#hannibal lecter x reader#hannibal#yandere hannibal lecter#yandere hannibal#hannibal x reader#hannibal lecter
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nagi seishiro - illuminate *:･ﾟ✧
ft. fratboy!nagi x f!reader, 18+ minors dni
cw: intoxication/fucking under the influence (alcohol), nipple play, thigh riding, fingering, choking, cumming on body
synopsis: what happens when you lose your roommate at the biggest frat party of the semester?
wc: 2.06k
A/N: inspired entirely by a whiteout party i went to last night
you stopped trying to look for your new roommate about half an hour ago, giving up the impossible search in a sea of sweaty bodies dimly lit by uv lights.
“pleaseee” she had said with doe eyes, begging you to go with her to the first frat party of the semester. you barely knew anyone within greek life and the last time you were at a frat party some random girl threw up all over your new dunks. this was before you knew frat shoes were a thing, and the memory makes you shudder.
“i heard ksig has really cute guysss” she continued, still trying to convince you to come.
you rolled your eyes, “sorry i’m not interested in lumberjack built gym rats whose greatest contribution to society is shotgunning beer cans in seconds.”
“what else could you possibly be doing this saturday night? and don’t tell me it’s homework because it’s just syllabus week” she exasperates, not giving up,
“well-” you started, but then realized she had a point.
“come on it’s the biggest party of the semester”
and that’s how you ended up at kappa sigma’s fall rush social: whiteout theme. looking at the state of the frat house, you wondered who came up with that terrible idea. the uv lights only highlighted the filth on every visible surface area. upon entry you were already regretting your decision.
that regret only grew when you realized your new roommate was a runner. you lost her barely half an hour in, unable to find her in any public space. you chose to avoid looking in the private rooms though because well you know what happens in there during parties.
low battery: 20%. great now your phone was running low too. there had to be at least another two hours before the party ended, and something told you your roommate wouldn’t be calling you back anytime soon.
“HE JUST DOESN’T MISS!!” a deep voice booms followed by an eruption of incoherent yelling. a crowd was growing near the beer pong table, and you decided to join them. it had to be better than sitting alone doing nothing on a couch now that your phone was low.
you push your way towards the front to see what the noise was about, and you see a duo stood at one end along with a singular guy at the other. the one-man team was clearly dominating as visible by the cup ratio: 1 to 8. he is up, having to land a pingpong ball into the remaining cup twice.
shoot, in. the first shot is successful, and you could hear people murmur in anticipation.
shoot…in. the crowd erupts in an instance, and the guy is hoisted up onto another’s shoulders. there, you finally get a good look at him and your stomach flips. he’s fucking hot.
all your previous qualms about the theme were long forgotten as you see how his white hair glows under the dark lights, illuminating his figure. he’s tall too, nearly touching the high ceiling from the shoulder ride.
“LET’S FUCKING GO THAT’S OUR SEI!” the guy carrying him shouts, earning whoops and hollers from who you assume are the ksig brothers.
“so his name is sei” you murmur, liking the way it sounds on your tongue.
“can i go play games upstairs now?” sei asks, and his brothers boo in response. he seems entirely different from the other frat boys, almost bored at his win, like it was only obvious that he would sweep the other team. your attraction continues to grow.
“come on sei, you never come to these things. at least stay for a little longer.”
“what a hassle” you hear him say softly as he’s lowered back down to the ground. his brothers go to the next room for more drinks you assume, but sei stays put near the table. and suddenly you’re met with an opportunity.
you swish around the remaining jungle juice in your solo cup for a bit before raising it to your lips and downing it in one breath. you needed a shot of courage (or multiple in this case because why the fuck did that taste like 80% alcohol).
“you were really good back there” you lean on the pong table, facing your body towards sei who was currently occupied with his phone. he looks up from his device, and you don’t miss the glance he gives towards your body.
suddenly you’re thankful that the only clean white fit you had was coincidentally your sluttiest one. the crossed fabric that wrapped around your neck defined your cleavage, and the short tennis skirt threatened to show your ass at the slightest bending motion.
“oh thanks…do i know you?”
ouch.
“probably not, this is my first ksig function” you try to ignore the heat that flashes across your face, “not really a frat party person.”
“me neither. the bros made me come today since there were zetas talking shit about our pong game” he responded, and you’re thankful to find common ground.
“well clearly they weren’t much of a match. i’m surprised you’re a brother if you don’t go out often”
“hm i actually only joined on a bet. my friend said he’d buy me a ps5 game if i got a bid” he shrugged. “i’ve been trying to drop for over a year now, but they need me for the tournaments”
“tournaments?” you ask, clearly not the most knowledgeable about frat culture.
“yeah for pong and beer die. they think ksig has a shot at the finales for the first time in years or something”
they probably do judging by sei’s performance just a few minutes prior. you reach for a ping pong ball, purposefully grazing his arm lightly to reach it.
“can you show me how to throw? i suck” you pout slightly. technically it wasn’t a lie, you couldn’t aim for shit, especially not while buzzed.
“it’s easy, it’s all in the elbows” he takes a ball himself and shoots, naturally landing it of course. you try to mimic him after, only to see the ball bounce off the cup’s rim.
“you’re bending your wrist too much” he comments, handing you another ball. you try again, and it ricochets off one cup, barely missing the one next to it.
“you’re overextending your arm now” he says, already with another ball in hand.
“let me show you”, you expect him to demonstrate again but instead he places it in your hand and takes position behind you. he raises your arm with his own, showing you exactly how the movement should go. you’re focused on anything but the technique though, instead thinking about how warm his fingers are against your wrist.
“now you try” he says, by your ear. holy shit he’s right there. he doesn’t move from the position though, and the nerves caused by his proximity makes you miss terribly.
“how did you get even worse,” he’s clearly shocked, doubting his own teaching ability for a second, “you should just give up” he concludes.
“hey it’s just because you were so close” you defend yourself, eyes widening once you realize what it suggested.
“do i make you nervous?” he smirks, and you’ve never felt smaller (maybe that’s also because he’s literally towering over you).
“so what if you do?” you retort, digging yourself a deeper hole.
“want to go to my room?”
~~~
the door is barely shut before your lips are on each other, tasting remnants of alcohol. he leads you to his gaming chair, seating you on top of his lap. immediately you can feel a bulge form under you.
sei’s kisses aren’t aggressive, but needy. his hands are on your waist, pulling you in further towards his chest. then back out, creating just the right friction beneath your skirt. you build a rhythm, grinding on his thighs, which you note are quite toned.
“f-fuck sei” you moaned against him, resulting in a tightened grip on your hips.
“you’re making a mess” he observes, pleased at the damp streaks forming on his pants. while one hand remains at the side of your waist, he moves the other one up, settling on your right breast. he eagerly tugs your shirt to free it, capturing the bud with his fingertips. pinching and rolling, emitting louder moans from you.
“so fucking perfect” he murmurs before diving in, capturing the sensitive bead between his lips. the sensation pushes you further to the edge, eyes rolling back as his tongue circles it.
he picks you up easily from the chair, face still buried in your chest. he sets you down on his bed and starts to unbuckle his belt. you remove your own drenched panties and move to do the same with your skirt.
“keep this on” he smacks your hand away from the waistband, “i’ve always wanted to fuck someone with a skirt on”
he takes off his shirt with one pull, and wow abs. he smirks again, seeing your eyes fixated on his body.
“like what you see?”
“how could i not?”
if you looked closely you would be able to see his cock twitch, clearly thrilled at the validation. his lips are on you again, and he mumbles out a “you drive me fucking crazy”
fingers are prodding near your entrance, and you instinctively shut your legs from the sensitivity.
“keep them open” he pulls your knees apart, strong arms keeping them from shutting again. he circles your clit first, lubricating his digits with the surplus of slick. once satisfied, he enters with two at once, earning a particularly long moan from the stretch.
“so wet” he starts to pump, quickening his pace, “all for me”
“just like that sei just like that” you repeat, intoxicated by the feeling. the squelching noises are overwhelming, bouncing off the walls. then he curls his fingers.
“don’t do that i-” you choke out, “i’ll cum!”
he doesn’t stop though, still thrusting his perfectly curled fingers through your orgasm. wait, what kind of frat boy makes the girl cum first?
before you could ponder too much he’s wrapping an arm under you, swiftly flipping you over onto your stomach. you go onto your knees, and he’s nearly cumming at the view of your ass up against him.
glancing back you see him quickly rip open a condom with his teeth before slipping it on, as if he’s done it a billion times before. with looks like those you wouldn’t be surprised.
he positions himself behind you, aligning himself with your entrance before pushing.
“seiii” you drawl, in awe at how perfect he fits within you.
his hands are positioned at your hips, slowly thrusting his own against you as you grow accustomed to the intrusion.
“y-you can go faster” you moan, and what can he do but comply. his thrusts are sharp and quick, and you begin to hear his own breathy moans at the feeling of your velvety walls.
“your body’s so perfect…like it was made for me” he groans. his right hand moves away from your hips and rest against your throat, squeezing.
the sudden loss of oxygen makes your mind go into a haze, unable to focus on anything but the pleasure.
“flip over” he suddenly goes, before moving you himself. “need to cum while seeing you”
his hand remains on your throat as he continues to fuck you in missionary, getting closer as he hears those sinful moans and sees your face permanently plastered with an expression of ecstasy.
“want you to cum on me” you plead, “want you to make me a mess”
unable to say no, he pulls out and rips off the condom with alarming speed. within a few pumps of his hand he’s granting your wish, decorating your upper body with thick spurts of white.
you’re sure it would be a sight if you were to step back into the party under the uv lights.
~~~
sorry i totally forgot to tell you i left with a guy >.<
you stare blankly at the text from your roommate displayed on your screen. yeah you were never going out with this girl again.
“just stay here with me” sei says, also seeing the text from over your shoulder. “i’ll take you home tomorrow”
well you’d have to thank her for dragging you out this one time at least. you shut off your phone and succumb to sleep in the arms of your not-so-typical frat boy.
#bc tell me frat boy nagi would NOT hit so hard#@yunxbin im crying over fratboy nagi too#nagi seishiro#nagi#nagi seishiro x reader#nagi x reader#nagi seishiro smut#nagi smut#blue lock#bllk#blue lock smut#bllk smut
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Kid
Arsenal Women x Teen!Reader
Summary: You join Arsenal Women at age sixteen
Moving to England hadn't exactly been your plan when you started to play football.
To be honest, there hadn't been a plan at all, seeing as you were four when your parents first signed you up for your local academy in Sweden. It was just an excuse to keep you out of the house, so your parents didn't have to take time off work to look after you when school finished.
It helped that your school was partnered with the academy so a representative would come and walk all the academy students there and back.
Football may have been a convenience but it was clear to everyone that you were somewhat of a prodigy. Linköping Fc signed you as soon as they could, forcing you to make the move from your tiny town to the city.
Your parents were more than happy to finance the move - the kind of parents that happily parent from a distance but brag to all of their friends about how smart, how talented their daughter was.
You were happy to be rid of them.
You were even happier to get the callup for the National Team for the World Cup.
Your chest thudded in your throat when you received the call. You hadn't thought you would get the call-up, not when you were so young, so you had been at a café with some of your school friends when your phone rang.
You had picked it up absentmindedly and almost passed out from shock when Peter revealed he wanted you on the team.
The World Cup came and went and the bronze medal you won stayed with you. You had flat-out refused to give it over to your parents, who wanted to put it in the trophy cabinet in a house you no longer lived in.
The high of the World Cup bled into the high of getting a call to sign for Arsenal.
You hadn't even really thought about it.
You just accepted.
Which was how you had gotten here, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet as you waited for Stina to lock her car and walk in with you.
●～●～●～●～
You couldn't help but look at your jersey in awe. Your number combined with your last name on the back of an Arsenal jersey felt like a dream come true.
"There she is," Amanda said when you finally wandered into the meeting room, free from media duty. She pushed out a chair that was clearly meant for you at the table she was sitting at.
You sat in the seat awkwardly, suddenly feeling shy and awkward.
"This is y/n," Amanda said to the others, presenting you to them like you were someone really exciting.
"Hi, y/n. I'm Jen."
You didn't tell her that you already knew who she was, who they all were. You just sat there and let everyone introduce themselves to you because that was the polite thing to do.
"Hi."
"You're young, aren't you?" Asked Kim, even though you knew that she probably already knew that.
You nodded though. "Yeah." Your voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm sixteen."
"But she's a superstar." It was nice of Amanda to butt in. It saved you from having to speak.
"I think we know that," McCabe said with an eye roll," I think we all saw that match-winning goal against Australia."
You winced slightly as you snuck a glance to McCabe's other side where Catley sat, the very defender that you megged before scoring your goal.
Your eyes widened in horror when she made eye contact. "Sorry." You looked down at your lap, hiding your shaking hands under the table.
"Don't sweat it, kid," Catley replied with an easy grin," No hard feelings. It was a good call." She smirked at you. "Though, the deer in headlights look you had after it went in was pretty funny."
Laughter rang out through the group and you relaxed marginally, groaning at the reminder. Everyone you knew had sent that picture to you and you knew for a fact that it was still circulating the internet as a meme.
●～●～●～●～
It was easy to settle into life at Arsenal.
You were still shy and awkward off the pitch but you fit in well with the other girls and Lina, Stina and Amanda were always ready to sweep you away when they noticed you getting too overwhelmed.
Somewhere along the way Catley became Steph and McCabe became Katie.
You weren't really sure when that happened but it was a welcome change from when you first joined.
"Come on, kid. You've been studying too much," Katie said as an arm dragged you away from your laptop to where the others were playing FIFA.
You were dumped between Less and Vic while Lina laughed.
"She's always studying."
You rolled your eyes. "Just because you don't have to go to school anymore, doesn't mean that I don't."
"Online school isn't really school," Cloe said before swearing when Gio scored another goal," It's like...school without the deadlines."
"Except the deadline is before Christmas," You replied with a huff," I have essays to write, Katie! Let me go!"
"Don't let her go, girls," Katie said from where she was curled up with Caitlin.
Alessia mockingly saluted as she bracketed you in her arms while Vic pinned down your legs.
"Less! Vic!" You squawked as you tried to wiggle away from them.
Their holds were unrelenting and made even worse when Kyra popped up out of nowhere, digging her fingers into your side and tickling you like you had personally offended her or something.
"Stop! Stop!" You laughed, tears running down your face as Kyra remained unrelenting. "Cait-Caitlin! Caitlin, help!"
Caitlin looked at you thoughtfully, humming to herself before giving you a faux look of sympathy. "Sorry, y/n, I can't. You see, I'm still holding a grudge against you for grabbing that bronze medal." She winked to let you know she was joking.
"Oh, come on!"
●～●～●～●～
It took you nearly two weeks of being in London to meet the ACL squad and it was only because Kathrine slid in for a tackle at the wrong time and hit your ankle.
You hadn't even been on the ground for that long but it was enough that Jonas sent Gio to take you to the physios to get it taped up with an extremely apologetic Kathrine following after you.
"I'm so sorry," She was saying when Gio shepherded you into the room," I'll make up for it. How does one of those big jelly baby packs sound?"
"I'm not allowed to eat them," You replied," Stina said that they'll rot my teeth."
"Fine, fine, I'll think of something. How about dinner? I'll buy you dinner for your cheat day. Just tell me when."
You rolled your eyes, having no intention of doing so but still nodded.
"What's up with all this commotion?"
You had to admit, seeing Leah Williamson in person made you feel a little starstruck and you immediately retreated into yourself.
Gio jerked her thumb at Kathrine. "Kuhl hurt the kid and seeing as we need the kid, Jonas wants her ankle taped."
"My ankle's fine," You said stubbornly but allowed a physio to usher you onto the bed between Goldie and Wienriother. You gave them both one of your trademark awkward smiles as you let the physio pull off your boot and socks.
You didn't want to look at your ankle, already knowing it was bruised by the way that you saw Goldie wince sympathetically at you while the physio moved away to grab some ice.
"That looks nasty," She said," Does it hurt?"
"Not too bad."
"I'm Teyah, by the way."
"y/n."
"I know." She smiled at you. "It's nice that there's someone younger than me and Naomi now."
You looked down bashfully. "Happy to be of service."
Next to you, Weinriother laughed. "Don't mind Teyah, she's just glad no one will call her kid anymore. I'm Laura, by the way."
"And I'm Beth!" She leaned over Laura to shake your hand before indicating to where her girlfriend was being worked on. "That's Viv, she's a little prickly sometimes but if you ever need some peace and quiet, I'm sure she wouldn't mind you sitting with her."
You nodded, still feeling a little awkward even though the tension had disappeared.
"You're living with Stina, right?" Leah asked," How's that going?"
"Good," You replied, focussed on the way that the physio was moving your ankle," She lets me play music on the speakers while I study."
Leah laughed. "I live right round the corner. If you ever need a break, feel free to pop in. I reckon I'm more fun than Stina anyway."
●～●～●～●～
You hated asking for help.
You hated it even more when you had to ask for help on schoolwork.
You were smart. You knew you were smart. If there were two things that a lack of parents in your life gave you, it was excellent football skills and the ability to solve your own problems.
But this maths section in your textbook was causing you more pain than a Katie tackle in training ever could.
You glanced around the room. The media room was almost always empty at this time of day - the two and a half hour window between morning training and the gym session.
Almost everyone lived close so headed back home to rest before coming back. Stina had asked if you wanted to head back home with her but you decided not to, needing to finish your maths homework.
Lina had asked if you wanted her to drop you off on her way to her own place as well but you didn't relent.
You hunkered down in the media room with your textbook and, after just over an hour, your eyes stung like you hadn't slept in three days.
You glanced around again and finally swallowed your pride.
"Frida?" You asked the least intimidating person in the room," Can you help me?"
She looked up from her phone. "What is it?" She dragged your textbook towards her. "Oh! I can help!"
Despite her optimism, within a few seconds, it became clear that Frida could absolutely not help you. The more she read through your problems, the deeper her frown got until she was holding a pencil between her fingers and mouthing the question to herself as if that would help her understand.
She looked positively ill when she looked up at you before she cleared her throat. "Lia? Do you know how to do fancy algebra?"
Lia, from across the room, sighed as she approached. "I used to be quite good at algebra," She boasted," What's the problem?"
"Algebra," You deadpanned, shoving the textbook and your notepad at her," Help."
To her credit, she got further than Frida did, jotting down her working out before falling at the last hurdle - just like you did. She frowned. "Give me a second."
She rewrote all of her work but still ended up stumped at the same place as before.
"Kim? Jen? How were you at maths in school?"
Kim and Jen tried to help as well but it was like the blind leading the blind. You were going around in circles.
"When are you going to need this in life?" Kim said, drawing a line through her most reason equation and sighing.
"Unless you want to be an engineer, never." Jen sighed and flipped the book shut. "You don't want to be an engineer, do you, kid?"
"I'm happy playing football."
●～●～●～●～
If you weren't doing schoolwork at every spare moment, it was safe to say that you napping.
Back at National Camp, it wasn't uncommon to find you curled up in bed or with your head in Frido's lap while everyone watched a movie.
It seemed that your need to nap every moment you weren't occupied had carried over to England.
It got a little embarrassing the first few times you had been caught napping in the communal space. It was even worse when you woke up to Viv staring down at you with an unreadable look on her face, taking in your form curled up under your travel blanket.
You had smiled nervously as she stood in front of you, unmoving.
When Beth appeared through the door a moment later, Viv shushed her sternly and tucked your blanket up over your shoulders again, taking a seat nearby with a book.
Beth, it seemed, hadn't been able to keep her mouth shut about it so your constant naps had just become an expected thing and, after Leah had accidentally woken you up and gotten yelled at by Viv for it, the team tended to just leave you alone.
You were slightly delirious and warm when you woke up from your nap, eyes fluttering open and then shut again.
The low murmur of chatter let you know that contrary to when you started your nap, you were now no longer alone.
You were still quite confused, brain still thick with sleep, but you could recognise Sabrina's Canadian-accented English so you gathered that the keepers had finished their morning practice and had found you asleep in the media room.
You also recognised that your head was now slightly elevated so one of them must have moved your head into their lap while you slept. That was nice. Sometimes you would wake up with a crook in your neck from sleeping on the beat-up sofa that Leah swore she was one bad back away from replacing herself.
Your eyes fluttered open again, blearily blinking.
Across from you, Naomi laughed. "The kid's awake."
"I'm not a kid," You said stubbornly even though you were," You're not that much older than me."
"Still older," Naomi replied.
Next to her, Sabrina laughed.
That meant that Manu was sitting with you, your head in her lap. She laughed as well, jolting you slightly as you clutched your travel blanket tighter around your body.
You yawned.
"How long until gym?"
"Hour and a bit," Came Manu's answer.
You hummed and yawned a second time.
"Don't tell me you're going back to sleep," Sabrina said.
"Fine. I won't tell you."
●～●～●～●～
You spent the first few matches stuck on the bench.
You were young and not as experienced as your teammates so it made sense that you would be stuck there for the time being. Besides, it made you feel a little bit better that Kyra was stuck on the bench as well so you had someone who acted younger than you to muck around with.
"Chin up," Laia said with a grin, an arm thrown over your shoulder as she walked onto the pitch with you for warmups," You're starting today. Aren't you excited?"
"You look more excited than me," You replied a little sourly," I...I feel a little sick if I'm honest."
"You'll do great."
"So long as you tie your boots correctly and don't trip," Noelle said in way of greeting.
Your cheeks lit up in flames instantly at the reminder of training a few days ago when Beth had snuck up behind you and made a stupid sound in your ear. You had jumped into the air in shock and your laces weren't tied correctly so you tripped over your own feet and went tumbling to the ground in a way that made you look clumsier than Alessia.
"Don't be mean," Lotte chastised as the four of you passed a ball around," y/n knows how to properly tie her laces." She sent you a teasing smile and a shrug. "Besides, I'm sure she'll have some of the older girls lining up to make sure they're done properly."
You huffed as you kicked the ball back to her. You spun on your heel. "You're all mean," You declared," I'm gonna warm up with Vic and Less."
●～●～●～●～
The ninety minutes of your debut match were gruelling.
The ball went back and forth between the teams. Every shot that went in was equalised quickly. Everyone was growing tired, especially when five minutes of extra time was awarded and Katie was one dirty tackle away from earning herself a yellow card.
You took a moment to catch your breath, pulling up your socks before breaking into a sprint.
The opposing team's defence was in shambles and you could see their goalkeeper getting antsy.
A long ball from Katie fell neatly into Alessia's feet and she began her run.
You followed after her quickly as the opposing defence broke their line. It was carnage for a moment as you both approached the box.
The goalkeeper came off her line ever so slightly as the defence mobbed Alessia, who passed quickly to you.
Your foot moved automatically as you chipped the ball over the goalkeeper's head and into the back of the net.
Your instincts got you the goal so when your brain finally caught up, you were sporting the same look on your face as the one you had when you won against Australia.
The final whistle rang out as you stood there in shock.
Half a moment later, the team crashed into you.
Less made it to you first, pulling you in for a tight hug before everyone else converged on you.
You felt a bit like a dog, with the amount of head pats you were receiving but the blinding smile on your face more than made up for it - especially when Viv meandered over and gave you a hug and congratulations.
"Come on, l/n!" Katie cheered as she dragged you through the victory lap. "Party tonight! I'll pay for the drinks!"
"She's sixteen," Lina reminded her.
"I didn't say we had to go out to a pub! It's legal for sixteen-year-olds to drink at home! What do you say, kid?"
You laughed. "Good luck getting Stina to agree."
#woso x reader#arsenal wfc x reader#arsenal wfc#arsenal x reader#woso community#woso#woso imagine#woso fanfics
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My Sweet Girl (Matthew Tkachuk Imagine)
This is by far-- I repeat, by far-- the longest reader insert I've ever written. It's my submission for @wyattjohnston 's Winter Fic Exchange, a gift for @matthewtkachuk ! Excellent URL, by the way.
The creative process here went as follows: Shelbs shows me her On Repeat Spotify playlist -> I see The Band Camino on it and remember that I love that band -> I listen to nothing but them for two weeks -> I hear the song Know It All and am struck with inspiration -> I write this and inflict it on everyone else.
I jumped around a bit while writing, so please let me know if there's anything I screwed up! This is also the type of fic that has had 20+ tabs of Wikipedia pages, ESPN articles, and stats pages open on my computer for two months, but there was still information I couldn't find, so please be gentle with any inconsistencies.
Anyway, I truly hope that you enjoy this one! I apologize for being a day late posting, my job sucks.
Rating: M
Pairing: Matthew Tkachuk/fem!Reader
Words: 26, 028
Warnings: a lot of angst
Contains: best friend's brother, friends to ??? to strangers to lovers, situationship, idiots in love, everyone knows but them, Matthew being kind of a dick, guest appearances by the Weinberg-Hughes family and Jane Gaudreau
Summary: As Brady's best friend, it was your duty to love and support him. You're pretty sure falling in love with his brother does not count as "support", but here you are.
-----
You weren’t expecting this to be as hard as it is.
Luckily, you’d been given a little warning beforehand, but apparently a week wasn’t enough to prepare yourself. Was it kind of fucked up that the news had to come from Brady, because Matthew hadn’t bothered to tell you himself? Yeah, kind of. Sure, Brady and you have been best friends for years, but it’s not like you’re not close with Matthew, too.
You hadn’t realized what was going on at first, convincing yourself not to be upset when Matthew’s texts slowed and his calls stopped outright. It had been the beginning of the playoffs, you reasoned, of course he was going to be too busy to talk to you as much. Despite the fact that communication between the two of you had never waned because of the season before. It was his first year on a new team, you’d told yourself, a team with a great shot at the Cup, at that. You could deal with missing him a little more than usual if that’s what he needed.
When you’d called him to congratulate him on passing the first round, he’d thanked you and wrapped the call up as quickly as he could. Seeing the 3:24:41 call duration on your phone afterward had felt wrong. It was one of the shortest calls the two of you had ever had.
You’d brushed it off, chalked it up to him being tired or busy. Then they’d won the second round, and the process repeated itself. A quick phone call, a few scant minutes. It had sounded like other people were there that time, so you’d convinced yourself that he would call you back when he was alone. He never did.
You got to watch Game 4 of the third series, got to watch them sweep Carolina to win the Eastern Conference. Your friend Terri had laughed and clapped as you cheered, jumping up and down like a child. She was a Carolina fan herself, but was good enough of a loser to hug and congratulate you despite it. She’d offered to leave so that you could talk to Matthew, but you’d waved it off. You knew he’d be celebrating with the boys that night, so there was no real reason to try calling. You’d shot him a congratulations text and spent the night smiling so much your cheeks hurt.
When you’d tried to call Matthew the next day, his voice had been hushed when he answered. You’d given him your congratulations, bubbling over about how well they’d played. It’s not the first time you’d had a phone call exactly like that, him letting you gush about his team’s play and basking in the attention. This time, he interrupted you before you even got a chance to really get going. His voice was still quiet, almost a whisper as he said he had to go. The wind was immediately taken out of your sails and you’d barely had time to say goodbye before he hung up.
At that point, you’d given up convincing yourself that everything was okay. Something was very clearly wrong, and you’d spent the next nine days trying to figure out what it was. You’d reached out to Brady, and he’d told you that he hadn’t noticed anything weird from Matthew at all. Knowing that, you’d tried to downplay what was going on between the two of you, lest Brady go bother Matthew about it. You don’t do well with embarrassment, so you’d preferred that whatever was going on stayed away from any third parties.
The finals started, ending rather anticlimactically ten days later in a 4-1 loss for the Panthers. Knowing Matthew, he was going to go straight back to his hotel room and beat himself up. For the last three, almost four, years, you’d called Matthew after every big win or loss, and this was his biggest loss to date. Yet your finger hesitated at his contact name, hovered over the picture of him with bedhead and a lazy smile. With how things had been going, you knew he probably wouldn’t want to talk to you, even if you hadn’t figured out why yet. But part of you hoped that he would, that everything to that point had been stress, and there, at his lowest, he would talk to you again, and everything would go back to normal.
That, of course, is not what happened.
He hadn’t answered at all. And when you’d tried a second time an hour later, it rang once before going to voicemail. That meant that he’d declined your call, but you didn’t know what that meant.
Two more days passed without you hearing anything from him, so you’d called Brady. All of this had been concerning, but that had been too much. Miraculously, you’d managed to stay calm when you spoke with Brady, sounding impressively level-headed when you relayed what happened and asked him if he’d heard from Matthew. Brady had seemed shocked at the situation, immediately calling Matthew after he’d hung up with you.
Thirty minutes later, when you’d received a text from Brady, your heart had sunk to the pit of your stomach, and it’s stayed there ever since.
Because what the text had informed you of is that Matthew hadn’t lost or broken his phone, hadn’t been sick or depressed or, god, lost in the fucking desert or some shit. It told you that he’d been with his girlfriend, and hadn’t wanted her to see him call or text another girl. Because, apparently, Matthew has a girlfriend now. And just hadn’t deigned to tell you.
When Brady had told you that she would be spending the offseason in St. Louis with Matthew, you’d tried to hide your shock. You’d cleared your throat and told Brady how great that was, even as you wanted to throw up. They’d gotten into town a few days ago, and you’d done your best to keep your distance. But Brady asked you to come to dinner at his parents’ house tonight, citing the limited time you have to see him before he goes back to Ottawa, and you couldn’t refuse.
So now here you are, curled up in a chair in the Tkachuks’ den, across from said girlfriend. Her name is Tessa, she’s 26, and she does remote work for a marketing firm. That explains how she’s able to pick up and go to St. Louis for three months, at least. She’s already recounted the story of how they’d met, a romcom story of spilling his drink on her dress at a party and getting to know each other from there. She talks about the instant connection, the way they clicked so quickly that she knew they were meant for each other. That part of the story was when you’d excused yourself to get a glass of water, just so you could stick your head in the fridge and take a few deep breaths.
Matthew and Tessa are on one of the couches, the older, comfier one. Matthew is propped up against one of the armrests, Tessa curled into his side, his arm around her shoulders. You’ve spent the night pretending not to notice the way Matthew keeps glancing at you.
Brady and Emma are posted up on the other couch, one on either side, Emma’s feet in Brady’s lap as she lounges. Emma is great, and does a great job at keeping the conversation going, despite how little you and the boys are participating. Tessa either doesn’t notice your silence or doesn’t mind, chatting happily about some film she and Emma have both recently seen. You’re pretending not to notice the looks Brady’s giving you, either.
You should really be trying harder. You know Brady wasn’t expecting you to curl up under a blanket and mope when he invited you, and he really is right about time being limited. You should be engaging, enjoying the time you get with the boys while you have it. You would, if you could open your mouth without feeling like you’re going to scream.
Eventually, Chantal calls you all to dinner. It’s easier once you’re all gathered around the table, somehow, and you’re able to talk a little. Chantal has always put you at ease, has always made you feel like just another of her children. If you had it your way, Taryn would be here too. She has a way of lovingly bullying you that always makes you feel better. Unfortunately, she’s visiting some college friends out of state. But you’re doing okay, you think, at acting normal.
Then you lock eyes with Keith, and any sense of ease you’ve gained flies out the window. You wouldn’t be inclined to say that Keith is the most observant person in the world, so the way he’s looking at you– like he knows something is very, very wrong– makes it clear that you’re doing an absolutely dogshit job at hiding your feelings. You look away from him quickly, swallowing hard and forcing yourself to talk even more.
Maybe if you can just act normal, if you can push down the emotions and act like everything is okay, it will be. There’s nothing else you can really do about the situation anyway. Matthew has made it clear that he’s not interested in talking about it, so you’ll have to suck it up and deal with it on your own.
Dinner goes by a little quicker once you’re actually actively involved in the conversation. Typically, you help Chantal with the dishes after meals, but when you reach for the sponge at the sink, she shoos you away. She sends the girls back to the den, insisting that it’s the boys’ turn to help.
You curl back up in your chair, mind wandering as you operate on autopilot. You’re saying things, contributing to the conversation with Emma and Tessa, but you have no idea what you’re actually saying. Mercifully, they either don’t notice or don’t care.
This entire situation is fucked. What’s really getting to you, though, is how you’d been introduced. You’d walked in, giving out hugs to everyone except Matthew and Tessa. She’d approached you, shaking your hand enthusiastically.
“Matthew said you’re Brady’s best friend, right?” she’d asked. It was simple, innocuous, and true. Brady and you have been best friends for years, and that would be an adequate title in any other scenario. But it felt like a punch to the gut, knowing that after everything, Matthew had told her that you were just his little brother’s best friend. You’d glanced at him as she said it, and the intentionally cool, unaffected expression Matthew had in place still couldn’t hide the guilt in his eyes.
In that moment, you knew that he hadn’t told her anything about you, about whatever the two of you have been to each other for the past few years, and that he never intends to. There was a second where he’d made a decision, a second that you weren’t present for, that had cut off everything you’ve been to him and relegated you back to Brady’s Best Friend.
You want to pull Tessa aside, spill out everything. You want her to know that you’re Matthew’s friend too, that you’ve been more than that. More than that, you want Matthew to do it. You want him to tell her, to acknowledge whatever the hell you’ve been doing for all this time. You want him to admit that you’re something, anything to him.
Instead, you keep it all to yourself. The knowledge of everything between you and Matthew will live and die where it is now, in the minds of the two of you, and nowhere else.
June, 2018
You’re wiping down the counters when the man enters. You force a bright smile at him, still annoyed from the previous customer but doing your best not to show it. He returns the smile, approaching the register. You move to settle across from him, greeting him politely. The shop has a lot of regulars, but you don’t recognize this guy.
“I’ll be honest,” he says, giving a single nervous laugh, “I’m not really a coffee guy. Do you have any recommendations?” It’s not an uncommon question, and there aren’t any other customers right now, so you don’t mind.
“Do you like the taste of coffee?” you ask. He shakes his head. That eliminates about half of the menu, so it’s progress.
“How much caffeine are you going for?” you ask next.
“As much as possible,” he replies. The dark circles under his eyes could have hinted you to that conclusion. He has a laptop and notebook in one hand, down by his side. It’s normal for people to bring work along with them, and he’s definitely young, so you guess it’s probably school work.
“You could always do a triple shot latte with a flavor,” you suggest, your own go-to drink, “The caramel is the strongest. I can put in an extra pump if you want.” Technically, you should charge extra for that, but the kid looks kind of pathetic, and you feel bad. He can have a pity pump this once.
“That sounds good,” he agrees. You do the math in your head and punch in the price manually on the vintage register. The whole cafe is supposed to have a vintage vibe, a real hipster magnet. Math was always your weakest subject, but having to calculate totals in your head has made you a lot better with it.
Once he pays on the very not-vintage card reader, you direct him to the far side of the bar. You start on his drink, pulling shots with practiced ease. You’ve been working here since high school, so you’ve gotten pretty good at making coffee. He doesn’t try to talk to you while you work, which is nice. There’s something oddly calming about his presence, though, and it’s helping your annoyance fade.
You hand off his drink, and he retreats to a booth in the back corner after thanking you. You go back to wiping things down, bobbing your head along with the music playing quietly over the speakers. It’s later in the evening, so you only get a few customers over the next hour. It’s one thing you like about working the night shift. Not many customers, and most of the people getting coffee around this time are tired enough to not give you much trouble, and are usually extremely grateful for the caffeine.
It’s quiet for long enough that you pull your stool up to the counter, pulling your textbook and notes out from under the counter. You start working on the homework for your summer semester, singing quietly to yourself as you read.
“You have a nice voice,” the guy from earlier says, suddenly standing in front of you. You jump, hand flying to your chest as if you’re a damsel in a period piece. You’d forgotten he was here.
“Thank you,” you say, once the surprise fades. You laugh a little, shaking your head. He laughs too, apologizing for startling you.
“Could I have another?” he asks, holding up his now-empty cup.
“Of course,” you reply, “Same cup okay?” You do your best to be environmentally friendly, so you don’t want to use another cup if you don’t have to. He says that’s okay, so you take the cup and start pulling another shot.
“Y/N,” he says absently as he leans on the counter, “That’s a pretty name.” You thank him again, dumping the first shot into the cup. It’s odd, because people are usually flirting when they say something like that, but his tone isn’t suggestive at all.
“What’s your name?” you ask, feeling like you should say something. You start pulling the second shot.
“Brady,” he says, extending a hand toward you. You look between his hand and your own, feeling rude but needing both hands to pull the shot.
“Oh, um,” you stutter, “Sorry, I’m–” He seems to realize what’s going on and retracts his hand, using it to rub at the base of his skull.
“My bad,” he says, shaking his head at himself, “I’m tired, sorry.” You smile at him, much more genuine than the first time.
“What’s got you so tired anyway, Brady?” you ask, dumping the second shot and starting on the third. His face twists at what you’d thought was an innocuous question. He’s clearly debating something in his head, so you stay silent.
“I’ve got something big coming up in a couple weeks,” he explains, tapping his fingers against the counter, “I’m just trying to be prepared.” You nod, not minding how vague he’s being. You don’t actually need to know every detail of a random customer’s life. There’s a moment of quiet as you dump in the third shot and pour some milk into a metal container.
“And I might be a little nervous,” he says, looking at his hands instead of you. You smile again, beginning to steam the milk.
“Just a little,” you repeat, slightly teasing in a way you usually aren’t with customers.
“Yeah,” he chuckles, looking up at you, “Just a little.” You smile at each other for a second, both knowing he’s seriously downplaying his feelings. You wonder what it is that has him so anxious, sure that it must be something serious. He doesn’t seem to be the neurotic type.
“What are you working on?” he asks as you pour the milk, gesturing toward your books spread out next to the register. You shrug.
“Organic chemistry,” you reply, pumping in the flavoring, “The worst class ever.” He cringes at the mention of it, which you feel in your bones.
“I’ve heard it’s awful,” he says.
“It is,” you confirm. You snap the lid back onto the cup, sliding it over the counter to him. He cradles it between his hands, but doesn’t move to leave. He’s looking up at you from where he’s hunched over, and you can’t help but stare back.
“Do you want to come sit with me?” he asks, “We could be miserable together.” The smile that overtakes your face mirrors itself on his own.
August, 2018
When Brady walks in, right at his usual time, you give him a smile and lean over the counter to hug him. You’ve become fast friends, sitting together a few nights a week, probably talking more than studying. His Big Thing is long past, and he still hasn’t told you what it was, but you don’t really mind. You get to know about his family and his girlfriend and his upcoming move to Ottawa, of all places, but you don’t need to know everything if he doesn’t want to share.
You make two of the usual latte, one for each of you. You grab your books from the shelf, meeting him at the corner booth. You get through some small talk as you both set up, going back and forth with an ease that you were surprised to find has been there since the beginning.
“Matthew’s going to come hang out tonight,” he says as he logs into his computer. He’s spoken about his brother before, so you’re somewhat intrigued.
“Any particular reason?” you ask. To your knowledge, Matthew has never been to the shop, so you’re not sure if something special is going on to spur him into coming.
“He thinks it sounds cool,” Brady shrugs, flipping his notebook open. Maybe you’d know what he’s always working on if you could read his tiny chicken scratch. As it is, you don’t mind letting him have his secrets.
You get four pages into your chapter before another customer enters, laying your pen in the divot between the pages while you go make them their drink. Luckily, they don’t stick around. It’s not awful when other people are around, but you always feel like someone is going to complain about you sitting in the dining room and studying while you should be working. But if there’s no work to be done, you don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. Unfortunately, not everyone agrees. So you prefer if it’s just you and Brady.
Another four pages drag by, reading interspersed with breaks to talk. Honestly, the breaks are also a way to keep yourself sane as you read unnecessarily complicated science.
When the next customer enters, you spring up from your chair, shooting them a smile as you make your way behind the counter. You give your standard greeting, asking what you can get them.
“What do you recommend?” the man asks. You were kind of hoping he’d have something in mind so that this interaction could go quickly, because he may be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen and it’s making you flustered.
“Do you like the taste of coffee?” you ask. He nods, looking you up and down with a critical eye. It feels personal, feels like he’s searching for something, and you’re not sure if you like it.
“How much caffeine are you looking for?” you ask next. You do your best to maintain eye contact, ignoring the way you have to look up to do so.
“How much you got?” he asks in return. The crooked smile he gives you makes your stomach flip. You grasp for a drink to suggest, all knowledge having fled your mind in order to focus on the curl of his hair over his forehead, the glint of his bright eyes.
“A Lazy Eye would probably be the most,” you say, clearing your throat, “But if you don’t want to have a heart attack, you could do a regular Red Eye.” He tilts his head, smile turning smug, as if he’s noticed your distraction. Something about it snaps you out of your daze, slightly indignant. You’ve seen plenty of hot guys in your day, and you’re not about to look like a fool in front of him just because he’s pretty.
“Red Eye, Black Eye, Dripped Eye, Lazy Eye,” you list off with as much confidence as you can muster, “Each with one more shot than the last. Pick your poison.” Your attitude change only makes him smile wider. Your hand is poised over the buttons of the register, ready to ring up whatever he decides.
“Let’s go with a Black Eye,” he says, bearing a surprisingly sharp canine, “I’ve had a few of those in my time.” That doesn’t surprise you, with his smug face and oozing self-confidence. Something about it feels so disingenuous that it makes your teeth itch. It’s clearly an act, but you can’t exactly call him on it.
You give him his total, he pays, you get to work. You empty the last dregs of coffee in the pot into the sink and set the machine to brew a new batch. No matter how annoying a customer seems, you’re not about to serve them shitty coffee.
“Y/N,” he says, leaning on the counter, “That’s a pretty name.” It’s exactly what Brady had said when you’d met him, which makes you eye the man a little suspiciously. Whereas Brady had clearly not been flirting when he’d said it, this man’s tone is ambiguous enough that you’re not entirely sure what his intentions are.
“Thank you,” you say, dumping the first shot of espresso into the cup. Normally, you would ask for his name in return, but you’re not sure if you want to encourage him talking to you.
“How long have you worked here?” he asks anyway.
“Almost three years,” you reply. You’re not sure you want to tell him anything about your life, but you’re trying to be polite.
“Experienced,” he says, smiling like he’s a lion closing in on its prey, “I like that.” It’s cheesy and kind of sleazy, and you can’t help but scoff in disbelief. He’s watching you like a hawk, studying your reactions to everything he says and does. You dump the second shot, wishing the coffee would brew faster so this interaction could be over.
“I don’t think I want to know what else you like,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. You used to get embarrassed and rattled by customers making comments like this, but at some point something had changed inside you. Now you just get annoyed, no matter how hot the person may be.
“Feisty,” he says, smile changing slightly in a way you can’t parse, “I like that too.” You roll your eyes, making a quiet noise of disgust. It’s not great for business to react to customers this way, but you can’t help it.
“I like it when men are silent,” you reply, able to feel how withering your gaze is. His expression changes yet again, smile getting smaller but more genuine, scrunching the bottom of his eyes up a little. That feels more natural to you, looks more right on his face. Something about the new softness in his eyes soothes something inside of you.
The coffee machine beeps to signal that it’s ready, and you waste no time in grabbing the pot and filling the cup. You hand it off to him, giving your biggest, most obviously fake smile.
“Have a fantastic night,” you say, immediately rounding the counter and heading back to the booth. When you settle back into your seat, Brady is smiling at you like you’ve told the funniest joke in the world.
“What?” you ask, picking up your pen. Brady’s eyes flick up above your head, slightly to the left, staying there, prompting you to turn around. The man is standing behind you, small smile still in place.
“Brady’s told me so much about you,” he says, and it dawns on you, “Nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Matthew.” Your jaw falls open and you turn back to Brady, kicking him in the shin under the table. He yelps; Matthew laughs.
“You’re both the worst,” you spit, trying to hold onto your irritation and failing. You laugh alongside the brothers, begrudgingly amused by the ridiculousness of the situation.
“Sorry about that back there,” Matthew apologizes, seemingly genuine, “I couldn’t help myself.” You shake your head at him as he bullies Brady further into the booth so he can sit. Brady shoves him back, but moves his things over anyway.
“It’s okay,” you say, pointing at him, “But if you ever pull that shit again, I’m banning you from the shop.” That startles a laugh out of him.
“I didn’t know you had the power to do that,” he replies, using his crossed arms to lean on the table.
“I do now,” you say, tilting your chin up, “Gonna put a picture up of you with a big X on it and everything.” You stare at each other for a second, and he breaks first, ducking his head as he laughs.
“Fair enough,” he concedes, looking up at you through his lashes. Your heart skips a beat, but you do your best to seem unaffected. This is your friend’s brother, for Christ’s sake. You can’t be all aflutter over him. You’re not sure you have a choice in the matter.
June, 2023
You might actually kill your coworker one day. He’s such a smug rat bastard, and every meeting including both of you makes you think you’re going to grind your teeth into dust. It’s just lucky that the job is remote, so you don’t have to be around him physically. Probably best for both your sanity and his safety.
“I mean, at least you were right in the end?” Terri says, sounding uncertain through your headphones. You’re sauteeing some onions and peppers, moving them around more than you should be just for something to do with your hands.
“Yeah, I guess,” you sigh, “I just don’t understand why he wants to make me look bad.” Ian– the coworker– seems to always have some kind of comment on your work, some type of criticism. Constructive criticism is part of the game, but his is never constructive. It doesn’t help that you’re the only two in the graphics department, so he’s always there when you present work. And really, being the only two should mean that you work together and support each other, honestly.
“Because he’s an insecure man-child,” Terri replies easily. You shake your head down at the vegetables, startling as the oven timer goes off. You jab at the button to turn it off, opening the door to remove the chicken.
“I think I’ve had enough of insecure man-children,” you grumble. You cut open one of the chicken breasts with more force than is strictly necessary, grateful that it seems to be done.
“You finally wanna talk about that?” Terri asks, and honestly? No, you don’t. Ideally, you’ll never talk about it, just push it down into the darkest recesses of your mind and bury it there. Unfortunately, you possess some level of emotional maturity, which means you know that you have to talk about it eventually.
It’s hard, because despite Brady being your best friend, you can’t exactly talk to him about this. If he knew any part of what’s been going on, he’d probably go physically fight Matthew on your behalf. Part of you thinks that might actually make you feel a little better. But he’d also probably be mad that you’ve had a not-thing with his brother, and that would make you feel worse.
“She seems like a nice woman,” you say, trying to keep your tone neutral. Terri sighs, and you take your plate of food to the living room to eat.
“She’s not the problem, here,” she says. She’s right, and you know it. You really don’t have anything against Tessa, and obviously you can’t blame her for any of this. Clearly, she had no idea about your not-thing with Matthew, and genuinely fell for him. There’s no point in being mad at her.
“Yeah, well,” you push some food around your plate, “He’s a fuckface and she can have him.” The mention of Matthew has ruined your appetite, the meal now looking completely unappealing. You push the plate to the other side of the coffee table with a huff. You’ll try eating again later, you tell yourself, knowing that you haven’t been eating nearly enough lately. You can’t help it, your inner turmoil chasing away your hunger most of the time.
“He is a fuckface,” Terri agrees, adding, “But don’t pretend you don’t still want him.” Ugh. Friends are the worst, actually, and you should just become a hermit in a cave somewhere. There’s no point even trying to deny the claim, both of you knowing that she’s right.
“I’m not allowed to want him anymore,” you say, voice coming out weaker than you want to admit, “I never should have let myself want him in the first place.” In the beginning, despite being attracted to Matthew, it was easy to maintain distance. He was in Calgary most of the year, and reminding yourself that he was your new friend’s brother actually worked as a deterrent back then.
You can’t pinpoint exactly when you started letting yourself get caught up, but you’d ended up completely entangled with him. Now he’s put that distance back between you, ripping away the strings you’d been tied up in, leaving you with all these empty spaces where he used to be. And it’s making you hate yourself, knowing that if you’d just kept things cordial, restricted your attention and connection to Brady like you should have, you wouldn’t be feeling any of this right now.
“You can’t help who you love,” Terri says, so gently that it only hurts more. You’re not fragile, okay? You don’t need the softness, the careful handling. You’re not fragile. You’re not.
“I gotta go eat,” you say, not wanting to lie, but needing a way out of the conversation, “Bye, Ter.” She says your name, but you just repeat the goodbye. She sighs, says goodbye, and you hang up. What you should do is eat something and go to sleep. Instead, you eye the easel in the corner of the living room. You sigh, heaving yourself up off of the couch to go grab a glass of water to rinse your brushes with.
April, 2019
It’s probably going to become your new favorite day of the year: the day Brady comes home from Ottawa. His plane had landed yesterday, and his parents had even brought you to the airport with them to pick him up. As quickly as you’d bonded last summer, you’d only gotten closer through the season. It feels like you can talk to each other about anything, like you were meant to meet, like he’s the platonic version of a soulmate. You had patiently waited your turn to hug him after his parents, squeezing him as tightly as you could manage. He’d only squeezed back harder.
With their seasons ending right around the same time this year, Matthew had landed the same night. Knowing they’d have to go back to the airport, the Tkachuks had decided to just spend the day out instead of going home. They’d invited you to come with them, an invitation you’d eagerly accepted. They’re quickly starting to feel like family to you, and you love spending time with them. For the first time in your life, it feels like you fit somewhere.
Unfortunately, you hadn’t been able to come along to pick up Matthew. You’d had to work last night, so the Tkachuks had dropped you off at home to get changed and get going. You’d still gotten to spend most of the day with them, which would have to be enough.
You’re going over to their place today, and you decided to bake and bring along cookies. All of their local family and friends are going to be there to welcome the boys home, and you haven’t met most of them yet, so you want to make a good first impression. Besides, it’s just polite to bring something along to someone’s house.
Though Brady still tries to hug you when you arrive, despite your hands being full, the plates need to be deposited on the dining room table before he can get a real one. There are a few people chatting in the room, so Brady introduces you to them.
Most of the next hour goes much the same, Brady introducing you to family and friends, having small conversations with all of them. You know that Brady isn’t trying to embarrass you, but he has a habit of hyping you up to people. He’s more outgoing than you are, and he uses that social ease to brag about how smart you are, how talented. It feels a little like he’s trying to justify being your friend to them, but you know better than to think that Brady cares what anyone thinks of him and his choices.
The kitchen exits onto a large cherry wood deck, scattered with chairs, some of them already occupied. The back yard is sprawling, green grass lined with lush bushes. There’s a pool to the right, not opened for the summer yet, a jacuzzi positioned between it and the house. You’re still not really used to all of this, the casual wealth of the family. It’s so far from what you’d grown up with, something that had astonished you when you’d realized just how far above you the Tkachuks are.
There are a few yard games set up in the grass, cornhole and ladders and something you don’t recognize. And there, in the center of the yard, Matthew is teaching a child how to play ladders. The kid is probably a cousin, of which they have many. Matthew is barefoot, wearing a bright red Flames hoodie and black shorts that only come to mid-thigh. You’ve narrowed your staring down to a minimum, so your eyes only linger for a second or two before you turn back to Brady.
He guides you around to meet the few people braving the chilly spring weather, much as he had done inside. Everyone is so nice, saying how pleased they are to meet you, and seeming to mean it.
Your last stop is Matthew, who interrupts his lesson to hug you. It’s only the second time the two of you have done so, the first having been the last time you saw him before he left for the season. Despite that fact, he squeezes you almost as hard as Brady had, as if you’re his best friend too. Not that you’d presume to be Brady’s best friend, but. Still.
“It’s good to see you, Y/N,” he says when you pull apart, and the expression on his face tells you how genuine it is. Your smile is almost involuntary, turning up the corners of your mouth and baring just a hint of teeth.
“Welcome home, Matthew,” you reply, “We missed you.” You’re not sure what “we” you’re referring to, but it feels less incriminating than saying “I missed you”. You get the feeling that he understands anyway, beaming at you.
The three of you chat for a few minutes, Matthew introducing you to his little cousin. With there being four of you, you decide to play a game of ladders, to test the little one’s skills. He’s pretty good, for a kid, and you and Brady make sure to throw well enough to convince him that you’re trying, but still let him win. Throughout, Matthew gives him tips and instruction, so kind and gentle that it makes your heart ache. They cheer when they win, high fiving and teasing you and Brady.
You go inside to spend some time with Keith and Chantal. Chantal gives you a big hug, as if she hadn’t just seen you yesterday. Keith gives you a hearty clap on the shoulder. Taryn appears at some point, sneaking up behind you and poking your sides to make you jump. You laugh along with her, enfolding her into the conversation easily.
Time flies by, the sun setting around you, the house lights turning on one by one as darkness descends. Eventually, you end up lounging in the den with the other adult kids. From your visits last year, the chair in the corner has become yours. You’re settled in, legs folded up under you as something that no one is watching plays on the TV. Brady and Taryn get into a heated debate about something or another, and Matthew gives you a long-suffering look as his younger siblings bicker. You just smile back at him, finding the family’s passion entirely endearing.
“Seventeen years of this,” Matthew gripes, clearly not as annoyed as he’s trying to seem.
“And sixty more to go,” you reply. Matthew chuckles at that, looking to Brady and Taryn with such fondness that you almost can’t stand it. It’s the kind of relationship you’d wanted with your own brothers, but that’s best not to think about.
“Hopefully,” Matthew says, turning that fond look toward you. Your heart skips a beat, and you’ve gotten good at ignoring that.
May, 2019
You shouldn’t be this nervous, but you are. Terri is on speaker phone, telling you about her new job. You’re half-listening, staring at the clothing laid out on your bed. You’ve been agonizing all morning about what you’re going to wear, how you’re going to do your makeup, if you should wear makeup at all.
“I’m glad that your boss defended you,” you say to Terri, still tuned in enough to follow her story, “She seems cool.”
“She’s so cool,” Terri gushes, “She’s my favorite now.” You’re so happy that Terri has finally found a good job, especially with how hellish her previous one had been. This one pays almost double what she was getting before, too, which definitely doesn’t hurt. She expounds a little more about the things she loves about her boss, and you decide to hang back up the dresses you’ve laid out. It’s still a little too chilly to wear them, especially after sundown.
“You’re still staring at those damn clothes, aren’t you?” Terri asks, switching the topic suddenly. Your face gets warm as you make a plaintive hand gesture, despite her not being able to see you.
“Clothes are stupid and I can’t decide,” you complain, trying to imagine how each of the final two options will come across. If you try too hard, Matthew might think that you think this is a date, but you still want to look good. You know it’s not a date, but you’re still kind of acting like it is, and it’s embarrassing.
“Definitely wear jeans,” Terri advises, “That’ll make it more casual.” You agree, putting away the skirt you’d paired with the one shirt, trying to picture how it would look with jeans. You move the pants between each shirt, before giving up and just putting them on. You’ll just try on both outfits and see which one you like better.
Once dressed in the first option, you take a picture to send to Terri. You look at yourself in the mirror, turning this way and that. After a minute or two of consideration, you switch tops. You take another picture and send both to Terri for her opinion.
“Oh, definitely the second one,” she says, “The first one makes you look like you’re going to a job interview.” You look at the picture again, and can’t deny that she’s right. You put that one away, settled in your decision. You’re not sure if Matthew has ever seen you in anything but jeans and a t-shirt, so you hope the red tank top layered with a tucked-in sheer pink printed blouse isn’t too much of a change.
When Matthew had invited you to take a walk around the park yesterday, just the two of you. You’ve never spent more than a few minutes alone with him, always having Brady or Taryn or Emma to provide distraction and distance. This time you’ll have nothing to focus on but him.
The time comes soon enough, and you gather your things, not wanting to make Matthew wait for you when he arrives. You’d offered to drive yourself and meet him there, but he’d waved off the idea immediately, saying that he’d pick you up.
A knock comes at your door right on time. You take a deep breath before you open it, settling your frenzied heart. Matthew smiles as soon as he sees you.
“Oh wow,” he says, almost absentmindedly, “You look great.” Your blush is immediate, and you hope he can’t see it. It seems that anything that comes out of his mouth makes you blush, sometimes.
The drive to the park isn’t too long. When you arrive, you gather your bag from the floor of the passenger seat, and by time you move to get a hand on the door handle, Matthew is already opening the door from the outside. It’s a sweet surprise, and you thank him as you climb out of the car.
It’s a nice day, not too cold or windy for once. The two of you walk, talking about this and that, moving from topic to topic as they arise. You point out a few birds as you go, and Matthew listens to the little fun facts you give about them. He seems genuinely interested, but even if he’s not, at least he’s polite enough to pretend.
“I guess we should have left a little earlier,” Matthew remarks as the sun goes down, the light fading around you. The sun sets quickly this time of year, so you’re still a few minutes out from the car by time it’s completely dark. The lights along the pathway bathe Matthew in yellow light, casting warm shadows in the dips and hollows of his face.
“At least I have a big, strong man to protect me,” you joke, elbowing him.
“Oh no, if we get jumped I’m running,” he replies, shooting a shit-eating grin down at you. You gasp and press a hand to your heart, as if you’re truly scandalized.
“You would really abandon me like that?” you ask. His smile softens at the edges.
“Never,” he says, looking so genuine that it makes your heart flutter, pausing before he adds, “Unless we’re getting robbed.” Your combined laughter rings out through the trees.
June, 2023
You’ve managed to avoid any questions about your odd behavior, and it’s getting easier to act normal over time. A couple weeks have passed since your first meeting with Tessa, and you still feel like ripping your skin off when you see her touching Matthew, but you’ve gotten better at hiding it. It’s not your place to be upset, anyway.
The diner is bustling at this time of day, the tail end of lunch rush. You had to wait a little bit to get seated, but now you’re sitting at the end of a booth in a chair they’d pulled up to the edge to make up for all five of you not fitting into the booth. It makes you feel a little left out, the only one not paired off, a fifth wheel to the two couples on either side of the table. You block that out, a skill you’ve had for years, but have had to strengthen rapidly over the past few weeks.
Brady has an arm around Emma’s shoulders, and you can tell by the angle of Matthew’s arm that he has a hand on Tessa’s thigh. You remember when that was you, Matthew touching you so casually, so naturally. Sitting across from Matthew as he nudges your foot under the table, sitting next to him with your shoulders pressed together, fingers tangled together on the seat, where no one could see.
Emma is telling a story about a night out with some of her girlfriends, and you’re laughing along at the antics with everyone else. When she asks you about work, you try to clear the perpetual lump in your throat before answering, succeeding in sounding happy, though the tightness remains.
When your food arrives, you spend most of the time pushing it around your plate to make it look like you’re eating. You never have an appetite around Matthew anymore, weirdly embarrassed about being seen eating in a way you haven’t been since you were a teenager. You’ll take it home and eat it later, if you can stop thinking about Matthew for two fucking seconds.
You’re not sure how long that’s going to be impossible, but you hope it’s not much longer.
January, 2020
You’ve been to a few games when the boys have played the Blues, but you’ve never made the trip up to Canada to see them play each other before. Ottawa is nice, Brady and Emma having shown you around a little when you’d arrived. Your nerves had been shot from the anxiety of traveling abroad for the first time, even though it was just to Canada. The couple seemed to understand, only taking you around for a few hours before bringing you home.
Brady’s apartment is nice, really nice. He’s offered you the guest room for a few days, and you appreciate not having to pay for a hotel. He’ll be home for six days before he has to go to St. Louis for the All Star game, so you’d arranged to stay in Ottawa and fly back home with them.
Luckily, the cafe is pretty cool about rearranging your schedule, so you’ll just have to work some extra days when you go back to make up for what you’re missing. You’d asked for the days of the skills competition and game off as well, Brady having managed to get you a ticket. Your manager has always thought it was cool that you were friends with the Tkachuks, so she had agreed to give you the time off if you brought her a souvenir. Matthew and Brady had offered to sign a jersey for her without you even having to ask, and you’ll owe them for a while, though they insist you don’t.
Matthew gets in that first night, the three of you meeting him at his hotel. You’re not sure how he managed it, but he’ll be staying a few days instead of returning to Calgary with the team after the game. Maybe he got a special exception because this game is the last before All Star week, and he has to go to St. Louis anyway. No matter the reason, you’re glad he gets to stay.
The game the next night is exciting, and definitely worth the trip. With the Senators’ performance in recent years, it’s mostly the diehard fans left, so the atmosphere is electric. You get swept up in the passion and joy, especially when the game ends with a 5-2 win for Ottawa.
The boys have to debrief and get changed, which you know will take a while. Emma and you wait with the WAGs, Emma excited to introduce you to them. Some of them think you’re a new WAG at first, which is honestly kind of flattering. All of the ladies are surprisingly kind and welcoming, and you enjoy interacting with them as you all wait.
Matthew emerges first, guided down the hallway by one of the arena staff. His steps pick up pace when he sees you and Emma, and he shoots a quick thanks to the staff member before jogging over to the two of you. He immediately enfolds you in his arms, squeezing tight and holding longer than usual. You know it’s difficult for him to lose at all, let alone to his brother, so you let him hold you as long as he wants.
Once he lets you go, he meets your eyes. His smile is soft, tinged with a slight sadness that you want to wipe away.
“Hey there, sweet girl,” he greets, and your breath catches at the term of endearment. He’d started using it a few months ago, and it still makes your chest tight. You know that it doesn’t mean anything, but you still imagine sometimes that it does.
He turns his attention to Emma, giving her a hug as well, just one quick squeeze before releasing. The three of you start talking, waiting patiently for Brady. It doesn’t shock you that he takes so long to come out, knowing his unofficial position of leadership in the team. The guys come out one by one, hugging and kissing their wives and girlfriends, the number of ladies dwindling as they leave with their men.
When Brady finally emerges, he heads straight over to give Emma a hug and kiss. He hugs you next, before punching Matthew’s shoulder. They have a little back-and-forth as you all exit the arena, taking harmless jabs at each other all the way to the car.
The main issue with the living arrangements for the trip had been that Brady and Emma were going to have two guests and only one spare room. Matthew had offered to sleep on the couch, but he’s too tall for that, and you don’t want him to end up sore or hurting his neck during the season. You’d insisted that you’d sleep on the couch, but both Matthew and Brady had immediately vetoed that idea. Then you’d found out that the guest room has two twin beds instead of one bigger one, and the answer was simple.
Matthew sets his suitcase and backpack next to the door when you get home. You’ve already claimed the bed on the far side, so he gets set up on the one closer to the door. Emma and Brady are in the kitchen, making a post-game snack for everyone, so it’s just you and Matthew.
“You excited to be roomies for a week?” he asks, unzipping his suitcase. Yours is already open under the window, so you grab some pajamas out of it.
“Depends how loud you snore,” you tease. He shoots you a toothy smile.
“Oh, it’s gonna be loud,” he says. You chuckle a bit, knowing he’s joking. Emma calls for you, then, and you leave your clothes on the bed to go to her. The four of you converse as you eat, seated in a row at the kitchen island. You’ve got Matthew to one side and Brady to the other, and they take turns kicking your ankles. You kick back, grinning at Emma when she kicks Brady’s other side.
Brady and Matthew had already showered at the rink, so they sit in the living room while you and Emma get ready for bed. She uses the master suite, and you use the bathroom in the hall. It’s nice, if small, with a simple stall shower instead of a tub. You go through your routine on autopilot, only realizing when you’re done that you’d left your clothes in the bedroom. You wrap yourself in a towel, doing your best to sneak past the door to the living room.
When you look to make sure your stealth is working, you meet Matthew’s eyes. It stops you in your tracks. You can’t discern the look on his face, and you’re not sure that you care to. He shoots you an easy smile, and you wave at him like an idiot, acting on instinct. It only makes him smile wider, and you scurry off to the room.
After you’re dressed, there’s a knock on the door. Brady asks if you’re decent, and you confirm that you are, so he peeks his head in. Once he sees that you truly are dressed, he opens the door the rest of the way. He and Emma bid you good night, telling you to just ask if you need anything. You thank them and say good night in return, Matthew entering the room as soon as the other two retreat to their own room. He’s barely two steps into the room before he’s pulling off his shirt.
“Woah there, cowboy,” you say, holding up a hand in front of you. He just shrugs at you.
“Gotta get ready for bed,” he says, bending over and lifting his foot to remove his socks. You’d figured that he would wear a t-shirt and shorts to bed like you, but you should’ve guessed he’d be the type to sleep shirtless, no matter who’s around. He’s naked in front of thirty people every day, who cares about being shirtless?
You do your best to brush it off, turning down the covers of your bed so that you can crawl in. Normally, you would read for a bit before bed, but you’re tired enough tonight that you don’t think you need to. You pull the blankets up to your chin, turning on your side. Unfortunately, you sleep on your right, so you end up facing Matthew’s bed. Is that weird? Should you try sleeping the opposite direction?
Matthew doesn’t say anything, flicking the lights off and crawling into bed. He sleeps on his left, apparently, so he’s facing you too. That’s a little awkward, right? As your eyes adjust to the dark, you’re able to see the glint of his teeth as he smiles over at you.
“Sleep well, sweet girl,” he says quietly. You return the sentiment, grateful that the darkness means he probably can’t fully see the embarrassment on your face. You’re backlit by the window, so you convince yourself that he can’t.
The next morning, you wake to Matthew already out of bed, stretching. Your eyes roam his back, taking in the dips and ridges of his muscles. Only at the last second do you realize that his head is turned to the side, and he’s staring at you through the corner of his eye. You quickly avert your gaze, turning to sit bolt upright on the other side of the bed, facing the window.
The four of you spend the day exploring the city, Brady and Emma seeming to have planned what they want to show you. It’s nice, peaceful and fun. You make them take pictures with you in front of landmarks or cool art pieces, all of you squished together to fit in the selfie.
It isn’t until the fourth night that anything out of the ordinary happens. You’re lying in bed, having turned on your back to stare at the ceiling, unable to sleep. You probably shouldn’t have had that affogato after dinner, though usually they don’t bother you this much. No matter how long you toss and turn, how many sleeping positions you try, you can’t even make yourself tired, let alone actually fall asleep.
“What are you, a rotisserie chicken?” Matthew asks rhetorically, breaking the silence. His voice is hushed, but it still startles you. You turn your head to stare at him, finding him staring right back.
“I’m sorry,” you apologize, sheepish, “I can’t sleep.” Matthew’s lips quirk up at one end.
“Me either,” he says, sitting up. You mimic his posture, then scoot back to lean against the headboard. He slings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands, and you think for a second that he’s going to turn on the light. Instead, he takes the two steps to your bed, motioning to the mattress. You nod, prompting him to start shoving your shoulder, bullying you into making space for him. You giggle, trying to keep quiet to respect the late hour.
“So,” he leads, taking a long moment to just stare at you before continuing, “Tell me something I don’t know about you.” You’re taken off guard by the request, not sure how to respond.
“I was an Aaron Carter girl growing up,” you pull out of thin air. Matthew’s face breaks into a wide smile, sunshine in the middle of the night.
“Really?” he asks. You nod, mumbling “yeah” in confirmation. That’s all it takes to get you both talking. You trade off back and forth, telling each other small things about yourself that may not come up otherwise, launching into short discussions about some of the statements.
“My favorite color is red,” he says at one point, when you’re starting to think you may fall asleep.
“I thought it was blue?” you reply, remembering Chantal mention that at some point. Matthew starts fiddling with his hands.
“I tell people it’s blue, but it’s really red,” he says. You tilt your head an inch or two, furrowing your brow at him.
“Why?” you ask. He ducks his head.
“Red is an angry color,” he explains, voice quieter than before, “With my reputation, I don’t want people to associate me with an aggressive color. I don’t want to play into the stereotype.” You hum, looking forward. It feels like this isn’t the best time to look at him, like he’ll clam up if you witness his vulnerability.
“It’s also the color of vitality, excitement, love,” you counter, leaving just a breath of a pause, “It’s a good color for you.” The entire room is still for a dragging moment, before Matthew gently knocks your shoulders together.
“What about you?” he asks when you look back to him. There’s a fraction of a change in his face, but you don’t comment on it.
When you wake up in the morning, you’re still sitting up, head resting on Matthew’s shoulder, his head laying on top of yours. You suppress the instinct to startle, not wanting to disrupt him, lest he wake up and move. His skin is warm under your cheek, your arms lined up from shoulder to the knuckles of your fingers. You close your eyes again, trying to keep your breathing steady, as if you’re still sleeping. You’ve been trying so hard to keep distance between Matthew and yourself, but you’ll allow yourself to enjoy this, just for a moment longer.
There’s a shift in Matthew’s breathing, his fingers twitching against yours. It settles after a second, into a different pattern, intentionally deep and even. You’re sure that he’s awake, that he’s doing the same thing that you are. You’re not sure what to do with that information.
The rest of the trip goes by smoothly, Brady and Emma showing you both the touristy things and the better local spots around the city. If the same thing happens the next night, and the night after that, you and Matthew talking in low voices until you fall asleep against each other, neither of you mention it.
April, 2020
While the initial prediction for lockdown was that it would only last a month, it’s clear that it’s going to last much, much longer.
It’s probably lucky that you’d just started a new job, one that can be done remotely, rather than either working at the coffee shop or being laid off. It’s not exactly what you want to do, but it’s at least in the artistic field, so you try to be grateful anyway. It’s difficult being locked away in your apartment, but you’re grateful that you’re luckier than essential workers and people who are losing their jobs altogether.
The thing that keeps you sane in all of this is your phone. More specifically, it’s your friends. You’ve developed almost a schedule with it, calling Terri in the morning for an hour or so before work. At lunch, you facetime Brady and Emma for another hour, not envying them being stuck so far from home. It must be hard to be in an entirely different country than your family.
The highlight of each day is the evening, when you facetime Matthew. Though he spends most of the day sending you videos and memes and updates about whatever little thing he’s doing at the moment, it’s still nice to talk to him out loud. Seeing his face helps your growing loneliness a little bit.
You’re in your living room, your phone propped up against the arm of the couch as you show off the few things you’ve made since picking up crochet a couple weeks ago. Matthew compliments each of them, commending you for your improvement. He’s the only one you’ve shown, too embarrassed to let anyone else see the wonky scarves with uneven stitches.
“You have time to work on any paintings lately?” he asks, once you’re done your little show and tell. The truth is that you’ve got three new canvases drying in the kitchen. The truth is also that the man asking about them is the inspiration for their creation. There’s nothing incriminating about them; it’s not like they’re portraits of him or something. But you’re still hesitant to show him, because even if he doesn’t know, you do.
You show him anyway. The painting of the park is his favorite, and you wonder if he knows that it’s the one you went to for your first time alone together. It’s mostly dark, greens and blues so deep they look black, yellow triangles of light splitting the canvas into section. If you look closely enough, the brush strokes fill in the details of the trees, the grass, the pavement. Your phone camera isn’t good enough for Matthew to see that, but he compliments it anyway.
“You should paint me something for my apartment,” he says after you show him all three. You’re not opposed to the idea, actually enjoy the thought of something you made being showcased in his home.
“What do you want?” you ask, a hundred ideas already flitting through your mind. The only way you’ve seen his apartment is through the background of pictures he sends you sometimes, or little glimpses you catch as he walks around while you facetime. You’re not entirely sure of the vibe, but you’re sure you can figure something out.
“What makes you think of me?” he asks in return. You stop in your tracks in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. The hand holding your phone lowers a couple inches unintentionally, your gaze drifting above the screen, staring into the middle distance. What makes you think of him? Hockey, obviously. Family. Curling up under a blanket on a cold night. Laying on the couch with your feet up on the armrest, your head propped up on a pillow, a sad replacement for his lap. Spruce trees, gold, pitbulls, mushroom pizza, black eyes– both the drink and the wound.
Everything. Everything makes you think of him.
You can’t say that, obviously. You search your brain for something personal but innocuous, something sentimental but still acceptable. You think of all the time that you two have spent together over the past few years, memories springing up, some that you’d even forgotten about. Some that you’ll never be able to forget about.
“Can I surprise you?” you ask. You’re given that familiar smile in response, any iteration of which makes your heart stutter in your chest.
“Yeah,” he says, propping his face up with one hand on his jaw, “I trust you.”
July, 2023
Some people may say that Terri’s apartment is cluttered, but you just find it cozy. She has decorations and knick-knacks on every surface, but the comfiest couch you’ve ever sat on. That’s where you are now, stretched out with your back against the side, Terri mimicking your posture at the other end, your legs tangled together in the middle.
“We should see the Barbie movie when it comes out,” she says, unprompted. You look up from the hook and yarn in your hands, tipping your head to the side for a second and shrugging.
“It looks good,” you say, an indirect agreement. You haven’t been to the movies since before lockdown, so it might be nice to go back.
“D’you think Gabe would want to come?” she asks cautiously, “He could bring the kids.” The mention of your brother still makes ice crawl in your chest, but it’s not as bad as it once was. He’d reached out last year, trying to reconnect with you, and apparently your other brother too. You’ve only seen him a few times since, but it’s more than you’d seen him in the four years prior, combined.
“It’s worth a shot, right?” Terri asks, eyes flicking toward your phone sitting on the coffee table. You look toward it as well, debating for a second. It would be nice to see your nieces and nephews, but it also hurts that they barely know who you are.
“Yeah,” you agree after a second, “Worth a shot.” You grab your phone, feeling as if it’s going to explode in your hands if you move too quickly. There are a few notifications when you wake the screen, which you ignore to unlock it. You open your texts, backing out of your thread with Terri from earlier. You have a picture message from Brady, just a selfie of him and Emma smiling, which you send a heart in response to. Backing out of that thread, you see another new message, underneath the contact name you haven’t had the heart to change. The red and purple hearts next to his name– each of your favorite colors– having been there so long that getting rid of them feels wrong, no matter how it makes your chest hurt to see them.
Can we talk?
You tap the back button as quickly as you can. You can’t respond. You should, to be polite, but you can’t. If you do, you’ll say something you regret. It’ll probably be agreement or the words “eat shit”, and either option will get you into trouble. You can’t respond. You want so badly to talk to him. You want so desperately to go back in time and never meet him.
Your fingers tremble as you draft a text to your brother, typing and deleting and re-typing a few times before you settle on the wording. You have more important things to worry about than Matthew.
August, 2020
The bubble was an interesting idea. It may not be the best idea in the world, despite the safety precautions, but you know Matthew is just happy to be back on the ice. He’s already sent you a dozen pictures of the hotel, of him with his teammates and friends, masked up together in the lobby. You tell him to tell the boys that you say hello, and he texts you each of their responses.
The first round goes well, the Flames only losing one game to the Jets. You know Matthew had been worried about going through all the rules and protocols just to be eliminated immediately, so you’re glad that that isn’t the case.
The series against the Stars starts out with an exciting back-and-forth, the teams trading off wins. Then the Stars win game 5, breaking the pattern. You’re not expecting the last game to actually be the last, convinced that the Flames would at least make it to a game seven. But the Stars pull a decisive 7-3 win, the Flames falling apart in the second period and unable to get themselves back together.
Matthew has called you as soon as he got back to his hotel room after every game, so you’re expecting your phone to ring some time in the next hour or two. You putter around the apartment a little, putting away some dishes and wiping down the kitchen counters. You’d been painting during the game, a commission from a friend of a friend of a friend. You return to that, losing yourself in the meticulous movements of your brush.
It feels like it’s been too long. You try to focus on the canvas in front of you, but there’s a nagging sense in the back of your mind that something is wrong. It sits heavy at the base of your skull as you try to ignore it.
Eventually, it becomes too much. You check your phone to make sure that you haven’t missed his call, but there are no notifications. It’s been a little over two hours. You unlock your phone and pull up his contact in a second, pressing the video icon. Typically, he’ll pick up after one or two rings, but you hear the third ring, the fourth. The call disconnects, shock shooting up your spine. It only lasts a second, your phone ringing with a voice call almost immediately.
“Hey sweet girl,” Matthew greets you in his typical fashion as soon as you accept the call. There’s something off about his voice, and it takes you a second to realize what it is.
“Hey there, darling,” you respond, voice as gentle as you can manage. It’s not the first time you’ve heard Matthew cry, but it breaks your heart every time. As much as he tries to seem tough and aloof, you know how deeply losses like this affect him. Now it makes sense that he didn’t want video involved.
“How are you?” he asks, clearly moving his face away from the receiver as he sniffles, but you can still hear it. You move to the couch, sinking into the cushions, as if you’re as crushed as he is.
“I’m okay,” you reply, “You holding up okay?” You know he’ll say that he’s fine, but you also know that he’s not. He may not be for a while. There’s a pause, a long stretch of silence, only interrupted by his deep, labored breaths.
“I wish you were here,” he says. He sounds absolutely miserable, his voice cracking in the middle of the sentence. The urge to hold him is overwhelming, your arms buzzing with the desire to wrap around him. You want to pull him down into your lap, let him tuck his head into the crook of your neck, let him cry on you as you scratch his scalp and kiss his head. Lockdown isn’t the only reason that can’t happen.
“I’m going to hug you so hard,” you insist, “As soon as I can see you again.”
July, 2023
While you’re still a third wheel with Brady and Emma, it’s better than being a fifth wheel with the entire group. You’d asked Taryn if she wanted to tag along, but she has training to do. Brady had already done his that morning, so he’s free for the rest of the day, and had invited you to spend some time together.
You’re certain that he doesn’t know how you feel about this place, how much it hurts to be here. As far as he’s aware, this is your favorite park, the one you visit with Matthew at least a few times a month every summer. He probably thinks it’s a great choice, something to cheer you up from the slump you know he’s noticed.
Despite the memories tugging at you from every direction, you’re mostly in a good mood. You’d gotten excellent news the day before yesterday, an opportunity you’ve dreamed of for a long time. You wanted to text Brady right after the meeting to tell him, but you’d decided it was better to share it with him and Emma in person. You’re debating something that absolutely doesn’t matter, all of you talking over each other. You’re waiting for the right moment to change the conversation. It doesn’t come until almost an hour into your walk, but you jump on it as soon as it does.
“I have some cool news,” you say, breaking the silent pause that had fallen over the group.
“Well?” Emma replies, “Go on.” The excitement is bubbling up inside of you again at the thought of it, your stomach turning, your chest too full.
“You know that gallery downtown that I love?” you ask, continuing after they agree, “I’m going to do a show there.” They stop in their tracks, Emma immediately enfolding you in her arms. You hug her back, squeezing tight as she bounces on her toes. When she pulls back, she holds your face in her hands, voice high and thrilled as she congratulates you. The smile on your face is unavoidable, happiness from the news mingling with the happiness of your friends being proud of you.
“Cool news, huh?” Brady asks, lightly smacking your shoulder as he says, “What an understatement.” The circle of his arms feels safe, his chest warm against your cheek as he holds you tight. The look on his face when he releases you is the best reaction you’ve gotten so far, his pride meaning more than anyone else’s.
“When is it?” he asks, taking Emma’s hand in his own once again and resuming the walk. You follow along, too excited to be self-conscious of the visible skip in your step.
“August 20th,” you say. There’s an unspoken question there, a silent invitation. You don’t want him to feel pressured to come, knowing that despite how supportive he is of your artistic endeavors, he’s not big on things like art shows. In the end, you don’t have to ask.
“You know we’re coming, right?” he asks, aiming a crooked smile at you, “You can’t stop us.” Though the smile hasn’t left your face since you brought up the topic, it gets brighter in return.
“I’d never dream of trying to,” you reply, and you mean it.
October, 2020
It’s odd to have the boys around at this time of year, the season usually taking them away at the end of August. You’re grateful for it, though. It means that you get to spend time with them, lockdown finally over, freeing you from the confines of your apartment. Your job has stayed remote, so you’re able to be around even more, saving time on what used to be an hour long commute each way.
Right now, it’s you and the boys, Emma, and Terri. You’d introduced her to them less than a month ago, but they already love her, just as you knew they would. She doesn’t always come around with you, considering how you spend nearly every day at the Tkachuks’, but she has some time today.
After twenty minutes of debating what you should watch, you all agree on a true crime documentary. You’ve given up your chair for Terri, squishing yourself onto the couch with Brady and Emma, pressing your cold feet against her leg and laughing when she yelps. She kicks you, only serving to make you laugh harder. Brady playfully threatens to fight you to defend his woman’s honor, and you put your fists up in front of you, jabbing out into the air as if you’re going to take him up on the offer. He chuckles, reaching out to fist bump you instead of punch. You drop your hands, looking past his big ass head.
Matthew is lounging in the second chair, the leg rest of the recliner up despite his legs being crossed under him. It’s the only way the chair will lean back, he’d told you once, and he doesn’t like sitting upright.
The smile on his face isn’t the wide grin you’d expected. It’s small, a gentle turn of the lips. Combined with the look he’s giving you– something unfocused, something unbearably soft– it implies an emotion that you know can’t be the correct interpretation. You swallow hard, turning your eyes back to Brady.
“Press play already, nerd,” you demand, tone playful enough to show that you don’t mean it. He sticks his tongue out at you, but does as he’s told.
Five minutes in, you glance over at Matthew, finding him already looking at you. You look away, slightly embarrassed to be caught. Another five minutes later, you can’t help but peek back at him again, as if your eyes are magnetized to him. It’s almost disappointing that he’s actually looking at the screen. It only takes a second for his eyes to move to the side, peering at you in his peripheral. The corner of his lips quirks up the tiniest bit, almost unnoticeable. But you notice.
You only make it maybe half an hour into the film before Matthew leans forward and snatches the remote from its place next to Brady. The plaintive sound Brady lets out is kind of funny, but you seem to think everything is funny today. Matthew pauses the show, declaring that the group needs snacks.
“Y/N, come give me a hand,” he says, beckoning you to follow him. You grumble a bit, but stand and follow him up the stairs and out of the den. He leads the way through the living room and into the kitchen. They’re fancy, so they have a walk-in pantry, of course. The two of you enter one after another. You start looking at the snack section, deciding what to grab. The good thing about being the one to retrieve the food is that you get to choose whatever you want and there’s nothing the others can say about it.
You’re rifling through the chips and pretzels when you feel a presence close behind you. It’s obviously Matthew, but he’s so close that you can feel the heat of his body radiating into your back. His left hand comes into your field of vision, pressing to the shelves next to your head. You twist your neck to look back at him, confused as to what he’s doing.
You’re not expecting the look he’s giving you. His eyes dark, completely focused in on your face. Your eyes flick from his eyes to his mouth without your permission. He’s not smiling, his lips parted just a fraction of an inch.
He rests his right hand on your shoulder, using it to turn your entire body around to face him. You can feel how dumbfounded your expression is as you stare up at him, your brow furrowed, your mouth slightly agape. He returns the gesture of looking at your mouth, his tongue quickly flicking out to wet his lips. He looks like he’s about to eat you alive. You would let him.
There’s a long, unbearable stretch of silence as the two of you just stare at each other, faces only a scant few inches apart. If this were anyone else, you would know exactly what’s going on, exactly what they want. But this is Matthew, your insanely wonderful, insanely hot, insanely out of your league friend. There’s no chance that he’s about to do what it feels like he is. No matter how many times you steal glances at each other, how closely he holds you, how many times he allows himself to be vulnerable with you, there’s no chance he’d ever want you. And just as you tell yourself that, he speaks.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, his breath brushing across your lips from the proximity. Your eyes go wide, your mouth falling open wider in shock. You’ve spent the last two years valiantly suppressing any type of attraction you have to him, trying to respect his station as your best friend’s brother. And now, in just four words, he’s let it all loose. It floods you inside, so overwhelming, so much to take all at once that it triggers a full system reset. You swear your heart stops, your mouth opening and closing as you struggle to tear the words from your lagging brain.
The words won’t come. The look on Matthew’s face is changing, something embarrassed, something guilty. He moves back an inch and you reach out, unwilling to let him go. You cup his face in your hands, pulling him in to press your lips together.
It’s lingering, almost chaste, and entirely sensational. Your lips are tingling, sparks shooting down your spine. Your chest feels cracked open, your innards exposed for his inspection, your true self exposed for his judgment.
When you pull back and open your eyes, his are still closed. He looks like he’s in heaven, like he’s trying to imprint this moment in his mind the same way that you are. After a moment, his eyelids slide up and he looks at you again. His eyes are hazy, unfocused, his blown pupils leaving only a thin ring of blue around the edge of his iris.
“Again,” he says, breathless, “Please.”
Who are you to deny him?
The second kiss is as good as the first, your breath abandoning your body to pant out against his lips. You meet again, his tongue flicking out for half a second to touch your top lip. It makes you breath hitch, makes you kiss him again, makes you gently bite his full bottom lip. The sound he lets out is barely audible, but it only feeds the fire inside of you, an inferno that blazes up from your hips to your throat. You cradle his face in your hands, hold just strong enough to move his head how you want, to slot your mouths together perfectly each time.
“Hurry up, asshole!”
Brady’s shout violently snaps you out of your haze. You jerk backward, trying to step away, but already pressed against the shelves. Matthew doesn’t seem as put off as you, smiling as if nothing happened. You relinquish your hold on his face, dropping your hands to your sides. His hands had wandered as you kissed, one on your waist, the other on the back of your neck. He squeezes once at the base of your skull, dipping in to give you one last quick kiss.
After frantically grabbing random snacks, you return to the den. You can feel how hot your face is, and you can only hope that it’s not too obvious how flustered you are. You and Matthew deposit the snacks on the coffee table, everyone immediately selecting one. You curl back up in your chair, legs pulled up to your chest as you lay sideways, head on the armrest.
Every time your eyes drift to Matthew for the rest of the evening, he’s looking back.
January, 2021
Just as the day the boys come home is the best day of the year, the day they leave for the season is the worst. Sometimes you wish you were Emma, that you could follow them back and forth and never be without them. But St. Louis is your home, is where you have a job and friends and more recently, family.
You’d helped both boys pack for the past few days, but you won’t be able to go along to drop them off at the airport. When Matthew had left for the playoffs, Emma had offered you her spot in the car. You’d told her that she didn’t have to, but she’d assured you she wanted it that way. She has to go along this time, so the car is already overpacked. Besides, you have to work that morning anyway.
You still show up at the Tkachuks’ beforehand, so early that the sun hasn’t made an appearance yet. Matthew had forgotten to pack his favorite sweater, of course. You fish it out from where it had fallen under his bed, straightening up to hold it out to him. He thanks you, deciding to wear it for the flight instead of shoving it into one of his bags. It looks good on him. Cozy.
Brady and Emma are double checking their room as well, one door down from you. Keith, Chantal, and Taryn are down in the living room, waiting as patiently as they’re capable of, which isn’t very much.
Being alone with Matthew used to be exciting, used to make your heart change its rhythm, used to start up a buzz under your skin. Now, it’s just… comfortable. Safe. Right.
When Matthew approaches you, crowding up into your space, you know exactly what he wants. The first time you’d kissed should have been the last. You’re too drawn to him, feel too much toward him, more than you should. More than he will ever return. The two of you haven’t discussed exactly what you’re doing here, but it’s clearly meant to be casual. Matthew isn’t typically the kind to shy away from voicing what he wants, and he hasn’t spoken up to define anything.
Is that what you want? You’re not sure. Making out like teenagers for months has been nice, has satisfied a part of you. But only a part.
You’re avoiding thinking about what you want, too afraid of what you’ll find. Some part of you, buried deep inside, hidden behind a recently built wall, already knows. If you allow yourself to acknowledge it, this will end badly. If you allow yourself to want, you’ll destroy yourself in the process.
The kisses he lays on your lips stay sweet, gentle presses, just a tease of tongue here and there. His arms are wrapped around you, resting on your shoulders, while your hands rest on his hips. You haven’t progressed past kissing, and you’re not sure if he wants anything beyond this. You’ll take what you can get.
Keith calls up the stairs for you to hurry up, lest the boys miss their flights. Matthew leaves one last peck on your lips, just as he always does before you part. You glance around his room a final time, making sure everything is packed. You help him bring his bags downstairs, help him and Emma get their things outside and into the car. You’ll have to go home as soon as they depart, and you’re actually a little grateful that you have work to distract you from the first hours of missing them.
As per usual, Emma is the first to hug you. You squeeze tight so that you can lift her off of her feet for a second, just to make her laugh. Brady grabs you next, as if both of them know that Matthew wants to be last. Brady wiggles you side to side, planting a kiss on the top of your head. You headbutt his shoulder, then kiss the same spot you’d hit. He says how much he’ll miss you, something he always reiterates for a few days before he leaves. You return the sentiment honestly, earnestly. When he pulls back, you punch his chest lightly, and he returns the gesture.
Matthew steps up and opens his arms, and you step into them easily. He doesn’t squeeze too hard, just holds you close, hand cupping the back of your neck, calming your anxiety and dulling the sharp edge of your pain.
“Gonna miss you so much, sweet girl,” he whispers into your hair, just loud enough for you to hear. You try to swallow the lump that has suddenly formed in your throat.
“Miss you already,” you reply, a little uneven, a little raw, “Can’t wait to see you again.” He places a kiss on your head as Brady had, but his lips linger, hesitant to let go. But he does let go.
They all wave as they drive off, Brady, Emma, Matthew, and Taryn all crammed into the back seat. You wave back, watching the car go, staring down the street even after the car turns and disappears.
Time to work, you suppose.
July, 2023
Art has never frustrated you so much in your life.
When you were young, the struggle and annoyance came from trying to get things just right, though they were above your skill level. As a teenager, it was due to the struggle of developing your own unique style. In college, it was not having the energy to paint most days, falling asleep at the easel others.
For the past month, the art has been flowing. You’ve been painting most every day, the ideas coming easily, creating almost a compulsion that you can’t resist. It’s only satisfied when the painting is complete. There are a couple dozen or so canvases scattered around your apartment to dry, the most you’ve ever produced in a single month. But the frustration– the frustration comes from the fact that all of your ideas are about him. All of your paintings are moments with him, things he’d said, how you’d felt, how you’d hoped he felt.
There’s a feeling inside of you, as if you’re right on the edge of catharsis, as if you paint just one more thing, you’ll be able to let it all go. That’s your motivation for everything you’ve been making, just desperately searching for the release that will save you from the pain. At this point, you’re not sure it will ever come.
You’re working on a bigger canvas, the biggest you’ve used in years. You’re glad your current job allowed you to move into a bigger apartment, because you surely wouldn’t have been able to fit something like this in your old shoebox, packed so full of your things that you’d barely had space for an 11x14. You have to stand to reach the upper portion, swiping a brighter red over the dark red base. You don’t want it to be about him. It is anyway.
The show at the gallery is rapidly approaching, only a month away. You’ve been working with the curator to decide which pieces to use, filing through years of work. So far, everything that she’s found compelling has been about him. Things you’ve made recently, things you made years ago when things were still good. One day, you’ll get over this. But not today. Today still just hurts.
June, 2021
With neither of the boys making the playoffs, they’d come home earlier than usual this year. Sadly, Brady is pretty used to it by now, usually coming home around this time anyway. You’re used to getting a few weeks with Brady and Emma before Matthew comes home, but you don’t have that this year.
While Brady sulks for about two days when he gets home, Matthew is far more upset. The Flames had made the playoffs for the last couple years, and he was getting used to being a contender. So not even getting a chance at it this year clearly stung. He moped around for a week or two, face tight and arms crossed over his chest most of the time. The only time he let his arms down, let his guard down, is when the two of you were alone.
You’d comforted him through the couple weeks of upset, even staying the night a few times. It wasn’t intentional, you’d just stayed so late that you fell asleep, and Matthew didn’t have the heart to wake you. You have to get up early to get home for work, so you’d snuck your way out of the house before anyone else had woken. You’re not sure how Keith and Chantal would have felt about you staying the night in Matthew’s bed, but you know what they would have thought was going on, and you didn’t want to put yourself or Matthew in that position.
Once he’d relaxed, taken a deep breath and accepted defeat, he went back to being his regular happy, seemingly aloof self. You’re grateful for it, not a fan of seeing him upset and always wanting to help him through and cheer him up.
June had come kindly, bringing along more sun and nicer weather. You and Matthew had resumed your walks in the park, and the whole group of you spend about as much time outside as you do in the den. Things with Matthew had picked up where they left off in January, him pulling you into a secluded area any time he could get you alone, kissing you senseless. You’d missed the feeling of his lips, of his body pressed to yours.
Tonight is one of the more rare nights where Matthew comes to your apartment, instead of you going to his parents’ house. You’ve offered to make dinner and follow it up with movies. You’re already on the couch, your dirty dishes abandoned on the coffee table. You’re laying on your side, Matthew spooned up against your back, your knees hanging off of the couch with the way they’re bent to accommodate Matthew’s too-long legs. You’re warm and comfortable, enjoying the feeling of safety that he brings, something you’ve very rarely felt in your life before.
The movie is good, but you’ve found that being in Matthew’s arms makes you sleepy, so you’re having a hard time focusing. You manage to mostly follow it, letting out a jaw-cracking yawn when the credits start to roll.
You feel Matthew place a kiss on the back of your neck without comment. Then he’s moving you, rearranging your bodies carefully until you’re on your back, Matthew staring down at you from his position straddling your thigh. The way he’s looking at you is intense, somehow simultaneously fond and hungry. It wakes you up almost instantly, and you reach out to rest your hands on his thighs.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says quietly, reverently. It’s not the first time he’s said it, but it feels different now. Maybe it’s the position you’re in, maybe the way he’s looking down at you as if he wants you, as if he–
He takes your hands in his own, bending down as he brings them up to cradle his cheeks. You run your thumbs across his high cheekbones, tilt his head up a little by the jaw as his eyes slide shut. You press your fingers into the soft spot behind his jaw, under his ears, pull him down, down, down.
Kissing him feels as easy as breathing. Guiding his head this way and that to get a better angle, pressing your lips together over and over, longer each time, deeper. Matthew has one hand on the arm of the couch to hold himself up, the other wrapped loosely around your wrist. He’s not trying to move you or take control, just holding on as if he needs something to ground him. You press your thumbs into the hollows of his cheeks, feeling the solid wall of his teeth under the skin. His mouth drops open and he lets out a soft sound. You press your thumbs in harder, between the new gap between his upper and lower teeth, testing how far you can push from the outside.
He squeezes your wrist once and you release the pressure. His mouth stays open, lips wet and shining. He opens his eyes halfway, as if his eyelids are too heavy to get all the way up, eyes hazy and unfocused.
Again, he squeezes your wrist. He’s suddenly standing, using his grip to guide you up as well. He immediately crowds up against you, as if being more than an inch away will kill him. His eyes have managed to refocus, but there’s still a dreamy look in them.
He takes a step backward, using the hand that had instinctively gone to the back of your neck to bring you with him. He kisses you, lingering. He takes another step back, gives you another kiss. He rounds the end of the couch and you realize where he’s leading you, kind of impressed that he can find his way to the bedroom without even looking.
Of course, your heart is a frantic mouse scurrying around your chest, thumping hard like you’re a prey animal facing down a predator. But as much as it freaks out in the cage of your chest, there’s no panic in your head. Being with Matthew calms your mind, keeps your hands from trembling, feels so right that you can’t find a reason for the anxiety that used to plague you around him.
He stops you halfway between the door and the bed, pulling back a couple inches to stare down at you. You’re hesitant to put a name to the look on his face, not sure if reverent is being dramatic.
You flatten your palms against the front of his shoulders, shoving him gently, bullying him toward the bed. He allows it for a moment, but stops after a few steps. He takes your hands in his own, brings them to his mouth to kiss your knuckles. You try to swallow down the desire that grows inside of you, threatening to spill out. He holds your hands close to his face, enough that you can feel his lips move when he speaks.
“You don’t have to be in control, sweet girl,” he says, lays another kiss on the bump of your right middle finger, looks deep into your eyes with such adoration you feel ready to split at the seams.
“Let me take care of you,” he says. The part of you that’s spent your entire life with a fist clenched desperately around any sense of control that it could find, for the first time, relinquishes its hold. And Matthew does, indeed, take care of you.
February, 2022
It’s your first time in Vegas, and the atmosphere is electric. There are hockey fans everywhere, plenty of people wearing jerseys as they explore the strip. Everything is so big, so bright, so fancy. As exciting as it is to be here, it makes you feel a little off, a little like you don’t belong. It reminds you of the first time you’d been to the Tkachuks’ house, amazed at how different everything is from the way you grew up.
Each player was supposed to be allotted two tickets, but they had allowed Brady to take additional tickets for his family, considering Matthew is his brother, in addition to how well-known and beloved Keith is. He’d managed to get Emma included as well, luckily.
You weren’t sure how he did it, but Brady had gotten another player to give one of his tickets so that you could come. Apparently the guy’s family couldn’t make the trip, and he only had one friend that he really wanted to bring. He won’t tell you who it was, but the way that Timo Meier winks at you as he passes the stands gives you an idea. You weren’t aware that the two talked, but there’s always the possibility that he had just gone around and asked everyone. The idea makes something bloom in your chest, as if you could love Brady more than you already do. You’ll have to find a way to thank Timo some time.
The skills competitions are fun, though Brady doesn’t win anything. It’s nice to see the players relaxing and having fun, a well-deserved break from the stress of the season.
You all go out to an early meal before the games the next day. You don’t realize until you arrive that Jack Hughes and his family were joining you, and you trip over your own feet when you see them waiting for you. You’re a huge fan of Jack’s, but more than that, Ellen Weinberg-Hughes is an icon. You stumble with your words when you greet her, shaking her hand and screaming silently in your head. With how the boys are looking at you as you do so, they obviously anticipated your reaction and are incredibly satisfied with themselves.
For the meal, you’re sat between Matthew and Jack. You’re grateful that Matthew is next to you, needing his calming presence as you meet some of your favorite players. The families are friendly with each other, the parents catching up on the news of each others’ lives, the children doing the same in separate conversations.
You spend most of the dinner talking to Jack, Quinn, and Matthew. They tell you all sorts of things, including embarrassing stories about Matthew that you weren’t privy to. You grin at Matthew every time they share one, absolutely intending to tease him about it later. This seems to be what the Hughes boys want, eager to give you more ammunition. Matthew buries his face in his hands at one particularly humiliating story, even as he shakes gently with quiet laughter. When he emerges and sits back up, you take a chance, placing your hand on his thigh. You squeeze once, trying to reassure him. He does his best to not react, but he also rests his hand on top of yours under the table.
“So you’re a painter, right?” Quinn asks at one point, curiosity evident in his perpetually sleepy eyes.
“Yeah,” you confirm, asking “How did you know?” You’d told them about your official job, but you hadn’t mentioned being a traditional artist in addition to a graphic designer. Jack turns a smug smile on you.
“Matthew talks about you a lot,” he says, pleased with himself. You look to Matthew just in time to see his face flush.
“Shut up,” he says to Jack, which only makes him smile wider. Jack’s attitude rubs off on you a little, and you give Matthew a delighted smile.
“How much is a lot?” you ask Jack, feeling Matthew dig his fingertips into your knuckles.
“Like, a lot,” Jack replies, Quinn nodding from his other side. You look back to Matthew, who looks like he wants to crawl under the table and hide.
“I talk about him a lot, too,” you say. That makes Matthew look at you again, bright eyes nearly sparkling in the restaurant’s dim lighting. His expression shifts, a small, grateful smile scrunching his eyes up the slightest bit.
After dinner, you all make your way to the arena. Brady and Jack left a while before the rest of you, needing to arrive in time to get dressed and likely do some more media. Before he’d left, Jack had requested your phone, creating a contact for himself and inputting his number. As he dud, you turned your face away, toward Matthew, opening your mouth wide as if you’re screaming. He looked amused at it, but there’s a sharp edge there. Quinn took the phone next, doing the same thing. You squeezed Matthew’s thigh again, and his expression softened. You’ve been following the Hughes brothers since they were in Juniors, and having them like you enough to want to keep in touch– you can only describe the feeling as elation.
The lines are out the door at the arena, and a few people catch the boys to request photos before you can get to the special entrance for players’ guests. They’re all very kind and courteous about it, taking a few pictures with people, finding a way to move through the crowd even as they do so. You probably should have come a different way, or maybe gotten there earlier, but as long as the boys don’t mind, you don’t either.
The seats are good, the second row of the first balcony. It seems to be the section that they put all of the family and friends, people milling around and chatting with each other. You spot Johnny’s parents a couple rows away, the only people around that you’ve met before. You wave to them and they return the gesture. They make their way down to your seats, greeting each of you in turn. They start chatting with Keith and Chantal, so you continue talking to Taryn and Emma.
The games are great, surprisingly fast. The Atlantic division plays a great game again Central, despite losing by 3. You still can’t help being proud of Brady. You’ve been next to him since his first season, and you’ve loved getting to watch him grow and improve. As long as he’s in the world, you’re going to be proud of him.
The final is awesome too, and you jump up to cheer when Jack scores in the first. When the Metropolitan wins, you high-five Taryn, glad that Jack could win when Brady couldn’t. Not a bad consolation prize.
The group hangs around for a while after, and you get to meet a bunch of new people. Everyone is so nice, making you feel welcome, feel like you belong. When you finally start up the stairs to leave, Johnny’s mom Jane stops you for a second. She pinches your jersey and gives you a sly smile.
“Just a family friend?” she asks, not a question but a suggestion. A few years back, Matthew had given you one of his jerseys to wear to a game, and you’ve worn it tonight, despite him not playing. You realize now how it could be interpreted, ducking your head for a second to smile at the floor, before looking back up to Jane.
“Just a family friend,” you say, firm and definitive. She holds your gaze for a moment, looks behind her at Matthew, who’s waiting patiently a few steps up. He’s looking at you, that soft look he gives you sometimes. After a second, he smiles brightly at Jane. She waves and turns back to you.
“We’ll see,” she says. She pats your shoulder twice before making her own way up the stairs with Guy. Once you process the statement, you shake your head and make your way up to Matthew.
“What was that?” he asks as you enter the corridor. There’s no way you can tell him the truth, and honestly, you’re not sure what the fuck that was either. You just shrug at him, continuing your way out of the arena.
The comment sticks with you, no matter how you try to brush it off. Johnny is Matthew’s best friend, and you’ve met Jane a few times before. If it had been a stranger, you would’ve dismissed it outright. But to hear it from someone who actually knows the two of you? That’s harder to let go.
July, 2023
Laurel, the curator for the gallery hosting your show, is a lovely woman. She’s also very, very good at her job. You’ve been to countless shows at this gallery, and they’re always perfectly compiled, excellently arranged. You’ve brought her your most recent paintings today, which makes you glad that you have a car, because hauling them through the city would be a nightmare.
The only problem you have with Laurel is that she seems to see straight through you. You’re not used to someone looking past the professional figure you present, let alone someone seeing every part of you that you put into your art.
She’s staring at your offerings, examining every last detail. She’s already chosen about half of the pieces that will be displayed, creating a theme with your relatively impressionist style. She moves one canvas to the side, away from the others. She takes an extra few minutes to consider one of them, the largest one. It just finished drying yesterday. Having to see it every day as you passed it in the living room has been torture.
“Everything except that one,” she says, gesturing to the one she’d set aside. If she wants all of these, that’s likely going to be everything for the show. With everything else she’s chosen, this is all they have the wall space for, considering the way that you’ve seen Laurel arrange the art in previous shows you’d attended.
“That one is the centerpiece,” she adds, hand against her cheek as she continues staring at the large canvas. You swallow hard. Of course. Of course every painting she likes is about him. Of course the centerpiece will be him. No matter what you do, you’ll never escape him.
She asks a bit about your inspiration and motivation for the piece, and you give her vague answers that sound more philosophical than the real thing. The two of you discuss some of the minutiae of the show, trying to get everything finalized ahead of time. There’s less than a month left, and your excitement is starting to pair itself with dread.
When you get home, you go straight to your bedroom and throw yourself face first onto your mattress. You bury your face in a pillow, finally letting out the scream that’s been stuck in your throat since you learned of Tessa’s existence. It helps.
You make and have dinner, barely aware of what you’re eating. At least you can eat without getting nauseous now. You don’t feel like watching TV, probably wouldn’t be able to pay attention to a real show right now. Instead, you sit on your bed, leaning back against the headboard. You scroll social media mindlessly for a while, the ghost of Matthew next to you, his invisible arm pressed against yours.
February, 2022
Despite your better judgment, the first time you and Matthew had slept together wasn’t the last, either. It had continued through last summer, then again when he’d come to play the Blues. Now you’re in Calgary, in Matthew’s apartment for the first time, in his bed again.
A lot of people idolize the first time they sleep with someone, comparing every subsequent time to the first and often coming out disappointed. You had no reason to do so, because the sex only got better over time. As you and Matthew learned each other’s bodies, figured out what got the best reactions, the sex kept improving. Even if you wanted to fall back on your morals and resist him out of respect for Brady, you know you couldn’t stay away for long. It’s irresistible.
And it’s not just the sex. It’s the way he holds you after, lays on his back so that you can rest your head on his chest. It’s the way his breath ruffles your hair as you fall asleep together. It’s the things he says to you.
It’s the nights like this.
You’re in Matthew’s bedroom, the dark dead of night offering only the moon to light the room. Your head is on Matthew’s chest, his arm around you to keep you close, as if you would ever willingly leave. Your breathing had returned to normal a while ago, your body cooling off and beginning to recover from the rush of feeling. Matthew kisses the top of your head every so often, and you return the sentiment by tilting your head to lay kisses against his sternum.
“I wish I could keep you here forever,” he says, so hushed that you almost miss it. He’s always so quiet when he talks like this, as if he’s afraid to say it. He says these kinds of things anyway, but never above a whisper, not willing to share the vulnerability with anyone but you. Again, you press your lips into his skin.
“I wish I could stay here forever,” you reply. It would be nice, wouldn’t it? To stay here, with him. No need to be quiet so as not to wake his family, no having to sneak out in the morning, no work to keep you away. Just laying here, together.
“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” he says. There’s desire in his voice, of course, but also earnesty, like he really means it. Part of you would like to believe that he does, but another part knows how important it is to not get caught up in the fantasy. It’s easier said than done.
“Not any of the other girls you’ve had?” you ask. You’d meant for it to come out teasing, but your honest curiosity wins out. Then there’s a hand on your chin, fingers gently guiding your head up until you’re looking Matthew in the eye. It’s not exactly comfortable to crane your neck like this, so you prop yourself up on one forearm, resting the other hand where your head had been as you stare down at him.
“Never,” he replies, insistent. He looks so serious, sounds so sincere. You don’t say anything, can’t think of anything. There’s something in the wide roundness of his eyes that speaks to you, pulls you in, encourages you to search deeper. It takes a second to figure out what it is that’s hiding in there, but… it’s fear.
“I never want this with anyone else,” he says, tangling his fingers with yours over his racing heart. There’s a question you want to ask, something you’ve been wanting to ask for a while, but the fear in him has mirrored itself within you. You should just shut up, keep it to yourself. The words come out before you can convince yourself to stay quiet.
“What is this?” you ask. You’re not sure what answer you’re expecting, but you know which one you’re hoping for. He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and for the first time, you don’t divert your gaze to admire the sheen of them, unable to look away from his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he says, pauses, presses your entwined hands harder to his chest, “But I never want to give it up.”
May, 2022
Again, Matthew is the second to come home. Brady returned almost a month before in April, the Senators not in the playoffs, as usual. You feel bad sometimes, because Brady is genuinely a great player, but his team has just struggled to gel together. Even through all of their trials, Brady insists on keeping hope. He loves his teammates, and that’s what really matters to him.
Matthew, on the other hand, isn’t so great at dealing with failure. The Flames make it to the second round, which is an achievement all on its own. But after winning Game 1, they’d lost four in a row and been knocked out. It feels to Matthew almost like they got swept, he explains over the phone after the final loss.
When he gets home, he once again spends a week sulking. You mimic what you’d done last year, though staying the night is intentional this time. So long as you sneak out before anyone wakes up, you’ll be fine.
On the eighth day, you tell Matthew for the hundredth time how proud of him you are. He shoots you a bittersweet smile and says that he’s proud of himself too, and you know he’s bouncing back. It doesn’t help that he’s been debating for months whether to re-sign with the Flames, an agonizing choice for him. He loves his boys, but he’s not sure he belongs there anymore. You’ve assured him that you’ll support him no matter what decision he makes. Johnny hits free agency next month, and if he moves, you’re not sure that Matthew will have the motivation to stay.
The next couple of weeks go by the same way that they always do, with you spending as much time with the Tkachuks as possible. At least, you think you’re doing a good job of acting like everything is the same as years past. No one knows about you and Matthew, and it seems like he wants to keep it that way. You like having this little secret life with him, getting to have him all to yourself. You’re okay with the way it is, you convince yourself.
June came quickly, having begun only four days after he’d returned. The weather improves, you and Matthew once again resume your walks in the park. You play yard games and watch trash TV with Brady and Emma. You help Chantal cook dinners, help Keith clean up afterward. Everything is back to the summer standard.
The day had been nice, sunny and warm. The light had turned the leaves of the trees golden during your walk this afternoon. The sun is long gone now. Nighttime has become your favorite part of the day, the only time you get to indulge in whatever it is that you and Matthew have. The only time you get to touch his skin, to hear the low sounds he can’t help but make, to feel his warmth against you, inside you.
It’s been some time since you’d finished, but you can’t quite fall asleep. Matthew is spooned up against your back, face buried in the nape of your neck. You’re not sure if he’s asleep or not, too distracted to bother trying to figure it out. You’ve been thinking about it since your visit to Calgary. Any time Matthew called, or texted, or even crossed your mind, you thought of it. It made your heart leap into your throat, your breath catching as you choked on it.
He doesn’t know what you’re doing together, what you are. He didn’t give the response you’d been hoping for, but he didn’t outright deny it either. Sometimes you think it would have been better if he had, if he’d said that it was just sex. Then you could start working on moving on. You wouldn’t have to lie awake at night, wondering.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his groggy voice making you startle and snapping you out of your head. You take a deep breath, debating yourself for a couple seconds before you decide.
“Nothing,” you reply, patting his forearm where it’s snaked around your waist, “Go back to sleep.” He takes a quick, deep breath, the air rushing out over your skin. You’re helpless to resist when he starts moving you. If you did put up a fight, push back against his hands, you know he would stop. But you’re tired.
“What’s wrong?” he asks again once you’re flipped to face him. He looks tired too, the exhaustion of the season still lingering. The moonlight paints his face in silver. It makes his skin shine, almost glowing in the darkness.
“I’m afraid,” you say. You wish he hadn’t turned you around. It would be easier to speak it into the wall than it is to say to his face. You say it anyway, watching his brow furrow, admiring the way the silver light adds contrast to the wrinkles the expression creates.
“Of what?” he asks. You could make something up. Telling him that you’re afraid of monsters under the bed would be less embarrassing. You’ve never been very good at lying to him.
“The day you move on,” you whisper, invisible pressure on your throat making the words come out tight and unsteady. The surprise on his face surprises you in return. He’d refused to put words or labels to whatever this is, of course you would think that he’s going to leave eventually. You’d have to be an idiot to think that he means it when he says forever.
“I won’t,” he says, resolute. You can only manage a half-smile for him.
“You’re not the first man to say that,” you reply. He reaches up and cradles your cheek in his wide palm, warmth seeping into your skin.
“But I’m the first one to mean it,” he says. You close your eyes. They begin to prickle at the corners, but you refuse to cry about any of this. He’s so adamant, so steadfast in his insistence. You try to remind yourself of what this isn’t, what it will never be, but you’ve never trusted someone the way you trust him, and you can’t help believing him anyway.
August, 2023
You hadn’t anticipated this happening, let alone how hard it would be, but finally, finally it’s a little bit easier.
You’re not over Matthew, not by a long shot. It’s going to take months, years. It may never happen, who knows? As long as you can cope with it, can keep your friends around, that’s all that matters.
The first half of the day was spent with both boys and their girls. You didn’t have to curl up so tightly on your chair, didn’t have to force words out so they didn’t think anything was wrong. Conversation was relatively easy, topics changing and flowing naturally. You’d smiled, laughed, and a couple of times you actually meant it.
Matthew had apparently planned a date for Tessa and himself, so they excuse themselves in the late afternoon. Brady, Emma, and you stick around the den for a bit, continuing to talk. Eventually, Emma stands, stretching dramatically.
“Let’s go for a walk,” she suggests. You’ve spent too much time lately sitting at an easel or curled up in bed, and a walk sounds like a great idea.
You expect it this time when Brady takes the three of you to the same park. It’s easier when you’re not blindsided by it, and you have the lovely memory of the last time you were here with the two to focus on, instead of Matthew. You walk for a while, music playing softly from Emma’s phone, tucked in her back pocket. Once you’re deep into the wooded area of the park, she stops dead in her tracks. You follow suit, spinning around to shoot her an inquisitive look. She takes the two steps forward to close the space between you two, grabbing you by the shoulders and walking you backward. You stumble, trying to look behind yourself to keep from falling. She pushes until the backs of your knees hit a bench on the side of the pathway and you fall onto it. You gape up at her, befuddled by the behavior and the way her arms are crossed over her chest.
“What’s going on,” she demands, not a question. You furrow your brow, at a loss for words. You know what she’s talking about, and you know that she knows that you know. But why would she wait until the day that it starts to fade, the day that you can finally think of something else, to ask you about it?
“C’mon, Y/N,” Brady says, plopping down on the bench next to you, “We know something’s wrong.” You had accepted the possibility of this back in June, but you weren’t expecting it to take almost three months for it to happen.
Your first instinct is that you absolutely can’t tell them. You’ve been keeping this secret for years, and if Matthew has his way, you’ll keep it forever. If Matthew gets his way, you repeat in your head. That’s it, isn’t it? All this time, you’ve been so focused on what Matthew wants that you ignored your own wanting. What do you want?
You want to tell someone, to finally have this horrid pain out in the open instead of keeping it caged up around your heart. You want your best friend and his wife to hug you. You want them to understand.
“Matthew,” the name tumbles out, and you don’t want to stop it. Brady and Emma are still looking at you, waiting for anything you want to tell them. God, Brady is your goddamn best friend and you’d convinced yourself that you couldn’t tell him something? That there was anything on this earth that he would shun you for?
It all comes spilling out in a rush. Everything from the first time you’d met him. Hell, some information that isn’t strictly necessary, but they don’t interrupt you or complain, so you venture on. It takes long enough to recount that Emma sits on the metal armrest of the bench. Brady’s holding one of your hands in his lap, Emma taking the other to do the same.
You’d promised yourself more than once that you wouldn’t cry about this, but you don’t really care enough to stop yourself now. The tears come two-thirds of the way through, falling silently as you recount some of the things Matthew had told you, the things he’d promised you. You’re not outright sobbing, so you manage to power through the rest of the story. Your eyes are squeezed tightly shut by the end, like closing them will block out the memories.
It takes a couple of minutes for the tears to stop. The three of you let the silence hang as you wait for it, nothing but the leaves rustling in the trees, something scurrying in the bushes. When you can safely open your eyes to face the world again, you look over to Brady. He looks devastated.
You watch his evolving emotions morph the expression on his face, from heartbreak to anger and back again. The anger makes your heart skip a beat, suddenly afraid that maybe the whole “I slept with your brother” thing will be a problem after all.
“Do you want me to kick his ass?” he asks, startling a laugh out of you. You know he’s dead serious, too. Part of you thinks it might be cathartic to see Matthew get beat up by his little brother, but your soft heart doesn’t want anything bad to happen to him. After everything he’s done to you, you still don’t want him to have to feel even a fraction of the pain you do.
February, 2023
This year, the boys don’t have to bribe anyone else to get you to the All Star Game. Each of them is allotted two tickets as per usual, but Taryn is too busy with school to come. She’d aimed a satisfied smirk at Matthew through the camera of her phone, saying guess you’ll have to take that one along as her eyes darted slightly to the left, clearly looking at where you were on the screen.
Since your work is remote, you’ve brought along your laptop. You spend the morning of the skills competition working, still averse to using your PTO if it’s not completely necessary. The boys have to do media, so there’s no one around to bother or distract you. You kind of wish there were.
The special skills competitions are as fun this year as they were last. You especially love Sidney Crosby in the dunk tank, seemingly having the time of his life. You may not know him personally, only having met him once in passing, but after everything he’s been through, you think he deserves some carefree fun.
The sun has set by time you emerge from the arena after the regular skills competitions. The days are shorter at this time of year, even in Florida. It is warmer than St. Louis, though, which you’re grateful for.
Jack is in the competition again this year, so you meet up with the Weinberg-Hugheses again that night. You’ve gotten much closer with Jack and Quinn over the past year, building relationships on texts and calls and dinners when they play the Blues. Luke has tagged along this time, and you get on with him just as well as his brothers.
Matthew shoots Jack a look when he slings an arm around you on the way back to your hotels after dinner, but Jack just grins at him. You’re still not sure what that’s all about, but you’re just going to stay out of it.
The games the next day are fantastic. You’ve never gotten to watch both of your boys win at once, and you love it. When the Atlantic wins the whole thing, you cheer so loudly your voice cracks. Emma laughs at you, but you just laugh along with her.
You stick around for a bit after the game again, Keith and Chantal mingling while Emma shows you the decorations she’s planning for the wedding on her phone. After a while, someone taps you on the shoulder from behind. You turn your head, immediately recognizing Jane. Johnny had made it again this year with his new team, so it would make sense that she’s here too. You stand, reaching up to hug her in her elevated position.
“Matthew got you a new jersey?” she asks, referencing the All-Star jersey you’ve got on. You wish you could say that you bought it for yourself, but it had indeed been a gift from Matthew. It shouldn’t be embarrassing, so you act like it’s not, even though it is.
“Yeah, he’s a great friend,” you reply, shrugging, “He likes to take care of me.” The thing about Jane is that she’s not really a jerk. Sometimes the you-and-Matthew comments bother you, but she’s generally a very sweet woman.
“It’s good to have someone like that,” she says, smiling gently at you, “Matthew is a good boy.” Jane had been at enough Flames games for you to know her, and definitely enough for Matthew to become a pseudo-son to her. They don’t interact much anymore, save for when she pops up in the back of Johnny’s facetimes, but you know she still has a soft spot for him. You don’t blame her.
“He really is,” you agree, nodding. The two of you make some small talk, and you get some updates on Johnny’s new life on the Blue Jackets. You give her some updates on Matthew in return. After a bit, Guy shuffles up next to Jane, telling her that it’s time to go. She acknowledges him quickly, turning back to take one of your hands in her own.
“I know he takes care of you,” she says, patting the back of your hand with her second, “But you take care of that boy, too. Okay?” You just nod, smiling and bidding her goodbye. Her and Guy retreat up the steps and out of view. You’re not sure why she feels the need to say these things to you, and you’re not sure why you take them to heart.
You meet Matthew and Brady outside the player entrance, the boys immediately scooping up you and Emma, respectively. Matthew sweeps you off of your feet for a moment, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Once you’re free, you start to dip forward, realizing what you’re doing at the last second and changing track to make sure the kiss lands on his cheek.
He beams at you, and you’re absolutely certain that you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to make him smile.
April, 2023
The day Brady comes home is the best day of the year, you remind yourself for the thousandth time. You’re excited to see him, you are. The way your chest has felt rent open for days isn’t his fault in any way. You’re not going to make him pay for being the messenger.
Once you all get the couple home, you go upstairs with Brady and Emma to help them unpack. They don’t really need help, obviously, but it’s an excuse to spend time together. Brady talks a little about the season, but mostly focuses on his plans for the summer. He talks about wanting to go see G, maybe even take a trip out to visit Tim.
For the most part, you just fold clothes and listen. Eventually, they switch to the topic of the wedding, Emma showing you even more pictures. She’d asked you to be a bridesmaid forever ago, so you’ve already seen most of it, had even helped her pick half of it out, but you’re never going to squash her excitement.
Exhausted from their travel, the two make their way down to the den after everything is put away, collapsing onto the couch. You curl up in your chair, allowing the couple to choose what you watch. They pick something or another, nothing that you can pay attention to right now. Instead, you find yourself examining Brady, picking apart his features, finding all the things he shares with Matthew.
It’s the best day of the year, you remind yourself again. The light of the TV highlights Brady’s jawbone and your skin crawls.
August, 2023
The show is going exceptionally well, exceeding your expectations. The space is filled with strangers, friends, and even your brother and his family. There are critics and collectors, some that you’ve seen at other people’s shows, some that you don’t recognize. Everyone wants to talk to you, and you don’t get a spare moment to breathe for the first few hours.
When you do get a chance to exhale, the rich couple that had been occupying you finally walking away, you catch the color out of the corner of your eye. You’ve been all around the building all night, mingling and networking in equal measure. You hadn’t realized where you ended up until right this second. You turn to the piece, staring as if you’d never seen it before.
You don’t need to look over to see who steps up next to you a minute later.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Matthew says. It doesn’t feel like an accusation, though it is one. All you can do is sigh.
“What did you expect me to do?” you ask, not expecting an answer. You glance at his hands out of the corner of your eye, noticing the wine glass in one hand, water glass in the other. Without a word, Matthew holds the water out in your direction, still fixated on the painting. You take it, feeling odd that not only does Matthew know that you forget to drink enough water, but also that he’s still trying to take care of you.
“It’s me,” he says after a pause. You’re both facing the largest canvas, the centerpiece. Swirls of bright red spread across a crimson background, highlighted with orange, accented with a royal purple. There, in the center, are two comparatively small, even circles of icy blue.
“They’re all you. Or about you, at least,” you say, seeing no need to deny it any longer, “About us.” It’s obvious that Matthew hadn’t expected you to admit it outright, thrown off for a minute by the admission.
“Can we talk?” he asks as you take a sip of water.
“We’re talking right now,” you reply, feeling petty. It’s his turn to sigh. He sets his wine glass down on the nearest horizontal surface before returning to your side, facing you this time.
“Somewhere private,” he clarifies, pauses, “Please.” You may be mad at him, enraged, incensed, but you’ve never been able to deny him anything, and you still can’t, even now.
You shut the storage room door behind you, flicking on the light to chase away the darkness. Matthew has his hands shoved in his pockets, looking around as if there’s anything interesting in here. You cross your arms over your chest, waiting for him to nut up and look you in the face.
“Listen,” he begins, rubbing the back of his neck but still not looking at you, “I know I should have gone about this better.” You snort. No shit. The sound finally brings Matthew’s gaze to meet your own.
“I’m sorry, okay?” Matthew says, motioning with his raised hand, “I didn’t think you’d care that much.” You can feel how incredulous your expression is, and you don’t even try to hide it.
“In what world would I not be upset?” you respond, “After everything?” You can hear yourself, know you sound like a bitter, jealous old ex, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and looks away again. When he looks back, there’s an almost pleading look in his eyes.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says, more sincerely than the first time, “You shouldn’t have had to find out from Brady.” You avert your gaze, working your jaw for a second before you raise your chin and square your shoulders.
“No,” you agree, “I shouldn’t have.”
“I’m sorry I stopped talking to you,” he says, motioning helplessly with his hands, “You have to know how hard that was.” You shake your head, almost disgusted.
“Imagine how hard it was for me,” you reply. Your fingertips are digging into your own arm, fingernails biting into the skin. The fact that he would stand here and imply that this was a struggle for him– as if he expects you to offer sympathy– makes your stomach churn. The guilt in his expression makes you sickly satisfied.
“Listen,” he leads with that word again, as if he has any right to ask it of you, “I didn’t want to upset her. You know how some girls are.” You do know. And it’s still not an excuse.
“You didn’t tell her about me,” you say, anger and hurt straining your voice, “You said that I was just Brady’s best friend. You didn’t even tell her what we had.” You want to scream it at him, just want to scream in general. Maybe if you did, if you released your tight grip on control in a different way than you had with him, maybe it would make him understand.
“What did we have?” he asks. His voice is quiet, just as yours had been when you’d brought up the topic all those months ago.
“I don’t know,” you say, turning his own words back on him. It’s true, anyway. You’ve never known what any of this was. You’d only known what you wanted it to be, what you stupidly, fruitlessly hoped for.
“We never dated,” he replies, voice still low but seemingly not bothered by the uncertainty, “We never called it a relationship. You were never my girlfriend.” It’s a simple fact. It tears your heart out of your chest.
“Just because we didn’t name it doesn’t mean it was nothing,” you insist, squeezing your eyes shut for a second to push down the urge to cry before admitting, “I stopped dating.” He looks even guiltier at that, but it doesn’t soothe anything in you.
“I didn’t look at another man,” you continue, embarrassed and ashamed but unable to let him continue through life without knowing, “I didn’t even want to look at anyone else.” The shame makes the fiery anger burn brighter.
“I gave you three years of my fucking life,” you say, voice raising just enough to make Matthew flinch. You keep it reigned in enough that no one outside will hear, not interested in sharing this conversation with anyone else, especially not potential business contacts. The flames engulf your chest, lick up at your throat, threaten to consume you.
“I never asked you to do that,” Matthew replies, solemn. Your jaw drops, just half an inch, enough to part your lips as your breath hitches. He never asked. He never fucking–
“You–” you begin, breath catching in your throat as your eyes burn with tears you refuse to let escape, “Everything you said, everything you did, and you expected what? For me to just move on?” Your nails are digging so deeply into your biceps that you’re surprised they haven’t drawn blood. Matthew doesn’t respond right away, and you can’t tamp down the impulse to be petty.
“But I guess that’s what you did, huh?” you jab. Matthew shuts his eyes tightly, fists clenching like he wants to fight. It should be threatening, but you’ve always known that he would never dream of laying a finger on you in violence. But then again, you’d thought you knew a lot of things about him.
“Why do you care?” he asks, shoulders tense as he opens his eyes to stare you down, “You don’t even want me.” That shocks a laugh out of you, so completely ridiculous that you can’t help it.
“That’s the most fucked up part– I do want you,” you respond, simultaneously an answer and an admission. His brow furrows as he continues looking at you, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
“Did you seriously think I didn’t?” you ask, more of a demand, slightly offended because, “Do you think I said all those things for fun? For shits and giggles?” You can’t read his expression, don’t even bother trying. He can feel whatever he wants. That’s not your concern anymore. All you care about is the cold spreading through you, crawling up from the tips of your fingers, freezing your arms, creeping into your chest and beginning to extinguish your rage.
“I loved you, dickhead,” you continue, the words spilling out of you starting to sound pathetic, no matter how hard you’re trying to hold on to the anger, putting the last grasp of it into the words, “Stupid fucking idiot asshole, I loved you.” Matthew gapes at you, hands going lax at his sides. His jaw moves as if to say something, but nothing comes out.
“I loved you and you threw me away like garbage, and didn’t even have the balls to tell me yourself,” you force the sentence out, feeling like you’re choking on every syllable. Matthew’s breathing stutters. You’re expecting annoyance, irritation, maybe even shame or guilt. You’re not expecting his wide eyes, his eyebrows turned up in the middle, his slack jaw.
“You loved me?” he finally asks after a few agonizingly long seconds of silence. There’s something in his voice that you tell yourself you don’t care to analyze.
“Of course I did. How could I not?” you say, huffing as you look upwards, needing a momentary break from this staring contest, “The pathetic part, the part that makes me hate myself, is that I still do.” It’s physically painful to say, no matter that the hurt is psychosomatic. You’ve spent the last few minutes breaking open your ribcage, one bone at a time, revealing to him the space you’d made for him inside of yourself.
“You love me?” he asks, so dumbfounded that he’s repeating himself.
“Yes, Matthew,” you say, facing up to the dread inside of you, the one fact you’ve been struggling with the most since you’d found out the news.
“And I’m terrified. Because I’ve always loved you,” you pour out, barely able to hold yourself together as you meet his eyes, “And I’m afraid that I always will.” There’s not even space for half of a breath before Matthew speaks.
“Please do,” he says. His hands are open, palms facing your direction, as if pleading.
“What?” you ask.
“I didn’t know,” he says, and apparently he’s decided it’s his turn to reveal himself, “I was surprised that you wanted anything to do with me at all. But then you kissed me, and I spent the next three years waiting for you to leave.” The confusion comes over you so quickly that it almost masks the hurt.
“Why would I leave?” you ask. There’s been nothing subtle about your feelings. You’ve told him that he’s the only one you want, that you want to spend the rest of your life by his side, that he’ll always be the only one. How could he hear all of that and think that you would ever leave?
“Because you’re smart and kind and funny and hardworking–” he starts listing off.
“Tessa is all of those things too,” you cut him off. It doesn’t come out as resentful as you would’ve expected a sentence like that to. As you’ve told Terri, you really have nothing against Tessa. Besides, she really is everything he’s saying.
“But she’s not you,” his response comes immediately, emphatically, “I don’t want just anyone like that; I want you, and you happen to be that way.” You’re stunned into silence.
“It’s not the traits, it’s you,” he says, insistent, like he’s trying to convince you of your own worth, “And I kept waiting for you to find someone else, someone who wasn’t hotheaded and self-centered and–” He stops himself, swallowing so hard you can see his throat stutter under the thin skin of his neck.
“Someone better,” he finishes. The thing is that Matthew doesn’t have low self-esteem. He knows he’s a catch, and yet… And yet, he’s standing here, admitting that he’d still thought of you as being so far above him that you could never want him. And it’s not that there isn’t probably someone out there better than him–
“I never wanted someone better,” you tell him, voice almost a whisper. Growing up, you’d created this picture of the perfect man, told yourself that you’d find him one day, would never settle for less. Then you’d met Matthew, and he was nothing like that imaginary ideal. He was flawed; he was real. And you couldn’t help but love him for it.
“And I never wanted anyone else,” he replies, his own voice hushed to match yours, but no less certain, “I still don’t.” Three months ago, you would’ve given anything to hear that. But things are different now.
“I thought that if I went and found someone like you, someone close enough, that I could fall for them too,” he confesses, shame making his face tense, “I thought that if I stopped talking to you, if I kept my distance, that I could get over you.” A fraction of the anger buds in your chest at the idea.
“So you’re using Tessa,” you accuse, instantly offended on her behalf.
“No!” Matthew denies emphatically, pauses, shakes his head, “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” If he is using her, at least he seems ashamed about it. Something in his posture makes you think he isn’t, that he really thought he could love her.
“Look, she’s great. She’s amazing. She’s too good for me, too,” his shoulders have been hunched up to his ears, but they fall now, defeated, “She talks about that spark she felt when we met, the way she feels about me now, and I want, I really want to feel that way too. It would be easier if I could.” Believing this entire time that he truly loves her has been hell for you, but it’s still somehow worse to know that he doesn’t. That he did all of this, hurt you so deeply, for someone he doesn’t even love.
“As much as I’ve tried, I don’t. And I can’t,” he says, turning his gaze to the floor, “And if I’d ever thought that I had the slightest chance with you, I never would have dated her to begin with.” All these years, all those words, all the touches you’ve shared, and he’d still never taken you seriously. It’s not your fault, you know. But you realize now that for every time you’d indirectly confessed your feelings to him, he’d said the same things back. He’d returned every sentiment readily, easily. And as much as he’d apparently had the same idea as you, that the other could never love you back, you hadn’t seen it either. You’ve been just as ignorant of his feelings as he was of yours, just as deep in denial. And now there’s this rift between you, a deep chasm that keeps you apart, all for no reason.
“So, what now?” you ask. There’s nothing else to ask.
“What?” he seems genuinely confused.
“What now?” you repeat, too tired to be upset anymore, “You break her heart? Or do you keep pretending? Fake your way into a wife and kids and a house in the suburbs?” His confusion persists, tongue darting out to wet his lip the way it always does when he’s anxious.
“I thought–” he shakes his head the tiniest bit, as if he can’t believe what’s happening, “I mean, I love you. I want to be with you.” There’s a sadness sitting heavy in your chest, only getting deeper at his words.
“I love you too,” you say, tipping your head an inch to the right, perfectly aware of how melancholy your smile must be, “But you hurt me, and now you have to hurt her too. I thought you were better than this.” You’d thought the world of him. You don’t hate him now, could never force yourself to. But you are disappointed in how everything has played out.
“I thought you didn’t want better?” he says, not really a question. Your lips turn up another centimeter at that.
“Listen,” you say, turning the word back on him. You inhale deeply, exhale slowly. He stays quiet.
“The opportunity of a lifetime is on the other side of that door,” you gesture vaguely over your shoulder, then let your arms relax, your hands fall to your sides, “I don’t know what to do with any of–” you give another vague gesture, “--This.” The devastation is writ clear on his face, telegraphed by his posture, bared in the forefront of his miserably beautiful eyes.
“Out there?” you say, smile still in place, “I know exactly what I want. So I’m going to go get it.” you pause, take another deep breath, “And maybe you’ll be there tomorrow, and maybe you won’t.”
“I will,” he jumps in. You huff an almost-laugh.
“We can figure this all out later,” you say, sure a definite, “For now, I have to focus on the things that I’m sure of.” He nods, looks at the floor, raises his head and looks back at you.
“Did you used to be sure of me?” he asks, an uneven, shaky whisper.
“Yeah,” you say, your entire being feeling so heavy that you can barely hold yourself upright, “I used to be.”
September, 2023
While Brady had departed yesterday, Matthew doesn’t leave until tomorrow. It took some internal debate, but you’ve decided not to go along to drop him off at the airport. His family will think it’s weird if he doesn’t hug you, and you’re not sure if you can handle him touching you yet.
You’re curled up on the couch with a book, letting yourself get lost in the story. A knock comes on the door and you startle. You mark your page and stand, rounding the couch to open the door. When you do, Matthew is standing there.
“Hey,” he greets, giving you the same bittersweet smile you’ve become accustomed to over the past few weeks. You’d given him a key to your apartment right after you’d moved, but you appreciate him not using it right now. You welcome him in with a gesture of your hand, turning to lead the way. You get four steps away before he speaks.
“I broke up with Tessa,” he blurts out. He doesn’t seem happy about it, but he doesn’t seem particularly sad either.
“Why?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest, “You’re that sure that I’ll take you back?” The anger comes and goes as it pleases, and it’s starting to sneak through the space between your ribs.
“No,” Matthew says, looking so unbearably fond of you, “I think you’ll tell me to get fucked.” Some days you want to.
“Then why did you break up with her?” you ask. Part of you has been wondering if, despite everything he’d said, he would stay with her. You’re not sure you would have been able to keep the conversation to yourself if he had, but you would have at least tried.
“Because none of this is fair to her,” he answers, shrugging, “She deserves someone who feels the same way about her that she does them. Someone who’s obsessed with her. She doesn’t deserve to be settled for.” You examine his expression, his stance, and realize that he’s truly being honest. He genuinely wants the best for her.
“How’d she take it?” you can’t help but ask. It makes him grin down at the floor for a moment.
“Honestly?” he asks when he raises his head, “Not great. Could have been worse, though.” As much as you love Matthew, you would have been proud of Tessa if she had slapped him.
“Probably should’ve been worse,” you reply. He grins again, tilting his head as he admires your face.
“Probably,” he agrees. For long moments, you both stand still, eyes locked.
“What now?” you ask, the same question as a couple weeks ago. He shrugs again, but he doesn’t seem as miserable or desperate as he had at the gallery.
“I don’t know,” he replies, that same phrase that you’re still trying to make peace with, “I know what I want. Same thing I’ve wanted this entire time. So I guess it’s up to you.” After three years of him encouraging you to give up control, to let go and follow his lead, he’s handing you the reigns now. However this ends or continues is completely your decision.
“You leave tomorrow,” you say, though you’re both viscerally aware of the fact.
“Yeah,” he gives you the crooked smile that had captured you the first time you’d met, “Don’t suppose you want to come with me? The winter weather’s nicer in Florida.” You let out a breathy chuckle, shaking your head at him.
“If you’d asked me that last summer, I probably would’ve said yes,” you admit. You kind of expect him to react with sadness, but you prefer the hope that blooms on his face.
“Maybe I’ll ask you again next summer?” he suggests, offering you the option. At this point, you have no idea where your relationship will be at this time next year. You don’t know if you’ll even have a relationship, of any kind. But if he’s willing to try, so are you.
“Yeah,” you nod, smiling wider than you have in a long while, “Next summer.”
June, 2024
The Hughes brothers are a funny trio. Seeing Jack’s upbeat, outgoing energy bookended on each side by two reserved, perpetually exhausted brothers is always kind of funny. You’d run down the pavement from the Tkachuk’s door to the driveway when you’d seen Quinn climb out of the car’s driver seat, immediately sweeping him up in a hug. The boys had decided to road trip around this summer, so of course you’d strongly suggested that they visit you.
You help them haul their bags out of the trunk, taking Luke’s backpack in hand and insisting on carrying it in for him. The three of them had started teasing you the instant they saw that Matthew hadn’t come out with you.
“Come on, I heard him at the All Star game,” Jack pesters, voice taking a mocking edge as he croons, “Sweet girl.” You laugh brightly, stopping the careful steps you’re taking backwards up the pathway to the house.
“We weren’t dating, I swear,” you insist. Plenty of people over the years have accused you of dating Matthew, but at least he’s funny about it. He stops in front of you, lifting his chin and giving a shit-eating smile.
“Wait, weren’t?” he asks, “As in, past tense?” You feel heat begin to crawl up your face. You’d intended to tell them, of course, but not the second they got here.
“Yeah,” Matthew calls from behind you, and you twist around to watch him close the space between you, “Past tense.” Jack’s glee is overt, but you can see the little signs of happiness on the other two boys’ faces too. Matthew lines himself up against your back, wrapping his arms around you, the gaudy Cup ring on his finger glinting in the light.
“Hey, sweet girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss into your hair. You can’t see him, but Jack’s smug face makes you sure that Matthew is staring straight at him.
“My sweet girl,” Matthew says. It might be the best thing you’ve ever heard.
#matthew tkachuk imagine#matthew tkachuk fic#nhl imagines#nhl fanfic#the winter fic exchange 2k24#RI#andi's coping mechanism
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