Oh Honeyyyy~

[hyunnie-beee]

💋Roxie Hart 👠 Masterlist

-Chuckle Sandwich x Reader

Pairings: Ted Nivison x reader, Jschlatt x reader, Charlie (Slimecicle) x reader

Synopsis: You’re back home after your first year at UCLA with one goal in mind: Return in the fall as the undeniable star of the theater program. Confident. Magnetic. Unforgettable. Step one? Live the part all summer long.

It just so happens your three best friends each have very attractive older brothers. And their attention? Well… that could help you a lot. That’s your excuse, anyway.

Ted should be the easy one, he’s the boy you never really got over, the one with history written into your bones. But your heart might not be ready to risk that again. Schlatt keeps circling with sharp eyes and sharper comments, turning your little act into a game of cat and mouse (you’re just not sure who’s chasing who.) And Charlie? He’s a lovesick puppy every time you so much as blink in his direction. Everything’s going according to plan. Until it’s not. Because some roles cut too close. Some pasts don’t stay buried. And this summer? Might just write a whole new script you didn’t see coming.

Genre: College AU (?), Summer Romance, Love Triangle (or square?), Friends-to-Lovers, Exes with Unfinished Business, Enemies-to-???, Feminine Rage.

UPDATE SCHEDULE: Wednesday

CH. 1 - Home Sour Home. chapter length- (5.9k)

CH. 2 - Before Fall Leaves Pt. 1 chapter length- (4.2k)

CH. 3 - Before Fall Leaves Pt. 2 chapter length- (5.5k)

CH. 4 - They Both Reached For The Gun chapter length- (4.3k)

CH. 5 - Funny Honey chapter length- (4.5k)

deleted scene?

CH. 6 - All I Care About Is Me Love chapter length- (5.3k-ish)

CH. 6 - All I Care About Is Me Love (18+) chapter length- (5.3k)

CH. 7 - Cell Block Tango chapter length - (6.1k)

CH. 8 - Razzle Dazzle chapter length - (5.4k)

CH. 9 - Isn't it Grand? chapter length - ( 8.4k)

CH. 10 - The Name On Everyboy's Lips chapter length - (7.2k)

CH. 10 - The Name On Everyboy's Lips(18+) chapter length - (9.3k)

CH. 11 - That's Showbiz, Baby chapter length - (2.4k)

CHARACTER PLAYLISTS

Ted

Charlie

Schlatt

[hyunnie-beee]

Totally not debating rewriting Roxie Hart 😗😗

I feel like I could simplify or at least better lay out some of the stuff for the plot 😭😭

[hyunnie-beee]

Favor - Ted Nivison

Pairing: Ted Nivison x reader

Synopsis: It was supposed to be a simple night catching up with friends at the bar. But when the conversation turns to stories about bad sex, your longtime friend Ted makes an unexpected offer. What starts as a favor soon blurs the lines between friendship and something much deeper. Leaving you wondering just how long Ted’s been wanting more.

Warnings: Smut, MDNI 18+, Oral Sex, Fingering, Praise Kink, “Box Muncher” Ted, Dirty Talk, PIV, Kinda orgasm denial and edging? that's debatable. Consent Is Sexy

WC: 6.7k

A/N: Found this in my drafts; figured maybe someone would like it lmao- for my ted lovers since I do him dirty in my other work.

The bar is loud in the sloppy, familiar way it always is, cheap beer, sticky tables, a jukebox that cuts out mid-song but no one cares. You and your friends are crammed into a booth, half-shouting over one another, trading war stories about sex gone wrong.

Someone claims a girl once tried to bite him during a blowjob. The whole table groans, a chorus of laughter spilling out into the already noisy room. Another friend one-ups him with a tale of their own, and the laughter doubles.

It’s the kind of conversation that only works with people you’ve known forever, the kind where embarrassment turns into entertainment. By the time the topic slides into women and head, everyone’s leaning in, tossing jokes and swearing they know what they’re doing.

One of the girls rolls her eyes. “Please. Every guy thinks they’re a god at it.”

You snort into your drink before you can stop yourself, lifting your beer in a mock toast. “Yeah, well… if they are, I haven’t met one yet.”

The booth explodes, gasps from the girls, howling laughter from the guys, more jokes piling over one another. But through the noise, one thing catches: Ted isn’t laughing.

You glance across the table. He’s just watching you, head tilted slightly, brown eyes wide and intent, like a puppy trying to make sense of something it’s never heard before.

You don’t dwell on his lingering gaze, too caught up in the next story someone else is sharing.

A few more beers in and your bladder starts screaming at you. You’ve been holding out, trying not to break the seal, but there’s no fighting it anymore. By the time you stand, a couple of the other girls do too, a chorus of “me too” following you toward the back hallway.

The bathroom is exactly what you expect, dingy, sour-smelling, a stain in the corner you don’t dare investigate. But women always make it better. The cramped space fills with laughter, quick compliments, someone fixing another’s eyeliner with a steady hand.

You’re the last to leave, tugging your shirt back into place, only to stop short at the sight of Ted waiting outside the door.

He lifts a carton of cigarettes, giving it a little tilt in your direction. “I was gonna step out for a smoke. Care to join?”

A smile tugs at your lips as you nod. “Sure.”

The catcalls from your friends follow you both as you cut across the room. You roll your eyes, but Ted just ducks his head and keeps moving, shoulders tense in that way that makes you wonder if he’s embarrassed or just focused.

Outside, the night air is cooler, quieter. He taps one cigarette free for himself, then another for you. With his own already perched between his lips, he lights it, the flare of orange briefly painting his face. Then, instead of passing the lighter, he leans closer and cups the flame in his palm for yours.

You inhale, the smoke rough but grounding. “Thanks,” you murmur, and for a while, neither of you says anything, just the sound of distant traffic, the faint buzz of neon, and the warmth of the alcohol humming through your veins.

It’s Ted who finally breaks the silence, voice low. “Did you really mean what you said in there?”

Your brow furrows. “What?”

He glances at you then, almost shy, though he’s trying hard to hide it. “No man’s ever… you know. Done it right?”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.” A laugh slips out. “Yeah. Not once.” You take another drag, exhaling slowly. “Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just not that into it.”

Ted’s quiet for a second, jaw tight around his cigarette. Then, like the words slip free before he can stop them, he says, “Let me try.”

Both of you freeze, eyes locked. He blinks, startled by his own boldness, but then his lips press into a determined line, and he nods faintly to himself. “Yeah. Let me try.” He shrugs, “Think of it as a favour.”

You don’t mean to let the laugh slip out, it’s nerves, not humor, but it bubbles up anyway. You clap a hand over your mouth, cutting yourself off before it can sound like you’re mocking him.

“Sorry,” you rush out. “I didn’t mean to laugh, it’s just… I don’t get it. Why?”

The streetlight catches in Ted’s messy brown hair as he turns toward you with a shrug. “Why not? I’m a giver, and you’re someone who’s never had a good time with it.” He presses a hand to his chest, a mock wound twisting his face. “And as a certified face seat, box muncher, that hurts my soul.”

This time the snort you let out is genuine. “Did you just quote Tyler, the Creator at me?”

Ted smirks, cigarette glowing at the corner of his mouth. He exhales smoke in a lazy curl. “Did it work?”

You take another drag off your own and let yourself really look at him. The silver chain glints faintly where it peeks from the collar of his white tee, a worn plaid shirt thrown over it, sleeves pushed to his elbows. A slim silver bracelet hugs his wrist, a couple rings catching the light when he moves. He’s tall even when he slouches, broad but not imposing, mustache catching the glow of the streetlight when he grins.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s curiosity. Either way, you find yourself shrugging. “Fuck it. Why not.”

“Perfect.” Ted hums, a glint in his eyes you’ve never seen before. He flicks his cigarette to the ground, grinding it beneath his boot. You mirror the motion, nerves and anticipation buzzing low in your chest.

“We’ve got two options,” he says easily. “Ditch everyone now, let them put the pieces together and never hear the end of it. Or…” he leans closer, voice pitched just for you, “we play it cool. Sit through their stupid banter, then slip out later and head back to mine.”

You groan, rolling your eyes as you start back toward the bar. “If only our friends could mind their own business.”

Ted chuckles, following close behind. A jolt runs through you when his hand brushes the small of your back, steadying you as he holds the door with the other. His head dips, voice low and teasing at your ear.

“Eager now, are we?”

Heat blooms instantly, but you smother it with a quick smile as you rejoin the noise of the bar. The booth has reshuffled; you slide into the open end, Ted dropping in after you, blending seamlessly back into conversation.

For a few minutes, it’s easy, laughter spilling over stories, bottles clinking. You’re mid-laugh when your breath stutters. Ted’s hand has slid onto your thigh, fingers warm, deliberate.

You choke down the gasp, gripping your beer tighter. He doesn’t look at you. He’s still engaged with the group, trading jokes, tossing in his own quips. But then, just for a beat, his eyes cut to yours, dark and knowing, before flicking back like nothing happened.

His hand moves again. A slow glide, a squeeze that has your pulse hammering. You press your legs together, doing everything you can to stay in the rhythm of the conversation, but each brush of his fingers makes it harder to keep your voice steady.

Your bottle is slick with condensation, your grip white-knuckled as Ted’s fingers drift higher, kneading with an infuriating kind of patience. He doesn’t falter in the conversation, laughing at a joke, adding his own comment like his hand isn’t setting fire to your nerves.

You force yourself to smile at something someone says, but when the laughter dies down, Ted shifts closer, so casual no one even notices, and dips his head. His lips brush the shell of your ear, his voice pitched so low it barely makes it over the din.

“Keep squirming like that,” he murmurs, “and they’re all gonna know exactly what I’m doing to you.”

Heat floods through you, your breath catching sharp enough you almost choke on air. He pulls back just as quickly, joining in another burst of laughter from the group, leaving you reeling.

Time stretches, each second dragging like an eternity with Ted’s hand on you. He’s infuriatingly calm, thumb circling idly against your thigh while he tosses comments into the group, laughs at stories, drinks like nothing’s out of the ordinary.

For you, though? It’s impossible to focus. Every time his hand drifts a little higher, every brush closer to where you need him, your heart kicks harder against your ribs. Your laugh comes too late, your answers a little clipped, heat burning beneath your skin no matter how many sips of beer you take.

By the time his hand settles firmly on your middle thigh, so achingly close to your heat that it’s all you can think about, you’re sure the whole table must see right through you.

And then someone does. “Hey, you good?” a voice pipes up from across the booth. “You’re looking a little flushed. Maybe we should get you home?”

Your head snaps up, and you wave your hand quickly, forcing a laugh. “I’m fine. Seriously. Just warm in here, that’s all, ”

But Ted cuts in smoothly, like he’s been waiting for the opening. “No, she’s right.” He pushes back from the booth, already half-standing as his hand slips from your thigh. His voice is easy, casual, but there’s a flicker of something sharper in his eyes when they meet yours. “Here, let me take you home.”

The others barely glance up, too caught in their own side conversations to notice the shift. A couple of them nod absently, one muttering something about “good call” before turning back to their drink.

No suspicion. No teasing. Just the perfect exit.

Ted’s hand brushes your lower back again as he steps aside to let you out of the booth first. You try to steady your breathing, pretend your pulse isn’t thundering as you grab your bag and slide past the table.

The bar’s noise fades behind you with every step, replaced by the cooler hush of the night. The door swings shut, muting the laughter, leaving only you and Ted in the soft wash of the streetlights.

You glance at him, a crooked smile tugging at your lips. “You’re a sly dog, you know that? Pulling the knight-in-shining-armor act just to get me alone.”

Ted’s grin curves slow, cigarette-rough laugh catching in his chest. He leans closer, his voice dropping low enough to vibrate against your skin. “You don’t know how hard it was not to drag you out sooner.”

The lot is mostly empty by now, the night pressing in heavy and quiet compared to the hum of the bar you just left. Ted leads the way with that easy, long stride of his, keys already spinning around his finger. His truck sits a few spaces down, older but well-kept, the kind that smells faintly of leather and faintly of him the second he pulls the door open.

He gestures you in first. “After you.”

He closes your door for you and walks around, hoping in his side. 

The cab smells faintly of smoke and his cologne, warm leather wrapping around you both as the door clicks shut. The second it does, Ted doesn’t waste time. He tosses the keys into the cupholder and leans across the console, one hand braced on the back of your seat, the other cupping your jaw as his mouth finds yours.

It’s sudden, but not sloppy. Firm, certain, like he’s been holding it in all night.

You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to murmur, “Wow, straight to it. Real subtle, Ted. Sly dog strikes again.”

He huffs out a laugh, chasing your mouth again, catching your lower lip between his teeth before speaking. “Didn’t take you for such a brat.”

The word snaps through you like a live wire, your comeback catching in your throat. Your breath stutters instead, and Ted pulls back just far enough to study your face, that puppy-soft gaze now sharpened into something knowing.

“Mm,” he hums, thumb brushing along your cheekbone, “that shut you up quick.”

Heat floods your chest, equal parts flustered and thrilled, the silence between you suddenly louder than any snark you could’ve thrown at him.

Ted lingers another beat, thumb dragging over your lower lip like he’s debating pulling another kiss from you right there. Instead, he pulls back with a crooked grin, reaching for the ignition.

“Seatbelt,” he says simply.

You roll your eyes, clicking it into place as the engine rumbles to life.

The truck hums steady beneath you, headlights cutting through the dark stretch of road. Ted drives one-handed, the other still heavy on your thigh, thumb tapping absent circles that keep your nerves sparking.

You try for another jab, if only to ground yourself. “What’s the plan, Ted? Lecture me all the way back like some smug professor of going down?”

He chuckles, the sound low and rough. “Careful. Keep running that mouth, and I’ll find a way to keep it busy when we get inside.”

Your words falter, heat crawling up your neck. He glances over, catching your silence, and his grin sharpens.

“Mm. That’s better.” His hand slides a little higher on your thigh, deliberate, steady despite the bump of the road. “Didn’t peg you for the type to squirm this much, but I’m not complaining.”

The air in the cab feels tighter, every sound sharper, the engine’s growl, the faint rattle of loose change in the console, the thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

Then Ted shifts, leaning just enough that his lips almost brush your ear when he speaks again. “Here’s the deal,” he murmurs, voice a mix of tease and promise. “You make it to my place without another smart remark, I’ll take my time proving you wrong about never enjoying it. But if you can’t keep that mouth in check…” His thumb presses a little firmer into your thigh, a reminder. “…then I won’t wait.”

The challenge hangs between you, electric. You swallow hard, biting down on a retort that would normally fly free, because now your words feel like currency you can’t afford to spend.

The road hums beneath you, the silence in the cab stretched thin by the weight of his hand on your thigh. Every bump, every shift of his thumb feels magnified. You bite down on your tongue, determined to win this little challenge he’s set.

But you can’t help yourself. Under your breath, barely louder than the rattle of the dash, you mutter, “Not like you’d even fit back here anyway, too tall to do anything in this truck…”

For a second you think you’ve gotten away with it. Then his hand tightens suddenly, a rough squeeze that makes you gasp before you can stop it.

Ted’s voice is low, sharp with amusement. “What was that?”

You whip your head toward the window, cheeks burning. “Nothing!”

He chuckles, the sound warm and wicked all at once, and gives your thigh one more squeeze before returning his attention to the road. But his smirk lingers, lit faintly by the dash glow, and the silence that follows feels like punishment all its own.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he says after a moment, voice easy, coaxing. “Guess I finally figured out how to shut you up.”

You stare stubbornly out the window, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reply.

He huffs a quiet laugh, squeezing your thigh. “What, no quick comeback? That’s a first.”

Still, you say nothing, lips pressed tight around the retort burning at the back of your throat.

He shakes his head like he can’t believe it, but you catch the grin tugging at his mouth in your peripheral vision. “Huh. Guess silence can be bratty too.”

That earns you another squeeze, firmer this time, his thumb dragging higher until your breath stutters. “Careful,” he murmurs, low and deliberate. “If you think ignoring me counts as playing nice, you’re in for a surprise when we get inside.”

You swallow hard, fingers fidgeting in your lap, still refusing to look at him. The cab fills with the hum of the engine and your own racing pulse, the tension so thick it feels like the air’s gone heavy.

Ted smirks, clearly enjoying your stubbornness, but his grip on your thigh only tightens as he steers one-handed. “God, you really are gonna make me work for it, huh?”

The ride feels endless, your nerves stretched thin under Ted’s hand. Every turn, every red light is another test of your silence. By the time he pulls onto his street, your jaw aches from holding back the words threatening to spill.

He eases the truck into the driveway, throwing it into park with a low chuckle. “You know,” he says, eyes cutting to you, “I’m starting to think you’re not quiet because you’re being good. You’re quiet because you’re plotting.”

That does it. The words slip out before you can stop them. “Please. If I were plotting, you’d be the last to know, Professor Box Muncher.”

The cab goes still.

Ted’s hand tightens on the wheel, then releases as a grin spreads slow across his face. He turns the key, cutting the engine, leaving only the sound of your breathing in the heavy dark.

“Finally,” he murmurs, leaning back against his seat to look at you fully. His other hand finds your thigh again, firmer this time. “Knew you couldn’t keep that mouth shut forever.”

Your pulse kicks, heat crawling up your neck, but you can’t bring yourself to look away.

The engine ticks softly as it cools, the silence in the cab stretching taut. Ted doesn’t move for the door. Instead, his hand slides higher on your thigh, deliberate, until you finally snap your gaze to him.

He’s already looking at you, brown eyes dark, mustache catching the faint glow from the streetlight. That grin still tugs at his mouth, but it’s sharper now, edged with something hungrier.

“Couldn’t resist, huh?” he murmurs.

You open your mouth for another snark, but the words dissolve as he leans in and kisses you. It’s firm, sure, his palm cupping the side of your neck, thumb stroking once over your jaw like he’s claiming his win. The console digs into your hip as he presses closer, and you can’t help the soft noise that escapes before you catch it.

He pulls back just enough to breathe against your lips, his smirk brushing your skin. “Knew you’d crack.”

Your chest heaves, heat crawling everywhere. You want to bite back, toss something sharp at him, but your tongue feels clumsy.

Ted chuckles low, clearly pleased with himself, then pulls away just enough to pop his door handle. “C’mon,” he says, voice still rough from the kiss. “Inside. Before I decide the truck’s good enough.”

The night air cools your flushed cheeks as you climb out of the truck, but it does nothing to steady the storm rolling through you. Ted falls into step beside you, keys jingling casually in his hand, like he hasn’t just unraveled years of easy friendship with a single kiss.

And that’s what stuns you most. The kiss wasn’t awkward. The silence walking up to his door isn’t awkward. None of this feels like stumbling into something forbidden. It feels inevitable.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. The plaid shirt you’ve seen a hundred times, the messy hair, the lopsided grin when he catches you looking, those are all the Ted you’ve always known. The one who steals fries off your plate and makes dumb impressions when he’s drunk.

But the way he carries himself now, the certainty in his stride, the glint in his eyes when he caught you out, the way your body just responds when his voice dips low, those are pieces you’ve never seen before. Pieces you don’t know how to reconcile with the Ted you thought you knew.

And yet your body isn’t confused. Your body understands perfectly. The way your stomach twists when his hand brushes your back to guide you through the doorway, the way your pulse jumps at his voice when he says, “Shoes off,” without looking back.

It should feel strange, wrong, something. Instead it feels natural. Like he was always meant to slide into this role, like your friendship was just the prelude to this.

Confidence wears on him like a second skin, and God, his words, every teasing jab, every bold promise, sink into you deeper than you want to admit. You’ve never been more awed, more confused, or more turned on in your life.

“Water?” he asks, already heading toward the kitchen.

You nod, though you’re not sure you’ll be able to swallow.

While he moves around, you let your eyes wander. It’s not the first time you’ve been here, but it feels different now, charged. The plaid blanket tossed over the back of the couch, the half-finished book on the coffee table, the faint scent of cedar and smoke clinging to the air, it all feels suddenly, startlingly his. Not just Ted the friend, but Ted the man.

He returns with two glasses, sets one in your hand, and then lingers a little too close, watching you over the rim of his own.

You take a sip, more for something to do with your hands than actual thirst, and set it down on the counter. When you glance up again, he’s already there, closer than you expected, gaze locked on yours, that same mix of confidence and mischief sparking behind his eyes.

“You’re looking at me like you’ve never seen me before,” he murmurs.

Your lips part, fumbling for a denial, but nothing comes. Because he’s right. You haven’t seen him like this, so assured, so unbothered, slipping into this role without hesitation.

And before you can think of what to say, he steps in fully, pressing you back against the counter, his mouth catching yours with a heat that steals your breath.

The counter is cool against your back, a grounding anchor against the heat rushing through you. Ted’s kiss deepens immediately, no hesitation, his hand cupping your jaw while the other braces the counter beside you.

There’s no smirk now. No sly grin. Just the steady press of his mouth, certain and consuming, like he’s been holding back for far too long.

You’ve kissed people before. You’ve been wanted before. But never like this. Never with this surety, this intensity that makes it feel less like a choice and more like gravity.

His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, slow, reverent even, at odds with the hunger in the way he’s kissing you. It steals your breath, the contradiction of it, the way his confidence wears on him so easily, as if this was always supposed to happen.

And your body responds without question. Fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt, knees threatening to buckle as his chest presses flush to yours. There’s no room for confusion now, no space for nerves, just the raw, startling truth that this is Ted, your Ted, and you’ve never wanted anything more.

When he finally breaks for air, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing hard. His voice is rough, stripped of humor, every word vibrating through you.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he murmurs. “I’ve wanted this. You. For a long time.”

Your chest tightens, mind sparking with a hundred thoughts you don’t dare follow, what this means, what it changes, what you’ll have to face in the morning, 

But Ted doesn’t give you time to spiral.

His mouth is on yours again before you can inhale, rougher now, like he’s determined to chase away every doubt with the press of his lips. His hand slides from your jaw to your neck, thumb stroking along your throat as he angles you closer, deeper.

When he finally breaks the kiss, it’s only to speak against your mouth, his breath hot, his voice low and ragged. “God, you feel so fucking good. Do you know that? The way you melt for me, ” another kiss, harder, “, the way you sound when I touch you, ” his hand skims lower, squeezing your hip, “, I could eat it up.”

You whimper into him, knees weakening, but he catches you, holding you against the counter like he already knows your body better than you do.

He groans softly, lips dragging along your jaw, down to your ear. “I swear, I could worship you all night, ”

He stops, catches himself, exhales sharp through his nose. The words hang there, unsaid, swallowed before he can ruin this with too much truth. His teeth graze your earlobe instead, his voice pulling back to a growl. “But right now? I just want to hear you come undone.”

The shift makes your breath hitch, your whole body arching toward him instinctively.

Ted pulls back just enough to look at you, chest rising and falling hard, his hand still hot on your hip. For a second you think he’s going to say something else, some other dangerous truth he’ll regret, but instead, his mouth curves into that sharp grin, tempered now by the heat blazing in his eyes.

“C’mon,” he rasps, voice low but steady. His hand trails down your arm until he laces his fingers with yours. “This isn’t where I want you.”

The words send a shiver through you, every nerve lit as he tugs you away from the counter. You let him lead, your steps unsteady, the house dim and quiet as he pulls you down the hall. His grip never falters, his stride sure, like he’s been imagining this exact walk for longer than you want to consider.

The door to his room swings open with a soft creak. It’s dim inside, lit only by the faint glow from a streetlamp filtering through the blinds. His plaid shirt lands on the floor in one motion as he turns back to you, that silver chain glinting at his throat.

For a second, your breath catches. You’ve been in this room before, as a friend, when it was just a backdrop for beers and video games. But now, with him standing there, messy hair, rings catching the light, eyes darkened with hunger, it feels entirely different.

Ted’s voice cuts through the haze, rough and reverent all at once. “Bed. Now.”

It isn’t a request, and your body obeys before your brain can catch up.

Your knees hit the edge of the mattress and you sink down, the sheets cool beneath your palms as you look up at him. Ted steps closer, and for a moment, the weight in his gaze steals your breath.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe you’re really there. His hand comes up, fingers brushing your cheek, thumb lingering at your jaw as though he’s memorizing you by touch. “God, you’re beautiful like this.”

The words make your chest tighten, heat racing straight through you, but before you can stumble into thought, he leans down and kisses you again, slower this time, softer, his lips moving against yours like he wants to savor every second.

When he pulls back, he hovers there, close enough that his breath fans against your lips. “You always were,” he says, voice rough with something he’s barely holding back. “Always driving me fucking crazy and you didn’t even know.”

Your throat goes tight, your body answering in place of words. Your hands clutch at his shirt, tugging him down until he follows, pressing you gently onto your back. His weight settles above you, warm and solid, and every little brush of his rings against your skin feels like proof, this is real.

Ted’s mouth trails down your throat, pausing to murmur between kisses, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Perfect… so perfect…”

There’s no smirk now, no banter. Just reverence in the way he touches you, awe in every word that spills out unguarded.

His kisses trail lower, the soft scrape of mustache and the heat of his breath dragging shivers over your skin. By the time he settles between your thighs, bracing his hands firmly on either side of your hips, you’re already trembling with anticipation.

He glances up once, meeting your eyes through the shadows, and there’s nothing playful there now, just intent. “Told you I’d prove it to you,” he murmurs, voice low and certain. “Gonna make you forget every bad time before this.”

And then he’s on you, his mouth hot and sure, every movement deliberate. The first sweep of his tongue has you gasping, your hand flying to grip the sheets.

Ted groans softly against you, the sound vibrating straight through your core. He pulls back just long enough to breathe out, rough with awe, “Fuck, you taste so good. Should’ve been here years ago.”

Your body arches, a broken noise slipping out, but he only doubles down, one hand sliding up to hold your hip steady. Every press of his mouth, every flick of his tongue feels like a map he’s determined to master.

Between it all, the praise keeps spilling, ragged, reverent, unstoppable. “That’s it, God, you’re gorgeous like this.” “Let me hear you, don’t hold back.” “See? Told you I could make you feel good.”

It’s overwhelming, his voice, his hands, his mouth working you until your head tips back, fingers tangling hard in his messy hair. For once, there’s nothing to joke about, no snark to cling to, just the raw, consuming reality of Ted, and how perfectly he’s unraveling you.

Whatever line there was between control and surrender, Ted crosses it without hesitation. The moment he has you beneath him, every ounce of his restraint dissolves. His mouth works like he’s starved, like this is something he’s craved far longer than you ever guessed.

His fingers press into your thighs, keeping you open for him as if he couldn’t stand the thought of you pulling away. The low sounds he makes, half groan, half reverence, vibrate through you, each one tightening the coil in your stomach.

“Fuck…” he breathes against you, lips glistening, eyes flicking up just long enough to catch your expression before diving back in. “Look at you. Never seen anything so, ” his words cut off in a muffled groan as if even speaking interrupts what he wants most.

You tug at his hair, desperate, and he moans into the pull like he’s addicted to the taste of your need. Every time you whimper, every gasp, every tremor of your body only drives him harder, deeper, more insistent.

He breaks for air once, dragging his mouth across your inner thigh, sucking a mark into your skin before rasping out, “Can’t stop, don’t think I ever could, ” His voice cracks rough and honest, like he’s too far gone to care if he’s saying too much.

And then he’s back, burying himself in you, drowning in every sound you make, drunk on every shiver, every tug of your hand in his hair. His worship is messy, greedy, relentless, the kind that leaves no doubt in your mind.

No one’s ever done it like this. No one’s ever wanted you like this.

And Ted? Ted looks like he’ll never get enough.

He doesn’t falter, doesn’t stray. His mouth stays locked on you, steady and sure, as if he’s sworn some private oath not to stop until he’s pulled everything from you. Every whimper has him working harder, every tremor makes him groan like he’s the one unraveling.

“Taste so good… fuck, you’re perfect,” he mutters between strokes, his words rough and muffled against your skin. “Give it to me, let me have it, ”

Your body bows up, your fists tangled in his hair, your thighs trembling around his shoulders. He holds you steady, strong, grounding you as he drags you right to the edge.

And then you’re gone. The release rips through you hard, sudden, stars bursting behind your eyes as you cry out his name. Ted moans into you like it’s everything he’s been waiting for, like he’s the one coming undone just from the sound of you. He doesn’t let up, not even as your body shakes and your grip tightens painfully in his hair.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he growls, lapping you through it, dragging every last wave from your body. “That’s what I wanted. So fucking beautiful when you fall apart for me.”

It’s too much, almost unbearable, your legs trembling, your chest heaving, but Ted won’t stop. His hands pin you open, his mouth worships like he’s drunk on you, desperate for more.

One orgasm, then another builds before the first has even faded, wrung from you by his unrelenting devotion. He’s relentless, his praise spilling out ragged between kisses and strokes.

“Can’t get enough of you.” “Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.” “Wanna hear you break for me again.”

By the time the next crest crashes over you, your voice is hoarse, your body wrecked, and Ted looks utterly gone, wild, starving, like he’d stay buried between your thighs until sunrise if you let him.

And judging by the way he’s gripping you tighter, moaning like he’s addicted, you’re not sure he has any intention of stopping.

When he finally pulls back, it’s with a slow drag of his mouth over your thigh, one last kiss pressed reverently to your skin before he lifts his head.

He looks wrecked. Hair a mess from your grip, mustache slick, lips swollen, his grin crooked and hungry. But behind all that fire, his eyes carry something softer, something that pins your chest tight.

“You alright?” His voice is low, rough from use, but there’s a sincerity there that guts you more than the hunger ever could. His thumb strokes lightly along your hip, grounding you, steadying you. “Not too much?”

The kindness undoes you. The fact that after all that, he still stops to check in, still makes sure you’re okay, only stirs the heat inside you until it’s burning all over again.

You reach for him, your hand curling around his jaw, dragging him up to kiss you. You taste yourself on his lips, feel the sharp catch of his mustache, and it only drives you wilder.

When you break the kiss, your breath is ragged, your words torn from somewhere deep. “I don’t want your mouth anymore.” Your thighs shift, opening, inviting. “I want you.”

The look that flashes across his face is devastating, hunger reignited, reverence colliding with raw need. He exhales a shaky laugh, forehead pressing briefly to yours like he’s grounding himself, but his hands are already tugging at his belt.

“Fuck,” he groans, eyes burning into yours. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

His jeans hit the floor with a thud, the sound swallowed by the rasp of your breaths tangling together. When he presses forward, lining himself up, there’s a pause, his forehead resting against yours, one last moment of restraint.

“Breathe,” he whispers, voice rough with reverence. His hand slips under your thigh, lifting, steadying. “I’ve got you.”

The first push steals your breath, slow and steady, his jaw tight as if he’s fighting to keep control. A groan breaks out of him, deep and guttural, muffled against your shoulder.

“Fuck… so warm… so perfect.” His words vibrate into your skin, part praise, part prayer. He stills once he’s fully seated, chest heaving, giving you the chance to adjust even as his hand strokes over your side, soothing. “Better than I ever imagined.”

Your body clenches around him involuntarily, and that’s when the shift happens. His head lifts, eyes locking onto yours, dark and burning.

“Jesus Christ,” he growls, a sharp edge slicing through the softness. His grip tightens on your hip, anchoring you down. “You really don’t get how good you are, do you?”

The thrust that follows is deeper, firmer. You gasp, clutching at his shoulders, and his grin curves wolfish at the sound.

“There it is,” he mutters, lips brushing your ear as his pace builds. “That’s what I want - hearing you fall apart, knowing I’m the one doing it.”

Every stroke after is a battle between restraint and hunger: the way he starts slow, savoring, only to lose himself and drive harder when your nails dig into him or your voice cracks on his name.

And through it all, the praise keeps spilling, tangled with the rough certainty that pins you down. “You take me so well.” “Made for this. made for me.” “Keep making those sounds, baby, don’t stop.”

It’s dizzying, the mix of tenderness and raw power, the way he both worships and conquers you in the same breath. And you can’t do anything but give in, because Ted is everywhere, in your head, in your body, in your soul, and he’s not letting go.

The pace builds until you can’t think, can’t speak, can’t do anything but cling to him. Every thrust drives you higher, his words spilling hot against your skin, half-growl, half-prayer.

“God- so tight- fuck, you’re perfect.” “Mine, right here with me. Don’t hold back.” “Let me feel you come apart on me.”

It’s too much. The steady grind of his hips, the weight of him pinning you down, the heat of his mouth at your throat, it all crashes together until your body breaks, release tearing through you in a wave so fierce it steals your breath.

You cry out his name, nails raking down his back, and that’s all it takes. Ted groans, the sound guttural, his rhythm faltering as he drives into you one last time.

“Fuck- yes- just like that-”

He shudders, burying himself deep, his release ripping out of him in a low, ragged moan against your neck. His grip tightens on your hips, holding you flush to him as if he can’t stand to let even an inch of distance between you.

The world narrows to the sound of your breaths tangling together, the tremor in his arms as he braces above you, the way your body still pulses around him in the aftershocks.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Just the thud of your hearts, the heat of your bodies pressed close, the undeniable truth that nothing about your friendship will ever be the same.

Then Ted exhales hard, forehead dropping to your shoulder. His voice is rough, almost disbelieving, but softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“Christ… you wreck me.”

And somehow, the way he says it - equal parts awe and surrender - undoes you all over again.

The room is quiet except for your uneven breaths, the faint hum of the streetlight outside seeping through the blinds. Ted doesn’t move right away, still pressed against you, his forehead damp against your shoulder. His chest heaves with the last tremors of release, and for a moment, you think he might collapse entirely on top of you.

Finally, with a groan, he shifts - slow, careful. as if he’s afraid of breaking you after everything he’s just done. He eases out, pressing a kiss to your cheek before lying beside you, pulling you into his chest without hesitation.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice raspy but soft. His arm wraps around your waist, hand tracing absent shapes along your spine as if to soothe you both back down.

The sheets are tangled, the air still heavy with the scent of sex and sweat, but in his arms, it feels like the safest place you’ve ever been. You curl against him, bare skin against bare skin, your cheek resting against the warm plane of his chest.

He presses another kiss to your hairline, his lips lingering there, and for the first time all night, he’s quiet. No teasing, no smirk. Just a steady heartbeat under your ear and the weight of his arms keeping you anchored.

Your body is exhausted, every muscle trembling, but you don’t mind. Not when his thumb keeps stroking along your back, not when the rise and fall of his chest lulls you closer to sleep.

There should be questions. What this means, where it goes, what happens in the morning. But right now, there’s no room for any of that. Just the warmth of Ted’s body wrapped around you, his breath steadying, his hold secure.

You let yourself drift, caught between the haze of exhaustion and the quiet wonder that this is where you’ve ended up, tangled in him, both of you wrecked and undone, asleep in each other’s arms.

[hyunnie-beee]

Lemme just say… Roxie Hart is the highlight of my week 😛

in that case..... click here for a better week ;)

....that sounds weird - it's just the latest little chapter I swear, not anything bad.

love,

Honey 🍯

[hyunnie-beee]

💋Roxie Hart 👠 Ch. 11

Ch.11 - That's Showbiz, Baby

Pairings: Ted Nivison x reader, Jschlatt x reader, Charlie (Slimecicle) x reader

Synopsis: You’re back home after your first year at UCLA with one goal in mind: Return in the fall as the undeniable star of the theater program. Confident. Magnetic. Unforgettable. Step one? Live the part all summer long. It just so happens your three best friends each have very attractive older brothers. And their attention? Well… that could help you a lot. That’s your excuse, anyway.

Ted should be the easy one, he’s the boy you never really got over, the one with history written into your bones. But your heart might not be ready to risk that again. Schlatt keeps circling with sharp eyes and sharper comments, turning your little act into a game of cat and mouse (you’re just not sure who’s chasing who.) And Charlie? He’s a lovesick puppy every time you so much as blink in his direction. Everything’s going according to plan. Until it’s not. Because some roles cut too close. Some pasts don’t stay buried. And this summer? Might just write a whole new script you didn’t see coming.

Genre: College AU (?), Summer Romance, Love Triangle (or square?), Friends-to-Lovers, Exes with Unfinished Business, Enemies-to-???, Feminine Rage.

A/N: This is a bit of a story filler, to be honest, something more for the plot and to get me back into the story - nevertheless, I hope you all enjoy it, and I'm SLOWLY going to try and get back to writing more! both this and some other things ;) as always, thank you all for all the support; it's brought me to tears more than once (I'm an emotional bitch). I also didn't proofread this and finished it like 10 minutes ago, but was too excited to wait to upload it lol.

T/W: none today :)

Chapter length: 2.4k

Roxie Hart Masterlist

You groan as you throw yourself onto your bed, face-first into the pillow, not even bothering to change out of Charlie’s clothes. The fabric hangs soft against your skin, and when you tug the comforter over your head the smell of his detergent gets trapped with you, warm and familiar, and it punches that annoying little ache right back into your chest.

You huff and shove the covers off like it’s their fault.

This wasn’t supposed to get complicated. You hadn’t meant for it to get complicated.

All you wanted was to feel like Roxie, confident and a little wild, to strut around like you owned the place, to oogle your best friends brothers because that part was honestly more you than the persona anyway. It was supposed to be harmless. Fun. A summer thing with an expiration date.

Schlatt had been just that at first, spur of the moment, reckless, dangerous in a way that made your blood spark. He made you feel like Roxie Hart without even trying, like you could step out of your own skin and into something sharper. And then he went and dumped that shit on you when you were drunk and something in you shifted, tilted, cracked open in a wayyou weren’t prepared for.

Then you, being the absolute idiot you are, maybe sorta used that as an excuse to find comfort in Charlie. Except it wasn’t just comfort, and you know it. It was too much comfort. Too soft. Too careful. Too real. The kind of real that sneakily grows roots where you swore nothing was supposed to grow.

You realized it wasn’t comfort you’d been seeking, it was Charlie. It was how he laughed around you, how he listened, how he made space for you without expecting a performance. It was how he made you feel like it was okay not to be Roxie, like it was okay to just be you, and that maybe being you was still enough to be wanted.

God, and then there was Ted. Who, right now, isn’t even a pressing problem. If anything he feels like less of one than he did at the start of the summer, but somehow that feels like an issue on its own. Like there’s this tiny voice in your head begging you to let him back in, doesn’t care about his girlfriend, doesn’t care about the history, doesn’t care about anything except wanting to hear him say your name again.

And the other part of you wants to lock him outside in the rain and throw away the key.

Ted is a complexity all his own, this weird perfect mix of making you feel like yourself and making you feel like Roxie, and that duality makes everything better and so much worse.

You groan again, louder this time, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes.

You’re an idiot. A real idiot.

And worst of all, who the fuck do you even talk to about this?

Emma’s not an option, she doesn’t know about Schlatt. Angie’s not an option, she doesn’t know about Schlatt or Ted. Katie’s not an option because at this point you don’t know WHAT she knows or how much she’d judge you for it.

You’re still not speaking with your mom, and talking to the woman who cheated on your dad about boy problems doesn’t feel… right. Uh, obviously not your dad. You’d rather set yourself on fire.

You stare at the ceiling like it personally offended you, and slowly your eyebrows lift.

Maybe…

You reach for your phone, hand sliding around the blankets until your fingers close around it. You scroll through your contacts, stopping at one name.

Blake. With a kissy face emoji he definitely put in himself when he graduated and told you to “live and breathe Roxie Hart until the world bows at your feet.”

Or something like that anyway. 

You hesitate for maybe fiver seconds before hitting FaceTime.

It rings. And rings. And then the screen shifts, revealing Blake wearing huge sunglasses, a wide grin, and absolutely sunburnt skin. He’s… at a beach? Maybe a resort? You have no idea.

“Hey! There’s my Roxie wannabe,” he coos, adjusting his umbrella to get into the shade. “Why do you look like you’re about to tell me my dog died?”

You let out a sad little puff of air that might count as a laugh and roll onto your back. “I feel like I’d have an easier time with that,” you admit dryly.

Blake’s brows rise over his sunglasses as he sips something through a neon pink straw. “Uh oh,” he drawls. “What’d you do?”

Blake leans closer to the screen, squinting like he’s trying to see if you’re physically injured. “Okay. Start from the top. And don’t you dare summarize. Give me the full Broadway run time.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Blake, I don’t even know where to start.”

“That means you start with the worst part,” he chirps. “Go on, sweetheart. Take your time. I’m on vacation but trauma waits for no man.”

You flop onto your side, staring at the screen like you hope it cracks. “Okay. Fine. Ted.”

Blake’s eyes light up behind his sunglasses. “I knew it was a boy.”

“It’s three of them.” He gawks, hand flying to his chest, but you wave him off before he can shriek.

“Ted… we have… history,” you say, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

“Oh honey, I know. You wrote your midterm monologue about that boy without ever saying his name.”

You wince. Maybe you’d overshared back at school. “Right. Well. He wrote this stupid short film about… us.”

Blake sits up straighter. “I’m sorry, what.”

“Not literally,” you say quickly. “But also yes literally. It’s about this girl he had feelings for in high school and how he left without saying anything and—” You make a distressed noise into your pillow. “And he asked me to star in it and I said yes like an idiot.”

Blake slaps a hand over his chest dramatically. “You agreed to star in the cinematic retelling of your tragic almost-romance with your high school situationship.”

“Shut up.”

“No never this is delicious,” he beams. “Continue”

“It… hurt. A lot more than I thought it would” You swallow hard. “Reading it. Filming it, which isn’t even done because he keeps dragging it along. Talking to him. Just… being around him. He makes me feel like this weird mix of myself and Roxie and I hate that I like it.”

Blake sips from his neon drink. “So that’s Ted. Proceed to train wreck number two”

You look at the ceiling like you want it to crush you. “I slept with Angie’s brother. Jonathan Schlatt.”

Blake’s jaw drops so dramatically you’re surprised his sunglasses don’t fall off. “You WHAT.”

“Blake.-”

“No no. You don’t say his name like that and expect me to stay calm,” he says. “Isn’t that the guy you told me was a walking asshole or something?”

Your face burns. “We were high and it just… happened.”

“But it didn’t just happen,” Blake sing-songs. “Or your voice wouldn’t have done that little guilty crack. Tell Uncle Blake who you caught feelings for.”

“I didn’t catch feelings,” you lie loudly.

He points at you through the phone. “You’re lying to the person who got you your first standing ovation. I know your face. You like him.”

You groan and cover your whole face. “It felt like more than it should’ve.”

Blake hums knowingly. “Ah ah go on, what broke you.”

You exhale sharply. “He punched a guy for me,” you admit, voice small. “Like actually punched him. And it was so stupid and reckless and… I don’t know. Something in my brain just yeeted itself off a cliff. The wall just… tumbled. And suddenly he wasn’t the asshole I kept calling him. He was—”

“Dangerously hot, I presume,” Blake interjects.

“Shut up.”

He nods, smug. “Of course he did. He sounds like the type who would eat you alive and then ask for seconds.”

“Blake!”

“I’m painting the picture,” he shrugs. “Speaking of which, do you have photos? Of any of these men. I cannot emotionally invest without visuals.”

You stare, horrified. “No.”

“Oh come on,” he whines. “I can’t give you my best advice without knowing what exactly you’re ruining your entire summer over.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you called me,” Blake says, fluttering his lashes. “Now go on. I believe we’re approaching disaster number three.”

You flop onto your back again, one arm thrown across your eyes. “I slept with Emma’s brother Charlie too…”

For a second Blake is silent.

Then he screams.

Not loud. Just this tiny, delighted squeal like someone stepped on a kitten made of gossip.

“Oh my God,” he breathes. “You slept with the golden retriever one. That’s him right?”

You groan into your elbow. “Please kill me.”

“No. I need you alive. This is incredible,” he says. “Okay okay wait, let me get this straight. You’re starring in a movie written about your unresolved love story with Ted, you got high and had very possibly-too-good sex with Schlatt, and then you had emotional intimacy sex with Charlie?”

You don’t respond.

Blake cackles. “Girl. You are living the dream. It’s messy, it’s tragic, it’s literally the plot of half the musicals you begged me to help you audition for.”

“It’s ruining my brain,” you say miserably.

He swirls the straw in his drink, eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses. “Okay. Here’s my advice. Ready?”

You nod weakly.

Blake lifts one finger. “First rule. Stop punishing yourself for being desired. You’re not a villain for being wanted.”

You blink. That was… unexpectedly insightful.

“Second rule,” he continues, wagging the straw at you, “you need to separate what you feel from what you’re acting out. Right now your emotions are doing jazz hands while your brain is backstage throwing up.”

You snort despite yourself.

“Third,” Blake says, leaning in, “you need to ask yourself one very simple question. Not ‘who do I love,’ not ‘who should I pick,’ not ‘who’s the hottest’ even though I personally would like to know that answer. The question is this…”

He pauses dramatically.

“Who are you when you’re with each of them? And which version of you feels the most real, the most sustainable, and the most… you.”

You go still.

Blake softens, losing some of the theatrical fluff. “Sweetheart, this isn’t about the boys. It never was. It’s about who you’re turning into this summer. Who you give yourself permission to be.”

Your throat tightens.

“And fourth,” he says, taking a long sip through his straw, “you need to stop mixing up nostalgia, adrenaline, and intimacy. Ted is unresolved history. Schlatt is adrenaline. Charlie is intimacy. None of that means one is better than the other, but you cannot compare them like they’re in the same category.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed.

“See?” Blake shrugs, smug. “Sometimes I’m more than sequins and drama.”

You huff. “Okay but… what am I supposed to do?”

“Ah,” he says, raising a hand. “The final rule.”

He removes his sunglasses so you can actually see his eyes. “You don’t make a choice tonight. You don’t cut anyone off in a panic. And you definitely don’t run to any of them for comfort.” He points the straw at the camera. “You sit in the mess without trying to fix it for at least twenty-four hours. Let things settle. Let you settle. Then decide what you actually want your summer to look like.”

You swallow. “That’s… surprisingly good advice.”

“I know,” Blake beams. “Annoying, isn’t it?”

You laugh weakly. “Kind of.

He puts his sunglasses back on. “Now, if you want extra credit, you can send me pictures of all three brothers so I can create a detailed flowchart of your impending doom.”

“Blake.”

“What? I’m helping.”

After you hang up with Blake, after staying on the call longer than you meant to, catching up about LA and school and his current creative retreat that is obviously just him drinking fruity cocktails at a beach resort,  your chest actually feels lighter.

Like… noticeably lighter.

Like Blake was right. You’ve been worrying yourself into a hole. Overthinking yourself into knots that don’t even need to exist yet.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment, breathing in the soft cotton scent of Charlie’s shirt, and for the first time since you got home… you don’t feel like you’re drowning.

But then your phone buzzes.

Once. Twice. Then like six more times in a row.

You blink at it.

“Oh God,” you mutter. “No way.”

You pick it up.

Blake: OH HE’S HOT. LIKE HOT HOT. LIKE WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING ALL SUMMER HOT.

You gape.

Then another:

Blake: THIS IS THE ASSHOLE ONE RIGHT??? WHY DIDN’T YOU MENTION HE LOOKS LIKE TROUBLE IN THE “SINCE I WAS TWELVE” KIND OF WAY

Oh no.

You didn’t send him pictures. You definitely didn’t send him pictures.

Your phone buzzes again.

Blake: TED. HAS. A. GIRLFRIEND. EXPLAIN YOURSELF RIGHT NOW MISS ROXIE HART.

A beat.

Then:

Blake: Wait. WAIT. WAIT. OMG HE’S A HOT CINEPHILE. YOU ARE SO AN IDIOT.

You drag a hand down your face, biting back a laugh.

Another buzz:

Blake: CHARLIE. OH MY GOD. HE IS A GOLDEN RETRIEVER NERD GOD. YOU WERE SO RIGHT. HE LOOKS LIKE HE COLLECTS BOARD GAMES AND SAYS PLEASE AND THANK YOU DURING SEX.

You choke.

The messages keep coming.

Blake: This lineup is INSANE. INSANE. I’d put this in a casting folder and get instantly hired.

Blake: No wonde you’re losing your mind. You’re living in a CW love triangle.

Blake: Correction. Love square. Hot square. A hot rectangle? A spicy parallelogram?

You’re laughing into your pillow now, full-on giggling like a delirious teenager.

It feels good. Too good.

Blake: Do NOT screw this up by choosing too fast. You hear me. NONE OF THEM DESERVE RUSHED DECISION ENERGY.

Blake: Sleep on it. Drink water. Look hot. Be Roxie but also be yourself. The end.

You flop back against your bed, cheeks warm, chest loose and airy.

Yeah.

Maybe Blake’s right.

Maybe you can breathe again.

Maybe this whole disaster of a summer isn’t a catastrophe after all.

Maybe it’s just… messy. Funny. Stupid in the best way.

And maybe - just maybe -  you’re allowed to enjoy it before the curtain falls.

[hyunnie-beee]

Hey it’s been like a month hope you’re doing well! If my asks are getting annoying sorry lol

I just wanted to say that there’s love and support from all your readers to you in this rough time!

Hey! Thank you I swear none of you are annoying me I’m just awful about getting back to asks :( I’m doing a lot better! My arm/hand is basically functional again though theres still a lot of numbness and pain that my doctor says will probably stick around. I feel like I say this a lot - but maybe I don’t mention it on here a lot — I work 2 (kinda 3) very demanding jobs, and it feels like I never get a break — writing has been my escape from that and I wish so dearly to feel that freedom again but now all it feels like I have time for is worrying — which is so stupid. I’ve opened up my doc for Roxie Hart (and some other projects I’ve had in the works) a few times now and it’s like like my inspiration drains from me as soon as I do.

Nonetheless, I appreciate everyone’s support more than I can ever put into words, please don’t give up on me lol, I swear I will get back to it— I just need not be so drained.

- please continue to love,

Honey 🍯

[hyunnie-beee]

we miss you 💔

i hope you’re doing well 🫶🏻

I’m breaking the silence finally lol

thank you all for checking in on me I didn’t mean to disappear but life has been a bit heavier than I expected at first I just needed a break from writing figured I’d skip one week and then be back to good but then I got an unfortunate phone call my grandpa was diagnosed with cancer and it hit me how much they’ve raised me how much I’ve taken for granted I wanted to be present with them while they got treatments in order so another week went by

And then in the middle of all that my cat freaking got out of the house and was almost mauled by a dog and me panicking put myself in the middle of them and I got the worst of the injuries I can’t use my right arm right now which has made everything feel upside down

Kevin the cat is okay though if you were wondering

I can’t work I can’t write I can’t draw I can’t do most of the things I love to do I can barely button my own pants and I’m slowly filling with resent for myself because of it yippee

Honestly it feels like the universe (or maybe the fanfiction gods) decided to throw every plot twist at me at once

I’ve never been more tired, but also more aware of how fragile and important things are. I really appreciate you guys checking on me and I’m sorry it’s going to be a bit longer before I’m back

Kevin photo as apology

[the-slimebox]

Can we kill this guy

[bloodlustr]

pls just use me yo 🙏

[mikasaackerman728]

confirmation that they read this shit

[hyunnie-beee]

POV: Probably Ted if he read my shit bc I can’t quit writing him as being an asshole

[hyunnie-beee]

we're not talking nearly enough about how good a charschlatt threesome could actually go for roxie hart.... SO good

Let me tell you- If I can find a way to make it happen I would LOVE to write it but I can't make any promises due to how I have things mapped - BUT what if I told you the 18+ version of tongiht/tomorrow's chaprer is 24 pages long..... or 9.3k words....and it may be a LOT of Charlie.....

[hyunnie-beee]

Why tf couldn’t I spell writing this 😭😭 I guess I was too excited - and I’m just NOW noticing it 💀 I feel silly

[hyunnie-beee]

💋Roxie Hart 👠 Ch. 10 (18+)

Ch.10 - The Name on Everybody’s Lips

Pairings: Ted Nivison x reader, Jschlatt x reader, Charlie (Slimecicle) x reader

Synopsis: You’re back home after your first year at UCLA with one goal in mind: Return in the fall as the undeniable star of the theater program. Confident. Magnetic. Unforgettable. Step one? Live the part all summer long. It just so happens your three best friends each have very attractive older brothers. And their attention? Well… that could help you a lot. That’s your excuse, anyway.

Ted should be the easy one, he’s the boy you never really got over, the one with history written into your bones. But your heart might not be ready to risk that again. Schlatt keeps circling with sharp eyes and sharper comments, turning your little act into a game of cat and mouse (you’re just not sure who’s chasing who.) And Charlie? He’s a lovesick puppy every time you so much as blink in his direction. Everything’s going according to plan. Until it’s not. Because some roles cut too close. Some pasts don’t stay buried. And this summer? Might just write a whole new script you didn’t see coming.

Genre: College AU (?), Summer Romance, Love Triangle (or square?), Friends-to-Lovers, Exes with Unfinished Business, Enemies-to-???, Feminine Rage.

A/N: I hope this feeds you Charlie lovers well, I got very very carried away and uh- it's a lot.

T/W: This is the 18+ version! MDNI!!!!!! Please redirect yourself to the non-explicit version of this chapter if you are not of age. I promise you're not missing anything.

Chapter length: 9.3k

Roxie Hart Masterlist

Explicit Themes include: Praise link, lots of praise- lowkey kinda worship level???? no protection (shame on them) and lowkey a breeding kink.

The morning is too warm. Too still.

You shift in your sheets, trying to shake off the heavy heat pressed against your back- until you realize it isn’t the blankets. It’s him.

Schlatt’s arm is draped at your waist, steady, anchoring, his chest a solid weight against you. His breath stirs slow and even at the back of your neck, almost protective, like he’s shielding you from everything beyond this bed.

Your heart stutters, confusion curling sharp in your ribs. Last night rushes back in pieces, his lip split and bleeding, Alex crumpling under his fist, Angie’s face carved in shock. And after all of that, after the fighting and the mess, you’d ended up here anyway. In his arms.

The contradiction twists your stomach. You remember the words he said- words you never thought you’d hear from him. That he cared. That he hadn’t wanted it to be a one-time thing. He’d been raw, unguarded, spilling truths you’d barely dared imagine.

And now? Now he’s holding you like none of that chaos ever existed, like this closeness is the most natural thing in the world.

When you shift again, his nose scrunches, brows pulling together before his eyes blink open, hazy with sleep. For a moment he just looks at you, and then his fingers flex against your waist, as if he forgot they were even there.

“Morning,” he mutters, voice rough, low.

You can’t help the small smile tugging at your mouth, though it turns more into a grimace as your eyes catch his bruised knuckles. “Your hand looks worse.”

He glances down, flexes his bruised knuckles once, and grins crookedly. “You should see the other guy.”

A laugh breaks out of you, quiet, startled, but real. His lip twitches like he’s proud of himself for earning it.

He stretches with a groan, then lets his gaze settle back on you. There’s something in it you don’t recognize, soft and almost dangerous. “You snore, by the way.”

You swat his arm weakly, grinning despite yourself. “I do not.”

“You do,” he insists, smug now. “Said something about croissants too. Real romantic.”

You groan, burying your face in the pillow, but the sound of his laugh, low and warm, makes it hard to care.

For a while it’s easy. Banter, small jokes, the kind of warmth that seeps into your bones and makes you ache for more. He nudges you to drink some water, asks if you’ve got painkillers, mutters that you’ll thank him later. It’s protective, casual, but it makes your chest burn because it feels like more.

And that’s what unsettles you. The contradiction. His raw words last night, his careful hands now, the fact that he’s still here when he could’ve slipped out hours ago. It doesn’t line up with the version of Schlatt you’ve always known- the cocky, distant asshole who never let anyone close.

This version is softer. Real. And maybe-

just maybe-

 he’s this version only for you.

He finally clears his throat, sitting up and tugging his sweatshirt back into place. “I should head back before Angie gets home. She’ll kill me- probably both of us- if she sees me over here.”

Your chest twists at her name, at reality creeping back in, but he looks down at you once more, lips tugging into that crooked grin.

“See you around, Hollywood.”

And then, without overthinking it, he leans in, pressing his mouth to yours, quick but certain, like it belongs there, like he’s been waiting all night for the excuse.

This time, you let yourself sink into it. Into him. Into the dizzy warmth that tells you the side of Schlatt no one else gets, the softness, the gentleness, the care, might just be yours.

It’s a few hours later- just long enough for you to strip off last night’s clothes, scrub the party grime off your skin, and almost trick yourself into thinking you can breathe again, before Angie is pounding at your bedroom door.

She doesn’t wait for an answer. The door swings open, and suddenly she’s got your arm in a vise, dragging you up with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs.

“Ang- what the hell-” you sputter, but it doesn’t matter. Your words fall useless against the determined set of her jaw as she hauls you across the yard, tugging you like a dog on a leash.

By the time she shoves you down on her couch, your pulse is already hammering.

And then the footsteps sound overhead. Heavy, familiar.

Schlatt bounds down the stairs like it’s nothing, hair still damp from his own shower, sweatpants slung low lazily. Plain white shirt. Broad shoulders.

Your mouth goes dry. You have to remind yourself that Angie is three feet away, that you can’t be caught staring.

But Schlatt sees you instantly. sees you sitting there stiff on the couch, and he pauses mid-step.

Angie grins. Wicked, sharp. Like she’s set the perfect trap.

“Jonathan,” she purrs. “Why don’t you take a seat.”

And you see it happen, the mask snapping into place. That easy, cocky grin. The eyes shuttering off. The softness you woke up to this morning gone in a blink, like you imagined it.

He saunters over, hands shoved in his pockets, and drops onto the cushion beside you, one space of distance that somehow feels like a mile. He sprawls back, bored already.

You envy his poker face. You, with your jaw locked too tight, your palms sweating, your heartbeat loud enough you’re sure Angie can hear it.

Her gaze flicks between you both, again and again, sharp enough to cut. The silence is suffocating.

Finally Schlatt breaks it with a sigh, leaning back farther, propping his legs on the table like he owns the room. “Well?” he drawls, eyes lazy on his sister. “You gonna say something?”

Angie’s jaw ticks. She doesn’t blink. “How long.”

Your stomach drops through the floor.

You fumble for a confused expression, force the word out past your dry throat. “What?”

Her eyes snap to yours, hard and cold. “How long has this been going on?”

You falter. It’s too much. You can feel your face cracking under her stare-

But Schlatt laughs. Loud, sharp, breaking the air like glass.

You whip your head toward him. The grin is there, wide and smug, his chuckle rolling like this is the best joke he’s heard all day.

Angie’s glare sharpens. “Something funny?”

Schlatt lets it die down to a low chuckle, shoulders still shaking. “You think me and her-” he jerks his thumb between you both “-got something going on?”

Angie shifts, uncertain.

And Schlatt’s grin sharpens crueler. “That’s gold.” His gaze cuts to you, and it’s cold, empty, so different from the way he looked at you hours ago it makes your chest cave. He drags his eyes over you, head to toe, and smirks. “No offense, Hollywood, but you’re not my type.”

It burns. Your cheeks heat, your jaw locking against the sting in your throat. “Right,” you manage, flat.

Angie scoffs. “Then why the hell did Alex say you two were together?”

Schlatt snorts, leans forward like he’s daring her. “You really believed that motherfucker? He’d say anything to save face after getting dropped.”

Her arms cross. “Then why’d you punch him?”

His tongue darts out over his split lip, tasting the scab, his grin twisting. “Because he wouldn’t back off when Hollywood said no. I’m an ass, sure, but I’m not gonna stand there and watch someone get harassed.” He shrugs, casual. “That’s all it was.”

The words are neat. Easy. Tied in a bow.

But the way he doesn’t look at you, the way he keeps his mask locked tight, hurts more than anything Angie could say.

And you can’t tell if he’s protecting you, or if this is him showing his true face after all.

Angie’s face finally cracks. Her glare falters, shoulders slumping the tiniest bit. “And you two leaving together?”

Your chest squeezes, but this time you jump in before Schlatt can twist the knife again. “He drove me home,” you say quickly, with a shrug that you force into something casual. You even let your body relax back into the cushions, like it was nothing.

Angie’s eyes narrow, flicking between the two of you. “That’s it?”

“Yeah,” you answer, steady as you can manage. “That’s it.”

Schlatt’s chuckle cuts through sharp, almost too sharp as he gets to his feet. “Sorry to disappoint you, sis. Not everything’s a scandal.” His tone makes it sound like an insult, like the very idea of you is laughable.

It works though. Angie huffs, shifting her weight, suspicion softening into something sheepish. “Alright. Maybe I jumped the gun.” Her voice dips low, reluctant. “Sorry.”

The apology hangs in the air, awkward as hell.

She clears her throat, pulls out her phone. “I’m gonna call Katie. Get her to quit spinning it.”

And just like that, she’s headed upstairs, muttering into the receiver, leaving the two of you stranded in the heavy quiet.

You stand, brushing your palms on your thighs, ready to bolt. “I should-”

Schlatt’s voice stops you cold. “Work on that poker face, Hollywood.”

You glance back, glare half-formed, but he’s smirking. It almost feels like a truce. “Maybe you should look into acting,” you fire back.

That grin lingers as his eyes flick toward the stairs, making sure Angie’s really gone. Then he moves. One hand hooks casually into your belt loop, tugging you closer until you’re caught off guard, chest brushing his.

And then he’s kissing you.

It’s soft. Unfairly soft. Every ounce of heat and bite from his words earlier is gone, replaced with something that melts straight through your ribs and leaves you clutching at his shoulders before you can stop yourself.

He lets it linger too long, lips slow, like he’s savoring it. When he finally pulls back, your head is spinning, anger scattered to ash.

His hand slips away, and with a wicked gleam he pinches you lightly on the side, muttering low, “Get going before we really get caught.”

And he leaves you standing at the door, dazed and confused. 

You spend another few hours in your room, laying in your bed, sheets upsettingly smelling like Schlatt, as you stare at your ceiling. 

The guilt of lying to Angie is eating you alive. 

But theres something- some selfish part of you that loves the thrill Schlatt gives you. 

It’s addicting- when it’s not giving you whiplash at least. 

The stark contrast of how he had been this morning to how he spoke around Angie gnawed at you- made something in your stomach twist and knot. 

So when the first plain to escape your brain pops up- you take it - You don’t even remember deciding to leave your room. One minute you’re pacing, your phone still buzzing with unread texts, your head splitting with too many thoughts. The next, you’re standing on a different porch, staring at a familiar door.

The Dalgleish’s door.

It takes you a second to register what you’ve done. But then you’re knocking, soft, your knuckles numb with nerves.

When the door swings open, Charlie blinks at you like he’s seeing a ghost. His hair’s a mess, his t-shirt wrinkled, socks mismatched. “Uh… hey?” He scratches the back of his neck. “Emma’s out of town, if you’re looking for her.”

Your throat works around a lump. “I know,” you admit. And it slips out before you can catch it. “I came to see you.”

His mouth opens, closes. “Oh.” A pause. His ears turn pink. “Oh.”

Something in your chest loosens at the sight of him, so endearingly unprepared, so Charlie. For a split second, the weight of last night– Angie’s anger, Schlatt’s face- all falls away.

Charlie steps aside quickly, shoving a pile of laundry off the couch like it’s the most urgent thing in the world. “Right, uh, yeah, come in. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company.”

And somehow his flustered softness feels like the only thing capable of saving you right now.

“Tea?” he blurts after a beat, pushing his crooked glasses higher on his nose. “I was about to make some.”

“Sure,” you say, trailing him into the kitchen.

It’s oddly domestic, watching him move around– setting the kettle on, rattling around in cupboards for mugs and tea bags. Then again, everything with Charlie had been feeling domestic lately, hadn’t it? Comfortable. Safe.

For a while you let yourself sink into the rhythm of it- his quiet movements, the steam starting to rise. Until his voice breaks through, awkward, careful.

“So,” he clears his throat, “what made you decide to grace me with your presence?”

You laugh, light but shaky. “Do I need a reason? Was I supposed to book an appointment?”

His ears flare red as he pours the water, pretending to be busy. “Of course not. Just… random, I guess.”

That pricks at your chest- guilt creeping in. He’s right. You hadn’t asked, hadn’t even thought. You just showed up because you knew he’d let you in. Because he was safe. Because he wasn’t Schlatt.

“Sorry,” you mutter, biting your cheek. “I shouldn’t have just-”

“No!” He startles so hard the mugs nearly slosh over. “Shit, uh- no. Seriously, you don’t have to be sorry. I just…” His mouth quirks, sheepish. “Would’ve preferred you caught me looking less like this.”

Your eyes drift down-messy hair, wrinkled shirt, socks that don’t match. The words on his tee finally register.

You snort, sudden laughter breaking the heavy air. “What, too shy to show me your 20Ds?”

Charlie groans, burying his face in his sleeve like he can hide there. “Oh my god. I forgot I even owned this shirt.”

“Uh huh.” You grin, the first real one all day. “Bet it’s your favorite.”

When he sets the mug in front of you, his glasses slide down his nose, and he pushes them back up with that shy half-smile that shouldn’t make your stomach flip the way it does.

His shoulders shake with laughter too, and for a moment you both stand there, mugs steaming between you, and it feels almost normal. Almost like you came here for him, not just for the escape.

“Alright,” he says, flopping onto the couch with a blanket like he’s claiming territory. “Shrek marathon or bust.”

You snort, tugging the blanket onto your lap. “Classy.”

“Hey,” he shoots back, mock-offended, “Shrek is peak cinema. If you disagree, you can leave.”

You clink your mug against his, lips twitching. “Fine. But only because Donkey carries the whole franchise.”

Charlie gasps, hand flying to his chest. “Blasphemy. Absolute heresy. You take that back right now.”

You sip your tea slowly, just to annoy him. “Nope. Donkey’s the MVP.”

“Unbelievable.” He shakes his head, dramatic. “You’re lucky I already started the movie or you’d be out of here.”

“Uh-huh. You’d be lost without me here to remind you that Donkey deserves an Oscar.”

His laugh bubbles out, warm and easy, and somehow it makes your chest loosen.

The opening credits roll and you both settle in. Charlie keeps making little commentary- half-serious critiques, half-jokes that make you snort into your tea. You throw some back at him, and the banter just flows, the kind that feels like muscle memory.

At one point you catch him glancing at you instead of the TV, and when you raise your brows he just shrugs and says, “You laugh louder than the DVD menu. It’s distracting.”

“Don’t blame me for your wandering attention span,” you shoot back, tossing a pillow at him.

He catches it easily, then smirks. “Distracting’s not always a bad thing.”

Heat prickles at the back of your neck, but before you can respond, he wiggles under the blanket, making a big show of yanking more of it to his side.

“Hey!” you protest, grabbing for it.

“You’ve been hogging it since Farquaad showed up,” he insists, holding fast.

“Liar.”

“Truth-teller.”

The tug-of-war lasts a second before he shifts closer, blanket draped over both of you again. He settles against you like it’s nothing, like it’s easy, and murmurs, “Problem solved.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet here you are,” he says, grin crooked, eyes on the screen but clearly proud of himself.

The movie plays on, but your focus keeps slipping- not on the swamp, not on Shrek or Donkey, but on the steady heat of his shoulder brushing yours, the way his laughter seems to rumble straight through you.

By the time the credits roll, you’re both groaning about how old the DVD menu music makes you feel. Charlie hops up, stretches, and pops Shrek 2 into the player with way too much ceremony, like he’s unveiling a masterpiece.

“Now this,” he says, plopping back onto the couch, “this is peak cinema. Oscar-worthy. I’d fight anyone who disagrees.”

You smirk into your tea. “Big words for someone who cried during the first one.”

His head snaps toward you. “I did not.”

“You sniffled. I heard it.”

“That was allergies,” he insists, indignant. “Dust from the DVD case.”

“Sure,” you tease, nudging him with your shoulder. “Allergies that hit right when Donkey turned into a stallion.”

Charlie groans, dragging the blanket higher over his face like he can hide. “You’re insufferable.”

“You like it,” you say lightly, tugging the blanket back down.

And he does, because instead of shifting away, he sinks in closer, the blanket pooling around both your shoulders. His arm brushes yours every time he moves, until finally he stops pretending it’s accidental and just drapes it along the back of the couch, fingertips grazing your arm.

You try to focus on the movie, on Puss in Boots making his dramatic entrance, on Donkey’s over-the-top commentary, but the steady weight of him beside you keeps tugging at your attention. It’s different than last night, different than Schlatt’s jagged edges and contradictions. Charlie’s warmth is steady, unshaken. He’s just… here.

And it makes something ache deep in your chest.

“See,” he says at one point, pointing at the screen where Shrek stumbles through another fight scene, “this is exactly what I mean. You’d totally pick Donkey over Shrek, wouldn’t you?”

“Obviously,” you reply, grinning. “He has better comedic timing. And better hair.”

Charlie huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. I invite you over for cinema’s greatest achievement, and you slander the main character.”

“You love it,” you shoot back, and he doesn’t deny it this time. His grin softens, edges warm, and you feel his gaze linger on you a little too long before he looks back at the TV.

When the second movie ends, neither of you moves right away. The credits roll, the blanket is still shared, and it feels dangerously easy to just… stay like this forever.

Charlie clears his throat, voice softer now. “Snack break?”

You nod, thankful for the excuse to stand, to shake off the dizzy warmth curling in your stomach. He trails into the kitchen with you, grabbing popcorn, chips, anything within reach, humming under his breath like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And again, it’s the domesticity that gets you. The way he asks if you want butter or plain, the way he makes sure the mugs are refilled before he carries the bowls back to the couch, and the sight of him, soft, easy, steady, hits you harder than you expect.

By the time Shrek 3 is queued up, you’re sitting closer than before. The snacks are forgotten on the coffee table. And you can feel it- the shift, the hum of something unsaid between you, waiting for one of you to break it.

Charlie glances down at you, then away, then back again, caught in that nervous loop that’s so him. He won’t do it, you know he won’t- he’s too careful, too soft, always second-guessing.

So you do.

You lean in, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt for balance, lips brushing his before he can overthink himself out of it. He freezes for a breath, chest locked tight, then exhales into you, his hand rising to cup your jaw like he’s terrified of breaking you.

And the kiss- god, the kiss.

It’s slow, tender, almost clumsy in its patience. He lingers on every movement, giving you time to catch up, to pull back if you wanted. Charlie kisses like he’s memorizing you, steady and sure in a way that makes your chest ache.

It’s nothing like Schlatt.

Schlatt’s kisses are quick, demanding, like he’s starving, like every second wasted is one too many. His mouth presses hard, insistent, always pulling more from you before you even realize you’re giving it. With him, it’s heat first, questions later.

Charlie is the opposite- gentle, lingering, like he has all the time in the world. Like you’re something precious he’s been waiting for. His thumb strokes your cheekbone as if to remind you he’s here, he’s not rushing, he’s not taking. He’s just… there.

And it wrecks you.

Because you can’t stop noticing the difference. Can’t stop wondering what it says about both of them, about you, about the mess you’ve tangled yourself into.

The kiss builds anyway, heat sparking under the softness until you’re clutching at his shirt just to steady yourself. You let his careful hand rest at your hip, fingers curling in the fabric of your shirt, tugging you closer in tiny increments until you’re nearly in his lap. His glasses tilt askew as you deepen the kiss, and you can’t help but laugh into his mouth, your fingers reaching up to fix them before tangling in his hair.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, forehead pressed against yours, breath shaky. “I’ve wanted– uh, this– for a while.”

The confession makes your pulse trip. You don’t want to think about how familiar it sounds, how Schlatt’s voice rasped something similar last night. You push it down, lean back in, press your mouth to Charlie’s like you can erase the comparisons if you just focus hard enough.

His lips part under yours, slow, sweet, and when his tongue brushes yours you gasp into it, the sound swallowed by him as he pulls you fully into his lap. His hands, warm and steady, grip your waist like he’s anchoring himself.

The contrast is unbearable. Schlatt’s grip was always firm, claiming, like he wanted to leave marks. Charlie’s is grounding, reverent, like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he doesn’t hold on.

You drown in it. In him.

Your fingers card through his hair, tugging lightly until he groans, low and desperate, and the sound shoots straight through you. His mouth trails from yours to your jaw, slow kisses pressed into your skin, his breath warm as he murmurs, “God, you’re…” He cuts himself off, like the words are too big to say out loud.

You shut your eyes, swallowing hard, letting the sweetness wash over you. Letting him kiss you like you’re something delicate, even as part of you screams for the roughness, the hunger, the fire.

You push that part down.

You let Charlie’s careful lips and gentle hands pull you under, let the safety of him drown out the chaos still lingering in your chest.

The TV hums in the background, forgotten.

Charlie’s mouth drags lower, across the slope of your neck, every kiss careful, unhurried. His teeth graze just enough to make you shiver, but he pulls back to murmur, “Okay?” before daring to go further.

Your answer comes in the form of your hands fisting tighter in his hair, tugging him back to you, and the low sound he lets out vibrates against your skin.

He shifts, pulling you closer in his lap without thinking, his hands sliding under the hem of your shirt just to rest against your bare skin. The warmth of his palms at your waist has your stomach flipping, not because he’s bold but because he isn’t, because he pauses like he’s asking without words, like you get to decide every step.

And you hate how much you notice it.

Schlatt would never hesitate. He’d grab, pull, push, kiss you like the world would end if he stopped. Charlie touches you like you might break, like he’s holding porcelain in his hands.

The difference claws at you, even as your body arches into him, chasing the steady heat.

“Charlie,” you breathe, half-plea, half-warning, and his lips return to yours instantly, swallowing it down.

It deepens, the kisses turning messier, hungrier, his careful patience fraying as your fingers trace down his back, pulling him closer, closer. His glasses tilt again and this time you don’t fix them, you’re too busy gasping into his mouth when his thumbs stroke slow circles against your skin.

You can feel him shaking a little, whether from nerves or restraint you don’t know. Maybe both.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, chest heaving. “Tell me if I– if it’s too much,” he whispers, like he means it. Like he’d stop right here if you said so.

And god, that’s the part that undoes you.

Because Schlatt never asked.

You press your mouth back to his, harder this time, desperate, and his hands tighten like he finally believes you’re not going anywhere.

The TV screen goes dark on its own, the Shrek menu long forgotten. All that fills the room now is the sound of your ragged breaths, the quiet, needy hum of his voice when you tug him closer, and the thundering contradiction in your chest. Charlie steady and soft, Schlatt burning in the back of your mind anyway.

Charlie’s hands slip higher under your shirt, tentative at first, palms warm against your ribs like he’s mapping new territory. When you don’t stop him- when you lean into it- his grip firms, still careful, still steady, but more certain now.

Your own fingers skate under the hem of his t-shirt, brushing over his stomach, and the shiver that runs through him makes you smile against his mouth. He exhales sharply, then kisses you harder, urgency breaking through the restraint he’s tried so hard to hold.

The blanket tangles around your legs as you shift, adjusting in his lap, and Charlie’s hands fly to your hips, grounding you there. His glasses are completely crooked now, but he doesn’t care– doesn’t stop kissing you long enough to fix them, even when you laugh breathlessly and tug them off, tossing them aside.

“Better,” you tease, and he grins against your mouth before pulling you in again.

His mouth trails down your neck, slow and reverent, and when his teeth graze your collarbone you gasp, fingers clutching at his shirt like you’ll fall without him. He murmurs something you can’t make out– half curse, half your name– and it sends heat spiraling through you.

Your hands roam without thinking, tugging at the soft cotton of his t-shirt until it’s bunched at his ribs. He helps you pull it over his head, tossing it aside, and then he’s all warmth, chest pressed to yours through thin layers that suddenly feel like too much.

Charlie kisses you like you’re fragile even as the make-out turns heated, his hands roaming your back, your waist, your thighs, but never pushing further than you let him. Every touch is patient, like he’s memorizing every inch he’s allowed.

You can’t stop the comparisons in your head. Schlatt’s rough hands, hurried and hungry, claiming every part of you before you could catch up. Charlie’s are the opposite, open, careful, trembling with restraint, like he’d rather go slow forever than risk losing you.

It makes your chest ache, even as you melt deeper into him.

Charlie’s mouth never leaves yours for long, just enough to murmur your name like it’s something sacred before diving back in. His hands slip beneath your shirt, slow but deliberate this time, and when you lift your arms, he tugs it over your head and tosses it aside. His breath catches when he takes you in, eyes wide, lips parted like he can’t decide if he should kiss you or just stare.

You don’t give him the chance to overthink. You grab his jaw, drag him back in, your chest pressing flush to his bare skin, heat sparking everywhere you touch. His hands roam up your back, across your ribs, fingers trembling until you guide them down, pressing his palms where you want him most.

He pulls back for a moment, forehead against yours, breath ragged. “Fuck…..You’re… unreal,” he whispers, like he can’t believe you’re here.

And before you can think too hard, before guilt can catch up, you’re pulling him back down, lips crashing into his, hands tangling in his hair, desperate to drown in the tenderness he offers so freely.

Soon jeans and sweats are tugged clumsily away, laughter bubbling between heated kisses when you nearly trip over the blanket. It’s messy, unpracticed, the two of you trying to navigate angles on a couch too small for this, but none of it matters. Every brush of his skin against yours makes you burn hotter, makes you forget everything else– Angie, Katie, Schlatt.

Charlie touches you like you’re breakable, every motion careful, hesitant, as though asking a silent question with each shift of his hands. You answer with your body, leaning into every touch, pulling him closer, whispering his name between kisses until his restraint starts to fray.

When he finally settles over you, bare chest pressed to bare chest, it’s almost too much- too intimate, too consuming. He pauses, forehead pressed to yours, eyes closed like he’s holding on by a thread.

“You sure?” His voice is rough, shaking, but steady where it matters, in the way only Charlie can be.

“Yes,” you breathe, no hesitation.

His hands begin to move with less hesitation now, sliding down the curve of your waist, over the dip of your hip, then back up again like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed. Every inch of you he touches feels like it brands him, like he’s memorizing you by skin alone.

You arch into it, impatient, tugging him closer until his chest crushes against yours, warmth and weight pressing you into the cushions. The couch creaks under the shift, but neither of you stop- if anything, the sound only makes it feel more reckless, more secret.

Charlie’s mouth drags from yours to your jaw, then lower, heat and breath leaving a trail that makes you shiver. He pauses at your collarbone, sucking in a shaky breath, and for a moment you can feel his restraint fighting to pull him back.

“Charlie,” you murmur, threading your fingers into his hair, urging him on.

That breaks something. His lips press harder, teeth grazing lightly before he pulls your bottom lip into another kiss, hungrier, needier than all the careful touches before. The sound he makes against your mouth is low and desperate, like he’s been holding back too long.

His hand slides down, skimming the curve of your waist, then lower, slipping between your thighs. The first brush of his fingers is tentative, testing, and you gasp sharply, nails catching on his shoulder. The reaction makes him shudder, lips stuttering against yours as he swallows the sound like it’s oxygen.

“God–” he breathes, forehead knocking clumsily against yours. His fingers flex, a little braver now, and when he feels you shiver, a broken whine tumbles from him. “You like that? Tell me– please, tell me.”

Your answer comes in another moan, breathless and raw, and it makes him groan right back, kissing you like he can drink it from your mouth. His touch grows bolder, surer, learning you with every shift, every twitch of your body. He adjusts until he finds the right spot, the one that rips a sharper sound from your throat, and the noise nearly wrecks him.

“There– fuck, right there?” His voice is wrecked, needy. “I’ll stay there- I’ll do whatever you want– just keep making those sounds.”

He settles into a rhythm, fingers moving with shaky determination, eyes darting to your face like he can’t get enough of watching what he’s doing to you. Each gasp, each arch of your hips, fuels him further, makes him kiss you harder, groan louder, like your pleasure is the only thing holding him together.

When you moan again, louder this time, he breaks into a whine, hips pressing against you unconsciously as though he can’t contain himself. “God, you sound– so perfect– want to hear you again, please, don’t stop–”

And you don’t. You can’t. His mouth is on yours, his hand working you open with reverence and desperation, every motion proving just how badly he wants to give you everything, his lips brushing frantic kisses against your skin while his hand works you closer. Every whimper, every arch of your back, makes his breath catch, makes him gasp like he’s the one unraveling.

“God, you sound so good– you don’t know what you’re doing to me– please, give me more, let me have it, let me hear you fall apart.” His voice cracks on the last words, as if your pleasure is dragging him down with you.

The pressure builds fast, unbearable, his eager touch tuned so perfectly to you that you can’t stop the cry that tears free. You clutch at his back, hips grinding helplessly against his hand as release crashes over you.

Your moan is broken, raw, and it sends him spiraling. He gasps, whining into your neck, his fingers pressing through every pulse of it like he can’t let go, like he needs to wring every last drop of pleasure from you.

“Yes- yes, that’s it– God, you’re perfect, so perfect for me-” His words tumble over themselves, frantic, worshipful, almost sobbing with relief at the way you shake beneath his hand.

His lips linger at your neck, kissing sweat-damp skin, until he can’t resist lifting his head to look at you. You’re flushed, chest rising and falling fast, eyes glazed with afterglow, and the sight makes his breath catch like he’s seeing something holy. He whispers your name, soft and disbelieving, and it comes out like a prayer.

“You’re– ” his voice cracks, breaking into a whine as he shifts over you, “you’re so beautiful. I need- God, I need to feel all of you.”

His mouth is on yours again before you can answer, desperate, hungry, tasting the sound of your pleasure still clinging to you. His hand, slick from where he just ruined you, moves to brace at your hip as he fumbles with his boxers, clumsy in his urgency. He groans into your mouth when your hand helps, your fingers brushing him, and the sound is wrecked, needy, nothing like the careful Charlie you’ve always known.

“I want to be inside you– please, let me– need to make you feel even better, I swear-” The words are broken, frantic, as though he’s begging you not to deny him the closeness he craves.

You answer with a nod, breathless, pulling him back down to you, “Don’t–” your voice breaks as you clutch at him tighter. “Don’t hold back.”

and that’s all it takes, his breath stutters, forehead pressing into your shoulder as if those words undo every wall he’d built. The kiss he drags from your mouth is raw, deeper, hungrier, his hips pressing forward until there’s nothing left between you.

When he finally pushes in, his whole body seizes. A ragged groan rips from his throat, muffled against your skin, and he has to stop- shaking, gasping, fingers gripping your waist like he’s drowning.

“God– fuck–” His voice cracks, trembling. “You feel… so good. Too good.”

You cradle his face, make him look at you, and the awe in his eyes nearly undoes you. He looks ruined already, reverence painted across his features, like he can’t believe he’s here, inside you. 

You kiss him before he can apologize for faltering, and he whimpers into it, clutching at you like a lifeline.

The first slow thrust earns you a broken whine from him, high and helpless, and when you moan in return, his head drops back like the sound alone guts him. “Oh my God– do that again, please, please– want to hear you.”

Every little gasp and shiver you give feeds him, winds him tighter. His hips roll deeper each time you whimper, like he’s desperate to pull more from you. “Yes–yes, like that- God, you sound so perfect.” His words tumble over themselves, breathless, begging, every praise cracked open with need.

Your back arches and he groans like the sight alone nearly finishes him, pressing sloppy kisses to your throat, whispering frantic between them: “So beautiful… want you to feel everything… tell me you like it, tell me I’m making you feel good– please–”

He moves harder, faster, chasing the catch in your breath, the way your nails dig into his shoulders. When you moan his name, it wrecks him completely– a desperate sound tearing out of his chest, hips jerking as though he’s powerless to stop. “Say it again– God, say my name again– please.”

You do, and the noise he makes is half-sob, half-whine, his forehead pressed to yours, his body trembling as he drives deeper. Every thrust is frantic worship, his only goal to wring every sound from you, every gasp, every cry.

“Don’t stop–” you whisper, and the plea breaks him open. His rhythm falters, growing desperate, needy, his voice raw in your ear. “I won’t– I’ll give you everything, anything you want– just let me, let me make you come–  ”

Your pleasure crests sharp and sudden, pulling a cry from your throat, and Charlie unravels at the sound. He groans like he’s the one undone, hips stuttering as if your release drags his own out of him.

“Please– inside- ” His voice is shattered, pleading. “Let me-  God, let me give it to you-”

“Yes,” you gasp, nails raking his back. “Charlie, yes.”

The relief that crashes through him is feral. He drives into you harder, sloppy now, reverent kisses falling over your lips, your face, desperate to worship every inch of you as he finally lets go.

He comes with a ragged cry of your name, shuddering, shaking, clutching you tight like he’ll never let go. And the only thing louder than his release is the sound of your own, the symphony of your pleasure that he clings to like it’s all he’s ever wanted.

For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths, harsh and uneven, both of you clinging to each other as though you might fall apart if you let go. He’s still inside you, trembling, his chest rising and falling against yours in frantic bursts.

Charlie presses a kiss to your temple, shaky, reverent, then another to your cheek as though he can’t stop himself. “God-” he whispers, his voice hoarse, “I didn’t know it could feel like that.” His forehead rests against yours, his thumb brushing over your jaw in a shaky circle. “Did I… did I make you feel good?”

Your chest aches at how earnest he sounds, how small the question feels after everything he just gave you. You cup his cheek, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Charlie... That was-” you let out a breathless laugh, “-the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.”

He groans, embarrassed, burying his face against your shoulder. “Don’t say that, I’ll never recover.”

But when you laugh and squeeze him tighter, he peeks up at you again, cheeks red, lips swollen, eyes still glassy. And then, slowly, that familiar sly curve tugs at his mouth, like he can’t resist.

“So… I, uh… definitely wasn’t subtle back there.” His smile is crooked, shy and teasing all at once. “Guess you found out I’m not exactly the cool, collected type.”

You roll your eyes, dragging your nails lightly down his back just to watch him shiver. “Trust me,” you murmur, “I prefer this version.”

That makes his blush deepen, but he grins through it, ducking down to kiss you again, softer this time, more sure. “Good,” he whispers against your lips, voice still rough. “Because I don’t think I could stop even if I tried.” His thumb traces along your hipbone, lazy, absent circles, like he can’t stop touching you even in stillness. “We should probably move soon,” he says softly, though he doesn’t.

“Mhm,” you hum, eyes slipping closed, still holding him close. “But not yet.”

So you stay there, tangled up, skin to skin, whispering little nothings back and forth, praise, laughter, reassurances- until the frantic edges of heat fade into something slower, softer, and impossibly tender.

Eventually, Charlie shifts, pulling out with a shaky groan. He collapses half onto you, half against the back of the couch, chest still heaving. His eyes flick down, catching the mess between you, and his face goes bright red.

“God,” he mutters, voice breaking on a whine he clearly didn’t mean to let slip, “that’s… so fucking hot.”

You smack his chest, laughing even as your own cheeks burn. “Shut up, you menace. Clean me up before you start talking yourself into round two.”

He freezes, eyes snapping wide. “Wait- was that… are you offering?”

You roll your eyes so hard it makes him laugh, sheepish and sly all at once. “You’re impossible.”

“Not impossible,” he shoots back, grin tugging at his lips. “Just… highly motivated.” His tone is teasing, but the blush still dusts his cheeks, betraying the softness underneath.

He sighs then, brushing a thumb gently across your hip before he pulls himself upright. “C’mon. Let’s shower before I combust just looking at you.” He helps you up carefully, steadying you with both hands like you might break, which only makes you laugh harder.

“I’m fine, Charlie.”

“Uh-huh,” he teases, smirking as his eyes dart over you. “Sure you are. Totally not walking like I just ruined you.”

You swat him again, scandalized. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet-” his grin tilts sly, soft pride tucked behind it, “you still want me around.”

He leads you toward the bathroom, snagging a clean t-shirt and sweats from his room on the way. When he presses them into your hands, his grin softens, turning almost shy. “Here. They’ll, uh… look better on you anyway.”

You give him a look, lips curving despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe.” His ears are pink, but the smug edge never leaves his smile. “But I’m still right.”

Charlie clears his throat as he hands you the clean clothes, trying and failing to look casual. “I’ll, uh… start the water.” He fumbles with the shower knobs, testing the temperature like it’s rocket science, muttering under his breath until steam curls against the mirror.

When you step in, he hesitates at the doorway, cheeks flushed. “You sure? I mean, I can wait-”

“Charlie,” you cut him off, tugging him by the wrist with a grin. “It’s just a shower.”

His blush deepens, but he follows, crowding in behind you. The spray hits his back first, and he lets out the softest sigh before nudging you under it, hands settling carefully at your waist like he’s worried you’ll slip. He even reaches for the shampoo, pouring some into his palm with exaggerated seriousness.

“You’re ridiculous,” you laugh as he works it into your hair, fingers massaging gently.

“Hey, somebody’s gotta take care of you,” he teases, voice softer than the words. “Besides… you look good all messy, but I like this too.”

By the time you’re both rinsed and dried, you’re laughing again, Charlie trying to wrap a towel around you like you’re delicate, you swatting at him, both of you blushing and grinning. He insists on handing you his sweats and shirt, watching with something like awe as you slip them on.

“You’re staring,” you point out, tugging at the hem of the shirt into place. 

“Yeah,” he admits, unabashed, grin crooked and cheeks pink. “Not sorry.”

Back in the living room, he pulls a blanket over the both of you on the couch. You settle against his chest, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist, still warm from the shower. He grabs the remote, scrolling until the familiar green ogre fills the screen.

“Really? We’re still going to watch Shrek 3?” you ask, tilting your head at him.

“Don’t knock it,” he says, smirking. “It’s a classic. Perfect post… y’know.” His blush flares again, but you only laugh, curling closer.

As the movie plays, his fingers trace lazy circles on your hip, his breaths evening out against your hair. The teasing fades to quiet, to warmth, until both of you drift off tangled together, lulled to sleep by the soft glow of the TV and the absurd background noise of talking donkeys.

You wake slowly, sunlight warm on your face, a heavy weight draped over your waist. Charlie’s chest rises and falls steady against your back, his breath tickling the crown of your head. For a blissful moment, you don’t think about anything -  not what last night means, not what comes next - only that he’s warm, safe, and holding you like he’ll never let go.

When you shift, his arm tightens around you instinctively. He hums a sleepy noise, lips brushing your hair. “Morning,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep.

You turn toward him, blinking at his messy hair, his half-lidded eyes, that crooked grin tugging at his mouth. He looks unfairly soft, puppy-eyed and perfect, and the sight of him melts every last edge out of you.

“Hi,” you whisper, grinning without meaning to.

His thumb rubs lazy circles against your hip. “Hi.”

It starts slow - just a kiss to his jaw, then his nose, then his mouth. Before long you’re tangled in him all over again, kissing lazily, giggling against his lips when he whines softly and pulls you closer. Time feels slow here, syrupy, like nothing exists beyond the blanket around you and the heat of his mouth.

So you don’t even hear the front door open.

You don’t hear Emma set down a grocery bag.

You only hear her when she screams.

“OH MY GOD, IT HAPPENED!”

You jolt, breaking apart just enough to see Emma standing in the doorway, eyes wide, grin wider. She claps a hand over her mouth, then points at the two of you tangled together on the couch. “I knew it! I knew it, And here I was thinking you two were just gonna keep making goo-goo eyes at each other forever.”

Charlie groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder like maybe he can hide there. His ears are crimson, his laugh muffled. “Emma, please…”

You can’t even get words out, you’re laughing too hard, face buried in his chest, heat rising to your cheeks as Emma does a full victory lap around the living room.

“Oh my god,” she says again, triumphant. 

Emma throws both arms in the air like she just won the lottery. “Oh my GOD, I have to tell everyone. Angie, Katie- literally the entire town needs to know this finally happened.”

You wince, burying your face in your hands. “Emma, no-”

But she’s already halfway to the kitchen, muttering gleefully about who she’s going to call first. The words stick in your chest, though, twisting. Tell everyone. Like this is something you’re ready to define. Like you even know what it is.

At least with Schlatt, there hadn’t been questions. You’d known exactly what it was with him-

Sorta anyway-

Casual, sharp edges, no promises, no future. And for the second half of the night, you hadn’t thought of him once. Until now.

Your chest tightens. You hate yourself for it, for letting him back into your head when Charlie’s arms are still warm around you, when Charlie’s lips were on yours moments ago.

Charlie tilts his head, peering down at you with bleary puppy eyes. “Hey.” His voice is low, scratchy from sleep, but steady. He tips your chin gently so you’ll meet his gaze. “Don’t listen to her, okay? She just likes being loud. We don’t have to… figure out anything right this second.”

Something in you unclenches at that, your breath leaving all at once. He grins, crooked and soft. “Besides, if anyone’s telling stories, I’d prefer you let me brag first.”

You laugh, a little broken but genuine, pressing your face into his shoulder. “Gonna tell all your old Dnd buddies?”

“Maybe,” he says witha chuckle, arms tightening around you like he’ll never let go.

From the kitchen, Emma calls out, sing-song: “Don’t mind me! Just making coffee and processing the fact that my matchmaking career is officially undefeated!”

Charlie groans, you giggle, and just like that the knot in your chest unravels, leaving the two of you tangled in warmth and laughter, a little flustered, a little messy, but undeniably together.

Emma eventually drifts down the hall, leaving you and Charlie in a blanket-tangled heap on the couch. For a moment, it’s quiet again, soft breaths and warm skin. Then a shriek carries down the hallway.

“Katie, you’re not gonna believe me-”

You bury your face in Charlie’s chest with a groan. “She’s actually calling people.”

Charlie chuckles, low and rough from sleep, his hand tracing absent circles along your back. “Told you. She lives for the drama.”

“She’s gonna tell everyone,” you mumble into his shirt.

“Let her” he says simply, tilting his head to press a kiss to your hair. 

You tip your head back to look at him, and his grin is crooked, boyish, still flushed from sleep. He leans in for a kiss, and you let him, soft and sweet, before he pulls back with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s make pancakes.”

“Pancakes?” you echo, head tilting at the idea.

“Yeah.” He sits up, tugging you with him, hair sticking up in every direction. “We deserve pancakes. Celebration pancakes.”

You narrow your eyes playfully, lips quirking. “Oh? And what exactly are we celebrating Charlie?”

He freezes for a second, caught, the tips of his ears going pink. Then that crooked grin pulls at his mouth, half-shy, half-sly. “Uh… I dunno. Best sleepover ever?” 

You laugh, cheeks warming, and swat his arm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he says, pulling you with him toward the kitchen. “But I make really good pancakes, so you’ll forgive me.”

In the kitchen, sunlight spills across the counters. You find yourself leaning against Charlie while he rummages for flour and eggs, his hand brushing yours every time you reach for the same thing. He hums under his breath, and you can’t stop smiling at how earnestly he takes it.

From down the hall, Emma’s voice carries again, muffled but unmistakable: “I told you, Katie! I told you it would happen!” followed by another shriek of laughter.

Charlie groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, she’s never gonna shut up.”

You laugh, nudging his side. “Guess we’re stuck proving her right, then.”

He looks at you for a long moment, soft grin tugging at his mouth, then bumps his shoulder into yours. “Guess so.”

And with that, the two of you fall into the easy rhythm of mixing batter, bumping hips, stealing kisses between measuring cups, mmaking pancakes in a sunlit kitchen while Emma’s delighted screams echo faintly from her room, proof that the whole world doesn’t matter half as much as this moment does.

It’s early noon by the time you finally manage to slip out of the Dalgleish household-though not before Charlie sneaks in even more kisses during and after breakfast. At the door, he pulls you in for one more. Soft, slow, enough to make you melt- and he must know it, because when he pulls back, there’s a playful smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You trying to convince me to stay longer, Charlie?”

“Did it work?” he asks, hand gliding over your hip.

You’re still in his clothes, your own stuffed in a bag slung over your shoulder. You hum, leaning closer, eyes catching his. “Keep it up and it might.”

This kiss is different, more eager, his tongue darting against yours, pulling a sound from your throat. Both hands find your hips now, bracing, tugging you closer until you’re pressed flush against him. In this moment, he has you wrapped around his finger, and you know you’d give in if it weren’t for-

“Woah! Okay.”

Emma’s voice cuts through. She’s covering her eyes with both hands as you and Charlie spring apart, breathless. “I’m all for this, but maybe keep it behind closed doors?”

You can’t help but laugh, especially when Charlie pouts like a scolded kid. It takes everything in you to actually pull away from him this time.

Emma leans against the hallway frame, eyes sparkling with sheer glee. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow!”

You groan. “Don’t remind me.” But then you glance back at Charlie, and the grin sneaks back across your face. “I’ll see you soon?” It comes out more nervous, more hopeful than you mean it to, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His shoulders ease, his eyes softening.

“How about I bring you coffee after I hit the gym in the morning?” he offers.

You groan gleefully, unable to help yourself. “You’re perfect, you know that?”

Charlie laughs, ducking his head, though you don’t miss the way his ears flush pink. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“See you then.”

The car feels too quiet on the drive home. 

Just you, the faint hum of the engine, and your thoughts pressing in on all sides.

It hits you then. Hard. A pang of guilt, sharp and sudden. Not because it’s Emma’s brother; Emma made it clear years ago she’d practically shove the two of you together if she could. No- the guilt runs deeper, uglier.

Because last night, you had absolutely drowned yourself in Charlie. You’d let yourself sink into his warmth, his sweetness, the way he touched you like you mattered, like you were the only thing that did. You clung to that feeling so fiercely it scared you. Because deep down you know what you were doing.

You were escaping Schlatt.

Just like before, when you’d let yourself get tangled up in Schlatt to escape Ted.

Your stomach twists. You grip the steering wheel tighter.

You’re awful.

The words rattle through you, hot and bitter.

But then another thought breaks through, shaky but insistent. It wasn’t like it wasn’t real. The kisses, the laughter, the way Charlie whispered your name like it was sacred.

None of that was fake. None of that was imagined.

You weren’t lying when you moaned under his hands, when you smiled against his lips, when your chest ached at the way he looked at you this morning like you were something worth waking up to.

It wasn’t like you used him. Was it?

You let out a breath, knuckles white against the wheel.

You do have feelings for him. You’ve always had feelings for him, even if you tried to bury them beneath Ted, beneath Schlatt, beneath whatever part of you was too scared to face what Charlie might mean if you really let him in.

So it wasn’t all bad intentions. It wasn’t all selfish.

But then why does it feel like it?

Why does your chest ache with guilt, even as a smile threatens to tug at your lips remembering the way Charlie had kissed you goodbye, slow and soft like he couldn’t help himself?

Because maybe that’s the truth of it-

you don’t regret him.

 You don’t regret Charlie.

You just don’t know if you deserve him.

[hyunnie-beee]

💋Roxie Hart 👠 Ch. 10

Ch.10 - The Name on Everybody’s Lips

64.media.tumblr.com

Pairings: Ted Nivison x reader, Jschlatt x reader, Charlie (Slimecicle) x reader

Synopsis: You’re back home after your first year at UCLA with one goal in mind: Return in the fall as the undeniable star of the theater program. Confident. Magnetic. Unforgettable. Step one? Live the part all summer long. It just so happens your three best friends each have very attractive older brothers. And their attention? Well… that could help you a lot. That’s your excuse, anyway.

Ted should be the easy one, he’s the boy you never really got over, the one with history written into your bones. But your heart might not be ready to risk that again. Schlatt keeps circling with sharp eyes and sharper comments, turning your little act into a game of cat and mouse (you’re just not sure who’s chasing who.) And Charlie? He’s a lovesick puppy every time you so much as blink in his direction. Everything’s going according to plan. Until it’s not. Because some roles cut too close. Some pasts don’t stay buried. And this summer? Might just write a whole new script you didn’t see coming.

Genre: College AU (?), Summer Romance, Love Triangle (or square?), Friends-to-Lovers, Exes with Unfinished Business, Enemies-to-???, Feminine Rage.

A/N: I hope this feeds you Charlie lovers well. This is the PG-13 version!

T/W: I'm honestly not sure.

Chapter length: 7.2k

Roxie Hart Masterlist

The morning is too warm. Too still.

You shift in your sheets, trying to shake off the heavy heat pressed against your back- until you realize it isn’t the blankets. It’s him.

Schlatt’s arm is draped at your waist, steady, anchoring, his chest a solid weight against you. His breath stirs slow and even at the back of your neck, almost protective, like he’s shielding you from everything beyond this bed.

Your heart stutters, confusion curling sharp in your ribs. Last night rushes back in pieces, his lip split and bleeding, Alex crumpling under his fist, Angie’s face carved in shock. And after all of that, after the fighting and the mess, you’d ended up here anyway. In his arms.

The contradiction twists your stomach. You remember the words he said- words you never thought you’d hear from him. That he cared. That he hadn’t wanted it to be a one-time thing. He’d been raw, unguarded, spilling truths you’d barely dared imagine.

And now? Now he’s holding you like none of that chaos ever existed, like this closeness is the most natural thing in the world.

When you shift again, his nose scrunches, brows pulling together before his eyes blink open, hazy with sleep. For a moment he just looks at you, and then his fingers flex against your waist, as if he forgot they were even there.

“Morning,” he mutters, voice rough, low.

You can’t help the small smile tugging at your mouth, though it turns more into a grimace as your eyes catch his bruised knuckles. “Your hand looks worse.”

He glances down, flexes his bruised knuckles once, and grins crookedly. “You should see the other guy.”

A laugh breaks out of you, quiet, startled, but real. His lip twitches like he’s proud of himself for earning it.

He stretches with a groan, then lets his gaze settle back on you. There’s something in it you don’t recognize, soft and almost dangerous. “You snore, by the way.”

You swat his arm weakly, grinning despite yourself. “I do not.”

“You do,” he insists, smug now. “-and talk in your sleep too- said something about croissants. Real romantic.”

You groan, burying your face in the pillow, but the sound of his laugh, low and warm, makes it hard to care.

For a while it’s easy. Banter, small jokes, the kind of warmth that seeps into your bones and makes you ache for more. He nudges you to drink some water, asks if you’ve got painkillers, mutters that you’ll thank him later. It’s protective, casual, but it makes your chest burn because it feels like more.

And that’s what unsettles you. The contradiction. His raw words last night, his careful hands now, the fact that he’s still here when he could’ve slipped out hours ago. It doesn’t line up with the version of Schlatt you’ve always known- the cocky, distant asshole who never let anyone close.

This version is softer. Real. And maybe-

just maybe-

 he’s this version only for you.

He finally clears his throat, sitting up and tugging his sweatshirt back into place. “I should head back before Angie gets home. She’ll kill me- probably both of us- if she sees me over here.”

Your chest twists at her name, at reality creeping back in, but he looks down at you once more, lips tugging into that crooked grin.

“See you around, Hollywood.”

And then, without overthinking it, he leans in, pressing his mouth to yours, quick but certain, like it belongs there, like he’s been waiting all night for the excuse.

This time, you let yourself sink into it. Into him. Into the dizzy warmth that tells you the side of Schlatt no one else gets, the softness, the gentleness, the care, might just be yours.

It’s a few hours later- just long enough for you to strip off last night’s clothes, scrub the party grime off your skin, and almost trick yourself into thinking you can breathe again, before Angie is pounding at your bedroom door.

She doesn’t wait for an answer. The door swings open, and suddenly she’s got your arm in a vise, dragging you up with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs.

“Ang- what the hell-” you sputter, but it doesn’t matter. Your words fall useless against the determined set of her jaw as she hauls you across the yard, tugging you like a dog on a leash.

By the time she shoves you down on her couch, your pulse is already hammering.

And then the footsteps sound overhead. Heavy, familiar.

Schlatt bounds down the stairs like it’s nothing, hair still damp from his own shower, sweatpants slung low lazily. Plain white shirt. Broad shoulders.

Your mouth goes dry. You have to remind yourself that Angie is three feet away, that you can’t be caught staring.

But Schlatt sees you instantly. sees you sitting there stiff on the couch, and he pauses mid-step.

Angie grins. Wicked, sharp. Like she’s set the perfect trap.

“Jonathan,” she purrs. “Why don’t you take a seat.”

And you see it happen, the mask snapping into place. That easy, cocky grin. The eyes shuttering off. The softness you woke up to this morning gone in a blink, like you imagined it.

He saunters over, hands shoved in his pockets, and drops onto the cushion beside you, one space of distance that somehow feels like a mile. He sprawls back, bored already.

You envy his poker face. You, with your jaw locked too tight, your palms sweating, your heartbeat loud enough you’re sure Angie can hear it.

Her gaze flicks between you both, again and again, sharp enough to cut. The silence is suffocating.

Finally Schlatt breaks it with a sigh, leaning back farther, propping his legs on the table like he owns the room. “Well?” he drawls, eyes lazy on his sister. “You gonna say something?”

Angie’s jaw ticks. She doesn’t blink. “How long.”

Your stomach drops through the floor.

You fumble for a confused expression, force the word out past your dry throat. “What?”

Her eyes snap to yours, hard and cold. “How long has this been going on?”

You falter. It’s too much. You can feel your face cracking under her stare-

But Schlatt laughs. Loud, sharp, breaking the air like glass.

You whip your head toward him. The grin is there, wide and smug, his chuckle rolling like this is the best joke he’s heard all day.

Angie’s glare sharpens. “Something funny?”

Schlatt lets it die down to a low chuckle, shoulders still shaking. “You think me and her-” he jerks his thumb between you both “-got something going on?”

Angie shifts, uncertain.

And Schlatt’s grin sharpens crueler. “That’s gold.” His gaze cuts to you, and it’s cold, empty, so different from the way he looked at you hours ago it makes your chest cave. He drags his eyes over you, head to toe, and smirks. “No offense, Hollywood, but you’re not my type.”

It burns. Your cheeks heat, your jaw locking against the sting in your throat. “Right,” you manage, flat.

Angie scoffs. “Then why the hell did Alex say you two were together?”

Schlatt snorts, leans forward like he’s daring her. “You really believed that motherfucker? He’d say anything to save face after getting dropped.”

Her arms cross. “Then why’d you punch him?”

His tongue darts out over his split lip, tasting the scab, his grin twisting. “Because he wouldn’t back off when Hollywood said no. I’m an ass, sure, but I’m not gonna stand there and watch someone get harassed.” He shrugs, casual. “That’s all it was.”

The words are neat. Easy. Tied in a bow.

But the way he doesn’t look at you, the way he keeps his mask locked tight, hurts more than anything Angie could say.

And you can’t tell if he’s protecting you, or if this is him showing his true face after all.

Angie’s face finally cracks. Her glare falters, shoulders slumping the tiniest bit. “And you two leaving together?”

Your chest squeezes, but this time you jump in before Schlatt can twist the knife again. “He drove me home,” you say quickly, with a shrug that you force into something casual. You even let your body relax back into the cushions, like it was nothing.

Angie’s eyes narrow, flicking between the two of you. “That’s it?”

“Yeah,” you answer, steady as you can manage. “That’s it.”

Schlatt’s chuckle cuts through sharp, almost too sharp as he gets to his feet. “Sorry to disappoint you, sis. Not everything’s a scandal.” His tone makes it sound like an insult, like the very idea of you is laughable.

It works though. Angie huffs, shifting her weight, suspicion softening into something sheepish. “Alright. Maybe I jumped the gun.” Her voice dips low, reluctant. “Sorry.”

The apology hangs in the air, awkward as hell.

She clears her throat, pulls out her phone. “I’m gonna call Katie. Get her to quit spinning it.”

And just like that, she’s headed upstairs, muttering into the receiver, leaving the two of you stranded in the heavy quiet.

You stand, brushing your palms on your thighs, ready to bolt. “I should-”

Schlatt’s voice stops you cold. “Work on that poker face, Hollywood.”

You glance back, glare half-formed, but he’s smirking. It almost feels like a truce. “Maybe you should look into acting,” you fire back.

That grin lingers as his eyes flick toward the stairs, making sure Angie’s really gone. Then he moves. One hand hooks casually into your belt loop, tugging you closer until you’re caught off guard, chest brushing his.

And then he’s kissing you.

It’s soft. Unfairly soft. Every ounce of heat and bite from his words earlier is gone, replaced with something that melts straight through your ribs and leaves you clutching at his shoulders before you can stop yourself.

He lets it linger too long, lips slow, like he’s savoring it. When he finally pulls back, your head is spinning, anger scattered to ash.

His hand slips away, and with a wicked gleam he pinches you lightly on the side, muttering low, “Get going before we really get caught.”

And he leaves you standing at the door, dazed and confused. 

You spend another few hours in your room, laying in your bed, sheets upsettingly smelling like Schlatt, as you stare at your ceiling. 

The guilt of lying to Angie is eating you alive. 

But theres something- some selfish part of you that loves the thrill Schlatt gives you. 

It’s addicting- when it’s not giving you whiplash at least. 

The stark contrast of how he had been this morning to how he spoke around Angie gnawed at you- made something in your stomach twist and knot. 

So when the first plain to escape your brain pops up- you take it - You don’t even remember deciding to leave your room. One minute you’re pacing, your phone still buzzing with unread texts, your head splitting with too many thoughts. The next, you’re standing on a different porch, staring at a familiar door.

The Dalgleish’s door.

It takes you a second to register what you’ve done. But then you’re knocking, soft, your knuckles numb with nerves.

When the door swings open, Charlie blinks at you like he’s seeing a ghost. His hair’s a mess, his t-shirt wrinkled, socks mismatched. “Uh… hey?” He scratches the back of his neck. “Emma’s out of town, if you’re looking for her.”

Your throat works around a lump. “I know,” you admit. And it slips out before you can catch it. “I came to see you.”

His mouth opens, closes. “Oh.” A pause. His ears turn pink. “Oh.”

Something in your chest loosens at the sight of him, so endearingly unprepared, so Charlie. For a split second, the weight of last night– Angie’s anger, Schlatt’s face- all falls away.

Charlie steps aside quickly, shoving a pile of laundry off the couch like it’s the most urgent thing in the world. “Right, uh, yeah, come in. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company.”

And somehow his flustered softness feels like the only thing capable of saving you right now.

“Tea?” he blurts after a beat, pushing his crooked glasses higher on his nose. “I was about to make some.”

“Sure,” you say, trailing him into the kitchen.

It’s oddly domestic, watching him move around– setting the kettle on, rattling around in cupboards for mugs and tea bags. Then again, everything with Charlie had been feeling domestic lately, hadn’t it? Comfortable. Safe.

For a while you let yourself sink into the rhythm of it- his quiet movements, the steam starting to rise. Until his voice breaks through, awkward, careful.

“So,” he clears his throat, “what made you decide to grace me with your presence?”

You laugh, light but shaky. “Do I need a reason? Was I supposed to book an appointment?”

His ears flare red as he pours the water, pretending to be busy. “Of course not. Just… random, I guess.”

That pricks at your chest- guilt creeping in. He’s right. You hadn’t asked, hadn’t even thought. You just showed up because you knew he’d let you in. Because he was safe. Because he wasn’t Schlatt.

“Sorry,” you mutter, biting your cheek. “I shouldn’t have just-”

“No!” He startles so hard the mugs nearly slosh over. “Shit, uh- no. Seriously, you don’t have to be sorry. I just…” His mouth quirks, sheepish. “Would’ve preferred you caught me looking less like this.”

Your eyes drift down-messy hair, wrinkled shirt, socks that don’t match. The words on his tee finally register.

You snort, sudden laughter breaking the heavy air. “What, too shy to show me your 20Ds?”

Charlie groans, burying his face in his sleeve like he can hide there. “Oh my god. I forgot I even owned this shirt.”

“Uh huh.” You grin, the first real one all day. “Bet it’s your favorite.”

When he sets the mug in front of you, his glasses slide down his nose, and he pushes them back up with that shy half-smile that shouldn’t make your stomach flip the way it does.

His shoulders shake with laughter too, and for a moment you both stand there, mugs steaming between you, and it feels almost normal. Almost like you came here for him, not just for the escape.

“Alright,” he says, flopping onto the couch with a blanket like he’s claiming territory. “Shrek marathon or bust.”

You snort, tugging the blanket onto your lap. “Classy.”

“Hey,” he shoots back, mock-offended, “Shrek is peak cinema. If you disagree, you can leave.”

You clink your mug against his, lips twitching. “Fine. But only because Donkey carries the whole franchise.”

Charlie gasps, hand flying to his chest. “Blasphemy. Absolute heresy. You take that back right now.”

You sip your tea slowly, just to annoy him. “Nope. Donkey’s the MVP.”

“Unbelievable.” He shakes his head, dramatic. “You’re lucky I already started the movie or you’d be out of here.”

“Uh-huh. You’d be lost without me here to remind you that Donkey deserves an Oscar.”

His laugh bubbles out, warm and easy, and somehow it makes your chest loosen.

The opening credits roll and you both settle in. Charlie keeps making little commentary- half-serious critiques, half-jokes that make you snort into your tea. You throw some back at him, and the banter just flows, the kind that feels like muscle memory.

At one point you catch him glancing at you instead of the TV, and when you raise your brows he just shrugs and says, “You laugh louder than the DVD menu. It’s distracting.”

“Don’t blame me for your wandering attention span,” you shoot back, tossing a pillow at him.

He catches it easily, then smirks. “Distracting’s not always a bad thing.”

Heat prickles at the back of your neck, but before you can respond, he wiggles under the blanket, making a big show of yanking more of it to his side.

“Hey!” you protest, grabbing for it.

“You’ve been hogging it since Farquaad showed up,” he insists, holding fast.

“Liar.”

“Truth-teller.”

The tug-of-war lasts a second before he shifts closer, blanket draped over both of you again. He settles against you like it’s nothing, like it’s easy, and murmurs, “Problem solved.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet here you are,” he says, grin crooked, eyes on the screen but clearly proud of himself.

The movie plays on, but your focus keeps slipping- not on the swamp, not on Shrek or Donkey, but on the steady heat of his shoulder brushing yours, the way his laughter seems to rumble straight through you.

By the time the credits roll, you’re both groaning about how old the DVD menu music makes you feel. Charlie hops up, stretches, and pops Shrek 2 into the player with way too much ceremony, like he’s unveiling a masterpiece.

“Now this,” he says, plopping back onto the couch, “this is peak cinema. Oscar-worthy. I’d fight anyone who disagrees.”

You smirk into your tea. “Big words for someone who cried during the first one.”

His head snaps toward you. “I did not.”

“You sniffled. I heard it.”

“That was allergies,” he insists, indignant. “Dust from the DVD case.”

“Sure,” you tease, nudging him with your shoulder. “Allergies that hit right when Donkey turned into a stallion.”

Charlie groans, dragging the blanket higher over his face like he can hide. “You’re insufferable.”

“You like it,” you say lightly, tugging the blanket back down.

And he does, because instead of shifting away, he sinks in closer, the blanket pooling around both your shoulders. His arm brushes yours every time he moves, until finally he stops pretending it’s accidental and just drapes it along the back of the couch, fingertips grazing your arm.

You try to focus on the movie, on Puss in Boots making his dramatic entrance, on Donkey’s over-the-top commentary, but the steady weight of him beside you keeps tugging at your attention. It’s different than last night, different than Schlatt’s jagged edges and contradictions. Charlie’s warmth is steady, unshaken. He’s just… here.

And it makes something ache deep in your chest.

“See,” he says at one point, pointing at the screen where Shrek stumbles through another fight scene, “this is exactly what I mean. You’d totally pick Donkey over Shrek, wouldn’t you?”

“Obviously,” you reply, grinning. “He has better comedic timing. And better hair.”

Charlie huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. I invite you over for cinema’s greatest achievement, and you slander the main character.”

“You love it,” you shoot back, and he doesn’t deny it this time. His grin softens, edges warm, and you feel his gaze linger on you a little too long before he looks back at the TV.

When the second movie ends, neither of you moves right away. The credits roll, the blanket is still shared, and it feels dangerously easy to just… stay like this forever.

Charlie clears his throat, voice softer now. “Snack break?”

You nod, thankful for the excuse to stand, to shake off the dizzy warmth curling in your stomach. He trails into the kitchen with you, grabbing popcorn, chips, anything within reach, humming under his breath like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And again, it’s the domesticity that gets you. The way he asks if you want butter or plain, the way he makes sure the mugs are refilled before he carries the bowls back to the couch, and the sight of him, soft, easy, steady, hits you harder than you expect.

By the time Shrek 3 is queued up, you’re sitting closer than before. The snacks are forgotten on the coffee table. And you can feel it- the shift, the hum of something unsaid between you, waiting for one of you to break it.

Charlie glances down at you, then away, then back again, caught in that nervous loop that’s so him. He won’t do it, you know he won’t- he’s too careful, too soft, always second-guessing.

So you do.

You lean in, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt for balance, lips brushing his before he can overthink himself out of it. He freezes for a breath, chest locked tight, then exhales into you, his hand rising to cup your jaw like he’s terrified of breaking you.

And the kiss- god, the kiss.

It’s slow, tender, almost clumsy in its patience. He lingers on every movement, giving you time to catch up, to pull back if you wanted. Charlie kisses like he’s memorizing you, steady and sure in a way that makes your chest ache.

It’s nothing like Schlatt.

Schlatt’s kisses are quick, demanding, like he’s starving, like every second wasted is one too many. His mouth presses hard, insistent, always pulling more from you before you even realize you’re giving it. With him, it’s heat first, questions later.

Charlie is the opposite- gentle, lingering, like he has all the time in the world. Like you’re something precious he’s been waiting for. His thumb strokes your cheekbone as if to remind you he’s here, he’s not rushing, he’s not taking. He’s just… there.

And it wrecks you.

Because you can’t stop noticing the difference. Can’t stop wondering what it says about both of them, about you, about the mess you’ve tangled yourself into.

The kiss builds anyway, heat sparking under the softness until you’re clutching at his shirt just to steady yourself. You let his careful hand rest at your hip, fingers curling in the fabric of your shirt, tugging you closer in tiny increments until you’re nearly in his lap. His glasses tilt askew as you deepen the kiss, and you can’t help but laugh into his mouth, your fingers reaching up to fix them before tangling in his hair.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, forehead pressed against yours, breath shaky. “I’ve wanted– uh, this– for a while.”

The confession makes your pulse trip. You don’t want to think about how familiar it sounds, how Schlatt’s voice rasped something similar last night. You push it down, lean back in, press your mouth to Charlie’s like you can erase the comparisons if you just focus hard enough.

His lips part under yours, slow, sweet, and when his tongue brushes yours you gasp into it, the sound swallowed by him as he pulls you fully into his lap. His hands, warm and steady, grip your waist like he’s anchoring himself.

The contrast is unbearable. Schlatt’s grip was always firm, claiming, like he wanted to leave marks. Charlie’s is grounding, reverent, like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he doesn’t hold on.

You drown in it. In him.

Your fingers card through his hair, tugging lightly until he groans, low and desperate, and the sound shoots straight through you. His mouth trails from yours to your jaw, slow kisses pressed into your skin, his breath warm as he murmurs, “God, you’re…” He cuts himself off, like the words are too big to say out loud.

You shut your eyes, swallowing hard, letting the sweetness wash over you. Letting him kiss you like you’re something delicate, even as part of you screams for the roughness, the hunger, the fire.

You push that part down.

You let Charlie’s careful lips and gentle hands pull you under, let the safety of him drown out the chaos still lingering in your chest.

The TV hums in the background, forgotten.

Charlie’s mouth drags lower, across the slope of your neck, every kiss careful, unhurried. His teeth graze just enough to make you shiver, but he pulls back to murmur, “Okay?” before daring to go further.

Your answer comes in the form of your hands fisting tighter in his hair, tugging him back to you, and the low sound he lets out vibrates against your skin.

He shifts, pulling you closer in his lap without thinking, his hands sliding under the hem of your shirt just to rest against your bare skin. The warmth of his palms at your waist has your stomach flipping, not because he’s bold but because he isn’t, because he pauses like he’s asking without words, like you get to decide every step.

And you hate how much you notice it.

Schlatt would never hesitate. He’d grab, pull, push, kiss you like the world would end if he stopped. Charlie touches you like you might break, like he’s holding porcelain in his hands.

The difference claws at you, even as your body arches into him, chasing the steady heat.

“Charlie,” you breathe, half-plea, half-warning, and his lips return to yours instantly, swallowing it down.

It deepens, the kisses turning messier, hungrier, his careful patience fraying as your fingers trace down his back, pulling him closer, closer. His glasses tilt again and this time you don’t fix them, you’re too busy gasping into his mouth when his thumbs stroke slow circles against your skin.

You can feel him shaking a little, whether from nerves or restraint you don’t know. Maybe both.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, chest heaving. “Tell me if I– if it’s too much,” he whispers, like he means it. Like he’d stop right here if you said so.

And god, that’s the part that undoes you.

Because Schlatt never asked.

You press your mouth back to his, harder this time, desperate, and his hands tighten like he finally believes you’re not going anywhere.

The TV screen goes dark on its own, the Shrek menu long forgotten. All that fills the room now is the sound of your ragged breaths, the quiet, needy hum of his voice when you tug him closer, and the thundering contradiction in your chest. Charlie steady and soft, Schlatt burning in the back of your mind anyway.

Charlie’s hands slip higher under your shirt, tentative at first, palms warm against your ribs like he’s mapping new territory. When you don’t stop him- when you lean into it- his grip firms, still careful, still steady, but more certain now.

Your own fingers skate under the hem of his t-shirt, brushing over his stomach, and the shiver that runs through him makes you smile against his mouth. He exhales sharply, then kisses you harder, urgency breaking through the restraint he’s tried so hard to hold.

The blanket tangles around your legs as you shift, adjusting in his lap, and Charlie’s hands fly to your hips, grounding you there. His glasses are completely crooked now, but he doesn’t care– doesn’t stop kissing you long enough to fix them, even when you laugh breathlessly and tug them off, tossing them aside.

“Better,” you tease, and he grins against your mouth before pulling you in again.

His mouth trails down your neck, slow and reverent, and when his teeth graze your collarbone you gasp, fingers clutching at his shirt like you’ll fall without him. He murmurs something you can’t make out– half curse, half your name– and it sends heat spiraling through you.

Your hands roam without thinking, tugging at the soft cotton of his t-shirt until it’s bunched at his ribs. He helps you pull it over his head, tossing it aside, and then he’s all warmth, chest pressed to yours through thin layers that suddenly feel like too much.

Charlie kisses you like you’re fragile even as the make-out turns heated, his hands roaming your back, your waist, your thighs, but never pushing further than you let him. Every touch is patient, like he’s memorizing every inch he’s allowed.

You can’t stop the comparisons in your head. Schlatt’s rough hands, hurried and hungry, claiming every part of you before you could catch up. Charlie’s are the opposite, open, careful, trembling with restraint, like he’d rather go slow forever than risk losing you.

It makes your chest ache, even as you melt deeper into him.

Charlie’s mouth never leaves yours for long, just enough to murmur your name like it’s something sacred before diving back in. His hands slip beneath your shirt, slow but deliberate this time, and when you lift your arms, he tugs it over your head and tosses it aside. His breath catches when he takes you in, eyes wide, lips parted like he can’t decide if he should kiss you or just stare.

You don’t give him the chance to overthink. You grab his jaw, drag him back in, your chest pressing flush to his bare skin, heat sparking everywhere you touch. His hands roam up your back, across your ribs, fingers trembling until you guide them down, pressing his palms where you want him most.

He pulls back for a moment, forehead against yours, breath ragged. “Fuck…..You’re… unreal,” he whispers, like he can’t believe you’re here.

And before you can think too hard, before guilt can catch up, you’re pulling him back down, lips crashing into his, hands tangling in his hair, desperate to drown in the tenderness he offers so freely.

Soon jeans and sweats are tugged clumsily away, laughter bubbling between heated kisses when you nearly trip over the blanket. It’s messy, unpracticed, the two of you trying to navigate angles on a couch too small for this, but none of it matters. Every brush of his skin against yours makes you burn hotter, makes you forget everything else– Angie, Katie, Schlatt.

Charlie touches you like you’re breakable, every motion careful, hesitant, as though asking a silent question with each shift of his hands. You answer with your body, leaning into every touch, pulling him closer, whispering his name between kisses until his restraint starts to fray.

When he finally settles over you, bare chest pressed to bare chest, it’s almost too much- too intimate, too consuming. He pauses, forehead pressed to yours, eyes closed like he’s holding on by a thread.

“You sure?” His voice is rough, shaking, but steady where it matters, in the way only Charlie can be.

“Yes,” you breathe, no hesitation.

After, the world feels quieter. The two of you lie tangled together on the couch, your chest still rising fast against his, his forehead tucked against your shoulder. Neither of you speaks at first, only listening to the sound of the other’s breath, the warmth of skin on skin.

Charlie shifts eventually, lifting his head to look at you. His hair is mussed, his cheeks flushed, but his eyes are soft—softer than you’ve ever seen them. He presses a lingering kiss to your temple, then laughs under his breath, shy and boyish. “We, uh… should probably get up before we’re glued here forever.”

You groan, burying your face against his chest. “Five more minutes.”

He laughs again, rolling his eyes, but you can feel the smile in the way his chest shakes. “C’mon. Shower.”

The steam and water wash away the haze, though Charlie’s fussing nearly undoes you all over again. By the time you’re both rinsed and dried, you’re laughing again, Charlie trying to wrap a towel around you like you’re delicate, you swatting at him, both of you blushing and grinning. He insists on handing you his sweats and shirt, watching with something like awe as you slip them on.

“You’re staring,” you point out, tugging at the hem of the shirt into place. 

“Yeah,” he admits, unabashed, grin crooked and cheeks pink. “Not sorry.”

Back in the living room, he pulls a blanket over the both of you on the couch. You settle against his chest, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist, still warm from the shower. He grabs the remote, scrolling until the familiar green ogre fills the screen.

“Really? We’re still going to watch Shrek 3?” you ask, tilting your head at him.

“Don’t knock it,” he says, smirking. “It’s a classic. Perfect post… y’know.” His blush flares again, but you only laugh, curling closer.

As the movie plays, his fingers trace lazy circles on your hip, his breaths evening out against your hair. The teasing fades to quiet, to warmth, until both of you drift off tangled together, lulled to sleep by the soft glow of the TV and the absurd background noise of talking donkeys.

You wake slowly, sunlight warm on your face, a heavy weight draped over your waist. Charlie’s chest rises and falls steady against your back, his breath tickling the crown of your head. For a blissful moment, you don’t think about anything -  not what last night means, not what comes next - only that he’s warm, safe, and holding you like he’ll never let go.

When you shift, his arm tightens around you instinctively. He hums a sleepy noise, lips brushing your hair. “Morning,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep.

You turn toward him, blinking at his messy hair, his half-lidded eyes, that crooked grin tugging at his mouth. He looks unfairly soft, puppy-eyed and perfect, and the sight of him melts every last edge out of you.

“Hi,” you whisper, grinning without meaning to.

His thumb rubs lazy circles against your hip. “Hi.”

It starts slow - just a kiss to his jaw, then his nose, then his mouth. Before long you’re tangled in him all over again, kissing lazily, giggling against his lips when he whines softly and pulls you closer. Time feels slow here, syrupy, like nothing exists beyond the blanket around you and the heat of his mouth.

So you don’t even hear the front door open.

You don’t hear Emma set down a grocery bag.

You only hear her when she screams.

“OH MY GOD, IT HAPPENED!”

You jolt, breaking apart just enough to see Emma standing in the doorway, eyes wide, grin wider. She claps a hand over her mouth, then points at the two of you tangled together on the couch. “I knew it! I knew it, And here I was thinking you two were just gonna keep making goo-goo eyes at each other forever.”

Charlie groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder like maybe he can hide there. His ears are crimson, his laugh muffled. “Emma, please…”

You can’t even get words out, you’re laughing too hard, face buried in his chest, heat rising to your cheeks as Emma does a full victory lap around the living room.

“Oh my god,” she says again, triumphant. 

Emma throws both arms in the air like she just won the lottery. “Oh my GOD, I have to tell everyone. Angie, Katie- literally the entire town needs to know this finally happened.”

You wince, burying your face in your hands. “Emma, no-”

But she’s already halfway to the kitchen, muttering gleefully about who she’s going to call first. The words stick in your chest, though, twisting. Tell everyone. Like this is something you’re ready to define. Like you even know what it is.

At least with Schlatt, there hadn’t been questions. You’d known exactly what it was with him-

Sorta anyway-

Casual, sharp edges, no promises, no future. And for the second half of the night, you hadn’t thought of him once. Until now.

Your chest tightens. You hate yourself for it, for letting him back into your head when Charlie’s arms are still warm around you, when Charlie’s lips were on yours moments ago.

Charlie tilts his head, peering down at you with bleary puppy eyes. “Hey.” His voice is low, scratchy from sleep, but steady. He tips your chin gently so you’ll meet his gaze. “Don’t listen to her, okay? She just likes being loud. We don’t have to… figure out anything right this second.”

Something in you unclenches at that, your breath leaving all at once. He grins, crooked and soft. “Besides, if anyone’s telling stories, I’d prefer you let me brag first.”

You laugh, a little broken but genuine, pressing your face into his shoulder. “Gonna tell all your old Dnd buddies?”

“Maybe,” he says witha chuckle, arms tightening around you like he’ll never let go.

From the kitchen, Emma calls out, sing-song: “Don’t mind me! Just making coffee and processing the fact that my matchmaking career is officially undefeated!”

Charlie groans, you giggle, and just like that the knot in your chest unravels, leaving the two of you tangled in warmth and laughter, a little flustered, a little messy, but undeniably together.

Emma eventually drifts down the hall, leaving you and Charlie in a blanket-tangled heap on the couch. For a moment, it’s quiet again, soft breaths and warm skin. Then a shriek carries down the hallway.

“Katie, you’re not gonna believe me-”

You bury your face in Charlie’s chest with a groan. “She’s actually calling people.”

Charlie chuckles, low and rough from sleep, his hand tracing absent circles along your back. “Told you. She lives for the drama.”

“She’s gonna tell everyone,” you mumble into his shirt.

“Let her” he says simply, tilting his head to press a kiss to your hair. 

You tip your head back to look at him, and his grin is crooked, boyish, still flushed from sleep. He leans in for a kiss, and you let him, soft and sweet, before he pulls back with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s make pancakes.”

“Pancakes?” you echo, head tilting at the idea.

“Yeah.” He sits up, tugging you with him, hair sticking up in every direction. “We deserve pancakes. Celebration pancakes.”

You narrow your eyes playfully, lips quirking. “Oh? And what exactly are we celebrating Charlie?”

He freezes for a second, caught, the tips of his ears going pink. Then that crooked grin pulls at his mouth, half-shy, half-sly. “Uh… I dunno. Best sleepover ever?” 

You laugh, cheeks warming, and swat his arm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he says, pulling you with him toward the kitchen. “But I make really good pancakes, so you’ll forgive me.”

In the kitchen, sunlight spills across the counters. You find yourself leaning against Charlie while he rummages for flour and eggs, his hand brushing yours every time you reach for the same thing. He hums under his breath, and you can’t stop smiling at how earnestly he takes it.

From down the hall, Emma’s voice carries again, muffled but unmistakable: “I told you, Katie! I told you it would happen!” followed by another shriek of laughter.

Charlie groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, she’s never gonna shut up.”

You laugh, nudging his side. “Guess we’re stuck proving her right, then.”

He looks at you for a long moment, soft grin tugging at his mouth, then bumps his shoulder into yours. “Guess so.”

And with that, the two of you fall into the easy rhythm of mixing batter, bumping hips, stealing kisses between measuring cups, mmaking pancakes in a sunlit kitchen while Emma’s delighted screams echo faintly from her room, proof that the whole world doesn’t matter half as much as this moment does.

It’s early noon by the time you finally manage to slip out of the Dalgleish household-though not before Charlie sneaks in even more kisses during and after breakfast. At the door, he pulls you in for one more. Soft, slow, enough to make you melt- and he must know it, because when he pulls back, there’s a playful smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You trying to convince me to stay longer, Charlie?”

“Did it work?” he asks, hand gliding over your hip.

You’re still in his clothes, your own stuffed in a bag slung over your shoulder. You hum, leaning closer, eyes catching his. “Keep it up and it might.”

This kiss is different, more eager, his tongue darting against yours, pulling a sound from your throat. Both hands find your hips now, bracing, tugging you closer until you’re pressed flush against him. In this moment, he has you wrapped around his finger, and you know you’d give in if it weren’t for-

“Woah! Okay.”

Emma’s voice cuts through. She’s covering her eyes with both hands as you and Charlie spring apart, breathless. “I’m all for this, but maybe keep it behind closed doors?”

You can’t help but laugh, especially when Charlie pouts like a scolded kid. It takes everything in you to actually pull away from him this time.

Emma leans against the hallway frame, eyes sparkling with sheer glee. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow!”

You groan. “Don’t remind me.” But then you glance back at Charlie, and the grin sneaks back across your face. “I’ll see you soon?” It comes out more nervous, more hopeful than you mean it to, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His shoulders ease, his eyes softening.

“How about I bring you coffee after I hit the gym in the morning?” he offers.

You groan gleefully, unable to help yourself. “You’re perfect, you know that?”

Charlie laughs, ducking his head, though you don’t miss the way his ears flush pink. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“See you then.”

The car feels too quiet on the drive home. 

Just you, the faint hum of the engine, and your thoughts pressing in on all sides.

It hits you then. Hard. A pang of guilt, sharp and sudden. Not because it’s Emma’s brother; Emma made it clear years ago she’d practically shove the two of you together if she could. No- the guilt runs deeper, uglier.

Because last night, you had absolutely drowned yourself in Charlie. You’d let yourself sink into his warmth, his sweetness, the way he touched you like you mattered, like you were the only thing that did. You clung to that feeling so fiercely it scared you. Because deep down you know what you were doing.

You were escaping Schlatt.

Just like before, when you’d let yourself get tangled up in Schlatt to escape Ted.

Your stomach twists. You grip the steering wheel tighter.

You’re awful.

The words rattle through you, hot and bitter.

But then another thought breaks through, shaky but insistent. It wasn’t like it wasn’t real. The kisses, the laughter, the way Charlie whispered your name like it was sacred.

None of that was fake. None of that was imagined.

You weren’t lying when you moaned under his hands, when you smiled against his lips, when your chest ached at the way he looked at you this morning like you were something worth waking up to.

It wasn’t like you used him. Was it?

You let out a breath, knuckles white against the wheel.

You do have feelings for him. You’ve always had feelings for him, even if you tried to bury them beneath Ted, beneath Schlatt, beneath whatever part of you was too scared to face what Charlie might mean if you really let him in.

So it wasn’t all bad intentions. It wasn’t all selfish.

But then why does it feel like it?

Why does your chest ache with guilt, even as a smile threatens to tug at your lips remembering the way Charlie had kissed you goodbye, slow and soft like he couldn’t help himself?

Because maybe that’s the truth of it-

you don’t regret him.

 You don’t regret Charlie.

You just don’t know if you deserve him.

[hyunnie-beee]

Ooga Booga would like to Announce Marlo 👩🏼‍🍼 Is a Sunshine of a baby.

-Ooga Booga The First

love that for us Ooga Booga

Parenthood is such a journey.

[hyunnie-beee]

you are such a talented writer omg !!!!!!

Thank you so much! I take a lot of inspiration from authors such as Sara J. Mass, Rebecca Yarros, Laura Nowlin, Lisa Stone, Victoria Aveyard.

All amazing female authors who's books I couldn't put down, the way they write character depth deeply inspired me- especially Sara J Mass- the way she gives you a full story- full romances instead of 'here's the love interest you're stuck with him/her' Mostly in the Throne of Glass series but reading the character growth through those books- the way her characters love- okay I'm sorry I'll stop but you get the idea (can you tell I'm rereading the series lmao)

But again thank you- I can't express how much it means to me to have others enjoy my writing as much as I enjoy creating my works.

Love,

Honey 🍯

[hyunnie-beee]

we're not talking nearly enough about how good a charschlatt threesome could actually go for roxie hart.... SO good

Let me tell you- If I can find a way to make it happen I would LOVE to write it but I can't make any promises due to how I have things mapped - BUT what if I told you the 18+ version of tongiht/tomorrow's chaprer is 24 pages long..... or 9.3k words....and it may be a LOT of Charlie.....

[hyunnie-beee]

💋Roxie Hart 👠 Ch. 9

Ch.9 - Isn't it Grand?

Pairings: Ted Nivison x reader, Jschlatt x reader, Charlie (Slimecicle) x reader

Synopsis: You’re back home after your first year at UCLA with one goal in mind: Return in the fall as the undeniable star of the theater program. Confident. Magnetic. Unforgettable. Step one? Live the part all summer long. It just so happens your three best friends each have very attractive older brothers. And their attention? Well… that could help you a lot. That’s your excuse, anyway.

Ted should be the easy one, he’s the boy you never really got over, the one with history written into your bones. But your heart might not be ready to risk that again. Schlatt keeps circling with sharp eyes and sharper comments, turning your little act into a game of cat and mouse (you’re just not sure who’s chasing who.) And Charlie? He’s a lovesick puppy every time you so much as blink in his direction. Everything’s going according to plan. Until it’s not. Because some roles cut too close. Some pasts don’t stay buried. And this summer? Might just write a whole new script you didn’t see coming.

Genre: College AU (?), Summer Romance, Love Triangle (or square?), Friends-to-Lovers, Exes with Unfinished Business, Enemies-to-???, Feminine Rage.

A/N: I definitely didn't forget what day of the week it was. or anything.... I'm sorry, as an apology I've combined 2 chapters into 1!!! so enjoy that! also Tumblr has been so stupid so if things look weird or if i forgot a divider somewhere blame it.

T/W: The usual (cursing), physical altercation.

Chapter length: a whopping 8.4k, i'm insane.

Roxie Hart Masterlist

You don’t know why you’re nervous. It’s literally just dinner with your dad.

Your parent. The man who raised you.

The man who left the day you came home, with barely a goodbye.

Okay-ouch. He didn’t mean it like that. He’s not abandoning you. He’s just… figuring things out.

 At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you grab your bag and head out the door.

The drive is quiet, the weight in your chest heavier than the summer air outside. By the time you step into the restaurant and spot him at a corner booth, you feel like you’ve been holding your breath for days.

Dinner starts stiff, like shaking hands with a stranger. He asks about LA, you ask about work. Neither of you mentions the thing sitting in the middle of the table, bigger than the plates of food, heavier than the silverware.

But eventually, the awkwardness melts. He tells one of those old stories you’ve heard a hundred times,the one about the broken lawnmower and the neighbor’s fence,and you can’t help but laugh. You tell him about the bakery, about the chaos of small-town drama, and he listens with the same patient smile he always had when you were little.

Still… you can’t stop noticing it. The sadness in his eyes. Not sharp, not overwhelming. Just constant, like a shadow.

It eats at you until the words spill out. “Were things really that bad between you and Mom?”

He looks at you for a long time before answering, his mouth curving into something small, fragile. “I didn’t think so.”

The answer stings. “Then why… why separate?”

He exhales, folding the napkin in his lap with deliberate care. When he finally meets your gaze, his eyes are soft, full of love and something else you can’t name.

“I loved your mom. Still do. That’ll never change. She gave me you. She gave me years of my life I wouldn’t trade for anything.” His voice doesn’t waver, but there’s weight in it.

Your chest tightens. “So… what changed?”

His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t look away. “That’s not my question to answer.” A beat. “I won’t speak for her… or the man she-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head sharply. “I just won’t speak for her.”

The silence that follows presses in, heavy and unresolved. You can’t shake the echo of his unfinished sentence, sharp as glass in the back of your mind. You want to push, to demand more, but his hand finds yours on the table, warm and steady.

“What won’t ever change,” he says, giving your hand a squeeze, “is that I’m your dad. I’ll always be here when you need me.”

You blink hard, throat tight, trying to take comfort in his words. And you do. You really do. But when you walk out into the night air later, you can’t shake the echo of that sadness in his eyes.

And all the questions left burning about your mother.

Some part of you feels steadier as you drive home, but as if to balance it out, another piece of you feels like it’s shifted sideways. The word choices keeps replaying in your head. The way his voice snagged on the man she-. You try not to hear it, but it clings, sticky and insistent.

Even so, when you step through the door, your mom greets you the same as always. “Hey, sweetie. Have a good time?”

You hum in response, heading straight for the kitchen for a glass of water.

“I was just about to put on The Proposal,” she calls from the living room. “You wanna watch it with me?”

“Sure,” you shout back, your voice thinner than you mean it to be.

That lump in your throat follows you to the couch. You sink into the cushions beside her, the blanket brushing your arm, and pretend to watch as she does her usual running commentary,laughing at Sandra Bullock, making some off-hand comment about Ryan Reynolds’ abs being “illegal.”

But you can’t focus. Not with your dad’s words circling like vultures. Not with the thought gnawing at you: Had she been with someone else this whole time? While he was still here? While you were still under the same roof?

Your gaze keeps flicking from the screen to her face, searching for… something. A crack. A shadow. Anything that would tell you what kind of person your mom really is.

She notices, of course. “What?” she asks lightly, eyes still on the TV. Then, after a pause, she shifts to face you more fully, her brows pinched. “What is it? Did your dad say something?”

The question hits like a strike, your chest tightening. You can’t lie convincingly, not with your throat this tight, but you don’t have the strength to ask her either. You don’t have the confidence to hear her answer.

Your silence lingers too long. Her gaze sharpens, the air between you charged with suspicion. “Honey?” she presses again, her voice careful now. “Talk to me.”

You jolt to your feet, the blanket sliding off your lap in a heap. “No, I’m okay. I just-” Your breath hitches. “I just need some air.”

Her hand reaches for you, her face etched with confusion and something that looks a lot like guilt. You try to smile, weak and useless, but the sorrow in her eyes tells you it doesn’t land.

Shoes on, door open, cool night air against your skin.

But your head is too quiet. Too empty. The dread presses down heavy in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

Your thumb moves before your brain can catch up. Dialing.

He doesn’t even get a greeting out before you’re speaking, voice too high, too fragile. “You still up for that drive?”

You don’t even remember how long it takes. A handful of minutes? A lifetime?

But then you see the familiar sputter of headlights as a beat-up Tacoma pulls into your driveway. The engine grumbles before cutting off, leaving the night quiet again.

The door swings open, and Ted is out in an instant.

“Jesus, you’re freezing.” His voice is low, sharp with concern as he takes in the way your teeth are chattering, your arms wrapped around yourself despite the night being far from cold.

He doesn’t hesitate,just ushers you toward the truck, one hand hovering at your back like he’s afraid to push too hard. He opens the passenger door for you and helps you up like it’s instinct.

“Here.” He grabs a jacket from the back seat, shaking it out before draping it over your shoulders. It’s worn, soft, and it smells like him,cedar and something warm you remember too well.

Your throat catches as you pull it tighter around you.

He slides into the driver’s seat, shutting the door. The cab is dim, lit only by the dashboard glow, and when he glances at you, his eyes are full of something that makes your chest ache,concern, yes, but softer, steadier than you expected.

His hands grip the wheel, like he doesn’t know where else to put them. You see the twitch in his fingers, the way he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure if he’s allowed.

So instead, he just clears his throat and turns the key. The truck rumbles to life.

“Look,” he says, voice careful, “if you want to talk, I’ll listen. If not… we don’t have to. We can just drive. Put on some stupid music. Whatever you want. As long as it’s legal.”

The corner of your mouth twitches, and you hate that it almost makes you laugh.

He glances at you again, the smallest smile tugging at his lips. “Anything you want, okay?”

The hum of the tires and the low murmur of music should be soothing. But it isn’t. Not tonight. Not with your thoughts tangling tighter the longer the silence stretches.

Ted doesn’t speak. You know he means it to be comforting , giving you space, letting you lead. But all it does is leave you alone with your head, spiraling deeper.

Finally, it snaps out of you, hoarse and uneven. “Can you pull over?”

His eyes flick toward you, a crease of worry cutting his brow, but he doesn’t ask. Just eases the truck to the side of the road, gravel crunching under the tires until you’re in the middle of nowhere.

Before the truck has even fully stopped, you’re pushing the door open. The night air hits your skin sharp and cool as you circle around the back. Without hesitation, you drop the tailgate like it’s yours to touch, climbing up and flopping backward onto the cold metal.

The sky above is heavy and blank, clouds blotting out every star. It almost feels mocking,like even the universe won’t give you light tonight.

You swing your legs off the end, heels knocking lightly against the steel. The truck dips when Ted joins you, slower, more tentative.

“So…” he starts, voice awkward, searching.

“They’re getting divorced.” The words tumble out before you can stop them. You push yourself upright, fingers knotting together in your lap. “My parents. They told me the day I came home.”

Ted stills, his mouth parting, but you’re not finished. The dam has cracked.

“And I thought-I thought it was just… normal stuff, you know? Distance, falling out of love. But tonight-” Your throat tightens. “My dad… he said some things. Not directly, but… enough.”

You glance at Ted’s face, see his frown deepening, and drop your gaze to your hands. “It sounded like she’s been with someone else. That maybe she’s still with him. And I can’t-” Your voice breaks into a humorless laugh. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About her sitting there like everything’s fine, like Ryan Reynolds’ abs are the only thing on her mind, when-”

You cut yourself off, dragging a shaky breath. “God, what kind of person does that? Cheats on someone like my dad, then sits next to me on the couch like nothing’s wrong?”

Ted clears his throat, rough, as if the words knocked something out of him. “Holy shit. That’s… really shitty.”

You scoff, sharp and broken.

The silence that follows is thicker than before, heavy enough to press into your ribs. Ted shifts beside you, like he’s turning words over, searching for the right ones.

Finally, he huffs out something soft, almost ironic. “You know, when I pictured us catching up this summer, I kinda hoped it’d be less… tragic.” His voice carries just enough dry humor to catch you off guard.

A laugh bubbles out of you, surprised and unwilling, but real. You roll your eyes at him, wiping at the corners as the sound lingers.

“Us? Not tragic?” Your voice comes out lighter, teasing, but your eyes still shine with sadness. “I don’t know that was ever in our cards, Ted.”

The words hang there, meant as a joke, but they ache in the space between you. He feels it too,you see it in the flicker of his smile, in the way he glances away for just a second like the truth stung.

You clear your throat, forcing brightness into your tone. “Okay, come on. Distract me. Tell me something dumb. Anything.”

Ted leans back on his palms, brows lifting like he’s considering. Then the corner of his mouth quirks. “Well… the other night Katie called me to come pick her up from this party.”

You raise a brow. “That doesn’t sound dumb. That just sounds like Katie.”

“Oh, it gets worse.” He holds up a finger. “I show up, right? She’s outside on the curb, absolutely wrecked, clutching her shoes like they’ve personally betrayed her. And she’s-” He pauses, grinning despite himself. “-she’s completely covered in her own vomit. Like, it’s in her hair. I swear I didn’t even know a person could manage that much volume.”

Your jaw drops, and then you’re laughing, hard, your hand slapping the tailgate beside you. “No. No way.”

“I swear!” Ted leans forward, trying to stifle his own laugh and failing. “I had to drive her home with all the windows down because the smell was so bad. And the whole time she kept insisting she was fine, like she wasn’t leaving a Jackson Pollock painting on my passenger seat.”

You wheeze, covering your face with your hands. “Oh my God, poor Katie. That’s-disgusting. But also, oh my God.”

“She owes me, big time.” Ted shakes his head, but his grin is wide, warm. “I told her I’m never letting her live it down. Ever.”

The two of you dissolve into laughter again, lighter this time, freer. The ache in your chest doesn’t vanish, but it loosens, making space for something else-for air, for warmth, for the reminder that not everything has to hurt.

The laughter fades into quiet again, but this time it isn’t heavy. It hums in your chest, still warm when you tip your head back to the cloudy sky.

“Remember that time you had to pick all of us up from a party?” you ask, your lips twitching with a grin before the memory’s even finished forming.

Ted makes a thoughtful noise, eyes narrowing like he’s rifling through old drawers in his head.

“I think it was right at the beginning of that summer, right?” you add, your grin widening.

Recognition slams into him, and he bursts out laughing,loud, unrestrained, the sound echoing off the quiet trees around you. “Yes! God, I had to pile all of you into my truck and drag you back to our house.” He groans, shaking his head. “Wasn’t Angie trying to fight-”

“A mailbox,” you cut in, your grin splitting wider. “Yes. She was.”

You don’t mean to, but when you laugh this time you lean into him, shoulder brushing his. His warmth seeps through the fabric, and though he keeps the story going, you can feel his eyes lingering.

“Emma was crying the whole way,” he says, voice still thick with laughter, “swearing her parents were gonna ground her for life.”

You hum, nodding along. “Katie was obnoxious as always.”

“Of course she was.” His chuckle matches yours. And then he looks at you, really looks, and his voice softens without meaning to. “And then there was you.”

Your heart flips, but you keep your eyes on the clouds above.

“You were just barely over that tipsy line,” he says, smiling at the memory. “Grinning at me like you didn’t care your friends were around. Like my sister wasn’t sitting right there in the truck.”

Your cheeks heat, and you glance away, suddenly shy. “Couldn’t help it, I guess. You were kind of my knight in shining armor that night-saving me from the dungeon party.”

Ted snorts. “Dungeon. Please. It was a backyard kegger.”

“Same thing.” You click your tongue, smirking. “And maybe you looked about ten times hotter because I was drunk.”

He laughs, low and fond. “Mhm. That why you snuck into my room later that night?”

Your face goes hot, and you cover it with a sheepish laugh. “...Maybe.”

Ted’s grin spreads slow, eyes glinting in the dim light. “I was already half-asleep. And you just climbed in and started rambling about whatever popped into your head.” His voice softens. “It was cute.”

“Mmm.” You hum, crossing your arms and narrowing your eyes at him. “Cute until we almost got caught in the same bed that morning.”

Ted’s grin widens, and you jab him hard in the side. “You never should’ve let me fall asleep in there.”

He flinches at the jab, then retaliates with a quick pinch to your hip that makes you squeak. “Couldn’t help it,” he shoots back, smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ve got a soft spot for bossy, sharp-tongued theatre girls who never shut up.”

Your jaw drops, scandalized. “Excuse me?”

He smirks, voice softer now. “Don’t play innocent. You’ve been knocking me off balance since the second you figured out I’d let you get away with anything.”

You huff, but your lips twitch against your will, and finally you crack into a laugh.

The drive back is quiet, soft music low under the hum of the tires. It should feel like any other night on these back roads, but it doesn’t. Not with you in the passenger seat, hair tugged gently by the breeze through the cracked window, your head tipped just slightly as if you’re still lost in whatever pieces of yourself you gave away tonight.

Ted keeps his eyes on the road. At least, he tries to. But it’s useless.

Because Rust by Mon Rovia comes on, and the opening chords echo something inside him that he can’t name. He hears you sigh, quiet and distracted, and then, softly, without thinking, your voice joins the lyrics. Barely there. Barely more than a hum.

And that’s it. He’s gone.

His hands tighten on the wheel, his throat dry. The world should be this stretch of gravel and faded fence posts, but all he can see is you. All he can hear is your laughter from earlier, the way you leaned into him without realizing, the way you smiled like you didn’t know it was undoing him.

It’s like some part of him is screaming: don’t forget this. Don’t you dare forget this.

His fingers itch. Not for you- though, God, that too- but for a pen. For paper. For somewhere to write this down before it slips away. Your hair catching the last remnants of moonlight. The way you’re drumming your fingers on the windowsill to the beat. The sound of your voice weaving with the song like it belongs there.

If he doesn’t write it, he’s terrified he’ll lose it. And that feels worse than anything.

You turns just then, catching him looking, and for a second he thinks you can see it, see the mess you makes of him. He jerks his eyes back to the road, clears his throat like it’ll clear the heat off his face.

“Everything okay?” you asks lightly, voice teasing, though he hears the exhaustion under it.

He swallows, nods once, forces a smile he doesn’t quite feel. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

You hums in response, already drifting back into the music, and Ted lets out a breath slow enough to keep from shaking.

Thinking. Right. That’s one way to put it.

But really, all he can think is that if he doesn’t find a way to hold onto this moment-your voice, your smile, your you-then he’ll lose it. And he can’t. Not again.

Pulling back up to your house makes your chest ache all over again. Like distance is the only cure. Like if you could just keep driving, you wouldn’t have to feel all this.

Despite yourself, you turn to Ted as your hand grips the car door. “Thanks… for everything tonight. It really meant a lot to me.”

His eyes flick between yours, searching, something unreadable in them before he swallows hard. “Yeah. Me too.”

You nod, fingers tightening around the handle. You’re half out of the seat when his voice stops you again.

“If you need anything else-” He hesitates, the words catching before he forces them out. “I’m just a call away.”

You smile at him, small and tired, not catching the way his own smile falters at the edges. Not catching the way it doesn’t reach his eyes. To you, it’s kindness. Safety.

You murmur a soft “goodnight,” and slip out before he can say anything else.

The house is dark when you step inside. Mom isn’t in the living room, though her voice drifts muffled and low from behind her closed bedroom door,soft murmurs, like she’s on the phone. You don’t pause, don’t knock.

You climb the stairs, your body heavier with every step, until you finally collapse into your bed. The sheets smell like laundry detergent and home, but it doesn’t ease the twisting in your chest.

You let yourself replay the night, the clouds, the laughter, the way Ted’s eyes softened when he looked at you. New memories pressed into your mind like bruises you know you’ll carry.

And then, eventually, exhaustion swallows you whole.

Your dreams don’t come. Just silence. Aching, dreamless sleep.

Your alarm blares far too early, a shrill reminder that the world doesn’t care if you barely slept. It takes everything in you to drag your body out of bed, to shove yourself through the motions of getting ready.

You leave the house with just enough time to make it to the bakery,if you’re lucky.

The bell jingles as you walk in, and Emma’s bright, chipper face falters the moment she sees you. “What happened?” she asks immediately. No teasing, no sass,just plain, serious concern.

You sigh, ducking your head as you clock in. “I’ll tell you later. I don’t wanna get into it right now.”

Emma studies you for a beat longer, brows knitting, but eventually just exhales. “Okay. Later, then.”

The morning drags on in a blur,kneading dough, plastering on fake smiles for customers, the whole nine yards. By the time things finally slow, you and Emma are wiping counters with damp cloths, the silence between you heavy with everything unsaid.

Emma doesn’t even have to ask. The weight on your chest pushes the words out before she can. “I had dinner with my dad yesterday. First time since they told me about the divorce.”

Her rag stills mid-wipe, but you keep scrubbing at your table like maybe the wood grain will swallow you whole if you rub hard enough. “It was fine. Good, even. Until I asked about… why. And he slipped. Mentioned ‘the man my mom’s seeing.’”

Emma sucks in a breath through her teeth. You nod grimly, leaning on the table with both palms. “Yeah. So that’s been rattling around my head all night. I don’t even know how to look at her now. And she knows something’s off,she can tell.”

Silence stretches for a beat. The only sound is the faint hum of the ovens.

“I keep replaying everything,” you admit softly. “Every family dinner, every time she said she was running errands, every stupid night I thought she was just busy.” You bite down on your cheek. “Trying to figure out if I was blind, or if she was just that good at hiding it.”

Emma’s eyes soften. She sets the rag down and crosses her arms, tilting her head at you. “You’re not supposed to have answers to that. That’s not on you.”

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Tell that to my brain. Oh! And get this- last night she starts trying to figure out what’s going through my head and I am so not ready for that talk - so I bolt- and you know who I - for some fucking reason - deciced to call?”

Her brow creases. “Who?”

You hesitate, then let out a bitter laugh. “Out of all fucking people I could’ve called,my brain picked Ted.”

Emma jerks upright so fast her rag drops onto the counter. “Ted?! As in asshole Ted who is an asshole?”

You wince. “Yeah. I know. Trust me, I’ve been asking myself the same question.” Your voice dips, grudging. “But you know what? He wasn’t an ass. Not last night. He was… actually really nice.”

Emma’s eyes narrow, suspicion dripping from every word. “Nice. Ted.”

You cross your arms, defensive without meaning to. “I’m serious. We just drove around, talked about stupid shit. It wasn’t like that.”

She exhales, eyes steady on you. “You know I’ll support you no matter what. But one night of him being decent doesn’t cancel out what he put you through. If the way you reacted to that screenplay is any sign… you don’t need that kind of pain again.”

Heat creeps up your neck, but you force yourself to meet her stare. “It’s not like that,” you repeat, softer this time. “I think… maybe we’re finally figuring out how to act normal around each other. That’s all.”

 Normal.

The word tastes wrong in your mouth, but it’s the only excuse you’ve got. But even as you say it, your brain betrays you. Last night’s drive. His stupid Tacoma. The jacket he’d draped over your shoulders. The way his voice went soft when he told you he was still just a call away.

Emma’s boyfriend picked her up today, so you don’t even catch a glimpse of Charlie. Honestly, you’re a little grateful for it,your head’s still swimming, and the thought of facing him right now feels impossible.

What you really want is sleep. But the idea of being home- of sitting in that house, hearing your mom moving around, pretending things are normal,is unbearable. So you let yourself drift through errands you’ve been putting off, wandering aimlessly through aisles just to avoid being still.

You’re in the body wash aisle, comparing scents you don’t even care about, when your phone buzzes. Katie’s contact photo lights up your screen. For a split second, you think about ignoring it. You don’t feel like talking to anyone.

But you swipe to answer anyway. “Hello?”

“Where the fuck have you been?” Katie whines instantly.

It actually makes you laugh, small and unexpected, as you sniff a bottle of lavender wash. “Been at home, mostly. Working, on occasion. You know, real exciting stuff.” You pause, smirking. “Rumor has it you’ve been up to more fun than me, though.”

“Oh, yes I have.” Katie’s voice is smug. “And tonight-you’re coming with me.”

You blink. “I am?”

“Yes. Pleaseee.”

You hesitate, but the thought of more time away from home… away from the shadow of your mom’s choices… is tempting. “Fine,” you sigh. “Where?”

Katie doesn’t miss a beat. “You remember Cody Dame and Alexander Groves?”

You frown, digging through your memory. “Uh… yeah, I think. they were a year above us, right? With Schlatt?”

“Yup! They played baseball together too.”

“Okay. What about them?”

“well, “ she pauses “Alex -He’s throwing a party. And-” She drops her voice, like she’s halfway covering the phone. “Cody’s gonna be there. we’ve been sorta talking, You know?”

You stop dead in the aisle. “Wait, what happened to Ryan?” Her on-again, off-again boyfriend since basically sophomore year.

Katie groans. “We broke up. For good this time.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Mhm. Sure.”

“I’m serious!” She ignores you barreling on. “Anyway, I’ve been talking to Cody and I do not want to go alone.”

You already feel the dread crawling in-parties with Katie always spiral-but you know you’re too far in to back out now.

Another sigh escapes. “When are we leaving?”

Katie squeals so loud you wince, holding the phone away from your ear. “I’ll pick you up tonight!”

The call ends before you can fully regret agreeing.

Time slips by with you half-heartedly scrolling through social media until the guilt of doing nothing outweighs the effort. You force yourself up: shower, clothes (something that screams college party but not try-hard), then back to your desk for makeup.

,Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror as you lean in close,  window in the background, desk cluttered with brushes and compacts you don’t bother moving. The glass catches a flicker of movement outside, but you ignore it,until your phone buzzes.

Katie? No. Schlatt.

You glance instinctively toward his window,and sure enough, he’s there. Leaning in the frame, phone pressed to his ear, watching you.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Jonathan?” you say as you swipe the green button.

His grin is audible in his voice. “Ooo, the legal name? You still upset I ruined your little moment with Charlie?”

You click your tongue, dabbing at your eyeliner. “Did you call just to be an ass?”

His laugh carries even through the phone, low and warm. He doesn’t move, just watches you. “No. Called to see what you’re getting all dolled up for.”

You roll your eyes, setting down the brush. “What’s it matter to you?”

He hums like he’s enjoying a private joke. “Call it curiosity.”

For reasons you don’t fully understand, you indulge him. “A party.”

Even across the distance, you can see the way his brows pull together. His head cocks, sharp as a dog catching a sound. “What party?” There’s an edge in his voice now, one that wasn’t there a second ago.

Your back stiffens. Instinctively defensive. “Why do you care?”

He exhales, jaw working. Eventually, he just groans on the other line and for once, he doesn’t have a quick retort. His shoulders slump against the frame. “You and Ang are going to worry me to death. Just forget it.”

You huff out a laugh and make a show of pulling the phone from your face, pressing end call with an exaggerated tap like you want him to see it.

Across the way, he only shakes his head, lips curling into the smallest, infuriating smile.

When Katie pulls into the driveway the music is already rattling the windows, bass thumping hard enough to shake the mirrors. You can’t help the little smile tugging at your lips as she leans over the console to wave you in like she’s late to her own show.

You roll your eyes but open the door anyway, tossing your bag at your feet and sliding into the passenger seat. Katie immediately turns the volume down, grinning as she scrolls through her phone for a better song.

“Hey,” she chirps.

“Hey,” you answer, pulling your seatbelt across your chest, the click loud in the quieted car.

“Angie said to give her a few extra,” Katie adds casually, still scrolling.

Your hands still for a beat on the buckle. “…Angie’s coming?”

“Yeah,” Katie says simply, distracted as she sets a new playlist and drums her fingers on the wheel.

The word hangs heavy in your chest but you only nod once and mumble, “cool,” tugging the seatbelt tighter than you need to.

It’s only another minute before the front door opens and Angie steps out, adjusting the strap of her bag as she walks toward the car. She’s still mid-scroll on her phone when she rounds the hood, her eyes flicking up, and catching on you.

She freezes. Just for a second. Enough to make the air lock in your throat.

You watch her brows twitch, her mouth press tight, and then she shakes it off, pasting on a too-neutral expression. Without a word she yanks open the back door, climbs in, and snaps her seatbelt like nothing happened.

“Hey,” she mutters, quick, clipped.

“Hey,” you echo, softer, not looking back.

Katie is completely oblivious, grinning wide as she eases the car into reverse, immediately diving back into chatter about Cody, her hands flying, her voice pitched high with excitement.

From the corner of your eye you catch Angie’s reflection in the rearview mirror, phone clutched in her hands, gaze locked anywhere but on you. The silence between you hums louder than the music filling the car.

The music is pounding through the walls of Alex Groves’ house, bass thumping like it’s trying to shake your bones loose. Colored lights strobe over the crowd, flashing red-blue-purple across faces half lit with sweat and booze. The kitchen reeks of cheap vodka and spilt beer, someone yelling about flip cup over the din, but Katie is nowhere near you anymore - she vanished the second Cody appeared, dragging him by the hand toward the backyard with a grin that said she wouldn’t be back for a while.

That leaves you and Angie.

The two of you hover awkwardly near the counter, plastic cups in hand, pretending the other isn’t there. Every time your eyes skim her face, hers snap away. Every time she tucks her hair behind her ear, you shift your weight like you’re about to say something but don’t.

Finally, it’s the alcohol that cuts through the tension. By the time you’re refilling for the third time, liquid courage burns hot in your chest and you blurt, “We can’t just keep doing this, you know. Pretending the other doesn’t exist.”

Angie stiffens, then turns to you, mouth already forming a sharp retort - but it dies before it can escape. She stares at her cup for a beat, swirls the liquid, then sighs. “You’re right. I’ve been… kind of a bitch.”

You blink, thrown by her bluntness. “Wow. Was not expecting that tonight.”

A laugh slips out of her, quick and self-deprecating. “Yeah, me either.” She leans her elbows on the counter, shoulders slumping. “It’s stupid, really. When we were kids… I had this thing for Charlie.”

Your head jerks. it’s not new information to you, but for her sake, you act like it is. “Wait, what?”

Angie nods, lips twisting. “I mean, come on. He was older, funny, everyone liked him. And me being me - I never admitted it. Not once. Just buried it under everything else.” She shrugs, looking at you properly now. “So when I saw you and him, the way you’ve been lately… I guess all that dumb leftover jealousy came clawing up.”

The honesty of it hits you harder than expected. For a second, you’re just quiet, chewing on your lip before muttering, “That’s… actually really fair. I didn’t know.”

“Yeah.” She sighs again, shaking her head. “Not your fault. I just projected all my crap onto you.”

Something loosens in your chest, the tension you’ve been carrying between you slowly dissolving. You bump her shoulder lightly. “So we’re good?”

Angie tilts her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. We’re good.”

Relief floods you, warm as the alcohol buzzing in your veins. You grin back.

Then Angie adds, teasing, “I mean, it’s not like you’re sleeping with my brother or anything.”

She laughs, loud and careless, clinking her cup against yours before throwing back another gulp.

And you force your laugh to join hers, your throat tightening around it.

The joke lands too close, cuts a little too sharp, because if she only knew…

Your smile stays fixed, but your stomach twists as the sound of her laughter swirls with the music and the noise, and you remind yourself to swallow it all down, bury it deep, and pretend.

The bathroom mirror confirms what you already know - you’re tipsy, flushed, eyes a little too bright. You pat your face, smooth your hair, then wander back out into the noise.

Angie is across the room now, perched on the arm of a couch, leaning in close to some guy you’ve never seen before. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, clearly eating up every word she says. For a second you just watch, a smile tugging at your lips. Good for her.

Your cup is empty anyway, so you pivot toward the kitchen, hips swaying with the music, your step light with that buzz that makes everything seem funnier, looser.

You barely make it around the corner before colliding with someone’s chest.

“Oh shit, sorry,” you start, but then you look up.

Alex Groves.

His smile spreads slow and greasy. “No way. You’re Katie’s friend, right? Holy hell… didn’t think you could get hotter since high school, but here we are.”

Your stomach flips. You force a polite laugh, already stepping aside. “Uh, thanks.”

He plucks the empty cup from your hand before you can stop him. “Nah, nah, you’re not drinking that cheap shit. I hid the good stuff. Perks of it being my house.”

You try to shake your head, reaching for the cup. “It’s fine, really-”

But he’s already turning, swaggering to the counter, pouring heavy-handed vodka into soda, the ratio all wrong. He presses it into your hand with a wink. “Don’t say I never take care of pretty girls.”

You murmur thanks and try to edge away, but every time you angle your body, he fills the space again, leaning close, firing off sleazy jokes. Little digs about how you “clean up nice” and “bet all the guys from your year are kicking themselves now.”

You nod, sip, pretend to listen, but your eyes are darting, scanning the room. No Katie. No Angie. Nobody to save you.

When he follows you back to the den, still talking, you start giving clipped answers. “Mhm.” “Right.” “Cool.”

But then his hand is at your hip, fingers grazing too close, voice dropping. “You know, I always wondered what it’d be like to get with a girl like you.”

Your stomach knots. “Okay. Time for me to find my friends-”

You turn, but his hand clamps around your arm. “Oh, come on. Stay a while. I don’t bite. Hard.”

“Something going on here?”

The voice cuts sharp through the bass.

Your head snaps up. Schlatt.

Black sweatshirt, jeans, standing like he’d been carved out of shadow, eyes locked on Alex’s hand gripping you.

Relief hits you so fast it’s dizzying.

Alex lights up like they’re old buddies. “No fucking way. Schlatt! How the hell are you, man?”

Schlatt doesn’t look at him. Not once. His eyes stay fixed on that grip, then flick up to your face, sharp, searching, before he spits out, “I’d be a lot better if you let go of my girlfriend.”

Girlfriend.

The word rattles through you, makes your pulse kick even though you know it’s a lie.

Alex scoffs but finally drops your arm. “Funny, she didn’t mention she had a man.”

You move without thinking, stepping closer to Schlatt, your arm brushing his.

And that’s when Alex grins, eyes flicking between you two, and says something that makes your blood run cold.

“Well shit, good for you, man. Can’t say I blame you. Girl like her? Tight little body like that? I’d keep her busy too.”

The words are filthy, raw enough that the people closest whip their heads around. A few gasps ripple, the music still thudding in the background but the mood shifting fast.

Schlatt’s grin is gone. His face goes blank in a way that’s worse, jaw flexing, tongue pressing to his cheek.

Then he swings.

The crack of fist on jaw echoes over the bass. Alex staggers back, slamming into the wall, cursing as people shout, “fight!”

Schlatt doesn’t hesitate, landing another hard punch before Alex manages to catch him with a wild one back.

And Schlatt just grins. Wicked. Blood already streaking his lip as his tongue darts out to taste it.

He lunges, ready for more, but you grab at him, fingers clutching his arm. “Stop! Schlatt, please, just stop. Let’s go.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off Alex, chest heaving, but after a long beat he jerks his arm free only to grab your wrist instead, tugging you behind him as he storms for the door.

The crowd parts, phones up, whispers flying.

And the last thing you see before the night air swallows you is Katie and Cody pushing through to help Alex up.

And Angie.

Her eyes wide, her mouth half-open as she watches her brother drag you out the front door.

The car ride is silent. The radio hums low but it feels like static, nothing cuts through the sound of your pulse in your ears. Schlatt’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel, jaw tight, and you’re pressed against the window, still reeling, drunk enough that everything feels like it’s swaying.

Neither of you says a word until he pulls into your driveway. He kills the engine so hard the truck shudders, then he’s out, slamming his door and whipping yours open before you can reach for the handle.

“Get out,” he mutters, clipped, rough. He offers his hand anyway.

You blink at him, stunned, but take it. The ground tilts under your feet, and before you can argue he’s steering you toward the house with a hand at your elbow, steady, infuriatingly steady.

And that’s when it bursts out of you. “I didn’t need your help.”

His head snaps toward you, eyes sharp in the porch light. “Oh please. You were fucking sending save me eyes to everyone in that room, looking for my sister.”

“Yeah. Her. Not you.”

“Well she wasn’t doing anything now was she?” His voice rises, hot, teeth gritted.

You jerk your arm out of his hold as he opens your front door anyway. “So? That doesn’t mean you get to barge in like some hero.”

He slams the door behind you, nostrils flaring. “Did you really want to be talking to him?”

“Well no, but-”

“Then a thank you will suffice.”

Your laugh is sharp, disbelieving, as the two of you climb the stairs.  “Jonathan, you fucking punched him!”

“Yeah,” he fires back, chest heaving, “did you hear the stupid shit he was saying? He deserved it.”

You throw your hands up. “That doesn’t make it okay!”

“I don’t wanna hear anyone talk about you like that. Ever.” His voice cracks on it, too honest, too raw.

You freeze, words caught in your throat, hand on the doorknob to your room.

“Stop acting like you care,” you snap back, but your voice wavers, betrays you as you swing the door open and walk in.

He follows you, stepping closer than you expect, eyes burning. “Do you know how fucking scared I was when he grabbed you?”

And that does it. You don’t think, you don’t breathe, you just grab the front of his sweatshirt and drag him down.

The kiss is angry, messy, teeth clashing, but you don’t care, you need it, need him. His hands slam against your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you’re all but stumbling backward until your calves hit the edge of your bed.

You break just long enough to gasp, “You can’t just-”

But he cuts you off, mouth on yours again, rougher this time, like he’s been holding this in all night.

You fist your hands in his hair, tugging, desperate, drunk and furious and dizzy with him.

And when he finally tears away, breathing hard, his forehead rests against yours. “I care more than I should,” he mutters, voice wrecked.

Your chest aches and you kiss him again anyway.

He grips your hips and pushes, urging you down onto the bed, following with his weight until he’s braced over you. Your laugh slips out against his lips, breathless and wild. “You’re such an ass.”

“Yeah?” His grin flashes sharp, but his voice is wrecked. “And you like it.”

You glare, even as your fingers hook in his sweatshirt and drag him closer. “Maybe I do,” you mutter, biting his lip just to prove your point.

That earns a low growl combined with a hiss from his chest, his mouth trailing rough kisses down your jaw, your throat. “Bet you like me pissed off too,” he murmurs against your skin.

Your back arches, a shiver tearing through you. “Shut up,” you breathe, but your grip only tightens, nails scraping his neck as you pull him down again.

His laugh is low, dangerous, right against your ear. “Make me.”

And you do, crashing your mouth to his again, all teeth and heat and everything unspoken, until the world outside your room doesn’t exist anymore.

His mouth is still at your neck, teeth dragging just enough to make you gasp, his hand under your shirt warm and steady against your ribs. You arch up into him, desperate for more, but then his movements change. Not pulling away, not stopping, just… slowing. His lips soften against your skin, his hand easing instead of pushing.

“Hollywood,” he murmurs against your collarbone, voice low, strained. “You’re drunk. You shouldn’t…”

The words gut you, even though they’re gentle. You ache for him, every nerve buzzing, but you know he’s right. So instead of fighting, you nod faintly, pressing your forehead to his jaw. “Okay.”

That single word aches more than it should, but he exhales, relieved, and shifts so he’s lying next to you instead. Both of you facing each other in the dim light, his sweatshirt brushing your arm, his hand resting between you like an offering.

“You okay?” he asks, eyes scanning yours.

You let out a humorless laugh, tugging at his bruised hand until it’s in yours. “I should be asking you that. You look worse than me.”

Your fingers trace over his knuckles, the skin raw and swelling, then brush his split lip. His mouth twitches into a crooked grin. “Not my best look?”

You smirk, even though your chest aches. “Eh, you’ve had better.”

That earns a low laugh, his shoulders shaking, and for a second it’s easy-too easy.

But the weight creeps back in. “Angie saw,” you whisper. “She saw you hit him. Saw you drag me out. What if she puts it together?”

He sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand. “Yeah, she’s not stupid. She’ll figure it out.” He pauses, eyes flicking to yours, softer than you’ve ever seen them. “And I don’t wanna hurt her. I don’t. But…” His voice drops, rough. “I don’t wanna stop either.”

Your heart stutters.

He shifts, suddenly rambling like he can’t hold it in anymore. “I wasn’t lying. I care about you. More than I should. And I know I said last time was a one-time thing but-fuck- I didn’t want it to be. I wanted it to be more, even if it was just casual. Even if it was just you looking at me like you do when you’re laughing or, I don’t know, when you’re arguing with me.” He shakes his head, scoffing at himself. “And then dinner with Charlie? You think I didn’t see that? Him looking at you like-” He cuts himself off, groaning. “Christ, listen to me. I sound like I’m the one drunk.”

But he’s still going, words tumbling out. “I don’t know what I’m doing. You get under my skin, you always have, and now I can’t even pretend I don’t want more. And I’m not supposed to say that shit but-fuck, here we are.”

You blink at him, shocked, head spinning from alcohol and his honesty colliding. And then you laugh, soft and disbelieving. “You know… I kind of like this side of you.”

His brows shoot up. “What, me losing my shit like a lovesick idiot?”

You grin, fingers still toying with his. “Mhm. Softer Schlatt. You’re almost sweet.”

He groans, rolling onto his back with his arm over his face, but you hear the smile in his voice. “Don’t go spreading that around. I got a reputation to keep.”

You’re still tracing his knuckles when the words tumble out of you, playful but edged with curiosity. “So when did you start having a crush on me?”

Schlatt groans like you’ve just asked him to eat glass. “Oh, Christ. Really?”

“Really,” you tease, nudging him with your knee. “C’mon, big guy. Spill.”

He stares at the ceiling for a long beat before finally letting out a sigh. “Senior year. Your junior year. I didn’t realize it until then, but… I’d catch myself watching you at football games or whatever. You’d be with Emma and Angie, laughing at something, and I’d get that gut-punch like, oh, fuck, this isn’t just me thinking you’re cute, is it?”

Your lips curl, heat blooming in your chest. “That’s cheesy as hell, Jonathan.”

“Yeah, well, you asked,” he mutters, but his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.

You prop your chin on your hand, grinning at him. “If it makes you feel any better- thought you were hot since before I even started high school.”

His eyes snap to yours, brows shooting up. “The fuck? When?”

You bite your lip, laughing. “That summer before freshman year. You had that growth spurt, came back taller, broader. I think I just about died when you said hi to me at the grocery store.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face, ears red. “We were kids.”

“Exactly. That’s why I didn’t say anything. You were… intimidating. And I was awkward.”

He shifts, turning onto his side to face you more fully, one arm tucked under his head. His voice softens. “You were never awkward. I was the awkward one. Couldn’t even talk to you half the time without tripping over my words, so I just… avoided you.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “And here I thought you were ignoring me because you didn’t like me.”

“Far from it,” he says quietly, eyes holding yours in a way that makes your stomach twist.

The silence that settles isn’t uncomfortable. It’s thick, heavy with everything you’ve just admitted, everything you’re both still too afraid to. For the first time, there’s no Angie, no Charlie, no Katie, no Ted. Just you and him. Just the warmth of his body next to yours and the hum in your chest that won’t stop.

Eventually, he sighs, eyes flicking toward the window. “I should probably head home.”

The words slice through the bubble, and you don’t even think before blurting, “Stay.”

His brows rise. “Hollywood-”

“I know,” you cut in quickly, heart racing. “If Angie comes home, it’s bad. I know. But I don’t care. Just… stay.”

You don’t know if it’s the alcohol still buzzing through you or the way his hand is still tangled in yours, but you can’t bring yourself to let go. Not tonight.

Schlatt looks at you for a long moment, unreadable, and then finally exhales, slow. “You’re gonna get me in so much shit,” he murmurs.

But he doesn’t move. He just shifts closer, his forehead brushing yours, and lets the night swallow you both whole.

His hand settles at your hip, thumb brushing absently over the fabric of your shirt as though he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. The motion is soft, soothing, and your whole body melts under it.

Without thinking, you nuzzle closer, curling your legs until you’re practically tucked against him. He adjusts again, this time wrapping around you fully, chin resting on the top of your head.

You whisper, voice small in the dark, “This is nice.”

He hums low in his chest, the vibration buzzing against your cheek. “Don’t get used to it.” But his grip on you tightens just a little, betraying him.

The warmth of him, the weight of his arm holding you like that-t’s more intoxicating than any drink you had tonight. Your body finally loosens, exhaustion creeping up as your eyes flutter shut.

The last thing you register before sleep drags you under is the steady beat of his heart against your ear, and the way his thumb keeps tracing soft, absent-minded circles at your waist, like he’s memorizing you in the quiet.

[chiyox]

can someone please write a poly tedschlatt fic where ted is the one leading PLEASE and in return i will give one billion smooches

[hyunnie-beee]

Chapter 9 sneak peak 👀✨🙏🏼

fine fine fineee but only because I love you guys-

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The drive back is quiet, soft music low under the hum of the tires. It should feel like any other night on these back roads, but it doesn’t. Not with you in the passenger seat, hair tugged gently by the breeze through the cracked window, your head tipped just slightly as if you’re still lost in whatever pieces of yourself you gave away tonight.

[Redacted] keeps his eyes on the road. At least, he tries to. But it’s useless.

Because Rust by Mon Rovia comes on, and the opening chords echo something inside him that he can’t name. He hears you sigh, quiet and distracted, and then, softly, without thinking, your voice joins the lyrics. Barely there. Barely more than a hum.

And that’s it. He’s gone.

His hands tighten on the wheel, his throat dry. The world should be this stretch of gravel and faded fence posts, but all he can see is you. All he can hear is your laughter from earlier, the way you leaned into him without realizing, the way you smiled like you didn’t know it was undoing him.

It’s like some part of him is screaming: don’t forget this. Don’t you dare forget this.

His fingers itch. Not for you- though, God, that too- but for a pen. For paper. For somewhere to write this down before it slips away. Your hair catching the last remnants of moonlight. The way you’re drumming your fingers on the windowsill to the beat. The sound of your voice weaving with the song like it belongs there.

If he doesn’t write it, he’s terrified he’ll lose it. And that feels worse than anything.

You turns just then, catching him looking, and for a second he thinks you can see it, see the mess you makes of him. He jerks his eyes back to the road, clears his throat like it’ll clear the heat off his face.

“Everything okay?” you asks lightly, voice teasing, though he hears the exhaustion under it.

He swallows, nods once, forces a smile he doesn’t quite feel. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”