#without an ounce of critical thinking | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hyckstarz · 4 months ago

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breaking the rival code | l.mk

pairing. rival!mark lee x afab reader

word count. 6.1k

genre. smut · enemies to lovers trope · humour

synopsis. Mark had a way of getting on your nerves, to the point you'd even considered shutting him up for good. However, your best friend eventually planted a seed in your head that fucking your rival, and breaking the unspoken code, would be enough to finally end the long-standing feud.

warnings. 18+ minors do not interact, fingering, use of pet name (baby), choking, oral (fem receiving), haechan as best friend and instigator

A/N. i had this buried in my drafts for months but it had me screaming into my own pillow whenever i read it so, it couldn't stay unpublished for long.

"I'm going to fucking kill you, Mark Lee," she's fuming, as per usual. Eyebrows tightly knit and throwing daggers with her hard glare while Mark just laughs, "It's due next week, and you haven't even written up a plan?!"

Mark rolls his eyes, his glasses almost slipping down his nose, doodling absentmindedly in his notebook, "Relax, that's 168 hours of time to work on it, it's nothing."

She sinks back into her chair, crossing her arms in that arrogant way — as Mark would describe it, "Actually, it's less than 84 hours if you factor in sleep, other classes you have to go to, and fucking surviving. Mark, do you take anything seriously?"

Mark rubs his face in frustration, facing her, "It's the first year; none of this counts towards our grade," he goes back to doodling small Spider-Man caricatures but, as always, he can't resist having the last word, "And you're too serious, princess. Live a little."

Small things like that always set her off. She was aware of how she came across but, when it involved Mark, she only ever saw red. She somehow manages to calm herself down, realising they're in the campus library and already earning a few curious, judgemental stares.

"Mark...," she manages to whisper somewhat loudly, leaning in close enough for him to feel her minty breath against his skin, "Can we please get most of this done today? I'd very much like to be free of your presence."

Mark chuckled under his breath, his dark eyes slowly drifting over her subtle features, raising a brow in amusement — the weight of his gaze caused the hairs on the back of her neck to prickle. Finally, he gave in and pulled out his laptop. He began clicking through their assignment brief and taking notes down, surprising even her, who started doing the same. As English literature students, it was a given that they had to read a stack of novels and articles, even for an assignment worth 0% towards their final grade.

Yet even small victories in their relationship were rare. It was a miracle that they were somehow able to work through the tasks efficiently, though that moment was short-lived before they were at each other’s throats, with Y/N starting it again.

"Mark, we're meant to critically analyse, not describe. Do you have any working brain cells in that thick head of yours?" Her fingers twitched, as if to hold herself back from clenching her fists and knocking some ounce of sense into him.

He rolls his eyes in response, jaw hardening as he scowled at her, clearly not in the mood for their usual back and forth, "We need to have a synopsis of the texts, I don't know how else you expect me to include all of the relevant info without having a short paragraph in there."

She simply looks at him in disbelief, shaking her head as if he'd just said the most absurd thing ever, "Mark... do you really think we can afford a whole paragraph just on a summary?"

He just chuckles in response, clearly uncaring. She leaned forward, her fingers digging into the desk and turning white as she struggled to maintain her composure. Mark’s casual smile only fuelled her irritation, but she lets out a heavy sigh, judgy eyes flicking across his face.

"You're like those pretty dumb blondes; the only thing you've got going for you are your looks, sorry to say," she sneers, going back to taking notes, but she internally curses at herself for admitting she found him at least objectively attractive.

Mark pauses, head snapping to her, his eyes flicking over her features, trying to decipher what she'd just said, or if he'd even heard her correctly under the hushed whispers of the library. He spins the pencil in his hand, eyes narrowing at her as a smug expression tugs on the corners of his lips, "You think I'm good looking? I'm flattered."

Y/N gives him an exasperated glance, snorting at his sudden change in demeanour and sitting up to look at him straight on, "I know you took me for a fool, but a blind one too? Damn," she said with a sarcastic lilt.

When Mark doesn't respond, just a cocky smirk widening — his gaze intense — she feels her heart rapidly beat against her chest and, as a way to hide the effect he has on her, she rolls her eyes for the nth time that hour, clearing her throat and focusing back on her task, "If you weren't so annoying, or if you learnt how to shut your mouth and do things correctly, you'd have a lot more going for you," she sends him a glare, "But you don't, so your looks only take you so far, and that's below average in my books."

He mocks in response, "Wow, you read? How surprising."

This time, she couldn't hold herself back. Mark did have a way with getting under her skin, so well in fact, that it led to them being asked to leave the library, only furthering their frustration and anger towards one another.

It wasn't always like this, either. When Mark had first met her, he was a shy, slightly awkward teenage boy and, the first impression she had of him, was cute. He was incredibly sweet and outgoing; it was easy for him to make friends and that meant they easily got close too. The only problem was, they were so alike in all the wrong ways. He was just too competitive and stubborn, always aiming for the top, and so was she. It was only natural that friends turned to rivals, competing with one another over everything. With that being an understatement.

From whom could get to the cafeteria the fastest, to who could submit their assignment the earliest and get the highest grade? It was competition, after competition. Most would get exhausted after the first two or three, but for them, it was thrilling, though they'd never admit that to one another.

"I can't believe your loudmouth got us kicked out of the library," his jaw hardened as he met her intense gaze, "Can't you sit still and take comments with some sort of, I don't know, strength? Because clearly, you're so sensitive over such simple, meaningless words," He slings his bag over his shoulder, already walking off.

Only further proving his point, she chases after him, tugging at his arm so that he wouldn't get away.

"You're the one who can't let things go either, always needing to have the last word, what are you, a child?" she crosses her arms and nods her head with a questioning brow, as if to say, 'go on'.

Mark just scoffs, about to walk off before turning around, his hands moving in frustration as he glares down at her, "You- you're such a pain in the ass, you know that? You really know how to drive me crazy."

He's panting, frustration evident. But it was the way he was looking at her that threw her completely off balance. His narrowed eyes flicked to her lips, brows furrowed as though he were etching her features into his long-term memory. She felt her heart drumming in her chest.

Before she could respond, a familiar yet equally as annoying mutual friend of theirs appears, snickering at the pair and their usual quarrelling, "Jeez, can't you two just fuck already?"

"Shut the fuck up, Haechan" they both say in unison, tearing their gaze away from one another with a scowl.

Haechan only snorts, glancing between the pair with an amused brow, "Clearly there's some sexual tension that I'm interrupting here, it would explain why you look at each other like that," He leans in-between them, as if to reveal the biggest secret in history, "I bet you two dream about each other too — in, you know, that kinda way."

Mark just stands there, mouth agape and in disbelief at the absurdity Haechan was spewing, looking between the two. Y/N just scoffed, grabbing the man by his bag and pulling him away without so much of a word. Haechan waved a chaste goodbye to Mark as he was being dragged off to God knows where.

Someone was going to die today, and it was definitely Haechan.

It was quiet. Way too quiet. The coffee shop was empty, hence for the low whispers of the baristas in the far corner, and a cheeky Haechan sitting before her, happily drinking his iced tea after telling his two closest friends that they should fuck each other. She groans, letting her head fall into the palm of her hands.

Usually, this coffee shop was a place where she could find peace and solitude. It was bright, with large windows that let light in all throughout the day, creating a florescent streak of amber and pink through the thin stickers attached to the panels. The colour schemes could easily brighten one's day as whites and pinks peppered along the walls.

The foliage brought life to what would otherwise seem like a cold, simple design, and the bakery added a subtle hint of beige, creating a natural environment. But the best thing about any coffee shop, was the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans, and the sounds of the machine working, or even the quiet conversations. Though, sounds were non-existent today, except for her constant groaning, which started to bother her best friend.

"If you make one more frustrated sound, I'm leaving," he takes another sip of his cool drink, "Is it because of what I said earlier? Just know, I wasn't lying, that would definitely help you two."

She pulls her hands away, pursing her lips as she started twirling her straw, watching the milk mix with the coffee and caramel, "No, it's because I'm... I don't know, frustrated?"

Haechan glared incredulously, "Clearly."

"Not like that, I meant... I miss how Mark and I used to be, how we would laugh at silly jokes, or talk for hours without it having to turn into a competition, but now everything he says or does has a way of getting under my skin," She takes a sip of her drink, eyes twinkling at the taste, "He could just be sitting there, doing absolutely nothing, and I'd I just want to-"

"Want to what?" Haechan asks, ears perking up, waiting for a gotcha moment.

"Well, what I usually do." She shrugs, going back to her drink.

Haechan takes everything she says in, nodding his head slowly, "Anyway, it's sort of funny as Mark said the same kinda thing to me the other day...," Haechan takes a sip of his drink, whining when he finds it empty, "He said he missed the old you, or when you guys used to be friends."

She pauses, meeting her waiting friend’s gaze. Her brows furrow. Mark... missed how they used to be? But she doesn't say anything to Haechan, keeping her thoughts to herself.

The usual smug expression returns as he leans back in his chair, leg bouncing under the table out of habit as he crossed his arms behind his head, "Anyway, as I said, you need to get your frustrations out in other ways. You clearly have a thing for each other. The way you express it is a little... unconventional, but you're both immature, so I'm not surprised."

She simply looks at her friend in disbelief, lips parted as she gapes at him, to which Haechan only grins annoyingly at her. He also had a way with words, just like Mark, except he seemed to understand boundaries a lot better, and was chill enough to not want to fight back.

"What? Please tell me you two at least have moments of either flirting with each other or checking the other person out-"

"No." She scowls, shivering at the thought. Though, she couldn't help but remember the way he'd looked at her earlier, brushing off the thought, "It's hard enough to even look at him without wanting to strangle him."

"Okay, so you're into choking, got it." Haechan chuckles, nodding as if to make a mental note of it.

"No, I'm not into that! Whatever, look, I don't have a thing for him, so just drop it." She looks at him with a serious, intense gaze, as if to emphasise the fact she really didn't want to talk about this anymore.

Her friend only nods, putting his hands up in mock surrender, "Okay, just know Mark would definitely jump you if he had the chance — I mean, which guy would put up with your shit? No offence."

She rolled her eyes, taking another sip of her drink in hopes it would be refreshing enough to block out her growing irritation, "Anyway, the sooner I get this assignment done, the sooner I can move on from this Mark topic."

She quickly pulls out her phone before Haechan could drop in another one of his grand ideas, finding Mark's contact and immediately sending him a text. She almost spat out her drink at how fast he had responded.

You: Let's just get this assignment done with. I don't feel like getting kicked out of yet another establishment, so just come over to mine tomorrow or something.

You: *sends her address*

Mark: Fun.

Mark: I'll be there around 4 if that works

You: 👍

She bit her nails anxiously, eyes glancing between the door and the clock on the wall - each tick of the hands signalled it was only getting closer to 4, which was when Mark said he would arrive.

That wasn't why she was anxiously boring holes into the clock, however. She could curse the heavens, the earth and the 12 Olympians, but instead, she chose to curse the lust demon himself, aka Haechan. She buried her head in her hands, tugging at the roots of her hair in frustration. She can't believe she dreamt of Mark last night for the first time and, it wasn't just any dream — which was the worst part. Why did her mind have to be so vivid and make Mark so incredibly sexy? She had no idea.

When a knock came from the door, she stood up a little too quickly, rushing to it and praying that Mark looked far from presentable than he had been in her dream. But he wasn't, of course. She'd never seen him in jeans before and the green hoodie was the cherry on top. She swallowed hard, peering up at him as he adjusted his glasses.

"Are you going to let me in?" He raised a brow, his dark eyes glancing over her features in suspicion, taking a quick, subtle glimpse at her plaid sweatpants and pink t-shirt that didn't do much to hide the outline of her bra. He swallowed hard, tonguing the inside of his cheek in annoyance yet, the only thing that swirled in his mind were thoughts of how fucking attractive she was without even trying.

His annoyed expression grounded her temporarily, falling back into her usual demeanour as she rolled her eyes and held the door open wider for him, "If I catch you slacking once, I'll kick your ass out of here."

Mark gives her a side eye, frowning before kicking his shoes off, "Are you trying to motivate me not to do the work?"

She laughs sarcastically, leading him to her room as she props herself on her bed, noticing Mark looking over her interior.

"I expected your place to be put together, but not drenched in pink," his gaze trailed over her shelf, taking note of the various photo frames and mini ornaments.

She chuckles under her breath, pulling out her laptop and notes, "What, too girly for me?"

He turns his gaze to her, a quiet silence envelops them for a moment, and she takes that time to admire him. She knew he was attractive — objectively — but never had she looked at him in that way. The kind of way that made her heart and mind race.

Mark finally straightens up with a shrug, sitting down on the edge of the bed and getting his things out as well.

It felt strange having Mark in her home. If it weren't for getting kicked out of the library, her apartment would have been the last place he would be at. Though, now seeing him sat almost politely at a respectable distance from her, typing away on his keyboard quietly, made it start to feel right somehow.

She opened their shared document, reading the notes he was typing up. Even though he tended to be a lazy ass — or a procrastinator, as he would call it — there was no doubt he had a way with words. When he really put his mind to something, he would always deliver quality work. At times, she'd look back on why they had turned rivals, or enemies, and then she'd see what a complete genius he was. Maybe it was always her. Maybe she was just jealous that, no matter how hard she worked, Mark would always be ten steps ahead.

"I wrote up all the notes," Mark's voice cut through her thoughts, "How far did you get?"

She turned back to her laptop, pursing her lips at the blank screen. When she took her time responding, Mark scrolled down the document to where her cursor was and sent her a deadpanned expression, "What did you say about slacking off...?"

She doesn't know whether to laugh or smack him, so she picks the secret third option and scowls, "I did more work than you yesterday."

"That's old news," he sighed, looking through their to-do list, "I thought you wanted to get this assignment done and dusted because... what was the reason again? Oh yeah, you wanted nothing to do with me."

She scoffs, sitting up as she points an accusatory finger at him, "Don't act like you don't feel the same way."

Mark clears out the already completed tasks on the list, colour coding the other bullet points to distribute the work evenly between them, "Oh I do, and I wonder why." He doesn't even spare her a glance.

"Go on."

"Maybe it's because you continuously bitch over every little thing, it's no wonder Haechan is the only friend you have and, it's probably because he's waiting for some kind of green light," Mark's bitter words reeked of jealousy as he spoke through clenched teeth and narrowed eyes.

"Excuse me?" She shrieks before she leans over the bed and grasps at his hoodie, his hand immediately grabbing her wrist, "That's too far, Mark, even for you."

He raised an unamused brow at her, fingers tightening on her wrists, yet she doesn't waver, "Maybe, but I'm sick of it. All you ever do is complain and treat me like some sort of idiot and, when I give you the same energy, I'm the problem."

His voice is tight, jaw hard as he doesn't break the eye-contact. She pulls him in closer, anger bubbling in the pit of her stomach, "What a joke, you're just as much of a problem as I am and, you know what? Maybe Haechan was right, maybe we need to fuck for us to finally pull our shit together."

The moment those words leave her lips, she regrets them. From up close, he was even more attractive that those words naturally came out. Mark's eyes widened comically and she could almost see the cogs turning in his mind.

His brows furrowed, "Wait, you’re serious? You’re actually suggesting that?" his voice carried a disbelieving tone despite his cheeks growing redder by the minute.

If it weren't for the dream she had last night, or that stupid green hoodie he was wearing right now, she would have laughed it off as a joke or even knocked him out in hopes he'd forget what nonsense she'd just spewed. However, all she could think about in that moment were his hands gripping at her plush thighs, spreading them apart as he lodged himself between her legs, his soft lips parting against hers desperately. She swallowed hard.

"Yes, I am suggesting that," she doubles down, the words more confident now. She knew she wanted him, even if he drove her bat-shit crazy. Even if he'd think she's bat-shit crazy.

It was almost laughable how wide Mark's eyes had gotten, his lips parted in shock, "you're fucking serious, Y/N?" This was too cruel of a joke from someone like Y/N. He knew she would rather curse him out than make absurd suggestions such as sleeping with each other. And the more he thought about it, on top of the intense gaze she carried, the more he believed she was being serious.

She leaned in, her warm breath fanning against his skin. She could smell his musky cologne — it was a scent she felt she could easily get addicted to, "I am serious, Mark," her big, doe eyes peered up at him through her lashes, "Hell, I even dreamt of you last night thanks to that blabby-mouthed Haechan."

Mark suddenly grows flustered, averting his gaze. She dreamt of him? His words practically came out like a croak from the nerves, "H-hey, that's a little..."

She raised a brow, waiting for him to continue his sentence yet he'd only grown quiet, his jaw clenched as he processed the situation. He felt his throat go dry and, the way she was staring at him made him feel breathless - a little too out in the open under her gaze. It was taking everything in him to hold back, but their shared history and his growing annoyance towards her kept him stuck in place.

"What? Mark, don't be a pussy," she scoffed. Despite her harsh words, they had rolled off of her tongue like honey, "Do you want this or not?"

Mark's head whips to her, his brows furrowed, "I am not...," the words faltered on his tongue as his hands came to rest behind her on the bed, his nose brushing against hers. He was way bigger than her, his arms caging her in, looming over her, "I'm not as much of a loser as you think I am, Y/N," the words were bitter; however, he felt like he was falling too deep.

Being this close to her, with her wide, surprised eyes staring back at him, her flowery perfume more prominent at the proximity, and her warm breath... He couldn't find it in him to deny it anymore, "Fuck, I do want this," he muttered, the whispered confession slipping past his lips before he himself could process the words.

At that, she wraps her arms around his shoulders, pressing his nose fully against hers, "I want this too." Her soft words drew him in like a moth to a flame and it felt like the string that held onto his sanity had snapped.

Mark pressed his lips to her glossy, pink ones that tasted like cherry, breathing in her flowery scent, to which she parted her lips against his in response. His hands gripped at the soft flesh of her waist, pulling her in impossibly close. He tasted minty, mixing with his musky cologne and it was like she couldn't think straight anymore, losing her grip on reality and, instead, losing herself in him. In Mark. Her supposed enemy and rival.

It didn't take long for her to pull him on top of her, her back falling against the mattress whilst her leg rode up his side, hooking over his hips. He trailed open-mouthed kisses down the column of her neck, nipping at her skin and down the valley of her clothed breasts. She was going insane, and it was his fault, "Mark, take off my damn shirt already," she groaned in frustration, sitting up.

He didn't waste any time. Stripping off her shirt, he subtly admired her plush breasts which sat pretty in her lilac laced bra, barely leaving anything up to his imagination. As much as she got on his nerves, he couldn't deny the effect she had on him by being effortlessly gorgeous even as her brows were tightly knit. He pushed her back down onto the bed, planting his hands on either side of her head, "Are you always this demanding?"

"Only with you," she mutters, tugging at his hoodie impatiently, to which he chuckles, taking it off. She couldn’t help but gawk at him, sending him a glare for being more attractive than her dreams could ever do justice.

He kisses her again, his hand trailing down the side of her breasts, not giving her time to run her mouth. Then, his hand pulls the bra down, letting her breasts slip out as he cupped and kneaded the soft mounds, groaning into her mouth at how they fit perfectly in his hand. He rolled the nub between his fingers, grazing his thumb over them.

Mark kisses down her body, taking a nipple into his mouth — biting and tugging at it as his hand continued to twist the other between his thumb and index. He relished in the soft sounds that escaped her lips and the way she tugged at the locks of his hair.

He continued to move down her body, his finger hooking under the waistband of her sweatpants as he met her gaze, "I know you beat my ass over this, but you sure this is what you want?"

She deadpanned at him, "You just made out with my breasts, Mark. If I didn't want this, I would have stopped you there."

Mark just rolls his eyes in response, slipping her sweatpants down, "Could have just said yes."

She's about to retort when she feels his hand cup her, finger tracing the clothed slit of her pussy and she has to bite her lip to stop her from making a sound. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction so soon. Didn't want him to know just how badly she wanted him — more than she'd like to admit.

However, Mark was as stubborn and competitive as she was, and he wouldn't hold back until she gave in. He pushes her underwear to the side, leaning in so that his warm breath fanned against her sensitive folds, causing her to whimper.

'Fuck,' she thought.

Mark, without warning, slowly licks a stripe up her slit, his flat tongue drawing out a shudder from her — back naturally arching. Each time, he'd go in for more, slowly bringing up the pace. Her thighs clamped around his head, holding him hostage until he groaned and grabbed onto her plush thighs, pinning them to the bed; fingers leaving marks along her soft skin. Her own fingers grabbed at anything they could, from the sheets beneath her, to the healthy lock of hair on his head, letting them knot around her digits and tug with every wave of pleasure he had given her.

She could feel his cocky smirk as he sucked on her clit, enjoying every moment of her falling apart on his mouth. Falling apart for him. When he pulls away from her, she let's out a frustrated whine to which Mark only laughs at, "Open your mouth."

She sends him a skeptical look, "Fuck no."

Mark's patience wears thin, "Don't be a stubborn brat now."

Surprisingly, she obliged and he pushes his fingers past her plush, kiss-swollen lips. Her mouth suckles on the digits, tongue swirling around them, and he retracts his fingers with a pop.

"Fuck, your mouth really does have uses other than spewing insults and demands," he teases, voice low, tracing her entrance which had her letting out shallow breaths.

"At least it has more use than your fingers-" her words cut short when he pushes his finger in, palm pressed to her clit as he looks up at her with a 'you sure about that?' look.

It doesn't take long for Mark to add a second finger, curling them in search for the spot that would make her see stars. And then, he finds it, and she let's out a sharp gasp which only grows louder when his lips wrap around her clit, continuing his earlier ministrations of lapping at her folds like a man starved.

Just as her dreams failed in visualising just how attractive her nemesis was, it had also failed in expressing how utterly, impossibly, and irritatingly good he was with his hands, lips, tongue-

"Mark, fuck-!" She starts to tense under him, eyes pierced shut as she chases that feeling of ecstasy.

"I believe I'm getting there...," Mark chuckles, the vibration of his voice fluttering against her.

And, just as she starts to see the twinkling behind her eyelids, the light at the end of the dark tunnel, and a glimpse of the heavens, Mark pulls away, leaving her empty, wanting, and embarrassingly needy.

Forget Haechan, Mark was the number one man on her hit list.

In a second, he's over her again, cupping the back of her neck and lifting her slightly up to kiss her. She can taste herself on his tongue, feel the way his lips apply just the right amount of pressure to say he's here, and it's so soft, so gentle, so wanting — it was the perfect contrast, the perfect contradiction to the image she'd created in her mind of him. His thumb brushes against her jaw, fingers tangling in her hair, before he pulls away, forehead resting on hers as he breaths against her.

His eyes flicker open to gaze down at her; warm and oh so inviting. It felt like the Mark she once knew. The genuine, loving and calming person. Though his next words threw her completely off balance, and she was quick to retract her claims.

"I'm going to fuck that sexy, infuriating attitude out of you, baby," he lets the pet name draw out. In every other context, with any other person, she would have cringed at that word, but it felt so undeniably attractive coming out of his lips, that she wanted to hear him say it more than once.

Mark got up off of the bed, pulling out his wallet to fish for a condom that had been in there for God knows how long, chucking it on the bed next to her and kicking off his jeans and boxers in record speed. She barely had a millisecond to admire the sheer length of him before he was on her again.

His deep brown eyes kept their hold on hers and she could see a subtle hint of affection; the space between his brows crinkling in focus as he slowly pushed into her. His calloused fingers pressed along her waist, leaving white marks along her curves, while she could feel every ridge, vein and pulse of his cock.

When he bottomed out, she immediately wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him in impossibly close. Needing him closer to her. She could feel the rough planes of his body pressed to her soft ones as he started to rock against her. He gripped her thigh, pushing it further up so he could angle himself better, remembering the spot that had her seeing stars earlier.

Each time he'd hit that spot, she'd clench naturally, rocking her hips to meet his that had him softly groaning by her ear. He smelt so good, felt so good, was so good. She felt her mind start to fog up, jaw slack from the loud, erotic sounds that forced its way out from her throat. It was too much in the best possible way.

That wasn't as far as Mark would go though, he wouldn't stop at just good. He wanted best. His hand snakes up her body, gently wrapping around her neck — thumb pressed to her jaw — as he applied enough pressure to her pulse point. She knew then that maybe she did actually enjoy being choked or, at least, enjoyed anything Mark did.

She throws her legs around his waist, pulling him down, desperate to feel more of him, to reach her release she craved, pride long forgotten, "Mark... Mark, fuck- please..."

Mark pressed a sweet, uncharacteristic kiss to her cheek, "Please what, baby?" he brushed the strands away from her forehead, never halting his movements.

"Need more of you...," She could barely get the words out, but Mark knew exactly what she meant. Without time for her to process, he flipped her onto her stomach, pressing her face against the pillows, fingers tangled in her silky hair as he snapped his hips into her with more strength.

She could have sworn she started hallucinating seeing stars in the room from how deep he was reaching in this new angle, hitting her spot with added ease. Her glossy lips stayed parted against the pillows, drool staining the cotton case as she let out soft grunts.

Mark's head rolled back at the filthy sounds of her and how fucked out she looked. It made him want to carve this scene into the deepest part of his memory, "You're doing so good for me... So pretty like this."

His soft voice did not match the roughness of his fucking, but it made her clench around him, "C-close..."

Mark hummed, grabbing locks of her hair and tugging it back so that she arches against him, "Be a good girl and come all over my cock, then."

She nods eagerly, reaching behind him to grab at his hips, urging him to go faster, harder. She chased that release as if seeking closure from her pent up frustrations at Mark and hers usual bickering and challenges. She sits up to lean against him, knees pressed to the mattress and head rested on his collarbone — his own arms wrapping around her body. Finally, she came, body shuddering in his hold and, at the feel of her convulsing around his length, Mark bit her neck, muffling his sweet sounds as he followed suit.

They stayed like that for a while, panting, hair sticking to their foreheads. She wouldn't be close to exaggerating by saying this was the best sex she'd ever had, but she would also blame that on the sheer tension they carried for years around one another.

When Mark slips out of her, she fully expects him to make some usual smart comment, but he only pulls her with him as he lay in her bed, keeping his arms around her, "Who knew we'd be so compatible?"

She snorts, "I can name at least one person," she thinks of her best friend, the whole reason this night even happened and speeding up the process between them.

Mark smiles, snuggling into her and letting out a soft sigh, feeling sleep catching up to him, "I hope this isn't just a one time thing, though," he says suddenly with a soft voice, "you don't know how long I wanted this for. Wanted you. It drove me insane trying to be... I guess, respectful and casual about it all."

She sat up, turning to look down at him with a playful look of disbelief, "I call bullshit, you weren't respectful about nothing. Not that I'm complaining, it's attractive seeing you annoyed."

Mark rolls his eyes, smirking at her, his cockiness returning, "I knew you found me more than just objectively attractive, you're down bad."

She easily admits it, "Yeah, I am. But you're in way deeper for asking Haechan for advice of all people."

Mark immediately sits up, his face pale from the shock despite his cheeks being flushed, "Dude- Wait, what?"

"We're on dude terms now after you fucked an outline of my body into this mattress?" she scoffs, her crude words making Mark increasingly more flustered than he already was, "The choking kinda gave it away. I just know Haechan threw that in conversation with you."

Mark laughed sheepishly, pulling her into his chest as he pressed a kiss to her temple, "Guilty as charged. Though, I'm proposing we get back at his arrogant ass by not telling him a thing. We'll slowly drop hints to mess with him a little — see how long it takes for him to catch on."

"I'm in," She giggles, feeling sleep overtake her as she nestled into Mark's chest.

Before today, neither of them would have imagined that fucking each others rival would be the secret to finally ending the long-standing feud and breaking the rival code.

#mark lee smut #mark x reader #mark imagine #mark lee #nct mark smut #nct smut #nct x reader #nct #idol au #kpop au #nct 127 smut #nct dream smut #haechan #mark smut #꒰ hyckstarz ꒱

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solxamber · 9 months ago

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Desperate Confessions with: Riddle Rosehearts , Leona Kingscholar

Others: Jamil and Sebek

Riddle Rosehearts

It’s almost dark when you finally step out of the library. The entire campus is steeped in the quiet warmth of the setting sun, casting long shadows and filling the air with a golden glow. You spot Riddle just a few paces away, standing by the ivy-laden wall, seemingly waiting for you. His usual composure is absent, replaced by an odd stillness in his posture, a tension that you can feel even from here.

"Riddle?" you ask, concern coloring your voice as you approach him. He turns, and for a moment, he doesn’t seem like himself. His face is flushed, his gaze intense, almost… desperate.

“You’re here,” he says quietly, almost in relief, though the softness of his words belies a turmoil simmering beneath. "I didn’t expect you to come out this late."

You tilt your head, trying to read the unspoken thoughts in his expression, but he doesn’t give you a chance. “I… need to tell you something.” His voice is tight, as though he’s struggling against himself to form the words. His hands are clenched at his sides, and he looks as if he’s trying to steady his breathing. “It’s—it’s been too much lately, and I don’t think I can keep pretending I’m…unaffected by you."

For a moment, he closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, they hold a vulnerability you’ve rarely seen. "You’ve haunted my thoughts, day and night. Every time I see you, I—I’m left wondering if I’ll be able to speak without… without feeling like my heart will burst. I feel like I’m losing control of myself whenever you’re near.”

His cheeks flush deeper, but he doesn’t look away. "I’m embarrassed by it. This—this lack of control.” His voice breaks, just a bit, and you can hear the self-criticism beneath his words. “I’ve spent my whole life restraining myself, and then you—” He takes a shaky breath. “You come into my life, and suddenly… I can’t.”

Your chest tightens at the rawness of his confession, at the deep-seated need he’s barely holding back. Before you can stop yourself, you close the gap between you, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him close.

Riddle’s breath catches, but he doesn’t pull away. His eyes are wide, a hint of disbelief mingling with hope as he gazes at you, unspoken words trembling on his lips. And in that moment, you realize that there’s no need for more words.

You surge forward, capturing his lips in a fierce, unrestrained kiss. It’s hard, almost desperate, and every ounce of feeling he’s kept bottled up seems to crash over both of you at once. Riddle’s arms wrap around you, and he clings to you as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

He kisses you back with the same intensity, almost a little shyly at first, but it quickly deepens into something far more passionate. His hand slips up to cup the side of your face, and you can feel his fingers tremble ever so slightly as he pulls you closer, kissing you like he’s wanted to for far too long.

When you finally part, both of you are breathless, your foreheads resting together as you catch your breath. Riddle’s eyes are shining, his lips swollen from the kiss, his face flushed.

He looks at you with a kind of wonder, like he’s still not entirely certain this is real, and then, almost shyly, he whispers, “I didn’t… I didn’t know it could feel like this.” His voice is soft, reverent, as if he’s savoring each word, the remnants of his vulnerability lingering.

Leona Kingscholar

It sneaks up on Leona, this feeling he doesn't know what to name. At first, he thinks it's just irritation—that persistent gnawing that comes with your endless presence. You’re always around, talking, laughing, pulling him into things he swears he doesn’t care about. He assumes it’s only a matter of time before he finally snaps. But then you’re not there one day, and the world feels off-kilter.

He spends that entire afternoon restless, eyes flickering toward every entrance as if expecting you to walk through it. But you don’t. The gardens are too quiet, his naps too still, and he’s left with a strange emptiness that he can’t shake off.

The next day, you’re there again, and the weight lifts. He scowls when he catches himself relaxing, brushing it off, but it keeps happening. Days pass, and it’s clear—he misses you. This realization grates on him, bothers him in a way nothing else has. How could he, Leona Kingscholar, find himself so wrapped up in someone else?

Then, today, he’s back in his usual spot in the garden, the shade cooling his skin as he lounges, pretending to nap. He can hear your footsteps before he sees you, and he opens one eye as you approach, carrying a basket of food, smiling that soft, familiar smile of yours.

"Thought you’d like something to eat," you say, setting the basket down with that easy grace of yours that makes his chest ache.

And that’s it. That ache in his chest spills over, and he can’t hold it back anymore. It all comes rushing out, like a dam breaking.

"Why?" he says, his voice rougher than he intended. "Why do you keep coming here, even when I’ve given you every reason not to?" He’s sitting up now, leaning toward you, the intensity in his eyes making you blink.

He huffs, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "I thought you were a nuisance at first. Always hanging around, always in my space." His voice drops lower, rougher, almost as if he’s frustrated with himself. "But the truth is… I’m the one who’s a mess without you. You leave, and everything just… feels wrong."

There’s a pause, and he looks down, jaw clenched, hands clenched in his lap. "I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but I don’t care anymore. All I know is… I want you here. Always." He raises his gaze to yours, the desperation flickering in his eyes a vulnerability that catches even him off guard.

Your heart swells, and as his words sink in, a smile breaks across your face. Tears well up in your eyes, unbidden, but you can’t help it. Before you know it, you’re leaning in, cupping his face, and pressing your lips to his in a kiss that’s as gentle as it is profound. The warmth of him, the rough texture of his skin against yours, grounds you, and you kiss him deeply, tasting the intensity of his feelings, the rawness he’s bared just for you.

As you pull back, his thumb brushes across your cheek, catching a stray tear. He leans forward, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, his own lips brushing lightly against the salt of your tears. "Even that," he murmurs, his voice a soft rumble, "even the taste of you like this… I want it all."

And you hold him close, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath your palm, realizing that this is where you both belong.

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #riddle rosehearts x reader #riddle x reader #riddle rosehearts #riddle #leona kingscholar x reader #leona kingscholar x you #leona x reader #twst leona #leona kingscholar #leona

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yokumirumerafan · 5 months ago

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DS x reader (you accidentally sent a nude to them)

I did this with MHA boys and it's Demon Slayer turn!! Hope you enjoy <33

Hashiras:

🔥 Rengoku ("EXCELLENT FORM, Y/N!— Wait, what is this?!")

He’s literally mid-bite into his food when he sees the notification pop up on his phone. He casually opens it, expecting something completely normal—AND THEN HE CHOKES. Literally almost dies. His brain freezes, and in a reflex, he blurts out, "UMAI!" before realizing WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST SAY?!

After a full minute of staring, contemplating life choices, and sweating, he finally texts back:

"Ah, my love, is this the dish you intended to prepare for tonight?" 😳

(Translation: "I don’t know how to respond, so I'm pretending this is normal.")

🌊 Giyuu (internal crisis mode activated)

Giyuu opens the message, blinks once, blinks twice, then freezes like a Windows XP shutdown screen.

"Y/N… what the fuck… I’m at work."

BUT HE DOESN’T DELETE IT. Oh no, he saves it. But in his brain, he justifies it like, "Well, I’m her boyfriend, so it’s fine, right? I have a RIGHT to have my girlfriend’s photo, RIGHT?"

And now, he can't focus on his work because every time someone calls his name, he's thinking, Did they see? Do they know? Am I a disgrace to the Water Hashira name?

🌪 Sanemi (throws phone across the room)

The second he sees your name pop up with an image, he instinctively opens it. Big mistake.

He YEETS HIS PHONE ACROSS THE ROOM so hard it leaves a dent in the wall. "WHAT THE FUCK—"

After five minutes of pacing, running a hand through his hair, and cursing at thin air, he tiptoes over to pick up the phone, glances at it again (while muttering "just one more time"), and then saves it without thinking.

Two seconds later:

"You’re an idiot. But a fine-looking idiot. I’ll be teasing you about this forever."

And he DOES. Every chance he gets.

🎆 Tengen ("Flashy, but could use better lighting.")

Tengen examines the picture like a fucking ART CRITIC. His first thought isn’t "Wow, Y/N is hot." No, no. His first thought is: "This needs better lighting."

He literally squints at the screen, analyzing it like he’s about to write a professional review. Then he texts back:

"Next time, use the other lingerie set. And honestly, the lighting is a bit off—try positioning yourself near a window. Flashy things deserve proper presentation, after all."

His wives: "EXCUSE ME???" 💀💀💀

☁️ Muichiro ("Why would you send this? Oh well.")

He opens it. He blinks. He turns off his phone. He puts it in his pocket.

Five minutes later… he takes it out again.

He opens it one more time. He blinks again.

Then, without a single ounce of emotion, he saves it and deletes it five seconds later like he’s playing some kind of weird self-control game.

Finally, you get a text:

"Not sure what you want me to say."

💖 Mitsuri (blushes so hard she faints)

Poor girl. She literally malfunctions. As soon as she sees the image, she lets out the cutest little squeak and FLINGS HER PHONE.

She tries to calm herself down by drinking tea but her hands are shaking. She tries to breathe but her lungs are malfunctioning. She tries to text you back but her fingers won’t work.

Eventually, she FAINTS.

You don’t get a response for HOURS until she finally texts:

"OMG Y/N I DIDN’T EXPECT THAT BUT WOW YOU’RE SO BEAUTIFUL BUT ALSO OMG I THINK I DIED FOR A SECOND???"

🐍 Obanai (stares in judgment but secretly combusts)

He reads the message. His face doesn’t change. His expression remains 100% deadpan.

But on the inside? His soul is burning in hellfire.

He grabs Kaburamaru, his snake, and just whispers, "What do I do with this?" 💀

Finally, he texts back:

"This is highly inappropriate."

...And then IMMEDIATELY follows up with:

"Not that I dislike it. Just saying."

Main Trio + Genya:

🐉 Tanjiro (IMMEDIATE APOLOGY TEXT BACK)

The moment he opens the picture, his soul leaves his body.

He panics so hard he starts BOWING TO HIS PHONE.

Then, he starts typing like a madman.

"I'M SORRY! I DIDN’T MEAN TO SEE THIS, I SHOULDN’T HAVE LOOKED, PLEASE FORGIVE ME, I RESPECT YOU, I WILL DELETE THIS, I AM UNWORTHY—"

⚡ Zenitsu (NO THOUGHTS, JUST NOSEBLEED)

Zenitsu SCREAMS. FAINTS. DIES. REVIVES.

Then he saves it.

Then he faints again.

Then he texts you:

"Y/N. I'M NEVER LETTING GO OF THIS PHONE."

(Tanjiro beats his ass immediately.)

🐗 Inosuke (doesn’t understand but likes the colors)

Inosuke literally tilts his head like a confused puppy.

"Oh, this is that game you were talking about, right?"

He likes the colors and the angles, but he has absolutely no clue what he’s looking at. 💀

🔫 Genya (deletes and prays for forgiveness)

As soon as he opens it, his whole body shuts down. His face is redder than Sanemi’s rage.

He immediately deletes it like it’s a crime, but when you tell him it’s okay to keep it, he just…

"I… uh… I mean… uh… I— ERROR 404 GENYA NOT FOUND."

Upper Moons + Muzan:

🥊 Akaza ("RESPECT WOMEN" mode activated)

He bows to his phone.

"I MUST NOT LOOK. BUT I MUST. BUT I MUSTN’T."

He puts the phone down and just stares at it like it’s cursed.

❄️ Douma (SAVING IT, ZOOMING IN, SETTING AS WALLPAPER 💀)

No hesitation.

SAVES. ZOOMS IN. SET AS LOCK SCREEN.

And then he texts you back:

"Mmm, lovely. You got more?"

(Y/N BLOCKED HIM.)

👁 Kokushibo ("Unnecessary." But is sweating profusely)

"Unnecessary."

But he doesn’t delete it.

🩸 Muzan ("Kneel." …Excuse me, sir?? 😳💀)

No words. Just one command.

"Kneel."

…HUH??? 😳💀

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dragonsandrinks · 2 months ago

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Bodhi Durran is the man emotional intelligence was invented for

Bodhi Durran is proof that you can be powerful, competent, emotionally available, and loyal without being toxic - the most ideal book boyfriend.

Like this man is the second in line to the Tyrrish throne. he could be strutting around like he owns the quadrant. Instead he’s protecting cadets, grieving his friends with tenderness, and leading with quiet strength - his embarrassment at his cadets when Brennan calls them the Iron Section!

He talks about his feelings without a single ounce of shame. He supports his friends and doesn’t try to control them. He follows orders but also thinks critically and makes hard choices.

And yet he barely gets any attention?? The fandom keeps acting like he’s just furniture with a sword??

Xaden is hot but Bodhi is straight up husband material!

#justice for bodhi #bodhi durran #bodhi fourth wing #the empyrean #iron flame #fourth wing #rebecca yarros

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bytemee · 3 months ago

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۶ৎ STUNNER — yu jimin.

“my little angel in disguise..."

⌗ in which— you're a painter who hasn't picked up a brush in months. then one night at your best friends gallery, you meet a stranger who inspires you more than you ever thought possible. you don’t know her name. you don’t know that she’ll disappear before morning. you don’t know that when your hands finally remember how to move, how to paint, it’ll be her face staring back at you from the canvas.

but—when your best friend sees your finished piece, she says eight words that change everything:

"why the hell did you paint the princess?"

pairing. princess!karina x painter!fem!reader

warning(s). language, mentions of alcohol and smoking, mild angst, kissing + implied nsfw but not explicit, happy ending.

word count. 5.7k

authors note. @bimkayd for u. i also have to update my masterlist...bad.

when creativity strikes, it strikes.

like, really fucking hard. and it always comes at the worst times—when you’re in the shower, when you’re half-asleep, when you’re five minutes away from an important meeting you don’t even want to be at. but for the past few months, it hasn’t come at all.

time blurs when you’re stuck in the same four walls, staring at blank canvases like you're trying to have a staring contest with them. the paints dry in their tubes, waiting for you to wake up from whatever this is—this rut, this drought, this fucking nothingness in your head.

yunjin tells you it’s a phase. "everyone goes through it," she says over the phone, her voice tinny with excitement, too busy preparing for her own gallery opening to properly pity you. “come to my exhibit tonight. it’ll help.”

so you go to her art gallery opening. you haven't been out of the house in weeks. you haven't painted anything worth showing in months. it's a miracle you can dress yourself and brush your teeth without collapsing.

the gallery is packed when you arrive, an ocean of well-dressed bodies moving in slow currents, sipping expensive champagne from delicate flutes and admiring the artwork. most of these paintings are by yunjin herself—all bold colors and abstract shapes—but there are a few others here, too, and you spend some time wandering around, looking at them all.

your favorite is a painting done in blues and greys, full of sharp angles and harsh shadows. the paint looks thick enough to feel under your fingertips. there's a small plaque in front of it that reads "untitled" and nothing else. you stare at it for what feels like hours, but it must only be minutes because when you look up, yunjin is standing beside you, smiling.

"do you like it?" she asks.

"i love it," you reply. "it's stunning."

she laughs. "that's what i was going for."

yunjin nudges you playfully with her elbow. “so? feeling inspired yet?”

you scoff, but it lacks real bite. “i don’t think staring at other people’s work is going to magically make me able to paint again.”

“maybe not,” she muses, taking a sip of champagne. “but getting out of your own head for once might.”

you don’t have the energy to argue with her. not when she’s right. not when she’s always right.

you then let her drag you through the gallery, introducing you to people whose names you’ll forget before the night is over. collectors, critics, other artists—everyone here looks effortlessly put together, as if they belong in a world you haven’t touched in far too long. you nod, you shake hands, you make small talk. it takes every ounce of strength you have just to act normal, as if you haven't been locked inside your own head for months now. as if there isn’t a black hole where your creativity used to be.

"your work is so… bold," says one woman, sipping from her champagne flute. "i love it."

"thank you," you say, hoping your smile doesn't look as strained as it feels.

you glance around the room, looking for anything that might distract you from this conversation. a familiar face. a bathroom sign. anything. but all you see are unfamiliar faces and unreadable paintings on the walls, and suddenly you feel dizzy.

claustrophobic.

you need to get out of here.

now.

"excuse me," you mutter, slipping away from the woman before she can ask another question.

you don't know where you're going, but it doesn't matter. as long as it's somewhere else. your shoes click against the tile floor as you weave through the crowd, eyes focused on the exit ahead, sliding out the door into fresh air.

the night is cool on your skin, but not cold. you can still hear the sounds of the city echoing off the buildings, muffled music from inside the gallery mixing with distant traffic and the occasional car horn. it's a beautiful night, perfect weather for an art opening. if only you could appreciate it.

you lean back against the wall, fishing your pack of cigarettes out of your pocket. they're crumpled up but still intact, thanks to the tin foil wrapper you put around them before heading over here. you've been trying to quit lately, but old habits die hard.

besides, you figure you deserve this one.

you light a cigarette and inhale deeply, letting the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling slowly, watching as it curls and dissipates into the air. it tastes terrible—like ash and chemicals and bitter regret—but it calms your nerves, just a little bit.

and then the door swings open again.

at first, you think it's security. some guy ready to kick you out for loitering in the wrong place. but then you see her, stumbling out the back entrance of the gallery, looking flustered and annoyed. she's wearing an expensive-looking gown with a slit up one side, showing off her long legs, and heels so tall you'd trip over them yourself if you tried to walk in them. her hair is perfectly coiffed and her makeup flawless, but her expression says she wants to be anywhere else.

you stare, transfixed. she’s all contrast. elegance and frustration. poise and unrest. a picture-perfect masterpiece comes to life.

"do you have another?" she asks, motioning to your cigarette.

her voice snaps you out of your reverie, and you arch an eyebrow. she looks too perfect, too put together, to be standing here asking you for a cigarette. "you smoke?"

a pause. then, "no. never actually."

you laugh to yourself, not in a mean way, more like you're trying to convince yourself this isn't actually happening. "so why'd you ask me for one?"

"because i want to try," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "i want to try something new."

she’s so fucking out of place here. all that polish, all that perfection—it makes her look like a mirage, something that can't possibly be real. her hair’s perfect, her makeup looks like it was painted on by a master, and that damn dress? it’s made for a runway, not this alley. she’s like someone dropped a fantasy into a real, gritty world, and for some reason she ended up here.

her eyes don’t leave yours as she waits—most likely for you to respond, to offer the cigarette she asked for, to say something, anything—but you stay silent because your mind is working faster than your body right now, and you need a moment to catch up.

“you wouldn’t like it,” you finally say, once the gears have started turning again, your words sounding much steadier than you feel.

her eyebrow furrowed, her lips turning down just slightly at the corners. not quite a frown, not yet, but a near thing. you've never wanted to capture an expression on canvas as much as you do right now, her face in all its beauty and annoyance.

"why not?" she asks, sounding indignant, almost insulted. "do you not trust my judgment? my tastes?"

she seems to be talking herself into it, the challenge sparking something behind her gaze. and though her posture doesn't change, you can practically feel the determination radiating off her.

you laugh. "you're missing out on the exhibit, you know."

"i could say the same to you," she counters. "why are you out here?"

you could give her a simple answer, something about needing a break, needing air, needing to get away from the suffocating crowd of people who actually have something to show for themselves. but none of that would be the truth, so you simply shrug and say—

"—wasn't really feeling the whole art world pretentiousness thing."

"strange place to be if you're not a fan."

"my friend dragged me." you admit, dropping the cigarette butt to the ground and grinding it out with the toe of your shoe.

she cocks her head to the side, eyes flicking down to the now extinguished butt before looking back up. it's her turn to stare at you. to take in your appearance—the plain button-up, dark dress slacks, and polished black leather shoes. if not for the tattoos peeking out from your sleeves and collar, you'd just look like another patron, dressed to impress and blend into the crowd.

"are you an artist as well?"

you smile at the question, "used to be."

her gaze softens, "used to be?"

"haven't painted in a while."

the pout is back, her eyebrows scrunching together as she stares at you, clearly processing this information, taking in your words and decoding them, working through their implications and how they fit into the context. she settles with, "well, do you plan to ever again?"

it's a simple question. one you should have a simple answer to, but life isn't simple. and art, well, art's a fucking mess. your shoulders rise before dropping.

"why not?" her eyes narrow. "have you given up?"

"not giving up." you tell her. "just stuck."

her lips press together like she doesn’t quite believe you. like she’s debating whether to push, whether to pry, whether you’re just making excuses.

"stuck how?" she asks, arms crossing over her chest.

you huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “you ask a lot of questions.”

“i like knowing things,” she says easily. “and i like understanding people. you intrigue me.”

it shouldn’t affect you the way it does. but those words—you intrigue me—they lodge themselves somewhere deep, twisting and turning like a key fitting into a lock you didn’t realize was waiting to be opened.

you glance down, scuffing the toe of your shoe against the pavement, considering how to answer. the truth is ugly. the truth is that you used to paint like your life depended on it—because, in a way, it did. it was your lifeline, your voice, your way of making sense of things when nothing else made sense.

and then, one day, it just—stopped. the inspiration, the fire, the need—all of it dried up, like a well you kept going back to, only to find it emptier each time.

"you ever look at something so much you forget what made it beautiful in the first place?" you ask instead.

she doesn’t answer right away; she just watches you, eyes flickering over your face. trying to read you is like a puzzle box. or a book. you wonder what kind of story she thinks she finds on your face. what she sees, besides the tired bags under your eyes and the slight tremble in your hands.

when she speaks, her voice is quiet. low. it carries across the distance between you and hits you right where it counts.

"i think everything can be beautiful again. if you look at it the right way."

"yeah?" you say, a little more bitter than you mean to. "that easy, huh?"

her lips quirk, not quite a smile, but close. "i didn’t say it was easy. i just think… maybe beauty isn’t lost. maybe it’s just waiting to be found again."

you swallow, forcing yourself to scoff lightly, to shake your head. "you always this philosophical, or is that just the champagne talking?"

she laughs, soft but real. "i haven’t had a single sip tonight."

"then what are you doing out here?"

"i needed fresh air."

your fingers twitch. she speaks again.

"and maybe you just need a new muse."

you wonder if she even realizes what she’s saying. if she knows that, somehow, without even trying, she’s already painting herself into every blank canvas in your mind.

the night unravels like a half-finished painting—smudged, chaotic, too many colors bleeding into each other. you don’t remember who kissed whom first, only that one second she was looking at you like she saw something worth figuring out, and the next, your hands were on her waist, and she was breathing against your lips.

it’s desperate. messy. her dress pools on the floor of your too-small apartment, and her skin feels like something you’re not supposed to touch but can’t help but reach for anyway. you don’t ask her name. she doesn’t ask for yours. it’s better that way.

and then, when morning comes, she’s gone. no note, no number, nothing. you don't have to guess if it was real or not because the memories are too vivid, too sharp, for it to be anything but. you lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything over and over in your head.

the way she looked. the way she tasted. the way she felt.

your hands are itching, craving the feeling of your brush in your hand.

it’s not a choice. not really.

your body moves before your mind can catch up, reaching for the brushes, the paints, and the canvas that’s been gathering dust in the corner. the moment the bristles touch the surface, it’s like something clicks back into place—like an old wound finally scabbing over.

she appears in fragments first. the curve of her jaw. the slope of her neck. the way her lips parted like she was about to say something, only to change her mind. it’s obsessive, almost. you don’t even think about what you’re doing, only that you have to do it. the need rushes through you like wildfire, consuming everything in its path.

you don’t know how long you sit there, lost in the act of pulling her from memory onto canvas. hours, maybe.

that’s how yunjin finds you.

she kicks the door shut behind her, dropping a bag onto the counter like she’s another name on your lease. "you alive?" she asks, but then she sees you—sees the paint on your hands, your clothes, your face. sees the finished piece propped up in front of you.

and she stops short.

"oh."

her tone is surprised, breathless, then she laughs, loud and disbelieving.

"oh my god," she says, eyes wide with something between amusement and shock. "why the hell did you paint the princess?"

you blink, exhausted. “what?”

she gestures to the painting like it should be obvious. “why did you paint the princess?”

your stomach drops. “the what?”

she stares at you. “you’re joking.”

“i—” you look at the painting. at her.

your pulse thuds in your ears.

“yunjin,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “what the fuck are you talking about?”

it’s a joke. it has to be.

you wait for yunjin to laugh, to tell you she’s messing with you, but she doesn’t. she just stares at you, then back at the painting, then back at you again like you’re the dumbest person alive.

“you seriously didn’t know?”

your mouth is dry. you shake your head. yunjin lets out a sharp breath.

"oh my god. you—you slept with the princess, and you didn’t even know?” the words hit you like a punch. you stare at the painting—at her—but it doesn’t make sense.

princesses don’t sneak out of fancy events. princesses don't try to bum cigarettes off strangers in alleyways. princesses don’t have one-night stands with random depressed artists they meet in the back of art galleries.

you swallow hard, rubbing a hand down your face. “fuck.”

“yeah,” yunjin says, crossing her arms. “fuck.”

you stare at her, then at the painting, and then back at her. the gears turn in your head, trying to connect the dots, trying to fit this new information into the picture. "are you sure?" you ask, even though you know she wouldn't lie about this. "like, absolutely fucking positive?"

"of course i'm fucking positive!" she throws her hands up. "do you not pay attention to the news at all?"

your mind whirls with the new information.

it’s not that she was just some stranger slipping out before sunrise. she's a princess. a whole gorgeous untouchable, have you said untouchable? — princess.

and now she’s everywhere. on the news, in magazines, her face staring back at you from glowing screens and glossy pages. every headline, every camera flash, every fucking update on her. princess karina seen leaving in the royal car. princess karina attending an art gala. princess karina, princess karina, princess karina.

you try to forget. you try to be normal again—whatever that means. you go back to ignoring your canvases, sitting on the couch, flipping through channels you don’t really watch. you even let yunjin drag you out a few times, shove drinks in your hand, and tell you to move on already. but it doesn’t work.

because she’s still in your head.

so you chase.

not in the obvious way. not in the stupid, reckless, get-yourself-arrested-for-trying-to-climb-the-palace-gates way.

you chase in the quiet ways. the ways that don’t make sense to anyone else. the ways that make yunjin groan and say, “you are literally the most tragic idiot i’ve ever met. but i'll help you anyway."

and that's how you find yourself here. in a palace that is stupidly big.

like, what do you even do with this much space? big. it’s all gold and chandeliers and marble floors and suits of armor standing around, looking vaguely threatening. it makes your skin itch.

you don’t belong here. you know that. but neither did she, that night outside the gallery. and if she could slip out of this world for one night, maybe—just maybe—you can slip in.

yunjin had connections. she always did. you didn’t ask questions when she got you in, just pulled the sleeves of your borrowed suit down and tried not to look like you wanted to throw up.

you have a plan. it doesn't go smoothly.

"i'm sorry, miss. only those on the guest list may enter."

"oh, i—" you scramble to find an excuse. any excuse. "i am on the guest list."

the guard doesn't move. he doesn't even blink.

"what's your name?"

"uh—" your mind blanks. "it's a very long name. very, very long. with a lot of letters. like, a lot of them. you wouldn't be able to pronounce it."

the guard doesn’t look amused. or convinced.

"try me."

you throw out the first thing that comes to mind. "it’s, uh… y/n… the first… y/ln… the third."

silence.

then yunjin, from beside you, coughs so hard you think she might pass out. you nudge her with your elbow, but she’s already turning away, shoulders shaking.

the guard, however, does not laugh. he just stares at you like you’re the dumbest person to ever breathe.

"that’s not a real name."

"it could be," you argue weakly.

he crosses his arms. "it isn’t."

you exhale through your nose, willing yourself not to turn and run. not yet. not when you’re this close.

yunjin, finally recovering, clears her throat and steps in. "okay, okay, my idiot friend here—who, i assure you, is actually very harmless—just has a little bit of trouble with names. what they meant to say is that they’re a guest of lady yu."

the guard squints at you both, skeptical. "lady yu?"

"yes," yunjin says smoothly. "you know, lady yu. very high society. loves art. huge fan of… uh, brush strokes."

you resist the urge to slap a hand over your face.

the guard exhales, clearly debating whether dealing with the two of you is worth his time. eventually, he lifts a radio to his mouth, murmuring something you can’t hear. a beat later, he nods.

"you’re clear to enter."

you don’t ask how yunjin pulled that off; just grab her hand and pull her inside before the guy can change his mind.

and then you’re in.

the palace is even more ridiculous further inside. every inch screams money. gilded ceilings, more enormous chandeliers, even shinier marble floors that make you extra aware of how not rich you are.

you scan the room, searching, heart pounding in your throat. and then—

there.

at the far end of the ballroom, half-surrounded by nobles and dignitaries and all the kinds of people who actually belong here, she stands. regal. poised. effortlessly untouchable.

princess karina.

and she’s looking right at you.

you swallow. she arches an eyebrow. her expression shifts, then she's up and moving. in your direction. then, without a word, her fingers wrap around your wrist, firm but not rough, and she turns, pulling you with her.

you barely have time to process what’s happening before you’re weaving through the gilded halls, past guards who barely spare you a glance, past murmuring guests too distracted by their own conversations to notice the princess slipping away with some stranger in a borrowed suit.

she doesn’t stop until you’re deep in the palace, past the public rooms, past the private suites, past everything anyone else has a right to see. only then does she let go.

you swallow hard, rubbing at your wrist. "subtle."

she ignores you, crossing her arms. "what the hell are you doing here? you're not supposed to be here."

your throat feels dry. "i know."

"then why are you?"

you lick your lips, suddenly 1000x more nervous than you were standing outside the palace gates. "i—" you inhale sharply. "i tried to forget you. and i couldn’t."

"that’s unfortunate."

your chest tightens. "is it?"

she exhales softly through her nose. "what do you want, really?"

and it hits you, all at once, all over again. why you’re here. why you had to come.

you take a step forward, closing the distance between you. your eyes never leave hers. "do you know what it means to be a muse?"

that throws her. a small crease forms between her brows. "i—"

"it means you exist everywhere," you cut in before she can finish. "even when i try to ignore it. even when i don’t want to think about you. you show up in every color, in every stroke of my brush, in every painting i try to create. you are impossible to forget."

her mouth opens and closes. "that doesn’t—you can't—"

"it means you stole something from me," you continue, your voice growing softer as you close the last bit of distance between you. "something i didn’t even realize i was missing until you came into my life and showed me what it meant to feel alive again. you're my muse."

her breath catches at that, lips parting just slightly, as if to speak, but no words come out. you take advantage of the moment, reaching up to cup her face in your hands, brushing a thumb over her cheekbone. she leans into your touch, eyelashes fluttering against her skin, eyes falling shut for a moment. and then they open again, dark and intense and so, so beautiful.

she searches your face as her hand reaches up to rest against yours. you want to kiss her, want to tell her you want her in the simplest terms, in a way that even a princess can understand. you lean forward, pressing your forehead against hers, and ask, "do you feel the same? was it real, what i felt between us?"

you barely whisper the question out loud, barely hearing her inhale as she closes the space between you. her lips brush against yours, featherlight but enough to make your stomach flip. “i can't be that for you,” she says against your mouth.

and your heart breaks. you know you were just a one-time thing, just a quick fling for her. it's the whole princess thing. you knew it would be complicated, but you couldn't stop thinking about her, and she's looking at you with such an intense look, a look that says she can't forget you either, and that has to be worth something, right?

you don't realize you said all of it out loud until she pulls away, blinking rapidly. "wait, no—that's not—that's not what i meant," she stammers, suddenly looking much younger and more vulnerable than you've ever seen her. "that night at the gallery, with you, was real. that was—it was the only time i've ever felt that way."

"but," like always

her gaze softens. "we can't. you can't just come in here like this."

she says the last bit as if you've done something wrong, and her hands pull back to her sides. you don't have it in you to care about her rules anymore. her hands fall to her sides, but you stay still, your forehead hovering near hers, your breath mixing.

"i don't care about protocol," you whisper. "i care about you."

"stop," she says, softer than before. "you can't just say things like that and expect me to—"

"expect you to what?" your voice rises, sharp edges showing. "feel the same? you already do. you’re just scared. and i get it. i do. but don’t pretend this didn’t mean anything."

"i'm not pretending," she snaps, taking a step back, composure cracking. "i haven't stopped thinking about you either, okay? but that doesn’t change the fact that this—us—it’s impossible."

"why? because you wear a crown and i wear paint under my nails?"

"because my life isn’t mine!" she yells. "because everything i do is watched and calculated and twisted into something ugly. if they knew you were here—if they saw us like this—"

"then let them see," you say, helpless and stupid and in love. "i'll stand in front of every one of them and say it. i'll tell them how i look at you like the sun rises in your mouth and sets in your goddamn spine. i don't care."

"well, i care!" she shouts, her voice shaking now, full of fire and something just comparable to fear. "i can't afford to want things. not like you do. not recklessly. i don't get to choose who i love."

it's quiet.

"you need to leave."

you don’t move.

"if you don’t, i'll call the guards."

you flinch, and she notices. her jaw clenches. it takes everything in you not to beg.

“don’t make me do that,” she whispers. “please. just go.”

your throat is tight. you nod once.

you turn, heart heavy, the room blurring at the edges. when you open the door, yunjin is waiting, quiet and still in the corridor, like she knew this was how it’d end.

you don’t say a word as she walks beside you down the long hallway, past the grand ballroom, and out of the palace. she doesn’t push for information or ask about what happened. she just lets you stew in your thoughts, and you are grateful. when you get back to your apartment, you collapse onto the bed. you don’t cry—you never really did, even in high school, and now doesn't seem like a good time to start—but you come pretty fucking close.

you lie there for hours. maybe days. hard to tell. just you, your ceiling, and the hollow space behind your ribs where your heart used to sit before she carved it out with a single sentence and left like it didn’t matter.

you tell yourself it was stupid to fall for her. she’s a fucking princess. what were you expecting? that she’d run off with you into the sunset like a fairy tale? that she’d burn her whole world down just to be with someone who wears the same hoodie four days in a row and forgets to buy groceries until you’re eating plain rice and mustard?

but it still hurts.

the gallery night is yunjin’s idea. she throws a flyer at your chest and tells you to “get a grip and make rent.” you roll your eyes, but deep down you know she’s right. you need something to do with your hands, something to keep you from climbing the palace walls like some deranged romantic with a death wish.

you don’t expect anyone to show up, but people come. some friends. some strangers. a few art freaks who talk way too much about your “use of longing and space.” you just nod along, pretending you're three seconds away from yelling in their face.

everything is her. every painting. every messy, unblended brushstroke. every fucking streak of white paint on the canvas because she wore that blue dress when you first met, and now it’s like your brain can’t forget.

the last person leaves, some guy who said a lot of things you didn't understand, and you don't really remember the specifics of it, but you're pretty sure you shook hands, and maybe he wrote down your name and contact info? you don't remember. but there are no more guests. so you’re cleaning up. closing things. mentally debating whether or not you can drink paint thinner and survive.

the door creaks open behind you, and you don’t even look.

“sorry,” you call over your shoulder, wiping your hands on a rag. “we’re closed. private event's over.”

no response. just the sound of the door shutting. then —

“are you always this rude to royalty?”

you freeze.

slowly, slowly, you turn around. and she's standing there, in a white coat with her arms folded against her chest. there are shadows under her eyes, like she hasn’t been sleeping either. it takes everything in you not to run to her. not to kiss her until she forgets all the reasons why she ran the first time. you settle for swallowing hard and clearing your throat.

“you could’ve just knocked."

“i did." she lifts her hand. “twice. and then i panicked and came in anyway.”

you stare. she fidgets.

she looks down at her shoes. looks back up again. looks back down again. like she doesn’t know what to do with herself now that she's here. finally, she takes a step forward. you take a step back. it's reflex at this point, some instinct to keep her from getting too close.

"i came to apologize," she starts, sounding unsure, which isn't like her at all. "for—everything."

karina runs a hand through her hair. your throat goes tight at the familiarity of the action, at how much she reminds you of that night, that stupid dress, and the way she kissed you, indicating that she didn’t care what came next.

you exhale.

"don’t apologize," you say, because the words feel heavy and foreign in your mouth, because she's been living a life you can't even begin to imagine, because none of that matters if she's here, looking at you like this, and you have to believe in something. "you didn't do anything wrong. and if anyone needs to apologize, it should be me. i shouldn't have—"

"you were right," she cuts in before you can finish.

it throws you. "what?"

she swallows hard, glancing down at the floor, at your shoes. then back up again, holding your gaze this time. "i don't know much about art, but i know what you meant…for someone to be your muse." her voice drops low. "and i think you're mine."

you blink. "oh."

a pause. her cheeks flush, eyes widening in panic.

"was that—did that make sense? i probably sound like a—"

"yeah."

you nod, trying not to smile as you watch her rambling, trying not to stare too obviously at how her whole face is blushing now.

you want to tell her everything. to show her everything.

you settle for, "i mean, it does make sense."

it does. it doesn’t. none of this does, not in a normal way. it's the kind of thing you tell your grandkids about someday. or maybe a therapist, if you can ever afford one. either way, it makes something flicker deep within your chest.

you pause.

"so what do you mean, exactly?"

her lips purse. her eyes are pleading now. she looks younger. more human. not so much a princess anymore as she does someone trying to figure out how to tell the world to screw off. you're struck, again, with how much you love her. it feels like a physical ache in your chest.

"i want this," she says quietly, gesturing between the two of you. "i want this so much it scares me."

you're not used to this, to feeling seen by someone who isn't yunjin, and it throws you off. you clear your throat again, shifting from one foot to the other. "i want this too."

a pause. you try not to stare too openly at her lips. you fail miserably.

"we'll figure it out," she says softly. "together. whatever that looks like."

"together."

the word hangs between you, heavy with everything left unsaid. and then—

you don’t even realize what's happening until she's already moving forward, pulling you down to her level. you can smell her perfume. you can see every single detail of her face as she stares back at you. your lips are a breath apart. she hesitates.

"tell me you don't want this," she murmurs. "and i'll go."

your chest constricts, throat tight. you want to tell her it'll never be easy, not when you're you, and not when she's her, not when this could be so much more complicated than either of you are prepared for. but you also want this, want her, want to know what her skin feels like against your palms and whether or not the words i love you sound good when spoken aloud. you swallow hard, hands tightening on her hips.

"i can't," you whisper. "i don't think i've ever wanted anything more."

a smile flickers over her face. it's gone too quickly. "good."

her lips are on yours, soft and gentle, and everything in your life shifts back into focus, into place.

there are things you can't explain. the way she feels pressed against your chest, warm and perfect and yours, for now at least. the way your hands shake when you brush your thumb over the curve of her cheek. the way she tastes like starlight.

and there are things you don't have to.

453 notes · View notes

maximoff-pan · 2 years ago

Text

the ultimate deception | benedict bridgerton (part one)

summary: you are a well known artist who paints under a pseudonym. What happens when Lady Whistledown comes to know of your identity? How will your relationship with Benedict evolve?

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!(artist)reader

word count: 4k

warning(s): poor writing and dialogue (sue me, I'm rusty lol), very unedited so if there are mistakes, I apologize, misogyny, penelope aka Lady Whistledown's biggest defender

a/n: this is definitely going to be more than one part, but I wanted to post something after so many months. Let me know how you like it (or don't like it haha)...comments and feedback are much appreciated <3

• • • • • •

“I wish I possessed merely an ounce of your talent.”

Benedict’s gaze seems to be wholly absorbing your latest painting, a depiction of the botanical wonders of London’s Royal Kew Gardens.

You puff out a breath, blowing on the feathery end of one of your writing quills. In your haste, it had gotten loose, tickling your face irritatingly. Tucking it back behind your ear, you wave him off. “You have much more talent than you give yourself credit for.” You admit through squinted eyes, scanning your work. “You simply lack conviction. And you worry far too much about what others think of you.”

Benedict smiles, receiving your words as the highest of praise. He reaches out to take a better look at the piece of art before him. “You flatter me.” He mumbles in awe. “But I suppose there’s a chance you could be right.”

Chuckling at his words, you grin knowingly. You’re right. It’s more than a chance…you just are. He knows it too.

You both continue to steadily eye the painting, you out of critical evaluation of your work, and him in sheer admiration of it.

Benedict’s favourite part remains the beautifully bloomed magnolias that are scattered across the canvas. He’d been sure to tell you numerous times of their elegance while you’d been working on it, eagerly awaiting the finished product. As you’ve come to realize, Benedict loves watching you work. It’s one of the prices you’ve had to pay for his allowance of your workstation being at Bridgerton House, if you could even call it that.

You are grateful, truly. You wouldn’t be able to make your own living without his kindness. And you certainly wouldn’t be able to keep to yourself in the way you prefer to.

“When will Augustus Leighton be displaying his latest work of perfection?” Benedict’s question reminds you of your fate as an artist.

Augustus Leighton is the pseudonym you paint under. Using his name, you have become a well known artist among the ton, even going so far as to have a painting hung at Buckingham Palace. It’s difficult, you must admit, pretending to be someone else. But it’s a necessary evil.

Painting as a woman would get you nowhere. Especially as a woman with no money (particularly at the time you began), no status, and no husband.

Your mother is a seamstress with little to her name and your father was a servant to Violet and Edmund Bridgerton, before his heart became too weak. He passed away when you were thirteen, only a few years after the Bridgerton children had lost their own father. You’d grown up with little money, but Violet had been kind to both you and your mother, seeing how close you’d become with her children.

You were raised alongside them, Benedict and Eloise becoming your closest of friends. At three and twenty, there are five years between you and the two siblings in either direction, with Eloise being freshly eighteen, and Benedict having turned twenty eight. To this day, they remain two of only three people who know of your true identity, outside of Penelope Featherington.

You hadn’t exactly meant for Eloise or Penelope to find out about it, but once they had, it became comforting to have more than just Benedict to speak to about your predicament. Especially considering, although Benedict has been wonderfully supportive, he could never understand the struggle a woman must endure in a male dominated world.

“Likely never. This one is a gift for Lady Danbury.” You answer Benedict’s inquiry after a bout of silence. “She’s spoken about her love of these gardens quite regularly, so I thought, why not have Mr. Leighton recreate it for her?”

“How will you get it to her?” He questions.

A smile pulls at the corners of your lips. “I have my ways, lest you worry about it.”

• ж • ж • ж • ж •

The next few days are interesting to say the least. You’d somehow managed to get the painting delivered to Lady Danbury, and as far as Violet had been willing to speak of her latest visit with the formidable aforementioned woman, you have been made aware that she adores it.

You’d also heard more about it from Benedict, who’d mentioned something about her being at a loss for words, an ultimate shock to both him and his mother. They’d never seen her look so bewildered.

According to Eloise, Lady Danbury had been surprised to receive such a gift, especially of something so near and dear to her heart. She’d said it reminded her of her time with the Queen, telling the young Bridgerton woman about the months just after her husband had passed, when a new independent lifestyle began to bloom for her.

The painting itself reminded her that women like her could be free, and one day, they would be. That sort of metaphorical mindset had definitely appealed to Eloise’s sense of social justice. She’d been more than excited to tell you about the older woman’s reaction to your art, claiming it to be a wonderful revelation.

Today though, as you sit in the Bridgerton’s common living room, the opposite representation of said female autonomy rests in your hands. The paper feels rough against your skin as you pass it to Eloise who’s propped excitedly to the left of you. You’ve never been a fan of Lady Whistledown’s gossip column, although you can admire her unabashed confidence. But despite her strong will as an author, which could be seen as an inherently empowering trait, you are of the impression that she goes about it in an entirely backward way.

Women don’t need to put each other down to build themselves up. It accomplishes nothing, consequently acting as a source of nourishment for the patriarchy you find yourself trapped in.

“You’re not going to read it?” Eloise asks as she takes the pamphlet from you.

“I never do.” Is your instant reply.

Penelope perks up at the mention of the column, eyes trained curiously on you. If you had known better, you’d say she was a little too interested.

But at this moment you shrug it off, listening with no suspicion as she asks a simple, “Why?”

You don’t have the hindsight to understand why your stomach turns at her question, but you respond anyway. “I tend to think of Lady Whistledown as a poison.” It’s the first time you’ve voiced such an opinion.

Penelope and Eloise turn to you in surprise. “Come again?” Penelope’s soft voice cuts through.

“She is a poison.” You repeat before explaining yourself. “Do not get me wrong, I hold admiration for her bravado, but her words, the things she writes, they cause nothing but pain and conflict for those she chooses to sink her teeth into.”

“But she’s an independent woman.” Eloise interjects. “One who is doing more than any of us could dream of. She is making a name for herself!”

You try to think about your next words carefully, but your mouth makes quick work of a reply. “A name which she hides behind, casting stones through the guise and safety of anonymity.”

Penelope lets out a scoff from beside you. She’s always been one to defend the infamous gossip columnist. “At least she does not hide herself behind the mask of a man.” That feels like a shot. “The people know full well of her gender, despite her true identity remaining a secret.”

You hear the implication on her tongue. The same cannot be said for you.

And she’s not wrong. You do hide yourself behind the mask of a man. You’d never once denied that.

You sigh. “I know you must think of me as a hypocrite.”

Eloise agrees hesitantly. “Only a little.” She admits. “It’s just that you do the same as Mr. Leighton.”

You soften at her honesty. Truthfully, you understand where she’s coming from, but you can’t help the urge you feel to defend yourself.

“I disguise myself as Augutus because I know that no artist or art critic alike will take me seriously as I am. I want to share my work with the world, that is simply all I want. It’s all I have ever wanted.”

“Does that not make you a coward?” Penelope inquires, although it feels less like a question and more like an opinion. This is what she believes. And she's entitled to that.

“Perhaps.” You nod in acknowledgment. “But it has also made me uniquely successful. And I take great pride knowing that my work is highly regarded, in spite of the fact that I have to be someone else to succeed.”

“Does that ever bother you?” Eloise persists. “Knowing that no one will know you for the work you have done?”

Before you can respond, Penelope chimes in with a query of her own. “Does it ever make you feel guilty, lying as you do?” This feels like a challenge.

You turn to Eloise, answering her first. “No, I feel quite unbothered. I like the privacy it provides me.” Your gaze flicks between the two girls, a fire in your eyes as you speak.

You answer Penelope’s question next. “Guilt is one of the last feelings to cross my mind.” You feel content with it. “Because of Augustus, I have my own money, my own independence. I do not need a man to survive or to be happy. I have choices. And that's a facet of my life I never dreamed could have existed. If there is anything more empowering for a woman than that, I cannot think of it.”

Eloise listens to your words carefully, absorbing them, reveling in them. She hadn’t thought of it like that, but you’re right. Independence is a sign of true equality. And you have that. Not because of the name you hide behind, but because you’d used the insecurities of men to your advantage. You’d played the game and won.

“I suppose I have been quite short sighted.” There’s much less arrogance in her tone. Eloise sounds humbled. “You’ve given me a new perspective to think about.”

Penelope does not enjoy the direction this conversation has headed. “Surely you cannot think yourself above someone such as Lady Whistledown.”

Your face scrunches in thought. “Above?” You stipulate. “I do not think myself above anyone, gender aside. But I do think I have a much higher sense of self respect than she does.”

“And how could that possibly be?” Penelope has to bite her tongue. She wants to say more, defend herself more. But she cannot.

Eloise cuts in. “Lady Whistledown has the utmost confidence in herself. I dare say more than all the women in London combined. As much as I have come to see your side, I cannot agree with that.”

“One’s high level of confidence is of little concern here.” You deliver. “Often, in matters regarding the human condition, such as these, it can act as a detriment.” Your eyes narrow as you speak. “Self respect and self confidence can coincide, but they are not the same.”

Eloise laughs out of confusion. She’s not used to being this clueless. “I don’t understand.” She says.

“Ah,” you decide to stop tiptoeing around the subject. “I merely think that no self-respecting woman would use the pain and suffering of other women, or any other person for that matter, for their own profit and entertainment.”

Eloise’s smile drops. “Oh.” Again, she hadn’t thought of it that way. But what resonates with her most is that you’re not wrong.

“Is that what you truly think of Lady Whistledown?” Penelope’s voice is calm and collected for the first time this afternoon. It almost scares you.

“Yes.” You say, before voicing, “However, I mean no offense to either of you. I know how much you girls adore her column. I just want more for you than what she does. A life of gossip is dangerous, and you deserve so much more.”

If you had known you’d been talking to Lady Whistledown herself, maybe you would have kept those opinions to yourself. But little did you know how much your life was about to change, how dangerously you’d walked the line, and how much vengeance rests in Penelope Featherington’s soul.

Future note to self, do not play with fire if one does not wish to get burnt.

• ж • ж • ж • ж •

“(Y/n), I think you need to see this.” Benedict holds up the newest edition of London’s famous gossip column.

Your heart sinks at the look in his eyes. I’m sorry they seem to say.

You haven’t even read it and you already know it’s bad. Handing it to you, Benedict looks hesitant, almost in preparation of what's to come. As you take it from him, you glance down at the ink on the paper, her handwriting etched in your brain.

You swallow the lump in your throat as you begin to read:

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It has come to this author’s attention that a certain individual is playing an unforgivable game of deception within the world of classical art that this ton so highly regards. This artisan has gone to great lengths to keep their true identity from you, painting under a well recognized pseudonym.

By now you may have guessed, this artist is a woman. One who has tricked you and lied to you by passing her work off as that of a man’s. What a horrid crime it is to keep such a secret from you, and a desperate one, I must admit. A woman so foul as to seek such attention for her art, far too greedy to be content with the life so many of the wonderful women of the ton lead. Instead, she parades around disguising herself so she can live a life she feels entitled to.

This author asks you to consider the arrogance of it all. But the question remains, as I am sure you are desperate to uncover: who is the serpent who remains among us?

And so it is with great sorrow that I announce the once beloved Augustus Leighton is a fraud. A man never seen in the public setting, has given us a reason why. He is a woman.

And her name, ladies and gentleman of London, is (Y/n) (L/n).

As I am sure you, gentle reader, are shocked at this revelation, I will take a moment to address the woman this particular entry concerns.

May I remind you Miss (L/n), I have ears and eyes everywhere. Or did you forget? It would do you a world of good to remember that the next time you think about besmirching me. And, as I write this, I must say, this warning goes for all. Heed it, live by it, breathe by it. I am not a woman you want to cross.

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown

Panic crawls through your body. You want to cry, scream, maybe even simply die from the anxiety you’re feeling.

“What am I going to do?”

Your voice cracks, it sounds like glass breaking. Shattered, ragged, and tired, and Benedict can do nothing but hold you.

Again, as your body shakes and caves into the pressure you think, what am I going to do?

• ж • ж • ж • ж •

The moment Eloise enters the room with Anthony at her side, your mind is sent ablaze. Only three people had known about Augustus. Only three people could have possibly let it slip, and you know for a fact it wasn’t Benedict.

As much as you want to believe Eloise would never do something like that to you, you can’t help but feel like she might have offhandedly mentioned it to someone. Her mouth had always worked much faster than her brain.

Benedict’s gaze meets yours in understanding. He hopes his sister hasn’t done this; he’ll be furious if she has.

You’re about to say something when a certain eldest Bridgerton catches you off guard. Anthony smiles when he sees you, eyes twinkling uncharacteristically so.

“I had no idea you could paint like that.” He says. “I must admit, I’m quite proud of you.”

You blink rapidly in confusion. Proud? In all the years you’ve known Anthony, he’s never told you he’s proud of you.

“So you’ve read the column then?” Your head hangs in shame. Everyone in London has probably read it by now.

“Everyone has.” Eloise pipes in timidly, confirming your suspicions.

She’s nervous, understandably so, fingers fiddling with the hem of her dress. You assume when you finally catch her gaze that she’ll avert it quickly, but instead, she holds it well.

We need to talk.

Benedict, reading the room perfectly, coughs in apprehension. “Brother, how about we let these ladies be for a moment? I’m certain they have some things to discuss.”

“Of course.” Anthony nods with a smile, not before reminding you how proud he is of you.

If anything good can come of this, it might just be that.

Once alone, Eloise is eager to assure you of her innocence. “I spoke to no one.” She promises. “Blood be forgotten, you’re my sister (Y/n). I would never betray you like that.”

The look on her face is one of pure panic; she needs you to believe her. And despite everything, you do. It almost makes you feel guilty that you questioned her.

“It’s alright.” You assure her. “I know you wouldn’t.”

But that only leaves one person…

“I think Penelope is Lady Whistledown.” You're taken aback by Eloise’s words, like a stab to the chest. Twisting the knife in further, she corrects, “I know she is.”

Moments of silence pass before you can collect your thoughts. “How long have you known?”

This is where Eloise loses her composure. Pure shame is etched upon her features. “I caught her a few weeks ago.”

A few weeks. A few weeks… A FEW WEEKS?

“Oh.” Your murmur is dejected and weak.

Eloise had known you’d been slandering Lady Whistledown in front of Lady Whistledown, and she’d done nothing to stop you, except defend her best friend’s honour. No wonder she’d been so reluctant to agree with you.

“I wanted to say something.” Eloise stammers. “But I couldn’t. Penelope doesn’t know that I know.”

You inhale a staggered breath of air, face falling to your palms. “I’ve been such a fool. How could I have been so stupid?”

“You have not.” The girl beside you opposes before continuing, “Trust me, I am furious with Penelope. The things she’s done and said about me, about the people I care about, I’m not sure I can forgive her for it.”

You scoff lightly. Trust her? How are you supposed to do that?

Sure, Eloise has certainly been burned by Lady Whistledown before, but she’s always had her name to fall back on. “You have no idea what it’s like, Eloise.”

“I’m sorry.” She slumps in apology, shrinking in on herself. Eloise likes to think she can understand where you’re coming from. She’s a woman, same as you, one who has the same struggles against the patriarchy, and yet, hers are much different.

“Don’t.” You dismiss her apology in frustration. It feels harsh but necessary. “You always speak about feminism and the difficulties of being a woman. How it is impossible for you to hold title and rank, or to be recognized for your accomplishments. But you are a Bridgerton Eloise, and that comes with more privilege, more title, more rank, and more acknowledgment in society than you seem to understand.”

Eloise’s brow furrows. “More often than not, that name is a burden, something you could not possibly grasp.”

“And I should not have to.” Your lips pull into a thin line. This isn’t a competition, but you feel it necessary to defend your point wholly. “I am the daughter of a servant and a seamstress. I have no money, no control, and no future if I am not to marry. Since the day I was born, I belonged to someone else. You talk of struggle, but you have no idea what it truly means.”

Eloise doesn’t like what you’re implying. “You think I live a life of luxury? That I am a stranger to the adversities life has to offer? I can assure you, I know much more about the struggles of which you speak. My mother has prepared me for the purpose of my future; finding a husband is imperative.”

“You plan to remain unmarried, correct?” You ask her seriously.

“With every fiber in my being.” Is her scathing reply. And it only serves to prove your point. But you can see her side of things too.

“El, you defy your mother with your distaste for society. And while I applaud your determination to fight for equality, your fault remains in your failure to recognize the entitlement that has been bestowed upon you simply by having that choice. Unlike so many women, you can choose to live your life as a spinster. For you, those options exist. For me, I have not one choice besides finding a well suited, at best, middle class husband, because that is all I am suited for.”

In this moment, her heart shatters for you. Is that really what you think of yourself? “You cannot possibly mean that.”

“It’s how it has to be.” You affirm.

“It’s not.” She disagrees. “There’s so much more for you than a husband.”

Both your defenses are down, walls have collapsed, and you’re starting to get through to each other. She’s starting to grasp the gravity of what this means for you. Your career is more than likely over, as is the steady source of income you’d managed to build. Except where before you’d had less than no money to your name, you now had a healthy dowry (that you’d earned no less) to find a more comfortable suitor.

Eloise sees it now. What Penelope has done is monumentally life changing.

However, as emotional as this circumstance is, you still feel the need to reach out. She’s your sister after all.

“Eloise,” your eyes search hers. They tread in a sea of empathy. “I never meant to imply you have lived a life without misfortunes. I’m not trying to diminish your hurt. But I thought if you heard my side, you might come to understand mine.”

She softens at your admission, having gotten carried away in defending herself. Nodding, she smiles gently. “I do.” She says. “And while you may not bear the Bridgerton surname, you do have us. Every Bridgerton will stand behind you, always.”

Against every fibre in your being, you believe her. Somehow you’ll always have this little family of yours, somehow you hope you’ll be okay…

#benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton x fem!reader #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x female reader

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plaidos · 9 days ago

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there are so, so, so many transandroterfs who are circling screenshots of me at the moment claiming that i'm saying "all transmascs are rapists" -- something i've never said & simply don not believe -- i mean, i'm friends with loads of transmascs who have never raped me lol this should be logically obvious

however, i DO think that transfems need to be able to talk about the sexual violence we face from transmascs without people accusing us of hating them or calling the entire demographic rapists. it would be genuinely hilarious how faithfully these meninists are recreating the "#notALLmen" for the 2020s if it weren't so blatantly antifeminist. we did this ten years ago, and every feminist with an ounce of sense agreed that, NO, it is not "all men" but it is also blatantly dismissive & derailing to change the topic from "women's experiences with sexual violence" to "b-b-b-but not all dudes do this, so you shouldn't talk about the rape that you faced."

like may i say again, i've never said "all transmascs are rapists" because i very blatantly do not believe it. transandroterfs, however, apparently cannot hear the criticism "hey, we need to talk about how unaddressed transmasculine sexual assault of transfems is in the trans community" without personally feeling under fire. why do you feel personally underfire when a transfem points out that some transmascs are raping us? why do you desperately want this conversation to end or never happen? why are you okay with telling transfems that it isn't a big deal that we're getting raped and we shouldn't talk about it?

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titforatat · 1 month ago

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Naw, I can’t believe some people don’t find Mary compelling… you can criticize her character for a lot of things, but NOT BEING COMPELLING?

I knew what I’d find pursuing Mary discourse online, but Lord, there’s nothing I hate more than seeing a female character get the “people say they want complex female characters but can’t even handle [insert]” treatment. 😭

She’s honestly one of the most fascinating characters in the movie. As a white passing woman, she gets to enjoy white privilege. However, the cost is that she has to sacrifice her mixed race identity to fully integrate into white culture, which you can see her struggle with. Being white means she can’t be with Stack, can’t maintain her childhood friendships with the black/non-white people she grew up with, can’t even go to black spaces to listen to the blues. Everything she was raised with, everything that compiles together to become the core pillars of her identity, has to be swept under the rug in her pursuit of safety. A pursuit that isn’t even of her own doing! I think it’s such a key detail that we first meet Mary almost immediately after the death of her mother, her non-white parent. She’s teetering on the edge of assimilation, has lost the final concrete thread of black heritage connecting her to her mixed race identity… and then BOOM. There’s Stack and the blues. Is it any wonder that she clings to him? Yes, she loves him, but that love is also completely tied up in their history together, a past where Mary was able to exist as she is and embrace all parts of her heritage without having to pretend to be something she’s not. For Mary, being white means living with a level of comfort and safety that black women were NOT afforded in America during that time period. However, it also means living a lie, which Mary obviously has zero interest in doing.

BUT what makes her EVEN MORE fascinating to me is how you can read in that very attitude exactly HOW much she’s benefited from her white privilege! She’s stubborn to the point of obstinacy, throws herself into situations without any forethought, walks around with a surety in every ounce of her body language that immediately identifies her as someone who’s NEVER had to worry about being targeted for violence like other black characters do. Annie is her perfect foil - someone who has been forced to live in the world cautiously, to accept pain with an aching type of futility that comes from knowing exactly how unfair the world is and exactly how little power she has to do anything about it. I think Annie’s quiet strength is such a beautiful foil to Mary’s passionate rebellion - a type of rebelliousness she’s been allowed to cultivate ONLY because she LOOKS WHITE! The layers here are so interesting.

I love her character because of how well she embodies both sides of this struggle. She never asked to be born white passing, but she IS, and no matter how connected she is to her black heritage, she’ll never NOT benefit from it because it’s the first thing about her that people see. Other women in that period would kill for what she has, but she wants nothing more than to throw it all away to be with the man she loves. It’s tragic and it fits SO WELL with the message Sinners is bringing to the table by having Remmick as the primary antagonist, a white Irish immigrant who also balances that weird line of “white-but-not-really” during the time.

Plus, Hailee Steinfeld and Michael B. Jordan have fantastic chemistry and absolutely nail these roles.

How are you watching them UNCOMPELLED? 😭

#sinners #sinners 2025 #mary sinners #remmick #remmick sinners #stack sinners #mary x stack #if I see Mary being another villain in one more Stack self-insert fic…

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reomikagekin · 1 month ago

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I’m finna request Senku lshigami this time 🤭

We were famous/strong enough for Minami to get Tsukasa to revive us to join him and yada yada yada you know how the rest of the story goes. So after all that, we had joined the ‘gorilla’ team.

Senku never really paid any attention to us, mainly just assigning jobs and walking past each other, at least that’s what we thought. OH HOW WRONG WE WERE

I like to imagine Senku having absolutely NO idea of how to handle his first ever crush since he had always thought of romantic feelings being illogical and a waste of time. So while he appears to be indifferent, he’s actually panicking and screaming in the inside every time he gets a single ounce of attention from us, even just a graze of skin gets him spiraling. Like his hand starts shaking if it’s near our hand, one time we noticed him shaking and was GENUINELY CONCERNED like bro are you ok? 😭

Bro tries so hard to be nonchalant, but nothing gets past Gen when it comes to romance. Mf would be teasing Senku so much 😭

So once Yuzuriha decides to host a fashion show to advertise her clothing brand, Gen convinces her to let us walk the stage as well.

We’re walking the stage looking all hot in our outfit 🤭😍 (I personally like grunge style, I think it’s so cool)

And once Senku sees us he’s just can’t take his eyes off of us. All red in the face that you can see steam rising cartoonishly up from his head

What comes after is up to you oh dear Shakespeare

i like being called shakespear.. this is an honor..

Critical Reaction

The world had changed drastically since the day you were revived.

Stone cracked from your skin like ash on a windy day, your breath came ragged and new, and your name—a name spoken by Minami and presented to Tsukasa like a golden ticket—echoed in the stone age like a song from another life.

You were no ordinary person. Known once in the world before the light, your strength, influence, and tactical mind had earned you a place at Tsukasa’s side. But the world had shifted beneath your feet again, and somehow, through war and survival and science, you ended up among the so-called “Gorilla Team,” throwing your lot in with Senku Ishigami and his scientific crusade.

Senku. The boy genius with the celery-stalk hair and eyes like cracked jade under pressure. From the moment you joined his ranks, he treated you with the same indifferent professionalism he gave everyone else. Names became assignments. Faces turned into moving variables in his perpetual equation of survival. You barely exchanged more than a few words a week with him. Sometimes a curt nod. A scientific directive. The occasional dry quip.

You thought nothing of it.

And oh, how wrong you were.

From the outside, Senku looked like the model of composure. Focused. Sharp. Intellect blazing with every new invention. But inside?

Pandemonium.

You. Were. His. First. Crush.

The realization had snuck up on him like a virus—slow, insidious, and utterly disruptive to his mental processes.

It started with a touch. Just a brush of your hand against his when passing him a beaker, and suddenly his neurons were lighting up like fireflies in a vacuum chamber. His hand had trembled, barely noticeable, but your perceptive gaze caught it.

“Hey, you good?” you had asked, brows furrowed. “You’re shaking.”

“Probably a minor tremor. Could be dehydration. Maybe I'm just dying. Who knows.” He’d blurted it without thinking, voice slightly higher than usual, before turning and walking away at speeds that did not befit a man who called emotions "illogical."

The moment he got back to his lab bench, he slammed a hand on the table, face flushed so red he looked like a dying star.

“What the hell is happening to me,” he whispered to no one.

But Gen heard. Gen always heard.

The mentalist materialized like a fox smelling blood in the snow, eyes gleaming with mischief and the type of knowledge Senku desperately wished he could erase from existence.

“Ohhh? Could it be that our stoic little scientist has a cruuuush~?” Gen sang, flopping onto a nearby stool like he had all the time in the world.

“Shut up, Gen.”

“You can’t even look at them without turning into a human bunsen burner. That’s adorable.” He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, this could be the start of a beautiful scientific experiment. Hypothesis: You’re screwed.”

Senku didn’t dignify that with a response. He just scribbled furious calculations that didn’t actually solve anything and tried to think about the chemical makeup of soap instead of the way your voice sent electric currents up his spine.

And then came the fashion show.

Yuzuriha, ever industrious and inventive, had crafted a full line of clothing as a soft launch of her brand. Light materials. Strong stitching. A beautiful mix of traditional and modern.

Gen, never missing an opportunity to stir the pot, casually suggested that you should walk the makeshift runway they were building in the middle of the village square.

“Oh please, Yuzuriha, you’d be insane not to let them model. That grunge aesthetic? The walk? The attitude? Instant sell-out, darling.”

You’d agreed with a smirk and a shrug. It sounded fun.

Senku, meanwhile, had been suspiciously quiet for the entire planning session. So quiet that Kohaku had nudged him and whispered, “Are you calculating something? You look like you’re in pain.”

He was in pain. His brain was short-circuiting from just the idea of seeing you all dressed up, striding down the runway like a meteor of cool, composed confidence.

And when the day came, when the makeshift spotlight caught you in that outfit—

Senku nearly died.

You were a walking contradiction: raw strength wrapped in jagged, elegant chaos. Ripped black layers clung to your form just right, belts and chains clinking softly with every step. Fingerless gloves. Combat boots. Dark eyeliner and wind-tousled hair. You looked like you stepped out of a post-apocalyptic concert and into his central nervous system.

His jaw actually dropped.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

Steam might as well have been billowing from his head. Gen was cackling in the background like a gremlin who had just witnessed the second coming of comedy.

You locked eyes with Senku for half a second.

He looked like someone had just hit him with a physics textbook and stolen his ability to speak. His whole body froze, pupils dilated like a deer in scientific headlights.

You gave him a little wink. A wink.

He walked straight into a bamboo pole.

Later that evening, you found him sitting alone on a boulder outside the village, staring at the stars like he was trying to science away the red still dusting his cheeks.

You dropped down beside him, close enough that your knees brushed.

“You alright, genius? You looked like you were about to combust back there.”

He stiffened slightly. “…I’m perfectly functional.”

“Uh huh. Is that why you walked into a pole like a confused bird?”

“Data suggests the pole was placed at a hazardous angle.”

You laughed. A low, genuine sound that wrapped around his thoughts and dragged them down like gravity wells. He hated how much he liked it. Hated how his heart felt like it was doing backflips in a centrifuge.

You leaned in, eyes catching the starlight just right.

“You don’t have to be so robotic all the time, Senku.”

He swallowed. Loudly. His voice was quieter when he answered.

“I don’t… know how to be anything else.”

You bumped his shoulder with yours. “Then let me help.”

And something short-circuited in his chest all over again.

This was illogical. Dangerous. Ridiculous.

And yet…

For the first time in his life, Senku Ishigami didn’t want to understand something.

He just wanted to feel it.

And maybe—just maybe—with you beside him, that wouldn’t be so impossible after all.

#dr stone x reader #dr stone #ishigami senku #senku ishigami x reader

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dykecubes · 6 months ago

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honestly I think a major part of dreams problem is every time there’s so much as an ounce of criticism towards him he feels the need to go back in time and address literally every situation he has ever been in because he thinks if he addresses it this time then everyone will finally forgive him, instead it just reminds everyone of all the shit he’s done in the past without ever addressing the shit he’s done recently and makes him look worse

#does this make sense?#posting without rereading I’m at work #fae.txt #dream situation

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ajortga · 1 year ago

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competition

pairing: slytherin!toxic!jenna ortega x ravenclaw!fem reader

summary: jenna loves to joke around, you both know it. as she gets braver and braver with her jokes, it comes with a price, eventually hurting you and taking away something you loved most.

warnings: slight angst, teasing remarks, heavy makeout scene, rushed ending, enemies to lovers

word count: 5.2k+

based off request!

Jenna criticizes literally everything about R's performance (J's an ass here 😓), while R is actually starting to get really pressured, J would always have something to say, thennn R gets tired of J's bs and begins focusing on themselves more, which would lead to R ignoring J for atleast a month or two, obviously J's pride is awfully. THEN J CONFESSES TO HER FRIEND, (how inlove she is w R and how she misses R sm) WITHOUT KNOWING THAT R IS NEARBY, OVERHEARING EVERYTHING. 😍😍 A DAY AFTER... R JUST TAKES J IN A PRIVATE ROOM AND KISSING TF OUTTA HER.

Slytherin Jenna! x Ravenclaw R!

Your test paper gets put on your desk, your teacher murmuring a small, “I expected better, Y/N.”

There was a 65% circled in red and it made you sick to your stomach, you had never gotten a low score before, especially in potions. You knew your concoctions and effects, you swear you had mixed everything perfectly. You groan in frustration, cursing to yourself.

Your hand scrunches, breathing in deeply as you ruffle your hair, now hearing the voice of the person you would rather befriend a frog with and use them first as a sacrifice for a blood sucking demon.

“How can someone fail a potions exam? You managed to get first place for being the biggest dweeb, messing up the easiest class.” Jenna slightly smirks, teasingly as she approaches you and whispers sharply in your ear, your eyes glaring at her. “It’s impressive you didn’t notice a small switch of potions. All I did was switch the labels of the potions which had the same color and you didn’t even notice.”

Of course she switched up the potions to set you up for failing, “You know how important this is to me.”

“Aw.. I’m so sorry Y/N,” she mocks, “What a pity.” She pouts, “I don’t care.”

You want to smack her in the face, maybe throw that explosive potion you made to melt off her face, but you don’t. At this point you’re thinking of something to get her back, packing your spell books.

“I swear she won’t get off my shoulders, I haven’t done a single damn thing to Ortega.”

Emma laughs, nudging you, “Maybe she just likes teasing someone sweet like you.”

An annoyed exhale leaves your lips, not knowing what she meant by that, “Well she better stop it,” you grab your broom stick.

Your friend thinks a little, “Just put a small spell on her broomstick! Nothing, you know, to make her hurt, just maybe throw her off balance.”

That interests you, you're trying to think of a sparkle you could just add onto hers. You notice she hasn’t gone to class yet and clearly you can see the large stick hidden between her name. As you approach, your fingers touch the stick, feeling the way your body immediately focuses, then you pull your finger away to go back to Emma. You feel like you shouldn’t, but you don’t feel a single ounce of guilt as a smirk forms when you reach her.

“Come on,” you urge, taking Emma’s hand as you make your way outside with your broom sticks.

You use your right hand, grabbing it forward as Mrs. Hooch stays on the side, watching. You’ve all gotten the hang of it either way, it’s rare for some people to fall.

“Up!” Emma and you say in unison, seeing your sticks fly up as you smile at each other and hop on, ready for a flight.

You giggle, feeling yourself ascend.

“Y/L/N,” You hear Jenna’s voice behind you, making your figure turn to face her. You see her stiffen.

Emma gives you a look, cunning.

“Ortega,” you greet, not so politely, but not rude nonetheless.

“I’d challenge you to a racing match, but I do know that your ass is scared that I’ll beat and outrun you in seconds.”

You give out a snarky laugh, “I highly doubt you could even reach me by the time I ascend. I’m better at you than flying, we both know that.”

Jenna does know that, sort of. And she doesn’t want you to prove it, not during flight class while everyone is watching.

“Unless you’ve changed your mind and don’t want to challenge me, niñita,” you respond again, seeing the way Jenna was thinking.

“Then I challenge you,”

“And I accept.”

Emma nudges you, you hear her whisper in your ear, “Well, she’d probably complain, you did sort of spell her broom and she’d notice as soon as she’d get on.”

A grin forms on your lips, tearing your eyes from the tiny Jenna, “Well, I spelled it so that if Jenna were to try anything, cause that’s the bitch she is, the spell would take effect. I’m not entirely making myself win at all. I know for a fact she’d try to make me loose, she doesn’t want to lose at all, well at least to me. I know her long enough to know she’d put a spell to make me lose balance, Em.”

You see Hooch in the corner of your eye, “Plus, Hooch is watching everything, and because I spelled her broom before hand, nothing will happen until she aims some spell at me. Hooch will see that, or at least a little sparkle and chant of words. But she won’t see mine, since I spelled it before, and she’ll just think Jenna lost her balance trying to spell me.”

Emma looks at you, not knowing if you should go on.

“Em! Seriously, Jenna has been making me miserable this year, and I haven’t done anything. This is just a playful harmless thing. It’s the least I can do. I could’ve spawned a rat in her dorm that follows her everywhere!”

“Go, I sort of want to see her fall.”

The grin that disappeared forms again, winking at her as you hop back on your broom.

Then you two are off.

You rush through the field, feeling the wind blow through your hair. You loved feeling that cool breeze, it’s unreal, flying is your favorite thing to do.

Jennas not far behind, but far enough to know that you’ll win.

She groans to herself, watching your pretty, she meant nasty figure speed ahead.

The brunette’s eyes narrow, she wasn’t going to let you win without a fight, she focuses on your broom, she’s close enough to do something.

The wind is making your hair go crazy, but in a good way. Everyone is waiting their turn from below, watching you race through the course. Fast enough to feel their hair blow from your swiftness.

An exhale pasts her lips, you can see her trying to come closer, or almost urging you to slow down. But you don’t, of course you won’t. You speed faster, dodging an incoming tree and turning a corner.

Jenna feels blood rushing through her ears, murmuring something under her breath as she gets ready to swish through you and laugh.

She begins the spell, feeling her fingertips slightly tingle. But as soon as she’s about to shoot a spark, her hands let go and she sees the blue flying spark stumble towards you. Instead of it hitting your broom and making it shake, your hair flies through the wind and it shoots back at her.

Jenna yelps, feeling the way her broom starts to shake.

Emma giggles from the sidelines, as soon as you pass the blonde’s figure, you send her a thumbs up and a knowing wink.

God finally.

The brunette loses her balance, feeling the broom shake left and right, she’s clinging onto it tightly, smacks her head on loose branches. She feels herself slow down to regain a steady pace, but as she speeds up again, you’re already gone, swerving a corner.

The tiny brunette grumbles from the benches, watching you smile and jump up and down.

“Impressive play out there, Y/N. You just might be our best flier out there, keep your swift performance and you’ll be on for Quidditch.”

You already knew you’d win, even if Jenna hit your broom with her spell. You’ve won every time racing against the class.

You approach her, giving her a half-hearted smile, you’d take it as a smirk.

“Well, someone tried to cheat.”

You hear her huff, and it makes you giggle, you brush off the stick that is stuck in her hair.

“I regret doing that, Em, that tiny tiny 3 foot 1 foot cockroach is making me fall into her traps,” you murmur, stomping your foot.

“At least you got a taste of revenge, Y/N.”

“I guess so,” you say, sinking into your seat, you feel yourself begin to find her playful and harmless banters to be stressful by every joke and scandal that girl plays.

As Quidditch season approaches, Jenna swipes her hair to the side, tying it up as you watch her with narrow eyes. It’s just a regular racing match this time. No ball. Just two talented people against each other.

Well, one more talented than the other, you think to yourself

Hooch brings you two together, in which you stare each other down, your gaze not faltering on each other.

“Goodluck, I wish you two a fair match.”

You two shake hands, though you both won’t admit it was a genuine one. You give Jenna a final glare before gazing back at the field, focusing.

“Ready?” Hooch says, you don’t respond, just a subtle nod.

“And.. Up!”

You and Jenna shout at your brooms.

“Up!” you command, seeing your favorite item fly up, you jump on it.

Then you both swing off.

Again, not long after, does Hooch see the way your practicing and after school matches with friends are working well. You’re much farther than Jenna is, and again, it’s like no other match. But this time Jenna isn’t going to let you win again.

She growls, casting spells onto your broom and immediately, you feel your broom slow down.

“What the hell.” You mutter to yourself, you dive down. But it seems like your broom isn’t listening.

It’s swishing up and down, left to right, and you steady yourself, but you’re shaking.

You're swinging back and forth and you're losing control, you can’t make your broom stop. It’s not like just a shake of your broom and you lose balance before catching yourself, this time it’s worse. Your broom isn’t listening.

You scream to yourself, not too loud. But Mrs. Hooch can see the way Jenna is catching up, she knows Jenna did something, but it’s not looking good. Sure playful banters were okay.

But instead of dodging a tree, you smack your head straight into the leafiness, feeling the thorns of the leaves sink and cut beneath your eye. Jenna swishes through you, not looking back. The pain immediately comes through, harsh stings roaring through your skin. You cry out, completely losing balance on your broom, crashing into the tree harshly and feeling your head bang into the wood.

Jenna still hasn’t noticed the damage she’s caused.

You feel yourself fall.

Farther and farther.

Till your body crashes down on the grassy field, your bones from the fall aren’t helping. You hear the way they crack. And then you feel warm blood trickling down your forehead and down from the cut on your eye. You whimper.

Black spots invade your vision and you feel carsick. But you know you’re not in a car.

Your eyes flutter, making a soft groan as Emma approaches you. You can barely see her worried face but you know she’s scared.

“Y/N, can you hear me?” She says, it’s muffled. You don’t respond, her figure is blurry, you can barely see her blue eyes.

Before you can even think of a response, your eyes shut.

And as Jenna reaches the finish line, she just turns around, to notice you at least tens of feet below from her, collapsed on the ground and curled up. She can’t help but feel a gasp fall from her lips, diving down and getting off her broom stick.

She didn’t mean for it to get this chaotic, she was just hoping you’d crash into a branch and get all angry and fussy. Not get hurt. As she approaches closer, she sees blood trickling down your face as your chest heaves up and down. Emma looks at you, worriedly as everyone surrounds you two.

Jenna feels something that she doesn’t want to admit, she feels guilty for hurting you. You had barely done anything to her, but she’s messed with you countless times, you’ve gotten in trouble for it.

And you never ratted her out. The one time you decide to get her back, she’s taken things too far.

“God,” she murmurs, her voice betraying her as she pushes through the crowds of people, “Is she okay?”

The way her friend turns to her, your best friend looks like she’s about to explode, “Does she look okay? DOES SHE LOOK OKAY JENNA? What the hell were you thinking?” the blonde says the last part half aloud, where only Ortega can hear.

“I didn’t think she’d get hurt!” Jenna retorts, kneeling down and putting her hesitant hand over your chest, feeling the way it was beating quickly, chest going up and down, up down.

Immediately nurses come and drag you out, Emma following you as they take you to the infirmary.

Jenna feels herself following too, until Hooch catches up with her.

“Ortega!” Her voice is loud, screeching as she pulls Jenna off to the side, “what on earth do you think you were doing? You’ve gotten Y/N seriously hurt because of a stupid practice match! Don’t think I didn’t catch the lame spell you’ve cast.” her eyes are wild, angry, “You know we don’t allow spells on the battlefield, I know some of Hogwarts students have broken it, but it’s never been so severe, you’ve hurt her tremendously. She’s bleeding, and I think she’ll suffer some sprains.”

Jenna nods, she understands. Sort of. She wants to understand, she knows what she did was bad. Hooch takes a deep breath, “I’m disappointed with you.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t know if Y/N will heal in three months, she’s been our best and fastest player, with quick decisions and speedy moves. She might have to sit out on Quidditch, I was looking forward to taking the trophy this season. And I would disqualify you, send you to detention after school everyday till she properly heals,” Hooch takes a deep breath, “But you have to be one of our players because you have the ability to. That doesn’t mean that you won’t get detention. I’ll even ask Dumbledore to exclude you from house games.

God, Jenna didn’t mean to make you be kicked out this season. She knew how much you wanted it. She can’t help but feel guilty.

Hooch’s voice once again speaks up, “And I expect you to apologize and pay her a visit. You two have never gotten along, but I know you both care about each other. Even if it’s slight.”

A soft nod leaves her, her eyes lingering on your small figure that is now being taken to surgery. Maybe she’ll slow down with the pranks.

As soon as visitors are allowed in, Jenna begins to stand up and approach your door.

“Ortega, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Don’t open that door,” it’s Emma's voice, but this time she sounds much more angry. Unlike the voice the brunette is used to hearing.

The way Jenna stands there, Emma narrows her eyes, “You’ve already hurt her, what more can you need? Unplug the oxygen tank and start laughing your stubborn ass up? I don’t think so.”

She was taken by surprise, the fact that both you and Emma have gotten used to her tricks, she feels herself biting her lip.

“N-no.. No, not anything like that. I just wanted to apologize. I know my tricks have gone a bit farther than expected.”

Emma approaches her, pressing her finger to Jenna’s chest, “You’ve hurt her more than enough, and I can see it. She’s done nothing to you! Nothing!” your best friend growls, and Jenna backs up.

“You just don’t understand how much you’ve pressured her! Because you’re too busy standing there like the spoiled person you are on your banters.”

Jenna smacks her hands off, raising both of her hands to show she’s ‘surrendering,’ “I know, I know Em! Just let me apologize.”

“Not when she’s just about to wake up, you wouldn’t want the least expected person who hurt you to show up as soon as you wake up. Give her time,” the blonde grumbles, shushing her back to her seat as she enters your room. Jenna stands up again, noticing you're still unconscious.

Emma can feel her presence, and decides not to turn back as she sits on the chair next to you. Your face lost its color. None of the pink shade that tinted your cheeks when Jenna teased you. The pink shade that she wanted to see was gone, replaced by a pale, tired face, sound asleep.

There were cuts all over you, she saw some bruises and there was a big bandage wrapped around your right cheek. She also saw a deep cut that was gauzed up in your arm. She winced. A few broken bones maybe.

She didn’t know it was this bad. The only noise was Emma’s sniffles, and the small beep of your heartbeat’s monitor. Jenna sighs, scooting closer and hesitantly bringing her hand close to your face. She felt like if she were to touch you, you would turn into dust.

Her hand gently traces your fast, your nose slightly twitches, but she knows you’re too weak to move or wake up. Then she brushes through your hair, it’s weird beginning to see all the times she’s treated you wrongly as something she shouldn’t have done. Each trick got worse than the other, more risky of being harmed. And now look at you, all broken and bruised.

I didn’t mean it, Jenna thinks, looking down at your tiny figure.

I really didn’t mean it.

Your eyes flutter closed, and immediately you close them again, groaning from the whitest most lightest light you’ve ever encountered, covering yourself with a blanket. As soon as you move, you moan softly in pain, feeling pain roar through your body.

“Stay still,” you hear a familiar voice say, you can’t lend your finger on it. It sounds pretty, and before you can process it your brain switches that thought off. It’s your annoying rival that casted a spell that got you here in the first place. Jenna stupid Ortega.

You grunt, looking up at her, you feel bandages around you, avoiding contact with the brunette.

“Emma should be back soon, she was getting some flowers for you.”

“Good, then you can leave.”

Harsh.

You hear the way Jenna sighs, and you shake it off, turning slightly so you can face the entertaining wall instead of her.

“Look Y/N, I’m sorry.”

“Please, can’t you see I’m apologizing?”

“No, Jenna. You knew I didn’t like these things you did to me before. And you decide to apologize now? Do you think it’s going to make me forgive you just like that?” You say, turning back at her, a storm brews behind your eyes.

“I can’t participate in the one thing I was looking forward to this season! Just because you put this spell that you knew could harm me badly! You knew I wanted to be in Quidditch!” Jenna winces at your increasing voice.

“You could’ve been on the team too! It’s not just one of us! But you got your actions in the way before you could even think! And now you want to apologize?” It's loud, your voice begins to falter a little. Your shoulders untense, and Jenna can hear the monitor of your heart increase by four times, she shushes you, pulling you onto your back.

“Stop,” she says, her voice is too soft for your liking, you can’t think. Too much is going on in your mind, “Please.”

“Get out Jenna.”

“W-what? You don’t understand.. I’m trying to-”

“Jenna, get the hell out!” You snap, your eyes filled to the max with unshed tears.

You stay silent, before cracking out a tiny, “Please.”

And like that, Jenna walks out of the room, murmuring an “I’m sorry.”

Just this time, she really wanted you to know that she meant it.

It’s been a month, and by now your arm was barely healing, and there was a stupid ugly mark of a cut on your face. The pain was harsh, if your arm didn’t heal by the time Quidditch began, all your practice and effort would flush down the drain. It scared you.

As bad as the pain got, your mark would probably never fade, there would always be a purple cut marked under your eye. Even once it’s completely healed, ones that meet you will notice your cut, in a lighter shade than your actual skin tone. It made you cry every night, silently.

It was stupid to cry over, your deep bruises weren’t even close to healing. Every time you would accidentally press into it, you’d shriek in pain. You felt insecure of yourself. It didn’t feel good, every time you’d look at yourself in the mirror there would be your healing cuts scarred over your body.

“It looks s-so ugly..” You hiccup, looking at yourself in the mirror, Emma by your side as she shakes her head, “Nonsense, it’s okay.”

“It might never go away.”

“And that’s okay, when you're older, you’ll find it silly, I promise. It’s a reminder of being here, and to remind you that competition is less superior when it comes to safety.”

You can’t help but feel yourself shrink, watching the scar on your face haunt you.

Jenna sees you in the hallways, you're in half her classes. But every single time she looks at you, you’re never looking her way. Not like before. Not when exam scores are passed out during Snape or McGonagall when you usually turn around and she waves her high score in the air, but you always wave yours back, grinning happily when you got one percent higher than her. She found you annoying, but now she feels like she’s taken you for granted. You were the one who taught her how to properly care for her plant in Herbology, although most of the time she’s retained information from the random songs and joking nerdy remarks.

Jenna hated sitting next to you in that class, she loved teasing you and making you explode from frustration. She hated the way you looked at her and had the ability to somehow use some Hogwarts nonsense to make her think back at your smile.

It was something you did to her, it couldn’t have been herself, she’d never be thinking of your smile or you in general. You must’ve casted a spell on her.

Yet she remembers that she’s thinking about you right now.

Anyways, she hated the way you smirked at her and kept kicking your feet to hers, then growing some mushroom on her damn shoe.

“What the fuck Y/N? Why is there a green toadstool on my fucking foot?” She says, angrily as you laugh and fall out of your seat. She tries shaking off the small mushroom with her foot, but then it makes it grow even bigger.

And by the end of the day there is a 20 foot mushroom on her shoe, shading her as she walks home, heading straight for the knife to cut it off.

The thought made her smile a bit. She didn’t want to admit it, she didn’t know how you did it. Or maybe when she kept tapping her pen to purposely annoy you, then when you snapped, light blue sparkles flew out of your mouth and made your voice sound wonky.

Now, you barely looked at her. For the entirety of when you were gone, you had to catch up. She felt a little relieved, you could finally talk to her by asking for notes. Didn’t want to admit the pit in her chest when you asked the person behind you.

I’m sorry, Jenna thinks, she wants to scream at you and apologize until you forgive her.

You ignored her, and she knew she deserved it. She treated you so wrongly. Sure she knew you never mind those moments she looked back to, but she knew that she grew more and more brave with her pranks, growing less and less cautious of even thinking of your safety and feelings.

She hates seeing that look in your eyes as everyone in Hooch’s class shouts, “Up!” with excitement, and you sit there, alone on the bleachers as you watch.

As you watch your whole class fly off, Emma giving you a small, concerned look, and a tight-lipped, forceful smile forms on your lips, assuring you were fine.

She hates the way she can remember the smile leaving your lips as Emma leaves off for the race, then looking down with melancholy traced in your features.

I’m sorry.

The shorter brunette can’t stand the way you look at everyone fly off, knowing that someone that you know won’t be you will probably take your place in Quidditch. She can see it in your eyes, kicking the dirt, hoping that somehow you can kick the pain and broken limbs away.

This time, she can’t tear your eyes away from your tiny figure.

Yet she knows that you won’t even look at her, never noticing the sympathetic stares she gives you, replaced with the ones once filled with competition.

Emma’s voice is dull, almost like she doesn’t want to talk to Jenna after the incident.

“You’re seriously asking me to have Y/N talk to you?” she questions, looking at her with suspicion.

“Please, Em! It’s been a month, and I’ve been trying to apologize.”

The blonde crosses her arms, trying to defend you, “Well what if she doesn’t want to talk to you or apologize?”

“I don’t care!” Jenna throws her arms in the air, “I know what I did was wrong and if I’m being honest, class is getting boring without having her competition and silly remarks behind my back.”

Jenna freezes, what she says kind of sounds weird.

Emma hums, then she turns to Jenna, “So, what are you saying Jenna?”

“I care about her!” She groans, rubbing her cheeks, “I’m starting to think that I’ve cared about her since I met her but didn’t know till my actions got her hurt. I was going to apologize but now I’m shitting desperate. She won’t get out of my mind and.. I don’t know!”

Jenna groans, trying to think of what this was, “I just keep thinking about the things she doesn’t do anymore, and it’s sad not having her by my side. I feel guilty. And I need to apologize even more so she can get out of my head! Em, please, I can’t get that stupid silly cute smile out of my head. And I can’t damn focus knowing that the girl that sits next to me in McGonagall is full on avoiding me!”

She doesn’t realize the way she’s been rambling, she looks at Emma, whose face expression has changed. In some way, she’s slightly having a grin on her face, “You’re in love with her.”

“What? I don’t know! Maybe, I just-I feel bad, and I want to apologize and make it okay again. It’s just so dull and I’ll.. I don’t even fucking know. I just miss her and the way it used to be.”

“You should’ve told me that,” your soft voice sing-songs from behind her, making her tense up and turn around.

“Y/N,” Jenna stutters.

“Jenna,” you mumble, voice slightly breathy.

“I didn’t think you were-” she squeals in surprise as you drag her by the arm, panting softly as you drag her into a room, god who knows what Hogwarts classroom this is.

“Look Y/N, I’m sorry, but why are we in someones-mmph.” You seal her lips with a random spell under your lips and you place your finger to her mouth.

You slightly smirk, god she missed it, she looks down at your lips, she rolls her eyes, “Apologize to me and I’ll let you do what you’ve wanted to do.” You undo your spell, taking off your finger from her mouth as she begins to speak.

“Wha?-”

“Go on.”

You were teasing her, and she breathed, “Okay, I’m sorry. For hurting you, I know I went too far,” she was rambling as she speaks a little faster, “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just felt more brave as much as I teased you and I know I went too far this time. And I promise I didn’t try to hurt you, I know how much Quidditch meant to you..” she gulps again, taking a breath. “What I did led to a lot of things, and I’ve noticed the way I grew upset when I knew you began to avoid me, and I’ll admit I miss you.” Jenna says the last part hesitantly.

The brunette looked up at you and you were looking at her, hesitant eyes, but almost filled with need? She now noticed the more visible cut on your eye, and you look away, seeing her gaze on the mark you were most insecure on, you cover your face.

“Stop that,” Jenna smacks your hands away and it feels like her hesitation swept away, she slowly reached up to cup your cheeks, in which your uncertainty melted. She looks at the mark, it was better than when she saw you unconscious on the floor. That’s all that matters. She wants to roll her eyes but now she feels weird when she does that.

“Does it hurt?”

You shake your head, “Just a little.”

"I'm sorry about Quidditch."

"I'm still angry about that, my arm should heal soon though, before it starts."

.. An awkward silence passes, then you look down at her pink lips.

Jenna hums, then you tug her closer, making a small whine.

“Please kiss me.”

Jenna’s eyes widen, taking her hands away from your cheeks.

“What?”

“Please,” you plead, your eyes filled with want.

Her eyes flicker from your lips as she cups your cheeks again and brings you to her mouth. As they meet, you’re all small and soft moans, kissing her with need. Hunger. It’s different. Teasing you doesn’t come with words, she’s teasing you with her mouth, feeling the way you grip onto her.

More more more, don’t stop.

You taste exactly how Jenna thought you would, but just so much better. So addicting, it makes her mind spin with you. Coca cola and addictive vanilla. It mixes well with the taste of hers, you let her capture your tongue. It’s feverish, tongue and want combined. She indulges in the way you make a tiny moan as she nibbles your tongue. Your wanting lips push harder to hers, your body pressing against her as you slightly find something to grind against.

It’s heated and different. She tugs you closer, finding it adorable as you pull away for a tiny breath, then continue, like you don’t want to stop feeling her lips on yours. Her hands. Your fingers tugging against her hair.

Long moments after you pull away, you both are panting, your head buried deep into her chest. She rubs your hair.

“I didn’t think you were that experienced,” you whisper.

She rolls her eyes, pressing her lips to your forehead, “I didn’t think you’d pull me into a room and start begging me to kiss you and make out with you.”

“Mm..”

“Well, did my kisses grant your forgiveness for me?

“Maybe.”

“What if I give you another round?”

She smirks, seeing the way you lean back into her.

“Deal.”

She presses her lips that just left yours once again, feeling your hands tangle back into her hair.

#jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x you #vada cavell x reader #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega imagine #tara carpenter x you #tara carpenter x reader #jenna marie ortega #jenna ortega smut #jenna ortega x y/n #harry potter au

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