almostsaidiloveyou

[almostsaidiloveyou]

can you write about like an quiet, introverted, kinda nerdy girl and a popular social butterfly girl. they have known each other since like elementary school. but the popular girl is always about boys and boys and the quiet one is into girls ( she hasn't come out yet). and also quiet one is like really socially awkward and a loser and her classmates are wondering why the other girl is even friends with her (you get what i'm sayying right?) (and also the popular girl is kinda mean on the outside but actually a softie) i mean i know it's such a cliche trope but i would reallly like if you can write about it. i've read all your fics. they are really really perfect. anyway i hope you all the best girl .

Hello! I just wanted to start by thanking you for the reques. I appreciate it so much. 💕 this makes me so happy and i really do hope you enjoy.

I wasn’t sure if you want the ‘Reader’ to be the popular girl or the quiet one, so I made her the popular girl. If anything, I can write another short story with the roles reversed. I had so much fun. It wasn't supposed to be THIS LONG! but ugh this trope is soo cute. Sending you kissed and hugs xx 😘

Imagine #24: "We all need somebody that makes the Earth feel heavenly. Maybe I'll be that somebody cause you're that someone to me. ˚｡⋆୨ʚɞ୧⋆˚｡⋆Sunshine & Rain - kali uchis⋆˚｡⋆୨ʚɞ୧⋆ ˚｡

(Best Friends to Lovers - Senior Year AU - PopularMeanGirl!Reader - Slow Burn - Insert female interest - Coming of Age - Heavy Fluff - Slight Angsty - Reader has boyfriends - Implicit girl on girl sex - One shot - added background characters - 11.7k words)

4th Grade:

It was simple. Mrs. Smith has everyone lines up: boy-girl-boy-girl so that no one would get “distracted." But there were too many girls and not enough boys. Which meant two unlucky girls would get stuck together.

The unlucky ones being you and her.

She was already staring at the ground when Mrs. Smith announced it. Big round glasses slipping down her nose, her hair done as if someone forced her to have it that way, a loose braid. She didn't look thrilled.

You weren't exactly thrilled either.

She was the quietest girl in class; the one who reads at recess and never raised her hand unless she knew she was 110% sure. You were more of a "running around bossing classmates and trying to make everyone laugh" kind of girl.

But rules were rules, and Mrs. Smith was making everyone have a "guardian buddy" for safety.

"You have to hold hands," Mrs. Smith said. "So you don't get lost."

Her face went pink immediately. "Do we...really have to?" she mumbled, barely audible.

"Yes," Mrs. Smith said in her teacher voice. "And you need to keep an eye on each other."

You sighed dramatically for show (obviously) and grabbed her hand before she could argue. It was small and warm and she flinched like your fingers zapped her with electricity.

Which you probably did since less than a minute ago, you were both in your socks running on the class rug.

The bus ride was loud. You spent most of it kneeling on your seat to talk to your other friends, but every so often you'd glance at her. She just looked out the window like she wanted to disappear.

When you got to the Botanical Garden, you were supposed to follow the laminated map and find five specific plants for the worksheet in your packet.

You of course, decided that was boring.

"Lets go to the butterfly room first," you said.

"That's not on the list," her voice was quiet.

"Yeahhh...but it's cool!"

"We are supposed to--"

"Come ON. We are not gonna get in trouble. I'll make sure of it."

Her brows furrowed, but she followed anyway. Joined hands swinging between you. The butterfly room was humid and bright, sweet hums of wings fluttering. You smiled at the Butterfly Keeper, then ran ahead to try and get one to land on you, while she stood still in the middle of the path, eyes wide.

"It's on your hair," you whispered when you noticed one perched there.

She immediately tried to reach for it, but you stopped her. "No...don't move." You grinned. "You look....magical right now. Like a Butterfly Queen."

"It's an 'Apatura Iris," the Butterfly Keeper added.

Her face went pink again, and she ducked her head, mumbling something you couldn't hear.

Later, when Mrs. Smith gathered everyone at the exit, she called out, "Who got all five plants?" You and she didn't raise your hands. You'd spent most of the time in the butterfly room and the pond area, tossing pebbles and talking about which cartoons were worth watching.

"We searched everywhere...we couldn't find it," you held her hand, as if you were protecting her from whatever consequences could occur.

The laminated paper had very - very specific directions that anyone could solve. But, Mrs. Smith sighed and didn't scold you. She just reminded everyone to thank their buddy for keeping them safe.

You gave her a dramatic bow. "Thanks for not letting me get kidnapped."

And for the first time that day, she smiled. It was small, but it made you wonder what else you could do to see it again.

ʚїɞ

Some claim that middle school is the worst era of anyone's life, yet the most eye opening one. Between fourth grade and high school, you experienced metamorphosis.

You learned how to do your make up. How to dress. How to make people pay attention when you spoke. You were the topic of what people gossiped behind open lockers. You weren't just known, you were LOUDLY known. The girl who never backed down, who always had a comeback strong enough to leave people crying.

She grew up too, but in a different way. She still wore glasses (sometimes), they now fit her face structure. The forced hairstyles were a no more, "goodbye loose braid, hello...disheveled look?" Traded in the school library books for comics that were nearly disintegrating, and thick novels. She stayed reserved, hovering around the corners of every room like she was waiting for permission to exist there.

But you noticed, in ways no one else seemed to. That her jaw had gotten sharper, her fingers longs--hands bigger. Her smile rarer but better when it showed.

You’d catch boys glancing at her sometimes, then looking away when they realized she wasn’t exactly...approachable.

It's not like boys didn't look at you. Hell, you even looked back. You went through crushes the way other people went through pack of gum: loud, fast, and never satisfying.

Boys, boys, boys.

They were fun to flirt with and easy to dump. Yet somehow, none of them ever stuck. They were missing something you couldn’t name.

The two of you? Stayed best friends. Since that field trip, you just couldn't let go of her hand.

"You two were close...too close," some people said. Not in a romantic way (at least not one you'd admit to). But in a way that made it hard to imagine where you ended and she began. You were her ride home when she forgot the bus. She was the person you texted first when you got bored at a party. She knew which brand of chapstick you kept in your bag. You knew which side of the bed she always slept on.

It was easy--familiar. A little bit too familiar.

The gap between how people saw you? Grew wider.

She was "that quiet girl," the one who got called weird behind her back. You were the "untouchable" one, the one who could walk into a room and turn the whole thing your way. People didn't get why you were friends. They'd ask. Sometimes, they'd push it.

And sometimes, they were dumb enough to push in front of you.

Like freshman year, when a random junior made the mistake of grabbing one of her comics out of her hands in the hallway and flipping through it like it was a joke. You were there before she could even react.

"Give it back," you'd said, your voice slow...firm.

He smirked. "Relax, princess. Didn’t know you were into nerdy shit."

"I’m not," you said, stepping in close enough to make him flinch, "but I am into fucking you up, so maybe give it back before you find out."

He shoved it into her chest and slipped away.

You turned to her. "You okay?"

She was looking at you like she didn’t know whether to thank you or scold you. "You’re going to get in trouble one day," she murmured.

"Worth it," you puckered you lips, smiled, and meant it.

A "mean girl," that was just who you were. To the people who deserved it though. You had a reputation for putting bullies in their place, which only made people want to stay on your good side.

ʚїɞ

You were lying across it in one of her oversized t-shirts, scrolling through your phone while she sat cross legged on the floor, flipping through a science magazine.

It was a Friday night, sophomore year, the kind of night you’d usually spend at a party. But she’d asked you to come over, and you never said no to her.

You dropped your phone onto the matters and stretched until your back popped. "Gosh, I’m hella bored. Let’s play something."

She gave you that patient look she always gave when you interrupted her reading. "Aha, like what?"

"I dunno...truth or dare?"

She rolled her eyes. "We are not twelve."

"Fine!" you let out a dramatic sigh. "Then imma go through your things."

"You're not--" she started, but you were already sliding off the bed to poke at the stack of comics by her desk.

"You've read all these, right?" you asked, flipping one open.

"Mhm, obviously," she didn't look up.

You crouched down, following the line of books to the floor, where a small cardboard box sat pushed halfway under the bed.

The lid wasn’t on all the way.

"What's in here?" you asked, reaching for it.

"Nothing!" she said too fast. You'd already pulled it into the light.

The first shiny cover stopped you: a blonde woman in red lipstick and lace, her shy smile alluring to the camera. It wasn't a comic, nor a novel. Not even close.

"My god." You grinned before your could help it. "Are these--"

She was on you in an instant, dropping to her knees and grabbing for the box. "Give. It. Back!"

You leaned away, flipping through the top few magazines just to tease her. "Playboy? Seriously?"

Her face was hot now, hair falling into her eyes as she tried to wrestle them from your hands. "They’re not... I just--"

"You just… what?" You smirked, holding one up between two fingers. "Needed them for… the drama?"

She groaned and snatched the magazine, shoving it back into the box like she could erase the last thirty seconds. "Can you just forget you saw that?"

You sat back on your heels, watching her push the box deep under the bed until it disappeared into the shadows. You wanted to laugh, but there was something about the way she wouldn’t look at you.

Something that made your chest feel weirdly warm.

"I mean," you said casually, "...if you like girls, you could’ve just told me. Then I wouldn't be surprised by your perversion."

She paused for a second, like you hit a nerve. She distracts herself with organizing the comic stack. "I don't...like--"

You didn't push.

Later that night, lying in the dark while she fell asleep next to you, you caught yourself wondering...just wondering.

ʚїɞ

8 years after the field trip, if anyone asked, you'd say nothing's changed.

You and her still sit together at lunch, still sprawl across each other’s beds doing homework, still have entire conversations without speaking a word. People still call you "inseparable," not in a sweet way. They’re trying to figure out your friendship.

There are cracks now. Cracks that you feel more than see.

Part of it is the boyfriend.

Ethan: Hot, Smug, Leather jacket. He looks like the kind of guy your mother warns you about and you immediately jump onto his convertible and drive away. He's the type who leans against lockers like it's a movie scene and calls you "baby" loud enough for the whole hallway to hear. You like him the same way you like Black Liquorice, bitter...but kinda interesting.

She doesn't like him at all. You know this because she doesn't talk about him. Not even to make fun of him. And that's weird, because she usually makes fun of all your boyfriends. Always gently, so it feels like an inside joke instead of criticism.

The other part is...her new friend.

Her name is Lila. You met her once, in passing, when you stopped by the town's library to return a book she had lent you. Lila was sitting with her at one of the corner tables, both of them bent over some thick paperback with planets and...astronomy things...or whatever.  Lila had big glasses, a messy bun, and that same shy, slightly defensive way of looking at people that she used to have when you first met. 

"They met during the library's sci-fi movie night," someone told you later. Of course they did.

Now, Lila is a regular installation in her life. Hanging out twice a week at cafes or libraries, texts that makes her smile at her phone in a way that feels too easy. You've never had to compete for her attention before, and you hate how much you feel like doing so now.

⋆⋆

A Wednesday afternoon when you're sprawled on her bed, staring at the ceiling--counting the stars she had placed up there back in middle school--waiting for Ethan to pick you up for a movie. She's at her desk, typing something on her laptop, half distracted.

"What are you working on?" you ask.

"An essay. Then Lila and I are gonna go to the planetarium tonight."

You look over at her. "...On a school night?"

"Mhm, yeah. There's a meteor shower. They're letting people stay after closing to watch."

You make a face (you could never control your face. It spoke before you) "Sounds...freezing."

She shrugs. "It's worth it."

You try to joke: "You're cheating on me with your new dorky friend," but it lands wrong. Her mouth turns into a small smile, but her eyes remain on the screen.

"She's nice," she simply says. That's all the explanation needed.

You want to ask 'nicer than me?,' but that's ridiculous. You're her bestie. You've been her best friend since fourth grade. She's stuck with you through bad hair phases and worse boyfriends. You're the one who had matching purple butterfly bracelets with her. You're the one who punched Ryan Jones in eighth grade when he called her a "Pathetic Nobody." You're the one who always stood by her side for everything.

You've always been the one. So why does it feel like you're slowly...not?

When Ethan finally texts that he's outside, you grab your jacket and stand. "Don't have to much fun with Lola."

"It's Lila." She corrected you. You stuck your tongue out to the side.

"And I won't," she says, glancing up just long enough to give you that small, quiet smile that always, always softens you.

ʚїɞ

By the middle of sophomore year, she had heard enough. The cycle was always the same: you find some hot guy, get into the teen-honeymoon phase for a few weeks, and then slowly, and inevitably, it would turn sour. He ditch plans, forget important dates, talk over you when you were telling a story.The came the tears, the late night face tome call rants, and your shooting star promises that "this time I'll pick someone better."

She would sit on your bed, cross legged, silently hearing while you picked apart every flaw. She never said it, but by the third failed relationship she had already made a silent vow:

'When it's me, I'll be better'

Of course, she didn't know what "better" really looked like yet. So she started studying.

It began innocently, mental notes on the things that made you roll your eyes:

"Don't cancel on her last minute."

"Don't make her pay for your lunch every time."

"Actually listen when she talks about her day."

Then she got...organized

One rainy afternoon, she pulled out an old Lisa Frank notebook from her desk, the one your grandmother bought each of you during, Back to School shopping for seventh grade.

"how 2 be a good boyfriend or girlfriend....wtv"

From then on, every time you vented about some guy's fuck up, she wrote that down in messy handwriting.

don't check your phone when she's talking.

remeber remember her coffee order!!!!

actually MEAN it when you say "i'll call you."

don't make fun of the stuff she likes, even as a joke

The notebook became a secret habit. She fill it in after you left. First she hid it with her pervy - Playboy magazines. But then you found out about those, so she hid them where you or anyone would ever find it: under a stack of old limited edition comics she didn't let anyone touch.

By junior year, it went from theory to...research.

She didn't exactly plan to type "lesbian porno" into the search bar one night, but after reading yet another post on X (twitter) about "how guys can't find the clit," she figured she might as well learn. She even took notes in that damn Lisa Frank notebook. Technique notes though, on what seemed to actually work, not that fake unrealistic porn stuff.

To her, it's just preparation. Like studying for a test she might never take, but wanted to ace if she ever got the chance. She slammed her head on the desk and called herself a "fucking loser."

She told herself it was admiration. That you were just her favorite person in the world and she wanted to be worthy of you; the way a knight trains to protect their queen.

There were nights when she close the notebook, lie back on her bed, and imagine what it would be like if you looked at her the way you looked at the boys you fell for. And in those moments, she knew...

She was already in love you (maybe...she wasn't 100%). She'd just been taking notes on how to prove it.

ʚїɞ

She and Lila had claimed their usual table. Stacks of books, two laptops, a plastic bag of fruits between them. You'd stopped by in your way to cheer practice. Not because you needed anything, but because you liked the way she lit up when you appeared unexpectedly.

Except she didn't light up this time. She gave you a distracted smile from behind her computer screen.

"Look at you, married to the library now," you teased, resting your chin on her shoulder. "Do you even go outside anymore, or are you part of the furniture?"

She rolled her eyes, but before she could answer, you reached over and tapped the top of her hair: a ponytail, you can tell she barely tried. "Your hair's a disaster. C'mon lemme fix it."

"I'm fine," she muttered, ducking her head.

You lifted both your hands in the air. "You say that, but you've got, like...pencils in here?" you said more as a question rather than a statement. You plucked one out and waved it at her before sticking it behind your ear.

Lila was watching all of this. You noticed her noticing, but you didn't care enough to change your tone. You didn't even acknowledged Lila.

"Don't stay here too late, you nerdy geek," you said, already turning toward the exit. "The world needs your weird facts about Saturn or like... female in STEM or whatever." 

You blew her a kiss and skipped away before she could respond.

Lila waited until you were out the library. Waited for the echo of your sneakers to fade away, before speaking. "Does she...always talk to you like that?"

She raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. "Like what?"

"You know. Teasing you. Making fun of your hair. Calling you names."

She frowned slightly, pushing her glasses to the crown of her head. "She doesn't make fun of me."

Lila raised an eyebrow. "I was sitting right here.. She called you part of the furniture."

"That's just...how we are," she said, picking a green grape up. "She's always been like that."

"That doesn't make it okay," Lila said softly.

"She's my best friend," she replied quick and defensively. "She's the one who's been there since elementary school. She's the one who--" She stopped herself, pressing her lips together.

Lila leaned back in her chair, studying her like she was a particularly tricky math problem. "I just think you deserve people who...you know, make you feel good about yourself. Not people who pick away at you, even as a joke."

She wanted to argue, to say that you DO make her feel good about herself. That you're the reason she ever came out of her shell, even if it was a little. The reason she knows how to stand her ground. Yet, the words caught somewhere between her chest and her throat.

Because the truth was...sometimes your teasing did hurt. It made her hyper-aware of you. Of the power you had to make her shrink or glow with a few careless words.

She shook her head and forced a small smile. "You don't know her like I do."

"Maybe not," Lila said. "But sometimes that is what makes it easier to see thing."

That night, when she was brushing her teeth before bed, she thought about your hand in her hair, the teasing sparkle in your eyes, the way you hadn't stay to hear her answer. And she was annoyed that, for the first time, she wasn't totally sure whether Lila was wrong.

⋆⋆

You kept throwing pebbled on her window. It was past eleven at night.

She's not even surprised. She gets up from her desk, slides the latch, and pushes the glass up so you can climb in like you've been doing since you were fourteen. Your boots hit the carpet with a dull thud.

She's in sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Her skin dewy and smelling faintly like spice. You, on the other hand, look like you've been dragged through hell and back: makeup smudge, your top half tucked, you jacket down to your elbows, hair...you didn't want to talk about it.

She tilts her head, a silent question.

You don't even wait for her to sit before you start. "He's such an asshole."

She closes the window behind you, and you're already pacing. "I mean, y'know how I told him I had that history project due? And couldn't go to his dumbass friend's bonfire 'cause I needed to get it done? He told me I was 'over-react-ing' and 'be-ing dra-ma-tic' because it's only one grade and, quote, I'm too pretty to worry about grades."

She pinched her brows, "He said that?"

"Yes! Like my brain doesn't even matter." You throw your hands up. "And then---and then, when I didn't show, her posted this picture on his story of him with his arm around Madison....MADISON! Captioned it 'night. upgrade." You pull on your bracelet string. 

Her jaw tenses, but she doesn't interrupt, eyes follow your moving body.

"And then..." you stop pacing long enough to flop dramatically onto her bed, staring at the stars on her ceiling. "He texted me two hours later, asking if I was done being a 'crybaby'"

She sits down at the edge of her bed, facing you. "Why are you still with him?"

You groan, "Don't start."

"I'm serious," her voice steady but softer than when she's mad. "You come here every other week with a new reason he's an asshole. And every time, I tell you he's not worth it. And every time, you ignore me."

"Be-..." You roll to your side, propping your head up. "...-cause it's complicated."

"It's not that complicated," she says. "He treats you like shit."

You HATE when she talks like this...because she's not wrong. It makes you feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with Ethan. She's always been like this with you: blunt, but in a way that feels safe. She's not judging you, only wishing you'd see yourself the way she sees you.

You try to deflect. "You know I don't listen to anyone."

She gives you a pointed look. "You listen to me."

The room goes quiet. You stare at her for a second too long, and she breaks the tension by reaching over to straighten your shirt's collar, muttering, "You look like you got into a fight with a trash can."

You laugh, the tension snapping, and grab her hand just to swat it away. But you don't let go immediately.

"I just..." you sigh, letting your head fall back against the pillows. "I don't know why I put up with guys like him."

Her voice is quiet now, almost hesitant. "Maybe because you haven't figured out what you actually want yet." She returns to fixing your top so delicately.

You're not sure why that makes your chest tighten.

⋆⋆

You never really notice change that much. Especially when it's slow. You don't notice it until you're looking at it from a distance.

She's been spending more afternoons with Lila.

Lila: pretty dorky girl with cardigan sleeves that hand past her hands and a laugh that's softer than the whisper of turning pages. You’d never cared for her, not really. She was background noise. Now she feels like a name you hear too often.

"Lila found this old book on--"

"Lila says there's an art club---"

"Lila's got this theory about---"

A late reply to your texts, a rain check on plans because she was "already hanging out with Lila." You told yourself it was fine. She was allowed to have other friends. You weren't her girlfriend. She wasn't yours.

But you’d gotten used to how she was always there: within reach even across the room. You’d been certain you were each other’s person. And now, there was Lila, taking up that space.

You didn't hate Lila, not really. You also didn't know her. Not the way you knew her.  And you didn't like the way she laughed at things Lila said, soft and unguarded, in a way you'd never quiet heard before.

Sometimes, you'd catch yourself staring at them across the cafeteria: the two of them huddled, whispering like they were plotting a crime. It wasn't that you thought she was replacing you....but what if she was?

You tired not to let it show. You still hung out, still joked, still leaned against her should like you always did. You did notice the pauses, the ones where she used to look at you and now glanced down at her phone. The ones where her gaze drifted past you, like she was thinking about somewhere else she'd rather be.

And you did not like yourself for noticing it.

Meanwhile, she, was caught somewhere she couldn't name. Because when she was with you, there was this pull. A warmth of familiarity, and ache in her chest she didn't have with anyone else. But lately, Lila's words kept echoing in her head

"She's kind of mean to you, you know."

She brushes it off every time, tells Lila that just how shit is. Nonetheless, sometimes...she did notice. Teasing lingered seconds too long. The way you'd dismiss something she liked with an eye roll. She'd never thought twice about it before. It was just you.

Now, she wasn't sure why she'd never thought about it.

Still, the thought of pulling away completely felt wrong. Like cutting off her own arm. She couldn't stop the shift inside her though. The way her heart beat when you smiled, the way she caught herself staring at your mouth mid-sentence.

It was getting harder to be near you without wondering what it would feel like if you stopped talking about your stupid fucking boyfriends and kissed her instead. And harder to ignore the quiet, creeping fear that maybe...just maybe...you'd never feel the same.

⋆⋆

His room feels thick. Smoke curling lazily around the light, trying to soften everything but it only makes your skin feel hotter, your pulse louder. Head spinning slower than the world or maybe faster, you can't tell.

Ethan's beside you, smirking like he owns the world and every little stupid thing in it. His hand is loose around your waist, but it feels odd. A placeholder you do not really want anymore. His hands are on you, possessive, confident, the kind of touch you've come to expect but never want.

Lying back on his messy bedspread, half laughing-half numb, fully high on whatever cheap weed he gave you.

You know you should feel something. Excitement, Lust, ANYTHING! But you feel is only dullness, disinterest. You taste him, his lips rough, breath warm, words slurred in that irritating way that means he's too high to care about anything but himself.

You close your eyes.

You want to feel something...

In your deep conscious you want to see her.

Her.

Your vision is blurred as you grab Ethan's face. You're probably seeing double...crossed eyed. Blinking until you no longer see him.

The shape of her face, the way her hair falls just so. The way her eyes sparkle with that quiet fire that Ethan could never match. And then she's there.

Wearing what Ethan's currently wearing, his t-shirt and his shorts. You imagine her hands, strong and sure, moving over you in ways Ethan never has.

You're not kissing Ethan anymore. You're kissing her. With more intensity than you thought possible, the lines between reality and fantasy blurring so much you don't know where one ends and the other begins.

The way she tastes like something you didn't know you were craving. It's exciting and wrong all at once. You keep kissing, your hands ghosting over Ethan's body. Hands roaming his chest expecting to feel her. You're reaching for someone else. This isn't just a daydream. You're using her to cover the parts of this night that don't fit anymore.

Part of you is into it. Into the way your heart skips when the imagined version of her whispers something you don't hear. Into the way your body remembers what she feels like, even when it's just a shadow in your mind. Deeper into the fantasy. Her voice saying your name, her hands in your hair, the way she laughs when you tease her.

Ethan hands slide down your waist, your mind is somewhere else entirely. Caught between what you want to feel and what you're pretending to feel.

You break the kiss, break the fantasy with your eyes still closed. Ethan's looking at you. The fantasy shatters. You blink, and you're back on his messy bed. His eyes aren't soft, they're sharp. Wondering if he should question why you were so into it, or just enjoy the fact that you WERE into it for the first time ever since you've started dating.

Your heart is pounding, not from him but from the acknowledgment. You push back, scrambling to your feet before you say or do something you'll regret.

"I...I uh have to go," you cough, avoiding his gaze.

The door slams shut behind you, muffling the mess inside. Outside, the cool night wakes you up. Sobers your skin and mind.

You room is dark except for the small glow of your phone screen. You curl up on your bed, knees pulled tight to your chest, and try to figure out what's spinning inside you. It's not like before.

The jealousy you've felt was the type you never felt before. The type of feeling you were supposed to feel when the boys you liked laughed a little too long at other girls. Or when Ethan ran his hand across someone else's back like it was noting. That was easy, it was irritation, a feeling you could shove away with a roll of your eyes or a comeback.

This is different.

It's the feeling that sneaks behind you and stabs you in the ribs, making you cold and your chest feel tight. It's watching her laugh with Lila in the library, the way her eyes light up when they share a joke you don't get. It's seeing the soft, easy way she leans into Lila's space, the little brushes of fingers, the way her smile seems fuller when it's just the two of them.

That feeling...hurts.

It's not Lila you're jealous of. It's what Lila represents.

Jealous of something that is not a person, but a feeling, a moment, a connection. You hated yourself for feeling like this. You stare at your blank ceiling, tracing invisible patterns on the wall. You want to text her. To ask if she misses you like you miss her. To tell her you're sorry for everything you didn't say.

But your fingers stay still because you're scared. Scared that if say any of it out loud, you'll lose her forever. And you realize you never wanted anyone more than her.

⋆⋆

A normal sleepover. You and her, like always.

She comes out your bathroom, showered with all your products. She looks different. Nervous maybe, you can tell by the way she fiddles with her bracelet.

You'd already seen the pictures Lila posted: her and your best friend at the fair, hair messier from the rides, faces painted with cheap glitter stars. You told yourself you weren't bothered. You were with Ethan that night, anyway.

Still, you can't ignore the weird weight in your chest as she sits at the edge of your bed. "So..." she starts, her voice low, hesitant. "Lila and I went on the Ferris wheel."

You hum like you don't care, eyes still on your phone.

"And we kissed."

That makes your head snap up, giving you whiplash. Your mouth working before your brain catches up: "Ew, why?"

It slips out meaner than you meant, dripping with disgust instead of confusion. Her shoulders tense, the way her eyes losing sparkle tells you she's building a wall.

You feel guilt in your stomach. Ew in the sense of 'ew why Lila,' not 'ew you kissed a girl.' You were going to speak up but she's already speaking, her voice shaking slightly; "Why? Because I like girls. Because I've always liked girls."

Your mouth goes dry.

She doesn't look away from you, she bites her the inside of her cheek. Bracing for something, "I'm...I'm gay. And I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to..." she swallows. "...look at me like you just did."

The room feels smaller, you can hear the hum of your phone still on the bed beside you, the faint buzz of notification you don't dare check. You want to say you didn't mean it like that. You were just caught off guard, not disgusted ....just surprised.

But the words stick in your throat.

She stands, pulling her hoodie sleeves back over her hands, "I shouldn't have said anything."

You reach for her wrist, but she pulls back carefully, like she doesn't trust herself to stay if she lets you touch her. And in that moment, you realize you've hurt her in a way you've never seen before.

Not like when other people said something cruel and she brushed it off. Or those times you defended her in the hallway. This is is deeper, different.

And for the first time, you wonder if you might not be able to fix it with a joke or an apology.

⋆⋆

The next few days feel wrong.

She's there, in the hallways, in class, in the field, everywhere just not there with you. She sits at the other end of the lunch table. She spends longer time at her locker until you've already walked past. She answers your texts hours and hours later....or not at all.

You tell yourself she's busy. That you didn't screw shit up that bad. Deep down, you know you did.

On Tuesday, you corner her outside her Calc class, your voice low so no one hears. "Look, I don't care if you're...you know...into girls or whatever."

She looked at you and for a moment, there's hope in your heart. But then you see the way her lips press into a line, like you just confirmed exactly what she thought: That you don't get it.

Your try again the next day, finding her by the vending machines. "What I mean is...it doesn't matter to me. Like you're still...you."

She shakes her head, mutters, "You don't get it," and walks away before you can follow.

By Friday, you are desperate enough to blurt it out in the middle of the quad. "I'm not freaked out that you're gay!" you insist. "I just...." but your voice catches too loud, and people turn to look. You clamp your mouth shut.

She grabs her tighter and walks off. Ignoring you completely.

That's when you see her with Lila again. Leaning against the wall outside the library, talking quietly heads close. You slow down, hidden behind a group of students, and watch as Lila says something that makes her laugh out loud. The sound you haven't heard in days. Your best friend's shoulders relaxes under Lila's light touch. Easy, comfortable way that used to happen when she was with you.

Later, you hear it from a cheer mate who is mutuals with Lila. "She thinks you're f-ed up," apparently for the way you reacted and treated her. You want to write it off as gossip until you overhear them yourself.

"She's messed up," Lila's voice, clear as day from behind a stack of books in the library.

"She didn't mean..." your best friend starts, but then she stops. A pause.

Then: "No...you're right...maybe she is."

You leave before they can see you. Biting your tongue, fists to your sides. And for the first time since elementary school, you start to wonder if maybe she's better off without you.

ʚїɞ

People only ever see one version of you: Loud laugh, perfect hair, quick comebacks. The girl who can stand in a hallway, arms crossed, and make anyone twice her size back down without raising her voice.

They think you were born like that, confident and untouchable.

But she knows better.

She's the only one who remembers the 2nd field trip in fourth grade: the zoo. When you were trying to be funny and flicked her a Star Shaped Silly rubber band you found in your pocket. It barely snapped against her arm, but the shock made her yelp. The moment her face crumpled, your own eyes filled with tears. You'd followed her all through the reptiles house saying "I'm sorry," over and over until you were crying harder than she was.

Or that time in sixth grade when your parents told you they were moving overseas for work and you would have to live with your grandmother. You told everyone you "didn't care," you even joked about how you would get more freedom without them around.

But she saw you that night, curled up on her bed with your knees to your chest, shoulders shaking so hard you could barely breathe. She didn’t say much. She kept the tissues coming, moved your hair off your face, and hugged you until you fell asleep.

She's the only one that knows that the attitude isn't armor you chose, it's armor you needed. That each time someone laughed at your damage in those early years, you promised yourself you would laugh first next time. Even if it meant someone else was on the receiving end.

She's the only one who knows that, for all your boldness, you've always been too sensitive for your own good.

That's why it worked, the two of you.

She didn't mind your edges because she'd seen the soft center underneath. And you never minded her quietness, because it gave you a place to land when being "the strong one" got exhausting.

You’ve always been the storm. She’s always been the calm.

ʚїɞ

You'd texted her asking to meet up at the coffee shop near the park. A place where you could finally say the words you've been rehearsing in your head for days. When you walk in, she's sitting at a table by the window...and Lila's right there beside her.

Your stomach sinks, but you force a smile and slide into the seat across from them. "Hey."

She gives you a polite fake smile. "Hey," she says, then goes quiet, stirring her drink.

You take a breath. "Listen, about that night--"

"She's been busy," Lila interrupts, brushing a crumb off her sleeve. "She doesn't owe you an explanation for not hanging out."

In your head you're asking Lila "What the fuck are you on about? No one was talking to you."

Instead you glance at her, tight-lipped, then look back at your best friend. "I wasn't asking for one. I was just saying--"

"She doesn't need to hear you say it either," Lila cuts in again, her tone light but firm.

"Can I just talk to her?" You hands curled into fists.

Lila leans back, smirking. "You ARE talking to her. You just don't like that I'm here."

You bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste metalic. The air feels heavier with every second. You glance at your best friend again, silently pleading for her to step in.

She sighs, looking at Lila. "Can you give us a sec?"

Lila hesitates, looking between you both before sliding out of the booth with an exaggerated shrug. " 'Kay, I'll be at the counter."

As soon as she's gone, you let out a breath. "Thanks. I just...I'm sorry, okay? I said something stupid and it came out wrong and--"

Her voice cuts through yours. "You're always saying something stupid."

You freeze.

She's staring at you now, not with annoyance, not even anger....just tiredness.

"You think you can just...run over people and they'll get that you don't mean it," she continues. "But you do mean it sometimes. And I'm done pretending you don't."

Your throat tightens. "I don't--"

She stands up, shaking her head. "I...I think....I don't want to be friends anymore." Her face crumbles.

It's so quiet after she says it that you hear the clink of cups from across the restaurant, the hissing of the espresso machine. And then she's walking away, Lila falling behind her, both of them heading for the door. You sit there still until the bell above the door jingles shut behind them.

The first sob hits you like a punch. Then another.

It's not quiet crying, it's the ugly one. The kind that tears its way out of you. Your hands cover your face but it doesn't muffle the sound, doesn't stop the trembling that starts in your heart and spreads to your fingers. It's the same way you cried the night your parents left, shoulders shaking, lunching aching, like the world was going to swallow you whole. The only difference was: she wasn't there to hug you.

You curl forward in the booth, the fabric of your lacey henley top soaking up your tears, wishing you could rewind everything. Back to before Lila, before the fight, before you ruined the one thing that mattered. But all you can do is sit there, wailing into the space she's no longer in.

⋆⋆

It's been a week since she walked out on you. A week of silence between you and her. A week of Lila filling the empty space.

At first, it was fine. Lila was sweet, annoyingly sweet. She liked to plan little study sessions in the library, brought her homemade cookies to the quad, and always had a "fun fact" about some obscure book, followed by small kisses. On paper, it was perfect.

But the long it went on, the more something in her began to prickle.

"That has too much sugar," Lila says now, plucking the iced latte from her hands before she can even get a sip. "Don't get it, you always say you get headaches after sugary drinks."

"I didn't say that."

"You've said it once before." Lila smiles like its a done deal and hands her black coffee instead. "Better for you."

She forces a fake polite smile, takes the cup, but her stomach twists.

Later, at the bookstore, she reaches for a beat up second hand sci-fi novel; the kind she loves, trashy fun cover art and all. Lila's fingers close around her wrist.

"No," she says. "You should read something else, this is literally brain rot on paper."

She furrows her brows, "I like this stuff."

Lila tilts her head, voice soft but condescending. "I know I know. I'm just saying...you be better off expanding your taste."

It happens again when they're walking past the thrift store. Lila telling her those kinds of second hand clothes "aren't flattering," and "unhygienic." At lunch, telling her that sitting alone at study hall "makes you look like a loner." Even when she's trying to relax, Lila's voice is there, telling her what is better, what is good for her, what is right.

By the end of the week, her eye was twitching.

It's late evening when they end up on a park bench, the air smelling like rain. Lila is mid sentence, something about how she should stop hanging out with that guy from her art class "cause here's a bad influence," when she snaps.

"You ever hear yourself?"

Lila, thrown off. "What do you mean?"

"I mean...you're always telling me what's good for me. What I should wear. What I should read. Who I should hang out with. What's better for me." Her voice is sharper now, the words spilling faster. "You don't even ask me what i want."

Lila's brows knit. "I'm just trying to help--"

"You are trying to CON-TROL me," she snaps. "You act like you know me better than I know myself...and you DON'T! You don't get to decide what's "good" for me. That's not your job."

The air between them stiffens.

Lila leans back, obviously offended. "Wow, I didn't being a good FRIEND was such a crime."

"Friends listen," she says, standing now. "Friends respect you enough to let you choose for yourself. You don't do that."

For the first in a while...in forever, she feels taller. Stronger, like her voice carries weight.

"I'm not doing this anymore. I do not want to be your friend, Lila." She says simply and walks away. Leaving Lila sitting there under the park light, her mouth parted in disbelief.

⋆⋆

You on the other hand that week...was just existing on autopilot. Walking the halls with your usual perfect look, but without the aura. You don't bite back at people. You don't smirk at the gossip. You don't even care when someone purposely bumps into your shoulder.

You've never been this quiet before. Especially not in public. Never even in front of you boyfriends.

Tonight, you're sitting on the floor of his room. Knees to your chin staring at the muted TV while he scrolls through his phone. "You've been weird lately," he says without looking up. The glow from the screen makes him look even more distant.

You almost laugh. Weird doesn't even cover it.

"I''m tired, Ethan."

"Of what?" He glances down at you.

You take a deep breath. "Of us."

"What?"

"I am breaking you with you." The words come out flat, but inside, your heart is pounding. "I can't do this anymore. I'm tired of pretending I feel something I don't."

He sits up straighter. "Pretending Are you dead serious right now?"

"Yes," you met his eyes. "I don't love you...I never did. I'm sorry."

There's a pause, the kind that extends to the point it gets uncomfortable.

Ethan scoffs. "Then what the hell have we been doing all this time?"

You bite your bottom lip, debating if you should just leave it there. You snap instead, maybe it's the week of emptiness or that memory of imagining her instead of him.

"I'm in love with my best friend."

"Who?"

You say her name, for the first time in a while...out loud at least. His mouth opens then closes again. "What?"

You look down at your bracelet, at the butterfly charm. "I am in love with her."

Its out now, heavy and irreversible.

Ethan stares at you like he's trying to figure out if this is a joke. If you're trying to get him jealous. But you're not smirking, only chewing your bottom lip.

"Well," he says finally, leaning back with a bitter laugh. "That explains a lot. All those times..."

You stand up without another word, grabbing your purse and heading to the door. You don't make a scene, you walk out quietly. Your chest tight but with a sense of relief. Your shoulders feel light. For the first time in a long time. You're done pretending.

⋆⋆

She told herself she wouldn't miss. After all, you were the popular one. The one who always had people around, like how the planets orbits around the stars. She was the quiet best friend you'd grown up with, the one who stood in the background while you laugh with other people.

But she does miss you.

She misses the way you say her name like it's an inside joke. She misses your shameless dramatics over the smallest inconveniences. She even misses your 'mean girl voice': the one you use when someone needs to "tone it the fuck down." But she knows is really you defending yourself from the world.

And after standing up to Lila, after realizing she doesn't want to be told who she can or can't care about....she's been walking around with this heavy pain in her chest. The kind that doesn't go away unless you DO something about it.

So tonight, she does something about it.

It's 11:47 p.m, when she's standing outside your grandmother's house, hoodie up, hands shoved into her pockets, she's staring at the porch. So many sleepovers here than either of you could count. She knows your grandmother is out visiting family tonight. She knows you're alone.

She also knows the spare key is under the third flowerpot to the left, and that you never lock your bedroom window anyway.

She tries the front door, but the key isn't there. Tries the window. Locked. She jerks an eyebrow up and sighs, figures you've suddenly developed caution at the worst possible time.

So she does what any logical best friend does: she climbs the side fence, nearly slips on a loose wooden slat, and mutters a stream of curses under her breath until she's awkwardly half spread over your windowsill.

She knocks. Quiet at first, then bangs.

Inside, the room is dim. You're sitting crossed legged on your bed in V.S Pink flare leggings you got for Christmas three years ago-- a camisole, hair in two pigtails, scrolling through your phone with a blank expression. Until you look up and see her, your heat dropping alongside your jaw.

"Holy shit! Are you....what the hell---why are you climbing into my window like some creep!?"

She swings one leg inside, then the other, landing with an ungraceful thump on your carpet. " 'Cause we've been ignoring each other and I'm tired of it."

You nod, "Right...right. So your plan was felony trespassing?"

Her lips twitch, trying hard to not to smile. "Misdemeanor at best."

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence is heavy but not cold.

"I miss you," she finally says, voice steady and quiet.

You stare at her, your chest tightening. "...I miss you too."

She relaxes her shoulder, hesitates before stepping towards the bed, and you don't move away, she sits besides you.

"You're still a mean bitch sometimes," she mutters, but her tone is soft.

You giggle, "And you're still a socially awkward perverted loser."

"Yeah," she smiles just a bit. "Guess that's why we work."

⋆⋆

One minute, you and her are sitting cross legged on your bed, exchanging awkward smiles like it's the first time, and then the next you're both lying down, shoulder to shoulder, staring up at the plain ceiling.

The soft orange glow from the lamp on your night stand keeps your room alive. The kind of light that makes everything feel more private. And it's not entirely platonic either. You can feel, that slow shift in the air. You both crossed some invisible line but neither of you is ready to say it out loud yet.

"Ya'know," she says softly, breaking the silence, "you can be really funny. Like...really funny. But sometimes your jokes. They kinda hurt."

The words are honest and hits you. You turn your head toward her. She's focused on the ceiling, fingers playing with the cuffs of her hoodie sleeve.

"Yea," you admit after a second. "I guess...I know that. I don't mean to. I just..."

"Protect yourself?" she finishes for you.

"Yeah...and I forget to who I'm talking to."

She finally meets your gaze, eyes searching yours. "You don't have to do that with me. Not all the time."

Something in your gut twist: guilt, warmth...both? "Then you gotta promise me you'll tell me when something bothers you. No shutting down. No avoiding me for a week."

She smirks faintly. "I can do that."

And then you do something you haven't done lately, maybe since the cracks appeared. You reach out, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, letting your fingers linger against her temple. She's still, eyes flicking from yours to your mouth.

"You still let me mess with your messiness of a hair," you murmur, almost to yourself, smoothing down another loose strand.

"It's...nice," she says, voice lower than before.

Your thumb traces the soft curve of her cheek without you even thinking about it. Then you kiss her nose. She doesn't pull away. Neither of you does.

And in that , the shift stops being subtle. It's there in the way your shoulders touch. In the way you notice her breathing, slow, intentional, a little uneven. In the way your heart's pounding like young just ran up all the stairs of the Statue of Liberty.

You're still looking at her when you whisper, "I don't want to fight with you anymore."

Her lips part slightly. "Then don't."

Lying here, close enough to each other's warmth, both of you silently wondering if this is the night everything changes.

⋆⋆

One week ago, you were barely speaking. Now, she's on your bed like she owns it; sneakers off, sweater tossed to the side--staying in a tank top, hair a little messy in a hot way (you'll say), thanks to the wind outside.

It's weird how easy it is to slip back into a routine with her. Ever since grade school, whenever there would be petty fights, you both spoke about it maturely. Expressed your feelings, then BOOM! Back to normal.

Right?

You're on your stomach at the edge of her bed, listenting to music coming from your phone. Your eyes keep glancing to her. She's got that lopsided smirk she gets when she's about to make some stupid comment.

"So," she starts, voice light but coated with curiosity. "What did I miss while you were too cool to hang out with me?"

You rolled your eyes and gave her a look. "Too cool? You were the one playing family with Lila, going to fairs and dates."

"Ok, but that's 'cause you were--" she pauses, raises a brow, "--busy sucking face with Ethan the Asshat."

You groan: "Don't call him that."

"Why not? He WAS an asshat." She grins when you don't argue, only roll your eyes again. "Anyway. Tell me all the gossip. Go."

You pretended to think, pouting your lips and staring to the side. "Hmmm, well I broke up with him."

Her eyes changed with something quick...satisfaction? "Good. He didn't deserve you."

Her tone was casual with weight underneath. You ignore the warmth on your cheeks. "Your turn. What happened when you were ignoring me?"

She hums, also pretending to be in deep thought. "Lets see...I survived Lila's attempts to be the manger of my life. Read three new graphic novels, found a new ramen place that's basically heaven--"

"And kissed a girl," you cut in, smirking.

She pauses for a second before quirking a brow at you. "Jealous?"

You scoff, but your stomach flips anyway. "Pfft, please. I've kissed way more people than you."

She's smug when she smirks. "Quantity over quality, huh?"

You throw a pillow at her, but she just catches it and hugs it to her chest like she won. "Anyway," her voice shifting into that teasing tone, "you know if you ever need lessons..."

You side eye her. "Lessons?"

Her expression is total mischief now, that rare, bold side in her that comes out when she's feeling comfortably cocky. "Yea. Y'know. Practice."

You snort. "You're stupid."

She shrugs. "Just saying...could be educational. For you."

You scoot closer. On one hand: to mess with her. On the other: because your body wants to. "Oh? And you think you'll be a good professor?"

Her eyes drop down to your mouth, quick...but you noticed. "I think I'd be amazing." The air between you gets thick, like it did that night. You both feel it.

You lean back slightly, acting impressed because you'll fail to pretend you're unaffected. "You got...cocky.

"Nah. Just confident."

It's supposed to be banter. But fuck, the way she says it: low, sure, a little dirty. Maybe she's always been like this, a little inappropriate, a little shameless...but now you notice.

You catch her staring more than once that afternoon. When you stretch to grab something from the top shelf. When you're licking chocolate off your thumb from the snack you're sharing. When you flop back onto her bed and your shirt lifts just a bit.

Every. Time. She looks away like it's nothing, yet her ears go red.

By the time you leave that night, you're not sure if you've actually caught up on everything you missed...or if you've just spent the entire day testing how you can push before something finally snaps.

⋆⋆

The last bell of the day is still ringing in your ears when you step off the mat. Cheer practice leaves your body aching and your hair slightly damp. The adrenaline always feel good.

She's waiting for you by the bleachers. Bag slung over one shoulder, watching you with an amused expression she always gets when she's catching you mid cheer mode.

"Practice done?" she asks, pushing off the bleacher rail to meet you halfway.

You nod, adjusting your bag. "Mhm. Coach kept us an extra fifteen minutes because Allie couldn't land her tumbling pass."

She smirks. "Tragic." Then her tone softens a bit. "Soo....you heard back yet?"

It takes you a second to realize she means the letters. You smile and nod rapidly. "Got my acceptance yesterday. State University. You?"

Her face brightens. "Same!"

You knew it. Since the start of high school you both planned to go to the same university. You swear you're both independent, but from all the applications you've sent back in October. You're sure, four of them were the same.

"You gonna join any clubs over there?"

She glances sideways at you. "Dunno. Maybe I'll crash your party. Cheer squad could use someone like me."

You laugh out loud. "Oh, absolutely. You would LOVE wearing the uniform."

She thinks, then her voice drops slightly. "Depends. Is it like the one you've got now?"

You give her a scared side eye. "Why?"

"Because...if it is, I might get distracted during practice. And not by the routine."

You scoff, raising the corner of your mouth in fake disgust. "You're unbelievable."

She leans in closer, "What? I'm just saying..." You feel the heat radiating off her. "...Those skirts are very motivating." She lifts your skirt up from the side.

You push her shoulder, but it's more playful than annoyed. "You're such a perv." You ignore the warmth of your cheeks.

She just grins wider. "Takes one to know one."

The conversation shifts after that. Talking about dorms, campus food, the weather. A little hum in the air.

⋆⋆

8 years of school with her.

Senior year has been a blur. Boyfriends who didn't matter, fights you didn't start but still finished, those weird months where your friendship felt off. Somewhere in the last few weeks, things found their way back...better than before.

It smells like late spring. It smells like the end of an era.

Her living room displays the lazy evening light. You're on the couch with your legs stretched out, one ankled on the other. She's sitting sideways in the armchair, a half empty can of soda balanced on the armrest. It's just you two. Again.

She's been yapping (to put it nicely) for a while. Something about a comic series she found in a thrift store bin, and every so often, she says something just to get under your skin. It's a game now: push until the other one breaks.

"...and you wouldn't get it," she says, gesturing with one hand. "Because you've got your cheerleader brain that only understands prep rallies and make up--"

You throw a cushion at her. She pushed back at you.

To be honest, you've been watching her more than hearing. The way her hands move when she talks, the way she furrows her brows when she's trying to make a point, the way her voice softens without meaning to when she says something she cares about.

"...but in this issue, the whole arc turns on this timid side character, right? And nobody sees her as the hero at first. But she..."

She drifts away suddenly. Her gaze focus on you. Just like that, her voice drops, almost absentmindedly.

"You look really pretty right now."

It's so soft, causal, a passing thought. It lands heavy, there's no sarcasm or joke to it. Only pure admiration.

"What?" You come back down to earth.

She shrugs, leaning back in the chair, her mouth curling to the tiniest smile. "I mean, you always look good, but...I dunno. Right now you look...different. Like..." She searches for the word, her brows pulling together. "Like you don't even have to try."

Your heart thuds. "You're so weird."

"I know, but...I'm right." She says easily, shifting back into her rhythm like she didn't just spill that on you. "Anyway, so the hero thing, right? Everyone underestimates her until--"

You don't even realize you've moved until you're in front of her. She cuts off mid sentence when you lean down, gripping the arms of the chair. Her eyes widen, and then your mouth is on hers.

It wasn't calculated, careful. It's an instinct, like breathing or blinking, except this time its sweet and full of things you've been swallowing back for months.

You almost pull away, she was still. Then her head tilts just slightly into you, like she's not ready for it to end. When you do break away, she's staring at you. And she's not smiling, she's not mad either.

"...So," she says after a moment, voice quiet and steady, "that was...not comics related."

You barely laugh. "No. Not comics related."

She sits back slowly, her eyes still on you. "Good. I hate interruptions." You know that's her way of saying she didn't mind.

⋆⋆

You find yourself leaning in first more often than not. The way your lips brush hers in the hallways between classes, the quick stole ones, breathless kisses when she walks you home. Sometimes you hold her hand and it feels like a kiss. Other time, just a teasing press of mouths...pecks. You lean in after a joke she made, the pride you feel blooming behind your chest when she doesn't pull away. Kisses that speak: I want you but I'm also scared.

She's quieter, less sure. But when she does kiss you back, it's like she's catching her breath, like she leaped over that invisible line.

Making out happens sometimes. A closeness you thought about in the dark, Breathy-Slow, your hands trace the curves of her pants, then her waist, and she lets you.

She touches you like she was prepared for this. And she was, just ask Lisa Frank.

Are you dating? You don't know. But you both are something. You catch her staring sometimes, eyes softer than you've ever seen them, full of questions and hope.

One afternoon, you find her sitting alone in the library, flipping through a hardcover book. You sit down beside her, heart jumping out your chest.

"Hey," you say softly. "Prom's coming up."

She looks up, startled, then smiles shyly. "Yea...I know."

You swallow the lump in your throat. You agreed during the summer that if you each had a partner you would go with them, not each other. You both haven't spoken about prom since.

"I was thinking...maybe you and me could go together."

"You mean...as more than friends?"

You smile, feeling braver than you've been in a second. "I think we should try."

She nods slowly. "Okay," her voice is a whisper. "I'd like that."

⋆⋆

Nobody was surprised. Not your classmates, not the teachers, not even the cafeteria lunch ladies who got annoyed at you two for using each other's lunch ID & codes for double snacks.

Oh? You and she are together? Everyone knew (or at least suspected) that what had been cooking under the surface for YEARS finally spilled over into something real.

Prom was everything you'd hoped for. Laughter that filled the venue, a slow dance that somehow made time stop. In your elegant beautiful attire, you both walked into a late night pizza shop. Telling corny jokes on the side walk, stars overhead.

Now, the end of senior year loom like quiet promise. Graduation is coming...

You're lying side by side on her bed, the glow in the dark stars stuck to the ceiling casting your own little solar system above. Your hands rest near each other, fingertips occasionally brushing.

"Can you believe it's almost over?" she asks, low and calm.

You shake your head, feeling the heaviness of it all. "Feels like we just started."

She turns her head towards you. "I'm scared."

You squeeze her hand gently. "Me too."

There's a long pause, the kind filled with everything neither of you wanted to say out loud yet.

"What...do you see when you..." she finally says, a small smile tugging at her lips. "...think about us?"

You look up at the stars, then back at her. "I see someone who's been there through everything. Fights, late night talks, dumbass jokes, the kisses I never wanted to stop."

Her smile grows, sparkles spreading in her eyes. "I see someone who made me believe I'm with fighting for. Someone who's a little mean sometimes, but who's also the softest person I know."

You laugh softly. "Mean, huh?"

She nudges your shoulder. "Only when they deserve it."

You shift closer, "I'm not perfect."

"Neither am I," she brushes a stray hair from your forehead.

Your eyes meet: "What do we do now?"

She shrugs, but there's no hesitation in her voice. "We keep going. Together. Like always."

You smile, heart full. Your fingers still linger in hers.

Without a word you lean in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, but she never does. Instead, her breath catches, and your lips meet in a kiss that's gentle at first: full of promises and respectful hope.

Her hands slide up your arms, memorizing every curve, every warmth. You pull her closer, your bodies fitting together as if you've been made to find this exact moment. The stars above casts a magical atmosphere. She looks almost unreal, your heart beats faster.

A perfect blend of awe and desire.

She sighs against your mouth, a sound that sends shivers down your spine. Her fingers lace through your hair, tugging softly, now you sigh against her mouth.

When she pulls back just enough to whisper, her voice is low and reassuring, "I've got you," you feel your worries melt away. There's no rush, only the slow exploration of skin and breath. Her hands guiding yours, you follow her lead.

She traces gentle circles on your back, the heat of her hands seeping into you. You trace the curve of her jaw, remembering the way she smiles when she caught your gaze, eyes sparkling brighter than any glow in the dark star above.

Time folds around you both. The universe shrinking down to the softness of her touch, the steady of your hared heart. Whne she takes the lead, helping you through every tender moment, it feels like falling and flying all at once.

When you finally come together, it's with a sweetness and care that speaks louder than any words ever could.

Afterward, tangled in sheets, you rest your head on her chest...listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. The only sound you want to hear.

"Was it..." you whisper, breathless.

"Perfect," she replies, fiddling with your bracelet.

You smile, knowing that with her, perfect isn't just a word: it's a promise.

⋆⋆

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting golden light over the botanical garden. The same one where you two became friends, years ago, when you were just two "unlucky" kids forced to be each other's guardians on that field trip.

Graduation ended hours ago.

You've taken her hand in yours, fingers lacing together naturally, as you walked the winding paths. The flowers bloom in bright bursts of color, and the smell of earth and petals wraps around you. She's quieter than usual, but you can feel the same swirl of emotions in her: excitement, relief, a little bittersweetness.

You stop by the small pond, pebbles still on the ground. You walked past the plants you didn't write down on that laminated sheet. You entered the Butterfly Garden.

You turn to her. "We've come a long way," you say softly.

She smiles and nods. "Yeah...from little disobedient awkward kids to..."

"To us," you finish, squeezing her hand. You saw her smile, for a moment she was a little fourth grader with large glasses and a loose side braid.

"I'm going to sound snappy..." you glance at your open toe heels.

"You always do." She teases. You squeeze her hand, chuckling under your breath, telling her to 'shush.'

"We're staring a new chapter," you say, "and I don't want to do it with anyone else."

Her lips curve into a certain-shy grin. "Me neither."

You pull her close, kissing her cheek. Suddenly, a delicate shadow flutters over you. A soft brush against your hair.

"Looks like it's your turn." She laughs softly, trying to not move too much, eyes wide. A purple butterfly, the same one from that day so many years ago; settling gently on your head, opposite side from where it landed on her.

You move your head slightly and it flys away. You see it, your heart swelling.

"Gosh, this garden...it's more than just a place," you say. "It's where we began. And where everything beautiful started."

She nods, full of love in her eyes. You pull her into a tender kiss, embracing all the years you've shared and the many more to come. Under the golden sun and surrounded by Butterflies, you both know this. is just the beginning.

Togther.

Forever~

A/N: Oh my god this is the longest oneshot/imagine I've written so far. Started 08/08 @ 10a.m. Finished 08/10 @ 3a.m---The fact that in the middle of me writing the start, my computer just decided to delete half my progress--made me wanna give up. But i just fell in love with this one. I need fucking sleep...3 in the morning is crazy.

this my last oneshot

Tags <3 also tysm for all the support & the reblogs.

@heartlexs @morgxz @serenaspalace @dykesofcydonia @klallx @k1tt3e @frejav6996 @ghostbladee @2heartsbecoming1 @valenbodoque @sevikass @cryeyes @mingitheii @ultmisclicks @beaflyy @liasxeatt @warmfleurs @aeshertheunhinged @poeticrenaissance @sidefanficaccounttohidemyshame @swordfemm4 @ch3sire-blu3 @groundbifff09 @baiabay

(Let me know if you want to be tagged in any post. You're all welcomed to.)

[almostsaidiloveyou]

My notifications showed that you posted, but it was just a late notification from yesterday 🤸‍♂️🌉💥

Hiii!!! Here’s a RECENT post <3

Imagine #23: Touch Me & I’ll Stop

A/N: when it comes to the love interest, (sometimes) her pronouns will be italicized.

(makeupartist!reader - part 5 - slow burn before the smut :p - smut with a plot (reader giving) - a bit of fluff - added background characters - barely proofread - 4.9k words)

6 ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Since the trailer and the mirror, you haven't seen her. Not really.

A day after, you brushed past her in the hallway and your arms touched for barely a second too long. Long enough to feel the edge of her bracelet scrape against your skin.

Schedules haven't lined up.

She's on press duty. Some film premiere. Probably some dinner meetings. And you're knee deep in double shifts, hustling through beauty calls, corporate campaigns, and multiple shopping runs to buy products.

It's only been texts. Half of them inappropriate. The other half?

Even worse...sweet.

Just notifications. No hands, no mouths, nothing.

Mon 9:43 PM her: what if I had my mouth on you rn? her: wouldn't be tired then huh

You remember reading that on the train, half asleep, with a model's leftover bronzer still on your hand. You didn’t answer right away. Not because you're prideful. But because you couldn’t believe someone who acts like you don’t exist in public can still make you feel so seen in private.

Still, as always you replied:

Mon 9:47 PM you: my legs would probably shake, not gonna lie you: but maybe i'd claw your back...only a little. since you're into pain and all ;)

Mon 9:49 PM her: don't say shit like that while im at dinner her: with fucking tina carr no less

You know exactly how long it's been since you were pressed against the mirror in her trailer. The fading marks on your shoulders acted as a timer.

Tue 12:45 AM

She sends you a blurry photo. Her hand curled lazily over her bare stomach, nothing else in frame but a white duvet. The message underneath:

her: miss ur hands

You pretend not to check it immediately. You wait five minutes. Then ten. Then reply:

Tue 12:54 aM you: thought your little girlfriend would keep them busy.

She doesn’t reply right away.

Tue 1:04 aM her: you're jealous

You chew your nails. She always does this. Takes control with honesty.

You scoff to yourself:

Tue 1:10 AM you: you r not that special. you: i've seen better stomachs.

She leaves you on read. Thirty minutes pass before the voice memo notification lights up your phone.

You're hesitant to press play. And when you do: her voice is low, breathy.

[ "that's cute. that attitude," she murmurs. "You really think I'm letting anyone else touch me? Anyone else see the way my thighs shake when your mouth is on me? You wanna talk about being special...look in the fucking mirror next time I cum. That's who I'm talking about." ]

You lie on your side in bed, pulse racing, hands tucked between your legs. Feeling yourself react. Hating how fast you fold. Hating how much she knows it.

You answer in the morning. A photo of you freshly showered, wrapped in towel. Face covered, body on display.

She texts back in under a minute:

Tue 8:15 AM her: Drive to me. her: Right now.

But you can’t. You’re booked for four more jobs. Long hours. Shoots. Music videos. Last-minute house calls for an influencer who doesn’t know how to blend contour.

You hate being busy. Mostly because it means watching her be seen in public with Tina Carr.

The internet eats it up. Fans posting edits, talks about them in forums. Spotting them in public, at concerts, soft glow blurry photos of her and Tina hugging in oversized hoodies that could easily be shared.

It makes your chest go cold. Makes you remember what her body language looks like when it’s honest. When it's tangled with yours in lowlight rooms and backseat cars.

It’d be funny if it wasn’t so… tired. If you weren’t in it. If it wasn’t your lipstick she still wears with all that expensive clothing.

If you didn't have to stay quiet.

You're annoyed at the distance.

Annoyed with the messages you read in bed, curled around a pillow, phone warm in your hand. Sometimes you’re mid-set, being rushed, too much to do, not enough sleep...still typing back.

༺♱༻

No fancy envelope, no cursive print, no glittery 'save the date' with perfume scented seal. You don't even get a real invitation.

You receive a group text.

[ hey babes!! <3 you're officially on the list for my 21st!!!! biggest baddest birthday bash of the year. think Miami meets St. Tropez meets burlesque. You ladies are the V.I.Ps of the party. THE GLOW UP TEAM! touch-up my guests. Keep them pretty throughout the night. Can't wait to have you ps. bring something cute to wear. xoxo ~ B <3 ]

The "B" is short for Bambi (no last name since it's part of the persona).

The Paris Hilton wannabe socialite. Also an influencer—slash—nepotism baby who started her own brand, that did pretty good despite the media clowning her.

She's turning 21. You and the others got "invited," but the unspoken rule is clear: You're not a guest.

You're the maintenance crew: You, a hairstylist, another makeup artist, and a seamstress named Carla who's always got safety pins in her mouth and a cigarette in her pockets.

You're brought in to keep people looking flawless even after they've had four tequila shots and a bathroom breakdown.

You're not surprised. This is how it always goes for people like you. You're allowed into the party

...but only so long as you're useful.

༺♱༻

The invitation said 9:00 PM --- but for you, the party started at six.

You arrive three hours early, rushing across the marble floor of the rented venue with a duffle bag heavy on your shoulder and your kit box clicking at your side. The space is ridiculous: all white and chrome and curved architecture, with a balcony that hangs above.

Soft pink lighting already pulses against the walls, even though the actual party hasn't started yet. There's champagne chilling in a pyramid of glass near the dance floor, and speakers taller than you humming with lazy bass.

The other stylists are unpacking near a curtained-off area in the corner of the room. The little backstage. The team has done this before. Touch-ups for a rotating group, wardrobe panics over popping seams or broken straps.

This is normal.

"Hey," says Mel. A hairstylist you recognize from another job a few weeks ago. Smoky eyes and always chewing gum. She gives you a wave without stopping her flat iron. "You're late."

"I'm early," you say, tugging open your kit. "We're ALL early."

"Yea, welp, try telling that to Miss Shiny Hair." You looked over to where Mel's flat iron was pointing at. Bambi was linking her arms with the party coordinator.

"She texted me FIVE times this morning," Mel continues, rolling her eyes. "Wanted to know if we could change her entire look twice throughout the night. Girl, we aren't in an M.V."

You smirk and pop open a palette. "Let me guess. She wants to go from Barbie to Bratz?"

"She said 'coquette to dominatrix," Mel says, deadpan. "Swear to God."

By 7:30, everyone's in motion. The other MUA, Jenna, is airbrushing contour onto one of Bambi's friends. Carla is fixing a bejeweled strap that won’t stop sliding down some model's thin shoulder. Your corner is cluttered with primer bottles and the sweet mist smell of setting spray.

You don't know who will show up tonight. You don't ask. You just work.

But somewhere in the back of your mind, behind the lash glue and blush brushes and the mental checklist of who still needs powder, you thought:

Will she be here?

You'd asked, half joking, if she'd show up tonight.

Sat 7:43 PM you: Heard Bambi is having a birthday party and only invited cool important ppl. r you going?

She didn't answer.

But you knew she'd never misses a good party.

༺♱༻

8:20 PM, the venue's energy shifts.

The lighting darkens. Catering staff starts arranging trays of tiny hors d’oeuvres, glitter-dusted macarons, heart-shaped sushi rolls, three different flavors of champagne.

In the little styling corner, Bambi’s instructions still echo: "I want you all to blend in, kay?! Like...be hot girl staff. Sexy glam team. I don't want anyone looking like...you know...Anyways! You guys are artist. Look like art."

You'd smiled through it earlier when she said it with her fake humble giggle. Diamond tooth gems and pink acrylics, her rhinestoned heels tapping.

The four of you are in a rush. There’s one mirror in the staff bathroom. Two ring lights. A half-drained bottle of Prosecco someone snuck in. Clothes are flying, you’re helping lashes get glued, edges laid in a hurry. Everyone’s barely dressed and sweaty, but laughing.

Mel's in a skin tight black dress that zips up on the side. "I look like a sexy pepper grinder," she says, adjusting her boobs in the mirror. The smell of fresh mint lingers. "'Dis too much tits?"

Jenna's throwing on a sheer corset top. "There's no such thing as too much tits. It's Bambi's party. We're legally required to look like this."

Carla’s in the backless jumpsuit she made herself. She’s sewing her own hem up while crouched barefoot on the marble.

You unzip your own bag, pulling out the dress. The one you weren’t sure you’d wear.

Silver, sparkly, short, and sexy. Shimmers like wet light when it moves.

You bought it for a party you didn’t end up going to, a few months back.

You hold it up against your body for a second, unsure. Then catch your own reflections.

Something clicks.

You change fast, smoothing the fabric over your hips, stepping carefully into your heels. Hair's already done; soft, clean, like you had your own team giving you touch-ups. You fix your face in the mirror while the others rush around you.

"You look good. I see you," Jenna mutters with a grin, tapping her lips with a gloss wand.

Mel lets out a low whistle. "You better not let the birthday girl see you. Probably won't get paid tonight."

You laugh, but there’s heat behind your ears. Your stomach does this stupid little flip. Because you’re not just dressing for yourself. You know who you’re hoping will see you tonight.

"We ALL look good, lets be real," you say, posing for Carla's picture.

Someone sprays setting spray in the air like it’s perfume. There’s a sense of anticipation now. You aren’t prepping for a party, but a performance.

And when you step out that bathroom, sliver dress on your hips, heels tapping against the floor. You don't look like a makeup artist.

You look like you're gonna be a problem.

Her problem.

༺♱༻

The party, like the real party, is already an hour in.

You heels? Ache.

Your smile? Fake.

And you've powdered more foreheads than you can count. Including the birthday girl herself, who called you her "Beauty Fairy"

...then ignored you when a reality TV star waved her over for pictures.

You've been working nonstop. Darting between guests, slipping behind velvet curtains to grab your makeup kit, brushing highlighter over cheekbones, dabbing sweat off T-zones for good pictures. Lip gloss reapplications. Models and influencers swarm in waves—red-shot eyes, glossy skin, smelling like coconut.

You nod politely. Smile for “thank yous” that never come. Pretend your feet aren’t screaming in those expensive heels. Your back aches. Still, even on autopilot, you're aware of the door. You keep checking.

You blend for another second, then glance up toward the entrance across the venue.

And there she is.

Not just her.

Tina Carr walks in first—smiling, glowing, laughing at something one of those YouTube twins says as they wave at her. The room is eating her up already. She's good at this. For fuck’s sake, she’s this generation’s Horror Princess. Dressed in pink, hair blown out, thin heels. A goddess. What every girl here wants to be. And it makes your throat tighten.

Walking besides Tina is her. The opposite of everything in this room: leather jacket off, resting on her arm, tattoos visible, pants slung low on her hips—wide. Vintage belt. Vintage shoes. Rings stacked on her fingers. Nails in glossy clear polish. Sunglasses. Indoors. At night. Daring you to look. And you do. You can’t not.

While Tina's light and glitter and fake smiles. She's cool and distant. A Rock star without trying. Unapologetically herself.

Your heart drops when your eyes lock on her. You never told her you'd be working this party. But the moment she spots you, a second of genuine surprise crosses her face. A raw look saying: 'You're really here?'

Wide eyed disbelief.

You catch her for a heartbeat. Then she smooths her expression, pulling the sunglasses lower on her nose as if to hide that second of surprise.

You shift your weight. Pretend to fix your station. Ignore the feeling in your chest, in your throat, in your stomach. Pretend you didn’t just lose your breath. Pretend your skin isn’t reacting like her stare has the same effect as her hands.

But your heart’s not pretending. It’s pounding. Because compared to all the celebrities here...the producer’s kids who’ve never worked a day in their lives. Tina is just another pretty girl in a dress.

But next to her. She makes you feel like the star.

You glance down. Adjust a makeup palette. Try to focus. You can still feel her looking. Tingles climbing your spine. Like she’s already undoing your dress with her eyes, slowly.

And you hate her for it.

You LOVE her for it.

༺♱༻

Bambi’s taking shots with people twice her age, and the air smells like hairspray, vape, sweat, and tangy liquor. You’re meant to be cleaning your small station--

Except she’s right behind you. Leaning against the setup table like she belongs there. Like she hasn’t been stuck across the room playing PR princess with Tina all night.

Her shirt’s half unbuttoned, and she’s looking at you like you’re the only real thing in the room.

"Hey," she's soft, as if she's telling a secret.

You straighten. Your heart flutters. She’s already smiling when you turn. Soft and tired. You’re her breath of fresh air.

And for once, her eyes aren't hungry. They're warm.

"Thought I was going crazy," she speaks up, hands in her back pockets. "Didn't know you were gonna be here."

"It's work," you say, gesturing toward the open kits, the line of small mirrors, and recyclable applicators.

"I figured,"she says, voice competing with the music’s beat drop, "but you look too good to be working."

You expect the usual flick of her tongue over her teeth, some smug look in her eyes, but it doesn't come. She's not flirting. She's admiring.

"Bambi's b-day," you say like that explains anything. "She wanted everyone glammed up. Even the help."

She hums, "She's got taste."

You tilt your head, "You know her?"

"Met her once. She tried to sit on my lap during a perfume shoot. Told me she was recently 18 years old," she shrugs.

You laugh before you can stop yourself, and her smile grows.

"She's so real for that. And chaotic," you mutter.

She shifts a little closer. Not touching. Too much attention, too many eyes, too many phones. You feel the tension of it.

"You do look really pretty tonight."

You’re caught off guard. Again. It’s soft. Genuine. A little shy, even.

It’s not new; she’s said those words before. Whispered them when her hands were under your top. Groaned them between kisses.

"Thanks," your voice a little smaller than intended. "You--uh....don't look bad either."

She raises an eyebrow. "Wow. How sweet."

You giggle. Heart climbing.

You’re not used to those kinds of compliments from her without lust behind them. So it lands deeper. Like it’s not about the dress or the fantasy. But you.

"Don't let Bambi wear you out," she murmurs, hands still in her pockets as she steps away. "You deserve to enjoy the night too."

She disappears into the crowd. Back to the noise, back toward Tina and the image she's portraying.

And you’re just standing there… completely thrown off. Her words echo. They were honest. And that? Messes you up more than anything else tonight.

For the next twenty minutes, you try to focus. Stay grounded.

Nonetheless, you feel it with every cell of your skin. She’s not just craving you.

She cares.

And you don't know what to do with that.

༺♱༻

Breaks don't really exist at parties like this, not real ones, anyway. You only get thirty-five-minutes break.

Technically it’s supposed to be thirty, but Bambi got distracted flirting with a DJ, and the other makeup artist covered your last powder check. So when the glam team rotates for food or smoke, you slip out.

The venue is too packed to breathe properly.

You head toward the back hallway like you’ve done this before--because you have. The coat closet isn’t glamorous, but it’s quiet. Cold from the vents. Dimly lit. Smells like perfume and the airport.

It's not really a closet.

It’s massive, more like a storage room. Walls lined with coats and designer garment bags. A bottle of champagne is tucked between someone’s Balenciaga trench and a pink faux fur, like it was stashed for later.

You let the door close, lean back with a sigh, let the silence press into your bones. It’s only now you realize your feet are killing you.

You slide off your heels. Stretch. Let your head tip back. Cool silence settling on your skin.

Heels were pinching. Your head’s spinning from heat, perfume, and whatever sentimental TOP 40 remix has been on loop.

Worst of all?

You haven't stopped thinking about her.

You do look really pretty tonight.

Your chest aches.

You’d almost rather she grabbed you in the hallway; dirty and fast. Then you could call it lust. Deny what you’re starting to feel.

You’re not even alone for sixty seconds before you hear it: the soft click of the knob.

It's her. You don't even have to ask.

She slips inside, quiet. Closes the door behind her. Her footsteps are slow. Familiar. She’s already got that look on her face: the one she wears when she’s trying not to feel too much.

"Tina asked if I wanted to dance," she says casually, like she's trying to fill the quiet. "Told her I needed air."

Your arch a brow. "This is where you get air?"

"I wanted to see you."

You clear your throat. Tuck your hair behind your ear. "You did see me. On the floor. Working."

"Yea," she says. "But not like this."

A second of silence. Then she steps closer.

"You've been killing me all night," her voice low. "Do you know what it’s like to see you across a room and not be allowed to touch you?"

You look at her; jaw, collar peeking from that open shirt, fingers twitching like they want to reach for you.

"It's not like you've ever had trouble sneaking around before."

"That's was before people started watching."

"They've been watching you for a while," you shoot back.

"Yea," she says. "But now they think I belong to someone else."

That stings, you look away.

She's closer now, shoulder to shoulder. And you hate how much you still want her.

Her voice dips to a whisper. "You really didn't tell me you'd be here?"

You shake your head, "Didn't want to be a distraction."

"You are." Her fingers brush the hem of your silver dress. Making sure you’re real.

Your body reacts. The silence is loud.

"You're gonna get us both in trouble," you murmur.

You glance at the door. "We don't have time. I'm on break...thirty-five minutes..." your eyes shoot up. "...barely."

"We've got..." she checks her wrist watch. "Twenty....eight? Minutes."

You laugh despite yourself. But when you look at her again, her gaze is softer.

She says your name once. Low.

When you look up, she’s not looking at your mouth. She’s looking in your eyes.

"I wanted to see you," she repeats, quieter. "Not just texts. Not just backstage. I missed you."

It's not dramatic nor performative.

You forget what you're supposed to say. Forget the party. Forget Tina, Bambi, the confetti cannon, PR.

It's just the two of you. Her eyes on you. Maybe she's missed all of you. And the distance wasn't just scheduling.

Like maybe she's scared too.

♱

The quiet between you has settled into something dense and magnetic. Gravity rearranged itself to pull the two of you closer. Her hands are in her pockets now, because if they weren't, you know exactly where they'd be on you, already.

You don't know what you were about to say, something about rules, or maybe her PR team, or that Tina's probably looking for her, but then the bassline hums through the wall.

Muffled, yet unmistakable: Your song

The one that made you late to work once because you couldn't stop dancing in your bedroom with a foundation puff in your hand. The one that makes you feel like a bad bitch.

You glance at the wall like you can see through it.

"I loveee this song," you say, more to yourself than her.

She watches your expression change. Amusement curls at the corner of her mouth. "You're gonna dance for me?"

"Depends..."

"On?"

"If you deserve it."

That makes her tilt her head, smirking deepening. "Oh, I do."

The tempo pulses harder now. Audible enough through the closet door to set a rhythm in your chest. You roll your eyes. You feel different, hot and playful. So, you start to move.

First it was only your hips, slow. A teasing sway, subtle enough to act like it's not on purpose. Her eyes follow every shift of your body like they're forced there. Her mouth parts, just a little.

Your drag your fingers up the curve of your own waist, letting the music take over.

"You are..." she breathes, but doesn't finish. She forgot how to speak mid thought.

You spin once, letting the hem of your silver dress flutter. Clumsily, hip knocking the coat rack. Your dress flipping high enough to tease. When you face her again, she hasn't moved. You're tormenting her, the best kind of torment.

You step closer, still dancing. Not touching her (not yet) enough that she feels the air off your movement. The drop in the songs hits, and you smile like the devil.

"You like the view?" you ask, voice sickly sweet.

She laughs once under her breath, a quiet, "You're evil." She can barely hold herself back.

"Touch me and I'll stop," you say, voice sing song soft.

She groans, deep in her throat. "You're actually killin' me."

"I'm only dancing."

"You're ruining me."

You lean in, just close enough that your mouth brushes her ear.

"Good," you whisper. And pull back again. She lets out a low curse, one hand curls into a fist in her pocket.

You keep dancing, hips lazy, not caring what's happening outside the door. Not caring that you're on a break and she's technically supposed to be someone else's fantasy.

Right now, she's only looking at you. And she looks starving.

"You're so not gonna last twenty-eight minutes," you tease, spinning again.

She exhales hard, runs a hand through her hair.

"Get over here," she finally says, voice hoarse, cracking.

You don't even say anything when you step closer, just smile like you already know how this ends. The second you reach her, she grabs your waist. Pulls you in like she's starved.

The self control she's been clinging to all night has finally snapped.

This is hunger.

She kisses like she's trying to memorize your taste, like she wants to forget the rest of the world entirely and get drunk off you. You melt against her, fingers in her hair, gripping tight.

You can't believe she waited days. You can't believe YOU did.

"I missed you," she says into your mouth. It's breathless.

It sounds almost like an apology.

You don't answer. You don't need to. Your hands drop to the waistband of her pants.

She gasps softly when your fingers brush the skin of her stomach. Her grip on your hips tightens like she's trying to hold herself, but she lets you move.

You drop onto your knees and look up at her. The floor cool against your shins. She exhales your name like a confession.

Looks down at you like she can't believe it. The way you look up and don't look away. "Fuck," she breathes, leaning against the coat rack. One hand in your hair, cautiously. Respectfully.

You move slow at first, dragging your hands up her thighs, over the fabric that barely clings to her hips. You tug open her fly, watching her face. She bites her lip, lashes fluttering. Her body's already trembling under your hands.

"You okay?" you mumble, just to see her eyes flicker.

"I will be," she exhales.

Her pants, the ones that make you dizzy. Low and wide, slung loose like she didn't give a fuck, like she never does. Her shirt's half tucked in and already wrinkled. Her belt is undone like she never finished redressing.

Perfect.

You press your mouth over the V of her pants, kiss the seam. She twitches. Your palm drags slow over her, enough pressure to make her groan, hips pushing forward on instinct.

"Baby..." she whispers, fingers tightening in your hair.

You lower her jeans, just enough. Her breath stuttering when the cool air hits her skin. She's already soo ready for you, and you haven't even touched her properly yet.

You kiss her hipbone...bite it.

You kiss lower.

Her head knocks gently back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut.

Your mouth finally finds her, and she breaks.

A gasp, a moan, her whole body reacting. Her hand fists in your hair as her knees begin to buckle, hips rolling toward your mouth. You steady her with both hands on her thighs, hold her open, and take your time.

Your tongue moves slow, purposefully, teasing at first. To make her squirm, to make her beg with nothing but the way her hips roll toward your mouth.

"God...baby," she gasps, voice shaking. "Please... don’t stop."

You don’t plan to. Not when she’s this wet. Not when she’s falling apart for you like this...being so needy.

You drag your tongue through her folds, slow and filthy, then flick the tip up to her clit. She jolts, thighs trembling, a whimper tearing from her throat. Her hands grip your hair tighter, grounding herself on you like she needs it to breathe.

You smile against her. Flatten your tongue and lick a long, slow line up her. Just to hear her moan. She’s so sensitive. So desperate.

"Fuck, that---right there," she pants, hips jerking.

You do it again, circling her clit with the flat of your tongue, then sucking; light at first, then harder when she whines. Her thighs try to close around your head, but you hold her open, firm hands pressing into her skin. She’s soaked. Dripping onto your tongue.

You lick her like you own her.

Like you need her.

Like this is all you’ve been thinking about since the last time. Those nights you couldn’t stop replaying the sounds she makes, the way she tastes, how sweet and lewd it is to have her shaking in your mouth.

You flick your tongue faster now, lips wrapped around her clit, then let one hand slip lower, fingers teasing at her entrance. She gasps your name, broken, high-pitched, and tries to pull you even closer.

You slide one finger inside. She clenches around it, tight and soaked and ready.

"More," she pleads, barely a whisper.

You give her another. Two fingers curling up, pressing deep. Her whole body tenses, and you moan against her as she starts to ride your mouth in desperate little rolls of her hips, chasing the high.

You’re soaked too, thighs clenched together, aching. But you don’t stop.

Can’t. Not when she’s close like this. Not when she’s breathing so uneven, panting your name like it’s the only word she remembers.

"God--fuck--I hate this," she groans.

You lift your gaze, chin glistening. "Do you?"

"I hate that we have to do this here. I hate that I can’t touch you. I hate that I--" she cuts herself off with a gasp when you go deeper.

"You hate that you want me this bad," you say into her skin.

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to.

You flick your tongue faster. Her grip in your hair tightens. She’s close. You know her body well enough now to feel it. When she starts trying to pull away, even as her thighs lock around you. You chase her down, mouth nonstop.

She cums with a hand over her own mouth, eyes squeezed shut.

You don’t stop until her body slumps forward, thighs shaking, whimpering your name like she’s about to cry.

And then you pull back, licking your lips, catching your breath. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and then rest your chin on her thigh.

"Still hate it?" you whisper. She looks down at you, dazed and wrecked.

"God, I love you."

You pause. And then the music changes. The spell breaks.

She straightens, tugs her jeans up, breathing hard.

"I didn’t mean to--"

You’re already standing, dress still flawless, expression unreadable. "We should go," you murmur.

But her words keep echoing.

God, I love you.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

this is part 7

Tags <3 also tysm for the support & the reblog.

@poeticrenaissance @groundbifff09 @ch3sire-blu3 @aeshertheunhinged @2heartsbecoming1 @stormwellsstuff @squackimabird @scooby-doo1995 @autisticratbagtm @elliecoochieeater @blessupblessup @liasxeatt @primarina-diamandis @jaycouldbegay @st0nerlesb0 @sewithinsouls @elliesgftlou @payi11-19 @psychotickoda @klallx @warmfleurs @lesspaghetti @itzsky82 @ajajin3 @honeyorangehomosexual @mirchisevika @wandanatswhxre @caitservant @saturnhas82moons @strawb4kdior @elliewilliamsblunt @elliewilliamsluvrr @tedemannzanilla @morgxz

(Let me know if you want to be tagged in any post. You're all welcomed to.)

[almostsaidiloveyou]

FUCK SAD ENDING i saved urs for my last fanfic of the night and now i gotta watch my little pony or smth to ease my pain 💔💔incredibly written but FUCK

Okay first of all: Hiiii :)

I definitely recommend:

S1E8: ‘Look before you sleep’ Cuz it’s such a cute little rainy sleepover - frenemies to besties - opposite best friends - episode (and I’m a huge RariJack shipper :p ) or

S2E24: ‘MMmyster on the…’ cuz it’s a mystery detective episode. Who doesn’t love trying to uncover mysteries??

Second, you’re so kind. I really appreciate it😭. I’m sorry it was too much. I kind of take it as a compliment since it means my angst is angsting🙈🥰.

I won’t always write Angst (i love me some fluff) but it’s what I’m good at LOL!

Your home girl been dreadful since ‘06…maybe I should also watch MLP or smth

Thank you again. MWAH 💋💕🫂

[almostsaidiloveyou]

Imagine #22: The Other Woman

A/N: when it comes to the love interest, her pronouns will be italicized.

(makeupartist!reader - part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - jealous!reader - complicated relationship - smut with a plot - mirror sex - reader receiving - fluff - angst - added background characters - 2.6k words)

5 ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

She doesn't even flinch when Tina walks in again.

It's Thursday, mid-shoot. You're already irritated because the lighting is off and the new intern keeps handing you the wrong brushes, and now her comes Tina.

Your gut twists the second the door swings open and that signature flirty laugh floats. You do not even need to look. You know exactly who it is by the way she straightens a little in the makeup chair. By the way her hand, resting on the counter besides you, subtly pulls away.

Like you're something to hide...again.

She doesn't say anything to you, doesn't even introduce her. Tina just walks up and rests her chin on her shoulder, whispering something that makes her smirk, and the two of them share a laugh like you're not standing right there with a foundation brush in your hand. As if you're not the reason she looks flawless half the time she shows up on camera.

You and Tina. Not as different as you'd like. Same skin tone, similar height, hair kind of the same: hers blown out, yours in a claw clip today because you didn't feel like doing too much.

The first time that blurry photo of you and her walking out of that ice cream shop dropped, you remember the headline calling it "Tina & Her Girl Out Late-Night."

It was something you thought you could laugh about. You thought, you tried to really.

You're just the makeup girl.

The one who doesn't get to say a damn word when she let Tina rest a hand on the small of her back on that red carpet last weekend, fingers placed just a bit too intimately.

It's humiliating. That's what it is.

You try not to flinch as she laughs again, low, husky, a little too performative. You've heard it enough times in private to know how different it sounds when it's real. How it crumbles when you kiss her just right. How breathy it gets when you press your hand between her thighs.

But this one? This one is fake, dull, polished for shows.

You blend her concealer with more force than necessary. Not enough to hurt her, but enough to make her flinch slightly. She doesn't say anything though. Doesn't even look at you.

Tina is behind the chair now, peeking around it like you're invisible, like she doesn't still taste like you some mornings.

"So this is the genius?" Tina says, teasingly, and you hum...not really polite. You don't look up, you cant.

"I told you she's the best," she says. That makes you pause for a second, because for a moment, it's not an act. For a moment, it sounds like pride and warmth.

She adds, "Not that she ever lets me sit still long enough to enjoy it."

Tina giggles, all teeth, leaning in to kiss the side of her cheek.

Your stomach turns. You step back, "Take a break," you mutter. "Ten minutes."

You walk out before either of them say anything. Your chest tightens, behind your eyes heat builds, and you barely make it to the hallway bathroom before it spills over.

It's not fair. It's not fair. It's not fair.

You lock the door, grip the skin, stare at your reflection hoping it'll remind you who the hell you are. Maybe it'll hurt less that every time she touches Tina in public, it feels like you're disappearing a little more.

You're the one who knows her favorite toothpaste. The one who listens when she used to spiral about her label or her first famous ex. The one she called crying once, after that press tour in London--2 years ago. The one who gave her your whole heart in a ridiculously expensive hotel room she ghosted you after.

But Tina gets to be the one who shows up on her arm.

Tina gets to smile and wave and post black and white film photos that might be about her and might not, but you know exactly who took those.

It's not fair. It's not fair. It's not fair.

You wipe under your eyes, force yourself to breathe.

When you return to set, Tina's gone.

She's still in the chair, tapping her nails on the counter like she's bored. Her eyes immediately find yours, scanning your face. There's something like guilt there...but it's faint. Brief, as if she's trying not to show it too much in case someone's watching.

"You okay?" she asks softly. It's just the two of you now.

You lift your brush. "Tilt your head."

She obeys, doesn't speak, but the air has shifted. You feel her eyes on you every second. The silences too tense, too long, too full of things you're both pretending not to say.

Then quiet. A whisper. "You're the only one who makes me nervous."

Your hand stops mid stroke. Your heart clenches---You don't answer.

Because maybe it doesn't matter. You're not the one in the public photos. You're not the one walking pridefully on red carpets with her hand on your waist. You're not even the one she introduces.

You're the one in the background, behind the scenes fixing her blush. Pretending you don't know how she sounds when she cums. Pretending it doesn't gut you every time you watch her smile at someone else like that.

Pretending you don't love her, when you do...even if she never lets you say it out loud.

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°

Four Days.

Twelve-hour (plus) shoots

Three full location changes

Your company hasn't given you a break. From models, to special events, to just training other makeup artists.

You're running on two hours of sleep and five coffees, and the only thing keeping you straight is the threat of being blacklisted if you snap at the wrong person.

The wrong person being: the creative director with his fugly little sunglasses, the hair stylist who keeps touching your finished work (she does hair not makeup wtf), the set designer who's decided the color green is "a bit too sad on camera" even though the brand's whole campaign is emerald and gold.

And her. Mainly her.

She's in a custom suit, something dark, tight, masculine and like always fucking expensive. The most feminine lace bra you've ever seen her on, underneath. Skin and confidence. Lipstick combo shade you blended yourself. Rings you helped choose, after she disagreed with the stylist. Hair you've touched more times than you should've. She looks like a 'Wet Fantasy."

She looks like someone else's girlfriend.

And when she sees you, she smiles. That soft, tired smile she's only ever given you, she knows you're both barely holding it together.

"You okay?" she whispers again, becoming some kind of pattern whenever you touch up her under eye.

You snort, "Fine."

"You haven't slept."

"Neither have you."

But she looks better than you. That's the difference between being talent and being crew. Between sleeping in a chauffeured car between takes and commuting by a car with barely any gas and brushing your teeth in public restrooms because the location didn't have trailers for the makeup team.

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°

It breaks when the set designer makes another derogatory comment.

"Can we do something about that green under her eyes?"

"It's a reflective base, not green," you exhale.

"Yeah but on cam it read, like...moldy. Just fix it."

You nod, barely awake to listen. Every one is moving in a rush, your brain frying.

"Can we try the gold liner again?" someone yells. "It's not reading on the monitor."

He looks at you. They weren't even talking about her, they were talking about a whole different model you weren't in charge of. Yet, he looks at you with judgement.

You look over at the monitor, "It's reading just fine. The lights are too warm...shift the temperature instead of ruining the look they just did."

The monitor tech freezes. The set designer steps closer into your space. "You're the makeup girl," he says, brushing his vape scented breath across your face. "Stay in your lane."

He waves his stupid mood board at you like it means anything, all aesthetics inspo from Pinterest. He changed that mood board more than 5 times in the past 48 hours since he first sent it to every stylist.

You grit your teeth and pick up your brush. But he keeps talking.

"Actually just blot the cheekbones. It's too much. And if we could--"

"Do YOU want to do the make up?" you snap.

Silence. The hair girl watches you like she's scared you're about to combust.

"Sorry," you mumble, swallowing it down. "I'm tired."

"Clearly," he rolls his eyes, then walks off, offended.

You were used to this. You've dealt with way worse designers.

She watches it all from her chair. Next to 3 other models who are in their own lane. Her legs wide, elbows on knees, ice water in one hand. Her expression: irritated... not at you...at him.

You eventually walk towards the small make up room, walk up to her. Undoing and re-doing your lazy ponytail.

You press the brush too hard to her cheekbone. She moves slightly. You curse softly and pull away.

"Sorry," you whisper.

She grabs your wrist before you can retreat.

"You want to talk?" she says gently. "Like actually talk?"

"No," you shake your head. "I want to finish your face, go outside, and scream into a fucking dumpster."

"Alright," she says softly. "Then after, come to my trailer."

You shouldn't. You hesitate, you're already balancing on the edge. Heart raw and unguarded. You nod anyway, because when she asks softly, you always say yes.

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°

You don't even knock. She opens the door before your knuckles land.

It's warm light, one half empty water bottle sits on the counter. Clothes tossed across the couch.

It smells like her.

She closes the door behind you, doesn't say anything. Just watchers you take a slow-- tired breath.

You turn, about to say something neutral some smart shit like: "you wanted to talk? or what is this..." but then she reaches out and touches the end of your ponytail.

"You redid it," she hums.

You stare at her, those soft, tired eyes, Makeup still perfect from when you fixed it earlier. Lipsticks untouched. The work you did, still on her skin.

"It was falling out," you say.

"I liked it messy."

You roll your eyes, but it doesn't land. You're too tired to make it a joke. Your voice feels delicate when you speak again. "You always like things when I'm not trying."

"I like everything," she says, quiet. "That's the problem."

She moves first, closes the space like it's natural. Her fingers trace the curve of your jaw like she's memorizing it again.

"You look exhausted," she whispers. "But still so..."

"Do not," you say, voice barely a breath. "Do not say pretty."

Tina is pretty. You're tired.

"Then let me show you."

She kisses first, you don't kiss back. You let her press her mouth to yours, soft and slow, hand resting low on your waist. The fatigue trembles out of you in waves. You grip her collar, cling because you need something to hold. Her mouth opens against yours, warm.

You melt- you want - YOU ACHE - You kiss back.

You kiss back with everything you've been holding in, desperate and feral.

"C'mere," she breathes, backing you toward the vanity.

It's a tall length mirror.

Brown wood frame, the bulbs behind it casting a soft glow that paints your skin warm. You see yourself reflected: lips parted, cheeks flushed, tired shadows under your bags.

Her hands already under your shirt. Fingers grazing your ribs, pulling you closer.

Goosebumps rise along your skin. And you flinch.

"No---"

"Look," she says, voice in your ear. "You never let yourself see how good you look when you want something."

"I'm not---"

She cuts you off again. "You are."

She's behind you, arms wrapping your waist, holding you like you might fall if she lets go. Your back pressed fully against her front, heat pooling.

Her hands roam, fingers digging into your hips before slipping lower, sliding beneath your pants' waistband, skin sweaty beneath her touch.

You catch your reflection in the mirror, your eyes wide, cheeks burning up. She presses a slow kiss to your jaw, trailing down your neck, her mouth tasting the soft hollow just above your collarbone. Her breath is warm against your skin as she slides one hand beneath your panties, palm flat against you.

You bite back a moan, head falling forward. Her fingers dip between your folds, teasing, stroking slowly, perfectly, curling inside you with deliberate care.

Your hips jerk forward against her hand without meaning to. You watch the two of you in the mirror. The way her eyes are fixated on you, hungry and possessive.

Reflected in the mirror, you see her, the woman you want so badly. The way she holds you, the way she claims you like youre the only thing that matters,

You want to look away, to stop comparing, but you can't. You catch yourself thinking about Tina Carr, how easy it seems with Tina, how public, how effortless.

You wonder if Tina sees you like that: a secret, messy, hidden in the between stage lights and clothing racks

Jealousy cuts sharp through you, because you know she's not yours. It twists deeply as you catch yourself comparing.

Your tired eyes against Tina's perfect ones.

Your skin, despite being professional in the field of beauty; against hers...she's flawless, glowing. Yours worn out.

Her fingers curl around your waist, steadying you as if she sense the war behind your eyes.

You blink, look away.

"Don't," her voice rough. "Don't look away." Your back arches into her touch, hips pressing against the curve of her body.

She settles her thighs between yours, while her fingers speed up.

In the mirror every shudder, every desperate gasp, every twitch, is on display. Her as well, her lips parted in pleasure, eyes dark, hands worshipping your body.

Her mouth trails down your spine, teeth nibbling the sensitive skin, and you don't bite back your moan this time. She pulls you harder against her, finger curling even deeper, sending you to the edge again and again.

You whimper, your body trembling with need, and it's all looking back at you; raw, exposed, aching.

"Look at you," she whispers with desire. "So fucking beautiful. So mine."

You close your eyes. Her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "You're mine," she murmurs. "Right here, right now." Palm pressing flat against your clit, rubbing slow circles.

Your try to push away the jealousy that claws at your chest you every time you think of Tina.

But when she pulls your hair gently, tilts your head back so you see yourself clearly in the mirror: moaning and undone.

It's impossible to not surrender.

Her other hand slides beneath her pants, fingers trailing down her own body slowly. Watching herself in the looking glass, watching. you, watching you both burn.

The raw need in her eyes matches your own. The way she bites her lip, the way her chest rise and falls when she finally touches herself.

She presses her mouth to your shoulder now. Nips, sucks, leaves marks. You can feel the hand in her pants moving faster, occasionally bumping against the back of your thigh.

Her fingers in you curl once more, dragging you right to the edge. Your hands clutch the countertop, nails digging in as you spill over, back arched like a cat; moaning her name, head thrown back to her shoulder.

She holds you through it, steady. But doesn't stop, both her hands keep their speed. Until she's also moaning your name. Until she's grinding herself on the back of your thigh. Lips brushing your skin.

When your breathing finally slows, she pulls you flush against her, voice low and smug.

"You see how damn good you look now? 'Specially when you want me."

You close your eyes, hating and loving every second of it.

You're hers in this moment, only hers.

Even if outside this room, you're the secret.

The other woman.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

this is part 6

Tags <3 also tysm for the support & the reblog.

@poeticrenaissance @groundbifff09 @ch3sire-blu3 @aeshertheunhinged @klallx @2heartsbecoming1 @stormwellsstuff @squackimabird @scooby-doo1995 @autisticratbagtm @elliecoochieeater @blessupblessup @liasxeatt @primarina-diamandis @jaycouldbegay @st0nerlesb0 @sewithinsouls @elliesgftlou @payi11-19 @psychotickoda @klallx @warmfleurs @lesspaghetti @itzsky82 @ajajin3 @underoverdesire @honeyorangehomosexual @mirchisevika @wandanatswhxre @caitservant @saturnhas82moons @strawb4kdior @elliewilliamsblunt @elliewilliamsluvrr

(Let me know if you want to be tagged in any post. You're all welcomed to.)

[almostsaidiloveyou]

Omg okay.. On anon again.

BUT IMAGINE 19???

As a fashion girlie who literally does not have the money to dress how I want this was beautiful 🥹🥹

Literally could see it omg. And it was so sweet. The arcade date at the end was so cute and the gradual climb to tolerating each other was so juicy. I just loved it. Plus every outfit was adorable.

I SEE THAT PART 2 CROSSED OUT 👀.. I see it.

Hiii Anon <3

You will forever be a fashion girlie, do not worry. I'm with you too

(i be broke A-F ) we can just window shop </3

I posted part 2, THEN I realized you had come back :(

Here's the FINALE PART (and ofc everyone who was so kind and sweet to reblog and like and comment) I really appreciate you all.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚

Imagine 21:"I love you"

(University AU! - part 1 - part 2- multi part story - fashionista!reader - opposites attract - bullying aspects - angsty - added background characters - barely proofread - 4.3k words )

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚

Fall semester's right around the corner.

You arrived sweaty and warm in the backseat of Greg's car, your thighs sticking to the leather. Windows down, music loud, the breeze soft. He's been annoying the whole ride but in a tolerable way, and when you catch your girlfriend watch you from the rearview mirror, chewing on a Twizzler and smiling, you forget he's even talking.

The view of Raya's family's lake house is ridiculous. You don't mean to judge but you would've never imagine any of your girlfriend's friends to be well off, especially based on their personality...and appearance.

It's the kind of place with too many balconies, a dock that looks like it belongs in a movie, and a big glittering blue pool out back (even though the lake is barely a 2 minute walk). Of course her family has both.

You step out and stretch, immediately squinting in the sun. Your girlfriend whistles low behind you. The top you're wearing shows just enough, your skin golden in the late sun, shorts making you dangerous. You weren't trying to kill anyone today, not really.

"Damn," she says. "You're gonna get me in arrested looking like that." The way she looks at you. She might actually commit a crime.

You roll your eyes, but you're already blushing. The way she says it: half teasing, half lustful....makes you shiver.

"C'mere," she mutters as you pass her. She hooks her fingers through your belts loops. You fall into her laugh, lips brushing just under her ear.

She slips her arm around your waist, fingers brushing bare skin, and leans into your ear. "Seriously. Don't bend over unless you want me to..." You nudge her before she could finish. Laughing.

"Later," you whisper. She groans and throws her head back like you've just ruined her life.

The others unload snacks and floaties. Greg's already halfway to the dock, shirtless and yelling. Raya's already waving from the porch, barefoot, holding two red cups.

⊹✧˚

The cookout is buzzing. Sizzling food, Raya's cousin (and her friend) in the pool. Music humming from the speaker behind the flowerpots. Your girlfriend’s friends are all scattered across blankets and pool chairs, look sun drunk and happy.

You lay your things down, putting sunglasses on. From the corner of your eye you see her, rubbing sunscreen between her hands, eyeing your back.

“Turn around,” she says. You raise an eyebrow. “I mean it, unless you wanna get burned and awful bikini lines.”

You already applied, but you don’t say anything. You do as she says and she smoothing the lotion over your shoulders, slow. Her hands are warm. She lingers a little too long on your waist, dips low across your back.

“Mm,” she’s hums, slipping her fingers under the strap of your shoulder. “This okay?”

You nod, a bit breathless.

“Are you tryna’ protect me from the sun, or feel me up?” You glance over your shoulder.

“Both,” she’s not even pretending to deny it.

Every now and then presses a kiss to your back. It feels great, your body smooth when she goes get something to drink with Isa.

You’re just minding your business. Raya has tried to be nice to you, Greg is tolerable, Isa isn’t the nicest but she ignores you which is better than anything.

Later, you’re in the pool, floating with your arms wrapped loosely around her neck. Her legs are looped around your waist under the water, lazy and teasingly. The others are on the far end, throwing a beach ball and arguing over who burned the hot dogs.

You press your forehead to hers.

“Gonna miss me when class start?” You ask softly

She smiles, “Gonna miss this swimsuit.” She tugs on the knots. One pull and it’s game over for you.

“You’re such a perv.”

She murmurs something and kisses you before you could roll your eyes or ask what the hell she just said.

Behind her, Raya cannonballs into the pool and yells something. The intimate moment breaks, but neither of you are upset.

“I did not know she was wealthy.” You whisper. And your girlfriend’s turns her head to see Raya.

“No, yeah she’s very humble I guess.”

“I always thought…maybe this is bad. But your friend group, and you….i don’t know y’all just don’t seem like the type to be rich and wealthy.” You avoid eye contact, feeling a bit shameful.

Isa, Greg, Raya, and your girlfriend were the typical ‘stoners-street wearing- sometimes grungy- type. Not really caring about appearance. Ali was the only one who seems to dress up, even Adam.

She doesn’t seem to take offense or anything. “I get it. Miss. Judgmental.”

She pokes your sides causing you to laugh.

⊹✧˚

It feels like high school all over again.

It's late afternoon by the time Ali and Adam show up. They are loud when they arrive, announcing themselves with a bottle of tequila and some weed.

You look up at your girlfriend, she doesn't say anything though. You shift on the concrete, feeling her brush your thigh and kisses your temple. You try to stay relaxed.

Try.

But Ali's shit starts almost immediately. Ali tosses her bag near your towel, ignoring your existence. Her voice is loud, and sharp. You can feel the whole energy shift. The weird feeling that always creeps in when they're around.

You're sitting on the pool ledge, legs dangling in the water, when Ali "accidentally" flicks water in you face. It stings your eyes, you blink through it. Once you glance up, she's already walking away, laughing with Isa.

You want to say something. But, you know what that'll do...so you stay silent.

Later, when you're walking past her on the patio, she purposefully bumps into your shoulder hard enough to make you stumbled a step. "Oops," she says, not looking at you.

By the grill, you're teasing your girlfriend about how she burns everything, stealing bites off her plate. She leans in to kiss the grease off your bottom lip. It's soft and familiar, You let out a "gross" and playful shove her.

But Ali sees. And she says it just loud enough: "Did someone invite everyone or is this like, a bring-your-own-stray situation."

You pause, Raya shoot Ali a look. Your girlfriend hesitates beside you. Her fingers twitch like she's deciding to take your hand or pretend she didn't hear.

You speak up before she can. "I dunno, lets ask Adam." you say with a sweet-sweet smile. "Maybe it was bring-a-BITCH- situation." The group goes quiet for a second, Greg lets out an oof.

You catch her shoving your towel off the pool chair when she thinks no one's looking. You find your sunglasses on the floor, stepped on. You overhear her whispering something to Isa and they both laugh, looking you way.

It's high school, all over again. Except worse, because this time, your girlfriend's friends are the ones doing it. And Adam? He doesn't even help (you don't want or need his help, but it just gets to a point....)

Every time he passes you, there's a comment:

"Damn, yo' legs look good." or "Too bad you're taken," followed by a wink speaking loud enough for everyone to hear.

He corners you near the drink cooler when no one's watching, leans too close, breath reeking of beer. "Yo' girl's hot," he murmurs. "But damn...you? Fucking hell."

You pull back, "Do not talk to me."

He smirks, "Relax, your flirted first remember."

Your stomach drops. Ali appears two minutes later, eyes burning you. "You really can't help yourself, huh?"

You stare at her, frustrated.

"Dude, keep your hands off my boyfriend."

Your voice comes out small, quieter than you want. "He came on to me."

"Right..." she scoffs, crossing her arms. "Cause he just can't resist an attention seeking-pick-me, right?"

You just walk away. Just walk away from her, him, from the chlorine, and the sun, and the tequila.

You find your girlfriend laughing on a lounge chair with Raya and Isa. Her head thrown back, shoulders relaxed. She doesn't notice your red eyes until you're standing right in front of her.

"Hey babe--"

"Your friend needs to grow up," you speak over her, glancing towards Ali and Adam.

Silence.

Isa's eyes flicked between you both, like she's waiting to see what kind of show this'll turn into. Raya expression is softer, but not enough.

Your girlfriend blinks, clearly flustered. "What happened?"

You shake your head. "Ali keeps bother me, and Adam keeps flirting with me. I am tired of it."

Isa exhales and rolls her eyes, "Maybe you shouldn't flirt back." She looks at your girlfriend then at you, "And she's not your mom, don't come up here stomping..." she mumbles.

Your girlfriend girls her a look but doesn't correct her. Doesn't say anything.

⊹✧˚

For once, everything started to calm down. It was golden hour, sun was slowly going down and someone turned on the pool lights. The boys are in full 'middle school' mode: splashing, trash talking, teasing the girls like they're twelve.

Your girlfriend's got her legs in the water, shorts wet at the hem, and her head on your shoulder.

You didn't even wanna get in the water anymore. You're trying to laugh along, even when Greg calls you a buzzkill or Adam tries to flick water in your face (again).

Your towel wrapped tight, drying off from earlier. You were trying to talk to your girlfriend but her attention drifts to whatever Raya was laughing at.

Anything but you.

You close your eyes, just enjoying everything else. Thinking about going to the lake and reading a book before you leave tomorrow afternoon.

You're so in thought that you don't realize Ali strolling over. She's got that look on her face, unbothered. Without warning, she shoves you.

You hit the water hard, unexpected, loud, it's colder than earlier,

There's a second of silence. Then laughter. Someone whistles. Someone claps while the laugh.

You come up gasping, blinking chlorine water out your eyes, your swimsuit wet once again. Your stomach burning with humiliation.

"Ali...what the fuck?" Your girlfriend's voice cuts through it. Rough, not loud, not angry, but it cuts.

Ali shrugs, playing innocent. "It's just a joke. We are all playing around."

"She wasn't playing," your girlfriend says. She's standing now, looking down at you like she wants to help but isn't sure how. "Don't touch her like that again.”

It's the first time she's said anything. The first time she chosen you, even a bit.

Ali rolls her eyes and turns away, talking shit to Isa. Your girlfriend offers her hand, pulls you out, wraps you in a towel and doesn't let go for a while.

⊹✧˚

Raya says there's this club near her place, one of her middle school friends works there, she can get everyone in.

You almost don't go, but your girlfriend insists. "It'll be better than this. We'll dance. You and me."

And for a minute, you believe her.

You prepare to go shower, everyone is getting dressed, pre-gaming. You patiently wait for your girlfriend to get out the bathroom. While waiting you go to the guest room.

Your bag? Gone

You go back outside, checking the patio, near the pool...no where. Your clothes, phone charger, make up, ID...all missing from where you SWORE you left them.

Your girlfriend, Greg, and Raya leave first to get the big car, the one that'll fit all 7 of you. She kisses your cheek before she goes, promises to text you. You tell her you can't find your stuff, and she says to ask Raya's cousin.

Isa and Ali are nearby, pretending not seeing you go room to room. You ask, "Have you seen my bag? It's grey with pins."

Isa shrugs. "Didn't you leave it near the patio?"

"Maybe check the bathroom. Or under the chairs. You're always this disorganized?" Ali crosses her arms and raises her brows.

It takes you 15 minutes to find it. Well Raya's cousin, Leilani, taps your shoulder and asks you if the bag belongs to you. Claiming to have found it shoved behind the towel basket near the grill.

You thank her and immediately text your girlfriend that you're getting ready.

No reply.

You shower nonetheless, rush it all. You see Isa and Ali from the window. Getting into the large Jeep.

As you're brushing your hair you get a text message from your girlfriend:

[ her <3 : sorry babe, they said you weren't feeling good. i didn't get your message til now. feeling ok? better go to bed, we'll be back late. sleep tight gorgeous. ]

You stare at it. It felt like you're some fragile afterthought, like she didn't even ask.

You don't reply. You hear the sound of an engine revving down the street. They're gone.

⊹✧˚

That night, you cry. Not all at once.

First it was small, quiet tears slipping down your cheeks as you sit alone on the guest bed, now in the cute matching P.J set you packed. The back of your throat tight. You cry while you search for your charge. You cry when you check your texts: nothing from her. Not one message asking where you were.

You feel stupid for...fucking everything: Isa and Ali told you they'll wait before they got into the Jeep. You actually hoped that they would be different for once.

But you still get up. You take your time doing your night routine even though your hands are shaky and your face is puffy. You double cleanse--moisturize--comb out your hair like you mom used to when you were little.

You say your affirmations in the mirror, even if your voice cracks halfway through:

"I am enough."

"I am not the way people treat me."

"I deserve softness. I am not a problem."

You breath through it, you don't call anyone. You don't spiral, just try to survive the night.

There's a soft knock on the door. You flinch, but it's not her...no she's at the club obviously. It's someone else.

Leilani, leans in with her big curly bun and oversized tee, she too was bare-face and gentle. "Hey," she whispers, you knew she knew.

"You okay?" she asks softly, not pushing. "I was gonna go to the kitchen and make some cookies with my friend... You wanna come?"

For a second, you hesitate. You almost say no, but then something in her tone makes you nod. Because the ache is still there, but it's easier to deal with when someone offers kindness without asking for anything in return.

⊹✧˚

The house is quiet. It's past three when the door creaks open. You're not asleep, none of you are, really. Leilani's friend is passed out, face squished into the pillow. Leilani's headphones are loud enough to hear the faint sound of her music, her eyes half shut.

You hear the soft sound of the front door closing, followed by footsteps down the hall. You hold your breath.

Then there's a quiet knock. You know it's her before she speaks. "Hey baby," her voice is soft, gentle. "You up?"

Leilani rolls over, murmurs, "I'll crash with my cousin," and slips out, giving you a gentle squeeze to the shoulder, before waking her friend up and leaving.

You sit up slowly, not bothering to fix your face. You don't need to pretend; not anymore. Your voice is hoarse when you answer: "Yeah."

She closes the door and walks over, kneeling by the bed, hands folded together. "Are you okay? Isa and Ali said you weren’t feeling well. That you told them not to wait."

Your stomach drops...heart sinks. But you already knew.

You stare at her. She pinches her brows when she notices your tears. "What happened?" she asks. "Talk to me...please."

That made you break. Because that's all you've been doing. You're not loud. You don't break in a scream, but with tears that pour too fast to catch and a voice so small you hate how fragile it sounds.

"They lied." You laugh. It’s not happy, it’s harsh and watery and comes out like a cough. "She lied."

Her face changes; brows furrow deeper, lips parting like she didn’t really understand. "What do you mean?"

"I mean they lied," you snap, voice cracking. "They stole my stuff. Lied. I looked for my bag for thirty minutes."

 "They said we were gonna go together. And just left me alone." You're still whispering. You hate how careful your voice sounds. You wipe your eyes, frustrated. You sniff.

"And it's not just tonight," you continue. "Ali shoving me into the pool.... Constantly talking shit. Adam bothers me and makes me uncomfortable. Then he fucking twists it around. They all laugh behind my back. I know they do."

She stares, surprised. Something in her face shifts. "Why didn't you tell me sooner---?"

"I did!" You cut her off. "I always did...do. I always tell you. You never pay attention. I don't want you to pick and choose."

She reaches for you, but you shift back slightly: not cruelly, just firmly.

"I can't do this anymore," you say, more stable now. "Not like this. I don't wanna be the girl your friends hate. I don't want to spend weekends being ignored or humiliated or left behind. I love being your girlfriend...but that shit hurts. It's not fair. I don't love who I become when I am around them."

You keep your chin up despite the stinging in your eyes.

"I don't want to fight for space in your life. I want to feel safe there."

Her expression changes, jaw tense, mouth open, you can tell she wants to fix it instantly. This isn't something she can fix with a hug or a sorry or some late-night-sweet words.

She swallows. "I didn't know...I didn't think they were THAT bad---."

"They are," you say. "And you don't want to see it."

Silence...

"I need space," you whisper. "Please."

She looks heartbroken. She nods. And you hate how much that hurts, too. Because you still love her.

But you love yourself, too. And tonight, finally, you chose you.

⊹✧˚

The car ride back is suffocating. You sit squished in the backseat, right next to your girlfriend, your shoulder pressed into the door. Her hand is resting on your thigh, but you can't feel it. Not really, not with Ali and Adam laughing in the front like they were invited...THEY WERE'NT. Greg pretending to focus on the road when he's clearly in on every little joke.

Ali's twisted halfway in her seat, eyes sparkling with smug curiosity. "So..." she elongates the vowel, looking right at you. "What's the deal with your face? You two fight or something?"

She's looking at your girlfriend, but it's clearly a job at you. Her smirk is all teeth. "Did the little fashionista melt down again?"

You breathe through your nose.

Fake innocence and venom hidden behind every one of Ali's word. "You look tense. Is it like...just your resting bitch face or---?"

Your girlfriend cuts in sharply. "Ali. Shut the fuck up."

It's not loud, but sharp enough...real. The kind of tone that makes people flinch...Greg flinches. Her grip tightens on your thigh. You know it's meant to comfort you, but right now, it's only making you feel smaller.

Ali chuckles. "Damn. Did I touch a nerve?" She doesn't stop...of course she doesn't. "I was just wondering. She always looks so...bothered."

You stare out the window. Nails biting into your palms.

When the car finally pulls into a gas station, you mumble something about needing to stretch your legs and step out fast. The air outside is warm and sharp against your skin. You walk a few steps towards the entrance, just trying to breathe.

Greg's pumping gas. Your girlfriend and Adam say they're going inside the grab some snacks, asks if you want anything: "No i'm fine." you say.

Ali...she's following you, you have no idea why. She scoffs softly, "You know, you got this whole, 'Im better than you' thing going on, but I've seen girls like you before," she says, smug.

She continues to follow you, "What's wrong now? Not used to real people giving you shit?"

You stop walking, stare straight ahead. She laughs. "Thought so."

You close your eyes. For a second, you really think about it. About popping her in the face. About the satisfying crack it would make. The way her eyes would widen. How finally, FINALLY, you'd stop being the quiet one.

But instead, you turn around. She's still talking about you 'always being the victim and tryna be chill, but you're just a boyfriend stealer.'

This shit and that shit; Blah blah blah.

You're tired, emotionally fried. You meet her gaze, deep and cold.

"You're so exhausting, Ali," you say, voice calm. "You make me so fucking sad. Like drama has to be all you care about. You obsess over people you don't like and then cry when they don't kiss your ass."

Ali scoffs hesitantly, "Wow...okay--"

"No. You don't get to 'wow' me. I've put up with your shit for too long. You're obsessed with control and attention, and it's honestly pathetic."

"You're hating on another woman because your asshole-boyfriend doesn't respect you. Stand up and look what's in front of you. Worry about the fact that he doesn't respect you....And you don't respect yourself for being with him. So-so-SO sad Ali really."

You grab your phone. Open the UBER app.

"I am not doing this anymore," you say, opening the door grabbing your bag.

Ali crosses her arms, her face going through twenty different emotions. "What a-are you doing?"

"I'm getting an Uber," you tell her. "Because I'd rather spend thirty dollars alone in a car than share a ride with a bored little bully, who peaked at sixteen. Have a nice life, Ali. I really do hope you grow up."

Her mouth parts, just slightly. She's stunned. Doesn't say anything else.

You walk to the drug store near the gas station. The uber pings: Seven minutes away.

Your girlfriend texts:

[ her <3: where r u? ]

You don't answer.

You're just physically and spiritually done with every one. You enter the CVS and buy yourself, your favorite snack. You're breathing steadying.

The whole performance of being calm, kind, and collected around those who want to provoke you: OVER!

You didn't lose your cool. You didn't pop off. You didn't swing because that's not you.

You stood up. And that counts for something.

⊹✧˚

It's been a week. A full 7 days. A week of short texts, missed calls, awkward silences.

A week of you sitting with yourself. Listening to your own thoughts echo too loud in your bedroom.

A week being with your friends Gigi and Jo, pampering yourself to what you used to be.

It's late when she shows up. You knew she was coming, she asked if she could stop by and talk.

You said yes, even though you didn't know if you were ready.

Now she's standing in your room, quiet, in the soft halo of the lamp you always keep one: The Star shape one. She looks like she hasn't slept much. Eyes puffy, hair pulled back like she didn't care what she looked like, or maybe she didn't know how to fix herself to see you again.

You're sitting on the edge of your bed, hands between your knees, your heart pounding. She doesn't sit, not yet.

Neither of you speak. Finally, "I miss you," she says softly.

You nod once, blinking slow. "Yea, I know."

You had clothes laid on your bed, planning your looks for the upcoming semester, 10 days from now. She picks up one of your tops, gently smoothing it with her fingers, making space for herself to sit besides you. Not too close.

There's space between you, an invisible line created by everything that has happened. By everything that wasn't said or done when it needed to be.

"I didn't want it to be like this," she murmurs. "I just thought it would pass. That they'd come around. That I could keep the peace."

You stare at the top she was holding, it was pink and had embroidery flowers patterns on the hems. "You thought I'd keep taking it."

"I love you," she says, eyes watery. "I do. But I don't know how to be what you need. I didn't protect you. I am sorry." And you believe her. that she means it. That part of her really did want to do better.

It doesn't matter now, unfortunately it's too late and not enough.

You look at her, and your voice is quiet but steady. "I wanted so much to be accepted in your circle. And it hurts. But what hurt more was tat you saw it, and you still let it happen. You didn't choose me."

She winces. "I didn't know how to choose you without losing them."

You nod, "They're your people...you won't lose them."

Silence. She gulps, staring at her hands. "So this is really it?"

You don't answer right away. Your chest feels like it's releasing for the first time in weeks. You can finally breathe in your own skin. You look at her, still beautiful, still familiar.

But suddenly not yours anymore.

Your voice is gentle. "I think we outgrew each other. Or maybe we just stopped trying to grow in the same direction..."

She doesn't cry. Neither do you, but there's something in the air. Grief laced with relief.

You walk her to the door. She turns to look at you, opens her mouth, doesn't speak. You give her a small smile, sad--tired--kind. "Take care of yourself."

She nods, biting her lip, eyes glossy. "You too."

And then she's gone. You close the door. Rest your forehead against the wood. Let the silence swallow you.

Then you exhale.

And this time, it feels like freedom.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚

Tags <3 also tysm for the support & the reblog.

@peayuhhhh @mirchisevika @itzsky82 @anthorius @sewithinsouls @aandersonzz @peachyglo @mintchocosworld @mumuming @fatahhstar @liverpoolfan96 @reblogsoffanfiction @reey0w @valenbodoque @autisticratbagtm @jaycouldbegay @tedemannzanilla @squackimabird @warmfleurs @zeiphoria @sidefanficaccounttohidemyshame @angelz-void @baiabay @poeticrenaissance @whippddelusional @spritelova @acfgio @morgxz @anyasvrse @frejav6996 @primarina-diamandis @sevshaven @st0nerlesb0 @2heartsbecoming1 @solaris-ecplise

(Let me know if you want to be tagged in any post. You're all welcomed to.)

[almostsaidiloveyou]

Imagine 20: "I can see your friends they don’t like me"

(University AU! - part 1- multi part story - fashionista!reader - opposites attract - bullying aspects - angsty - fluff - soft smut - added background characters - barely proofread 5.4k words )

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚

The basement smelled like weed, cheap incense, and laundry detergent. Mismatched pillows were shoved into corners of the floor. A lava lamp buzzed weakly in the corner. A few guitars hung on the walls, and a bong was being passed around in a slow circle.

She was half-listening to the argument about which bassist in history would win in a fight, her attention caught in the light of her phone screen, thumb dragging instinctively through your Instagram.

"Bro, you've been on your phone for like ten minutes." said Greg flicking off ash of his jeans. He leaned over to peek, "What, swiping through the same three selfies of your new girl again?”

She rolled her eyes, but didn't hide the screen. "Shut up. She's cute.”

Greg whistled low, "She is not just cute. Jesus man, thats yo' girl?”

"Yeah."

Raya grabbed the phone and snorted, then handed it to Isa. "She looks like she belongs in a magazine ad. Is she even real?"

"She's real," she replied, dry. "She's smart as hell. Like I just found out she's top 10 of her department or whatever."

"She looks like the type that would carry a tiny purse and bully me in middle-high school," Isa joked, passing the phone back. "No offense. I mean...gorgeous. But she looks mean."

"She's not," she said, a little quick--defensive. "She's actually really sweet. Like...too nice sometimes."

That quieted them.

"Babe, we haven't seen you in WEEKS!" barked Raya, her voice serious but teasing. "You're always staying late. You stopped coming to the skate park. You even ghosted Ali's party. You must be getting laid."

Greg grinned, "Or she's in love."

"How'd you even meet the Fashion Doll?" Isa asked.

She rolled her eyes, cheeks warming. "We met 'cuz tutoring."

"Tutoring?" Raya raised a pierced brow. "As in, someone's tutoring you?"

"No, I was tutoring her."

Raya smirked. "Oh, so she an idiot. A hot one....tale as old as time."

"She's not an idiot! When we would study she was determined, and she actually learned...passed the first exam we studied for. She gets distracted sometimes."

They all looked at each other and laughed.

“What?”

She watched her friends take her phone and go through your Instagram account. Confused at first, then realized they were just judging you. Based off looks and whatever captions you wrote. They didn’t know you. And she didn’t know you when she judged you as well.

“She has to have fucking, personality disorder.” Isa clicked on your Instagram highlights. “You just don’t wear one aesthetic one day, then 24 hours later the opposite.”

“That’s just who she is. Always dressing differently depending on how she feels that morning. Thought she was just another clueless pretty girl at first.”

“Right?” Greg said. “Admit it bro. She looks like the type of girl who would flirt to get help in math. Then ghost you when some guys she barely knows gives her attention.”

“That’s not her,” she said, softer this time. “I was wrong about her. She’s…weird but in a cool way. And she works really hard. Like even harder than I expected. She even helps the Fashion Department, even makes her own clothes.”

“She had converted you.” Raya smirked.

“She just surprised me. And she’s funny. And she makes me eat breakfast…and lunch, which is insane.”

The teasing quieted, there was still some judgment hanging in the air: because of how you looked, probably. How you dressed. Your IG was organized and color coded, so much life, mirror selfies, digital photos taken with your friends, photo dumps of your outgoing months. You were easy to underestimate. But she didn’t.

When Isa handed her the bong.... just said, “Okay Okay. We’ll shut up. But bro you better bring her to Ali’s party.”

She hesitated, then nodded: “Yeah sure.”

Greg let out a chuckle. “Can’t wait to meet her.”

⊹✧˚

The soft light from your desk lamp glows golden against her flushed skin, casting shadows over the places your mouth had already explored. You're tangled up with her in your bed, sideways under your sheets, your fingers brushing over the curve of her waist.

A few minutes earlier, you were painting her nails. Giving her a few manicure, and she was rambling about nonsense. It's been a month and a few weeks since the semester ended. You both have been spending more and more time together. From you taking her shopping and styling her, to her taking you to underground concerts and teaching you how to smoke weed properly (Though you don't really like it that much)

That afternoon she knocked on your door with your favorite drink and a DVD.

One second you're watching the movie on your laptop. The other you were leaning closer to her, placing your head on her shoulder. Kissing her neck and jaw. You find yourself on top of her, the moving playing the background being ignored. Your foot eventually shut the laptop completely.

"You are always like this when you're tired," she murmurs, pulling back just enough to say it against your cheek. "Clingy...needy."

Now, she's wearing nothing but her shirt and black underwear. You're in a bralette and a loose pair of cotton underwear-shorts. The kind you only wear when you want someone to slip their hand underneath without having to ask.

Faces close, breathes already sticky with heat. The room's quiet except for the low hum of the fan and occasional creak of the mattress beneath you. Her finger lazy as they trace the curve of your back, skimming under the band of your underwear.

She kisses you again, messy, open mouthed. You could just taste how she has been craving you all day, and shit--you have, too.

Her thigh slots between your legs and you tilt into her, grinding slow and shameless against her leg. She makes this sound, low and breathy right against your neck, and it only motivates you more. The friction is perfect, the pressure just enough. You're damp already, underwear sticking to you, and hers are no better.

She's got one hand hooked around your hip now, encouraging the rhythm, while the other slips down your back, fingers gripping a handful of your ass like she can't help herslef.

"You're so fucking soft," she murmurs, kissing just beneath your jaw. I love how you move on me like that."

You hum, pressing your hips forward just enough, "And you always smell so good." Your voice was as equally low.

Your hand on her waist tugs her even closer. You both press in deeper, panties damp and rubbing together now as her hips find a new pattern, grinding hot and slow through the layers.

She pushed your leg up high and suddenly you're both fully aligned: center to center, underwear catching and sliding against each other. You clutch the back of her neck, foreheads pressed, panting, rocking into each other.

Everything builds fast; the drag of cotton, the wet heat between you, the sticky tension.

You both grind harder, rougher, dry humping in sync now, no shame in the way your bodies chase the edge. She grabs the back of your thigh and pulls your leg higher around her waist, holding herself down.

She whispers, "Take these off."

Both peel off your underwear clumsily, tossing them somewhere of the side of the bed, and come back together like magnets. Nothing between you now.

She cups your breast through your bralette, thumbs teasing over your nipples. Presses herself against your, slow at first, then harder, and the first full slide makes you gasp. Skin to skin, soaked and hot and perfect. You wrap your arms around her shoulders.

You rock together in sync, slowly, deep, deliberate. Her forehead's pressed to yours, breath ragged, eyes half lidded. Every drag of your bodies is pulling her apart, making her moan softly and shaky.

You are worst, your thighs tremble, your breath catches, your clit throbs every time her slick slides against your just right.

"You feel so good," you moan, and she shudder--gripping you harder.

You grind until you are right there, until you both are, and when it hits, it's messy and shaky and full of gasps and trembling thighs. You ride it out together, hips twitching, heavy breathing between kisses and sweat sticky skin.

Her arms wrap around you, holding you close, kissing your temple. Her hand stroking up and down your spine. She murmurs, "My friends are throwing a party this weekend."

She rests her head on your shoulder, lips brushing your collarbone, and then your shoulder, and then the underside of your chin.

You're still daze, "Kay..."

She looks up at you, eyes soft but glowing. "Will you come with me? Like...as my girlfriend?"

You nod slowly, smiling. "You gonna tell 'em how we scissor?" You tease.

She laughs, pinching your side. "They can guess." She's warm and flushed.

⊹✧˚

She said the party would be a type of "get together." Something small, "just a few people," maybe a couple drinks and a playlist somebody threw together on the spot.

You should've known the party would be bigger than she made it seem. When you showed hand in hand with her, your fingers tucked confidently between hers. You of course, walk into a full blown scene.

The house is big and loud, probably someone's family members, or a rental with no supervision. There are people spilling out the front door, standing barefoot in grass, drinks in red cups that could spill dangerously close to your shoes. There's music, some close to punk indie song with a bass you can feel in your chest.

But you're not thrown off. Nor are you uncomfortable. You're not the type to shrink into walls. You wore your cute outfit with purpose; off-one-shoulder-black top, bell bottoms, silver hoops, flare jean, soft gloss. You're not overdressed, but you're the type to make denim look expensive.

She's quiet besides you, her jaw set like she's bracing for something and that's when you start to suspect this isn't just some part. This is HER circle. Her personal group, the ones who probably knew her before she even spoke to you.

She gives your hand a quick squeeze at the door and leans in, "Imma go find Raya and Isa. I'll be quick, okay?"

You nod. "I'm good. Go ahead."

She gives you a quick kiss on the head and disappears into the crowd with one last look. You head fully inside, squeezing past a group arguing about whatever, and a girl who compliments your earrings with a drunk little, "Yass, hoops, period!" as she walks by. You smile at her and compliment her jeans.

You make your way to the kitchen to grab a drink. You don't plan on getting wasted, but you've been to enough house parties to know walking around empty handed makes you a target. You open the fridge, pulled out a can of tequila soda, and lean back against the counter as the music pulses through the cabinets.

That's when he shows up.

"Didn't think angels went to these types of house parties." You turn. He's tall, slouchy, curly hair and that 'too cook' smirk you've seen a thousand times.

"I'm okay thanks."

He slowly checks you out, kind of insulting how obvious it is. "You're just...kinda too pretty for this crowd."

Your bite back a scoff, tilting your head. "What, everyone else here ugly? Because I disagree."

He laughs. "Nah, nah, just...y'know. You got that whole Insta-Baddie thing. Clean outfit, matching earrings, perfect eyeliner. You look expensive."

You take a sip from your drink. "Or maybe I just look like someone who bathes."

"Ouch." He grins. "You got jokes. You here with someone?''

"Yes I am, so please leave me to be."

"Oh yeah? Your boyfriend let you wander off like this?"

You let out a light laugh and shake your head. "I don't have a boyfriend."

He perks up. "Oh?"

"I have a girlfriend."

He freezes, lips parting just a bit. You can see the little flicker of ego death wash across his face. You don't say anything more, just sip, looking away and letting the silence speak for itself.

You're about to excuse yourself and move to the living room, more crowed...further away from him. But then another voice cuts in, rudely and higher pitched.

"Seriously? You're gonna flirt with someone else's man?"

You turn to see a girl approaching, clearly storming toward you, her drink threatening to spill as she walks. Tight top, micro skirt, long lashes batting dramatically over narrowed eyes.

"Sorry?" You say, confused but calm.

"That's my boyfriend," she snaps, pointing at the guy. "Are you dumb or desperate?"

Your eyes widen, lips ajar. "Girl, I'm fine. I do not want your boyfriend. He was the one who came up to me."

"She's lying," he says quickly, raising his hands. "I didn't even see her. I was tryna get a drink and she started it."

You actually laugh, once. "I wasn't flirting."

The whips towards him, but her eyes slide back to you like a threat. "You think you can come into my house and pull this petty jealous girl shit? What, do you need attention so bad you had to chase someone else's boyfriend?"

You don't even flinch. You've had worse thrown at you, this isn't your first rodeo with insecure girls who think screaming and insulting you justifies anything.

You sigh and push off the counter, holding your drink steady. "I think your mans needs to get better at lying. Or flirting. Either one would've saved us all some time."

Her face turns, like you just spit in it.

The guy puffs his chest, clearly trying to play victim. "You were being super flirty. Like...laughing and stuff."

You narrow your eyes. And the girl takes a step closer. You don't move, her perfume hits you before she does: fruity-synthetic-thick. You excuse yourself and walk past them both.

You spot your girlfriend by the pool table, half laughing, pool cue in hand, flanked by two girls you vaguely recognize from Instagram and pictures she has shown you: Raya and Isa. The three of them look like they belong here, like they've always belonged here. You on the other hand, feel like you walked into the wrong party wearing the right outfit.

Your cheeks are hot, but not from embarrassment. Not entirely. It's rage, boiling under your ribs, curling your fingers. You storm past some half drunk guy and make a zig-zag line toward her, your shoes hitting the floor louder than you intend. She sees you right before you reach her, eyes flicking up in surprise, smile already mid-form until she really sees your face.

"Hey," she says slowly, straightening up. Her smile falters. "What's wrong?"

Raya is chewing gum obnoxiously and Isa has her arms crossed, already clocking your mood like it's entertainment. You ignore them both.

You look her dead in the eye. "Do you know that girl?" You point at the pair that was now in the living room talking.

She glances at Raya, then Isa. There's a moment of hesitation. "Yea...that's Ali. We used to hang out a lot back then. She invited us."

Your eyebrows rise. "And him?"

Isa smirks at that, but you keep your focus on her.

"Yea," she says again, a little slower now. "Adam, Ali's boyfriend. Why?"

You huff out a breath, glance around like the night might offer you some backup. "He was flirting with me, right before Ali came over. Then accused me of flirting with him. Like FULL ON accused me in front of people. And he went with it."

Isa whistled low under her breathe, Raya mutters something that sounds like, "classic."

"Are you okay, babe? Are you serious?"

"I'm dead-ass." You snap, "...and she went off . Like I'm some desperate bitch tryna ruin her relationship. I didn't even know who she was. I just wanted a drink."

Your voice shakes toward the end, and her expression softens. She sets the pool cue down and takes a step towards you lowering her voice.

"Hey...okay. I'm sorry. I should've been with you. That's messed up."

"Ali just texted me. She said you were kinda handsy though." Before you can answer, Isa cuts in. "Ali seemed pretty sure. I mean, maybe it was just a misunderstanding. Some people just flirty without realizing it."

Your girlfriend shakes her head. "Nah don't feed into that shit."

"Dude you were the one who said she was too sweet..." Raya shrugs. "Or they know what they're doing and she's here playing the sweet card."

You furrow your brows. You can your throat start to tighten. Your girlfriend doesn't say anything. Doesn't defend you. She looks uncomfortable, sure but she doesn't say anything.

And that's worse than the comments.

You step back. "I'm gonna wait outside."

She turns toward you quickly. "Wait--."

You don't wait, you're already walking.

Minutes later, she finds you out front, perched on the curb. You don't look at her when she sits besides you on the curb.

"I didn't believe them," she says. "I just...didn't know what to say. I was kinda shocked."

You nod, staring at your hands.

"I'm so sorry," she adds, quieter.

You don't say anything until she nudges your arm. "Do you wanna get out of here?"

"Yea," you say. "I do."

You think that'll be the end of it.

It isn't.

⊹✧˚

A couple weeks pass, and she convinces you to come to an actual little get together at Greg's basement. "It won't be like last time," she says, fingers brushing your hip as she kisses your cheek. "Promise."

It's small, mellow. They're playing cards on a round table. Someone's rolling a joint in the corner. A girl's doing eyeliner in a cracked rearview mirror bolted to the garage wall. For a second, it feels okay.

Then you notice who's there.

Raya rolling a joint, Isa, Greg, Ali doing her eyeliner, and Adam, who won't even look at you but laughs a little too loud when you walk in. They're all scattered around the couch, making room for your girlfriend but not really for you. Raya greets you with a "aww cute fit.," in a voice so sugary it makes your teeth hurt.

"Cottage-core?" Ali asks. "Adorable. My grandma would love it."

Your girlfriend chuckles like it's harmless. You don't.

You stay close to her side, but it's awkward, like you're some purse she brought along and isn't sure where to set down. You try to make conversation with Greg about the record player on the shelf, but he mumbles something and looks at Isa.

"She probably doesn't even know what vinyl is," Isa jokes under her breath.

Adam chuckles. "She knows how to flirt, though."

Your girlfriend says nothing. That's the part that sticks: THE SILENCE.

You sit through two more rounds of card games and one long tension thick joint rotation you finally say you're going to the bathroom...you don't.

You go to her car and sit in the passenger seat, door closed, hands in your lap. You stare at your reflection in the dark windshield and think about how tired you are of being charming. Of being sweet. Shrinking into someone you're not just to be liked by people who've already decided not to.

You don't cry----you wait.

Ten minutes later, she gets into the car besides you.

"Can we not go to places with them anymore?" you ask, voice low but steady.

She nods, guilty and quiet. You both sit in silence, for now, that's enough.

⊹✧˚

You get the text from an unknown number later revealed to be Isa, while you're curled up on your bed, your girlfriend's hoodie half swallowing in you.

[ Isa: ngl, its kinda unfair ur keeping her away from us. u don't have to like us but don't make it her problem.

You stare at it for a second. The kind of text that isn't aggressive enough to fight, but annoying enough to hurt. You're not keeping her from anyone. If she wants to hang out with them, she can--just not with you. You didn't feel welcome, you tried and it obviously didn't matter. But maybe that's just how it is.

You sigh, toss your phone aside, and stare at the ceiling for a second before deciding: Fuck it, not everyone will like you. Not every room was made to fit you.

You grab your fitted cargos, an oversize tee, and Air Forces. The look of the day: Streetwear -- laid back, confident, like your girlfriend but more clean. If they're gonna hate, they might as well hate you while you look good.

⊹

You feel the eyes of the "group." The 5 assholes (Isa, Greg, Raya, Adam, and Ali) Though no one outright sneers, the temperature drops just a little. You kill it with a smile.

"Hey," you say. "Cute basement."

Isa raises her brows. "Yeah. It's like, our spot."

"Nice. Love the mold." You flash a grin and reach for a can from the cooler like you belong here.

Raya tries, maybe sensing the shift. "Sooo....you're into music? I saw your story, you were at the Music pop-up?"

You nod, "Yeah. Met a few artist once, actually. They're chill and the merch was crazy."

Isa smirks. "You always post stuff like that, it's very curated."

You shrug. "Better than trauma dumping, right?"

They laugh a little, but you catch the edge. The backhanded sugar-coated jabs. Bur you don't flinch, you lean into your girlfriend a little, sip your drink, and keep the smiling going. You're not here to fight, you're here to be chill.

Adam slips closer while the group splits for shots. You're against the wall, trying not to look bored. "Didn't recognize you at first," he says, eyeing you. "This look suits you."

You hum. "Really?"

"You looked real soft at the party, real sweet. This is...hot though."

You look at your girlfriend. You shift just enough to put space between you. "You have a girlfriend, so do I...I'm taken--so are you."

"Didn't say you weren't."

You narrow your eyes, "Then you should say less."

That gets his attention, he scoffs and walks away, maybe pretending he wasn't hoping for more. You roll your shoulders back and rejoin the group just in time for your girlfriend to loop an arm around you again.

"Everything good?" she murmurs in your ears.

You nod. "Peachy. I think your friends love me."

She sighs. "They're just...they don't get you yet."

You laugh softly. "They don't have to." And the truth is, they don't You're not here for them; you're here for her.

Still, you're not stupid. You clock the tension, the glances, the quiet comments. You know this night is just another reminder: You'll never be one of them.

But you're not trying to be. You're just here to exist and maybe, hopefully, not have to defend that.

⊹✧˚

You're lounging on the floor of your best friend Gigi's apartment, eating takeout across a blanket. Your girlfriend kicks off her old ass sneakers and stretches like a cat on the couch. Gigi eyes her up and down with a mischievous grin, chopsticks still in hand.

"Okay but...we have to style her at least once. Just once," Gigi says.

Your girlfriend groans, burying her face in a pillow. "God. Is this the start to Sorority hazing?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely." Your friend Jo chimes in. "You date a fashion chick, you get styled. It's a rules. We didn't make it."

"She literally wear flannels and tees like she's stuck in 2013 Tumblr," Gigi loudly whispers to you. "It's lowkey criminal...but cute criminal."

You watch your girlfriend lift her head and roll her eyes, but there's no malice behind it....only amusement. "Y'all are so lucky I like you."

You crawl onto the couch beside her and kiss her cheek. "C'mon, you said you'd let me sew something for you one day."

"Yea....when I need a funeral dress."

Jo gasps dramatically. "Don't disrespect my future co-designer-model like that."

It just spirals from there.

She's standing in Gigi's bedroom now, in front of the mirror, arms stiff at her sides while Jo and Gigi buzz around her like caffeine charged bees. There's a soft mesh tip with delicate embroidery, vintage cargo pants that somehow still show off her waist, silver jewelry she never would've picked on her own.

And her hair, tousled, a little glossy, shaped around her face just enough to highlight the curve of her jaw and the slope of her cheekbones. Gigi's done something with gel and fingers, muttering "trust me" the whole time.

You're sitting cross legged on the bed, chin in your hand, just watching.

"Why do I feel like I'm a failed America-Next-Top-Model contestant?" she mutters, tugging at her sleeve.

"You know what ANTM is?!" Jo exclaimed. Your girlfriend just chuckles and rolls her eyes.

"You look hot," you say simply.

She glances at you in the mirror. "Yea?"

Jo leans over and pops a little gloss on her lips before she can protest. "Like HOT hot. Like...you just lit a cigarette and stole someone's girlfriend."

"God...you look so gay, I don't even know if I want my boyfriend anymore." Gigi adds with a wink.

Your girlfriend just blinks, she's quiet for a second too long.

"You're hella pretty, ohmigod. You would be perfect for next semester's projects. Seriously don't go bald." Jo added.

"....Thanks," your girlfriend finally says, a little stunned.

You catch it, the flicker of something soft in her eyes. Not the usual smugness she wears like armor...just warmth.

When she walks out the room to change back, Jo. turns to you.

"She's really sweet. Like W-T-F I did not expect it."

Your girlfriend had hung out with Jo and Gigi before, mainly in your place. They would always try to include her, but she was always quiet in her own space and they never pushed her. Your friends were roommates and they asked you to ask your girlfriend if it was cool to hang out with her; she said sure, since you both were always at Greg's basement.

Gigi nods. "And she let us style her. That's like, sacred trust. I get why you like her."

Your heart tugs. You've never had them say that out loud before. It made you compare your friends to hers (even though you shouldn't) you just wished her friends were as kind as yours. You pick those who are close to you carefully for a reason.

Later, when you're walking home, her hand brushes yours and you interlace fingers without thinking. She's quiet like always, before he mumbles: "They were really nice to me."

You glance over, "Of course they were."

"No, I mean...like, they liked me. Not because of anything I said. Just 'cause I was with you."

You squeeze her hand. "Yeah, that's how it should feel."

She stops walking for a second, pulls you close, and kisses your forehead like she's apologizing.

⊹✧˚

That weekend:

You're curled on the couch with her, thigh tangled, your legs hooked over hers. The house is quiet for once. Just you, her, soft sound of music playing from her cracked phone speaker on the floor.

She's got her hand under your shirt, not in a sexual way....not yet. Resting warm on your waist, her fingers slowly tracing little shapes over your skin. It send chills down your spine in the best kind of way. You're straddling her thigh now, only a little pressure between you, but enough to make your hips roll on instinct.

Her lips are on your neck, slow, lazy. She kisses like she's got all night, like you're the only thing worth tasting. She finds your mouth again and groans softly into it when you kiss her harder, when your teeth graze her bottom lip and your fingers twist into her hair.

You feel her smiling against your mouth.

"Though we were just gonna chill," she murmurs, her breath hot across your jaw.

"You're the one who pulled me on top of you," you say, lips brushing hers again.

She exhales a laugh, "That don't sound like me."

"Liar." You bite her bottom lip gently, roll your hips slowly, and she gasps; quietly. Her fingers tightening on your waist.

She's so warm beneath you, her body so easy to fall into. You're sure she has memorized every part of your mouth.

"Aren't your friends gonna come over?" You mumble.

She groans. "Five more minutes, then we can stop," she mutters into your mouth when you try to pull back for air.

"You said that like 100 hours ago," you breathe, grinning, continuing to nip at her bottom lip anyways.

She laughs kissing you harder. Hands slip from your waist to the inside of your shirt. Groping your breast like she wants more.

"I like when you wear these," she whispers, fingertips touching you through your unlined balconette. "Drives me crazy...I can feel everything."

You smile into the kiss, your voice breathy. "You should see the other pair."

She bites her lip. "Keep teasing me like that and we're not gonna make it past this couch."

You grind down, slow and deliberate. "Maybe I don't want to."

She groans (again) like actually groans and tugs your hips closer, her fingers digging into your ass. You bra is caught under your ribs now, one strap falling off your shoulder. She leans up to kiss across your chest, dragging her lips over the curve of you like she's starving. You arch against her and drop your head back with a sigh. You're just starting to lose yourself in it, your body moving a little faster now---

When the door creaks open. Laughter, voices, movement, footsteps. You both jump apart just in time for the group to join you both in the room: Ali, Adam, Greg, and Raya.

You jolt back, your hand frozen where it was tugging at her shoulder. She straightens, red faced, and fixes her top. You pull your legs back and pretended like you weren't just dry humping on her couch.

"Damn," Greg whistles, loud. "We interrupt something?"

"Ew. Get a room," Ali snorts, flopping onto the bean bag near the couch like she owns the place. You shift off of your girlfriend, smoothing down your clothes and sitting upright. She clears her throat but no longer looks embarrassed, just annoyed.

Raya gives a sympathetic look, she was your girlfriend's roommate, it was kind of an unspoken rule to them, to always knock before opening the door. "We thought it was still movie night."

"I don't mind an orgy." Adam joked, carrying a bag of snacks.

"Shut up." Your girlfriend rolls her eyes, tossing a pillow at him.

They all settle in.

Ali walks past you on her way to the kitchen and shoulders you a little harder than necessary. You furrow your brows confused, she smirks like it was an accident (even though you both knew it wasn't).

You don't say anything.

Later, when your girlfriend gets up to grab drinks with Greg and Raya, the couch feels ten times smaller. You try to breathe through the awkwardness.

Adam plops down beside you, too close. "So," he says, nudging you with his elbow, "you two are really serious, eh?"

"Literally, leave me alone please."

He laughs like he told you a joke, "C'mon, y'all are like 'no labels,' right?"

You lean away. "You're disgusting."

"I mean, you look like a walking doll. Don't act surprised people wanna unwrap the package."

You're about to tell him to fuck off when Raya sits down on your other side, breaking the tension like she's done it before.

"Adam," she says sweetly, "shut the hell up."

He stands and chuckles. Wanders to the kitchen, probably to bother someone else.

You exhale. Raya gives you a half smile. "Sorry. He's been gross lately."

You glance at her. "Is he always like that?"

She hesitates, then leans in a little, voice lower. "Worse sometimes. Ask Kimmie."

You tilt your head. "Who?"

"His ex. She used to come around. Really sweet, until Adam started flirting with Ali and then blamed her for getting upset. Calling her clinging, controlling, y'know."

You nod slowly. "He's trying the same shit with me?"

"Yup." she says, almost guiltily. "I noticed."

Your girlfriend walks back in, laughing with Greg. She hands you a drink and curls beside you again. Her hand finds your thigh like she’s instinctively trying to calm you down.

Ali makes a fake gagging noise from the other couch.

Raya sighs. "High school never really ends, huh?" You glance at her, surprised. She just raises an eyebrow and sips her soda.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚

part 3: "i love you"

Tags <3 also tysm for the support & the reblog.

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(Let me know if you want to be tagged in any post. You're all welcomed to.)

[almostsaidiloveyou]

Imagine #19:"What I wear doesn't determine my intelligence."

(University AU! - slight slow burn - multi part story - fashionista!reader (lot of fashion mentioned) - extroverted!reader - mean!love-interest (at first) - don’t judge a book by its cover concept - opposite attract - 5.5k words)

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚

"Focus, please."

"I am!" you groan, slamming your forehead dramatically against the library table.

"No, you’re not," she says flatly. "You are LITERALLY painting your nails."

You blink down at the mini nail polish kit spread out in front of you like a crime scene. With a sigh, you side eye her and start closing the bottles one by one.

She exhales like she’s already exhausted by this whole situation and taps her finger on the page you abandoned twenty minutes ago. "We were on this problem."

This is not how you imagined your Friday night going.

It’s not like you needed tutoring. You’ve been on the Dean’s List before. Principal’s List once, even. You weren’t dumb, not at all. But when you logged into your student portal last week and saw the giant red C- in your progress report?

Yeah, you gulped.

The truth was, school had slowly slipped to the bottom of your priority list. You’d spent the last year doing everything but studying.

You befriended a few of the Fashion Design students. They were searching for a model, you volunteered, and they adored you. That started the: photoshoots, modeling for class projects, running between club meetings (you’d joined like, eight, just because they were fun), and planning your outfits like you had a stylist. Sometimes Office Siren. Sometimes Coquette. Sometimes Streetwear.

You were kind of one of the IT girls in your campus.

Not that your campus was even that small. Yet, it was small enough for people to notice you. To remember you, especially the students who had back-to-back classes Monday through Friday.

And you... you liked that.

But now you were desperate.

⋆｡♡˚⊹

You noticed her...her!

....during an Environmental Club meeting. One of the many random clubs you signed. She was quiet, leaning back in her chair like she didn’t even want to be there. You remembered her from a gen-ed class your freshman year. A little grungy, always in the same vintage brown jacket and boots.

Kind of stoner-y.

Kind of hot.

Definitely didn’t talk much. But she always turned in perfect papers, lowkey smart. The kind of smart that didn’t feel showy all.

The-- "I didn't study for this." Then gets an A+ and a Nobel Prize.--kind of smart

You tried to talk to her, sat next to her and made a joke. She barely looked at you.

Disinterested.

Still, you were determined. You’d seen her ace math and science. You needed help. And when you noticed her leaving the meeting early, you followed her out of the building. Awkwardly, not creepily (you hoped), trying to catch up.

She caught you following behind her after a block and spun around. "Are you following me?"

You froze, then tried to act nonchalant. "Umm… yeah...Kinda."

She squinted. "Okay. Why?"

"I need a tutor."

She tilted her head. "In what? Stalking?"

"No! Haha" you laughed, flustered, gripping on your navy messanger bag that was overly decorated. "In math. Please. I’m dying."

There was a pause. She looked at you from head to toe, then shrugged. "Sure. Why not."

And now here you are. Tutoring Session #4: nail polish drying, textbook open, brain melting, sitting across from her in the library.

⋆｡♡˚⊹ Session #1

The first session was quiet...awkward.

You showed up five minutes early because you’re trying to be impressive, because first impressions matter….even if it was just for a tutoring thing (with a girl you stalked for 15 minutes)

You always dressed your best. How you felt! So you dressed like you meant business; head to toe ACADEMIA. Down to the fake reading glasses perched on your nose.

You found her already slouched in a chair at the far end of the table, wired earbuds in, jacket draped on the back alongside her bag, hoodie half zipped. She look like just woke up from a nap she didn't want to take.

She looks up and down when you sit.

"Did you come from a job interview at a private school?"

You ignore the comment with a bright smile and slide your notes out of your bag. "'Kay! So, I brought some practice problems, buutt...I seriously don't get any of this so if I sound dumb---"

"You won't," she interrupts, pulling one earbud out. "unless you are dumb, but that's not really my problem."

You look at her, she doesn't laugh. You think she's joking, but its hard to tell.

Nonetheless, once you get into the work, it moves fast. She's focused, maybe surprisingly patient...also a bit sarcastic. She's explains things in short, clear ways, she's sharp. You write things down while sneaking glances at her knuckles, her chipped nail polish, in the state of her nails. The faded tattoos peeking out from under her sleeve.

It's not the worst hour of your life, but it's also not fun.

You thank her at the end . She nods, already putting her earbuds back in.

⋆｡♡˚⊹ Session #2

The night before you were going through the stack of magazines you got at a Thrift Shop in the city. Tutorials and instructions of how to dress and do your make up like you just came out of Tokyo.

You're walking in the library with confidence.

Flipping your Burgundy colored very expensive wig, blown out to perfection. Platform shoes clicking across the library tiles.

She sees you and actually does a double take, blinking like she doesn't recognize you.

Her brows furrowed, "This..." she points at you. "...is the same girl who cosplayed 'academia student' last time?"

"It wasn't cosplay," you say, sweetly. "It was just the look of the day."

"What's the look for today?" She asks in sarcasm. "Monster High Barbie doll?" Her eyes were fixated on your knee high socks and bejeweled pockets of your shorts.

"No, today's look is 'Agejo-Gyaru." You did a 360. "I was going through this magazine and Pinterest..." You could tell she didn't really care so you just sat down.

She leans back in her chair, clearly annoyed before the study session even starts. "Maybe if you focused on math the way you focus on outfits, we wouldn't be here."

You pause. Her tone is dry, casual, but it stings.

You make a soft sound, smiling through it. "Fashion is a state of mind. What I wear doesn't determine my intelligence."

She hums, raising her eyebrows up like she doesn't believe you. "Mm"

You try not to let it ruin your mood. You do the work, answer questions. You mess up and ask her to explain again, and she does; but you can tell her tone.

She thinks she's better than you. You feel it in the way she taps her pencil impatiently. The way she sighs when you get something wrong.

You leave that day with your heels stomping louder than usual, and your heart a little hurt.

⋆｡♡˚⊹ Session #3

You show up determined to keep the peace.

You're tired of her rolling her eyes, tired of her little sarcastic-unwanted comments that feel less like teasing and more like judgement.

So, you go soft, polite, vintage. A little more you but toned down.

You greet her quietly. She nods...like always.

As you work, you try again. "Hey, I just....I wanna say thanks. You're good at this, you know. Like explaining things, I mean"

She doesn't look up. "Mmhmm."

You smile, then don't, then smile again. Why is she even helping you if she didn't like you? Like sure, she WAS actually tutoring you for free. But was it worth all the attitude?

You push past it, "You're like...crazy smart."

"Nah, not that smart," she says with a shrug, not meeting your eyes. "Compared to someone who thinks Brown Lip Liner is a studying tool...maybe."

Your smile completely dropped, you stopped. Stare at her and she doesn't seem to give a fuck. Just scribbles something down on the lines of your worksheet, still not looking at you.

Something inside you tightens. You stack your notes, quietly. Close your notebook, softly.

She finally looks up when you stand. "Where you going?"

You slide your bag over your shoulder. "I'll figure it out myself."

"Wait--" she starts, but you're already walking towards the stairs. You wasted a perfectly good 70s inspired

She on the other hand, sits there for a while after you're gone. Not working, nor chilling. Just staring at your empty chair.

"Fuck." She huffs.

She feels it, the guilt, the realization; running her fingers through her hair.

You weren't just some airhead, you were actually trying. Trying to study, get your grades up. Trying to be kind to her. And she was kind of a bitch.

⋆｡♡˚⊹ Session #4

The club meeting's almost over when you feel someone slide into the seat next to you. You don't have to look, the faint smell of weed clinging to her jacket is a dead giveaway.

You keep doodling on the corner of your notebook.

"Hey," she says low, like she's not sure you'll even answer.

You hum in response, not caring.

"I, uh..." she pauses, her fingers tapping the edge of the desk. "Wanted to say sorry...for last time."

You glance at her, she's not looking at you. Her gaze is fixed on the whiteboard across the room like the apology is physically painful to say.

So, you nod once, a bit unsure. "'Kay."

"I was being an ass."

You smile a little at that, only half bitter. "You were."

There's a second of silence. She shifts in her seat, clears her throat. "Would it be...uh cool if we tried again? Like...start over with the whole...tutoring?"

You don't answer immediately. You glance down at your Apple- necklace brushing your collarbone. Your mood wasn't soft, your outfit was though.

You speak slowly. "You don't even like me...you hate me or something..."

"I don't hate you," she blurts out hella quickly. Then adds quieter, "I never did."

You stare at her for a second longer, searching for sarcasm, but it's not there. Discomfort only, seems like she doesn't know how to be honest without choking on it.

You nod gently, "Okay."

You meet at the same table, you don't say much at first. She doesn't either.

This time you don't pretend to be 'super-ultra-studious.' Your notebook is open, but your hands are busy with something else, a tiny brush, a red nail polish bottle. You're painting your nails while she reads out loud from the textbook.

⋆｡♡˚⊹

She watches you put your nail polish away. “You can’t be serious.”

“I can multitask,” you say calmly, the kit already in your bag.

She snorts a little, shaking her head, but there’s no bitterness or attitude in her voice. “Of course you can.”

You glance at her, she’s not frowning, neither is she judging. She just stares at your nails, then you. Kind of amused.

“Thanks…For apologizing.” You gently blow on your nails to finish the drying process. Your voice soft.

She shrugs, “Yea, I shouldn’t have said that shit. You’re not stupid. I was just being…”

“Mean?” You input.

“Yeah haha, that.” She chuckles.

A second of silence.

“I like your bracelets.” She mutters, it’s awkward but it’s something. Something better than the last sessions.

“What’s the uh, look of the day?”

You smile, a real small one. “Thank you. Today’s look is Apple-core.”

She nods, then slides your worksheet back towards you, “Alright, Apple Dumpling. Let’s see if you remember what Cosine is.”

You groan, dramatically. Smirking at her, impressed she would even be aware of the character.

Despite your unmotivated feelings, your heart feels lighter than it has, since the days you’ve started.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚✧˚ ༘

You start meeting at the library after Environmental Club (So twice a week)

She stopped being so bitchy and you stopped trying so hard to win her over. Things felt more even now. Not warm or cozy, but comfortable in that slowly kind of way.

You don't always talk when you meet up. Sometimes she's already there when you walk in, half asleep, sweater zipped up with the hood drawn halfway over her face. Sometimes you get there first and spread your little pencil case, snacks, highlighter, and lip gloss like it's a sleepover.

You still dress up. Every time. She never comments anymore (well not as much.) Doesn't say much, but she notices. You catch her glancing when she thinks you're not paying attention. Watches you settle in like it's mandatory, your drink, lip balm, notebook with more doodles than notes in the margins.

You either arrive 5 minutes early or 5 minutes later, no in between. You always forget a pencil despite having a whole case. And every time she sighs and hands you one of hers, it's starting to sound more fond than annoyed.

Studying is weirdly kind of working. You're not acing the subject, not yet. But you're not crying, either. Every time she walks you through a formula or a theory, something about the way she breaks it down just makes sense. Her voice is calm, steady, a little bore; never condescending anymore.

"Ok," she says. "Next one. Simplify this expression."

You squint at the paper. "I JUST did the last one."

"That was two minutes ago."

You slouch dramatically. "My brain is hungry, I need a break. This isn't fair."

"It's mathematics, not a hostage situation."

You sigh and pull out a granola bar out your bag. She rolls her eyes but waits while you unwrap it and take two unnecessarily slow bites.

"You get distracted every ten seconds."

"I don't...its every twenty seconds but who's counting?" You put the bar down and sit up.

She stares at you blankly.

"...What?"

"I just realized," she says slowly, "you look like you're about to demand a duel on a cobblestone street."

You beam. "Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"It felt like one."

She rolls her eyes, yet when you catch her smirking a little behind her drink, your stomach does something it absolutely should not do during a tutoring session.

⋆｡♡˚⊹

Mid-terms were approaching. "Sooner than you think," said with a terrifying smile by your club president, and now, here you are: textbooks cracked open, caffeinated drinks between you, and an unnecessary pile of highlighters spilling across the table.

The pressure's on, this time you don't feel hopeless or alone.

Your brain has been scattered the past week. A few sessions has turned into morning ones to help you more.

You walk into the library on a Tuesday, slightly out of breath, cardigan slipping off your shoulders, holding a banana and a Red Bull. You drop into your seat--the one across from her and whisper, "We're gonna ace this shit."

She gives you a look. "That's breakfast?"

"It's all I could grab."

"Amazing food for the brain," she deadpans. "Potassium and adrenaline."

You grin, wiggle your brows. "What can I say? I am fueled by vibes."

She rolls her eyes, slides your workbook over. "Then let's turn those vibes into Vector Components."

And you try. You really do. You forget to reapply lip balm. You write notes in messy caps instead of cursive. You ask questions without being afraid of sounding dumb.

And when you actually teach her a trick you figured out on your own, she looks at you like she's seeing you fully for the first time. Almost smiling she says, "Look at you, a real math girl now."

You smirk, leaning back in your chair. "Genius and I have amazing fashion sense."

"You're still dramatic."

"Obviously."

She nudges your shoulder with her pen. "But you're doing better. Way better."

You smile down at your notes. The doodles and scribbles of hearts in the corner look less silly now.

⋆｡♡˚⊹

The library closes at midnight, but you both have already claimed the farthest table on the second floor, the one with the outlet that barely works and the window that overlooks the quad, wash on that warm, hazy glow from the campus lamps. The sun had set hours ago, and now the only light on your table comes from her laptop screen and your star-shaped desk lamp you insisted on brining.

It's your last study session before the big exam. You've both been here since five.

Her jacket is thrown over the back of her chair, hair tied up now: messy and half-falling out. You're in some matching-vintage-Juicy Couture-tracksuit, the sweater hanging off your elbows.

Your most comfortable look she has seen you in.

You've gone through flashcards, review packets, cheat sheets, past quizzes, even made a fake mini quiz for yourself. You're now sitting cross-legged in your chair, sipping a Matcha iced drink, that's mostly melted, while she explains a concept for the second - third - hell even fifth time.

"You're overthinking it," she points to your notes. "You're not supposed to plug x into both equations. Just isolate it here then substitute."

You stare at the page, then at her. "'Kay, but like when I did that last time the answer came out to a literal decimal disaster."

She snorts, low. "That's 'cause you forgot to distribute the negative, pretty genius."

You blink and amusingly raise an eyebrow, "Did you just call me Pretty Genius? Pretty AND Genius?"

She looks up from your notes, trying to act casual. "Maybe"

The lamp flickers slightly, you both ignore it.

You go back to work. She yawns and stretches, your eyes trail the movements--just for a second. You're too focused now, too determined. You NEED to pass this exam. You feel it in your bones.

You're about to ask another question when you realize she's staring at you...again.

You tilt your head, "What?"

She hesitates, fingers still tapping her pencil. Then: "You're kinda...surprising."

You squint, "I'm hoping that was a compliment."

"It is," she says quickly. "Just...not how I thought this would go."

You shift a little in your seat, softening. "How did you think this would go?"

"I dunno," her voice is quieter now, her postures less guarded. "I almost said no when you asked me to tutor you. I figured you were just another..." She stops, chewing the inside of her cheek, "One of those girls."

"One of what girls?"

"Y'know," she mumbles. "The ones who'd laugh if I like drop something. Or whisper behind my back in class. The ones who...looked like you."

You're quiet. She continues, slower. "Back in High School...girls like that were the worst. Perfect hair, perfect outfits, perfect...everything. Mean and straight and shallow. Scary."

You giggle. "Scary?"

She gives you a small smile. "A little. I don't know, you're just...Pretty. Loud. Confident. And people like me usually don't get along with people like you."

You glance down at your bracelets and then back at her. "But we do?"

She nods, just once. "Yeah, you're nothing like them. And I judged you too quickly." She sighs. "You're sweet. And actually funny. Kind. Smart too...even if you forget to distribute."

You feel your cheeks warm. "I don't think anyone's ever called me smart and meant it...apart from old teachers."

"I mean it."

Your heart does a tiny flip. You offer her a soft smile and after a second, she returns it. You tap your pen against your notebook and say, quietly, "So...friends?"

She rolls her eyes but reaches across the table and pinky swears without hesitation.

"Friends," she says.

You grin and link your pinky with hers. "Even if I forget pencils and call everything 'so cute'?"

She chuckles. "Even then."

"Even if you still wear that same jacket every other day, and pretend you're not secretly a sweetheart?"

She sighs dramatically. "Alright, let's not push it."

You both laugh.

"You ever just, like...do nothing?" she asks.

You glance at her, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Like not plan out a whole look. Not go to five clubs. Or wear earrings that could probably stab a man."

"You saying you wanna see me in sweats?"

"No, not saying that," she says, and there's the faintest flush in her cheeks. "Just wonderin'."

You stretch your arms over your head, spine popping. "No, I like dressing up. It makes me feel like myself."

She nods, as if she's still trying to understand you.

You are a puzzle she can't solve with equations

You bite your lip. "You ever not try to act like you don't care about anything?"

Her eyes flick up to yours, she pauses--then smiles, small and real. "Ok, fair point."

And then, you study. For real. Like, deep focus. You quiz her back. She lets you explain a concept to her like she’s the student for once. She doesn’t correct you once. You work until your brain is buzzing and your shoulders ache from sitting so long.

By the time you finally part ways, after a long, sleepy hug outside the library steps and a promise to text her as soon as the test is over...you feel okay. Nervous, but ready.

It takes three business days for your grade to post.

You refresh the page twelve times. Maybe more. You bite off your new polish coat and accidentally close the tab once, just from pure jittery nerves. The number stares back at you:

Trigonometry 101 : 85%

Eighty. Five. Percent!

You nearly cry when the grade pops up on your student portal. You take a screenshot, send it to her. All caps--Ten exclamation points.

You take her to this tiny diner off campus, nothing fancy, just cozy, with string lights and plastic menus and the best milkshakes on Earth.

She says you're over dressed when you show up in a strapless summery dress with a flower clip. You say just jealous of your outfit since she's wearing jeans and a clean tee. "First time you're wearing something clean."

Over dinner, she teases you about the panic attacks you had during study sessions, and you roast her for the way she still types with two fingers like a dad. You both eat too much and laugh until your stomachs hurt.

"You passed," she says, lifting her milkshake toward you.

You clink your against it. You grin, wide and proud. "We've passed."

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling too.

You're opposites, sunshine with too much energy and sarcastic know it all. Accessories matched to perfection and chipped nail polish. Sparkly pen toppers and blunt pencils.

And it works.

Somewhere between the fries and the check, you catch her staring. Not annoyed, not surprised..… but soft.

She smiles when she realizes you noticed. You don’t say anything. You just smile back.

⋆｡♡˚⊹

You can talk anyone into anything if you smile wide enough, and flutter your lashes. That’s how you found yourself paired with her again for the Environmental Club’s Semester-End Volunteer Campaign.

It’s a sunny Saturday, warm enough for sunburn, breezy enough to wear sleeves. The kind of weather that makes people smile with their eyes closed, like the whole sky was in a good moods and iced lemonades.

You’re wearing denim overalls today, faded and soft, a tank top underneath. Less lace, less bows: more farmer's market. More grounded and comfortable. The kind of outfit that makes you want to plant something or buy a jar of honey or jam.

You catch a few people glancing at you as you walk across the community center lawn, clipboard in one hand and a little woven tote on your shoulder, but you’re used to it by now. It’s not the outfit...they’re looking because you’re you.

She’s already there, sitting on the low wall that borders the garden, chewing gum and squinting at her phone. Her hair is pulled back today, little wisps sticking to her cheeks, and she’s wearing cargo pants and a graphic tee.

She looks up when she sees you, and for once, she doesn’t have a smart ass comment.

"You look like you belong in a peach farm," she says instead. Looking at the red bandana tied loosely in your hair.

"That's the look of the day," you smile, doing one of your famous 360s.

She hops off the wall, brushing her hands on her thighs. "Where’s your partner?"

"Ditched him. Forced a trade. You’re mine now."

She blinks. "You bullied your way into working with me?"

You shrug, innocent. "I’m just..... persuasive." She scoffs under her breath but doesn’t look mad. If anything, there’s a hint of something else behind her gaze. Something soft, warm.

You’ve been volunteering for this local green initiative through Environmental Club, door-to-door, awareness stuff, passing out flyers, helping run booths at farmers markets and donation drives.

Today’s task is a small campaign to collect signatures for a community compost expansion project.

She grumbles at first, but she sticks with you. You charm the couples and families; she talks to the skeptics. It's smoother than you expected. At one point, you both end up sitting in the shade of a big tree near the sidewalk, sharing a lemonade you bought from a little stand run by a kid with glitter all over their face.

"So," you say, watching the breeze flutter the edges of a leafs above you. "I think I’m ready."

She raises an eyebrow. "For what? Making compost for vegetables?"

You laugh, "The final exam."

"Oh. That."

You nod, grinning. "I’m gonna pass. I can feel it in my bones. And the best part is....after this? No more math classes. Ever again!"

"Never?"

"Nope! Never, it's my last required one. I double checked my degree audit three times." You lean back on your elbows, face tilted toward the dappled light through the branches.

"I’ve got an 88 average going in. I just need a passing score and I’ll be done. Done done. No more math. No more numbers...unless I go to grad school."

You open one eye and glance over at her. "I won’t need tutoring anymore."

She goes quiet. Not heavy quiet, just… thoughtful. She takes the cup from you and drinks, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

"So that’s it then?" she says. "We stop meeting up after this?"

You tilt your head. "What do you mean?"

"The study dates," she mutters. "Well....not dates. You know. Whatever they were. Tutoring. Library lunches. Snacks and glamming up and me being forced to accept compliments."

You smirk. "Aw. Gonna miss me?"

She shrugs, but there’s a little upward curve tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I mean… yeah. Kinda."

"I mean unless you are offering to tutor me in English Monarchy next semester?"

She sits up straighter, looking suddenly nervous. You watch her chest rise and fall, a little quicker than normal, like she’s thinking something through before she says it.

"I, uh… I like hanging out with you," she says finally, avoiding your gaze. "More than I thought I would. Like, not just the studying part. The you part."

Your heart skips a beat, in that quiet, tight way. "Oh," you say, a little breathless. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She rubs the back of her neck, then laughs once: soft and self-deprecating. "God, I suck at this. I was gonna text you, but I figured if I messed it up in person at least you could throw your drink at me or something."

You smile, warmth spreading under your skin like sun.

"Mess what up?"

She finally looks at you.

"I wanna take you out," she says. "Like… out out. Like on-a date. There’s this really stupid arcade downtown that has DDR and Skee Ball and those pizza that taste amazing after ten p.m. Thought it’d be fun."

You stare at her for a second, stunned. Shes so nervous it’s cute.

You smile, slow and wide and stupid. "Are you asking me on a date to play air hockey and eat greasy pizza?"

"I’m asking you on a date to kick your ass in Skee ball," she corrects, her smirk returning. "But yea."

You pretend to think about it for dramatic effect. Cross your legs, tilt your head, hum to yourself. She groans beside you.

"Oh my god, just say no if it’s a no--"

"It’s a yes," you cut in.

She stops. "What?"

You nudge her with your shoulder. "I said yes. You smart-ass."

She grins. Like, really grins. It’s rare, and it’s a little crooked, and it makes something in your chest twist. "Cool," she says. "Okay. Cool."

You lean your head on her shoulder.

"I’m gonna beat you at Skee ball," you say.

"You wish."

And just like that, you’re not just a volunteer duo, or an unlikely study pair, or even just friends

⋆｡♡˚⊹

It's Friday night, two days after your Final Exam. You don't know what you expected from an arcade date, maybe something corny or awkward. But this isn't that, it's easy, exciting, bright, like stepping into a different universe made entirely of neon lights, blasting music, and the smell of greasy pizza crust.

You wore jean, old ones, the type to be loose around your calfs--tight around your thighs- and perfect around your waist. A brown hat that matches your jacket with fur on the collar, and your purse. You look amazing in the camisole as well...you just pray the jeans are long and flare enough to not show the old Converses you had on.

The second she saw you waiting outside, she whistled. "Didn't realize I was dating a Bratz Doll."

You smiled and flipped your hair, "Didn't realize you knew what a Bratz doll was."

"Cousins," she muttered, holding the door open for you. "Growing up they were obsessed...so was i--not gonna lie. You kinda remind me of Yasmin."

You tried not to blush.

Inside, the arcade is loud and glowing, nostalgic. There are little kids running around, older teens clumped around machines, and couples tucked into old racing games with flashing screens and plastic wheels. The two of you exchange your cash for a fat handful of token and immediately lose half of them trying to beat each other at 'who can knock down the most clowns.'

She wins...barely. But you win at air hockey, "Fast hands baby," you brag. She makes a scene when you score the winning point.

Skee-Ball? You win.

"That's cheating," she says, watching your ball smoothly arc into the 50 Points hole again.

You glance back, lashes fluttering. "No, it's natural talent."

By the time you make it to the claw machines, you’re both breathless and sticky with soda syrup and cheap perfume. You’re holding a shared slice of pizza, one hand each, taking bites between giggles.

Two cups of slushies, hers is blue raspberry, yours is cherry lime. Your knees knock under the table. Her fingers are stained red from the slushie, and she keeps stealing glances at you like she can’t believe this is real.

You’ve already won one rubber bracelet, a sticky hand toy, and a plush keychain shaped like a frog. She’s wearing it on a belt loop now, very seriously.

You point at the machine. "Get me the pink bunny."

She narrows her eyes. "You think I got arcade god powers or something?"

"I’ve seen your hands." You say it too smoothly, and she pauses, then cocks her head with the slowest smile you’ve ever seen.

"Yea?"

You nod, innocent but not really. "Yeah."

She drops a token in. The claw shakes to life, clunky and unpredictable, but she lines it up with precision. On the third try, it finally grips a floppy ear and drags the bunny up and out. You squeal. She bows like it’s a victory parade.

"Hand it over," you say, already reaching.

She doesn’t. Instead, she holds it above your head. "Kiss first."

You blink. "Ah s'cuse me?"

She shrugs. "Fair’s fair. I got a you bunny. You owe me one tiny, non-legally-binding kiss."

You take a step forward, face tilted up, smiling with your eyes half lidded.

"Like this?" you ask, lips barely an inch from hers. She freezes for half a heartbeat, and then you snatch the bunny right out of her hand and spin away laughing.

"You’re evil," she groans.

"You like it," you shoot back. And she does. God, she does.

The night winds down with a final stop at the photo booth tucked in the back corner, near the DDR machine. It’s barely big enough for two people and smells like cherry chapstick and dust. You feed in your last few quarters, and the countdown begins on the screen.

She hesitates for the first photo. You smile wide.

Second was more silly from your end.

Third photo you gave her a side hug pressing your cheeks against hers.

In the last photo, she leans in and kisses your cheek. You're not ready for it, you blink in the final flash, heart pounding.

When the strip prints out, it’s awkward and perfect. The first photo is just cute. The second is silly. The third was sweet. And the last is you, shocked and flustered, grinning like an idiot. She pockets one copy. You keep the other.

Outside, waiting for your ride, the night's finally quiet. She stands a little too close to you, hands in her pockets, the tips of her sneakers grazing yours. You're not sure who leans in first, but it's natural...like breathing.

Her lips brush yours, gently, softly. She pulls back all smiley and shy. "Best tutoring gig I've ever had."

You bump her should. "Best date I've ever been on."

And you mean it.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚

Part 2: “I can see your friends, they don’t like me.”

⊹✧˚ thank you @2heartsbecoming1 for proofreading <:3

[almostsaidiloveyou]

Imagine 18 made me cry.. I’m too chicken to come off anon but I loved it 🥹

The word count was a godsend and the angst??? Aghhh.. my chest.

They need to get together again omg.. or not or something. Did she die??? 😭😭 ugh I loved it

Hi! Oh my god, FIRST OF ALL TYSM for reading I really freaking appreciate that and you. And it's okay to be anonymous ! just know i don't judge <3

OKAY! Imagine #18 I WAS SO SCARED TO PUBLISH IT. I thought it was gonna be too long & boring, but hearing you say that, the word count wasn't a bad thing, makes me SOOO HAPPY :D !!!!

Originally, she was gonna be dead, and reader was going to live on remembering her forever.

It was also gonna be based off Lana Del Rey's Dark Paradise.

Then I thought, that it might be better to leave the ending open for the reader. When it comes to angst I genuinely try to not be overly dramatic, and killing her off would've just been so..!!???!

I know in my heart, she's living, thriving, working the radio station 12 hours a day, and in love.

I wouldn't usually write a conclusion for stories with an ambiguous end, but if you or anyone else want, I'll be so down to write a more romantic--maybe fluffy (maybe more *wink wink*) ending.

Cuz as much as I LOVE ANGST! I'm also a sucker for fluff and romance.

Tysm again <3 xoxo

[almostsaidiloveyou]

Imagine #18: “See you on the B-side, sunshine.”

(90s Au - slight slow burn - drama-queen!reader - doomed yuri - mentions of unknown sickness - oneshot - wrong number scenario - fluffy - angst - added background characters 6k+ words)

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Your friends say you're being overly dramatic when you mention how bored you are.

You're stuck in this loop, this feeling that your life is this repetitive routine. It's been like this for nearly a month.

Bored. For nearly a whole month!

Not even the kind of that makes you lazy. No. The kind that eats up. Feeling in your chest keeps tightening telling you: You're supposed to be doing something else. Something that matters.

Even at brunch, half-listening to your friend Linda go on and on about her upcoming trip to London. You're sitting with your cheek resting against your fist., eyelids feeling heavy, barely drinking the hot chocolate you ordered.

Across from you, Victoria is laughing too loud at something that isn't funny, and the entire table smells like syrup and hairspray.

It’s pissing you off, a little. You want to tell Linda that nobody gives a fuck about her trip. You want to tell Victoria to shut up.

Yet, when someone asks you if you're okay, you lie. Nod, smile, and say, "Just tired."

You don't mean sleep tired. You mean soul-tired

That's when you see it, this flyer taped to the outside of the café’s smudged front window. From the look of it, it’s probably been there for weeks.

You squint from your seat:

"HELP NEEDED - Animal Rescue Volunteer Program! Call to Sign Up Today!"

There's a doodle of a dog paw and a phone number.

You do not hesitate to get up and grab a napkin from the table, dig out the half-dead pen from your bag. You write against your knee, napkin crumpling under your hand, the ink smudging slightly.

Try to double check the digits, but Linda links her arm with yours and gently pulls you away, taking you back to the table. Saying something about you "wandering off", in a passive-aggressive tone.

You side eye her.

Shove the napkin into your pocket.

Forgetting about it.

Until the next morning.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You drag yourself out of bed at 8 a.m. to do chores. While emptying your jacket, the napkin falls to the floor. You pick it up, frown, and wander over to the yellow landline on your nightstand: the clunky kind with the spiraled cord that always gets tangled when you’re in a rush.

First attempt: 9am

No answer.

Second attempt: 11:07am

Still nothing. Whatever. Maybe they only pick up after lunch or something. Or maybe the flyer’s ancient and the number doesn’t even work anymore.

You sigh, toss the napkin aside, and spend the rest of your day bouncing between books you can’t focus on, writing things you end up crossing out, switching between CDs and the radio. Everything sucks. Everything feels boring.

You're lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, phone balanced on your stomach...fuck it

Third attempt: 2:30pm

You don’t know why you try again. Just muscle memory, maybe. 'Ring'

You’re already giving up...if it rings 3 times...you'll hang up.

'Ring'

Obviously based on that crusty ass flyer, they probably don’t even need help anymore.

'Ring' The animals are probably fine. Happy... cared for. You’re late. The world moved on without you.

And then...

'Click' A second of static, then a voice, low and hoarse, raspy like they're sick or hungover or both. "Hello?"

You straighten in your seat. “Hi! Uh…sorry. I saw your flyer? About the animal shelter volunteer group?”

They groan softly on the other end, like they were planning on avoiding the world forever.

"…animal shelter?"

You keep going, more desperate than you want, “Yeah! I love animals. I mean, who doesn’t? But I’ve really been wanting to help out. I don’t have experience or anything, but I’m a fast learner--"

“Yes. We’d love to have you,” they say, completely deadpan.

You blink

“But I have to ask,” they add, suddenly serious. “Are you okay with the aggressive ones? The ones we keep locked up in the back?”

You pause. “…Wait, what?”

“The really aggressive ones,” they continue, voice becoming a bit darker, a little lower than before. “We name them after ex-boyfriends. Test muzzles on them. See which ones break.”

“This kind of rescue isn’t for the weak,” they say with a cough. “You think you’ve got what it takes?”

You freeze, your heart dropping feeling a bit disappointed. But hell, you're still determined. "Um. I think I mig---"

“Nah, 'm just fuckin’ with you,” they break into a laugh. “You called the wrong number, babe.”

Your brows furrow, "What?"

"Yeah, no animal shelter here. You’ve got the wrong digits...but that was fun. hehe"

You’re silent. Your eye twitches. They keeps talking, voice light and amused, like this is the best part of their day.

“Okay, you know what?” you snap. “That’s really fucking annoying. Wasting people’s time like that. I don’t know who you are, but I can just tell you’re the most annoyingest person in the world. Good day!”

You slam the phone back onto the receiver, exhaling.

Five minutes later, you feel guilty.

It was kind of funny. You overreacted. And you know it. But still... You’re too proud to call back now.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You wait until the same time they picked up yesterday; down to the minute. There's no reason to, really. But you do, because you’re stubborn. (and kind of pride-wounded)

You stare at the yellow landline, chew the inside of your cheek, and then finally pick it up and dial.

'Ring' You bounce your knee. 'Ring' What if they doesn’t pick up again? 'Ring' What if they thinks you’re a weirdo? Click

A different voice, not theirs. Older. Gruff. The type of voice you picture wearing suspenders and smelling like cigars and ink. "Eastside Broadcasting."

You pause, “…Is...uh, is the guy from yesterday there? The one who answered around this time?”

"From yesterday?"

You clear your throat. “He answered this number. Had kind of a raspy voice...?”

“Raspy voice,” he repeats flatly. “Kid, there’s no other guy working here except me.”

Your face is burning, "Oh, I didn't....I-I thought--"

“We’ve only got one other employee here right now,” he interrupts, voice softening. “And she’s a woman...with a current cold."

You raise an eyebrow slowly, "Oh?"

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

In a cramped, cluttered booth surrounded by cassettes and mismatched stickers on the walls, she’s slouched in a rolling chair, solving a Rubik’s Cube lazily with one hand and skipping through a mixtape with the other.

The older man peaks inside. “Hey. That girls on the phone.”

She groans through her nose, lets the cube drop onto her thigh. “What girl?”

“The one you told me about last night. Who yelled at you.” She perks up and smirks a little. Gets up with a dramatic sigh and crosses out the room to pick up the line.

"Yo."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You recognize her voice instantly. Guilt crawling up your stomach. "It’s you," you say. "From yesterday?"

"Yup, that'd be me."

There’s a small second of silence before you ask: "So...Eastside Broadcasting? Who...what," you clear your throat once more. "Where exactly am I calling?"

"For starters, not an animal shelter."

You roll your eyes and close your mouth quick before snapping once again.

"Eastside...Broadcasting...FM. You called a radio station."

You want to curl into a ball and die. "Oh..."

"But I am the person from yesterday. Same charming 'annoyingest' liar...and by the way I am pretty sure, 'annoyingest,' ain't a word."

A groan escapes from you, you drag your hand over your face. "God, I’m sorry. Seriously. I didn’t mean to snap like that, it was just..." You pause, "I dunno know stressed. I was being dramatic. It was stupid.”

“It’s fine,” she says casually. “Didn’t think too much of it. It was actually kinda funny and cute.”

Your eyes shoot up at the ceiling, a smile twitching "You just say cute? You calling me cute?"

"Yeah, maybe..." The way her voice sounded from the other side of the line definitely sent some type of feeling through you.

You roll your eyes, feeling a little bold. “You don’t even know what I look like. What if I’m a sixty-year-old man with a beer belly and a beard?”

She hums.

"That's exactly my type, how'd you know?"

You chew the corner of your lip to hide a smile she can’t even see. Stomach flips a bit.

“You got a name?” she asks. Her voice static, casual, hella curious. You hesitate, "Y/n," she repeats it once, carefully, before saying her own.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It's been a week

A whole week since you last called. A week since she called herself a “charming liar,” and a week since your stomach did that stupid backflip thing because some stranger with a hoarse voice and quick wit called you cute.

You told yourself you’d forget about it.

Move on.

Find the actual animal shelter. Get a hobby. Stop waiting around the house like a crushing sick puppy every afternoon after 3pm.

But then:

It’s Saturday. You’re folding laundry.

The radio’s playing on the little tabletop stereo in your room: a random (or not really random) station your fingers landed on while scanning.

You’re not really listening.

Not until the voice cuts through, rough and familiar:

[ “Alright, quick PSA before I spin the next track. If anyone out there has ever been personally victimized by a sassy asshole yelling about animal shelters and making up words...Just know… you’re not alone.” ]

Your head snaps towards the stereo.

[ "Be safe out there, folks. Watch your mouth, and your verbs." ]

She laughs under her breath, and then the song starts.

You sit down, hard, eyes wide.

It’s her.

Clearer now, no sickness lacing her tone. Just that same slightly raspy, relaxed voice now, even more alive.

You barely even register what song is playing.

Fifteen minutes into listening…you crack.

You pick up the phone. Call the number again.

"Eastside Broadcasting," says the old man. Tim, you now assume.

You clear your throat. "Hello, it's me...again."

You didn't even have to explain who you were. He chuckles and calls her over.

"Well well well..." You can hear her smile.

"Didn't think I’d hear from you again, grandpa with the beard."

You snort, "Ohh, soo now I’m back in your life?"

"You never really left, sweetheart. You’re famous around here now. Tim’s convinced you’re some ‘loose cannon with an animal obsession"

You laugh, shaking your head. "I was trying to volunteer."

“And I was trying to survive a fever."

You nodded to yourself since you knew it. Tim mentioned it briefly. “Im sorry.” A sigh escaped from you. “Hope you’re ok.”

“Yeah, I’m fine….thought I was like food poisoning. But turns out my immune system just hates me when I actually clock in.”

You smile, curled up on your bed, abandoning the laundry, the phone cord looped between your fingers.

“So,” she continues. “Now that you know we aren’t an animal shelter, why’re you really calling?

You pause, heat creeping through your cheeks. “You were being shady on your radio…and I guess im bored.”

“That’s all?”

There was a second of hesitation, followed by a smile and boldness: “…and maybe I like your voice.”

“Mmm,” she hums. “Now who’s the flirt?”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

45 minutes until the her music rotation was up, and her break. In those 45 minutes you two spoke so casually.

She tells you she doesn’t like coffee that much since it makes her anxious; makes her hands shake too much when she’s handing tapes. You tell her you drink it to just feel something. She laughs and says, “That’s the most dramatic thing I’ve ever heard,” but she sounds charmed.

She says she spends most of her shifts alone in the booth, cutting up magazines clipping them to the wall and graffitiing with Sharpie. That she plays songs not on the rotation when Tim isn’t paying attention.

You tell her your life is a blur of the same routine. Tell her about Victorias laugh echoing in your ear, brunches you hate, chores, the disappointing feeling of wasting time.

“You ever do anything spontaneous?” she asks

Yeah, calling her in the first place was the most spontaneous thing you’ve done.

“Once.” Your reply.

“Well you should do it again.”

She keeps talking to you until her break is over. “I gotta go back in a sec.”

“Right.” You both spoke as if she wasn’t in the middle of work, as if you weren’t talking through the Broadcasts landline. “Back to your adoring listeners.”

“They’re not half as fun as you.”

She pauses, then: “You uh gonna call again?”

“Maybe.”

“Good. See you on the B-side, sunshine.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The voice mail was a shock to you. You called that Monday and she wasn’t there.

Tuesday evening, Victoria manages to drag you out to the mall. She tries on six different belts at a store that only sells two styles. You float behind her like a ghost, bored out of your mind, sneaking glances at your watch and hoping the world will end whenever you see a shirtless Abercrombie model.

Street lights are on, it was barely dark. You toss your bag down and press the blinking light on your answering machine.

'CLICK' the quiet sound of static, then:

"Hey. It’s, uh… me. Radio Girl. Tim said you called again, and—anyway, I figured I’d give you my number. So we don’t have to keep doing this dance through the station line."

You can hear faint rattling, like keys, you assume.

"Call me after six. That's when I'm off the clock. If you feel like it."

A small pause:

"Unless you’re still mad 'bout the whole… ‘muzzle testing ex-boyfriends’ thing. In which case, feel free to yell at me again. It was kind of fun."

You smile into your hand.

That night, around 7:17pm, you call. She answers like she's been waiting the whole day.

"Took you long 'nough."

You rolled your eyes, "I had a very important trip to the mall...with a V.I.P, I'll have you know."

"With the friend who laughs loudly? Or the one who brags—“ she stopped.

"No, the one who brags is out the country right? So, the girl who laughs loudly."

You raised a brow, "...God, you remember that?" Surprised she actually listened to your ranting earlier. That sent butterflies to your stomach.

"Hard to forget, when that was the most entertaining thing I've heard all week."

You’re lying sideways across your bed, feet kicking against the wall.

"You're lucky you're cute"

"Still a 90% chance I'm an old man."

"Then there’s a 10% you're still cute.

A laugher escaped you, "You sound better when you're not sick."

"And you sound better when you’re not yelling at me."

"I wasn’t yelling, I was passionately disagreeing with your choices."

"Keep telling yourself that, sunshine."

And so it begins: your new routine.

6 p.m.----Every night.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The phone rings once. Maybe twice. Always her voice.

Sometimes you talk for half an hour. Other nights it’s two hours, before you realize how dark it’s gotten. You listen to set the phone next to her person record player, shuffle through takeout menus, complain about Tim’s outdated taste in music. You never hear her say your name without smiling.

Sometimes she plays a song on the air and later says,

"That one was for you. Not that I’d admit it on mic."

You don’t tell your friends about her. Not at first, because it feels too…delicate. Like if you say it out loud, it’ll dissolve. Like gatekeeping your favorite unknown song.

Favorite thing you do when talking to her is closing your eyes and imagining how she looks like. You’ve built an image in your head: a lazy grin--definitely. Chipped nail polished--perhaps. She says her hair is always a mess, and that before she goes on air, she puts it up into a messy bun/ponytail. If she's feeling different: covers it with a cap or beanie.

You picture her in oversized clothing and thrifted jeans, rolling around the booth in that squeaky chair you hear sometimes.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

"Give me your email." she says over the phone one night, midway through ranting about a 'call-in listener' who thought 'grungy music' was overrated.

You gave her your email during one of those late night calls. The kind where everything felt slower and closer, your voices dipping softer, even though neither of you would admit you were nervous.

"Do you even check your email?" you’d teased.

"Ahh...only when I’m avoiding everything else," she said. "So… constantly."

She mocks you for five minutes straight about your email name.

You send the first message.

It’s short and dumb. A link to some fan-made website about a band she swears she discovered first.

Then sent her scans of poems ripped from notebooks, flyers you saw on the streets, photos of random things you took on your Digital Camera. All followed by a long email message about it. About 500 words, full detail. She swore she didn’t read them all.

“Talk to me like a normal person, sunshine. Dial tone, remember?”

Yet, during the late night calls she would bring up small details you even forgot you’ve mentioned in those messages.

It stayed that way for a while, no more than typed words and shared links.

Until you managed to get her address. “What if you really are an old man using his daughter as bait?” She said, it was cute how scared she sounded. Such an out of character tone.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

She opened the clasp closure envelope, stupidly dumping it all on her bed. She swore to herself when glitter of the color she once mentioned she liked…not even her favorite color by the way.

A Note: “Hopefully this convinces you that I’m not 60. I will be, but not for another couple of years anyways…but that’s if we don’t die in the year 2000.”

She rolled her eyes and flipped the note around.

A photograph: You’re standing in front of a shelf, a bunch of different CDs behind you, along with one of those gray CD player-radios. Your arms are stiff at your sides, back upright.

She held the picture for a long time. It was just your face: your nose, your lips, your eyes… She saw you. And for the first time in a long time, something shifted in her.

God, you were one of...maybe the most beautiful women she’d ever seen. Not just your face. Your handwriting, the way you spoke and typed… it all fit so well.

That night, Tim caught her tracing the photograph with her finger once.

"Who’s the girl in the picture?" he asked, peeking through the door. The photo was propped up against the speakers.

"No one to worry about," she said, snatching it up and stuffing it into the top drawer, under her music lists.

Tim chuckled, shaking his head. "You’re smiling… oh! And blushing."

She threw her disaster of a Rubik’s Cube at him, which he caught with ease. Then she flipped him off.

Regardless, she stared at the picture for three nights straight. Took it out during song breaks. Balanced it on the soundboard while queuing tracks. Pathetically, pressed it to her lips when no one was looking.

"Hey Tim!"

"Yeah what’s up kid?"

She fidgeted around with her own camera; a Polaroid.

"…Take my picture." She handed him it.

"Why?"

"So you can remember me when I’m gone." She said it sarcastically, laughing a little.

He didn’t laugh. His smile dropped. "C’mon, kid."

"I’m kidding… it’s to mail to the girl."

She made him stand by the booth window. Handed him the disposable camera she usually used for concert nights. Gave him no instructions. Just leaned back in the busted rolling chair, one leg kicked up, fingers tucked into her jacket pocket, mouth slanted in a half-smile. Bare skin showed where her shirt rode up, small tattoos visible.

It wasn’t perfect, her hair a mess and the lighting was off; but her eyes were soft.

She didn’t write a note. Just shoved it into an envelope with a single pressed flower she found outside the station: dead, but still holding color.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

It takes a month and a half, of talking. She gives you the address to the station like it’s no big deal: "Swing by the station sometime. Bring snacks. Tim likes those powdered donuts."

You were on the train for a little over half an hour, pressed against the window as rows of brick buildings and storefronts blurred past. The Eastside looked different from the North: grittier, but more alive.

You had to take short, sweaty walk uphill from the station, but you finally found it: The station was an old building, peeling paint and graffiti. In between a dusty bookstore, "Eastside Broadcasting FM" painted in chipped red over the glass door.

You stood outside for a second, brushing off the nervous itch crawling up your arms. You buzzed once.

A crackly voice answered, "Yeah?"

"Uh, i-is this Tim? I'm the crazy animal shelter girl...I brought donuts." You held your breath. 'Crazy Animal Shelter Girl,' is what Tim would call you whenever you called the station.

The door buzzed open without another word. Inside smelled like dust, old books, and burnt coffee.

You climbed the narrow staircase to the second floor, trying not to trip. Tim greeted you with a surprised but warm smile. He had a shaggy white beard and yellow-tinted glasses and looked like the kind of man who’d give you dating advice unsolicited in the wait of a bus.

"You must be her… mystery girl," he said, leading you past a wall of cassette tapes. "She’s at the doctor, has some recurring stuff. Didn’t say you were visiting."

"Is she okay?" you asked quickly.

Tim shrugged, “She’s always like this: Don’t tell anyone nothing, unless she feels generous when she’s on air.”

You looked at him frowning a bit, he continued. “She’ll be back soon…give her an hour. You can wait in the booth if you want. It’s air conditioned.”

The booth was smaller than you expected. A desk cluttered with buttons that were labeled. Tangled cords. Sticky notes that started off serious between she and Tim, then became inside jokes. Across the room: large shelves with CDs and Records, some books. Boxes marked with sharpies with music inside.

You took a seat, touched nothing, despite the red button being so tempting, the drawers being half open and just waited. Every five minutes felt like ten.

One move away from semi-solving the Rubik’s cube you found under the chair you were spinning around in, when the door swung open. You heard the sound of boots stomping, but you assumed it was Tim.

Unbothered, not noticing you, she walked in. Looking like she’s from a whole different world. From her flare black jeans, to the washed out band tee and black jacket slung over her shoulder.

She paused when she saw you.

You both stared at each other.

“You’re here.” She said, slowly pulling off her sunglasses that were, halfway on balancing on her nose

“Hey. You told me to swing by…didn’t think I was?”

Her mouth twitched, pushing the sunglasses back on her head. “Honestly? Was 50-50.”

You stood awkwardly, hands clutching the Rubik’s Cube. You didn’t know what to say, what to do, what to look at. “I brought Tim donuts.”

She looked behind her at the door, then back at you, raising a brow and nodding. "Yeah. Haha, I can tell. Walked in on him sucking his thumb," she said, mimicking the gesture.

You noticed it then: the way she used her hands when she spoke. Something you sometimes did too, but she was just… more expressive. Naturally magnetic.

"Um…"

God, you were nervous. And she was even more attractive in person. Your dreams and those Polaroids hadn’t shown half of her. "Can… I give you a hug?"

She stared at you deadpan, then smirked. "Don’t ask me that, man. Of course you can. C’mere."

She opened her arms, and you stepped into them, wrapping your arms around her waist. Your fingers grazed the edge of her backpack, which was nearly unzipped. She wrapped hers around your neck.

"A little voice in my head is telling me you’re working with a 60-year-old man currently parked outside in a white van, and you might just snatch me."

Her voice had that same rasp from when you first spoke on the phone. Familiar now, but still sending chills down your back.

"That was the plan," you replied casually, pulling back just enough to look at her face, "but then I saw how big and tall Tim is, so I signaled him to leave."

She laughed. Raspy and warm.

The next couple of hours passed in a strange haze of excitement and calm. You sat together in the booth, side by side, legs brushing. Headphones on. Watching her in action: talking to whoever was out there listening, switching records, taking calls.

Seeing it with your own eyes after only ever hearing it from your landline felt surreal.

Every so often, she’d steal a glance at you. Say something snarky on-air that made you blush, she wasn't only saying it to you.

She showed you how the sliders worked. How she muted herself when she coughed. How they played pre-recorded segments when no one felt like talking live.

It wasn’t until the shift was over and the hallway was dim with that pink late-evening light that she asked, "Are you taking the train back?"

You nodded. "Unless you’re offering to drive me."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The warmth of her car feels more intimate than you expected. Not in a romantic way, not exactly. You’ve spent the whole afternoon together after the broadcast. Tim waved you both off with a smirk.

You’re aware of her: the way she taps her fingers against the steering wheel at red lights, how she wears that oversized jacket even when it’s hot out. She has good taste when it came to music. Obscure bands, experimental girls with rough voices.

Your eyes wander to her bag, an overstuffed black messenger tossed between the seats. You're bored. And you're nosy.

"Can I go through your bag?" you ask, grinning.

She doesn’t even look away from the road. "Knock yourself out." You pull it into your lap and zipped it open, digging around.

Inside? A mess to put it nicely.

Cough drops falls out first, those honey lemon ones that melt too fast. Then a handful of pens, stickers peeling off. A Walkman with a scratched up stickers with phrases you couldn't really make up. Burnt CDs in plastic sleeves. You flip through the tracklists scribbled in messy sharpie: Summer Songs, Sleep CD 3, For the End.

Your chest tightens at that one.

Then, toward the bottom: a cigarette pack, crumpled, soft, a lighter snuggled in next to it.

You hold it up with a raised eyebrow. "You smoke?" She glances at you, barely a side glance, but her mouth twitches.

"No," she says. "That’s old, I quit, like… a year ago? Just never clean that thing out. Keep forgetting."

You nod slowly, pretending to believe her. "Mhm. So you just carry it around for emotional support."

She snorts. "Exactly."

That’s the thing with her: she’s easy to talk to. Yet so hard to figure out.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You hang out again that weekend.

Then the weekend after.

Always at random hours, always somewhere strange: the back of the station during a late night set, a 7/11 parking lot where you both ate fries and rated the songs playing from passing cars.

One day, you go to her place. It’s a small apartment near the end of a quiet block. Not far from the station.

No roommate, just her. You weren’t expecting that, she talks like there’s always someone around, always in secret.

The place is clean in the way someone keeps things clean when they’re trying not to fall apart. A plant dying near the window. A pile of cassettes on the coffee table. A blanket folded but not used.

"Your roommate not home?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.

She shrugs. "She moved out. Few weeks ago."

You nod, wandering the room. Noticing how the medicine cabinet is just slightly ajar. How her bed is too neatly made. Looked at her. You knew something was wrong. You never asked her outright.

Not because you didn’t want to know. My God!, you did, but because every time you got close, she’d pull away.

Not physically. Not with her body. But with her eyes, her voice. She’d shut down. And you’d be left standing there, heart pounding, with unspoken questions overfilling your throat.

You weren’t stupid. You noticed things.

You noticed how her cough wasn’t just a seasonal thing. It was deeper. Persistent.

You noticed how she’d disappear for a day or two sometimes, and when she came back, there was always a faint chemical smell on her clothes. A 'disinfected' kind of scent. Hospitals---Clinics.

You never asked. She never brought it up.

Always noticed how she winced when she laughed too hard. How she kept cough drops in every pocket, how her bag always had a crushed-up tissue or two. How she never ran for the train. How her hands sometimes trembled when she thought you weren’t looking.

You stopped asking where she went when she disappeared cause, every time you did, her face would fall a little. The look of someone who felt like they were letting someone else down.

"Just had stuff," she’d mumble, and that would be it. You wanted to press. You wanted to say, "What stuff?" Shake her shoulders and force it out of her.

When you asked Tim, you noticed how his...sweet, talkative self, would suddenly go quiet if you asked where she’d been that day.

He’d shrug and mumble something vague like "Oh, she had an appointment" or "She’s probably resting."

Resting

She was always resting.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You had never felt this way before. Not like this, not for someone who made you feel this seen, confused, constantly suspended between affection and worry.

Still laughed at your jokes, but softer, like she was somewhere else entirely. She hadn’t been herself lately. More distant than usual, still answered your calls nonetheless...if she was home.

It was late when you came over. You hadn’t planned to. You just...couldn’t sit in your room anymore waiting for another vague answer. She buzzed you in without hesitation. She offered you tea and laid back on the couch, smiled when you kicked your shoes off and flopped beside her.

It happened in a moment you couldn’t really explain.

You were both just sitting there, talking about something stupid, something easy. And then her knee brushed yours, and she didn’t pull away. You turned toward her and she was already looking at you like she’d been thinking it too.

She was sitting close, so close you could smell the mint on her breath. Her hair was messy and her eyes were tired, but they were on you. Watching you, and your heart was beating too hard...too loud.

You kissed her. She kissed back. And it was soft and slow and everything you dreamt about.

It then deepened. Her fingers in your hair, your hands under her shirt. Breaths caught between kisses. A little clumsy, hella needy. You were touching each other like you’d both been holding back for weeks.

When she pressed her forehead to yours afterward, sweaty and flushed, you almost said: I love you.

I love you, on the first kiss.

You bit it back, it was a secret, your secret. And who knows maybe she already knew.

She got up not long after, mumbled something about pizza. You offered to accompany her, but she shook her head with a smirk and told you to put something good on her stereo and not to be nosy while she was gone.

Of course, you were nosy and snooped around...regretting it much later.

It wasn’t really your intentional when you. opened the wrong drawer, then another. You were just looking for blankets.

Yet, your stomach dropped, you couldn't help but read the folder you found. Some clinic papers, half-crumpled. Medical phrase you didn’t fully understand; words blurred together, treatment schedule, blood counts, fatigue management, immune response. Lab names. A date from three weeks ago.

You didn’t bring it up.

Not when she got back, balancing the pizza box on one hip and grinning like nothing had changed.

But you couldn't keep it in for long.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

"Why won’t you talk to me?"

She looked up from where she sat cross legged on your bed, fidgeting with a pen. "'Bout what?"

"You know what." Your voice was quiet. "You’re not okay. I know you're sick. But I dunno know what’s wrong, 'cause you never let me in."

Her eyes didn’t widen. She didn’t gasp or deny it. She just blinked, once, slowly. "Who told you that? Where...you got that from?"

"I saw it in your room, in a folder..."

"You weren’t supposed to see that."

You stepped closer. "Why not?"

"Because it’s not your problem."

"It is." Your voice cracked. "You’re my.... I care 'bout you, okay? I--I worry about you. And I keep pretending it’s fine that you disappear and don’t tell me anything and..." You took a shaky breath. "I’m not asking for all your secrets. Just… don’t keep pushing me out."

She stared at her hands.

The silence that filled the room was thick and ugly.

Then she whispered, "I don’t like talking about it."

"I know."

"It makes me feel like it’s already winning."

Your heart tighten.

She looked up at you, her eyes tired and wet. "When I’m with you, I can almost pretend it’s not real. That I’m just… me. Not the girl who lives off meds and test results and bad news."

You sat beside her, took her hand. She let you. And you didn’t press anymore; not that night. But you didn’t stop holding her either.

Her breath is shallow against your shoulder, her fingers curled loosely in the hem of your shirt. The radio hums quietly in the background, some old song you’ve both heard a thousand times, the kind that sounds like summer and cool breeze and endings.

You don’t talk about the weight in her eyes or the paleness in her face. You just press your cheek to her temple and close your eyes.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

For the next few months, you hold her tight.

You pretend…and she does too. That all is well.

You pretend her cough isn’t getting worse.

You pretend that your hand isn’t always searching for hers, just to make sure she’s still here.

You go on dates.

You drink slushies in the park and feed ducks with bread.

You sneak into dollar theaters and talk during the trailers.

You ride the train home with your head on her shoulder, half asleep and happy.

And every Thursday night, you sit in the studio with her and Tim, taking calls, giving advice to strangers who don’t know that the girl with the smile in her voice is slowly unraveling inside.

She kisses you behind the mic during commercial breaks. You kiss her back every single time.

Because pretending is easier than admitting….

Until one day she doesn’t let you pretend anymore.

It’s raining that night, the good kind of rain with warmth and light. You’re curled up on her couch, one of her old flannels around your shoulder. Once she turns off the tv without a word, you already know what’s coming.

“I have to go,” she says softly.

You don’t look at her. If you do, you’ll cry. “Go where?”

She hesitates, then takes your hand and traces shapes into your palm like she’s drawing the words out. “Away…for a while. To get better.”

Your throat closes, “better?”

“I wanna live, you know?” She whispers, “Really live. I want to get stronger, stop waking up tired…even get fucking high once again.” She chuckles.

“But I need time. I need space and you…” she squeezes your hand. “You need to keep living. Change the repetition you always complain about. Volunteer at the shelter. Adopt all the animals. Go back to school. Kiss someone while it snows.”

You shake your head. “No….no one else.”

“I’m not asking you to wait. I can’t be selfish.” She says, voice breaking. “I’m just asking you to believe me. I’ll come back. One day…I don’t know when. But I’ll make sure I do.”

You look at her and she’s smiling. Sad and soft, the type of shaky smile you do when you’re trying to not cry. You want to scream, instead you lean forward and kiss her. You wanna stop time, stay in this moment.

She kisses you like a promise. And when she pulls away, she says it. Finally.

“I love you. These past few months…they’ve been the best of my life.”

You nod, too choked up to speak. Just hold her that night like it’s the time…

Because it is.

And just like she said, you keep living.

Despite your heart stuttering every time you hear the phone ring.

Everytime you hear a raspy voice on the radio, you stop what you’re doing.

Sometimes when it rains, you still feel her fingertips tracing shapes into your palm.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Loving.

Still~

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

(Let me know if you want to be tagged in THIS POST or any post. You're all welcomed to.)

A/N: Something different & long from what I’ve ever posted. Hope it wasn’t too fucking long or boring. I kept getting demotivated by writing cuz…no smut :p Listen my lovelies, I’m more of an angst girlie rather than a smutty one. But don’t worry, I would keep my future stories a pretty balance. Thanks for reading mwah 💋

[almostsaidiloveyou]

Imagine 17:"High Hopes are the same as false hope"

(makeupartist!reader - part 3 - jealous!reader -complicated relationship - light fluffy - moderate angst - no smut in this one </3 - 1.3k words)

4 ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

She was lying back on the bed with a spoon in her mouth, stealing your yogurt and staring at you like you were worth more than gold and diamonds.

Her hotel room (a new one) was dim, the T.V. causing a dull light across her cheekbones. Her white-tee was too big, covering most bruises you’d left the night before. You were both still warm from the shower, her skin clean and glowing, lips swollen and bitten.

"I wanna go outside," she said suddenly.

You raised a brow, your fingers paused on your phone screen, "It's past midnight...?"

"Exactly." She smirked, sitting up. "Let's do something....dumb."

"Define dumb." You furrowed your brows now.

She was already putting on her jeans, a baseball cap. Her hair was disheveled, she didn't even bother tying it. "Let's get ice cream. Like real ice cream, from somewhere...not from stupid room service."

You laughed, kneeling on the corner of the bed. "You realize you are...you. Right?"

She winked, threw you a random tee-shirt and your own jeans, "Not tonight."

Time: 1:00am

Well, almost 1am when you slipped out the side exit of the hotel.

The night air hit different. She walked close to you, not touching you directly but so close you can hear her breathing. The city was quiet in that uncanny, almost romantic kind of way. The air smelled like concrete and old heat and sugar from the 24-hour cart on the corner.

You found a place still open, a neon-lit bodega with soft serve machines and dripping slushy dispensers. She ordered a swirl cone and made you try it even though you swore you hated the flavor she chose.

Large sunglasses covering both your faces, feeling safe and private behind them.

You wandered toward the park, walking slow, heads ducked low, giggling like teenagers skipping curfew, pretending you weren’t both technically breaking a hundred NDAs just by being near each other after dark.

"This is nice," she said, licking a drop of ice cream from her thumb. "Like… being normal."

You shrugged. "You’re always normal to me." She looked at you for a second. You could tell it landed deeper than you meant it to.

Ever since your first makeup shift with her, she’d been unusually open with you.

It wasn’t just small talk while you powdered her nose or painted her lips. She asked you things, real things. About your life, your regrets, dreams that never came true. She told you about her mother, about the nights she couldn’t sleep unless someone reminded her she was more than just a newbie in the industry....a headline. You thought she was just being kind, maybe chatty.

But she kept doing it.

Every time you touched her face, she gave you pieces of herself, like it was safer that way. With her eyes closed and your fingers brushing her jaw.

Maybe that’s why that first kiss felt the way it did. It wasn’t just about the way her lips moved against yours or the way she sighed when your hand held her cheek. It was months...years of slow, quiet conversations growing between you. She kissed you like you already knew her. As if you'd been kissing her in all those private exchanges before your lips ever touched.

✮

In the park, she sat down on a cold bench and patted the space next to her. You hesitated, then leaned into her shoulder. The tee smelled like your perfume and hotel soap. The wind moved the seesaw next to you and made her shiver.

You rubbed her knee gently. "We should head back soon…"

"In a minute." There was this vulnerable side to her now, quiet and real, all the usual cockiness and irony removed.

You swallowed, reached out to brush your thumb across her lip. "You got ice cream right there."

She caught your wrist before you could pull back and kissed you.

It wasn’t fast or messy like the other times. There was no heat behind it, no pressure. Only this simple, slow kiss, soft (sticky) lips, her hands warm against your jaw. You tasted that damn flavor, the night air, and maybe something a little like hope.

You could’ve stayed like that forever, tucked beneath the moon, the skyline in the distance, her fingers brushing the edge of your jaw... she didn’t want to stop touching you.

She pulled back just enough to whisper, "I missed this."

You didn’t ask what she missed. You didn’t ask what this was.

Because in that moment: wrapped in each other’s embrace, shivering with laughter, licking ice cream off shared spoons on a cold, rugged bench, set at midnight. It felt like something true.

✮

The photo wasn't even that clear. It was grainy and low light; taken through what looks like a car windshield, at night. Large glasses, big tee shirts, baseball cap on, your face shield.

Made so much sense when you read the headline. The rumor of her and Tina Carr (a Disney child star turned into a horror movie princess) spotted getting "cozy," late at night.

[Tina Carr and America's Lady Heartthrob Spotted on a Late-Night Ice Cream Date in the city] - "Sources say the pair have been quietly seeing each other for months"

You scoffed, quietly, bitterly, it was all over your feed. X (twitter), Instagram, Youtube, even fucking FACEBOOK!

You're not even mad at Tina Carr, honestly you were actually really flattered to be compared to her, guess you found your hot celebrity look alike.

So yeah you weren't mad, just tired. You swipe through the group of blurry photos.

Every single one?

You. Not her.

You remember that night. But not as much as you thought, you don't remember the small flash, sound of the camera shuttle, or the person creeping. You remember laughing into her shoulder because she managed some how to smudge ice cream on your face.

And now…

Tina fucking Carr gets the credit

Her team didn't say anything, and you were so sure they knew it was you.

She didn't say anything, and you KNEW she couldn't.

You didn't say anything because, despite loving your time with her, you were a makeup artist before any of this. Since you were a child you loved painting your face, coming up and perfecting your artsy ideas.

If this got out...in a way that was labeled as a scandal or rumor. You can kiss you career goodbye. You can kiss those V.S models goodbye, the fashion weeks goodbye, movie sets goodbye, red carpets goodbye.

Yet you said nothing. Because that’s the game. That's the game and you knew it; so why are you so jealous? Was it because of all the little sweet things she whispered at night? High hopes--false hopes.

She’s pacing now. Bare-faced, black tank top, jaw clenched.

"They’re calling her your girlfriend," you say, voice monotonic.

She doesn’t stop pacing.

You tilt your head, then blink twice. "And you let them."

That makes her pause. Her back is to you. Shoulders tight. When she speaks, it’s quiet: "It’s not that simple."

You laugh. It sounds empty, a little mean. "Right. Nothing’s ever simple when it comes to me."

She doesn't look at you, doesn't say anything.

"Say something."

Nothing. Only a slow, heavy inhale through her nose. Then she reaches for her water bottle and mutters, "My manager said it would keep them off our back. That it was easier this way."

An uncomfortable feeling shifted in your chest, whatever facial expression you had dropped.

"So you agreed?"

"I didn't....fuck, I did't agree. I just didn't argue. It's a picture, that's all."

Rolling your eyes, you let out a dry chuckle, "Right...right. Just a picture. Of you and me, that they think is you and her."

She finally looks at you, voice hoarse.

"You think I like this?"

You shrug.

She runs her fingers through her hair, walking towards her couch, sitting down, elbows to her knees."You think I can just tweet 'it’s not her, it’s my makeup girl'? You think they won’t rip that apart?"

"Makeup girl?" you repeat, coldly.

"You know that’s not what I meant."

You stare at her. Then down. Then shake your head.

"Yeah. I know exactly what you meant."

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

this is part 5

Tags <3 also tysm for the support & the reblogs.

@aeshertheunhinged - @payi11-19 - @ch3sire-blu3 - @elliewilliamsblunt - @elliewilliamsluvrr - @autisticratbagtm - @primarina-diamandis - @itzsky82 - @jaycouldbegay - @sewithinsouls - @lesspaghetti - @honeyorangehomosexual - @mirchisevika - @wandanatswhxre - @elilvrzxy - @warmfleurs - @strawb4kdior - @st0nerlesb0 - @saturnhas82moons - @2heartsbecoming1 - @beaflyy - @elliesgftlou - @poeticrenaissance - @groundbifff09 - @rq1nzorr - @kxixc - @elliecoochieeater - @psychotickoda - @sapphic-nana707

(Let me know if you want to be tagged in any post. You're all welcomed to.)

[almostsaidiloveyou]

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔* °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*: °❀⋆.

Hello! Welcome to my little blog <3 In honor of all the mile stones I’ve hit on here, I’ve decided to do a little introduction blog. So, not an Imagine but don’t worry I’m working on those :-> I’m also doing this on my phone so I’m sure the formatting will look different on computer

Quick explanation / warning (?) : I don’t usually write names on my Imagines because I want the reader to close their eyes and imagine whoever the hell they want. I write strictly for Sapphics & Lesbians…Only times I’ll write about a specific character I’ll be if someone requests for it.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔* °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*: °❀⋆.

❀ Information ❀

♡ Name: Iris Yiseth (iris like the flower & the goddess of rainbow)

♡ Age: 19 (January Capricorn)

☆ Height: 165cm (5’5)

☆ Pronouns: she / her

❀ MBTI: ENFP (I love meeting new people)

❀ Enneagram: 7w8

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

♡ Fun Facts ♡

Nationalities: 🇪🇸🇩🇴 (Island Girls Represent!)

📍New York

3 languages: Spanish - English - American Sign Language

Bibliophile :->

I’m a sophomore in uni majoring in Psychology.

I’ve been writing since like 2014 after reading way too many stories on Wattpad & Episode Choose your Story

I am not really on social media. Only Pinterest & Tumblr. My knowledge on brainrot and recent social media slang is very low. I’m like an old person. :(

Wanted to be an English major growing up. I ended up switching before going to university, because I don’t I see myself writing for a long time.

I don’t think I relate to many characters I write. I try to not “self-insert”

I <3 video games (e.g. Silent Hill Series - Resident Evil Series - Life is Strange Series - The Last of Us Series - Fatal Frame Series - Omori) to name a few

Retired Barista. Retired Flower Child.

50% of the time I’ll be thrifting music, clothes, and books. Live Long Vintage <3

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

☆ I’m a Girl Kisser ☆

In the scale of WLW I think I fall in the Futch (?) category…Fem 60% Masc 40%

I’m more of the “Driver,” rather than the ‘passenger Princess.’

Ranking roles: Switch - Top - Bottom (in that order)

Don’t know what else to say, I just love women :)

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔* °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*: °❀⋆.

Thank you to everyone who got me to 2500 likes and 100 reblogs and all the other milestones tumblr notifs me about. I’m so appreciative of every single one of you all. You all keep me motivated and encouraged. Don’t be afraid to request, reblog, like, even follow me. I follow back and I’m so down to write for you & even talk to you. Sending you all kisses and hugs.

[almostsaidiloveyou]

Imagine 16:"We fucked You ghosted me."

(makeupartist!reader - part 2 - receiving!reader -complicated relationship - mild fluff - nsfw - smut with plot - 2.1k words)

3 ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

“Hello?” Your eyes are heavy. You were still half-asleep, face mushed into your pillow.

"Are you free to come by the studio?" A studio assistant asks you.

"For when?" It's your day off, you just finished making up

"Umm..." she was hesitant, there was muffling voices in the back. You rolled your eyes, they were closing again slowly. You peaked and looked at the clock: 7:17am

"For 8am." She managed to say.

You almost said no. You really should’ve said no. But then she dropped the name...her name... And you just… paused.

"She specifically requested you."

Of course she did.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

The studio was always cold, no matter what state, city, season, hell even country. The studio is always freezing! You swear photo shoots are your own personal version of hell: too much fake lighting, too many people shouting, and the photographer is one of those pretentious types who asks for things like “more cheekbone tension.”

You keep your head down, avoiding her eyes following your body the second you'd walk in. She's already onset, hair styled messily (purposefully) bit dramatic. Wearing the brand's expensive attire, something dark, tight, more masculine--edgier compared to how the brand would usually style their female stars. Her whole look, more expensive than your whole rent.

She doesn't look at anyone but you.

"You're here," she says, smirking. Acting like she didn't spend all last week pretending you were just her makeup artist. Like she didn’t stop texting you back for 6 days after fucking you into the mattress.

You shrugged, "You requested me."

“I miss your touch,” she says too casually.

Then adds with a wink, “Professionally, of course. Always gotta be careful.”

God, you hate her. And you hate how your stomach flips when she looks at you like that.

You look at her.... pissed at her ghosting behavior.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

The ghosting...the night she ghosted you. It started like every other night. You've been hooking up for a while after you got all jelly on her.

She'd had you in her lap, hungry, dragging whimpers out of your mouth like they were hers. Every time she touched you was a way of her saying "You're mine."

You remember the hotel; fancy of course. Top floor suite with the view of the city she had uber you for like 30 minutes (she paid obvi). You were still in your work clothes when you got there, bag full of make up slung over your shoulder, lip balm in one pocket, phone in the other. The day before, no texts from her the whole day. But she told you to come...alone....at midnight.

It was like that: Texts, flirty words, sometimes even voice messages, and selfies, one day. The next day, crickets. Then you get a shift with her, and the cycle starts. You cant be a hypocrite and blame her only. You would purposefully ignore her sometimes.

She opened the door barefoot.

Again, hair damp, sticking to her cheek. A hoodie swallowed her frame, no pants, no bra, just her underwear. There was no hi or smile. Just hands on your jaw and your lips on hers, slow and soft like the first drag of a cigarette.

It started in the hallway, your heart pounding for 2 reasons;

You knew she was going to fuck you up (and you’d like it).

You also knew you were in her hotel, the one she was publicly staying in…

You kicked the door shut behind you and dropped everything to the floor. She backed you into the wall, you forgot how to think the way she kissed you. Her hands already under your shirt, warm and greedy, fingertips dragging lightly down your spine. Needing to mark you before anything else, even if her nails were short she managed to scratch your back.

Clothes came off like they were never mean to be on. She pulled your panties down slow, eyes watching the wetness string between your legs and the fabric. "Already?" she murmured, smirking against your neck. "3 days without seeing me has an effect I see."

God, she's right. You missed her mouth, her voice, her fingers inside you, curling just right. And she knew that, always knew.

Luxury. You were luxurious the way she laid you out on the hotel bed.

Crawled over you on her elbows, mouth kissing the inside of your knee, you hip, your stomach. She licked slow up your throat, under your jaw before sliding two fingers into you...no warning.

It made you back arch.

"Shh," she whispered, pressing her mouth to your ear. "You've been thinking about this haven't you."

You nodded fast, not even denying it. Breath shaky, her pace was knowingly.

Controlling, she curled her fingers in rhythm, paused, then curled again. Deeply, slow, filling you. Letting you clench around her before she whispered: "Let me make you come just like that again...don't move, please."

Your hands gripped her back, her hoodie bunched between your fists, she kept her face close. Lips brushing your cheek while you shivered beneath her.

Hearing how needy she made you, she positioned herself against your knee/thigh. She moaned quietly when you gasped her name: it got her off. "You look so good like this," she breathed. "So...f'king good fo'me."

She continued to pleasure her against your knee. You felt the fabric of her underwear rubbing against you. Her hips circling, deliberately angling herself so the bone of your knee presses her clit. Her moans soft, guttural, sinful; a secret meant only for your ears.

You came hard. Nearly cried into her shoulder. She kissed your forehead while you shook, kissed your chest after you came down. But she didn't stop her hip movements, she stayed for a while.

Her head on your shoulder. Your fingers brush through her hair before retracting them immediately. You felt as the act was too intimate.

You aren't sure if she noticed or not but she flipped the two of you so you were straddling her lap. Her eyes on yours, unreadable.

To sum the night: she ruined you...you ruined her. Then you left 30 minutes after she fell asleep.

You were the one who ghosted first, in a way.

The next day… nothing.

It was normal to not talk for a while, keep shit professional.

But no call, no check-in, no emoji, no "you good?"

You texted once, for the first time actually. Then twice. Didn't want to seem clingy---you stopped.

She left you on read, for longer than usual.

You still feel her fingers sometimes. On nights like those. When you reach for your phone and stop yourself.

She spent the week acting like it was all just professional between you both.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

You keep your distance between shots.

Mostly because the photographer’s being a pain in the ass about her last minute request to switch makeup artists.

You still don’t know why he keeps barking at you to fix the highlighter, to fix the toning, to "fix her whole face AND understand the CONCEPT." Like you didn’t do exactly what was asked. Like this isn’t his lighting problem.

Part of you wants her to say something; a quick word, just one moment of backup. But you know that would be risky. Wayyyy too risky.

So, only speak when necessary.

You dab foundation over her jawline, brush stray shimmer from her cheekbones, and pretend not to notice when her fingers graze yours.

She’s being careful, too. Laughing with the crew, taking direction. Never being near you for too long. Never touching too much. Never looking too long. '

You don’t know if you’re relieved or annoyed.

All you know is you’re tired. Down to the bone tired. You were supposed to have the day off, after spending nearly twelve hours doing makeup for some high maintenance supermodels the night before.

Your hands are still cramping, your back is sore from crouching on cold floors, and all these woman swear they're Adriana Lima.

The last thing you want to deal with is her. Especially not like this. Especially after what happened.

Then it’s time for a set change.

She disappears to the back dressing room, and five minutes later someone comes to find you. "She says she needs her makeup adjusted," the assistant tells you. "Wants you specifically."

Of course she does. (you're the only damn make up artist there)

You knock once and walk in, kit wrapped around your waist. She's sitting in the tall chain by the vanity, lights glowing around her reflection like she belongs to the frame.

The rest of the room is empty. Everyone else prepping the new look. She doesn't say anything at first, only watches you in the mirror.

You stare back, more to examine her face than anything else. There's nothing wrong with her makeup, not really.

"Doesn’t look like a full emergency retouch," you say anyway, already opening your kit.

"And it doesn’t look like you want to be around me," she says, soft but snappy. You stop mid step.

"You told me to be careful," you say, eyes narrowing. "I’m being careful."

She meets your eyes through the glass. "You’re being distant."

You scoff and cross your arms. "You've literally been ignoring me for six fucking days."

The way she shifts in the tall vanity chair. The way she tightens her jaw. She wants to defend herself. But she thinks instead, fingers tap against her thigh, impatient

You exhaled. "W-we fucked. You ghosted me. Don’t sit here acting confused."

“I didn’t ghost you,” she mutters quickly, finally turning to face you, not through the mirror, but directly.

Her voice low, edged. “I got....I dunno overwhelmed.” She says like she's questioning it, to herself.

“Overwhelmed?”

"I didn’t know what to say after," she says quieter now. "That night… I felt something....shit freaked me out."

You laugh dryly, a bit cold, "That's not an excuse to disappear..."

"I know." She stands now, close, too close. “But I-I couldn’t pretend it didn’t mean something.”

You shift your weight to your left leg, "So what now?" A dumb fluttering in your chest.

Her lips twitch like there’s a dozen things she wants to say. She doesn't say anything, instead, she just takes a step closer. And another. Til she's right in front of you.

It feels like your body forgot how to breathe with her this close again. Her fingers hover at your arm, barely grazing, not really touching. She doesn’t make a move until realizing you won't pull away.

And when she leans in, it’s slow, hesitant, almost scared.

Her hand reaches for your face gently, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw as if she's apologizing without words. As if she’s asking for permission she never had to before.

You let her kiss you.

And it’s not desperate this time.

Not lust driven or rough. It’s warm. Soft. Almost careful.

Her lips move slow, her other hand finding your waist like she’s holding herself up. Maybe if she lets go, you’ll disappear.

You kiss her back. Because despite everything: You missed her.

Her lips taste the same, familiar. She sighs softly against your mouth, the tension melts away for just a second.

A voice in your head tells you: it’s okay to want this. Even if you shouldn’t.

"I'm not good at this," she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours for a second. Her voice a whisper.

"I noticed," you say, but your voice is gentle, little teasing.

"I don't wanna ruin...this."

"I mean you already did...a little." you murmur, brushing your nose against hers. "But I’m still here, aren’t I?"

Something in the way she smiles, gives you some type of hope...false hope even.

You think she might kiss you again when...

BANG BANG BANG

An aggressive knock on the door.

"Lets GO!" the photographer shouts from the hallway, sharp and annoyed. "Where my girl at? We’re losing light!”

You both pull apart fast. She runs a hand through her hair, eyes rolling in frustration. You reach for your brush set, clearing your throat.

"Geez, that man is so fuckin’ bossy," you mutter, side-eyeing the door.

"Hey, he’s good at his job. Sometimes you gotta be a con to be a pro."

You roll your eyes and lightly jab her with the end of your eyeshadow brush, mimicking her voice with exaggerated mockery. "Sometimes you gotta be a con to be a pro. Oh my god you're so corny. Who are you even quoting?"

"Myself, I'm just that..." she pauses. "Intellectual." She leans in, plants a kiss on your cheek.

She then chuckles, "You’re never gonna forgive me, are you?"

You sigh, “For ghosting me? Not a chance.” A small, genuine, giggle escape you.

“I'll see you later,” she promises, brushing your hair back in place.

You give her a look. “Don’t disappear again.”

“I won’t.”

But something in her eyes says she might~

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

this is part 4

Tags <3 also tysm for the support & the reblogs.

@aeshertheunhinged - @payi11-19 - @ch3sire-blu3 - @elliewilliamsblunt - @elliewilliamsluvrr - @autisticratbagtm - @primarina-diamandis - @itzsky82 - @jaycouldbegay - @sewithinsouls - @lesspaghetti - @honeyorangehomosexual - @mirchisevika - @wandanatswhxre - @elilvrzxy - @warmfleurs - @strawb4kdior - @st0nerlesb0 - @saturnhas82moons - @2heartsbecoming1 - @beaflyy - @elliesgftlou - @klallx

(Let me know if you want to be tagged in any post. You're all welcomed to.)

[almostsaidiloveyou]

BROO more makeup artist reader plsss 🙏🙏🙏 My lesbian the heart loves this fic 😭😭😭

Yes of course lovely ! Here you go, more m.u.a reader <3 and tysm mwah 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

Imagine #15: ”Are you made at me? Or just horny?”

(makeupartist!reader - part 1 - jealous!reader - smut with plot - 1.9k words)

2 ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

It's been three weeks.

Three weeks since she kissed you. Since she yanked you down onto her lap and made you hump out an orgasm on her thigh like it was nothing. Since you left her dressing room with her hoodie in your arms and your underwear sticking to you the whole drive home.

She never mentioned it again.

But the damn late night texts began.

Stupid, blurry selfies. Her makeup smudged after a night out (probably right after the shift you worked)

One text read: "Could use ur hand right about now."

Then there were the PR package photos. Random lipsticks and shadow palettes from brands you'd never seen her actually wear. She wasn't the type to wear much makeup outside of red carpets or shoots anyway (if that were the case, then you know it'll be thoughts and prayers for you.)

One message came with a photo and text: "New shade. Wanna come try it on me?"

The most recent one? A mirror pic, sweatpants, sports bra, hair tied up. "Miss ur touch, makeup girl." No emoji, only those words.

You nearly threw your phone across the room. Screamed into your pillow.

Still nothing actually happened since.

You didn't reply to the texts. Not really, maybe a heart emoji once. A 'lol' another time. Mostly, you left them on read. Sent messages about time and place, what style her management wanted to go with, if she wanted to try new products. Keeping it professional. Or tired to.

She didn't push it when you ignored them. Didn't apologize either.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

So tonight? You show up for another late night interview taping. Same job...same routine. You sign in, get your kit set up, patiently sit down on your chair waiting for trouble to come through.

You're not nervous. You're irritated. You can't name it exactly, whatever's been boiling in your chest since that night.

But you know it probably has something to do with the way she's been flirting with everyone. Not even trying to be subtle about it anymore.

Five minutes in the greenroom and she's already laughing with the guest coordinator, eyes locked in deep, grin on her face. She lets the wardrobe girl button up her shirt too slowly, holding eye contact the whole time.

And the media? Don't get started. The rumored hookups & relationships? Too many to count. X (Twitter) is convinced she's dating a new person every week.

But when she finally walks over and drops into your chair?

She spreads her legs wide, like always. Ring clink as she adjusts the sleeves of her top. You pumped her chair up 3 times. Her thigh...the thigh presses against the side of your arm.

You set your brushes down a little too hard. She watches you: smirking. "Missed me?" she murmurs.

You don't answer, you're too busy uncapping the foundation bottle.

Her brows lift slightly, a bit surprised actually. "Wow. We're quiet tonight."

"Keep your face still," you mutter, dabbing foundation along her jaw. She tilts her chin up, voice husky. "Mmh. What's wrong? That time of the month?" You glare at her, pause for just a second, then press the brush to her cheek with more pressure than necessary.

She leans into it like she likes the pain. "Kinky," she mumbled under her breath. You don't laugh, not even a smile. She notices that immediately.

Her grin flickers, "Ohh," she says slowly. "You mad at me or just horny?"

You slam the compact shut.

Her lips twitch, "Oof definitely mad."

You grab the lip brush, grip it like it's a blade. "Stop talking.

She actually does goes quiet. No teasing, only looking. Studying your face: her eyes follow the curve of your jaw, the tight line of your mouth.

And then, softly "Come to my room tonight."

You hand barely fall, but you recover and keep blending. "I'm not doing this again," you say, voice a bit lower than you wanted.

"I think we should talk."

"Bout what?" you snap.

Her voice drops to something real this time. Quiet, more firm. "About what's been bothering you since that night you came on my thigh." You don't say anything. You focus on her mouth, that fucking mouth.

"It doesn't matter," you mutter. "I'm your makeup artist. And that's the problem."

You don't tell her about the jealousy. About the way you've been going crazy. How you've started dreading every shift with her, because you know exactly how she tastes like, what she feels like pressed between your legs. You wish she were like your other clients. The ones you don't know, who don't talk to you like matter. The ones you've never seen vulnerable and biting their lip when they look a your hands,

But she's not them.

She leans forward, smiling slow and sure. Voice lowers in something deep now, "Come to my room."

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

You're standing outside her hotel suite door. You received a text of her current hotel when you were on your drive home. You know you shouldn't be here. But you're here.

Your fist is raised, knocking (more like banging) before you can convince yourself out of it.

She opens the door. Boxers, a tank top, hair slightly damped. She smells like a fresh shower--warm expensive vanilla body wash--skin. "Bout time, I was gonna start touching myself without you." She jokes...partially.

You scoffed but walk inside. The room is dimply lit, one lamp by the bed. Her clothes from earlier draped over a chair next to a small suitcase.

You cross your arms, standing in the center. "Talk."

She shuts the door, locks it, leans against it. "I saw your face earlier, before I went on...right after "

"You frowned and rolled your eyes at the guest coordinator lady. Lookin' all grumpy." She added fast before you could say anything.

"What?" Your furrowed your brows.

"You're mad because I was flirting with her, right?"

"No..." You crossed your arms. "Is this why you told me to come here? To assume I care about who you flirt or don't flirt with?"

"You think I don't notice how you get when I say soemthin' slick to someone else?"

"Dude, you flirt with everyone, that's not new." You glare.

She pushes her hair back and walks closer to you. You just blink. "You didn't care before, so why now?"

You take a step back, quiet for a second. Then "Because--"

She cuts you off, " 'Cause I kissed you?" her voice is now low. " 'Cause I made you cum?"

She's right in front of you, skin warm, glowing. You hate her for being this bold. Hate her for being this fucking hot. And especially hate yourself for giving in....AGAIN.

You don't know who moves first, but your lips crash into her, rough, fast, messy. her arms pulls you in like she's been starving. Your jacket hits the floor, her hands find your ass instantly, squeezing through your jeans. Your fingers tangled into the damp strands of her hair, tugging hard enough to make her groan into your mouth.

She was trying to ruin you. That's how it feels when she kisses you. Like she already knows how and is just about to finish the job.

Her tongue presses past your lips and you taste the remains of her toothpaste. She walks you backwards towards the bed, her mouth never leaving yours. You're so caught up you barely notice when the back of your knees hit the mattress.

"Jeans off," she mumbled against your jaw, biting your skin just below your ear. "Wanna see how much you missed me." She impatinelty unbuttons them.

You hesitate for a second, "This doesn't fix anything, y'know?"

"Didn't say it would."

You yank your jeans down anyway. She watches you, lips parted, eyes low. Her hand drifts between your thighs, palm pressing over your panties. "Finally... get to feel you."

You look away. "Shut up." But she doesn't. she literally never does.

"So good," she hums.

She pushes you on the bed, crawls over you. Her tank top riding up. "I've been thinking about this," she whispers, voice raspy as she kisses your stomach. "…bout how you looked riding me. The way your mouth opened when I bounced my thigh."

Your head tipping back against the mattress, your groan, “You’re actually so fucking annoying.”

She smiles, breath warm against your lower belly. "Mhm, right. And yet..." She hooks her fingers into the waistband of your panties, "...look at you." Completely soaked for her.

She peels then down slowly, dragging them past your knees, your ankles, and tosses them somewhere behind her without even look. She pauses just for a moment, taking you in.

The way your thighs part, your chest rises. The way your eyes avoided hers, looking away, suddenly shy even after everything. She leans forward again, mouth brushing against your inner thigh, tongue teasing the skin, near where you NEED her the most.

"Open up f'me," she murmurs. "Lemme taste how much you find me annoyin."

Your face starts to burn. You swear under your breath but do exactly as you're told: legs falling open, heels digging into the expensive bedspread. She shakily exhales, her mouth parting as she finally lowers her head and licks one, slow, line through you.

You twitch, hips jerk. "Oh god."

She groans, mumbling something incoherent about how you taste.

Her tongue circles your clit before closing around it, lips sealing, and sucking lightly. Your whole body arches, you grip at her hair with one hand, the other hand grabbing the sheets besides you.

She's devouring you, hungry, no hesitation nor teasing. Works you open with her mouth, moaning into it. Moving her head like she can't get close enough. Even if she was already suffocating.

Two fingers slide into you without warning. Unhurried at first curling deeeep until your legs start shaking. You whimper, hips rolling up against her face, chasing the pressure.

You’ve been craving it.

She pulls back enough to talk, her fingers still pumping inside you, "Yea? You gonna cum already? Just from my mouth?"

You breath hard, "Shut up and keep going."

She smirks. "Say please."

'You hate her. You hate her. You fucking hate her.'

You yank her hair hard. She laughs into you, muffled and mean. Nonetheless she listens, her tongue flattens against your clit again, steady now. Fingers moving faster, stroking that one spot that makes your vision blur. Everything build fast, that tight feeling in your stomach, a fluttering eagerness in your legs. You're panting-moaning-whispering her name without meaning to. (Regretting it later on)

She hears it and loves it. "That's it...lemme have it."

Your thighs tighten around her head, your back arches, mouth falls open with a sound you barely recognize. You finally break and it's not soft; its a full body snap!

She doesn't stop, she works you through it, tongue slow now, fingers easing as you shake beneath her.

Gasping, eyes fluttering open as she pulls back. Lips swollen and shiny. She climbs up your body again, mouth finding yours without warning. You kiss her back tasting yourself.

Her hand cups your cheek. She still close when she whispers: "Still jealous?"

You roll her over in one quick (clumsy) move. Straddling her hips. She looks up at you like you just confirmed everything she was hoping for.

You reach down between her legs and press through her boxers. She gasps. You grin:

"Your turn~"

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

This is part 3~

[almostsaidiloveyou]

Imagine #14: "Shhh..."

(Cliché 90s Slasher Camp story - Ambiguous Ending PART 1 - 747 words)

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

She didn’t question you when you told her to run. The violent repetitive banging was enough to convince you both that some shit was going on.

You buttoned your shorts back up and bolted for the door. She was already a step ahead, grabbing her flashlight off the floor with one hand, your wrist with the other.

The air was humid as you flung the door open. It was way darker than you remember. The moonlight didn’t shine like it usually did; it was a lightbulb that was becoming weaker. And inside the lounge shed behind you:

CRASH

Glass shattering? Something metal hitting the ground. The vending machine? Whatever it was, it was loud, you both jumped.

“There’s not fuckin’ way that’s Cam,” she said breathlessly while she tugs you down the path towards cabins.

The trail wasn’t empty. Ahead of you was a flashlight beam whipping left to right, someone running.

The figure got closer.

It was Katie, a counselor, from Bunk 12. She stumbled out of the trail, panting.

“There was…there’s someone…he chased me…i thought it was Tony…b-but he had—he had a knife—“

You did not wait.

You grabbed Katie and kept running. Feet pounding over the dirt path. Your lungs burning, twigs snapping underfoot.

Your girlfriend looked back just once, “He’s fucking following us!”

Cutting through the clearing behind the Arts & Crafts shed, nearly crashing into the rusted canoe rack. Something metal clanged behind you, like it was kicked. Loud and fast.

There it was, soft, slow:

WHISTLING

An out of tune, lazy melody that you pray to never hear when you’re in the dark—in the woods—and your heart is pounding in your chest.

The whistling grew closer, louder. Katie sobbing.

You shoved open the maintenance shed and pulled the two of them inside, slamming the door shut behind you. The light didn’t work. You crouched in the darkness, breathing hard, trying to stay quiet.

“Please—please… what if it’s not a prank…” Katie continued to sob.

You looked at her, real fear in your gut. Where the hell were all the actual adults? Could they hear this? Did they care?

You chewed your bottom lip, hoping this was all just a nightmare you’d eventually wake up from.

“…I don’t wanna die,” Katie whimpered. “I have so much to live for.”

Then footsteps. Rocks and pebbles crunching under boots.

Your girlfriend reached over and gently covered Katie’s mouth with her hand, whispering, “I’m gonna need you to shut up for a bit, can you do that?”

Katie’s tears wet her palm, but she nodded. Brave...barely.

Your girlfriend let go, both hands now gripping the flashlight. Her breathing was shaky, but her face was determined.

The footsteps paused. Outside the shed wall, something dragged along the metal siding.

Slow. Dragging. Purposeful.

Then the footsteps withdrew.

Silence.

No breathing. No crickets. Just sweat sliding down your spine.

You waited, one minute. Two.

You stared at your girlfriend, heart heavy, throat tight. You wanted to say everything. Tell her how you thought about her every goddamn winter. How you were tired of pretending this was just a summer thing. How the only time you ever felt warm was when you were with her, and not just because the sun was out.

But before you could say anything—

Katie whispered, “I think he’s gone.”

You crept toward the shed door and cracked it open just enough to peek outside. Nothing moved. Nothing screamed. Just empty moonlight and a breeze that made the night feel colder.

You stepped out slowly.

“Boo.”

You screamed. Your girlfriend grabbed the closest thing. A rake and swung hard.

Cam yelped and dropped to the ground, hands up. “Fucking Jesus Christ! Chill it’s me!”

Tony jumped out from the trees, laughing his ass off, mask hanging from his hand. “Yo, she almost cracked your skull open!”

“You fucking psycho!” your girlfriend snapped at him. “You think that shit’s funny?!”

Katie looked like she was about to puke. You were shaking. So was your voice.

“Then that was you at the lounge?” you asked Cam. “Right? And on the trail to the woods?”

“What? Nah, we were setting up the prank near the cabins,” Cam said. “We never went to the lounge.”

You blinked. “Then… who—?”

Everyone fell quiet. Far, far behind you. In the direction of the lounge. The whistling started again.

But Cam was here. Tony was here. All of you were here.

And that meant someone else was still out there.

Watching~

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

Tags <3 also tysm for the support last part.

@laviannasfanfics - @il0velove - @elliewilliamsblunt - @stvr-bloom - @starrysetup22 - @femlesbianbarbie

(Let me know if you want to be tagged in any post or this one. You're all welcomed.)

[almostsaidiloveyou]

Imagine #13:

(makeupartist!reader - mild nsfw - smut with plot - 1.8k words)

1 ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

You're trying to fix the smudge at the corner of her mouth when she says: "Your hands are cold when you touch my face...I like it."

You don't respond, you learned not to.

Years of working with her, late night shoots, red carpets, festival sets. She flirts. She always flirts. Quick mouthy little comments, smirks, hands resting on your thigh like that's normal. You've been her makeup artist since her first big magazine shoot where she was just some tatted up chick with talent everyone began to fall for.

If there's one thing you know about her is: she LOVES...no... she LIVES for a reaction. So you just hum, your thumb brushing the edge of her lip. She sits in your chair like she owns it.

Legs spread slightly, gray Tripp Pants, rings stacked on nearly every finger, hoodie unzipped halfway. The platinum chain around her neck catches the light when she leans back.

You don't flinch, no even when she starts drumming her fingers on the armrest like she was testing one of you both's patiences. You can hear the crew moving outside. Someone calling for 'fifteen minutes to stage.'

Didn't really matter though. Time always expanded when it’s just you and her like this.

"How's my face?" she asks, voice low-raspy-teasing.

"Same as always," you exhale, mumbled, not looking at her eyes. "Hot and in need of setting powder." The powder was in your hands, you turned the lid to open it midway.

She cocks an eyebrow up before she grins. You finally glance at her, eyeliner smudged just slightly at the corners (it was part of the look). She's not "classically beautiful." She's sharp and a bit messy and cool. Like she was about to get into a fight, but was never the one to provoke it--mainly just win it.

Worse thing, she knows she's hot. She also knows she's a tad bit egoistical, cocky, and (at times) very strangleable...but knowing her, she'll probably like that.

You tap her chin gently, tilting her head, "Stop smiling. I need you still."

She doesn't. "You always look so serious when you're working..."

"Keep scrunching your eyebrows like that. You'll wrinkle that hot face," she continues.

Your voice lowering, dry, when you lean closer to her: "Stay still," you drag the syllables.

That makes her laugh, a short one. You felt it though, warm, ghosting against your lips as you pat the powder under her eye.

And then her hand is on hip. Not in a "move to the side," type of way. No no, her thumbs rubs small, lazy circles against the seams of your jeans. So casual it could almost be dangerous.

You step back slightly, her hands still in the same place. Her eyes focus on you, well, focused on her hands on you. She hesitated for a bit. You can feel her thinking, and her thinking was never a good idea.

"You know....I'm gonna be on T.V. tonight, right?" she murmured, fingers slipping in and out your front pockets.

As if she was testing something.

"Might need some...luck." Hands sliding just beneath the hem of your shirt. You don't answer her at first, eyes narrowing just a bit.

"Um...break a leg?" You spun around, grabbing the lid of the make up product and spilling some inside the lid.

She clicks her tongue, kisses her teeth in that half-annoyed-half-entertained way. “Tch… you gonna make me beg for it? That’s rude.”

You scoff under your breath, not meeting her eyes. “I'm not gonna pity kiss you. 'Specially after I just finished your make up."

She huffs a laugh through her nose. She's amused, leaning back into the chair like you offended her. "So if i ruin it..." she hums, tongue pressed behind her teeth. "Then what? You'll punish me?

You gave her a side eye. "You're gonna mess up my hardwork on purpose?"

Her smirk turns mischievous. “Dependsss--What’s the punishment?”

You rolled your eyes, not falling for her shit. Even though your ears were burning--your heart beating rapidly. She literally lived for this. It was like a game. Teasing, playing rough, saying stupid things, and you were 100% sure she was like this to everyone. But the way her hands were always so soft and gentle when they landed on you. Like now, warm palms on your hips.

"Do not...test me," your mutter, you were talking inside the powder, leaning back towards her cheek again. "Fuck it up and I will literally mess your face up, and let you go out there like that."

"Ouu so mean...it's sexy." Her voice was slow and smooth.

"Jesus." You're deadpan,"Tilt your head...we're almost done."

She doesn't tilt her head.

"You know i'm being serious."

You tried to ignore her, desperately tried to ignore her. She grabs your wrist, not hard, just sudden. You blink and she pulls you in.

Voice dropping: “I’m serious.”

Then she kisses you. You don't even remember leaning in.

All you remember is her, kissing you hard. Mouth open tongue sliding inside your mouth. A low sound rumbling from her throat like she'd been waiting toooo long to do this.

You kissed her back immediately. ZERO hesitation. Your body reacted in a way that felt like muscle memory, tension, instinct, you've been building up for months...years!

You didn't even notice her fingers hooking into your belt loops until she yanks you forward with a quiet grunt, guiding your hips down until you’re seated fully on her thigh.

You let out a soft gasp. She spreads her legs a little wider just to make space. Your hands instantly land on her shoulder for balance.

Then she moves, just enough; her knee rising subtly, pressing up into you and your hips shift without thinking. You bite the corner of your bottom lip to suppress another gasp. Your head dropping as you adjust to the friction.

Thigh perfectly placed. Your grind down once, slowly, and the way she exhaled on your mouth. It was low and ragged...that just makes you throb

"Yea?" she whispers against your lips. "That what you needed?"

You don't answer. You cant, you just kiss her again messier this time. Your hand tangling in the back of her hair, (forgetting that her hairstylist could physically drag your ass). She groans into, her hands sliding down from your hips to your ass. Pulling you closer and guiding the rhythm.

It started slow, the movement between your bodies, unhurried. Then it all build up fast, grinding, pressing friction layered with heat and tension. Making you ache.

"You don't know how long I've been thinkin' 'bout you sitting on me like this." The kiss breaks so she could drag her mouth down your jaw, up to your ears. Her breath's hot when she murmurs: "Probably longer than I should've."

You quietly whimper, restrained, but she hears it. She feels. Purposefully, her thigh shifts up. In pure need your hips roll down harder. Her hand slides under your shirt, palm warm, rings cold against your lower back. Taking control on how you should move, sending butterflies to your stomach.

You can taste the lipstick you applied earlier:

Sweet, waxy, a shade you chose because it flattered the curve of her mouth too well. In the back of your mind, you can’t help but wonder why you even bothered fixing that smudge earlier. Because now it’s everywhere. Smeared at the corners of her lips, stamped across your mouth, probably your jaw too. A whole face of precision ruined in minutes.

Her other hand trails up to your side and cups you breast through your bra. Fingers squeeze, the thin padding of it makes you feel it more.

“Fuck,” you whisper, forehead resting against hers.

She laughs softy, cocky, but her voice is hoarse. “I just know you’re so f’king soaked,” she mumbles, like she’s insulted at the fact you wore pants.

Nonetheless, she’s right, you can feel it yourself. Your underwear damp and clinging. Jeans pressed tightly in all the right, horrible, sweet places. Every time you rock, your hips drags friction straight to your clit. Pressure building.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

You lean forward more, chasing it. The air was feeling hot, her grip tighter. Down and forward, hip grinding.

Again and again and again

She kisses you with urgency. Swallowing every moan.

Again and again and again

She squeezes her fingers between your skin and the bra wire. Finally getting access to your soft skin. Thumb brushing your nipple directly now. Your rhythm starts to stutter. Gasping, she pressed and flexes her thigh, just right.

“I wanna touch you so bad.” She bites your neck, bouncing her knee up and down.

That’s what got you to let go.

You roll your hips more aggressively, your hips jerking. She holds you through it rocking up slightly. Your legs clamps tight together against her thigh. Your fingers clutching her shoulder….like an anchor

You don’t speak right away. You still can’t.

Her hand stays on your back, rubbing slow circles. Her lips press once more to the corner of your mouth, softer this time.

Then she smiles, “Told you I needed some luck.”

You groaned, rolling your eyes as you glared at her. “You’re so insufferable.”

Pushing yourself off her lap, you glanced at your jeans. No visible wet spot, thank god, but you felt it. The heaviness between your thigh, the dampness, still clung to you. Your eyes flicked to her pants, nothing obviously there either, though that smuggy expression on her face said: ‘I wish there was a viable spot so I can show the world.’

“Sit still,” you muttered, it was a mantra at this point. Grabbing her jaw between your fingers.

Her make up wasn’t fucked, it was definitely…mushed. Your lipstick now printed on the corner of her mouth, not blending in well with her (different shade) lipstick. A soft blur of color, a visible reminder of how you completely lost control. The foundation around her mouth needed a light press.

But mostly it was her lips; Messy. Swollen. Kiss stained. If you let her out like this, the nation will definitely raise a couple of eyebrows.

There was a loud bang on the door. “Three minutes to stage!”

You didn’t flinch. You just sighed and reached for the lipstick.

It went quiet for a moment.

She watched you. Still, focused, for once not pushing nor teasing. Just watching. And for the first time tonight, she let you finish without flirting, without smirking. Just cooperating.

You gave her lips one last touch, dusted a bit more powder across her jaw, then leaned back.

That’s when she spoke: “You ever ridden a horse before?”

You groaned immediately, eyes dragging toward the ceiling. “Actually get the fuck out of my chair.”

She laughed, loud. Removed off her hoodie and tossed it at you on her way up. You caught it midair with one hand, rolled your eyes again.

You couldn’t help but stare at her straightening and stretching.

She looked incredible: shoulders square, chest rising with a deep breath, the event outfit….She is

Confident. Wild.

You slid up onto the counter behind you, hoodie still in your lap. And alright… you might’ve glanced at her pants again.

Gray fabric. No visible wet spot.

A tragedy, really.

Would’ve been a nice souvenir~

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

This is part 2~

[almostsaidiloveyou]

Imagine #12: “They say summer is like a movie…”

(Cliché 90s Slasher Camp story - mild fluff - mild nsfw - switch!reader - 1.8k words)

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

Summer smelled like pine tress, cheap bug spray, and sweat soaked in cotton. You've been coming to Camp Crystal Lake since you were barely 16. First as a camper, then as a junior counselor, and now finally, a full-blown counselor with your own group of whiny middle-schoolers and wayyy too much responsibility. But you didn’t mind, not really.

Because she was there. Summer smelled like her the most.

She was your secret since your first summer as junior counselor. Sneaking around the same camp as if the trees were narcs and the canoes could talk.

She would roll her eyes and call you 'corny,' whenever you said something too sweet. Pass you her menthols behind the archery shed, while the camper had lunch or swimming activities. Hold your face as you kissed her under the stars, surrounded by fireflies.

You only allowed yourself to fall in love for 8-weeks nothing more. It was like an unspoken rule you both agreed upon. 'This was just a summer thing.'

You never wrote letters. She never called your house. Your phone was connected to the kitchen wall and your mom never left the room long enough for you to say anything more than a, "Hi." And anyways, what would you even really say?

"Hey, I miss you like hell. I still sleep with your socks sometimes."

"I still dream about your shoulders pressed against mines while the crickets scream outside."

No. It was better this way. Summer was the only time you could both indulge.

You were the last one to arrived this year, you found her leaning against the canoe shed with the other counselors. She and the others had already changed into the camp staff tee.

You couldn't help but smile as you walked up to her: a cig between her lips, denim cutoffs that rested low on her hips you could see the logo of the boxers she wore. Her same smug--beautiful smirk.

"You came back," she said. You didn't say anything, just pulled her by the loops of her pants.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

Weeks passed in secret touches under the mess hall tables, kisses stolen behind the arts and crafts shed, and nights you would sneak off into the empty game room and press yourself against her thighs until yours trembled. You slept in separate bunks, barely made touched each others hands when the kids were around. But in the dark? She knew your body better than yourself.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

That night, all the counselors gathered around the campfire. Everyone circled around still in their sweaty staff t-shirts: joints were being passed around lazily, lukewarm whiskey that was snuck in was being poured inside red solo cups.

You sat on a log with an empty cup at hand, her head resting your shoulder while you both playful bumped knees together. The air buzzed with weed smoke and static hums of crickets.

"Kay, but seriously," Cam shuffled in his seat, unnecessarily filling in the tranquil silent He was the type to bring about 5 flashlights and a first aid kit when even going to the bathroom. "Ain't it always starts the same? Some hot couple goes off to fuck in the woods or sm'thing. The killer comes and--"

Someone cut him off with a loud groan, "My God, here he goes again." Laughter followed right after.

"Shut up, I am begin serious!" fireflies light flickering off the lenses of his glasses. "Statistically, people who have sex in horror movies? They die."

"You are not Randy Meeks from 'Scream', Cam." A female counselor said passing the joint to your girlfriend.

"Statistically, hot people die in horror movies...so why are you so worried?" She chuckled, taking a long drag of the joint, and passing it to you.

"My point exact, Randy survived the first movie," Cam argued, glaring at the girl across the fire. She just rolled her eyes at him and gulped whatever was in her cup.

Cam shifted his attention to you and your girlfriend, her arm now lazily draped over your shoulder. "Hot people? Right right, that's why Tatum and Stu died. They were the hot couple."

"Cam, you're so fucking dramatic." Someone muttered under their breath.

He just ignored them of course. "But...I'm not sure if it counts with, y'know, homosexuals," he added casually, like it was another fun fact.

You scoffed and launched your red cup at him. "Shut up asshole."

He dodged it, laughing, "I am just saying... if this were a horror movie...you both are next."

You gasped, sitting up straight rapidly. Fear in your eyes like you've been told you only had a week to live. "Oh NO!"

Grabbing your girlfriend's face between your hands, you stared at her, wide-eyed; "We're going to DIE!"

At first she blinked, confused and a little bit worried. Then played along perfectly. "No!!" she shirked, clutching your shoulders as she let out the most girliest-over-the-top-dramatic-slasher film scream.

You both collapsed into giggles, pressed close, while the rest of the counselors laughed or groaned around the fire.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

The camp lounge was just across the trail. Since it was past 10:30p.m, that was considered "closed after hours," but that only made it better. No lights--no supervision. The vending machine was the source of light, the humming filling the air.

You both snuck away from the group, everyone was already tipsy or their heads was in the clouds.

The moment the wooden door shut behind you both, it was like having a curtain over the rest of the world.

She backed you into the couch, fingers under your oversized t-shirt. Her hands were everywhere.

EVERY TIME you kissed like you were both starving, like it had been months (because it had). The tension was always there, because you both truly didn't know if this would be the last summer between you two.

"C'mere," she mumbled against your lips. Pushing you down on the old saggy couch besides the trophy case with a soft grunt. She climbed onto your lap, straddling you with no hesitation. Her thighs squeezed your sides, firm and strong from all the hiking trails. Your hands found her waist, your fingers slipping just under the band of her boxers.

"You still wear the ones with the little hearts on 'em?" you murmured against her lips.

"This an excuse to take my pants off?" She grinned.

You did just that, slid your hand under the waistband, past the soft fabric, until your fingers dipped into wet heat. She inhaled sharply, her forehead resting against yours as you found her clit and rubbed slowly in circles. She rocked into your hand, already wet for you.

"You missed me that bad?" you teased. She bit her lip and let out the softest "Shut up," you'd ever heard.

You knew exactly where she liked her neck being kissed, the same spot where you left marks last summer. She was getting needy, her hips moving faster; you gave her exactly what she wanted, slipped two fingers inside. She clenched around you, moaning quietly into your shoulder as you curled your fingers just right.

"Fuck....right there," she whsipered, gasping, eye fluttering tightly shut.

The couch creaked with every movement, her skin hot against yours. You felt her muscles twitch, the way her breath stuttered with each slow thrust of your hand. She clawed at your shoulders, held onto you like she was scared of falling apart. You watched be ruined, her body tensing, legs trembling around you.

You didn’t stop until she was shaking.

When she came down, she didn’t say anything, just kissed you slow. She pressed her lips against your collarbone, her teeth grazed your skin.

"If we do die, at least I made you cum one last time, eh." You were smug and breathless, your lips forming into a smile against hers.

She chuckled and leaned back. Tugging your shorts down halfway in one single move. "You talk too much."

All Winter she dreamt about this: sliding your legs around her shoulders, the soft sounds you made when her mouth got close, the way you always shook just before you begged her for more.

Her tongue slid over the soaked fabric of your underwear. Pressing with her nose just enough to get a reaction. She kissed you there, slow and hungrily. She moved your underwear to the slide, her tongue was slow at first, teasing you, licking through, the tip circling your clit until you whimpered.

She secured herself on your clit, sucking softly, tongue flicking just right. You did not give a fuck about the fact that anyone could pass and hear you moan. How could you care with her between your legs, doing exactly what you both been wanting for since the first leaf that fell in September.

“Gosh…you’re so wet,” she mumbled against you.

There it was, the shaking right before you told her to ‘not stop.’ She flicked her tongue faster. One of her hands slid up to your stomach, feeling your muscles tensing.

“You’re close?” Her thumbed replaced her tongue and began circling you. You nodded rapidly, throwing your head back, grinding yourself against whatever was giving you friction.

“Cum for me…” God her voice was so fucking sweet. The command was so fucking sweet.

You obeyed, shaking, eyes fluttering shit, thigh shamelessly tightening around her head as you came against her tongue. Your hips creating a pattern, the orgasm flooding through you.

She didn’t stop, not until you were twitching. You kept trying to push her head away, she wasn’t letting it happen, you were overstimulating.

And still, she did not stop.

You twitched, very oversensitive now, your hand weakening to push her away.

She ignored it and kept licking. Kept sucking.

“P-p-please…” you gasped, laughing and crying all at once (mainly laughing), trying to squirm away.

She kissed your thighs softly, she couldn’t help herself. Her lips and chin were glistening catching the reflection of the vending machine light.

She didn’t look wild nor cocky or dark with lust, like she usually would when she sneaks into your bunk.

She looked…in awe

She left out a soft disheveled laugh, eyes fixed on you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

Then she crawled up, slow and gentle and kissed you. The kind of kiss that tasted like you, like summer, like the marshmallows you roasted with the campers. You wrapped your arms around her, holding her longer than you should’ve. Her weight on you, her hands pulling up your shorts.

You felt warm and safe

You wanted to tell her you loved her~

You almost did.

CREAK

Both of you froze. She paused breath hot against your neck: “did you hear that?”

You giggled softly, “Cam is getting in your head?”

She rolled her eyes and sat up, pushing her hair away from her face. She was going to say something when then;

THUMP

This time you both jumped. It wasn’t close but it was real. Like someone was stepping on loose boards just outside the door.

She mouthed “what the fuck.” Someone one or something was slamming against the side of the wall. Hard, like a fist or boot.

You clutched her hand. “Run!”

Maybe Cam was right….’sex = death.’

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

Continuation…

[almostsaidiloveyou]

Imagine #11: "How did you fall for someone and flawed as me? I don't know how you do it..."

(Soft - Angsty - 893 words)

✿ inspired by “silk lingerie” — kali uchis ✿

you don't know why you came. you told yourself you wouldnt, that last time was the last time. yet here you are again in her apartment.

she closes the door behind her with her foot, her hands were full; one on your waist, your jaw in the other.

everything about her is control.

the way she kissed you was warm and slow, as if she been thinking about it all day. possibly trying to memorize the feeling of your mouth moving against hers. her lips tasted faintly like strawberries laced with smoke. it was so cliche, sure, but it made so much sense. the smokey scent lingered on her black button-down, unbuttoned low, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. collarbone exposed. the silver chain glinting

you're already in the silky slip dress she picked out for you to wear. thin, delicate, clinging to your body like water. you feel exposed in it, like if she looks long enough she all the cracks in you.

she does anyway. nevertheless, somehow, she stays.

she praised you quietly in low murmurs, voice rough but smooth. hand resting on the inside of your thigh.

she tells you how good you look. how soft, how pretty.

you melt under her touch. you always do. except tonight, it feels heavier. like every glance from her might completely undo you.

her fingers trace slow circles, the inside of your thigh already warm against her palm. she leans in, lips ghosting over yours. "you're so fucking beautiful," she whispers.

that made you flinch. not because it isn't true. because it might be and you dont know how to live with that.

"please don't," you mumbled.

she furrowed her brows, confused. "don't what?"

your throat was tight when you swallowed. "don't say things like that unless you mean them."

she tilts her head, watches you. quiet, still---like shes figuring out whether to hold you close or push you away.

you rush to fill the silence. "you don't get it," you say, voice slightly cracking. "i don't feel beautiful. i dont even feel...okay most of the time."

you barely hold yourself together. you hate how fragile your voice sounds in the darkness of her room.

"i'm complicated. i get jealous. i shut down when i should speak up. i cry over nothing and feel so..." you exhale. "...so much and fall too fast--"

you break off, jaw tightening. her thumb brushes over your bottom lip, but you are already looking away.

"you could have anyone," you mutter. "someone easier, who doesn't fucking fall apart over nothing."

her thumb lingers at the edge of your mouth. she doesn't pull away. you think maybe shes gonna say something casual. make a joke. flirt like she always does to keep things from getting too deep.

but she doesn't

"why do you think i want 'easy?'" she says. her voice is quiet, yet you can tell there's something behind it.

you open your mouth, nothing comes out.

she exhales through her nose, then leans back slightly, enough to see your face. "you think i'm here 'cause you're some soft little fantasy?"

a bitter smile tugs at her mouth. "you're not."

"you feel everything," she says, her hand sliding up your thigh again, slower now. "and yeah, it's messy sometimes. you overthink, get in your own away. but when you look at me..." her jaw flexes. "i...i feel like someone.

you blink, inhaling a bit.

"you say you fall apart over nothing," she murmurs, "but i've seen how you try to hold it together. i've watched you keep showing up even when you're terrified. i know how fucking strong that is."

you want to believe her. but the tears come anyway.

"you don't see what i see," you whisper.

"no," she says gently, "you don't." she leans in again, her lips brushing just under you eye, catching a tear before it falls further. the gesture makes something in your chest break open. you let out a shaky breath: part laugh--part sob.

"these pretty tears," she breathes, kissing the wetness on your skin, "you think they're to hide. but the make me want to know you even more."

lashes wet, you shake you head. "you don't know what you're doing. loving me..."

"i do," her voice is a little firmer, quiet, but firmer "i know exactly what i am doing."

you don't respond. you can't because something about the way she said it. it felt like she was trying to convince you, just finally telling you the truth.

her thumbs brushes across your cheek, your lip. when she gets to your shoulder, she hesitates as if she's holding something back.

"you think i'm not scared too?" her tone softer now. "you think i don't have a hundred voices in my head telling me this is a bad idea?"

you glance up at her. "then why keep doing it?"

she looks at you for a long time. then shrugs, mainly to herself.

"'cause when i'm with you...none of it feels fake. and lately, that's the only thing i trust."

that makes your chest ache, not in a painful way. just in the way it does when you finally hear something you've been aching to believe.

you lean into her hand. close your eyes. you're still not sure how to be loved like this. but you think perhaps, you''ll try ~