ch6douin

[ch6douin]

. . . you got (e)mail

caitlyn kiramman x fem! reader. office romance

when emails from a colleague become more. aka Caitlyn Kiramman has a crush on you & doesn't know how to flirt.

Subject: Paperwork Criteria Comment

Good morning,

I had some time to look over your submitted paperwork. Unfortunately, I do not think it meets company criteria. See my notes, and we will re-evaluate. 

Regards, Caitlyn Kiramman

Fuck Caitlyn Kiramman. You had spent all night making sure that paperwork was up to par – see her notes? God, how the fuck did she have time to do her own paperwork, and then find time to nitpick your paperwork. You had not had enough coffee to deal with the heir of the Kiramman business.

Caitlyn had joined the company a couple months ago, some bullshit about working her way up from the bottom as if her last name was not plastered on the side of the building. Though, you did feel for the girl. She was trying, at least. The emails made the empathy harder. And they were, for some reason, only directed at you.

Subject: Re: Paperwork Criteria Comment

Dear Caitlyn Kiramman,

Fuck you. Literally and Figuratively.

Warm Regards.

You had meant to backspace. Instead, you're met with the ever-familiar whoosh! sound of an email sending. Fuck. 3 googles searches later, and you learn that emails cannot be deleted. And you probably were going to be fired for your email cursing at the boss's daughter. 

Which is how you find yourself, at Caitlyn’s desk, praying she had not opened her email yet. While you wait, you wonder if you should have brought something for her; maybe she liked cupcakes? All you had to offer was the granola bar, ungraciously squished in the bottom of your bag. Fuck.

Heels click against the floor, and the clouds around your head seem to disappear as your eyes meet hers. Her eyebrow raises slightly, before she speaks, “What’re you doing here?” she asks, and she sounds confused; which makes sense, it's not as though people were lining up to talk to the boss’s daughter. Actually, nobody had lined up.

“Hi Caitlyn,” you greet, and then wince at your inability to be nonchalant. “I don’t know if we’ve met before, I’m–,” you start, and she cuts you off. Okay, Great. 

“I know who you are,” she says, before realizing that she had cut you off, murmuring a quick, “Sorry for interrupting. I’ve seen you around,” she says, as if she hasn’t been sending you nitpicky emails spanning over the last couple months. 

“Oh.” you falter, before nodding, trying not to get deterred. “Oh, okay well I was wondering if you had a chance to check your email because I sent you something by accident and it looks really bad, but I swear that's not what I meant–,” you ramble, as she takes out her phone and opens her email. Fuck. Maybe she would get really chill for the first time ever. 

Her lips quirk up at the email. Maybe she thought it was funny. You hoped so. The job market was brutal. “So you don’t want to fuck me literally or figuratively?” she asks, and your face turns to one of mortification fairly quickly. And she laughs– Actually full-on laughs. You had emailed her a bunch of curse words, and here she was, laughing. 

You look, somehow, even more appalled, as manicured nails reach for the water on her desk, taking a sip after her laughter quells. “I’m sorry– it’s not funny.” she murmurs, and somehow the way her accent wraps around the words make the crudeness of your email sound polished. “It’s alright. I’m sure the emails must be irritating, in their own capacity. I’m sorry,” she apologies, and you blink at her; was this a dream? The Caitlyn Kiramman, apologizing to you? You tried not to pay attention to the lilt of her voice, and the way her accent curled around her words. God, she was so posh.

“No! It’s okay– they aren’t that bad. Just frustrating sometimes,” you admit, and the way she looks at you doesn’t seem judgemental or angry – she seems to revel in your presence. You realize, with a slight pang in your heart, guilt maybe, this was probably the most Caitlyn had actually spoken with a co-worker in the year and a half she’d been working here. “Uh– where’d you go for lunch? I’ve been looking for new places,” you throw out, and the smile that she tries to push down is unmistakable. God, she was cute. 

Which is how you find yourself, slowly becoming friends with Caitlyn. The shift is gradual, of course, granted your email, but she seemed to find you amusing. And you enjoyed the reserved smiles that seemed to become a commonality in your presence. First she takes you out to some cafe; hidden away in the bustling street, and the servers seem to know (and adore) her. It was scrappy, but the food was some of the best you’d ever had, and the company might have been better. 

The real Caitlyn was nothing close to what you imagined; she was witty and incredibly sharp, and her laughter was elegant, but she was also kind. The way she would look over your reports – the comments weren’t meant to be nitpicky, they were meant to help you grow. The way she would lend a hand to co-workers who were known for demeaning her position in the company – (nepotism, they called it. You knew better.) The way she seemed delighted to have a friend who was a co-worker; the coffees on your desk before an early meeting, lunches together. You had invited her out to a bar once, after work; she was thrilled, in her own unspoken way. You also learned that Caitlyn couldn’t handle her alcohol. She learned that you did not consider her emails thoughtful flirting. 

So she shifted her approach. The emails were consistent, but they were accompanied by invitations to get dinner together after work. Dinner at very exclusive hard-to-get-into places, which she had no problem getting either of you into. She didn’t correct the hostess when she referred to the two of you as “Mrs. & Mrs. Kiramman.” Neither did you.

Subject: Overtime Query 

Greetings, 

I noticed that you were planning to stay overtime to review your presentation. Coincidentally, as am I, and I was wondering if you’d like to get dinner together afterwards. I have a reservation at 7 o’ clock for 2. I look forward to seeing you. 

Warm Regards,

Caitlyn Kiramman

Dinner that had spiraled into her tongue on you, and somehow she had more skills past her flawless grammar and pristine work ethic. “I have no interest in casual. You’re mine. Obviously,” she had said, after the 4th or 5th time together. Which is how you found yourself arriving to work with Caitlyn. People had muttered, and started; you were sure your names had been thrown around by the watercooler. You couldn’t find it in yourself to care when her manicured hands had curled into yours as you walked to the parking lot.

Today had been a particularly trying day, long meetings and not enough sleep (Caitlyn had returned from a business trip of 3 days, and had taken it upon herself to prove how much she missed you. You already knew how much she missed you. She sent you 12 emails. You didn’t protest.) 

“Can you grab me some coffee too—” you begin, looking up as you hear the unmistakable sounds of her heels – Louboutins today – as she approaches your desk , and she cuts you off as she places the warm cup onto your desk.

 “Already did. Just the way you like it.” is all she mutters, and your lips quirk upwards at the way her ears redden.

“Careful Kiramman, I might think you like me,” you tease.

Subject: I know you didn’t eat lunch.

Meet in my office in 15? I brought food for you. 

Love,

Caitlyn Kiramman

[ch6douin]

guys no ellie is not a 6’0 mafia boss daddy dom serial killer. bro collects superhero cards 😂

[ch6douin]

okay… don’t laugh

using a vibrator on loser!lesbian!ellie for the first time

cw: smut, vibrator play (e!receiving), overstimulation, sub!ellie, dom!reader, begging, praise, teasing.

“okay… don’t laugh.”

you glance up from where you’re curled up on the couch, phone forgotten in your hand. ellie’s standing in the doorway to your bedroom with both hands behind her back. she’s shifting her weight between her socks, blue hoodie slouching off one shoulder, ears tinged with pink.

you tilt your head. “why would i laugh?”

“because…” she huffs, biting her lip. “just-swear to me you won’t, alright?”

“ellie,” you say, holding back a smirk. “what did you do?”

“i bought something.”

“…okay?”

she hesitates a moment longer, clearly warring with her inner loser. and then, she brings it out from behind her back.

a small, pastel purple vibrator. still in the box. her hands are gripping it like it might combust.

your brow lifts. “oh?”

she immediately looks down. “i-it was on sale,” she says quickly. “and like… i don’t know, i thought, y’know, maybe you could use it. on me. or something.”

your smile is slow and wolfish. “on you, huh?”

ellie groans, dragging a hand over her face. “fuck…i knew you were gonna do that.”

“baby,” you purr, setting your phone aside and sitting up straighter. “you bought your own toy for me to use on you? that’s so cute. what, you thinking about it all day or something?”

“maybe,” she mutters.

you pat the space beside you. “come here.”

she walks over, placing the box in your lap before flopping down next to you, already half-hiding in her hoodie like she wants to disappear. you pop the box open, pull out the vibe, and press the button. it gives a satisfying little buzz.

“jesus christ,” ellie mumbles, squirming.

you turn it off and glance at her. “have you ever used a toy like this before?”

she shakes her head quickly. “no. never. i mean-not on me. i’ve like… watched it. you know. watched people use them. for research. obviously.”

you grin. “sure. research.”

“shut up.”

you lean closer, brushing her hair back, your voice going a little lower. “you want me to use it on you, baby?”

ellie nods, a little too quickly. “yeah. yeah, i do. just…don’t make fun of me.��

“never,” you say. “but i might make you cry.”

her pupils blow wide.

you don’t even make it to the bed. ellie’s flat on her back on the couch, hoodie yanked off, grey tank riding up as she wriggles under you, flushed and needy. you’re straddling her thigh, kissing her breathless, one hand teasing the waistband of her sweats.

she keeps making these little whining noises in her throat - half nerves, half arousal- and she’s already a little damp through the fabric.

“jesus,” you murmur. “we haven’t even started.”

“shut up,” she mutters, cheeks flaming.

you tug her sweats down and kiss her hipbone, watch her jerk when your fingers ghost over her bare cunt. “so sensitive,” you tease, and she shivers.

you pull back just long enough to grab the vibrator, clicking it on to the first setting.

“wait,” ellie says, propping herself on her elbows, watching you like a hawk. “start slow, okay?”

you smile sweetly. “of course, baby.”

you press it to her clit, just gently. the effect is instant, her back arches, eyes rolling, hands gripping at the couch cushions.

“oh my god,” she gasps. “fuck, that’s-”

“that good?”

“yeah….holy shit, yeah. it’s-it’s weird. in a good way. it’s like-it’s so much.”

you keep it steady, moving it in slow circles, and watch her fall apart. her thighs are trembling already. her voice goes high and breathy as she gasps and groans and tries to form words. you lean down and kiss her stomach, her hip, her thighs.

“you’re so cute like this,” you murmur.

“shut-fuck-shut up, i’m-jesus christ, i’m gonna come already-”

“already?” you pout. “we just started.”

“it’s your fault-fuck, fuck, please-”

you press the vibrator down just a little harder and her hips stutter, breath catching, and then she’s coming, legs twitching, face scrunched, moaning so loud you’re glad the windows are shut.

you let up, turn it off, and press soft kisses to her inner thighs while she pants and whimpers.

“you okay?”

“fucked out,” she mumbles. “and you just started. holy shit.”

you grin. “want more?”

her eyes flutter open, and she nods slowly. “yeah. yeah. just-give me a second.”

a second turns into five minutes. you let her catch her breath, play with her hair, kiss her neck. she’s still flushed all the way down to her chest, nipples hard under her tank, and her thighs are twitching with every brush of your hand.

you turn the toy on again, second setting, this time, and she flinches.

“fuck,” she gasps. “wait-waitwaitwait-oh my god-”

you don’t even press it down fully. just trace it around her clit, teasing, featherlight.

“too much?” you ask sweetly.

“yes. no. yes. i don’t know, fuck-don’t stop-”

you don’t. you ease it up until it’s pressing right against her again, and her whole body jolts.

“you’re already so sensitive,” you murmur, kissing just below her bellybutton. “you gonna come again for me, baby?”

“i-i don’t know-i think so-fuck, you’re so mean-”

you grin. “you love it.”

she does.

the second orgasm hits her harder. her legs twitch, her hips try to pull away, but you don’t let her. you keep the vibrator there, light and steady, while she moans and writhes and begs you through gritted teeth.

“fuck, fuck, fuck, i can’t-i can’t-”

you lean over her, kissing her hard as she sobs into your mouth. her hands claw at your back.

“you can,” you whisper. “you are.”

and she does, her whole body shudders again, louder than before, a broken little cry ripping out of her throat.

you turn the toy off and set it aside.

she just lays there, dazed, sweat-damp and glowing, blinking up at the ceiling.

“you good?” you ask softly.

she nods. “gonna sue you. for emotional damage.”

“you’re welcome.”

“you’re a menace.”

you brush her hair off her forehead. “you’re such a good girl.”

that makes her blush worse than anything else. she hides her face in your neck and groans.

“you gonna tell the sex shop lady it worked?”

she groans louder. “don’t. i stammered through the whole checkout.”

you giggle. “bet she knew exactly what you were getting railed with.”

“stop.”

“you love it.”

ellie sighs dramatically. “unfortunately, i do.”

perm taglist: @yasmilks , @frosttbitten , @lovemiraamira , @ellies-real-wife , @wewerewildandfluorescent , @jullsii , @eyesttokill , @dmenby3100 , @bunchogravie , @oneinameliann , @intheshadowofthestars , @pariiissssssss , @vanpalmertruther , @madsxh1022 , @rbnvrnxoxo , @firefly-ace , @alyaserrax , @silly-pigeon69 , @glassofgreenteapls , @pearlsiie , @aj0elap0l0gist , @sincerelyherz , @imsiriuslycool , @0phantom0 , @ggutpunch , @leeidk87 , @mikellie , @celiacallsitcasual , @gurlbownerr , @l0veylace , @bluminescent-moon , @oatmatchalatte , @hitmehardmommy , @iadorefineshyt , @jksevendays , @liztreez , @clemrules , @yourl0caltrash , @rootytootymeow , @thebadwritersposts , @vanillacigarettes777 , @soltwent , @softqirls , @lesbian-useless , @lovewitchss , @abigail-andersons-wife , @valeisaslut , @ssijht , @meow4510 , @vixenkii , @modernvenuss ,@pryncess123 <3

[ch6douin]

texting loser!ellie that you have n!pple piercing in class

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

masterlist

You were already five minutes into tuning out Miss Alvarez’s ongoing dissection of The Great Gatsby—something about disillusionment, green lights, and doomed men with god complexes. Hard pass.

Your friends beside and behind you were snickering about something—probably someone—but you were too bored to care. Their laughter filtered through like white noise, low and distant.

So, as usual, you turned to the one thing that offered any real entertainment when boredom hit terminal levels. You checked your notifications, cleared out stupid texts from stupid boys, and finally opened that app.

Before doing anything, you glanced around lazily. Dropping your screen brightness and tilted your phone just enough to make sure no one behind you could peek. The layout loaded instantly, familiar and weirdly comforting. No photos, just bios, vague usernames, and chat boxes that were a little too easy to open.

You scrolled through a few profiles aimlessly before switching tabs and landing on your ongoing conversation with someone under the name E.

You’d been messaging back and forth for almost two weeks now. You didn’t know who she was, not really—just that she was clever, a little snarky, and definitely someone who knew how to keep you engaged without even trying. Sometimes it felt like talking to a complete stranger. Sometimes it felt like she knew you better than half the people at this school.

You stared at the last message she’d sent you last night, the one you’d read four or five times even though it was short and kind of innocent.

E:

“i love reading :]”

Your thumb hovered for a second before you started typing, slouched low in your chair, phone hidden beneath the desk. You tried not to smirk as the words appeared.

You:

what if we kissed behind the nonfiction aisle jk unless??

You set your phone down and pretended to scribble something on your notebook, resting your cheek against your hand, bored again within seconds. The teacher’s voice faded into a drone. You started writing nonsense loops with your pen, not really listening to anything anymore.

A buzz cut through the room. Not yours. Loud and sharp.

You blinked up. Ellie Williams, seated near the front, fumbled to silence her phone while the screen lit up in her hand.

“Please turn that off, Miss Williams,” Miss Alvarez snapped without missing a beat.

A few classmates laughed quietly. Ellie didn’t say anything, she just shrugged like she couldn’t care less and slid her phone into her lap.

You went back to wasting ink, your pen dragging over the edge of the page as your phone buzzed, quiet and controlled this time—just once, the vibration barely a tick beneath your palm as you picked it up immediately.

You flipped it open carefully and read her reply.

E:

only if you promise to dog-ear my soul and underline my bad habits

You blinked, raising an eyebrow at her reply.

You stared at the message a little longer than you meant to, eyes dragging over the words again—dog-ear my soul, underline my bad habits. You weren’t sure if it was weird or kind of... brilliant. Either way, it hit somewhere low in your stomach.

You glanced up lazily, scanning the room like it’d help ground you. Miss Alvarez was still going, pacing at the front of the classroom with a paperback copy of Gatsby clenched in one hand. Your friends were still whispering behind you—some drama, someone’s hair, someone’s outfit. None of it mattered.

You typed back.

You:

what bad habits?

name three rn.

You sent it and immediately slid your phone under your notebook like you’d done something criminal. Your pen moved again, looping nonsense in the margins, but your heart was thudding a little now.

The reply came faster than you expected.

E:

falling for girls i shouldn’t

answering texts in class

making it way too obvious when it’s you

Your brow furrowed instinctively. The message was clever, yeah, but the third line sat wrong in your chest.

You typed before thinking.

You:

weird

That was it. No emoji. No punctuation. Just the word sitting there like a raised eyebrow.

You waited.

Her response didn’t take long.

E:

everyone’s a little weird.

some of us just hide it better.

You scoffed quietly through your nose, thumb hovering over your keyboard.

You:

i’m not.

E:

pls.

everyone’s weird.

even you, i know

You hesitated, eyes flicking up again, like anyone in this room might somehow be listening in on this dumb conversation through sheer telepathy.

You went back to your screen.

You:

ok then

tell me 3 weird things about you

You tossed the phone back under your notebook, leaned your head on your hand again, trying not to look as keyed-up as you felt.

The buzz came just as you started drawing a rectangle around nothing in your notes.

E:

i know how to pick locks.

once convinced a teacher i was allergic to chalk to skip a presentation.

i wear rings just to fidget with them when i’m lying.

You stared at it, unsure whether to laugh or raise your guard. You weren’t sure if she was trying to impress you, scare you, or lowkey admit she was a professional liar.

The last one made you pause. You pictured it—hands, silver rings, nervous fidgeting. You glanced around the classroom like the answer might be hiding between pencil cases and Gatsby annotations.

You looked away quickly, back down at your screen.

You:

well that’s very u

you wanna know 3 things about me?

A second passed.

E:

sure :]

You typed, trying not to overthink it.

You:

i once cried because my nail broke before a party

i memorize random license plates when i’m bored

You paused, rereading the first two. They were fine. Harmless. The kind of “weird” that still sounded cute if someone repeated it out loud. The kind of weird that kept your walls up just enough.

And then, without really thinking—or maybe thinking too much—you typed the third.

You:

i have a nipple piercing

You stared at it for a second before hitting send, lips twitching.

Delivered.

You kept your phone down in your hand and leaned back in your chair like you didn’t just casually confess one of the most insane things you’d ever told a stranger.

You felt the beat of your pulse in your throat as you stared straight ahead, pretending to care about whatever Miss Alvarez was saying about Gatsby’s “moral decay,” while your phone sat under your hand like a loaded weapon.

You glanced down when you felt another buzz.

E:

what the hell

you can’t just drop that as number three like it’s nothing

You snorted. Quiet and sharp. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep it contained.

E:

i’m rereading it

you said “i have a nipple piercing” like i say “i had cereal this morning”

You tapped your fingers against your notebook, smirking a little now.

Another message popped up before you could even open your keyboard.

E:

who gave you the right

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. There was something kind of stupid and hilarious about watching a stranger completely spiral over a throwaway confession. It was stupid and thrilling.

You finally replied.

You:

u said u wanted weird

don’t complain now

The three dots appeared immediately.

They vanished.

Then reappeared.

E:

you’re lucky we’re in public right now

because i have questions

You stared at the screen for half a second longer than you should, something sharp curling at the edges of your mouth. You knew exactly what you were doing.

You:

u wanna see?

lmao jk

but ??

You didn’t move. You just sat there with your phone tucked beneath your hand, like you hadn’t just said the most unhinged thing of your entire academic career. (Well, obviously—because you only let this side of you out with girls.)

E:

JAIL.

straight to jail.

You pressed your knuckles against your lips to keep the sound in. You could feel the heat in your cheeks now, but you were smiling. Fully smiling. You hadn’t even noticed that Miss Alvarez called on someone, that your friends had gone quiet behind you, or that class was dangerously close to ending.

Your phone buzzed again.

E:

i mean

not no

but also

JAIL

You let out a breath through your nose and replied, just two words.

You:

thought so

You didn’t expect her to respond immediately.

The bell hadn’t even rung yet. The room still buzzed with half-bored energy. Your phone was still in your palm, screen lit from her last message.

You stared at it for a second, letting the silence settle. Letting the grin fade into something more calculated. You tucked your phone into your pocket, raised your hand just high enough to get Miss Alvarez’s attention without actually trying.

“Bathroom?” you asked, already standing halfway.

Miss Alvarez waved you off with a distracted, “Be quick.”

You slipped out of the classroom with your bag slung over your shoulder, heart pounding like you’d done something criminal—which, to be fair, you were about to.

The hallway was quiet. Most people were still trapped in last-period misery. You headed straight for the nearest bathroom—one of the nicer ones. Clean mirrors, locked stalls, no broken soap dispensers.

You locked yourself inside and exhaled.

For a second, you just stood there. Not thinking. Not second-guessing. Just staring at your reflection like you were waiting for her to dare you again.

You went inside a stall and slid your phone out, opening the camera. You angled it in front of your opened blouse—not too obvious, not too graphic. Just enough. A glimpse of skin. A flash of silver.

Sent.

You:

proof

(bc apparently ur dramatic)

You locked your phone immediately after, heart hammering in your ears. You didn’t even wait to see if she replied.

Your phone buzzed.

Three times.

That was enough.

You didn’t open it.

You slipped your phone back into your pocket, a smirk already tugging at your lips, and unlocked the stall.

Your reflection was flushed. Just slightly. Lips pink. Expression smug.

By the time you pushed open the classroom door, everything looked the same—except you knew it wasn’t.

You walked in like nothing happened.

You were halfway down the aisle toward your desk when you passed Ellie.

She was still slouched in her chair, pretending to read the half-assed notes on her desk. But you caught the way her eyes flicked up the second your steps slowed.

Your eyes met.

Her mouth was slightly parted as her eyes followed you.

You raised an eyebrow, just barely, and kept walking.

You dropped into your seat with the same calm as before, tossing your bag down, and shot a knowing smirk at your friends—who were, of course, snickering over something unrelated and way less interesting.

You spun your pen lazily between your fingers, shoulders loose.

For some reason, your gaze landed on Ellie again.

She was still looking at you. Watching you.

You raised your eyebrows again, sharper this time—What?—the kind of look that always worked on everyone. The kind that meant quit staring.

Her gaze raked over you, slow and unreadable, and you frowned without meaning to. Just as you turned back around, you caught it—the faintest smirk tugging at her lips before her eyes flicked forward like nothing happened.

You rolled your eyes, turned around, and smiled to yourself as you pressed your thumb against your phone screen.

[ch6douin]

texting loser!ellie that you have n!pple piercing in class masterlist

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | ♡ | part 6 | ♡ | part 7

[ch6douin]

texting loser!ellie that you have n!pple piercing in class 7

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

masterlist

The water felt nice. Warm, a little heavy.

Lights swam over your arms — red, green, something blue, whatever. You kicked lazily toward the deep end, hair floating around your face, eyes barely open. Everything up top was loud. Music, shouting, glass clinking, someone throwing up maybe.

You didn’t care.

It was better down here. Dimmed and Fuzzy. Kind of perfect.

You heard your name, muffled and far away.

You stayed under a second longer.

The second shout came clearer. “Bitch, come up!”

You broke the surface with a laugh, hair slicked back, water dripping down your face. “What?”

Your friend stood at the edge of the pool, holding a half-empty cup, eyes wide like she’d been calling you forever.

“What?” you asked again, louder this time, wiping your face as someone cannonballed behind you. A wave hit your back, followed by a splash of cold and a bunch of laughter from the other end of the pool.

Your friend rolled her eyes. “Get your ass up here. Gio’s been bugging me since he got here and you’ve just been floating around like a mermaid bitch.”

You scoffed, rubbing water off your cheek. “The hell do I care about Gio? Tell him to get over it.”

Your friend scoffed and shook her head before turning away, muttering something under her breath as she pushed through the crowd and disappeared back inside the house.

You just rolled your eyes and grinned at the girl sitting at the edge of the pool, who held out a red cup without a word. You took it and drank whatever was in it without thinking. Something fruity and strong. It burned just enough.

You winked at her, head buzzing, skin warm, everything soft around the edges. The music thumping in your chest. Voices blurred with the beat as lights swam across the pool deck.

You climbed out of the pool, water trailing down your legs, your black bikini clinging to your skin. The night air wrapped around you, cooler than you expected, but you barely felt it.

You grabbed the shirt you left on the table and pulled it over your head, still damp, sticking a little as it slid down.

The music shifted into something you like, “Love Me Harder”. You bobbed your head to it as you walked back toward the house, passing a couple making out against the open bathroom door. The shouts from the patio faded behind you.

Inside, it was louder.

Your eyes moved across the room, scanning for Olivia. You’d left your phone with her hours ago. Maybe longer.

“Hey, have you seen Olivia?” you asked the nearest person, some girl holding an empty bottle. She blinked at you and shrugged.

You rolled your eyes and cut through the crowd, weaving past people playing some drunk version of charades in the hallway, others yelling over a chug.

The kitchen smelled like tequila and weed. Too hot and loud.

You barely looked up until you spotted her—Olivia—perched halfway up the stairs, talking to some guy.

You walked over, stepping between them without a word. “My phone?”

The guy looked you up and down.

Olivia grinned, already holding it out. A smirk tugged at her mouth, eyes gleaming like she knew something.

She passed you your phone, fingers brushing yours for a second too long.

“Oh,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “Gio was looking for you.”

You groaned. “I don’t wanna hear another thing about Gio.”

Your face twisted without meaning to, already turning away—right as he showed up.

Of course.

“Hey,” Gio said, stepping in front of you. “I’ve been looking for you.”

You blinked, trying not to sigh. “Yeah? What?”

He smiled like it meant something. “It’s just been a long time, you know? Since we talked. Since... all that. I guess I just wanted to say I missed it. Or whatever we had.”

You barely looked at him as you opened E's messages that had been sitting on your phone for an hour.

E:

well don’t drink too much ?

plss

take care

i still wanna marry u

Your lips twitched. That stupid flutter in your chest kicked up again.

Gio was still talking. You weren’t listening to any of it.

You tapped back to your messages.

you:

still sober babe

You sent it, even though the edges of your brain were already fuzzy from everything you’d had.

“Hey—are you listening?” Gio’s voice broke in again.

You looked up and raised your brows. “What?”

“I just told you I missed you.”

You shrugged, tone flat. “Well, Gio. I don’t. And seriously, you need to find another girl. I’m too busy with my life right now.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “How am I supposed to just get over it? You think it was easy for me? I—”

You weren’t even hearing it. Your eyes shifted past him, drifting lazily until they landed on someone leaning against the wall near the billiard table.

Her head was down, thumb lazily scrolling through her phone, a red cap dangling from her other hand like none of this touched her.

Is that Ellie?

You squinted through the low light and noise. Shit. It was Ellie.

She was in a black jacket thrown over a white tee, pants slung low on her hips. Leaning against the wall like she didn’t care to belong, sipping from her drink like it was just another night to survive.

Gio was still talking, some half-assed plea falling out of his mouth, but you were already walking, cutting straight past him without a word.

“Ellie?” you called out, blinking hard. A grin tugged at your lips. “No way! You’re here?”

She looked up, caught off guard, eyes widening just slightly.

You didn’t think and closed the space between you and threw your arms around her, your body still a little damp, shirt clinging where it shouldn’t.

Her hand settled lightly on your waist. Warm and a little hesitant.

“Hi,” you laughed as you pulled back, grinning stupid. “I thought my mind was the playing tricks on me for a second back there.”

Ellie scratched at the back of her neck, “Yeah,” she said, smiling softly. “I’m here.”

You tilted your head a little too close, eyes glittering. “This definitely wasn’t on my bingo card tonight.” Your voice came out sweet and reckless, heat curling behind it.

You glanced down at yourself, dragging two fingers over the damp hem of your thin shirt. “Oh, and shit—sorry for the,” you waved at your clothes, “I’m a little bit wet.”

Ellie’s eyes dropped before she could stop herself. She nodded, a tiny jerk of her head, mouth opening like she might say something—but didn’t.

“It’s… it’s okay,” she said quietly, eyes dipping down for the briefest second before meeting yours again. Quick, but not quick enough.

She gave a small shrug, like she hadn’t just looked.

Her fingers tapped lightly against her cup, trying to seem casual. But her gaze kept pulling back—hovering just a little too long before she forced it away again.

For a moment, you just looked at her.

You didn’t know why, but she looked different tonight. Or maybe it was the way the slow flashing lights hit her face, catching in her lashes, slipping across her cheekbones. She looked… kind of good like that.

You smiled, small and easy. “So what made you come here?”

Ellie glanced down, then back up. “I don’t know. Just... really checking it out.” She gave a half-smile, one corner of her mouth lifting like it wasn’t sure if it wanted to stay.

You tilted your head. “Damn right. But if I’m Stan though?” You widened your eyes a little. “I’d be honored. Ellie Williams? Here?”

Ellie shook her head, eyes rolling soft. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” You grinned, watching the way she tried not to smile.

She scoffed under her breath, shaking her head again.

“So how’s your night so far?” you asked, shifting your weight closer to her. “Just got here? You seem sober enough for me.”

Ellie glanced to the side, like she was about to lie but didn’t. “Just watching. And yeah... sober enough.”

You followed her gaze to the group around the billiards table, some guys lining up shots with way too much confidence.

“Oh? You play with them?” you asked, already grabbing her wrist, pulling her gently with you. “C’mon. Let’s watch.”

Ellie let you lead her, falling into step.

“Just watching,” she repeated, eyes flicking to the table. “And you? You looked drunk to me.”

You gave her a look. “Oh please, drunk? I’m tough.”

She watched you for a second, like she was trying to tell if you were serious. Her eyes flicked over your face, amused and skeptical.

“Right,” she scoffed again, shaking her head.

You smirked as you caught her smile she tried to hide before she turned back to her drink.

“What? Do I look drunk to you already?” You asked, leaning in slightly.

Ellie raised her brows, amusement dancing in her eyes. She took a slow sip, watching you over the rim of her cup, before shaking her head. “Actually.. no.”

“If I were drunk, I’d already be doing something reckless.” You said with a grin.

You paused just long enough for it to land.

“Which will be later.”

You looked around, just casually scanning the room—until your eyes landed on Gio, cutting through the crowd again like he hadn’t gotten the message the first time.

You groaned under your breath. “Oh, fuck me.”

Ellie glanced over.

Before Ellie could ask, you grabbed her wrist. “Come with me. Please.”

She blinked. “What?”

But you were already pulling her, slipping through bodies, heading for the stairs like you had somewhere to be.

You took the stairs two at a time, a little buzzed. Ellie followed close behind, her cup in one hand, eyes flicking around, unsure where you were taking her. A couple was half-tangled on the landing, making out as if they forgot other people existed. You sidestepped them, brushing past a guy vaping at the top who barely looked up from his cloud. The sweet smoke curled around your head.

Ellie quietly moved past him too, close enough for you to feel the warmth off her arm.

The hallway was narrow and dim. Doors shut or cracked open, bass from downstairs thudding through the walls. You walked past a room glowing blue from a TV screen, another filled with people yelling over Mario Kart.

You made it to the end of the hallway, eyes landing on a closed bathroom door. You knocked once, then again—louder.

Ellie raised a brow behind you. “You brought me all the way up here… to pee?”

You knocked again with more urgency. “Kinda?”

No answer.

You leaned your ear closer, but it was quiet inside. Probably empty.

“I just needed to escape my obsessive ex for a minute,” you muttered, knocking once more for good measure.

You pushed the door with your shoulder. A little harder than you meant to.

It creaked open, swinging wide—and you stumbled a step forward, catching yourself on the doorframe with a laugh.

Ellie stepped forward fast, her free hand reaching out like she might catch you. “Jesus—are you good?”

You looked over your shoulder, rolling your eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Her brows pulled together just a little.

You smirked, brushing your hair back. “I’m not drunk, Ellie. Relax.”

She didn’t say anything right away, just watching you like she wasn’t fully convinced.

You pulled the door slowly, inching it closed. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

Ellie gave a quiet scoff under her breath. “Don’t fall in,” she muttered.

You flashed her a grin. “Yeah yeah, oh—tell Gio to get lost if you see him looking for me.”

That earned a small snort from her, but she nodded, backing away down the hall as the door clicked shut behind you.

You peed quickly, flushed, and washed your hands. When you looked up, your reflection met you in the mirror—flushed cheeks, lips pink from whatever drink had been in the red cup.

Your hair had started to curl as it dried, sticking in loose waves around your face and neck. One side of your shirt had slipped down your shoulder without you noticing, the thin fabric hanging unevenly, clinging to your skin in places, loose in others. It barely reached the middle of your thighs.

You tilted your head at your reflection, eyes narrowing slightly.

You grabbed your phone from where you left it on the sink and angled it toward the mirror.

One quick pic. Just you—flushed, eyes low-lidded, shirt slipping off your shoulder.

You sent it to E.

You:

[image attachment]

does this look drunk to u?

It took less than a minute for the screen to light up again.

E:

do u want me dead?

u look hot

like way too hot

that’s what u look like drunk ??

no. come home right now.

i wanna be the only one who sees u like this

You grinned, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

You:

not drunk yet 😋

E:

can you come home now pls?

i can't take others seeing u like that

i'm picking u up

the kids miss u

come home and let me take care of you

i wanna take care of you when you’re drunk

You stared at the screen, a little smirk tugging at your mouth. Heart all gooey and stupid. God, she was such a loser.

Another message lit up.

E:

but go on

have fun

i understand this is all part of dating someone pretty like u

You scrunched your nose, fingers already moving.

You:

awww baby shut up

no one else gets me stupid like you do

they can stare all they want

but you’re the one i go home to 😌💋

E:

good

don’t kiss other girls pls ? xD

You:

courseeee

ttyl

💋

You locked your phone, grinning to yourself. The mirror caught your bright smile again.

God, you were down bad.

But you felt good. Buzzed in the right way, skin warm, head light. You weren’t about to let some clingy ex ruin the night for you—not when you looked like this, not when the air felt this electric.

You adjusted your shirt half-heartedly, let your hair fall where it wanted, then reached for the doorknob with a smirk.

You unlocked the door, pulling it open to find Ellie leaning against the wall just beside it, phone in hand. The soft glow from the screen lit up her face, catching on the curve of her smile.

The music downstairs thudded louder now, flooding the hallway again.

She glanced up when she saw you. Straightened a little. Her eyes dropped down to your body—just for a second—before meeting yours again.

“Hey,” you said loudly, grinning. “Let’s go back downstairs.”

Ellie gave a small nod, tucking her phone into her pocket as she pushed off the wall.

“You good now?” she asked, voice a bit low and husky.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Never better.”

Ellie fell into step beside you as you started walking back down the hall, the two of you brushing shoulders once.

“What about your ex?” she asked, voice low, almost amused.

You scoffed. “He can do whatever he wants. I didn’t come here for him.”

Ellie glanced sideways at you, a crooked smile twitching at her lips. “No?”

You turned your head, smirking. “Duh.”

Right then, someone rushed past—barely looking where he was going. A splash of cold hit your side as the drink in his hand tipped, spilling across your already damp shirt.

“Seriously?” you muttered, looking down. The wet spot clung colder than before. You patted at it uselessly, annoyed.

The guy tossed a lazy “my bad!” over his shoulder and disappeared down the hall.

You sighed. “Drunk boys.”

Ellie didn’t say anything at first. Her eyes followed the guy as he stumbled off, then flicked back to you—pausing on your shirt for a beat before she cleared her throat.

Then, casually, she slid off her jacket. “Here.”

You raised a brow. “What’s that for?”

She held it out. “Before someone else spills something on you again.”

You waved it off with a grin. “No need, I’m good.”

Ellie hesitated.

You tilted your head, playful. “What—trying to cover me up?”

Her mouth parted like she was about to respond—but you beat her to it, tugging the loose edge of your shirt back into place.

“It’s fine, seriously,” you said, flashing a grin. “Feels like you’re the only one looking anyway. And I’m starting to think you like the view.”

That made her blink. She scoffed softly, shaking her head, but the flush creeping up her neck said plenty.

You turned, already heading back toward the stairs, tossing a wink over your shoulder. “Come on, Williams. Try to keep up.”

The bass had thudded through the floor, pulsing straight through your legs as you moved a little quicker down the stairs, the song blasting loud—something synthy and bold that made your heart beat in time with it.

Behind you, Ellie had called out, “Don’t move so fast.”

You’d glanced up just as you hit the last step, tilting your head back at her. “What?”

She’d been halfway down, steady, careful, her hand brushing the railing. The music had swallowed your voice, so you raised it.

“I said—what?”

Ellie had shaken her head, eyes rolling a little, but there’d been a smile tugging at her mouth, trying not to let it win.

The thump of the song had gotten louder as you pushed back toward the billiard table. Everything had been darker now, all red-and-gold haze. The overhead lights were gone—maybe someone had turned them off on purpose—but the glow from the string bulbs and that lava lamp in the corner had been enough to see by.

The house had been packed. People were laughing too hard at nothing, leaning too close to be casual. The air had been hot, sticky with heat and alcohol, and the edge of your buzz had turned a little giddy again.

You grabbed a bottle off the counter and sank onto the edge of the sofa near the billiard table. The cushion gave under your weight, still warm from whoever sat there last.

Across the room, a group of guys play pool like there’s a trophy on the line.

Ellie trailed behind, hovering for a second before sitting beside you.

You held out the bottle with a raised brow. “Want some?”

She glanced at it, then shook her head. “I’m good.”

You shrugged. “More for me, then—”

But before the bottle reaches your lips, her hand slips in and takes it straight from yours.

You blinked, caught off guard, watching as she drank it without saying a word.

“Thought you were good,” you said, laughing a bit.

Ellie leaned back slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Changed my mind.”

The room pulsef around you—saturated in red and gold, the music heavy and constant. You felt it under your skin.

You glanced at her for a while—longer than you meant to.

She didn’t notice at first, too focused on the game, the bottle resting loosely in her grip. Her jaw was tight, lashes catching the red-gold light.

She looked good like that. Kinda hot.

Your eyes dropped to her mouth before you caught yourself, heart kicking a little faster as you glanced away.

You shifted on the couch, letting your knee brush against hers, feeling the warmth creeping up from somewhere deeper than the alcohol.

You cleared your throat, watching as the guys at the table started arguing over a missed shot. One shoved the other, laughing, before the group wandered off, taking their chaos with them.

You scoffed softly. “Wanna play?”

Ellie glanced over. “Billiards?”

You nodded, trying to keep it casual. “Unless you’re scared.”

She arched a brow, amused. “Of losing?”

“Of me.”

Ellie smirked, pushed off the couch, and set the bottle down on the nearest table.

You were already standing, a little unsteady, grinning at her. “Let’s make it interesting.”

She raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“Loser takes a shot,” you said, eyes gleaming. “Come on. Don’t be soft.”

Ellie hesitated just a second too long—like she wanted to say something else—but the look you gave her made her sigh, amused. “Alright. But just one.”

You cocked your head. “Scared already?”

She rolled her eyes, grabbed a cue stick, and twirled it once before stepping toward the table. The music throbbed louder and heavier.

You followed, your heart syncing with the bass, beat for beat.

People had started to crowd around, some watching, some dancing, the air thick with smoke and spilled drinks. You grabbed a stick from the rack and moved to the other side of the table, grinning as you leaned down to break.

You chalked your cue with dramatic flair—pure show—but your aim was off. The cue ball barely clipped the edge of the triangle and sank a single striped.

Ellie watched from the other end, mouth twitching like she was trying not to laugh.

Then she stepped forward, bent low, and broke with a sharp crack—clean, loud, and confident. Two solids dropped like nothing.

You blinked. “Okay. What the hell was that?”

She shrugged, all casual. “Guess I’m good at stuff.”

You narrowed your eyes. “No one’s casually that good.”

She just shrugged before sinking another. Smooth and effortless.

You leaned back against the edge, arms crossed, watching her with a squint. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

She didn’t even look up. “You’re the one who challenged me.”

“And you’re the one who’s apparently a secret pool monster.”

Finally, she glanced at you, eyes glinting under the red-gold glow. “You said loser takes a shot, right?”

You scoffed. “Yeah, and I think I just sealed my fate.”

She lined up again, slow and sure. “Might as well pour it now.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting a grin. “Keep talking like that and I might pour us both one.”

Ellie smirked, not breaking eye contact as she leaned over the table, cue steady in her hands. “You wouldn’t dare.”

You tilted your head. “Wanna bet?”

She lined up the shot, lips twitching like she was trying not to smile—and sank another ball, clean and smooth.

You let out a groan, grabbing the nearest bottle and unscrewing the cap. “You’re obnoxious.”

Ellie stepped back, cue resting against her shoulder. “You challenged me.”

You raised the bottle, letting it hover over the rim of a plastic cup. “Yeah, well—I’m challenging you again. Winner takes a shot this time.”

Ellie quirked a brow. “That’s not how winning works.”

You shrugged, already pouring. “Yeah, well. I'm tipsy and I make the rules.”

She watched you for a beat, something amused and soft in her eyes.

You handed her a full cup. “No backing out now, Williams.”

Ellie took it slowly, fingers brushing yours for a second too long. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The music behind you shifted. A family familiar beat, much louder.

“God, I love this song,” you murmured, already moving your hips a little, tipsy joy radiating off you.

She took the shot like it was nothing, barely even wincing as it went down. You watched her, eyes narrowing a little—not just because she handled it better than you ever could, but because she looked unfairly good doing it.

“Okay, now we’re even,” you said, grabbing your cue again. “Back to losing gracefully.”

Ellie smirked. “Speak for yourself.”

You rolled your eyes and took your turn—this time, a lucky one. One striped ball sunk clean into the corner. You gasped, triumphant, raising your arms like you'd just hit a buzzer-beater.

Ellie clapped, slow and sarcastic. “A miracle.”

“Shut up,” you grinned, eyes glittering as you lined up another. “I’m making my comeback.”

You missed completely.

Ellie didn’t even hide her laugh this time. “Inspiring,” she muttered, stepping in again.

Her shot was perfect. Of course.

You leaned back, cup in hand, watching as she moved around the table—cool, steady, casual in a way that made your stomach flip. Her shirt shifted as she bent forward, and you looked away before you stared too long.

“You know,” you called over the music, “you’re really annoying when you’re good at things.”

“Aw, thanks,” she said flatly, not looking up.

Another ball sank.

The crowd behind you had mostly shifted away, drawn back into the music or to whatever chaos was happening by the patio doors. It was just the two of you now, a half-empty bottle and a cup between you, the light flickering red over Ellie’s face.

You let out a small breath, arms folded lazily across your chest. The buzz was heavier now, in your limbs, your throat, your head.

So you just… watched. Let her play.

She moved with that same quiet precision—focused, lowkey cocky in the way she leaned over the table, cue steady, eyes narrowed.

She looked hot like this, it almost annoyed you.

A guy suddenly stepped in, looking sober enough to ask for a match.

“Winner stays?” he asked, grinning at Ellie.

She hesitated, eyes flicking toward you.

You rolled your eyes, waving her off with a lopsided smile. “Go on, Williams. Defend your throne.”

Ellie squinted at you, clearly not loving the idea. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said.

She looked at you for a second longer, like she didn’t quite believe it, but then turned back to the game.

You stuck around, letting your back hit the nearest wall as you watched them play. Occasionally, you sipped from your cup—sweet, sharp heat sliding down your throat. Ellie never missed. Ball after ball, clean and controlled, giving the guy barely a chance.

Except once—right when she glanced your way.

You were already staring at her. A soft grin curling at your lips.

She muttered something under her breath—too low to catch—then shook her head as the guy lined up his only real shot.

You grinned wider, pleased with yourself.

You stayed there for awhile before you wandered toward the kitchen, grabbed another drink you probably didn’t need, then found yourself in the bathroom down the hall, dabbing cool water on your neck and cheeks. Your head was buzzing and too warm. Everything was a little floaty and pink.

When you stepped back into the hallway, Ellie was already there, waiting.

She looked at you for a moment. Her yes trailing over your flushed face, the slight wobble in your step, the faint glassiness in your eyes.

She let out a soft breath.

“Hey… you okay?” she asked again, voice lower this time.

“I’m great,” you said, slow and sure, even as your words almost slurred. You tilted your head, smiling all dumb and tipsy. “Did you win?”

“Yeah.”

You grinned at her. “Good. I don’t want you losing to some guy.”

Ellie huffed a soft laugh, rubbing the back of her neck.

You brushed past her, already heading down the hallway again. “Latch” was playing in the background, Sam Smith’s voice curling through the air like a memory.

“Oh my god, I love this song,” you said dreamily, half to yourself.

“Wait—what?” Ellie called after you, catching up with a few quick strides. “Don’t you need to sit down for a bit? How many did you have?”

You ignored her. Your fingertips trailed along the wall, that floaty warmth in your chest swelling with every lyric bleeding through the air. You looked over your shoulder with a teasing smile.

“Come on.”

Ellie slowed beside you, brow creased, eyes scanning your face like she was trying to figure out just how far gone you were. But there was something soft there, too. Maybe even amused.

Before Ellie could say anything else, a pack of rowdy guys burst through the hallway behind you, all hyped up and laughing as they started doing some train-line dance toward the back doors.

You barely had time to blink before Ellie’s hand was at your waist, tugging you gently aside.

“Careful,” she muttered, guiding you out of their path.

You stumbled a little with the sudden movement and ended up against the wall, your shoulder brushing cool plaster. Ellie stayed close—close enough that you could feel the warmth of her side next to yours, her hand lingering for a second longer than necessary.

The two of you stood there, side by side, watching the dance floor ahead in silence.

The glow from the string lights outside flickered through the patio doors, soft and uneven. The thrum of the song still pulsed beneath your feet.

Ellie said something beside you but you couldn’t hear a damn thing over the music.

You turned, brow raised. “What?”

She leaned in, her mouth just beside your ear, her perfume catching faintly.

“Do you wanna dance?” she asked, voice rough over the bass.

You tilted your head, grin already tugging at your lips. You leaned close to her ear, just enough for your breath to tickle. “Are you asking me to dance?”

Ellie pulled back an inch, smirking. She leaned in again, even closer this time. “No. Just saying that if you do wanna dance… I won’t be there with you.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes in mock offense. You leaned in, palm brushing her arm lightly as you whispered into her ear, “I don’t feel like dancing anyway.”

Ellie gave a quiet huff of laughter, her eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back up again.

You caught the flick of Ellie’s eyes down to your mouth, and it made something wicked curl in your chest. Drunk and warm and reckless, you smirked.

“Do you wanna fuck?” you asked, half-shouting over the music, teasing.

Ellie’s eyes went wide. “What?!”

You laughed, tossing your head back, “I’m kidding!!” you grinned at her.

Ellie shook her head, the tips of her ears red as she muttered something under her breath.

You laughed again, softer this time, but it came out more breath than sound.

Your smile faltered. The warmth in your chest turned heavy.

You blinked, frowning suddenly, one hand pressing lightly to your ribs like you could calm it down. “Shit,” you mumbled. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

Ellie straightened immediately. “Hey—hey, okay, come on,” she said, slipping her arm around your waist before you could even stumble.

Ellie helped you up the stairs, her arm still steady around your waist, guiding you toward the hallway. You managed to make it halfway before the next wave hit—sharp and sudden.

You stopped, hand flying to your mouth, the other gripping the wall beside you.

Your head dropped forward, eyes squeezing shut. The air felt heavy, like it was pressing down on your shoulders.

Ellie hovered beside you, silent but present, her hand resting lightly on your back.

After a moment, the feeling passed—mostly.

You let out a long breath and straightened slowly, leaning back against the wall, the cool paint grounding you.

“I’m fine,” you said quietly, not meeting her eyes at first.

Ellie moved to stand against the opposite wall, arms loosely crossed, watching you. “You sure?”

You gave a soft smile, rolling your eyes a little as you finally looked up at her. “Yeah. I’m not that gone.”

Ellie didn’t respond, just watching you, her face unreadable in the low purple hallway light.

Downstairs, Latch still playing, the bass just a faint thrum beneath your feet now. Like memory. Like déjà vu.

You stared at Ellie for a second, something tugging at the edge of your chest. The light from the stairwell tinted her skin, softened the space between you.

“Do you wanna know something?” you asked suddenly, voice low.

Ellie raised her eyebrows, tilting her head slightly—wary now, remembering what you said earlier, unsure whether to shake her head or nod.

“I kissed a girl before,” you said, your gaze unfocused, drifting just past her shoulder. “To this exact song.”

You breathed out a laugh that didn’t feel like one. “We were fifteen. At this party thing, kind of like this. She pulled me outside and kissed me when this came on.”

You looked at her now. “She was my first.”

And hopefully not the last.

Your mind drifted, landing somewhere familiar.

On E.

The girl who got to know every version of you without ever seeing you in person. The one you told things you hadn’t even said out loud before. Who asked questions gently. Who stayed up late just to talk.

The girl who felt safe. Soft in a way that wasn’t just flirting—it was understanding.

You swallowed, pulse fluttering.

You didn’t say any of that. You just leaned your head back against the wall, the music humming through your ribs.

Your eyes settled on Ellie.

She stood right there in front of you, her brows drawn just slightly like she was trying to read you. Lit by dim hallway light and a song that had already carved itself into your memory once.

She looked worried. Not just in a you might throw up on me kind of way, but something quieter. Like she knew something you didn’t.

Like she was watching you chase a thought she’d already caught.

And maybe that was what made her feel so real in that moment.

And maybe the closest you’d ever get to having E at all.

That thought alone was enough to make your head spin.

The music thrummed through the floorboards. Your body remembered this song the way your heart remembered E’s messages. The softness. The teasing. The way she made you feel like she knew you, even through a screen.

You swallowed hard.

Because you remembered what Ellie said at the library that day, too.

The way Ellie’s voice cut through your thoughts so casually.

Your stomach turned. Not in a bad way. In that horribly fluttery way. The way it had back then, when your brain had first started making connections it had no business making.

E. Ellie.

The timing.

The sarcasm.

The way she said it—too smooth, like she knew what she was doing.

And you’d told yourself it was ridiculous.

But then… wasn’t that exactly how E flirted? Smooth. Confident in a way that snuck up on you. The kind of teasing that made your knees weak and your mouth dry.

You remembered thinking, That’s not Ellie. Ellie’s not like that.

But now… standing here, drunk and warm and wrecked under the pressure of her gaze, you weren’t so sure anymore.

Because maybe you didn’t know Ellie like you thought you did.

And maybe that was the problem.

You didn’t know if it was the alcohol, the song, or just the way Ellie was looking at you right now, like she already knew what you were about to say.

Your pulse picked up.

Somewhere beyond the walls, the music swelled again. Clearer now, and louder. Like the whole house was leaning in too.

I feel we're close enough…

You blinked, heart thudding. Ellie hadn’t moved. She was still watching you.

I wanna lock in your love..

Your lips parted, the air too thick and warm. Your hands twitched where they hung at your sides.

I think we're close enough…

The words echoed through the hallway, slow and sticky, wrapping around you like heat.

Could I lock in your love, baby…

“I think…” you swallowed, voice soft, barely audible above the throb of bass, “I think I wanna do it again.”

Ellie didn’t say anything. Her expression didn’t even shift. She just looked at you. And for a second, the space between you buzzed with something you couldn’t name.

Now I've got you in my space…

You leaned in.

I won’t let go of you…

No plan. No thinking. Just instinct, and warmth, and that stupid song crashing in your chest.

Your lips pressed to hers, quick, uncertain, too drunk to be graceful but not drunk enough to pretend you didn’t mean it.

_

You woke up with a pounding headache.

The room was familiar—sunlight spilling through pale curtains, soft and quiet. You’d been here before.

You shifted, the sheets cool against your skin—bare skin.

Your eyes shot open.

You were naked under the covers.

Your heart kicked up. You turned your head slowly.

You were in Ellie’s room.

tag list:

@eclipcee8 @darkdanixoxo @chappellroankisser @senjukawaragitr @saverdelrey @appleofmyii @wzcoffeefloomo @fatbootymuncher @oneinameliann @ilahrawr @spiderx18 @vampirq @ff4mi @ggutpunch @ellies-dinosaur @butchchase @bambiaches @velvetinkbym @rhian88 @azxteria @yxsmina @zaunite-516 @sweetshrew @eriiwaiii2 @bluminescent-moon @elliespotion @mascspleasegetmepregnant @dykeissih @babydoll-ivory @summerdaysout @tiedinbows @eilishfike @vixenkii @angelsglitch @vanpalmertruther @mikellie @re1daway @irysque @notkyleelol @the-sick-habit @autisticratbagtm @elliepoems @fragilevampirr @crucifiedfem @abbyandcaitlover @lovewitchss @soltwent @punchandjudy @yuripilledfemme @shadowybasementmiracle

[ch6douin]

texting loser!ellie that you have n!pple piercing in class 4

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

masterlist

You were already home when you opened your conversation with her.

E:

i have to tell you something.

You frowned the second your eyes landed on it.

You were already curled into bed—fresh from the shower, hair damp against your neck, oversized shirt slouching soft over your thighs. The room was dim, lit only by the weak orange buzz of your fairy lights. That Friday exhaustion still clung to your bones, but none of it mattered.

You were settled. Cozy and warm in bed.

There was nothing better than the thought of spending the whole weekend like this—no plans, no noise. Just your room, your phone, and her.

Something about the message hit different. Not her usual caps-locked chaos or horny emoji spiral. It was plain and sharp. Hanging in the air like a loaded pause.

You stared at it longer than you meant to, thumb hovering.

You:

heyyyy

yeah?

what is it

You watched the read receipt appear, vanish, then return—followed by the word Typing, then nothing, then Typing again, like she was wrestling with whatever it was she couldn’t quite say.

E:

nevermind lol it’s dumb

just had a brain moment

u ever think a thing and go wait no i’m actually insane?

that was me. carry on.

You stared and your frown lingered.

There was something in it. Something unfinished, like she’d swallowed the thought halfway. It pressed at your chest—not hard, but enough to make you pause.

You let it sit there and tapped your thumb slow against the screen.

You:

don’t do that

if it mattered to you, it’s not dumb.

A beat and you double texted her.

You:

but fine. i’ll stop bugging

just tell me when ur ready

even if it’s weird

i like weird

E:

okay but what if it was like “i was possessed by a sexy ghost” weird

or “i’ve been thinking about ur mouth for 5 days straight” weird

bc that’s the category i’m working in rn

You snorted, the knot in your chest loosening instantly.

You:

girl what

E:

this is ur fault.

ur criminally hot and i’m emotionally unstable.

i almost sent u a poem today and had to physically restrain myself

You:

wait u wrote me a poem???

E:

no one’s ever gonna see it

unless i die then u can publish it posthumously

You rolled onto your side, laughing into your pillow, smiling so hard it made your face ache.

You:

SO how was ur day, poet

other than spiraling over my mouth

did the tragic lesbian survive algebra?

E:

barely

i almost died. they tried to silence me.

i doodled boobs on my notes again. staying humble.

You:

u say that like it’s a coping mechanism

E:

it is. ur boobs specifically

You snorted again, tension bleeding out of you with every stupid message that followed.

You:

do u miss them ??

should i send u some again so u can cope better?

E:

don’t tempt me rn i’m weak and unsupervised

You:

so that’s a yes

E:

that’s an always

You bit your lip, grinning into your pillow like an idiot.

She was back to herself—unhinged and dramatic, talking about how her math teacher was probably a demon who fed on the dreams of students. Complete with all-caps outbursts and at least two conspiracy theories. You kept laughing.

Eventually, your thumbs started to cramp.

You:

i swear my thumbs are buff now bc of u

E:

hot

You:

everything i say u turn into gay

E:

it's given

You bit your lip. Your heart thumped—stupid and full.

You didn’t ask again about the message. You didn’t have to. Whatever she’d meant to say, she clearly couldn’t yet.

You stayed texting until your phone went warm in your palm, until your eyes stung from staring at your phone too long. By the time you checked the clock, it was 3AM.

You didn’t mean to stay up that late, but that’s what always happened with her. The later it got, the more chaotic the messages became. If it wasn’t full-blown unhinged, it was weirdly horny. And if it wasn’t horny, it got accidentally deep—like two sleep-deprived idiots trying to figure out the meaning of life between memes and finger-smash typing.

You:

do u ever wonder what we’d be like if we met in real life?

or would we combust instantly?

You barely had time to brace for whatever ridiculous answer that would get when your phone buzzed again—this time from a different notification.

From Ellie.

You blinked at the name—Ellie, already saved in your phone—and still typed:

You:

who is this?

Ellie:

It’s Ellie. From school.

A faint smirk tugged at your lips.

You:

i know

Ellie:

Just wanted to let you know I’m starting the draft for our project. It’s nothing serious, just bullet points. I figured I’d organize ideas before Monday.

You stared at her message, already smiling, not even knowing why.

You:

you couldn’t tell me that earlier in class??

Ellie:

I didn’t think of it until now.

Also I'm still awake, so.

You:

why r u still up anyway ?

Ellie:

I wanted to be productive while the ideas were still fresh.

You snorted.

You:

nerd.

Ellie:

Sure.

You paused, going back at your other chat. E hadn’t replied yet. Your thumb hovered, tempted to double text.

But right before you did—

E:

sorry went blank for a sec i was picturing how u say my name in a whisper lol anyway what were we even talking about

You laughed out loud, the sound muffled into your pillow.

You:

do u want me dead

E:

yes but like sexily

Another buzz.

Ellie:

Let me know if you’d rather read the notes now or wait for Monday. Either way works.

You laid your phone on your chest for a second, staring at the ceiling. One of them wanted to die at your hands. The other was politely offering to share bullet points at 3AM.

And just like that—when you’re happy, when it’s fun—time moved stupidly fast.

The hallway pulsed with the usual Monday mess—shuffling sneakers, lockers clanging shut, someone already yelling, and of course, that one kid running like it’s a sport.

You felt obnoxiously good for a Monday. The kind of good that only came from two straight days of texting someone who made your brain feel like soda bubbles. You were still carrying a smile that hadn’t fully faded since 3AM.

You suddenly spotted Ellie standing at her locker, blue flannel shrugged over her usual black tee, one side of her hair still sleep-creased. Headphones rested around her neck. She looked a little worn—like sleep hadn’t been a priority. Like someone who’d stayed up too late doing something they didn’t regret.

You didn’t stop walking. You drifted right up beside her locker, leaned against the one next to it like you had all the time in the world.

She didn’t look at you at first—shifting her books with one hand, nudging her sketchpad into place. Her fingers lingered at the edge of a notebook. The one she said she started drafting in.

Finally, a glance. Quick and dry before she let out a heavy a sigh.

You smirked at her reaction, tilting your head like you were observing something mildly amusing.

“So,” you said. “How was your weekend?”

Ellie didn’t answer right away. She reached deeper into the locker like she was debating throwing herself inside it.

“Quiet,” she said without looking at you.

You raised your brows. “That’s it?”

She shoved a pencil case into her bag and shut the locker with a dull thud. “What do you want me to say? I spent it drafting our project.”

You leaned in slightly, voice lowering. “Mm. So productive.”

She rolled her eyes. “I can’t help it if you’re easily impressed.”

“Who said I was impressed?” you shot back, one brow raised. “I’m just asking.”

Ellie adjusted the strap of her guitar case on her shoulder, finally meeting your eyes. “Right. You’re just asking. Because you care deeply about how I spent my weekend.”

You shrugged, unfazed. “Maybe I do.”

That got you a blink. A pause. Her gaze flicked over your face—just for a second too long.

You smiled, all teeth.

“Wanna guess how I spent mine?”

Ellie didn’t say anything—she just glanced away, too fast to be casual.

You tapped the locker with your knuckles, straightened up slowly. “See you in class, Williams.”

And with that, you walked off and didn’t look back.

But if you had, you might’ve caught the exact moment Ellie muttered under her breath—barely audible over the hallway noise.

“Jesus Christ.”

You slipped into your usual seat, still warm from your walk through the halls and encounter with Ellie. One of your friends tossed a lazy “hey,” but you barely glanced up—already pulling your phone out, screen lighting up with that soft blue glow.

You:

wakey wakey

i’m already in class

don’t blame me again if you end up being late, poet

Your grin was immediate. You bit it back behind your palm, thumbs still hovering when someone cleared their throat right beside you.

You looked up.

Ellie.

You didn’t hide your expression—still smiling like a dumbass, phone in hand.

“Yeah?” you asked, one brow raised.

She was holding out the notebook. The one she told you about. She didn’t quite meet your eyes.

“Just—here,” she muttered, placing it down in front of you.

Your gaze dropped to the familiar cover, then back to her.

You smiled wider. “Thanks. I’ll look over it later.”

She nodded, quiet. “Cool.”

She turned without another word and made her way to her own seat. You tapped the corner of the notebook with your fingers, still smiling.

Your phone buzzed.

E:

why are u like this

i was gonna be late but now i’m getting up just to annoy u

also maybe to see what u look like in class all smug and pretty

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.

You:

haha u wish

i wish u were my classmate for real tho

i can only think of many things 👀

E:

what things ??

You:

idk

maybe like… we’d be seatmates

and i wouldn’t wear any undies on purpose

Three dots appeared immediately. It vanished and came back again.

E:

ok well. i just flatlined in my desk chair.

thanks a lot

You:

just trying to motivate u to get to school on time

E:

I'M ALREADY AT SCHOOL BRUH

i am not responsible for the thoughts i’m having rn

You grinned, legs curled up in your chair, heart stupidly light.

You:

am i making u…?

right now?

Typing..

E:

ma’am this is a public institution

You:

answer the question :)

E:

let’s just say i’m sitting very still rn

and ur going to hell. congrats.

You bit back another grin so hard your cheeks hurt.

You:

worth it.

E:

i hate u

Your thumb hovered over the screen, still smiling like a complete idiot as the bell rang.

You:

ur really gonna hate me when i say

i’m not even wearing a bra rn

E:

YOU’RE A MENACE

i hope you’re proud of yourself for what you're doing to me

You:

just a little

E:

really huh

if i were ur seatmate

i’d sit too close

thighs touching, shoulder to shoulder

and i’d keep dropping my pen just to bend down and grab it

and yk

You:

AND I KNOW WHAT?

GO ON I BEG U

okay actually u don’t need to

because i already am..

E:

good.

that’s what you deserve.

you wanna play? let’s play.

You:

idc it was all worth it

every damn single time

Your phone buzzed again, and you bit back another grin.

E:

UR INSANE

You:

okay well tytl nerd

class starts

but thank u i guess for giving me something to think about while i touch myself tonight

or maybe right after this class ;)

The projector flickered to life, casting a soft blue wash across the room as your chemistry teacher launched into a barely-interested explanation about covalent bonds. His pointer smacked against the periodic table.

You weren’t paying attention.

Half the class had already mentally checked out, slumped behind their notebooks, faces lit faintly by hidden phones. You leaned back in your seat and slid Ellie’s notebook toward you.

At the top of the page, in painfully neat handwriting, was your dumb story idea—now fully structured like an actual outline. Titles. Bullet points. Narrative arcs. Ellie had taken your chaotic pitch last week and turned it into something real. Polished and thoughtful. Like she was submitting it to a literary journal instead of indulging your late-night ramblings about tragic childhood friends and unresolved feelings.

You blinked at it.

It was so sincere. So controlled and so much like Ellie. And of course, you ruined it immediately.

You clicked your pen and started scribbling into the margins, punching holes in her emotional realism with chaotic commentary and increasingly unhinged suggestions. You added scandal. Tension. Betrayal-by-juice-box. A questionable janitor closet moment. A rain scene. Then topped it off with a dramatic doodle of two stick figures making out under a thundercloud—complete with labeled outcomes depending on whether she or you won the creative direction.

You passed it across the aisle to a classmate with a muttered, “Can you pass this to Ellie?”

She opened it three seats over.

You caught the moment her eyes skimmed the page. The visible sigh. The way her pen was already uncapped before she finished exhaling.

The notebook came back a minute later—now thoroughly crammed with dry corrections, passive-aggressive arrows, and tiny-lettered threats. She rejected every one of your chaotic additions with the weary exhaustion of someone dealing with a very annoying co-writer.

One line, nearly hidden in the corner, was scribbled in all-caps like it needed to defend her honor: “I’M NOT A SOFTIE.” Clearly a direct response to the note you’d left in the margin—something obnoxious like “you’re such a softie for this” with an arrow pointing to her emotionally devastating third act.

Another promised to switch partners if you didn’t shut up.

You tried not to laugh, biting your lip hard to hold it in.

She was impossible.

You flipped to a new page and added one final scene heading—something ridiculous, something glitter-related—and underlined it like a challenge. The notebook was slid back to her again, silent this time.

You didn’t watch her read it, but you felt her reaction.

Ellie rubbed her temple like she regretted every life decision that had led her to this moment. Her fingers hovered over the notebook like she wasn’t sure if she should keep reading or toss it across the room. Eventually, she just shut it with a slow, existential sigh.

And then—she looked at you.

You met her gaze across the dim classroom, light from the projector flickering across her face. Her head tilted. Her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile or something.

You tapped your nails lightly against the desk and raised a brow.

She shook her head—small and quiet, almost resigned—looking away like she couldn’t risk letting you see the smile tugging at her mouth.

Time blurred.

Class, lunch, class again—standard Monday drag. Nothing special. Just the usual shuffle between subjects and half-awake conversations that barely counted as human interaction.

Now, you were in the library for your last period. Final class of the day. The room was quiet in that stiff, almost sacred way libraries get—like if you breathed too loud, someone would smite you.

Ms. Alvarez, who walked in balancing a thick binder and a tired expression. She barely made it past the first five minutes before clearing her throat and announcing, “Alright, class. I have a faculty meeting in ten. You’re allowed to continue working on your project in pairs, but you must stay in the classroom or within school premises. No one leaves early. Understood?”

You were sitting across from Ellie. She was fully immersed in whatever she was typing on her laptop—jaw tight, brows drawn, fingers moving like she was coding national security protocols instead of organizing character arcs.

You tried to match her energy for a grand total of three minutes before your attention span gave out completely.

Your gaze dropped to the window. From the second-floor view, you could see a couple of students loitering around the quad, stretched out across benches and grass. Someone was dramatically eating a banana. You didn’t know why that annoyed you.

Without thinking, you reached for your phone.

Few unread messages.

E:

WHAT THE FUCK

IF UR GOING TO TELL ME SOMETHING LIKE THAT IN CLASS AT LEAST LET ME WATCH

FOR COMPENSATION

jk

but yes?

You bit your lip hard—so hard it almost hurt—not wanting to smile in front of Ellie. You slipped the phone away like it burned, then reached toward her side of the table.

She didn’t look up when you slid her notebook over, flipping straight to the page.

Possible Story Structure – v1.0

You stared at it for a beat. Then made a face.

“This is so boring,” you muttered.

Ellie kept typing. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious. This is criminal. Look at this—no dramatic kisses? No one cries? This is actual villain behavior.”

“They’re just notes,” she said without looking up.

“They’re rules. And they suck.”

“They’re guidelines,” she corrected, finally glancing your way. “And they exist because someone—you—suggested glitter-induced closet sex as a turning point.”

You just rolled your eyes and jabbed your pen at the “Maybe a forehead touch??” line. “This. Right here. What is this. This is loser behavior.”

“It’s called restraint.”

You let out the fakest gasp imaginable. “Loser and pretentious.”

Ellie leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “You want them crying in the rain after a juice box incident.”

“Because that’s real storytelling, Ellie.”

“You literally renamed the central conflict The Tragic Juice Box Betrayal of 7th Grade.”

“It was a betrayal. And it was orange. It stained. It’s metaphorical. You just don't understand.”

You were staring back at each other.

You leaned forward just a little. “Also, I know you already sketched the supply closet scene in the margin of your notebook.”

“That was a box,” she said flatly. “It was a literal box.”

“Sure,” you said, unconvinced.

Ellie pinched the bridge of her nose like she was trying to summon patience from another plane of existence.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered.

“You’re just repressed.”

She blinked. “Says the girl blushing at her phone two minutes ago.”

You froze.

Ellie tilted her head, a little too smug. “Hmm?”

You cleared your throat. “That’s classified.”

She smirked—barely. “Suspicious.”

Shaking your head, you slid the notebook back toward her. “Fix your outline before I submit a new draft with a title you won't really like.”

She rolled her eyes casually, shaking her head as she went back typing to her laptop.

You leaned back in your chair—annoyed, stretching a little before grabbing your phone again—this time not even pretending to be sneaky about it.

Ellie didn’t look up, but you could feel her noticing.

You opened your chat with E, thumb already moving.

You:

i’m literally sitting across from the most insufferable person alive

she’s so bossy and uptight and acts like she’s above dramatic plotlines

like okay sorry i want EMOTION in my fake scenarios??? sue me???

she actually said “restraint” like it was a flex. loser behavior actually.

You smirked, shot a glance up, then kept typing.

You:

also she keeps pretending she didn’t sketch the closet scene

it was OBVIOUSLY not just a box

You huffed quietly, shifting in your seat. Ellie was still typing—completely zoned in, not looking at you.

You looked back down at your screen.

You:

she’s doing that thing again

getting all serious like we’re submitting this to sundance

like relax. it’s two fictional lesbians and a tragic juice box. let me work.

You paused for a beat, then kept going.

You:

WHATEVER

idk. don’t wanna argue about it

i just wanna talk to you

remember what i said before about making out in the nonfiction aisle?

i’m here at the library ;)

i can imagine our kiss

HOT

i'll have you finger me 'till I cum and my legs shake

and we go back to class like nothing happened

You stared at the message for a second, then laughed under your breath and set your phone down on the table, face-down. You suddenly felt silly—teasing, sure, but also a little giddy. Like you were getting away with something. Especially with Ellie right in front of you, looking like the literal opposite of whatever that text had just suggested.

She was still focused. Her MacBook open, her hand flicking her pen across the margins of her notebook. The light hit her rings again. She was chewing her bottom lip.

You grabbed your pen and started doodling in the corner of your notes. Hearts, stars, little lesbian stick figures making out beside bookshelves.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught something—Ellie’s posture had shifted. Her brow furrowed deeper, her eyes narrowed at the screen.

Then she bit her lip again, harder this time. Her hand came up, fingers scratching just above her eyebrow like she was trying to stay grounded. Her expression pinched for a second—like she was trying to keep her face neutral and failing.

You glanced out the window instead. Golden light, slow-moving clouds. You imagined E, imagined her standing on the other side of this table, all smirking confidence and chaos. You smiled to yourself, tapping your pen twice before reaching back for your phone.

Still no reply.

You frowned a little and refreshed the app. Still nothing.

Right then, Ellie stood up.

You looked up immediately. “Where are you going?”

She didn’t meet your eyes. Just grabbed the edge of her chair like she needed to move. “Getting a book,” she muttered, already walking.

You blinked, confused. “You already have like, four.”

She didn’t answer and just walked off. You watched her disappear down the aisle, your phone still in your hand. Still no message from E.

The empty screen felt louder than it should’ve.

A few minutes passed and Ellie didn’t come back.

You tapped your fingers once against the table and got up, quietly making your way until the nonfiction aisle, farthest row in the back, where no one really went.

You found her there, tucked at the very end of the aisle, half-hidden behind the shelves. She was leaning slightly against them, phone in hand, her eyes fixed on the screen—expression unreadable, but her ears flushed just a little too pink to ignore.

She didn’t notice you right away.

But the second she did, she quickly lowered her phone and reached for a nearby book, flipping it open like she’d been studying the whole time.

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Weird.

You glanced at the shelves around you, trying not to smile—because of course it had to be this aisle. The same one you’d texted E about, half-joking, half-not.

“What’s funny?” Ellie asked without looking up, now looking so serious.

“Nothing,” you said, too fast.

“Really?” Her tone was dry, eyes still on the page.

You grabbed a random book from the shelf and flipped it open. “I just remembered something.”

“Uh huh.” She said it flatly, like she didn’t buy it.

You sighed and rolled your eyes. But you didn’t answer her. You turned another page, pretending to read.

Ellie shifted beside you, thumbing through her own book.

“What are you even doing in the nonfiction aisle?” you asked, still not looking up. “It’s not like we’re writing nonfiction.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Well, actually… sometimes good fiction pulls from nonfiction. Real stories. Background stuff. It makes things feel more grounded.”

You peeked over the edge of your book. “Okay, nerd.”

She shrugged. “Just saying.”

You didn’t respond, but your thoughts were anything but neutral.

Okay sorry I'm just here because I’ve been thinking about making out with someone against these shelves for three days straight.

You stared down at the page—something about memory and neural pathways—but none of it stuck.

Your mouth twitched into a grin again. E’s dumb chaotic message echoed in your head.

You couldn’t wait to talk to her again tonight.

You glanced up.

Ellie was still there, head tilted slightly, lips parted in concentration, bathed in soft afternoon light spilling through the high windows.

She looked unreal. Sharp in some ways. Gentle in others.

She wasn’t even trying. Her flannel sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and her hair was half-messy like she’d forgotten to fix it after leaning against her hand too long. A strand curled near her cheek. Her rings caught the light again when she shifted the book. And her mouth—soft, slightly parted as she read—moved just a little when she wet her lips without thinking.

“Actually…” you started, voice light. “Can I ask you something?”

Ellie didn’t look up. “What?”

You waited a beat. “Have you ever thought about making out with someone in the library?”

That got her attention.

Her head lifted slowly, like she wasn’t sure she heard you right. “What?”

You grinned, tilting your head. “I mean—have you ever thought about it? Like. Right here. This exact aisle.”

Ellie blinked once. “Do you mean making out with someone who’s… here in the library?”

Her voice had a weird edge. Something unreadable.

You scoffed, playful. “No. Just—like. Making out with someone in a library. Someone you like. A girl or whatever.”

She blinked again. Then scoffed lightly like you’re ridiculous.

“No.”

You frowned. “Why not?”

She leaned her shoulder against the shelf. “Why would I make out with someone here?” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s the library.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, well—where would you bring them if you wanted to make out with them?”

That made her pause.

You watched her carefully.

She stared at you, then down at the book in your hands.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered.

You grinned. “That’s not an answer.”

She sighed and turned the page, trying to ignore you. “Not everyone makes out in public places, you know.”

“Yeah,” you said, shutting your book and letting it hang at your side. “But it’s fun to think about.”

She looked at you again.

“And you think about it a lot?” she asked, voice casual—but not quite.

“Yeah.” You shrugged. “I do.” You added, a smirk playing in your lips.

Ellie exhaled slowly, her eyes flicking up to your face, lingering. You could almost feel her gaze pause on your mouth for a second too long.

Then she shook her head, barely, like she was trying to snap herself out of it.

Without another word, she turned and walked off, heading back toward your table with quick, quiet steps—like she needed to leave before she did something she’d regret.

tag list:

@eclipcee8 @darkdanixoxo @chappellroankisser @senjukawaragitr @saverdelrey @appleofmyii @wzcoffeefloomo @fatbootymuncher @oneinameliann @ilahrawr @spiderx18 @vampirq @mioluvzsevika @ff4mi @ggutpunch @ellies-dinosaur @butchchase @bambiaches @velvetinkbym @rhian88 @azxteria @yxsmina @zaunite-516 @sweetshrew @eriiwaiii2 @bluminescent-moon @elliespotion @mascspleasegetmepregnant @dykeissih @babydoll-ivory @summerdaysout @tiedinbows @eilishfike @vixenkii @wtvmOmO @angelsglitch @vanpalmertruther @mikellie @re1daway @irysque @notkyleelol @the-sick-habit @autisticratbagtm @burden-4-dina @elliepoems @fragilevampirr @crucifiedfem @abbyandcaitlover @lovewitchss @soltwent

[ch6douin]

seam

⚢ synopsis : you’re new to the salt-lake city’s st. mary hospital. ellie’s not. you were trained to make the stitches perfect. ellie was trained to save people—not to be saved. now you’re the one holding the needle.

⚢ paramedic!ellie × female!doctor!reader

⚢ content warning : mdni. hospital au. mild angst. mentions of violence and blood and injuries. medical procedures. hurt/comfort. reader comforts ellie.

⚢ word count : 7.3k

2 in 3 survey respondents (67%) reported having been physically assaulted while practicing EMS.

Nearly all (91%) respondents reported having been verbally assaulted while practicing EMS.

Studies indicate that approximately 10–15% of EMS personnel exhibit symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), significantly higher than the general population.

Verbal attacks, including graphic threats, racial slurs, and other language aimed to frighten or offend, are a regular occurrence in the field for EMS workers

‘show me where it hurts the most so i know where to love you the softest’

You watched her more times than you ever let yourself admit.

Different days blurred into each other—morning, night, pre-dawn greys—and still there she was; tens of patients slipped through her hands like fleeting shadows. Unless her fingers were curled around a half-crushed cigarette or a bitter hospital coffee cup stained the colour of dried blood. Sometimes both. Always both.

She left you standing there in the dim blue, the smell of wet asphalt curling around your ankles, wondering how many wounds those hands had closed—and how many remained open inside her own chest—as she disappeared into the siren-lit dark on her next call.

Your gaze lingered on her longer than it should.

The same ambulance every time, that battered box of rushing lights; the same crew—their driver’s laughter ricocheting off emergency bay walls loud enough to drown out her voice. And her—with that auburn hair twisted into a hasty half-bun, stray strands escaping from under her bandana. Some days it was navy blue, other days black with scattered stars. But you loved it most when she wore the graphite-grey one with small white moths drifting across the fabric like quiet thoughts she’d never say out loud.

Her uniform almost always blended into the dawn—that deep paramedic blue merging with the roads and gloom, leaving only the thin silver stripes of her reflective bands to catch your gaze as she moved. Sometimes, when calls ran late into the warm breath of morning, she’d shed the heavy jumpsuit and stand there in just a dark t-shirt, unfazed by the cold. That’s when you’d catch a glimpse of the ink coiling around her forearm, dark against pale skin—but never close enough to see what it was. Just another part of her you were never meant to read.

Her face at the end of a shift carved your chest open: something about the way she looked smoking alone in the shadowed break zone, eyes somewhere far beyond the fading streetlights, her shoulders lowered; something about her made the cigarette between your own fingers burn down to a silent column of ash, untouched.

It made you want to step closer. To inhale her exhaled smoke like oxygen. To taste the bitter brand of her cigarettes on your tongue. To rest your palm on the fragile cage of her ribs and count her pulse—measure her existence in quiet systoles and diastoles, one by one. To know, for a moment, that she was still there—when she looked like she wasn’t at all.

There was never enough time to say anything real. When you stepped outside for a quick respite between patients, she was already gone—flashlights fading into the damp dark. Circles of red, white, and blue. Blood, your med gown, and her uniform. Or she’d arrive just as you exhaled that last breath of smoke, pushing through the ambulance bay doors with someone clinging to life under her hands.

Your shifts never lined up the way you wished they would. Different clocks. Different doors. The most you could do was catch her shape in passing: the chestnut shade over the blue, elusive figure, the hasty gait of someone used to counting seconds of delay slipping into your memory like an impulse you couldn’t let go of. You didn’t know her, not really. But your eyes kept finding her all the same—like they owed her that small, quiet insistence of being seen.

She moved through your world like a passing siren—urgent, loud in her silence, and gone before you could even think of something to say. There was never space for words. Not when she was carrying someone’s life. Not when your pager screamed in your pocket, dragging you back to your own drowning patient.

That’s the thing about working in emergency. You’re always tending to the dying or running from them. There’s no pause for introductions. No quiet corners for first names or favourite songs. Just a glimpse of her, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, gloves pulled tight over long fingers, jaw set with that fierce, fragile concentration—and then she’s gone, swallowed by the next call, the next street, the next heartbeat that needed hers more than you did.

Habits, once carved deep into your bones by duty and routine, rarely changed. They hadn't changed. But sometimes, by some mercy of rosters and schedules, the world—St. Mary’s endless glass and steel corridors—gives you five minutes. Not a golden hour. Just a sliver of time sharp enough to split your morning in half.

It doesn’t even feel real. It feels like a cliché—the tired kind they romanticize in Grey’s Anatomy. You’ve never actually watched it, but somehow still hate it. You’re standing here now, leaning back against a concrete column outside the emergency bay, thumb bruising the empty plastic of a disposable lighter, flicking again and again with no spark. The filter of the cigarette clenched between your lips, the taste of stale paper and nicotine ghosting your tongue.

Then there is a spark.

“Hey, doc. Need some fire?”

Her voice comes from your left. She’s stepped up beside you, leaning with one shoulder against the wall like it’s the easiest thing, lazy and loose. From a distance, anyone would think she looks relaxed, almost careless—but now you’re close enough to see the grey shadow of exhaustion hollowed beneath her eyes, etched deep into the soft skin there, like bruises that no amount of sleep could heal.

It comes hoarse from the cold or the last call she took—you can’t tell. She holds out a lighter—metal, heavy, engraved with something you can’t read. For a second the world narrows to nothing but the flick of her thumb and the quiet hiss of flame.

You read her name stitched above her chest pocket—just ‘Ellie’. No surname. No hint at anything more. It tastes bittersweet, fitting her perfectly.

Her fingers smell of mint antiseptic, yours of lemon foam soap. You hate lemon. But you think you could get used to mint.

You cup your hands around hers to shield the flame from the restless wind, bending forward until the warmth of the fire kisses your cigarette. Ellie’s hands are coarse from gloves and cold air, fingertips split with small healing cracks. You know yours feel the same—dry, raw, the skin punished by constant scrubbing. The price of lives saved. The small one at this point, right?

“Thanks,” you murmur, exhaling smoke between words.

She flips the lighter closed with a soft metallic click. “No problem.”

Ellie shifts her weight against the column and adds, almost like an afterthought, her eyes still on the empty parking lot—yours on her.

“Tough night?”

You huff a quiet laugh, smoke curling past your lips. “Aren’t they all?”

She gives a small shrug, eyes flicking to yours briefly before returning to the street. Then she offers you a tiny smile in the corner of her mouth, the one that makes something in your chest ache.

“Damn, you’re right.”

One of her boots taps lightly against the concrete, a restless rhythm you can almost hear, or maybe it’s the subtle drumming of her fingers against the side of her thigh, marking out a beat only she knows.

You steal a glance at Ellie—a real glance, now that she’s close enough for the thin light to slip across her features. Freckles. Dozens of them, scattered rust-brown over pale skin like copper splinters against snow. It’s too cold for freckles to exist, with too little sun for them to burn so bright, but there they are—stubborn, vivid, almost defiant.

She’s shorter than you thought. Somehow, in your mind, she’d always loomed taller—maybe it was the way she carried herself, heavy with silent purpose. Her voice surprises you too. Softer than you imagined. Not rough or low or cutting like her jawline might suggest. Almost gentle. Almost boyish.

It’s hard to tell the color of her eyes. They’re narrowed against the dim dawn light, lashes casting shadows that break her gaze into fragments. Brown, maybe. Green. Hazel. You can’t tell, and somehow that feels right—like even her eyes refuse to give everything away.

Today she’s wearing a new bandana. Red—but not the red of ambulance lights or fresh arterial blood. It’s warmer and softer, like a cowboy’s neckerchief in an old western film, muted and worn by years of sun and grit. You know you’ll think of that red next time you peel off blood-soaked gloves in trauma bay three.

There’s a small silver stud piercing her brow, nestled into an old scar that cuts through it at an angle. Another mark of what she’s survived. Her forearm is inked with dark leaves and wings—you see it now, as clear as you see your own palms—curling over the ridge of another healed scar, half-hidden by her rolled-up uniform sleeve. She’s draped in fabric, metal, ink, and old wounds—all those layers wrapped tight around whatever truth lives underneath.

For the briefest, most fragile moment, you want to be someone allowed to touch what’s beneath all that steel.

Ellie moves beside you, pulling her lighter back into her pocket, and tugs at the thin wire disappearing under red fabric. You realize she’s wearing cheap wired earbuds, the kind you can buy for five bucks at a gas station, one dangling loose against her chest.

“Hey,” she says. “Want an ear?”

You blink at her. “What?”

She pulls out the free bud and offers it to you between calloused fingers. Up close, you hear the faint bleed of music from the bud—soft guitar and a woman’s voice, low and smoky, carrying something tired and tender in every note. It feels… intimate. Unexpectedly so. It’s like Ellie’s offering you a pulse from her own chest.

“You don’t have to,” she shrugs, almost embarrassed now. “Just… figured you might wanna hear something that isn’t alarms or screaming for a sec.”

You hesitate only for one blink before you take the earbud from her hand. Your fingers brush, bare skin against bare skin, and you move in closer to place it into your ear. Closer than you meant to. Closer than you’ve ever been. You can’t tell if it’s her quiet breath ghosting over the hollow of your throat or just the breeze slipping beneath the V-neck of your scrub top.

The music spills into you instantly—quiet guitar, a woman’s voice soft and hushed, singing words that make your chest tighten until it’s hard to breathe. Like she’s singing straight into your bones, to all the silent parts of you that never learned how to speak.

You’re staring at the ground, at the faded bloodstains on your clogs, at the faint reflection of ambulance lights in the rain-slick concrete. You don’t see that Ellie’s not looking at the parking lot anymore. She’s looking at you.

One of your eyes is always half-shut

Somethin' happened when you were a kid

I didn't know you then and I'll never understand

Why it feels like I did

You swallow around the sudden ache in your throat, pulse fluttering against the collar of your scrubs. The song feels too raw, too knowing. Like it’s been waiting there all along for this moment, for you to hear it beside her, breathing in the same bitter air.

You

You must've been lookin' for me

Sendin' smoke signals

Your eyes go wide. The smoke catches in your throat, sudden and thick, and you almost cough on it. It makes you wonder if Ellie hears it the same way. Wonder if that’s why she offered the earbud in the first place.

Her eyes catch yours—sharp, a little sly beneath those fiery lashes that flicker like embers. She hears it the same—it’s clear. Her thumb skims the edge of the lighter in her pocket, metal on metal. The frayed dirty-white wire between you isn’t the red string, of course. It’s more practical—more real. Like surgical suture, thin and strong enough to hold flesh together.

It hasn’t stitched you to her yet. But it’s tangled you both in the same knot, with the song that’s meant for this exact moment, for this exact pair of strangers.

Ellie’s lips curve into a small, knowing smile.

“Smoke signals, huh?” she says under her breath, almost teasing. “Fitting.”

Her gaze holds yours for a heartbeat longer—unspoken, but charged—before she finally looks away, leaving the space humming with what’s left unsaid. No explanation. No follow-up. Just a word left hanging between you.

It almost feels like there’s a world beyond the bay doors—a world where people touch each other softly, where music plays for no reason other than it existing, where your lungs don’t taste like smoke and antiseptic and grief.

But then the real doors hiss open again, snapping the illusion in two like a sterile package.

The pause, the one stretched thin between smoke and melody, burns down to the filter. The shared wire goes slack.

Somewhere behind Ellie, someone whistles—a sharp sound that slices through the air. You follow her gaze. There’s a woman with amazing hair and a man whose voice carries even across the parking lot. They’re waving. At her, of course. But maybe… at you too.

You raise a lazy salute back. Smile, almost despite yourself.

She doesn’t say goodbye. Neither do you. But something about the way she steps back, facing you the whole time—a little slower than necessary, the way her eyes stay locked on yours—makes it feel like a promise anyway. There’s a glint in her brow, a little silver catching the light, just like her smile does.

“You’re good company,” Ellie says, almost offhand, and you know you’ll hold onto it longer than you mean to.

Then she turns, and the two of them catch up to her. One throws an arm around her shoulder, says something with a grin. Ellie laughs. Bats him off. Teases back.

She doesn’t look back. But you’re certain—she knows you’re still watching.

Her eyes are green, you realize it now.

The day moves slowly.

Your shift unfolds in muted tones: a kitchen burn, a twisted ankle, a boy with a Lego up his nose who leaves beaming, popsicle in hand. It’s the kind of rhythm you almost wish for—not quiet, but manageable. Nothing unfixable. You move like clockwork through the familiar steps, write notes, change gloves, smile where it’s needed. Your feet ache, but your brain hums in a low, steady gear.

But then—like a power line vibrating, the air begins to buzz.

The stillness isn’t still anymore. It’s waiting.

You feel it in the way the nurses fall quieter, how the charge tech stays half-turned toward the radio. You feel it in your pulse, syncing to something unspoken. Like the hospital has shrunk—no more cafeteria chatter, no distant footsteps down sterile hallways. Just this room and the voice.

“Fourteen-year-old female, restrained passenger, T-bone collision, high impact. Stable airway. BP ninety over sixty. GCS fourteen. Tachycardic, signs of internal bleeding. ETA three minutes.”

The pre-arrival report hits hard.

Fourteen.

You flex your fingers, once, twice—the motion is meant to loosen the stiffness, but it doesn’t do much. Your gloves are still on the tray. You reach for them without thinking. Somewhere in the distance, monitors chirp their sterile rhythm. Closer, someone mutters a code to the charge nurse. You stand by the trauma bay doors, waiting. It’s not your first call, not your first child. But it hits every time like the first one.

“Page surgery. Tell them we’ve got a possible internal bleed with unstable vitals. I want that OR hot and ready by the time she rolls in.”

You give the order to the guy by the phone—he dials the number and relays the message to the OR, as if handing over the key to a life saved.

The voice is Ellie’s, you notice belatedly, like a side thought. Her low, focused register. The clarity behind every syllable. She’s already in the thick of it. And as you pull on your gloves, count your breaths, you brace to meet her there.

You don’t need the rest of the dispatch to know what’s arriving. Something heavy. Something that drips dread from the soles of its boots. There’s a patient in that rig whose life is unspooling thread by thread—and Ellie is threading the needle, racing to hold it together.

The hospital bends in unknowable ways.

Corridors twist like veins—some clogged, some bleeding, some lit in soft gold like redemption. You’ve walked them long enough to know: the cycle loops here. Life and death curl through the same doors, ride the same stretchers, sometimes held in the same hands.

Within this endless turning, your path and Ellie’s are destined to cross at moments that matter most.

After the chaos, after the desperate fight for breath and heartbeats, you picture a quiet moment shared between you: two silhouettes leaning against the cold counter, the tension melting away in a lull carried by another song you’d offer. You would ask her when she gets her day off, and she would shrug with that indifferent charm, like time is a stranger you both barely recognize. Maybe she’d smile, just a little, and stay a moment longer in the calm before the storm.

But both of you walked away from peace a long time ago—willingly. The double doors crash open like the inhale before panic, and the world narrows to red.

They wheel her in fast. Everything spins fast now on your fingertips, holds its breath, counts seconds. Face as pale as printer paper, streaked with dried blood. A cervical collar holds her neck in place, chest rising unevenly beneath a too-large hoodie. She’s small—smaller than you imagined when Ellie called her ‘passenger.’

There’s a vivid slash of red bisecting her cheek where the glass bit. A faint, blooming bruise crawls up from beneath the collarbone, the unmistakable signature of a seatbelt. Life-saving. Life-threatening.

You glimpse the numbers on the monitor: HR one-forty. She’s shocked. Breathing fast. Still conscious. Still here.

And holding the stretcher at her side, pressing one steady hand to a blood-soaked bandage over the girl’s abdomen, is Ellie. She comes in like a stormlight.

She doesn’t look up right away—too focused. A second medic holds the opposite rail. You catch the glint of golden hoops under her curls. Dina. Ellie’s glove squeaks as she adjusts pressure, her mouth a tight line.

“She was belted,” Dina reports, clenching the rails. “Passenger side. Car ran a red and hit them at sixty. She was awake on scene. Responsive. We’ve got suspected pelvic fracture, open radius on the right. GCS fourteen when we loaded, twelve now.”

“Two lines in, oxygen running, BP still dropping,” Ellie adds quickly.

The voice now has a face again. Eyes sharp, barely blinking under the harsh lights.

You nod once, already checking the monitor. “Let’s cross-match. I want type O standing by.”

The girl shifts and whimpers.

“Hurts.”

“I know, kiddo,” Ellie murmurs, barely above a breath. “You’re doing good. Almost there.”

Her voice trembles just a little at the edges. You see it in her eyes when she looks down at the girl: a kind of fierce, quiet urgency, as if this child’s breath is tethered to something inside her too.

Like she needs this girl to make it just to keep something intact within herself. There’s no hesitation in her, only that steadfast will you’ve seen before in people who’ve already lost too much. She holds on like she’s holding herself together.

You move in with your team. The tempo accelerates—vitals shouted, IVs opened, blood drawn. Ellie doesn’t leave; another pair of knowing hands never hurts.

The girl’s eyes flutter open again. She stares at Ellie.

“I like your bandana,” she whispers. Graphit grey. Moths.

Ellie huffs something like a laugh, but it’s hollow.

“I’ll get you one.”

You feel it—the whole room balancing on the edge of something fragile. As if one wrong word could tip it all. You’re already moving.

There’s a rhythm to this place when it matters most. The space itself understands what’s required. No one raises their voice. There’s only movement, deliberate and fast, as though all of you share one breath, one pulse. An invisible thread connects hands to tools, eyes to monitors, minds to the patient on the stretcher.

Her pupils react, but sluggishly. Eyes close one more time. Her pulse weakens by the second. Her skin is too pale now. The monitor flattens and then kicks back up again—a warning. You feel Ellie hovering close. But she doesn’t interfere. She knows and seems like she trusts.

“BP’s dropping—seventy over forty.”

Someone to your right is already hooking her to the monitor.

“Pulse thready. 140 and climbing.”

“She’s guarding. Belly’s rigid,” you say. “Intra-abdominal bleed.”

You don’t need a scan to know it. Her body is telling you everything.

You gesture sharply toward the nurse nearest you.

“Two large-bore IVs. Wide open. Start crystalloids.”

Then to respiratory:

“Bag her. Get me a 7.0 tube and a blade.”

There’s a murmur behind you: “Portable ultrasound’s on its way—”

“No time,” you cut in. “Tell them to hold the OR—we’re not making it unless she stabilizes.”

You slide closer, fingers pressing gently, assessing. Skin cold. Cap refill delayed.

“She’s decompensating,” someone mutters. You already know.

“Epi. 1 milligram. IV push.”

You slip into that practiced mode—not detachment, no, never that, but something honed and trained. Gloved hands apply pressure; direct orders flow from your lips. The team responds like muscle memory. Tubes in, fluids running. Your own heartbeat becomes background noise.

The monitor begins to slow. Then the line goes flat. It screams what her body no longer can.

“Starting compressions,” you say, already leaning in.

You move with certainty, the weight of every training session, every case before this one, packed into motion. One-two-three-four. You count out loud.

Your palms press down rhythmically, precisely—the heel of each hand digging into the girl’s narrow chest, the fragile rise of ribs beneath the skin yielding just slightly, like the surface of something meant to break. You can feel the sternum shift under pressure, then not.

“Bag every thirty. Let’s go.”

You switch. Resume compressions. Another round. Another minute. No response.

 The girl’s lips part, but no life comes through. For one impossible second, it feels like something flickers under your fingers—not a pulse, not quite, but the echo of one. As if life were a string just barely within reach, and all you have to do is grab it, hold tight. You keep pressing. Keep reaching. The ribcage creaks. There’s blood at the IV site now, a smear blooming against pale skin, and time is spilling just as fast.

You pause, glancing at the screen.

“Give another epi. Start a second line. Keep fluids running.”

Ellie hasn’t moved. She’s behind the chaos, but her presence feels close, like something gravitational. Her eyes are locked on the girl, and something in them sharpens, hardens—the kind of need that demands the world to listen.

You try again. Another rhythm of compressions. This time slower. Focused. Your voice starts to falter in your own head, but you keep going until the monitor answers you with silence. Not even a flicker.

You straighten slowly. Gloves hang heavy from your fingers, like they belong to someone else.

“Time of death…” someone says.

The words float past you.

A nurse moves behind you, pulling the curtain half-shut, maybe as a kindness. The room drains around you like the sea pulling back after impact; a wave receding, leaving wreckage in its wake. Footsteps scatter. Clipboards reappear, charts begin to fill. Death, it turns out, demands a surprising amount of paperwork.

You hear the soft rustle first. A shift of weight. Ellie is lowering herself to the floor, her back hitting the wall like she can’t stand upright another second. She’s collapsing more than sitting, legs stretched out, head tipped back. One hand limp at her side, the other curled slightly like it’s still pressing into a wound that’s no longer bleeding.

You follow and sit beside her in silence, your back hits the cold tile. Your breath is still coming short, hands aching from the compressions. They tremble against your thighs, and you clench them, useless. Something inside you scrapes raw.

The curtain ripples faintly behind you. Voices fade. For now, it’s just the two of you in the aftermath.

Ellie doesn’t speak. There’s no expression on her face, no face at all, only void. Not the absence of feeling, but the presence of something worse. She isn’t a person in that moment—she’s grief, made flesh.

A hollow shaped like a human. A silence you could fall into and never find the bottom.

Slowly, she pulls the bandana from her head. It’s damp with sweat. She wipes her face with it, slow, methodical—eyes still unfocused. Then stares at the cloth in her hands, like she doesn’t recognize it.

And then it hits her, you can see it. In that look is everything unspoken: failure. Fury. Regret that doesn’t know where to land.

Ellie finally pulls her gloves off, slowly, like it hurts to let go.

“I hate when they’re that small,” she mutters, not looking at you.

You say nothing. There’s nothing to say.

She draws her knees up, elbows balanced loosely on them. The crease between her brows is permanent. The burden on her shoulders too.

“Her dad died on impact,” she says after a beat.

You look at her. She doesn’t meet your eyes, maybe she can’t. Her voice doesn’t shake. If anything, it’s too even.

“She kept asking. I didn’t know what to say.”

You nod slowly, and there’s a flicker of something sharp under your ribs.

“She never knew.”

“Maybe that’s mercy,” you suggest.

“Maybe,” she agrees without believing.

You reach into your pocket, thumb brushing the edge of a crumpled pack of cigarettes. You don’t light one. Just hold it, pressing the soft cardboard flat, like you could crush the craving.

“Other driver?”

Ellie twists the fabric tighter. You hear the cotton strain.

“Broken clavicle. Couple ribs. Walked away.”

You blink and shake your head. Of course he did.

“They died,” you murmur, “and he’ll get a sling and a scar.”

Ellie exhales a sound that isn’t quite a laugh.

“The universe flips a coin,” she says. “And it lands wrong side up. Every time.”

You exhale, shaky, staring at the empty space in front of you for a moment. Your clogs are dirty.

"Is that mercy too?" you ask, not quite sure who you’re asking—the world, her, yourself.

"If that’s mercy, then I don’t want it."

The apple slices are cold.

You packed them from home that morning—sealed in a zippered pouch, soft with cinnamon, too dry to be fresh but familiar enough to finish.

The sweetness lingers as you chew, slow, distracted, seated on the edge of a vinyl couch in the staff lounge, shoes unlaced. The lights overhead buzz faintly, the kind of fluorescent hum you stop noticing after your second month in the ER.

The clock ticks toward midnight, the quiet is generous. A rare lull between traumas.

Ellie had been here not an hour ago.

She leaned against the wall like she owned the gravity in the room, one boot crossed over the other, arms folded, the navy of her uniform dusted with road salt and coffee stains and the tiredness that doesn’t wash off.

Her sleeves were shoved up to the elbows, exposing the scar on her right forearm—a thin, pale crescent that caught the light every time she moved. The wings covering it froze too. She didn’t sit. She never did when she didn’t have to. Said her legs didn’t know how to rest.

You were still chewing your first slice when she reached over and stole one from the pack, not breaking eye contact. She bit into it with all the entitlement of someone who’s done this a hundred times before—and knew she’d get away with it a hundred more.

“Was that the last cinnamon one?”

You asked, more out of routine than protest.

She just smirked, that half-lidded look that made her eyes shine darker.

“Didn’t check,” she said with her mouth full.

Then rolled her eyes when you stared her down, like the crime was yours for expecting decency.

The radio crackled before you could answer: a sharp, sputtering burst that sliced the air in two. Ellie froze mid-bite. Not startled, just… listening. Her head tilted slightly, like a wolf catching something just beyond the tree line.

“Unit Three, call in. Code response, address incoming.”

She chewed the rest in silence, tossing the stem of the apple slice back into the bag with a soft flack.

“Better be quick,” she muttered, grabbing her jacket off the back of the chair.

“You owe me coffee,” you said, without looking up.

“Save me the bottom of the thermos,” she called back, halfway through the door.

“You always say that.”

“And you never do.”

And then she was gone. Boots squeaking faintly down the corridor, the door swinging closed behind her like the last breath of a promise. Her absence didn’t feel like silence—it felt like pressure in your chest.

You don’t track hours anymore. Time passes in the number of patients patched, bled, sutured. It’s not Wednesday or Thursday. It’s two overdoses and a seizure, three stitches, and a stillbirth. It’s the count of how many made it through your hands without slipping.

You’re peeling the last slice of apple from its waxy bag when the radio speaks again.

“Female, late twenties, stab wound to the upper arm. Medic down. ETA four minutes.”

You freeze.

Not because it’s unusual—you’ve seen worse. But because you know who was on shift in Unit Three tonight.

The apple falls from your hand.

There are people who should never end up behind your trauma bay doors. Ellie became one of them so fast. But now they’re bringing her in. Nothing about the night feels still anymore.

You rush into the trauma intake area, your steps quick and measured.

The door creaks open. She’s there.

For a moment, you’re not sure what exactly you’re seeing—mostly blood. A torn sleeve. Her left hand clenched into a fist.

“I’m fine,” she says, before you even ask.

She’s not.

Ellie doesn’t wait for a stretcher. She walks in on her own, rigid and persistent. You see the disdain flicker across her face as she sidesteps the gurneys that she has carted through too many nights, too many battles. Dina walks beside her, silent and steady. She doesn’t reach out, because Ellie would reject that touch, that sign of vulnerability. She’s the one who always holds firm, who lets anyone lean on her, but not vice versa.

Ellie hates this wound, the blood smeared on her torn jacket, the way this night shreds the illusion of control she so fiercely clings to. She’s not herself—or rather, she’s not who she pretends to be.

Your gaze flickers past them to the figure trailing behind—Jesse. You’ve never seen him in the hospital before. He’s taut, wary. Just like Dina, just like Ellie. They’ve seen too much. They’ve been through hell, and still, they’re just people.

Around you, nurses shout back and forth: talk of police arriving, locked wards for patients under supervision. You catch the strained urgency in their voices, the fragile order trying to hold in place as chaos swirls outside.

You’re supposed to calm them down. This is what attending physicians do. But when it comes to Ellie, you realize you’re just human too. You’re gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles pale.

You’d seen Ellie hurt before—scraped and bruised. She always laughed it off. Always moved like she had somewhere else to be. But this is different. The way she holds her arm close to her side. The set of her jaw.

It takes a second longer than it should, but then it clicks back into place.

Not calm—never that. But function.

You lift your head.

“Someone get a trauma bay ready,” you call out, voice sharp, too clear. “Page Ortho for standby. And I want imaging ready for secondary survey. Just in case.”

Almost makes you believe you’re not falling apart inside. Then Ellie speaks.

“I’m not staying,” Ellie grits out. “It’s a fucking scratch.”

There’s blood staining the gauze like rust. She’s favoring her arm, barely disguising the tension in her shoulders. Her whole body’s coiled like she’s waiting to bolt.

“I can walk this off. Just clean it up and I’ll go.”

Your mouth opens—to do what, you’re not sure. Argue? Beg? But Dina cuts in without ceremony.

“Ellie. Shut the fuck up.”

Her voice is flat. Not cruel, but tired in a way that says we’ve already done this. She stands at Ellie’s side like a wall—shoulders squared, eyes unreadable.

“You’re not walking anywhere,” Dina continues. “You’re getting stitched. Properly. By someone who actually knows what they’re doing. So sit the hell down and let her help you.”

She points at you, and you feel…blessed? Ellie doesn’t look at you. She looks at the floor, then at the blood on her hands. Her jaw works silently for a beat. But she doesn’t argue again.

Jesse approaches, pale and silent, eyes flicking from you to Ellie and back. You catch the tremor in his hands before he shoves them into his jacket pockets.

“Call came in as a seizure in a parking garage. Seemed routine, but Ellie—she clocked something was off. The guy wasn’t postictal, just… too calm.”

Dina swallows hard, arms still crossed tight. “Before I could even get the bag open, he pulled a knife. Grabbed me—wanted the narcs. Morphine, fentanyl, whatever we had stocked.”

“She didn’t even blink,” Jesse adds, eyes flicking to Ellie again. “Stood between him and the kit. Told him to go ahead and try.”

You click your tongue, glancing at her for a second.

Dina exhales shakily, somewhere between pride and fear. “He slashed her. She still wouldn’t let him near the meds.”

“Can we not do the memorial service while I’m still bleeding?” she mutters. “I’m literally right here. And not dead.”

Her tone is dry, biting—but thinly veils the exhaustion underneath. Ellie may be all cracked edges right now, but she’s still the one dragging the spotlight off herself, even when the floor’s slick with her blood. Dina snorts quietly but doesn’t argue. Neither do you.

You scan the floor—too many eyes, too much noise. The nurses are doing what they always do: triaging, organizing, controlling the chaos. But Ellie doesn’t need chaos.

She needs space.

“I’ll take her,” you say, more to the room than to anyone in particular. “Treatment Four. Alone.”

You meet Ellie’s eyes for the first time since she walked in. She doesn’t protest. You move out of the brightness, down the corridor where the fluorescent hum is softer, the doors closed, the world waiting just beyond.

Stepping into the treatment room, you switch on the surgical lamp and let the harsh overheads stay off. Let the night be gentle, if nowhere else, then here. It smells like absence—of anything human.

Ellie follows later, her boots dragging just slightly—a sound she wouldn’t let slip on any other night. You point to the exam table without a word, and she climbs onto it like she’s done a hundred times before—with patients. Not like this. Never like this.

The stainless tray is already waiting—cold, clean, clinical. Syringe. Gauze. Forceps. Suture. A language of silence and habit. No poetry here, just function.

You press the pump beside the sink. Lemon-scented soap spills into your palm. The same one you always hated. But tonight, you don’t mind. You scrub fast, focused, as if time were something that could slip through your fingers. Ellie’s blood already has.

You snap on gloves. Tear the paper pouch of suture material open—with your teeth. It's rushed, clumsy, but it works. You’re past elegance now.

You ease the jacket off her shoulders, careful not to brush the wound. She’s silent, watching you with something unreadable, while you peel the sleeve back to reveal the wound: a deep, angry gash along her upper arm, just shy of needing surgical closure. It’s clean enough. Contained. But she’ll scar. You wonder if she’ll mind.

“I’ll numb it,” you say quietly, already drawing up lidocaine into the syringe. The metal tray clinks softly as you set it down beside.

Ellie scoffs under her breath. “Why bother?”

You pause for a moment. “Stop asking stupid questions.”

“Okay, doc.” she grins crookedly.

You inject the anesthetic slowly, watching her jaw clench, but she doesn’t flinch. She never flinches.

The exam table groans as Ellie shifts, bracing her uninjured hand against the edge of the table.

“He wanted the box. Got pissed when we didn’t hand it over.”

She says it like it's nothing. Like she's describing the weather.

Your heart skips; no, folds. A sharp, invisible inward motion, like the body trying to shield something soft. You imagine it: Ellie between the seats, between decision and reaction. Dina too close to the blade. Jessie slamming into reverse. The box—the one they guard like a life raft. Painkillers, sedatives, vials sealed in glass. Ellie wouldn’t give it up. Of course she wouldn’t.

There’s a type of ruin no one sees. The kind that doesn’t show up on x-rays or ultrasound. And it’s not her arm, or the torn fabric, or the way she won’t meet your eyes now. It’s the fracture underneath.

She’s so quietly wrecked that something in you breaks with her. No noise, no drama. Just a thread snapping, pulled too tight. Your fingers tremble once before you hide it. You reach for the next tool with precision that feels like a lie.

“He knew we were coming.”

Her fingers curl around the edge of the table.

“Didn’t hesitate. Like it was the plan all along.”

Each thing she says is like a fresh cut. Words are shrapnel. You pick up the needle, it’s curved. A sliver of cold steel glinting under the sterile light. Her next words hit you worse than a gunshot.

“He said hospitals are for the rich. Said the rest get the knife.”

She finally looks at you. And you wish she hadn’t.

Her lips parted. There is war in her eyes, which are rimmed with dark circles, and her freckles are faded and pale under the harsh hospital lighting. She’s drained from blood loss and sleepless nights. You can see it all—beneath the defiance, past the smirk she’s too tired to wear. The fear. The shame. The bitterness of being saved when she’s spent her life doing the saving.

“Hospitals are for the ones who need help. For broken. Wounded. Lost.”

Ellie’s voice is quieter and smaller. She doesn’t look away.

“Then maybe I’m in the right place. For once.”

Instead, she leans in—barely, but enough. Her shadow stretches closer to yours. The thin streaks of dust smudged across her cheekbones, caught in the dried sheen of sweat. A faint trace of dirt under her jaw. Proof she went down. That she hit the ground hard and didn’t care enough to wipe it away.

Something aches in you.

You want to reach out. Thumb the dust from her face, let your palm cradle the weight of her jaw. Let her rest her temple against your shoulder, even just for a minute. Just until the air in her lungs stops shaking. But your hands are full.

With gloved fingers, you lift the black nylon suture. It’s damp with antiseptic. You’ve done this before. Muscle memory guides your hands. But your heart doesn’t follow.

You lean closer, bringing the needle to her skin—and freeze.

Ellie doesn’t smell like metal. Not like hospitals. Not even like smoke anymore. She smells like cinnamon. Like apples warmed by breath. And something darker, bitter, grounding—coffee, maybe.

You hate how steady your hands need to be. You hate that they almost aren't. You inhale and pierce. The point slips beneath the surface, you watch it travel through, curve up on the other side, and catch it. The first knot is done. As if it could hold more than just torn flesh. As if it could hold her.

You’ve always been good at this. Your instructors used to call your sutures textbook-perfect—you never thought much of it. Only now, with Ellie do you realize what it means to offer your hands in the shape of care.

You wish you could touch her slumped shoulders with bare hands. Wish you could smooth every bruise the world left on her. But all you do is pierce her skin again. Add another mark to the map she never asked for. All you leave is another scar.

“Why do you do it?”

You try to make it sound casual, to fill the silence.

Ellie’s breath hitches—barely—but you hear it. The echo of it travels through the room, mixing with the low hum of ventilation.

“Do what? The job?”

“The ambulance.”

“Stop asking stupid questions,” she hits back without a blink. You pull the stitch through, shifting on your chair, and continue your reasoning unbothered.

“First aid’s everything. Surgeries, diagnoses—all that’s important. But the first five or ten minutes? They decide everything. Whether someone makes it to the OR… or doesn’t.” you pause to hold the nylon in your fingers in a different way. Then you go on.

“Most people don’t stick with it. It’s dirty. Dangerous. People die in your hands, in your arms. Then you do it again the next day.”

You look at her in an endless try to understand.

“So why did you stay?” your whisper caresses across her cheek.

“I don’t have some grand story for you.” her response curls around your lips.

You reach for the metal tray, taking a fresh gauze pad. Your eyes linger on her skin for a moment—torn, red, angry. The suture is almost finished.

“Everyone’s got one. Oncologists lose someone. Surgeons want to fix what couldn’t be fixed before. There’s always a story.”

“What’s yours?” Ellie raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t change the subject.” you smile, but it’s faint. She doesn't.

The needle breaks the quiet. She watches your hands, not your face. Ellie sighs sharply, runs her palm over her face.

“I lived. Others didn’t,” she says at last. There’s something hollow in the way the words come out. Like it’s been rehearsed, over and over in her head, but never out loud. “You said—five-ten minutes decide everything. Well, they decided.”

You crashed ninety-nine times before. She’s your hundred. She says it like dying is just one of the possible outcomes of being alive. Like she's already built a home inside that guilt and calls it survival.

You pause to tie another knot.

You want to say something like: You don’t owe the world your suffering. Or: You were just a kid. Or even: You made it out. I’m glad you did. But none of it feels right. None of it feels enough.

So you lean in just slightly, close enough for her to feel it even if you never touch her. And your voice is a whisper that brushes her shoulder, that doesn't try to fix her. Would it heal her if you’d kiss the freckle on her shoulder?

“They decided wrong.”

Your final stitch is tight and clean. Unshakable. It won’t make the scar disappear, but it will smooth it, maybe. Neat. Almost invisible in the right light.

For one heartbeat, you’re not a doctor.

You’re just someone sewing the person they love back into herself. One thread at a time.

⚢ an : okay it feels so weird. but believe it or not, this was originally supposed to be a 1.5k short story. well… anyway :)) i don’t have a med phd, i’m just a girl who loves to write fanfiction. don’t take it too seriously — some technical details might be incorrect. over and out is not dead, trust!! this idea just wouldn’t let me live in peace, it was haunting me — and i hope there was a greater purpose to that. also, i had so much fun writing this. i love short stories (7k words? yeah. short). sorry for any mistakes! it would be super nice of you to leave a comment, reblog, inbox, or just anything to let me know how you liked it!! mwah mwah thank you for reading <3

[ch6douin]

Hi how are ya are you still interested in idv lol

hello seth! i've been doing good. but, to be honest, with you not much lol. im almost 100% sure atp that i wont continue the self aware au series. i might answer asks with headcanons and stuff but full written chapters? i doubt that

i am not satisfied with my writing as a whole and i procrastinate a lot. even though i was aware of that and made sure to put that in my introduction, i didnt think i would get much attention when posting that first drabble. having said that, i still have intentions to at least post the last chapter i started and i will make it decent-sized as a most probably goodbye—not only because i don't have as much interest or ideas to continue, but i'll also start university in like...a few weeks so my excuse for procrastinating will be lack of time

sometimes i regret posting those chapters, but i promise i won't delete them or any of my content revolving idv since some people still like them! you'll still find me reblogging in fandoms such as arcane, tlou, f&h, deltarune and many more

[ch6douin]

🦠

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Ideas.

[ch6douin]

Friends

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won against tenna just to now be struggling against jackenstein are you kidding me

fighting tenna is making me lose my MIND

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fighting tenna is making me lose my MIND

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its ok Noelle…. they’re just like that😭

bonus krusielle

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has anyone done this yet

[ch6douin]

synopsis   #  it’s unfortunate vi’s not made of stone, ‘cause your love it’s a force of nature that’s slowly tearing up the walls she built around her heart, a useless organ that only seems to beat for you now.

this story continues what happened in the arsonist, settled in a medieval au, feel free to read it before as you might be confused if not, there's a playlist for this so check it out! wc: 15.5k

cw   #   18+  as it contains smut at some point, homophobia, internalized misogyny, sevika + maddie nolen + kino cameos, infinite yearning, handsy making out, fingering, tribbing, a lot of spit and saliva sue me heh, dirty talk, switch!vi+switch!reader, political marriage, my usual tags tbh i'm pretty dirty but i'm not weird cheers.

vi dreams of going back to winter.

craves the silence of a snowstorm even when it only causes disasters to the realm, finds herself unable to close her eyes again without returning to the same thought: are you even affected by her like she’s affected by you? do you spend countless nights under the lackluster illuminations of a candle that is slowly melting over your nightstand? staring at the ceiling and not moving a muscle as she does — do you wish she was close to you like she wished for your company every night?

even as time passes, she finds herself yearning for weather she hates, even if it means you’d be back in that cabin again, seeking warmth in her arms. far too loyal to her beliefs to ever fall for your traps again. it shouldn’t be possible, but she's sometimes distracted during the day when you're walking past her and your perfume lingers in the air even after you're long gone. how you gracefully carried yourself despite having to endure how your mother is slowly rotting away in a gigantic bed.

"what we did," vi remembers her own words like a curse from the witch in the woods, it haunts her like a childhood nightmare "it cannot happen again, my lady."

a child born of royalty is destined to a bright future, to leave a huge impact on life, meanwhile vi's stuck being a nobody, ready to die for the crown. for you.

 the metal on her waist sits heavy on her belly because she swore years ago to willingly give her life for the well-being of your family, to die for a greater cause, something good.

"if that's your choice violet," it saddens her somehow. the fact you don't seem bothered by her words, even when vi's heart is already pounding in her chest like the thundering sound of a horse running to meet death in war. "i'll still ask about having you in my personal guard. i think your skills would be helpful at a higher rank."

"as you wish, my princess."

she doesn't want special treatment — fuck that, vi needs to earn it. however, she's bound to receive it when you're looking at her like that. bound to protect you, to serve and be nothing but a weapon in your ruling hand when swearing upon her honor, bent at the knee in front of your mother during her last rational moments. you could have her heart if it's demanded for the greater good. it's what every knight would offer, what she needs to do.

so violet's following you around in silver armor for months now with an impeccably clean white cape on her back. your knight is now present at council meetings, outside your room through day and night in the hallways, and it's driving her to an insanity she cannot comprehend: since the very moment you fell asleep in her arms, since you melted in her touch she cannot stay close to you for any longer than a minute. impossible to share a room with you when no one's around ‘cause she gets distracted, and her work relies on keeping you alive, on safeguarding your well-being: the kingdom can’t afford for her to fall for any distraction.

during her entire life, she has never felt so useless, so inebriate to someone's charm — a knight’s heart is not supposed to burn for the love of their princess, hold such feelings that went beyond her duty to serve; and yet she's trapped there, in that moment from whatever you were, from whatever you showed her outside the castle walls. it makes sense that you’d set her soul ablaze. the forever unworthy dog that's waiting outside your door despite all efforts of pushing you away, of standing still and ready for combat even when she flinches when some old man of the council has the nerve to raise his voice ever so slightly at your new ideas.

violet vanderson has now become a burden, a burden with a good name, a good place in the court and a secured future, a known knight that's attracting a lot of attention even when she would rather be showing a fist of iron to the injustice in the realm. something in her new position more than just your guard.

hope is a dangerous thing for somebody who has nothing, and to vi it's hard to keep her desires in check as you continue with your life holding no physical ache for her touch, not at plain sight at least cause you're so collected, so aware of yourself, of the power you carry now on your shoulders and haunts you night and day.

hope is a dangerous thing.

"i don't think my marriage is something we need right now," in the wall close to your seat vi's brows furrow in question when you're suggested by half of the council the need to join forces with noxus in an arranged marriage, already plotting for decent suitors without you knowing — "my mother's dying, and i'm going to ascend to the throne before i'm thinking about any political alliance."

"a marriage would benefit the people," at the lack of the presence of the queen you're responsible for the realm's destiny and its future, holding the weight of ruling a nation in your bare hands. "they’re cultivating fear already upon the uncertainty of the queen's destiny, afraid war's coming. we don't have the resources to protect the citizens from hunger, nor the pains of a war."

"noxus has been our declared enemy for years now," you reply, making vi’s gaze falter for a moment cause she can smell it in the air still: you’re annoyed — "any alliance with them is nothing but a lie. and i won't feed the people outside this castle with nothing but honesty. we'll make arrangements with piltover if necessary, i know the queen and they owe it to us."

"you're taking a rushed decision my princess," the title is a reminder of your level, how you're not yet a queen, a regent royal who's in control of the final decisions. makes your body stiffen and vi, even from where she is, can see the tension in your muscles, the invisible threads that came out of your back and connected you to the ceiling, kept you up like a real-life-puppet. "we cannot reject their proposal this quickly, you cannot be so blind to not see the future of our nation. your mother would wish upon your marriage as soon as possible too, this- it could lead to a new war."

"despite joining forces with piltover, i'm afraid it won't be enough," another man adds, agreeing to the proposed idea, "the noxian forces hold great power, and compared to our tropes, i'm afraid we don't have the necessary."

"that's enough," much like your family, the tone you use travels across the room like a wild fox chasing its food. makes vi shiver under her armor, looking away cause she's afraid her eyes were already digging holes in the back of your skull, too frightened to think about what you'd think if finding out how her chest twists at the thought of you marrying a man — "until my mother gets out of bed i wont be doing no courtship. the nation of noxus is not at war with us still, and i'm intending to keep it that way gentlemen. the meeting is over."

you don't have to say anything. vi works in sync with you now, been getting used to you since the night after the cabin, knows what you're up to like your shadow. turned into your guardian as she walks beside you when you storm away from the room and it's so nice, so nice to see you mad. wrong probably on so many levels, but the thought crosses her mind a time or two when she's following you close by, far still, at a fast pace when you cross the hallway infuriated.

"marriage," you spat to the air offended, and the knight's sure you're not talking to her cause you never do. barely look her way after the night you shared with her as it embarrasses you enough to act as if it never happened "can you even believe that, knight? my mother is dying and all they care about is if i'm marrying a noxian."

it must be the sixth or seventh time you're looking back at her after months, and vi's lungs seem to fill with a different kind of oxygen when your eyes travel through her face and you're aware of the details of it, the scar on her upper lip, the tattoo on her cheek. it lingers on her for seconds, seconds the knight uses like a plant uses the sun to survive, makes her forget what she's gonna say for a second.

"you don't have to marry anyone if you don't want to" her voice is rougher than before but wishes to ignore the real motive behind it: how can a simple act from you already have her spiraling to the gates of hell? how are you so fast to speak like a friend? — "it's a decision you can only make, my princess. the council's job is to follow your rules and do nothing but advise. you don't have to follow their suggestions if they aren't fitting."

you seem stuck in the wording, on how her mouth moves to say it: my princess. she'd said it before, but it has never affected you the way vi's able to see from where she was standing, so clearly as the sun shining on a summer day.

she asked for this. haunts her when vi's the one that pushed you away in the first place, the one that's so sure of your negative opinions on her, how you should hate her since she's the reason you're back and far away from your desired freedom moons ago. you're a spine on the palm of the hand, and itch she cannot scratch not at bare fingers, not so easy anyway.

you have a royal duty. violet owns you her entire life. the money her family was now enjoying and the good position she had been granted? was thanks to you. in her chest still rests the medal she got for taking you back to where you belonged, hanging right against her heart as a constant reminder of her victory, of how she earned a trust she wished to keep like the greatest treasure she owned.

"you're right," it's a warm feeling the one that spreads in her chest at your response. "i don't have to marry nobody, i will be the regent queen."

"you will, my princess," she continues still, arm's-length distance, almost refusing to look at you like she wanted to — "the kingdom does not follow the council's words but your own."

and vi have to repeat it to herself once again when the sun hits your face for a moment and your complex green gown gives her enough access to look at your cleavage, squished tits under a corset that only strangled you: she asked for this.

"what we did. it cannot happen again, my lady."

every day it's the same from now on, sometimes a knight can be blatantly stupid, she knows all about it.

so the knight desperately desires to be locked up for treason the next week: how can she begin to separate her devotion to the crown from the craving her body presents to your companion? how can she begin to control the burning sensation in her throat when you're announcing your marriage to the rest of the court?

nobles are happy as the news kicks in and it should be a motive of celebration for her too since the council's right: a marriage would satisfy the masses, light up the way after so much dark attacking the kingdom. however, vi's selfish when her right hand closes around the iron handle of her sword and thinks, for a moment, about how she was born on the wrong side of the track — in some other world she may be a royal too. a royal looking for a princess. for you.

she doesn't understand the change of your decisions, why everything shifted when you were already reluctant to be courted by possible suitors, but after the week when you were venting in an empty hallway passed, you must have forgotten about your knight's lame advice. must-have.

and no she's not jealous. in her existence and vast contacts with romance, vi has never been a jealous woman, sure of where she stands its hard to feel a needle in her heart every time someone else wants what's hers. it's not an issue. she's not jealous of the fact you were paying attention to dull princes with empty promises, but something in her system seemed to melt away when realizing with a sting, on the fact she has nothing to give, nothing to offer or promise.

your suitors hold power, a fucking castle, troops and a hundred knights just like she is. a painful reminder when vi's obliged to be miserable and follow you around the gardens as you're holding the arm of the prince of ionia. black hair, he's been talking about an hour or so about the breathtaking views in his region, his wealth and intelligence — what can she offer but a shiny armor and a heavy sword? nothing but a handful of scars she received in combat.

"when we marry princess, the whole realm will be so envious" the prince says out loud, and the knight has to resist the urge to chuckle at how hollow everything sounds — "you'll be the prettiest bride in all ionia. we should marry in spring since the cherry trees blossoms and it's the softest of all pinks-"

boring. so fucking boring. makes vi wonder why she's there when there's no one around, third-wheeling in the worst moment as she battles to keep a straight face until you randomly answer:

"if we marry your majesty, i'm afraid it will have to be here in my region since we have a bigger influence than ionia," it takes only one brain cell to notice how your suitor is now re-thinking about a possible union at your words. "i'm pretty sure the council must have mentioned it before, cause i'm not leaving my country."

now that makes vi lose her temple. an almost silent laughter that's loud enough to catch your attention even when your eyes keep analyzing the prince, sharp, cold-blooded, a true heir to the crown who's ready to fight for her rights, to be treated with no less respect than what deserves.

her laugh however, does not seem to be subtle enough to be unnoticed when the prince's looking at her from the corner of his eyes too before awkwardly standing still— another one that goes to never come back.

"yes, princess" he seemed almost embarrassed at the confusion. "i'm so sorry about the mistake, it will not happen again."

poor guy, you could feast on his shame when he leaves the garden with a cloud of bad luck following him around, making her bite the inside of her cheek to prevent the sounds of the fun the knight's experiencing all sudden.

"stop that," you say, standing a few steps away. "i know you're laughing, violet. this can bring trouble."

it's funny because even when you say it she wants to do it anyway. laugh loudly just to make you mad in your pretty dress, see the pout on your lips even in that beautiful red dress you wear to impress your suitors, pretty hair, special makeup. the ladies-in-waiting that go to your room to dress you up every morning put all of their efforts into making you irresistible and damn the world cause it worked so well in every suitor, in her.

"violet," you're pulling her back to earth when she's able to hear the sound of your voice from over her invading thoughts, soothing, there's a command that always laced your words together cause you're a royal, made and born to rule, have some sort of control all the time. "don't laugh."

it's hard to say it when you're laughing too and she's never felt like that before. not even in a damn snowstorm, not when she gained the medal and her sister hugged her so tight she wondered what she was eating lately to hold such force, not after being a lapdog for months — tougher than any open wound it stays in her contagious, pulls her to the floor as she's shaking her head like she doesn't want to — be a victim of you.

"i'm not laughing, my princess."

and vi hates to enjoy it, that carefree fun that surrounds both of you and makes the world feel silent for a moment cause in reality, nothing else matters but the intimacy of all, the sound that invades her body like poison, an unwanted visitor.

you're so quick to plague her thoughts, make her a victim of fuzzy brain when you look at her from over your shoulder, a cocky smile on your lips she happens to know from before when she's been kissing on your back with you giving her the same look, biting on the erogenous zones that made you shiver to the point vi desires to repeat the same action all over again, push you back against her armor and take advantage of the fitting form of your dress, the lack of clothing in your exposed shoulders since there's no one around, not much force but just a playful tug.

she's jealous of the sun and the way it dances on your skin, the way it makes the most beautiful deals in your body without you noticing. she's jealous of people owning things and having power, envious to the point she chokes on her own saliva cause her mouth is drier than ever, driven by the memory of you right there where she desires you to be.

violet's a sufferer of her own thoughts lately cause they repeat themselves over and over heavily in her noggin: oh how she needed power! how she desired a damn castle! how she needed a better last name! cause if she owned half of the power the prince of ionia had, the knight would be traveling from far away to ask for your hand in marriage just like the rest of your suitors too.

no need for a second thought. 

as a knight you're trained to recognize the battlefield even when it's empty, the danger like a sixth sense, violence like a second language and loyalty like a primary emotion. so vi’s used to danger, yes, your courting, however? it was the closest thing she's been to a war in years.

begins when the warrior notices the depths of the suitors need for you, the empty promises of a prince and the same tactics they used when they try to seduce you with the thought of power, how beautiful you looked dressed and pampered like a high-ending royal, nothing else than the realm's delight that walked throughout the hallways of the castle with your knight following by, chased by another man that's mumbling empty compliments until you said something mean enough to make them run away.

is it a game for you? scare them off until there's no one left to endure your character? tame the attitude you carried with so much grace? violet deserves at least a dozen medals by the course of the next week cause she might as well be one of your noble ladies following you around in a pretty dress, preventing guys from forgetting their real place as they talk blatant bullshit when trying to win you over with lies.

she's sure you can see it too when you look at her for a quick minute like you're saying with your mind — is-he-for-real-now? sure you're tired cause she is, putting up a fake smile when she should be doing something important, something that mattered: she's part of the guard, something fucking big.

why is she being dragged as a chaperone?

on friday night she's going to say something. it's too late now and her feet fucking hurt after being standing so many hours as you seemed stuck on reading some book about medicine in plants. struggles to say it for a moment as you interrupt the silence almost sensing the awkwardness she expelled.

"who do you think i should be marrying to?"

"pardon me, my lady?" vi's sure you're talking in her direction as you push the book away from you, turning around to see her when the question travels around the library. she's the only one there with you in the most spacious room of the castle at those late night hours, your companion for the night as she keeps herself at a safe distance, barely able to see what you're doing as there's not enough light around.

"if you had to choose one suitor for me," you lay out the question again — "who would you pick?"

there's a long moment of silence after your question where vi struggles to say the truth, how could she when all the answers are too far from the reality you expect to hear? she must be condescending, make you confident to rule a kingdom and reassure your questions, but she cannot bring herself to lie to you that easily.

"is it that hard for you?" you seemed curious at the lack of response, taking the ancient book between your fingers to leave it where it was from the beginning. after being seated in the same position for so many hours, you stretch out for a moment before you're take the candlelight in your right hand with the book close to your chest before simply adding, — "i don’t have anyone i trust enough to ask this, so i need you to answer me with the truth vi, who do you think i should be marrying?”

"do you trust me?" it slips away as the knight follows you close by as always, a manner that's now intrinsic in her actions as she holds the handle of her sword. she doesn't know how to shut up when you're doing something as simple as stretching out your sore back, that's why she avoids places when there's no one around but you and her.

"yeah, i know you will tell me the truth. i don't know any person in this realm who's more loyal to the people than you are, so spit it. tell me what you're thinking."

vi has to bite her tongue when she wishes to correct you, make you go back in your words as you find the hallway you were looking for, staring at the shelves as you're searching for the empty spot your book left behind.

"i can command you to say it, you know that right?"

"i think you already know the answer, my princess."

"do i?" you ask curiously, and vi's desperate to stop being a horny fuck for five minutes in her existence when she bites the insides of her cheek as a distraction — "so you think no one's a great suitor?"

"i do" she admits finally, a subtle shade of red making the knight's cheeks blush at the plain truth, mentally thanking it was too dark in the library for you to even notice how she's losing her mind over a simple exchange of words. "i think no one's in the level to rule our people. they care about money and power more than the protection of the realm, and if you allow me to say it, princess, i think none of them deserves you, either."

it's so hard to keep herself in check when words keep going out of vi's mouth and she's a victim of her honesty, unable to tell you anything but the truth as you stop walking for a second to instead, turn to look at her this time, allowing the warm light of the candle shines against her armor, a side of her face you kept staring for a moment.

"interesting," you say almost to yourself. "bold to say for a knight after rejecting me."

her breathing gets caught in her throat in an instant: is that why you don't look her way? why she can count the amount of times you've laid your eyes on her with her fingers? no, surely not.

"i thought we agreed on not talking about it."

"you should listen to me more often," you reply when finding the empty spot the book belonged, sliding it back to the bookshelf — "i will be your queen after all."

the words burn hot on vi's tongue wishing to carve their way out between her teeth, die once again cause she's mesmerized at the damn sight of you, like every single fucking time. is it the dim lighting of the candle this time? the warm light that kisses your cheek in the most delightful sight? her brains playing tricks, confused as she cannot tell if it's the small flame of the fire that's making her feel sick inside her armor or how you're smiling at her almost as a dare to keep going.

no, violet vanderson's not loyal to the people. she's loyal to you.

"why are you marrying someone if you don't want to?" and it's weird cause she can see it as clearly as the water in the river outside the town, her favorite place in the entire world.

"what makes you think i don't want to marry?"

"don't know" — "i'm just saying what i think. it's what my lady wanted."

the silence's so loud for a minute, ringing in her ears like a vibration.

"If you must then, i suggest you choose with not only your brain but your heart" vi adds, unable to hold the tension when her knuckles turn white against the iron handle — "a suitor who likes your kindness and your witty remarks. not as the kingdom dictates, but what you feel is right."

"i desire no man, violet" — "but it's nice to see you still have a heart after all the violence a knight can witness."

at this point she'd like to surrender her ill will and any rest of self-control, heart leaps into her throat and vi needs a minute to believe what you're saying, the implications of your words: of course you desire no man, how can she not see it before when it was so obvious?

"then why marry?" she insists — "is it because of the pressures of the council? cause they are a bunch of old men who can go-"

"no. it's because of my mother," it’s a new declaration that makes her stop for a moment without understanding anything at all — "it's her death wish i guess. she desires to unite two nations together, make a stable future for the country and i can't let her down again."

"but it's unfair," the knight claims, a knot tying together in her stomach: vi knows a lot about unfairness, the revolts of life that stab you in the guts when you least expect it — "your majesty is taking something that's not hers to own."

"yes. but it's for the sake of the realm.”

"makes no sense," she's losing her patience for a moment, the very same she prides on having. "you were about to escape months ago, ready to kill me for freedom, and now you're saying you're going to marry because of your mother's dead wish for the kingdom?"

"please don't be mad at me… i can take the whole council's anger, but i cannot take yours without tearing me apart."

"i'm not angry" why is she so close when vi swore she left a good amount of space between the two of you? why are you leaning against the bookshelf, looking at her with the most gentle eyes? — "i'm not angry with you. i just wish to understand you."

"i wish to make the realm proud, let them call me a queen cause i deserve it. cause i reassured their future, kept them safe."

"and you're willing to make yourself miserable because of it?" vi wonders out loud, and her words make you flinch for a moment cause they feel similar to a punch — "i'm sorry. i was being rude."

"isn’t that the job of a queen, violet? put the kingdom first?"

she's so attracted to you it's unbearable. like a fever that starts from the very inside of the stomach expelling from her skin in the form of unscented sweat. you're so close now she can feel the subtle warmth of the fire, the features she missed in the cabin due to the lack of light now replaced to a feast of details, makes her doubt for a moment: could she fall asleep while standing?

she doesn’t regret the next even now, not when her thumbs brush over your lips to trace the shape of them, yearning the touch of them against her own, their softness in all glory like a pleasure she’s been denying herself for too long. the knight needs to see it for herself, confirm that you’re flesh and bone and not something made up in her head.

“you don’t have to,” it’s her fault either way when her hand finally reaches you and she can feel how your breathing shifts as her fingers settle right over your cheek, flat palm against bare skin vi can tell when the beating of your heart turns erratic as it happens, when she begins to affect you like the side repercussions of mandrake blowing up your brain — "the kingdom has always known about your rebellious nature, it's not a surprise."

the feeling of power intoxicates her just right creating this thick haze of mist on her brain that prevents vi from thinking, that would explain her lack of constraint and her need to conquer cause she wouldn't be leaning in so easily, wouldn't be invading you with the need that drives her five senses cause she's the one that's taking a step closer, that need a kiss like air to the lungs.

"i'm not getting rejected again" your words make her laugh cause: does it look like she’s rejecting you? when staring at your lips hungry as ever, counting the second as the only remains of rationality left, is she rejecting you?— "violet."

"rejected," the knight chuckles at the words cause they sound funny at this point, ridiculous even when she's all over you, nose brushing against the curve of your neck; she remembers that smell from before now coated with a nice, inviting scent of vanilla installing under her nostrils "you poor thing huh? having to take rejection from a simple knight."

you remember, that's the dangerous part of it cause you blend into her arms, melt to fill every space in her armor when she's placing wet kisses on the curve of your neck, driven by need, desire, lust she contains between her ribs like a secret she wishes to whisper into your skin like a new tattoo. you remember how it feels when her lips carve a path to your jaw; it’s already a mess because you struggle to hold the candle as she bites your flesh leaving her teeth imprinted on that special spot, and you’re openly moaning every letter of her name like a curse.

violet vanderson's a curse.

"please don't marry" it comes out way needier than expected when vi's cornering you against the bookshelf, almost to herself when her hands wrap around your waist, fingers threading in your back as she's pulling the knots of your corset, putting up a fight already — "please. please don't do it..."

god. why is she like this? why does her voice sound so strained? so devastated by a few kisses she stole like a thief? her saliva shines on your skin and its a testament to her wanting, to the way you've settled under her bones to live there like a constant thought.

"i need you," when did she decide to dig up her own grave? when you became so versed in armors? your fingers unbuckle the silvery plates and cold metal of her body like a second skin and she doesn't even realize it as it happens "i'd forget about my honor, about my promises to the crown if you ask me. i cannot bear with this princess, with having you so close to me, buried this deep."

her kisses. man vi's kisses. they're enough to leave you thinking about them for years, make you believe there's nothing else but that texture you feel, the scar on her upper lip, the way they found their way to fit your mouth ever so perfectly, the playfully push her tongue makes against yours that ignites a burning fire similar to the depths of hells.

vi's hands are not enough. she cannot reach as deep as she'd like to when she's pulling the everlasting fabric of your dress up to your waist cause it bothers her, cause she wants to have you like she did on the cabin, press once again the kindest kisses on your back, hold you close to her chest when you're close to cum. she wishes to unravel you again, fight your character with more jokes, more laughter, more fucking kisses.

"you're beautiful" the knight shivers at your touch and curses at the lack of armor cause the cold air of the night makes her shiver under the soft touch of a princess who never knew about hard work, curious digits that trace the intricate lines and patterns of her skin — "every scar, the ink on your skin-"

vi blushes at your words little accustomed to get any kind of praise, at least never from someone she holds so highly in her heart: when did you remove her armor so swiftly? when did the metal begin to rest on the floor? cause she cant remember when you got under your skin that easily, when she finally dropped her defenses to let you in.

"my princess is too kind" she mumbles fighting to not go past your collarbones, forbidding her lips to brush past the valley of your chest still covered by your pretty dress. "i am nothing but a humble knight unworthy of such tender words."

it's not true, it's not entirely true when you're making her feel like a goddess, when in your hands she becomes gold, the most necessary person in the realm forged by the love and loyalty of her princess.

the light of the candle is long gone and even when its all dark again it's like returning to a home, the noble house vi belonged to when making you wrap your legs around her waist, using the now very convenient bookshelf to her will when she's kissing you again — rougher now, impatient when it plunders on your mouth.

"i burn for you," she whispers already drunk on you, on your touch and sloppy kisses full of saliva, a goner for your wondering hands, the sounds you make when she's touching you the way you needed — "i crave your kisses, your touch, any last drop of your love."

"ah-fuck," you nod to her words. "fuck that's so nice, your kisses are so damn nice."

and if she had more time, she'd be taking her time with the long thread on your back that holds your corset together, letting her lips go past the fabric of your dress cause she don't care anymore, fuck any consequence; but instead she's welcomed by a weird cough, a sound of discomfort that makes vi freeze on the spot at the knowledge of a third person now on the library.

"my princess," it doesn't sound the same when sevika's holding a candlelight to light up the dark hallway — "you're needed in your mother's chambers. urgently."

shame creeps upon the both of you like a monster, and vi's back seems to spread even bigger to cover you from sevika's prying eyes, the other knight already peeking to gossip the details later: a knight. fucking a princess. on duty.

"leave" you reply, and she can feel the nervousness in your voice when speaking up, even commanding like you usually do it falters at the unexpected — "i said leave, knight." 

her arms cover you entirely, the fabric that was gathering on your waist now goes down back to its original form, and vi's trying to help somehow, protect your honor from anyone else, fighting against all odds. the silence now says a lot when sevika's leaving the library and there are no words that can describe that moment, that feeling blossoming in her chest that invades the knight all of a sudden.

if she dares to talk, they may get violet hanged by touching a princess so inappropriately. taking advantage of a royal's goodwill? it's her fault when she's not alert, too lost in you, in the secrets of your body and how it speaks to her in a universal language.

"will she speak?"

"don't know," vi replies. "i'll take care of it. go see the queen."

you're not showing much regret either when leaning in for a new kiss, when your hands search for the knight’s skin burning hot against your touch, trying to somehow surpass the linen that feels rough against the pad of your fingers.

so fuck it. sevika saw and vi's stealing a couple of kisses now careless and unfocused, three, four, who keeps count now? her heart beats heavy on her chest so the repercussions don't matter, no when you’re mumbling something about your hair but all she can think about is how rough your voice is, how she aches to keep you there against the bookshelf longer than she's allowed, trapped between the wood and her hands.

the door closes as you leave, and the knight cannot fight against it cause she’d spend the rest of her days showing you the depths of her devotion. married to a man, married to whoever.

violet vanderson has already proved her loyalty to you.

"the princess will not be needing your companion today," vi’s brows furrow in annoyance as she listens to the head of the knights the next morning, the wood bench she was sitting on cracking as the weight shifts from one side to another: she can’t even have a decent breakfast at peace those days— "you may join other knights in their duties."

"what?" it’s a surprise even for vi when she cannot hide the worry that settles in her shoulders as she won’t stop thinking about the kiss from the night before, intoxicated still with the idea of doing it again until your lips are swollen and used by her own — "did something happened to the princess?"

usually, joining others would be the best idea of the century, patrolling outside the castle would allow her to wander throughout the fairs until late inspiring respect as she walks, but now? now she’s attacked when thinking about it, offended almost cause hell: did you regret it? was the kiss last night so bad? didn’t she prove the depths of her devotion? it’s an ache in the knight’s chest that does not go unnoticed.

"do your work kid. stop asking questions far too relevant to your grade."

her feet move faster than her brain, commands her before anyone else as she makes her way up to the stables: what if sevika talked? she was too tired yesterday to look out for her, but now it's a regret that makes her worried as vi's slightly afraid of getting arrested again. no fucking joke when she has already experienced the cold winter behind bars.

"vi," maddie nolen’s voice distracts her for a second. — "are you coming with us today?"

"yeah in a minute."

"we're leaving now, if you're staying you'll have to wait for the next patrol."

"have you seen sevika?"

"i think she'll join us later, she was needed somewhere else."

how will she fake concentration the entire day when she doesn’t give a fuck from what’s going on outside the castle? vi's forced almost, dragged when holding the rails of her horse with both hands cause it started to rain and it made the soil so irregular she might fall. mud sticks to her horses hoof and it makes everything slower since destiny loves to be cruel when it comes to her; the knight who's too afraid to ask for love, the warrior who doesn't know what to do with such feelings.

the fog covers the short path from the castle to the town center where the fair's currently installed. water sticks to her armor, soaks her seat, and she wonders what you must be doing as the hours pass. cold, violet keeps herself warm with the thought of your figure pressing right against hers, the way your fingers knew her armor enough to start undressing her like the metal was nothing more than a layer you can peel off, throw away.

the moon doesn't shine when a dark shade of grey settles down in the sky — so far, she sent nolen back to the castle with a couple of thieves trying to steal some fur to re-sell it, gained a nice plate of hot soup and attacked a tavern since she's too cold to be outside. consumed while she sips on a black beer with the same thought that lurks in her head like a wolf searching for a piece of meat.

the kiss. the kiss and the softness of your lips, the kiss and your warm breath, your fingers pulling and demanding, getting yourself in her bloodstream the same way you did months ago in the cabin when you shuddered and tried to defy the rules of nature as you tried to get as close to her as possible, riding her damn knee, saying shit about how you're giving her a different kind of medal before burying your face between her already soaked thighs.

its a desideratum, falls over her like the black plague did years ago when rats invaded each corner of the kingdom, a feverish sickness similar to a punishment when she's been so reluctant to ever show her buried feelings: vi deserves it, being so out in the blue, shoved aside when she lusts on being needed, missed but never close.

it was so hard to sleep last night, not wish to set her heart on fire only to tranquilize the most shameful thoughts she's been attacked with — sleep deprived, makes sense vi doesn't notice sevika's presence at first when she's dragging a chair to sit right next to her side, shoulders brushing, the knights sure it must be a drunk citizen trying to give her some action for the night.

"nolen said you were looking for me," the rain only intensifies with the passing hours, pouring outside against bad constructions that barely stand against the weather. "i have a job to do. be quick."

now that sevika's there the guilt settles in her stomach for a moment, caught on the fear of having to admit out loud what she was doing last night to someone else, put in words her desire only to be judged: as if the skin that shivers under soaked clothing wasn't because of the fact violet carries the imprints of your hands all over her like an honor.

"last night," she starts only to make her comrade groan in annoyance. "what you saw-"

"you're old enough to know what you're getting into."

"yeah. i know. did you tell anyone about it?" she rephrases instead, as if her life didn't depend on sevika's choices of being a gossiper or not. "about the stuff you saw."

"no" she's too calm about it even when vi's on the edge of her seat, "i have important things to be aware of, far more important than finding out one of my knights is kissing and getting handsy with the princess on duty."

"what could be even more important than breaking the code-"

"the queen's dead," the knight says impatiently, checking her surroundings for a moment as she leans in to talk quieter than before — "she died last night, vi."

"that's why you came to the library."

"yes, dipshit" sevika declares cause it's obvious at that point. "the doctors asked me to bring the princess over the night cause she wanted to say goodbye to her daughter. shit. i don't even think your royal girlfriend cares about your little kiss right now. she's busy too."

violence invades her like an old friend. her brows furrow and her shoulders tense up at the bad joke: of course you don't care about her stupid kisses right now, why does it bother her so much? when did she turn this selfish?

"do you know when its going to be announced?"

the question makes vika laugh, the sound being louder than any conversation in the tavern, annoying in her ears — "do i look like i know about royal announcements? we are talking about the queen violet, i only do what i'm told."

she lacks patience now. cannot handle her companion's sarcastic remarks when the mist of the rain seems to settle down on her head too, so as she leaves a coin in the table and grabs her horse already resting in the property's stable, she wonders if it's the best idea when most of the knights will spend the night in the tavern, cause if she's half intelligent like they are, vi would be staying too to prevent the massive flu she might get in result.

it's not an idea but a need, even when the rain pours down and hits her armor making these awful sounds on the way back home, she's barely able to see the road when the horse is running back to safety, nothing else but the loud sound of her heart beating in her damn ear.

it's a bad idea too, cause she should've stayed and talked to you in the morning but her heart is unable to shut up and vi knows she wont be able to sleep either, wait hours until the sun's up in the sky and everyone's awake demanding for things — she wants your undivided attention, wants the candles in your room only shine for her eyes to see you, powder blue drinking in the details of her runaway princess, be there.

are you affected? of course you are. you didn't want her around cause you were sad. violet knows she should be giving you space, let you mourn and grieve at your own time but it haunts her still when she crosses the hallways at a fast pace. soaked, drips of cold water make an invisible path to your chambers when she arrives at the castle in a frenzied state: she's been there before losing it all, she knows about how hollow it can get, how your chest only hurts.

"leave."

"excuse me?" the sound of the knight's voice sounds far still when she's calling out the young guard installed outside your doorframe, faltering at the sight of vi already intimidating enough to make the guy stutter — "i'm-i'm not supposed to move from the door, sir."

"i said, fucking leave" vi replies, shoving him aside to open the door of your room, and even as her replacement's ready for battle, he's encountered instead by the gaze of a suffering princess, the future queen that's a mess still seated on the edge of her bed, giving him an ice cold stare that makes the guard go back to the hallway.

he gets the silence and your lack of refusal to the vi's presence. closes the door behind the knights back only to leave her to be greeted with a sharp and calculating pair of eyes that seem to trespass her from over the metal, the barely noticeable sound the water makes as it pools below vi's feet when she doesn't realize on how her body shakes under your scrutinizing gaze, how nervous you can make her even when she's a trained warrior, daughter of the war in runeterra.

"i'm so sorry, my princess," it's the only thing she dares to say, knowing any word would be in vain at the moment — "nobody told me until an hour or so, and i'm so sorry for not being here before."

it's ridiculous to imply she's that important for you when she's only a knight. part of the vanderson's noble house vi has never been important like she felt that night in your room, not when she saw you like that; so vulnerable, a victim of the constant unease. the metal's cold and distant, but you don't seem to care about it when you're running up to her arms and vi has enough time to catch you before you crumble to your knees, succumb to sadness and misery.

she holds your weight in her arms, and shoves you against her chest afraid you'll slip from her wet armor, get a flu like she will have. violet hugs you tight, so much your lungs ache and you find yourself thinking about her smell, the force she uses to wrap you in her figure as if trying to make you a part of her.

"you're here" it's almost like you don't believe it in your own eyes, lips dry, the knight can see the traces of red in your pupils, the bags under revealing you didn't sleep much. "my mother she's-"

the words get lost in the air, in the way she's holding you together afraid you might break against the cold marble floor — "it's okay. i know."

there's no need to keep on talking about it, no need to fake any longer when the tears blend with the water already in your knights armor, petals that kisses your skin in the most tender caress as vi's fingers rest against your cheek, thumb brushing against the bone in a constant back and forth.

"the noxian prince," you say frustrated — "kino. he asked for my hand today."

does she have to get all the bad news all of a sudden? does she have to be reminded of her unworthy state? her lack of money and assets to ask you to marry her instead?

"you accepted," it's not a question but more like an assertive truth, a hurtful combined set of words you cannot say out loud on your own. "you agreed to marry the prince of noxus."

vi's unaccustomed, weirded out by feeling such things when her entire life has been dedicated to a single purpose: serving, securing the well-being of the crown and not feeling this gut-wrenching anger, this first-time jealousy.

"i made a promise to my mother before she died," why is loyalty so important? why are empty promises the ones that held you by the neck? the unimportant, the ones that kept you hostage from living life how you wanted. "i don't know what to do- i'm so sorry, i'm so fucking sorry-"

your hands tangle in her hair, cherry strands poorly dyed in black that in your fingers only makes the owner shiver: is it the cold of the rain or your damn touch? the way your hands once again begin to get rid of the metal that protected the knight from losing the battle, tossing it to the floor like it's nothing.

nothing.

"you confuse me, knight" it never fails. the way your mouth moves to say each word when she has you this close, when the fire of the chimney feels now warm on her naked skin — "you lay the truth clear and declare we cannot be doing what we did in the cabin, but you're pulling me for kisses on the library when no one's looking, feasting on me when we're alone and fighting the most complex battles in your head."

"i beg for your forgiveness, my lady. i'm not used to feeling so conflicted either," her voice betrays her as usual, the strained need that rips vi's vocal chords — "i guard myself and keep my distance not out of a lack of desire but because the fear of losing myself in you."

so that's how it starts in the first place, when your hands work to get rid of the linen shirt that sticks to the knight's body, tossing it close to the fire in a poor intent of drying the fabric as you're helping her out of her armor cause it's too heavy now, cause you want it to be just you and her without nothing else in between: no metal, no corsets.

"truth is, i love you my princess" and the words escape like a poem when you lean to kiss her, soft lips pushing against her own, making vi gasp between each needy peck. "i love you. i love you so deeply it's guiding me to an obscure insanity cause i cannot have you."

there's no point in hiding it, pretend she's not needy, desperate, consumed with the all-encompassing need to belong to you, blend in the curves of your body. you give yourself to her so easily in a tender dance, trying to warm her up after so many hours of freezing it makes the knight lose focus.

"so please tell me the truth," vi begs for a moment, afraid of what is to come when her lips trail along the elegant line of your jaw in soft, gentle kisses, carefully making their way down to the curve of your neck she knows so well, unable to leave any sort of space when it comes to you — "do you return this love i bear for you? or have i erred in laying such a burden at your feet? i would not wish to force my affections upon you uninvited."

"listen to me cause i wont say it twice," you reply breathlessly, and vi's heart stops only to race again with a fervor she never knew before — "this is no burden. i would marry you, violet cause you're the perfect suitor. you know about the realm, you know about what the people need, know me."

she's yours without having to ask for it, an intimacy that comes like a gift she bares to you only, standing while the dim warm light of the candlelights makes your lover look like a painting you've seen in elegant art galleries.

"i wish to have you not as my knight, but as an equal" vi's hair's still wet from the rain outside, dripping, freezing skin that makes her crave the higher temperatures of your body, how she's accustomed already to seek for warmth in the sin of your flesh: a shiver goes down her spine at the implications — "do you know how i wish upon your company in the night knowing you're there standing in the hallway? how i yearn to be with you even when you only seem to regret me? it must be some sort of witchcraft to some degree."

violet vanderson doesn't want the candles to be consumed in the dark, wants to see the details on your face when she's standing tall right in front of you, drinking in every detail. shaking still, the forever lonely dog who's patiently waiting at your door it's finally being welcomed inside when she's lowering to an almost clumsy kiss, deeper now and more than just a simple peck. her kisses are full of saliva, downright messy cause vi lacks of the self-control that's needed, something similar to a crusade she fights persistently to gain the holy terrains of your body, the grip she has on the sides of your face just to be able to explore into your mouth freely.

"please let it be witchcraft for i am lost in you" that long-denied desire burns uncontrollably now, tearing everything apart: how do you wield such power over her? make her so weak to your charms. "you've haunted my dreams, my thoughts, my every walking moment and i'm done with it. done with feeling torn, afraid of the consequences of giving into my desires."

"i'm sorry for making you feel this way," you murmur tenderly when leaning into her hands, relishing the grip she keeps to kiss you properly — "you're not the only one trying to resist, to push away. i've been fighting this too violet, fighting us for so long."

an almost silent smile spreads on vi's lips when she listens to your apology, the regret in your voice that only makes her chuckle.

"don't say sorry. it is i who should seek forgiveness," she's allowing herself to savor the feeling of your skin beneath her fingertips, your warm breath mingling with her own in a heady mix vi would love to make part of her lungs. "i'm too lost between what i want and what i know is right."

"violet- i am crazy about you," you dissipate every thought, and it makes her stay still for a moment as her hand reaches your pulse point, fingertips pushing against the pulsating flesh to notice the fast heartbeats — "attracted before my mother sent you to look after me when i escaped."

"yeah?" it feeds right into her ego when a drunken smile pulls the corners of the knight's lips, her other hand slides up your back as she anchors herself closer to you, taking a step forward only to make you take one backward — "what else huh? what else have you felt?"

she's stealing kiss after kiss now when cornering you against the wall behind your back, leading you to this drunken state as vi's wondering why you're still dressed in complex dresses so late at night knowing you must have refused any help from your maids. her fingers tangle in the threads of the corset pulling them apart impatiently, frustrated already when you have to help her for a moment to get rid of the annoying fabric.

"let me have you tonight," the cold rocks pressing into your skin makes you shiver when she's already peeling the infinite layers your dress seemed to have, trapping you between the wall and her own body. "let me stay with you before you answer for the realm. i fear i shall be a clumsy lover so great is my hunger for you my princess, but i want you to know about my devotion to you, how i feel."

it's ironic now when she spent months fighting against the notion of liking someone so out of reach, but now with you there in her arms, it feels like you belong to her as much as the knight belongs to you: a different kind of loyalty, a different kind of fidelity. swollen-kissed lips, vi seems to never get tired of it when she's finally tugging on the sides of your dress, letting it pool at your feet to leave you clad in a thin undergarment.

beautiful, make her spiral right into madness when the light dances over your skin, highlighting the curves and valleys the knight longed to explore with hands and mouth. you're so beautiful it's impossible to think about anything else, about her troubles when she can see the soft curves of skin from over the linen, drinking in the sight of the erotic near nudity like a striking hallucination.

"i have been yours since the day you took me there in the cabin," you reply, sharp control, you don't falter for a second when admitting the truth like a real queen — "even when your brain is too fuzzy to realize it."

you're making fun of her, the rough sound of your laugh before it turns into a gasp when vi's suddenly taking you, swapping you off your feet and finally leaving the dress behind on the floor right next to her armor only to carry you in her arms, walking you down to the only bed in the room.

perfectly made it wrinkles when she's tossing you on top of it, grabbing you by the ankle to make you slide in the satin duvet and stay there on the edge where she wants you to be.

"one time," you warn her when vi positions herself between your parted legs, looking down at you she has the feeling you're the one who needs the reminder more than she does, toying with the thread on your linen shirt as you spoke. "one time, i'm going to be a married woman, i'm not ever going to cheat, ever."

"one time?" she plays coy for a second only to test you, cause in reality the knight would comply with every wish you make like she's taught to. "one time what?"

"you know what-"

"one time," vi repeats for herself too. "yes, i get it. one time."

words now lacked sense, after that it's similar to being granted permission to heaven, a plate of food on a tiring day. your skin shivers when vi's making you lay back in the bed, crawling on top of your displayed figure as you settle against the goose-feathered pillows. her weight pulls you down against the mattress when she seats — you lack of the underwear that prevents you from feeling her ass right where the linen begins, the cool of her skin clashes with the warmth of your own and its nothing but seconds until you become aware and notice the subtle dampness that grows between the knight's thighs and leak to your mound, coating it with what must be her arousal.

"you're a feast- a feast to the eye and every hungry part i carry" vi's voice's low now, rough and coated with lust when she's leaning closer, the shifting of her position making you blatantly moan at the minimal friction, "so exquisite."

to punctuate her words, the knight catches the stiff peak of your breast between her lips, tongue flat against the linen cause the material's so thin she doesn't mind it, too desperate to care when the undergarment gets soaked with her own saliva and becomes transparent enough to end up being nothing.

her hands map every dip, every imperfection, every curve and plane to memory. it obliges her to keep her eyes open, heavy-lidded cause the warrior wants to learn about the face you make when she's finally making you crumble, deluged moans she hides as her thumb circles and teases the sensitive flesh, marking you up with her kisses cause its the only brand she can leave in you. her personal brand.

and it's true cause she's a clumsy lover due to desperation. your body's inviting, pliant under her sloppy marks, her saliva glistens transparent in your skin as an encouragement when you fucking squirm as vi begins to grind against you with a requirement she cannot explain rationally.

her hands drag the linen out of your body, fingers curl against the fabric, clinging to you like a lifeline before being able to finally explore that skin-to-skin contact she's been dreaming about for weeks. vi's hips move in a barely discernible circle at first that makes you slick enough to help her grind against you faster, hand on your lower stomach, the knight pushes you hastily against the mattress each time she drags herself against you, making the bed creak and groan at the movement — funny. she could actually cum just like that.

"fuck vi, you look so good," you can't deny the view either, messy cherry hair falling over her shoulders, chaotic strands when vi's mouth hangs wide open — tits slightly bouncing with every move; there's a trail of hair that installs just bellow her navel and joins like a secret path to the trimmed pink hair in her cunt, muscles flex on each strike, you let her use you cause she looks so good while doing it, makes you fight for a kiss you demand by roughly pulling her against your chest.

"c'mon sit properly," you plead against her mouth, — "i know that's not what they teach you in training, so stop teasing me like that."

the comment makes her blush, cheeks matching with the hair as she finally understands what you're saying: yeah it feels good when you're stealing the air from her lungs, but when you make her shift in her comfortable seat on top of you? stars settle on vi's vision as you guide her between your legs, and now in tangled limbs you gift your knight the perfect access to rub her dripping cunt against yours, quick response when vi's hips cant forward to seek more of that delicious friction.

that's so damn good. pulls her into a state she cannot control, wishing desperately to be consumed by your touch, your commands and whatever you need from her, so damn good when vi's moving on top of you confidently, holding your thigh so she can control your body enough to mold you against her.

"d'you feel how we fit together?" she asks, the words slur together when her head falls back with a devastating moan — the knight swears she can feel your sensitive folds that part to knead with her own, soaking wet, it only adds to her desired nirvana. "how our bodies respond to each other's touch?" 

in response, you're taking your fingers right against her parted lips with no need to say it out loud, not by the look on your face as vi gathers a good amount of saliva before spitting; lavish, it falls to coat the length of your fingers, transparent and efficient helps you slide between your combining bodies, adding to the friction before you're using your free hand to grip the knight's waist so you can have control of her and make her feel your soaked fingers rubbing on the sensitive nub she's been constantly planing against you, pushing harder, faster.

"you got the prettiest pussy of the realm," you praise, too concentrated on whats happening between your thighs to see the need in her face as vi bites her lip overwhelmed — "all pink, fat and pliant for your future queen."

man she's barely able to nod properly, all vi can manage to do is whimper already lost in the obscene sound of your joined arousal, the way it leaks to coat your thighs and hers in the most sticky mix. slick and abundant, soaks your sheets when the warrior's looking at the juncture where your body and hers meet: oh the things she'd do to sink her face between your legs just as filthy as you are!

you push her to go faster, when you're subtly spreading her apart to make her rub against you better, helping to create a filthy symphony vi can only make with you. it's fucking primal at some point, this need, this utter starvation when the knight's movement becomes erratic, when your fingers move with purpose to stroke in that perfect spot that makes her strangely vocal.

"mmf-please" the cherry-haired says defeated — "please- my princess, please slow down."

you don't seem to listen at first until she's pulling your hands away from her, grabbing you by the wrist so she can have enough control to hold them over your head — "slow," she manages to say again, cause vi wish to relish the moment, savor every part of you. "the sun's not up yet, and we don't have to rush this."

"vi..."

you're ready to reply, fight her words but her fingers wrap around your wrists too tightly and there's no chance to fight it cause it wont work either: the knight's stronger than you are, can keep you in place after years of rough training, survival. makes vi forget about her force as her digits dig into your skin and you're unable to ever move from where you are.

tortuous and way crueler than before, it elicits only pleasure when she's dragging herself across your slit in the most intimate way, soaked, engorged clit that brushes against your own, it only spurs vi to a new quest, a new fire that spreads on dry grass until there's nothing else.

"look at me. i want you to know its me when i fuck you like this," she leans against you using the grip on your hands as an anchor, close to your face, but with enough distance to not fall for a much needed kiss before speaking again— "i don't think no one will ever make you feel like this, my princess."

her eyes. it's so difficult to not lose yourself in the blue. drift away in the ocean when her moans blend with yours and its the most delightful music you've ever heard. a bundle of nerves on where the knight's too aware of the threads of arousal that connected your pussy to her own, the messy white that leaks and smears against your parted legs.

if its a dream, violet wishes to never wake up. scares her cause it fills her with need, completes her as she's left behind with no idea on how to reign it in. your eyes swallow her only to leave the knight in the spirals of your mind, the holes and riptides she would go through with sword and shield.

nothing else exists more than rough breathings, the constant war your lungs experience and the lewd sounds of flesh on flesh that echo through the empty room. she's making your body quake and clench, taking you there at her own rules and you comply, pliant and ready to satisfy her needs.

"open up," its a new feeling when you part your lips apart for her, your own mouth already flooded with contained saliva, yet still didn't stop vi from spitting a good amount of saliva into your buccal cavity before adding — "that's it. swallow, good fucking girl."

is she a part of you now? when staring into your eyes, fucking you tenderly: is she a part of you? of your needs? of your desires like you belong in hers? your sinful smile is nothing but a gift on her head, the fluids you're covered with, the invisible saliva that coats your chin.

she doesn't need any fingers, no extra addition as her hips snap forward in a blur of motion, gained force as vi seems to forget about her no-rush-plans, the force of her thrusts making the headboard of the bead slam against the wall hard enough to leave a fucking dent.

close, the knight's hands close around your throat before leaving wet, messy kisses over your lips, mouth wide open when she applies some good old pressure over your pulse point and its enough to make you say some praises that only blend together because it's damn near impossible to modulate complete sentences, a battle for oxygen that makes your knight smile drunk in the control she takes, on knowing she reduced you to this state.

"it's not cheating when you always belonged to me, far before any prince."

vi's words strike hard like lighting, like the storm that poured outside the castle walls and tinted the streets in a glistening new dimension. it's true. true under any circumstance: you've belonged to the knight far before any prince who asked for your hand in marriage.

it's intense, violet cannot help but be intense when it comes to you, her princess, the reason why she chooses to carry an armor, endure the rough life only for the graciousness of having a royal looking her way. connection, it's like the world finally listens to her and her lame thoughts cause it reduces to you and her, on the sweat, the satisfaction that starts in your overstimulated cunt and eats you entirely.

it builds on the base of violet's spine, tattooed flesh that tenses when the orgasm finally kicks in like a medical drug. she's been under several to treat many injuries but that moment? fucking drowns her like the most deadly cresting wave, sinks you with her to a point of no return cause the moment you cum its devastating — your skin shivers, cunt clenches empty and there it is. that promise you cannot take back.

how will it ever be one time only? how will you hide the fact you're fucking your most loyal knight to the entire court?

there's no many words that can cover the interaction, the warm sensation when you can feel vi's arousal run down your leg, mixing up with yours as a testament, a promise and a new devotion. your lips find hers in a renewed kiss, and she can feel the moans you try to hide against her mouth, the laziness in your movements as you try to deepen it, relish your knight as she deserves.

how will it ever be one time only if you're craving for more when it just ended?

"join me in the bath," so when vi's laying on top of you, full weight as she rests her head in your stomach, makes sense a subtle glimmer appears on her powder blue eyes for a moment, your fingers trace the lines of her tattoo and the silence's nice, invigorating in the subtle caress of the after sex — "i'll ask my maids to warm up the water."

"don't leave," violet's afraid for a minute, afraid that when you leave her side everything will disappear, never existing more than in her memories, makes the warrior hug you tightly as a way to make you stay in the bed with her. "let's stay like this for a little while. it's just a small break."

"small break? you crazy knight," the sound of your laugh is the most intoxicating sound she's ever heard, fighting for the number one spot with the sounds you make as you cum "what else you want to do now?"

"plenty still, i'm almost shocked my princess didn't expect it from before since tonight, the night will give us her eternity and the moon will shine for you only" she's having fun, careless, delicious fun she's been lacking from years when vi's carefully sliding down, swift, calculated moves when the knight settles between your already parted legs, a mess of her arousal, yours — hers.

"vi," you try to stop her. "m'dirty-"

"shh- that's even better. i'll make this quick and dirty," the knight promises, and you already know her mouth was pure sin as a cocky grin appears on her lips, that violet will feast from the belief of famine — "just the way my princess likes it."

the next few days are a blur.

violet vanderson's been kissing you all week cause she cannot fight the way you look at her like she's the only good thing habituating the castle, how you peel her entire persona in a short span of mere seconds, cornering you in the dark halls of the castle, surrendering to you when no one's around, spending countless nights in your room wrapped around the comfy sheets.

jealous as ever of a man who publicly holds your hand and tugs the loose strands of your hair behind your ear, vi's good to pretend she's not listening to whatever the prince's telling you so confident about — so far she has heard about the life you'll share after marriage, how many kids kino desires always silent and walking behind as you nod to his words.

"i could scarcely forget about you, violet" but in the night everything shifts, no prince or duty when you allow her to become your other half, the part you miss your entire day. your words are like a poem imprinted in her memories, a sacred kiss similar to a tattoo only she gets to see as your fingers travel across the right side of her body, facing you, the nudity only becomes proof of shared trust — "not with the taste of your passion still lingering on my tongue or the proof of your appetite dripping down my thighs."

and it's true cause she can taste herself on your lips when you kiss her, the subtle taste of her own arousal when you invade her mind like the worst war she's ever been a part of. vi blushes when each encounter appears in her memory just in time to feel your eyes on her face at the most unexpected moments of the day: a barely noticeable smile at the council meeting, a charged look of pure desire when you're seated on the throne, you're there every day.

it seems that violet vanderson is weak when it comes to love.

a sucker when your lips travel across the expanses of her toned stomach, following the way down to the trail of hair that disappears in a much more intimate place. the knight's hearing your rantings late at night when you dare to speak of political matters, your absolute hatred for the members of the council and how you loved to spend time outside the castle, that freedom that ties your words together — those rebel ideas that before horrified her now turning into details she looks up to.

"are you nervous?"

it's a dumb question now that she thinks about it. polished armor, silver covers her skin as vi's true form, a long cape that pools longer than ever when she has to drag it as she takes a seat in the first row. gold coats the surface of the main saloon, the red, fluffy carpet only showing the path to the throne and you, as usual, are much similar to a vision, a product of her imagination when you're consuming her to oblivion.

"yes," you admitted minutes before the ceremony as she' escorted you to the main entrance. "i've never been more anxious in my existence."

"breathe out. you're going to do amazing, my queen."

white dress, the delicate fabric sticks to your body like it was sculpted by the artist of the kingdom, complex and eye-catching patterns that manage to be simple and elegant. you're dressed with a gold tunica that makes you look small, and holding the jewels of the realm, you bow down to feel the weight of the crown pushing on your head like a halo that's coming down to choke on you, uncomfortable as ever, the metal wraps around your head and you stay there stoic as ever, as if you're feeling the power like a physical manifestation.

you're a queen. a queen through and through. a queen who's going to marry next week with her consort husband from noxus, a queen that has no time to think about her devoted knight who's too lost into worshiping her every private night.

you've come so far that pride settles on her chest, as your declared right hand, vi relishes on the medals on her chest, the new title she's granted days before your coronation when you hold the sword against her shoulder and name her the head of the knights — from over sevika or any other important person, its a spot she deserves even if she didn't fucked you to sleep every night, because she's good at what she does, the best.

you lay out your heart for her wide as the moon shines in the sky, and its hard when violet cant take it anymore, when she can't fight you like this.

you torment her every living moment and she cannot ignore now the way you feel, the way you need her, the way you crave her touch like air. curses herself cause she cannot just take what you offer, cause she's not made of stone when your love, your desire it's a force that's slowly crumbling the walls she carefully keeps around her heart. a security you're good at trespassing.

long live to the queen.

she says it louder than anyone, your so-called future husband, the members of the council and the noble court that only seemed to be jealous of the position you're being granted only by being born in a lineage of royalty. the blue blood on your veins that pumped your heart alive — cause you're chosen by the higher forces in the sky.

long live to the queen.

vi repeats it with the same enthusiasm, hating herself to rotten pieces cause she knows she'll choose a life of a secret only to be granted the time she's been granted with you, even when you carry this stupid ring the knight hates to see, when she has to endure that lack of emotion when the day comes and there's duties to fulfill.

as the rest, she bows to you. lowers her head as a sign of respect: did the same for your mother, the same for your father, but this time's different. different cause she'd died for you without a declaring war on course, relishing already every moment alive she shared with you by her side.

makes your knight melt in the hand-painted chair she's seated on when you're smiling at her, being hard to fake you're not head over heels with her cause in reality, she's the only one in the realm who you trust enough to share your fears with, your entire life.

you've sworn to the crown in front of the entire kingdom, stand with your chin high as you accept the love of the people, the chants, the screams of joy dedicated to the kind princess, the rebel princess who in reality carries a heart of gold. however, no one expects when you're clearing your throat, casting silence among the public cause no recent king nor queen has made a speech on their coronation day.

vi’s brows furrow in curiosity: what exactly are you doing?

"my people," it's practiced when your voice casts and spreads against every corner of the room, reaching the ears even of the peasants who pushed each other to have a better view of a historic day — "i'm taking a moment to express my devotion to the city we’ve built together, the people that fill it, a kingdom that has only shown me mercy and love that goes beyond any position."

it's always nice to see you like that anyway. when you've trained for those public speeches, to satisfy the mass and saccharine the ears of a population that always talks so highly about you.

"this very special day i make myself the realm's weapon, and i promise to you i'll bring nothing but the sunlight in every corner" it makes the citizens go crazy: how not when their majesty's promising her absolute devotion to them? — "things will change upon this day for the very best. we'll push together to a future of freedom, peace and justice."

damn right vi's fucking you tonight until you repeat that very same discourse word by word.

"this is why i'd like to announce as well, the ending of my marriage negotiations that's been taking place in the castle, as i won't be no longer marrying to the prince of noxus" the gasp is audible and general as you lay out the news, and to vi herself is a shocking as her body paralyzes in the middle of her seat: what did you said? "this does not mean our nation is in tension with the noxian nation, despite all the misunderstanding we've made new treatments that will join our nations more than ever. it's nothing but a proof of our new liberty. we should be provided with choices, freedom."

she's too afraid to look at the council, too pale to even look at you or kino. in all reality violet's already panicking in her head, blushing red to the point it creeps down her neck because once in her life she stops being the one who's losing all honor, who's always in the dirt expecting the worst: are you ending this political marriage for her? because you'd like to marry her instead of a man?

vi dares to thrive on her ego for once in her life. she's been a good lover, tender, always near cause the knight needs to have you close. so how will she not dare to say its for her? that you're putting a stop to it cause kino's not your knight?

"this only proves my focus on the realm and the people" you add, ignoring the discontent of the court and the nobles — "to prosperity. to peace and unity."

long live to the queen.

good fuck vi just wants to get you out of there. pull you to the desired privacy of your room and once again make the world stop just for you and her; submerse in your eyes and that shimmer of mischief when you find her in the most personal eye contact ever; so quick when you wink at her as you sit back on the throne, that it got vi's breathing hitching on the back of her throat for a moment.

fuck.

how were you able to hide this from her? be so secretive of something so important? violet would like to be annoyed, but it only melts her armor back to her skin as a way to leave her without nothing, bare her entire self for your eyes only as you seem too worried about her, too invested in her actions.

you're prepared for the trouble as well, aware of the disaster it will cause when the council's screaming at you behind closed doors like you were still a child on their sixteen birthday, making you remain firm at your decisions without faltering for a second: you're not getting married, and if they continue to question you decisions you'd have to take the right measurements as the regent queen.

the news of you neglecting the hand of any man travels throughout the kingdom fast enough to make vi's heart jump at the unexpected, by noon it turns real and tangible as you politely escort the noxian empire out of the castle the same day of your coronation. the knight can barely contain the smile for the rest of the day when she has this desperate need to push you against the closest wall she can find only to have your attention for the short span of five minutes. only five minutes.

"so- secrets. you kept this to yourself," she points out in the first moment you're left alone with her. "do you like surprises by any chance?"

"i don't," she's so desperate to kiss you. break the distance that separates you from her body and her hungry hands that it makes it hard to stay even annoyed at you, at your tone when you answer — "i just thought it would be nice hearing on my coronation day about how i'm not going to get married."

"nice, you thought it was nice," vi shakes her head almost as if she doesn't believe a word of what you're saying — "clearly being a queen has fed into your ego 'cause of course your simple, devoted knight would like to know from before, your majesty."

"i'm sorry," you reply with a rather shy smile, almost ashamed of yourself for a moment, "i kinda thought it was romantic, tell everyone to go fuck themselves."

"oh it is," vi agrees. the sun strikes her face and for a moment you can't help but get stuck in her beauty too, the lines of her jaw that now shifted from sharp to curvy, soft and inviting to your touch. "it's the ultimate act of romance."

man.

late at night when she's wrapped naked in your enormous sheets, her skin brushes against your own as she holds you close and you can feel the warm breath from vi parted lips when speaking on your shoulder, tender when she's trying to mix you back into her skin, carry you in her chest.

"was it for me?" she's nervous when asking, holding you in her arms afraid you might go for a moment — "your ultimate act of romance-- is it because of me?"

a second, two. vi's heart beats so loud before you kiss her tenderly after the agonizing wait. slowly this time and full of care cause you need her to feel it, become aware of how deep you carry her in your heart, cause that's the girl you're going to marry, the knight who has dedicated her entire life to protect the castle, tired already of pretending to be someone you aren't because of a promise that's only tearing you down.

"did it work vi? did i make your heart skip a beat for a second?"

you look at her only to enjoy the sight of your future wife finally blushing, the subtle red on her cheeks thats only evidence thanks to the constant warm light of the candle casting her glow on vi's figure.

"you want to marry me?" she asks this time, serious, real.

"i do."

your response hangs in the air, and violet would like to slap herself at the lack of romance in her answer when she's a victim of her impulses. too late to say anything else when the knight's already drunk in happiness: the news of the cancellation of your marriage, your body fitting perfectly against her own, that night there locked out in your room, you in her arms.

making you look back at her, vi's pulling you into a clumsy kiss when going through the worst withdrawal of the century — "ask me properly" she says in between kisses, saliva clinging to her lips that shined in yours as a matching fluid. "ask me to be your wife."

everywhere. violet's everywhere when you can recognize the kisses that shift from your jaw to your back, curious hands that hold you close, desperate to feel something, be aware now of your disheveled heartbeats.

and it's similar to the cabin, the very same even when vi's knee slips past between your legs and she doesn't need an invitation to touch you cause you're her own, she's yours too and it's a silent agreement as your hips unbuckle against her leg and she's guiding you into a madly slow rhythm, back against her naked chest: right there where she needs.

"marry me," you say, half-breathless and half-drunk in her touch. "marry me and fuck the council, the nobles and runeterra itself. marry me and rule by my side, please."

you're begging her to marry you and vi's marking your back already combusting in your words, leaving this huge marks that will show on from over the dress tomorrow cause now everyone should be aware, everyone should know about the countless nights in your bed, the infinite kisses from her you carry on your lips, the tattoo on your cheek invisible and mirroring her own like a mark of honor, a medal.

everyone should know violet vanderson's the one who got you like this.

"marry me, please. marry me and be my consort queen. i won't have anyone else by my side."

"mmh, the council's gonna be pissed--" vi laughs against your shoulders, aware of the wet trail that now dampens her leg, the erratic moans you fight so hard to keep in line as the pleasure becomes unbearing, trying so hard for her — "are you sure it's possible, my queen? marry a common peasant?"

"the council's job is to follow my rules and do nothing but advice" she recognized her own words from before now in your mouth, adopted like a dogma of your own: that's her girl. "i don't have to follow their suggestions if they aren't fitting. and they are not fitting."

the knight steals the air from your lungs until your brain becomes dumb and forgetful as she kisses you again, again and again until your lips are swollen with too much friction, too much contact, even when she keeps your face to the side uncomfortable as ever just to receive more of her intoxicating kisses, more of her.

"yes i'll marry you, my queen. yes, i'll always catch you," the warrior whispers in your ear like a poem, a secret only you can hear — "no matter how high i make you fly, i'll be there to catch you every single time."

rings, promises, caresses and need, the night's not enough. the minutes cannot begin to cover it all but it's a start, a start to a decade, to a century, to as long as you exist tangled in her soul.

marriage. under the moon you promise yourself to her in something far more important than any other ceremony, a private celebration with no witnesses and no papers more than murmured words of love in the middle of a dark, silent night.

your wife. violet vanderson's your consort queen.

now the tricky part was breaking the news to the council about the queen's marriage to a girl-- your knight, but that's a whole different story, made up for another time.