frankcastler

[frankcastler]

it’s getting hot in here

Faded Arch — Lara Raj

⛔️ CW: g!p reader, explicit sexual content, drug use (marijuana), oral sex, sloppy/messy intercourse, praise kink overstimulation, rough dynamics. masc!reader

Summary: As the 7th member of KATSEYE and Lara Raj’s girlfriend, you stay back to smoke while the others go live. But hunger hits, and now you’re high, sitting next to your girl on camera, struggling to act normal while a tent starts forming in your pants.

You told them you’d join the live later.

Your voice was calm, casual, and nobody questioned it just waved you off as they filed into the living room, giggling and chattering, phones already in hand. You stayed behind in the room you shared with Lara, the only person who looked back at you for a second longer than necessary.

She knew what you were doing.

You lit up by the open window, letting the familiar haze settle into your lungs as the soft hum of laughter and fan chatter echoed down the hall. It was supposed to be a quiet night. Just a few hits to unwind. Nothing serious.

But your stomach had other plans.

With the blunt half-smoked in the tray and your head pleasantly foggy, you wandered out of the room in search of snacks. You didn’t even realize they were mid-livestream until every head in the room turned toward you eyes wide, grins frozen, and Lara’s brows lifting just slightly.

“Babe why don’t you come sit down? You don’t look so good,” Manon laughed slightly, rushing you over to sit.

You scratched your head almost to say no but then turned to face your girlfriend which had her eyebrows raised at you and mouthing you to ‘come sit down’.

“No I’m fine im just hungry,” you muttered to manon but mostly your Lara who was rolling her eyes at you.

[user01]: what’s happening rn?

[user02]: i hope y/n is okay

[user03]: dude she has to be in the clouds again

You blinked slowly, your eyes dragging across the room like they were stuck in molasses. The lights felt too bright. The sound too sharp. Everyone’s voices started blending together, but Dani’s cut right through the fog.

“Mami, let’s just come sit first.”

Her tone was light, teasing, but her hands were already guiding you toward the couch like you were a baby deer on ice. You didn’t even resist. Your legs were jelly anyway.

You dropped onto the cushion beside Lara, who was sitting there all proper—arms crossed, face unreadable. Her hoodie was riding up her thighs, just enough to flash smooth skin, and she didn’t even glance at you when you sat. That almost made it worse.

“I’m good,” you said again, but it was half a mumble. Your mouth was dry.

[user04]: not mami lol

[user06]: Lara looks DONE LMAO

[user07]: not her walking like a baby giraffe

You tugged gently on your girlfriend’s hoodie, trying to get her attention.

“Baby,” you whispered.

She didn’t look at you right away. Her eyes stayed on the live, watching the comments roll in with a calm, unreadable expression.

Yoonchae, sweet and kind as ever, handed you a juice pouch the coffee table without saying a word. She even popped the straw in for you.

You blinked at it like she’d just handed you a bomb. “Thanks chip.”

“You sure you okay?” Manon asked, her face stretched in a wide grin as she waved a fan in your direction like you were overheating.

“She’s fine,” Dani chimed in, leaning into frame and smirking. “She just needs to keep her eyes open.”

“I am keeping them open,” you protested, blinking a little too slow.

Lara finally looked at you. Just a glance, but it sliced through you. Her lips pressed tight, like she was fighting the urge to either laugh or drag you back to your room and yell at you. Maybe both.

You tried not to stare, but her legs were crossed and her hand was resting in her lap so casually, like she wasn’t the hottest thing you’d ever seen right now. And maybe it was the weed, maybe it was how she looked at you when she was mad—but your body reacted fast. Too fast.

You shifted in your seat, squeezing your thighs together. It did nothing.

You pressed your lips together hard, trying to bite back a groan as you sunk further into the couch. You could feel it pressing up against your waistband. Painfully obvious.

Absolutely no hiding it all.

And Lara?

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t say a word.

She just leaned forward like she was grabbing something from the table, but her lips brushed your ear.

“Fix your face,” she whispered. “And fix your dick.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. A soft whine slipped from your lips, just quiet enough for Lara to hear. “I’m sorry,” you muttered.

She leaned back, smooth and smug, sipping from a water bottle like she hadn’t just whispered that with a full livestream still going.

You were bricked. High. On camera. And completely at her mercy.

The comments were still rolling in, a chaotic blur of emojis, reactions, and half-spelled-out guesses.

[user13]: why y/n look like she’s buffering

[user14]: nah she definitely smokes

[user15]: she tryna act normal SO BAD

[user16]: Lara is going to get her after this live watch

You sank deeper into the couch, hoodie bunched around your hands, and forced a laugh at something Dani said. You didn’t even catch the joke. Everything sounded like it was happening underwater.

Lara hadn’t said much. She didn’t need to.

Her silence was louder than everyone else’s noise. The way she kept glancing over at you with that faint smirk on her lips like she knew exactly what was going on in your head.

And your lap.

And your pulse.

You shifted a little, subtly adjusting how you sat, arms folded tight across your stomach. Maybe no one else noticed, but Lara’s eyes flicked down for half a second before dragging back up to your face.

Then she looked away like nothing happened.

“You good, babe?” Manon asked suddenly, her tone playful but a little concerned.

“Yeah,” you muttered, not trusting your voice to do more than that.

“She’s just vibin’,” Dani grinned, tossing a pillow toward your feet.

[user17]: me time got her cooked

[user18]: not the way she’s blinking in slow motion

[user20]: Lara’s so quiet I’m scared

Lara finally spoke, but not to the live.

“Come here for a sec,” she murmured, leaning in close enough that no one else could hear. Her hand brushed your thigh lightly, too lightly, and you flinched.

“I’m fine,” you whispered.

She gave you a look. “Did I ask you that?”

You hesitated, heart pounding stupidly hard in your chest, then leaned in like she told you to. Her mouth was right by your ear, soft and careful under the sound of everyone laughing.

“You’re doing a horrible job pretending you’re not turned on,” she whispered.

Your breath caught.

“I—”

“Relax,” she said, cool and steady. “They don’t know. I do.”

Her fingers skimmed along your arm, like she was fixing your sleeve. Like nothing was happening at all.

“I’ll wrap the live early,” she murmured. “Unless you’d rather keep sitting here like this.”

You shook your head a little too fast.

“Thought so.”

She leaned back in, voice clear and sweet. “Alright, we’re heading out. Thanks for hanging with us, you’ll see us again soon.”

Megan made a dramatic goodbye wave. Dani flashed a peace sign. The others echoed her, and the phone flipped just as Lara stood up, grabbing your wrist gently as she passed.

You followed.

Not because you had to but because your knees were jelly and your situation wasn’t about to fix itself.

[…]

The bedroom door clicked shut behind you.

It was quiet. The kind of quiet that made your skin itch with anticipation. The laughter from the others was faint now, muffled behind two walls and a closed door, but it still existed just far enough away to make this feel secret. Dangerous.

You stood in the middle of the room, not quite knowing what to do with your hands. They hovered at your sides like they were waiting for instructions.

Lara didn’t say anything at first. She walked to her dresser slowly, tugging off her hoodie and tossing it onto the back of the chair. Her tank top stuck to her skin just enough to make your mouth dry.

You gripped your pants trying to adjust the discomfort that was painfully harden in your boxers.

But that move only lasted a second as you watched her slowly pull her tank top above her head revealing her bare chest.

A whine left your mouth as she stared at you with a predatory look in her eyes. “Come take the rest off baby,” she softly demanded.

Your legs moved before your brain could catch up, and you were practically sprinting to her, a laugh slipping from her mouth as she watched you.

“Breathe baby,” she whispered, her nails scratching the nape of your neck.

You didn’t even notice you were holding your breath, too focused on undoing the button of Lara’s bottoms with shaky fingers. Your eyes were glazed over with slow, aching desire—so intense it made her throb, wetter than she already was under your touch.

You looked up, nearly losing yourself in the urge to kiss and suck at her perfect breast, but instead your lips closed around her nipple as your hand gripped her waist tightly.

A soft moan left her mouth, heat rushing through her body. She tried to push you back, breath catching.

“B-baby… no—focus.”

Her fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to pull a gasp from your lips. Her eyes locked with yours, dark and commanding.

“I said focus,” she repeated, voice low but dripping with control that made your stomach twist. You nodded, barely able to breathe, and she smirked, guiding your face with a slow tug on your hair.

“Good girl,” she whispered, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Now take off my pants, baby. You can do that for me, can’t you? And don’t get distracted again.”

You mumbled something incoherent as you pulled her pants down along with her black lace panties.

She grabbed your face, fingers firm along your cheeks as she tilted your head back, eyes drinking in your wrecked expression.

“Look at you,” she murmured, voice dripping honey and cruelty. “Mouth open. Eyes glossy. You’re already gone, huh?”

Your breath hitched, knees weak. She smelled like warmth and sin. She hadn’t even touched your dick yet and you were aching.

“Please I need to cum, mommy.”

Her thumb pressed into your bottom lip, and you sucked it without thinking, eyes fluttering closed at the low noise that escaped her throat.

“Mmm,” she hummed, pulling her thumb away slowly. “Strip.”

You didn’t hesitate. Shoes, shirt, and boxers came off in a frenzy, leaving you completely bare. Her eyes scanned your body slowly, letting the silence stretch until your skin burned under her gaze.

When her hand finally moved, it trailed down your chest, nails grazing lightly until she cupped your fully hard cock. You gasped, hips jerking toward her touch.

She smirked. “So sensitive. Poor baby.”

You whimpered.

She pushed you backward gently, guiding you until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. You collapsed, legs falling open as she laughed softly, teasing but loving in that sharp way you craved.

“You want me that bad?” she asked, crawling over you, bare skin pressing against yours as she kissed the hollow of your neck. “Already this messy?”

You nodded, too far gone to speak, reaching for her hips to pull her closer.

She slapped your hand away.

“Nope,” she breathed into your ear. “I’m in charge tonight.”

And she was.

She took her time, dragging her mouth down your body with torturous precision. licking, sucking, teasing every inch. Each touch sent shivers down your spine. She didn’t let you grind or beg. She just looked up at you with those heavy-lidded eyes and said—

“Be still, Daddy”

You watched her cheeks hollow as she took every inch of you, her eyes dark and locked on yours, making you twitch in her mouth.

“F-fuck, baby, I need to be inside,” you growled, voice tight as your hand tangled in her hair. You yanked but not enough to hurt, but enough to make her release you with a wet pop. Her lips parted, slick and swollen, chin dripping with spit and pre-cum.

You looked down at her, cock twitching at the sight of her wrecked face. Her eyes were glazed, pupils blown wide, and that filthy little grin spread across her mouth like she knew exactly what she was doing to you.

“Look at you,” you muttered, breath heavy. “Messy fuckin’ mouth. You proud of yourself?”

She nodded, dragging the back of her hand across her chin like she didn’t even care about the mess. “I’d do it again,” she said, voice hoarse and taunting. “You taste so good.”

That snapped something in you.

You grabbed her by the jaw and dragged her to her feet. “Turn around,” you ordered, chest heaving, cock throbbing against your stomach.

She hesitated only a second too long. You slapped her ass and growled, “I said turn the fuck around.”

She obeyed with a soft gasp, spinning to face the bed as you shoved her forward. Her hands braced on the sheets, back arched perfectly for you.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, staring at the mess between her legs. “You’re dripping.”

“Been ready for you,” she whispered, breathless. “All night.”

You gripped the base of your cock and lined it up, teasing her entrance with the tip. She whined, pushing her hips back, but you pulled away just enough to make her whimper.

“You want it?” you rasped, dragging it up and down her soaked folds.

“Yes,” she choked out. “Please— Y/N just fuck me already.”

You pushed in halfway, teeth gritted at the way her walls clamped around you. She was hot, tight, so goddamn wet it made your legs tremble. You grabbed her hips and slammed all the way in, groaning loud as her body jolted under the force.

“Oh my god—” she gasped, hands clawing at the sheets.

You didn’t give her time to adjust. You pulled out and rammed back in, again and again, setting a brutal pace that had her moaning into the mattress.

“Can feel you clenching,” you hissed, leaning over her back, teeth grazing her shoulder. “You gonna come already? Or you want me to ruin you first?”

“Ruin me,” Lara gasped. “Fuck—I want it. I want it all.”

You wrapped a hand around her throat, just enough to make her gasp, and ramming into her harder. Her body shook, nails tearing at the sheets. She was close.

The way she was clenching against you told it all

“Don’t hold back, baby, ” you growled into her ear. “Come all over my cock.”

She shattered beneath you with a scream, body tensing as she pulsed around you. You didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop. You rode her through it, chasing your own release, fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise.

When it hit, it hit like fire.

You stayed buried in her, panting against her spine, the high fogging your head like a heavy blanket. Your body felt weightless, yet every drag of your cock inside her pulsed like a live wire. Her body was trembling beneath you, breath hitching, skin slick with sweat.

You tried to pull out—but she shoved her hips back against you, stopping you mid-motion.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she said, voice ragged but sharp.

You froze.

watching her switch your positions as she crawled on top of you, pushing herself up onto her hands, her hair a mess, her ass still arched for you. She reached back and grabbed your wrist, guiding your hand off her waist and down.

Then she moved, slamming her hips back against you with purpose, making your head drop.

“Oh—fuck—” you choked, the high making it hit ten times harder.

“Not so dominate now aren’t you?” she smirked, voice low and wicked. “Good. Just shut up and let me fuck you back.”

You were too far gone to argue. She started moving, slow at first…grinding her ass back against you in tight circles that made your knees weak. You tried to grip her hips, take back control, but she batted your hand away.

“No. Hands behind your back,” she ordered, glancing over her shoulder. “Let me use this cock how I want.”

You obeyed. Fuck. You obeyed.

She bounced back against you. Every movement forced a moan from your throat. You couldn’t do anything but take it, the weed making every slick thrust feel like heaven and hell combined. She was gripping you so tight it felt like you were gonna explode.

“You’re so deep,” she moaned, grinding in harder. “So fucking thick—feels better when I’m in control, doesn’t it?”

You couldn’t speak. Your head dropped back. Mouth open. Hands clenched behind you.

She leaned forward, bracing herself, and started riding you from the front while still bent over—slamming herself back on your cock over and over until the sound of skin slapping filled the room again. You were seeing stars. Your whole body locked up every time she dropped her hips.

“Bet you thought you were gonna ruin me, huh?” she panted, sweat dripping down her back. “Now look at you, fucked dumb.”

You whimpered. Literally whimpered. You’d never been so far gone in your life.

She reached between her legs and rubbed her clit while still bouncing on you, chasing another orgasm while using your cock like her personal toy.

“Don’t you dare come until I say,” she warned, without looking back.

You nearly cried. “Please, Lara.”

She tightened around you, on purpose. Squeezed you like a vice. Her moans got louder, more desperate, her pace wild and relentless as her body started to unravel again.

You could feel it. the pulsing, the slick gush of wetness, the way she threw her head back and gasped she looked beautiful like this.

“I’m coming—fuck—I’m coming—”

She screamed, body arching, and you felt her gush around you. Her whole body quaked as she ground herself against you, milking every last wave out.

She didn’t stop.

She stayed riding you through her orgasm, nails clawing into the mattress, before finally lifting off you with a wet, obscene sound. Your cock twitched in the air, dripping and neglected, your body shaking with the need to release.

“Not done with you yet,” she whispered, grinding her soaked pussy against your length.

“You’re gonna sit there and take it this time. I wanna see that look on your face when you lose it.”

You nodded, trembling, eyes glazed.

“Good,” she whispered, reaching down to guide you back inside her. “Now let mama ride.”

She didn’t waste a second.

Her soaked cunt swallowed you in one slow, brutal drop that knocked the breath from your lungs. You gasped, legs trembling under her, the high making it feel like you were being split open in reverse.

She didn’t ride you gently this time. She took you, hips grinding in slow, punishing circles, keeping you buried so deep you couldn’t even think.

“Look at you,” she purred, hands pressing to your chest as she rocked her hips. “All wrecked. Desperate.”

You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat. All you could do was breathe her name like a prayer.

She leaned in close, lips brushing your jaw. “Don’t pass out on me yet, baby. I’m not done watching you fall apart.”

Her pace quickened, thighs slapping against yours, the wet sounds between your bodies filling the room. She grabbed your jaw, forcing your dazed eyes to stay open, her lips ghosting over yours.

“You’re gonna give me every drop, you hear me?” she whispered, voice rough. “I want you shaking.”

You whimpered, nodding, your hands fisting the sheets. She was rolling her hips with deadly precision, each grind sending a jolt straight through your spine.

Your body started to buck under her, but she slapped your chest. hard.

“Stay still,” she hissed.

You obeyed, moaning brokenly.

You were twitching, so close to the edge, and your body was betraying you. You couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t slow it. Couldn’t hold back even if your life depended on it.

“You close?” she mocked, smirking against your ear.

You nodded frantically, body locking up.

“Go ahead, baby. Fucking cum for me.”

Your orgasm hit like a freight train, violent and all-consuming, tearing through you with wave after wave of pleasure so intense your vision blurred. You came so hard you felt your body go limp under her.

But she didn’t stop.

“Shit—I can’t take it anymore,”

She kept riding you through it, overstimulating you as your cock twitched helplessly inside her, as you gasped and whimpered and begged with your eyes.

“Aww, you’re sensitive now?” she teased, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Too bad. You don’t get a break yet.”

She kept moving, grinding slow and deep, ignoring your pleas until your entire body was trembling beneath her, face buried in her chest as your mind went blank.

Only when your legs stopped responding and your breath came in shattered pieces did she finally slow down.

She ran her fingers through your hair, smiling smugly, her body still flush against yours. “That’s better,” she whispered, voice soft now. “Look at my fucked-out little baby.”

Your body was done. Twitching, soaked in sweat, eyes barely able to focus as you lay back against the pillows, completely spent. She finally stilled on top of you, her palms pressed to your chest, watching you with that same smug, wicked glint in her eyes.

“You good?” she asked softly, brushing your hair back, but the smile playing on her lips said she knew exactly what she’d done to you.

You blinked once, maybe twice. Couldn’t speak. Just nodded, your chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

She leaned down and kissed your cheek. “You did good, babe.”

Then she climbed off, strutting across the room like her legs weren’t shaking, like she hadn’t just completely dominated you.

She grabbed one of your oversized hoodies off the chair and pulled it over her naked body, smirking at the way your eyes followed her even now, half-lidded, dazed, high as hell and completely owned.

“Stay right there,” she said, pointing at you as she headed for the bathroom. “Don’t move. I’m gonna bring you some water, clean you up… and maybe sit on your face while you recover.”

You groaned, but it was more of a whimper.

The door clicked shut behind her, and all you could do was lay there, blissed-out, covered in her, and totally fucked dumb with the stupidest, happiest smile on your face.

When Lara finally stepped out of the room, the rest of the girls stared wide-eyed from all the noise but she didn’t spare them a single glance.

Only thinking about how fucked out she is.

[frankcastler]

sweet and kinky love all night long, loved this one and yes we need more bottom!wanda

practical magic - wanda maximoff oneshots

summary: study nights with wanda were supposed to be all about magic theory… until you discover the private magic Wanda’s been exploring - and what she’s been using it for.

warnings: smut, bottom!wanda, enchanted strap; overstimulation; suggestive dialogue; fingering; creampie; vampire feeding; mild roughness; humorous, soft aftercare; friends to lovers; emotional intimacy; reader is a vampire | words: 6.388k

a/n-> accidentally posted the unfished version before, just pretend i didn't. this was written with a mission, we need more bottom wanda fics.

General Masterlist | AO3 |

-&-

You've been friends with Wanda for a little over three years now.

When she officially joined the Avengers, you were still elbow-deep in the impossible task of recruiting more witches for what was not-quite-yet a coven. Agatha refused to call it that - “a nosy vampire and three witches who had one joint spell session does not a coven make,” she'd scoffed.

She had a point. The so-called group was mostly chaos: Agatha and the girls argued every other day, Jen technically wasn’t doing magic anymore, and Lilia had a rather violent aversion to the concept of community, possibly because of the whole plague situation. Still, you were trying. Someone had to.

So when the new Avengers were announced and vampire networks started buzzing about humans playing gods again, it wasn’t just politics or prophecy that drew your attention. It was the unmistakable pulse of magic laced in Wanda’s powers, bright and wild and untrained.

The others warned you against mingling with the superhero crowd, especially dragging magic into mortal affairs. But as usual, you ignored them. You knocked on the Tower’s door anyway - literally - and extended an invitation to the witch who didn’t yet know she was one.

Wanda had resisted the label as much as your group had resisted hers. But something softened over time. Bit by bit, routine rooted itself in the quiet moments: delivering spellbooks to the Avengers Tower every week, practicing basics on quiet Sunday mornings, sharing rituals and stories passed down through your centuries-long memory.

You grew close. Agatha would tease - “maybe too close,” always with that knowing lilt - but you both pretended not to hear her.

Which is how you found yourself, for the fourth time this week, sprawled across Wanda’s bed like you belonged there, magical books open in a circle around you. One hand flipped a page absently while the other nursed a stolen blood bag (donation room, New York Hospital - nobody missed it).

You looked up just as the door creaked open. Wanda entered slowly, flushed from her last training session of the day. Hair tousled, breath caught halfway between a sigh and a laugh, she offered you a soft, worn-out smile.

“I guess you don’t do doors anymore, huh?” she asked, voice light but teasing.

You paused mid-drink, fangs still out, mouth curved in a guilty little grin that made her look away too fast. She found sudden interest in the dirt on her sneakers.

“Portals are more efficient,” you said with a lazy blink.

Wanda smiled despite herself, that warm kind of smile she tried to hide. “Make yourself at home,” she muttered, already peeling her hoodie off, adding over her shoulder as she headed to the bathroom, “As usual.”

You mumbled something back - half smirk, half acknowledgment - but your attention had already started to slip.

The blood was sweet, warm enough to relax every taut line in your shoulders. You let your head tip back, fangs still buried in plastic, arm tucked under your neck, legs crossed at the ankles in the middle of her bed like you lived there.

Maybe you did, in a way.

You didn’t mean to listen. You didn’t try to notice the way her footsteps padded across the carpet, or the soft rustle of clothing falling to the floor. You didn’t mean to hear the sigh she let out as the hot water hit her back - or the way the scent of soap slowly replaced sweat, steam curling through the air like incense.

But you noticed anyway.

It wasn’t the first time you found yourself a little too aware of Wanda. Of the way her energy shifted when she entered a room. Of how the scent of her skin after a shower made your brain short-circuit for reasons you refused to unpack.

You blamed the blood. It was easier.

You discarded the empty bag in the container she’d sweetly labeled for you months ago - “blood trash 🩸🗑️ only” - and made a valiant effort to gather the books. Your limbs felt too relaxed to cooperate. Your brain, fogged with warmth and the remnants of adrenaline, wandered somewhere it shouldn’t.

She could skip tonight’s lesson. You weren’t really in a teaching mood, anyway. A movie under the covers sounded more tempting by the second.

By the time Wanda stepped back into the room, towel around her neck and damp hair dripping onto her collarbone, you’d transformed the bed into a cozy nest. Pillows fluffed, blankets piled just right, snacks from the Tower kitchen arranged with near reverence on a tray between the two of you.

Wanda’s gaze softened instantly.

“You spoil me, you know that?” she murmured, walking past you with bare feet and warm skin. One hand ruffled her damp hair, while the other reached out to give your shoulder a playful squeeze. The casual intimacy of it sent a flutter through your chest you definitely ignored.

She climbed into bed with a tired sigh, half-buried herself under the covers, and smiled at the little altar of treats you’d made for her.

“Although I love it… if I keep skipping our lessons like this, I’ll only learn the fundamentals by the time I’m thirty.”

You smile at her, the corners of your mouth twitching with playful softness as you click your tongue.

“We can do a whole day of studying tomorrow,” you say, voice low and warm as your fingers move to the buttons of your shirt. “Tonight, I can sense the exhaustion in your skin, sweetheart. You deserve a break.”

There’s the faintest blush on her cheeks at the nickname - she pretends to focus on drying her hair, but you catch the way her eyes flick toward your hands.  Your shirt is halfway unbuttoned now, revealing a smooth stretch of skin.

Wanda’s brow furrows almost instantly.

“What are you doing?” she asks, eyes narrowing as if trying to read your intentions.

You shrug, lips twitching upward in mock innocence. “Getting more comfortable for bed?”

She lets out a breath of a laugh, light but incredulous, her gaze trailing, just for a second, along the exposed line of your collarbone before she catches herself and lifts a finger in warning.

“I know you came here straight from one of your vampire errands. There is no way you’re sleeping in my bed with whatever blood-slicked demon germs you picked up tonight.”

“But I was already in there - ”

Her look is sharp. Final. You sigh, dramatic and defiant, arms dropping to your sides.

“Fine,” you mutter, letting your shirt fall open completely as you pad toward the bathroom. She calls after you, “Towels are in the bottom drawer!” - with a grin in her voice that only deepens when you growl back, “I know where the goddamn towels are.”

Wanda’s still chuckling softly to herself when her eyes catch a glimpse of your silhouette in the ajar door.

She was not expecting the sound of the shower to affect her the way it does - soft splashes, the shift of your body behind thin walls, steam curling like lazy magic through the cracks. Her mouth goes dry. She tells herself to focus on the screen. Instead, she finds herself watching the way your shadow moves behind the glass.

By the time you return, the scent of her shampoo lingers on your skin, mingling with the heat of the shower in a way that’s almost intimate. Familiar. Her breath catches when she glances up - and then immediately flicks her gaze away again.

You step into the room like it’s yours, skin still damp, droplets trailing down your collarbone and disappearing beneath the towel slung low around your waist. You hum under your breath, hair dripping onto your shoulders, leaving little wet marks on her floor.

Wanda makes the mistake of looking again - just a peek - and nearly chokes on her own breath.

You don’t seem to notice. Or maybe you do. It’s hard to tell with you.

A low chuckle slips from your throat as you move toward her dresser, digging through drawers like you’ve done a hundred times. “What the hell are you watching, Maximoff?”

Her eyes go wide, a guilty flush creeping up her neck. She thinks you caught her - thinks the heat in her chest must be visible somehow. But you add, casual as ever, “Your heart just skipped. Don’t tell me you’re scaring yourself with horror movies again.”

Lucky. Very lucky.

Wanda exhales, relief blooming like smoke. “Guilty,” she says quickly, flashing a nervous smile as she gestures to the screen. It’s some old monster flick - practical effects, over-the-top gore, and all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Something Natasha lent her as a joke.

You glance over your shoulder and laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s what got you riled up? Weak.”

She’s about to retort, something equally sarcastic on the tip of her tongue, when you let the towel drop.

Wanda stops breathing.

There’s nothing between her and the sight of your bare back, the elegant lines of muscle, the quiet strength carved into your form like poetry.

She’s seen you naked before. You were once a maid, then a pirate after your transformation - sharing cramped quarters with others became second nature, which explains your complete lack of modesty when it comes to nudity. But for Wanda, lately, it’s felt less like a habit and more like a divine trial of restraint.

You don’t seem bothered. Not at all. You stretch, slow and cat-like, and turn just enough for her to see the faint veins beneath your skin beginning to darken, the glow in your eyes blooming red for a heartbeat.

“Honestly,” you say, voice lower now, more playful, “I don’t know why you’re impressed. You’ve seen me transform a hundred times. Real-life horror movie, free show just for you.”

To prove your point, you flash her a half-formed vampiric grin - sharp fangs, darkened veins webbing lightly across your cheeks, just enough to make her pulse stutter.

Wanda groans, her thighs pressing together under the blankets as she throws herself dramatically onto the pillows. “Don’t do that,” she mutters, eyes squeezing shut. “You’re gonna give me nightmares.”

You laugh again, completely unbothered.

What she doesn’t see - what she misses, because she’s too busy pretending she’s annoyed and not aroused - is the way your eyes linger on her just a second longer than necessary. The way your smile softens when she hides her face in the pillows. The way your hands move a little slower now, as if savoring the comfort of being here, in her space, like it’s something sacred.

Wanda makes the mistake of not noticing where your hands are searching now. She’s too distracted by her own thoughts - by the fire licking at her skin, the way her body is betraying her with every heartbeat.

You find a shirt that’s comfortably oversized - definitely Wanda’s - and pull it over your head. As you fold a few other pieces and rummage through the drawer for something else to borrow, your fingers close around something far too structured to be clothing.

You freeze for a second. Then a slow, wicked grin curls your lips.

You’ve shared a house with Agatha Harkness for more than a century - there are very few enchanted accessories you haven’t seen. And besides, you lived through the entire pro-discovery, post-puritan, human-rights-to-sexuality era, so your fingers wrap around the leather strap with practiced curiosity rather than shock.

But enchanted magical straps? Those are always tethered to the witch who conjured them.

So when your hand tightens around it and lifts it ever so slightly from the drawer, you don’t miss the snap of Wanda’s head in your direction - eyes wide, mouth parting slightly in panic, cheeks already flushed a deep rose.

“Well, well,” you begin, voice dripping amusement, “what do we have here - ”

Before you can finish the sentence, the item yanks itself from your hand with a rush of scarlet magic and flies back into the drawer, which slams shut with finality.

You burst into laughter, fully delighted.

“Oh my god, Wanda. You don’t have to panic like that!”

“Shut up,” she hisses, crossing the room fast - but her voice is trembling and her face is practically glowing red. “Not a word about this!”

“Too late,” you grin, teasing mercilessly. “I love that you’re getting creative with your magic. Really taking your spellwork into… practical territory.”

She groans, turning away from you, face buried in her hands for a moment.

“I knew Agatha would be a terrible influence when I brought you into the coven,” you continue, folding your arms, expression mock-thoughtful.

Wanda wheels around, cheeks still pink. “Agatha has actually been… very mature about this. Extremely helpful.” She points at you, flustered but trying to sound stern. “You’re the one being insufferable.”

Your grin only widens as her hands press to your shoulders, gently but insistently trying to steer you away from the closet. You’re still laughing, still half-dressed, still entirely enjoying yourself.

But then you cheat.

Vampire speed kicks in, and in a blur, you’ve crossed the room, the object once again dangling from your fingers. Wanda’s horrified gasp echoes off the walls.

“Y/N!”

You hold it up between two fingers, smile cocky, eyes glittering with mischief. “You do know Agatha invented this spell, right? I’m just curious - did she teach you all the tricks, or just the basics?”

Wanda groans in frustration. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

But she doesn’t use her magic to pin you down, not yet. She’s chasing you the mortal way, half-hearted, half-laughing through her mortification, her fingers swiping at the air just inches from your hand every time you dodge.

“Come on,” you tease, voice lilting. “We’re all adults here. Sex is natural. Magic-enhanced sex? Even better.”

“You’re the absolute worst. Worse than Agatha.”

You laugh harder, and that’s when she finally has enough - her magic tugs sharply at your wrist, yanking your arm down and finally letting her seize the toy. But as her fingers close over it, so do yours. Neither of you lets go.

Your eyes meet.

There’s a sudden shift - like the breath is sucked from the room. The laughter lingers on your lips, but something deeper pulses underneath. You tilt your head slightly, tone dropping lower, velvety.

“As your mentor, Wanda… It’s only natural I keep up with the kinds of spells you’ve been exploring.” Your voice is a caress now, the teasing thick with heat. “I just want to make sure you’re reaching your full potential.”

Her breath hitches - she feels the pulse of magic through the toy, the heat it responds to like a heartbeat. Her heartbeat.

You step a little closer, gaze locked to hers. “I could’ve helped you, you know. If you’d told me about this. We could’ve crafted something together. Something designed just for you.”

Her fingers tremble where they hold the object. She tries to speak, but it comes out as a half-broken, “I - I…”

You let go of the strap and take her wrist instead, the shift in contact gentle but commanding. Your other hand rises slowly, carefully, to cup her cheek, and she leans into the touch before she can stop herself.

Your thumb strokes her jaw, and when you speak again, your voice is barely a whisper, warm with sincerity beneath the sultry lilt.

“It’s no problem, really. I still know a few tricks… and I’d be more than happy to teach you. If you want me to.”

There’s a question in your eyes - no pressure, no assumption, just quiet patience. Wanda stares at you, breath shallow, caught between the rhythm of her own desire and the weight of her affection for you. You’re looking at her like she hung the stars, like you’d follow her anywhere if she only asked.

Her voice fails her again. So she nods, slowly.

And the way your smile shifts - softer, sweeter, reverent - makes her stomach flip.

“Oh, Wanda,” you murmur, voice like a promise. “The things I’d do for you... If you only asked.”

Her heart skips.

The hand you still have around her wrist begins to guide hers lower, slowly, deliberately - until it rests just above your waist. Wanda’s breath catches, her lungs refusing to function properly under the pressure of what that might mean. Her mind is racing ahead, heart in her throat, and nothing - nothing - prepares her for what you do instead.

“We’ll have time for you to lead another night,” you murmur, your voice raspy, grounding, commanding in the softest way. “Right now, I’m the one in charge.”

It’s only then that Wanda looks down to where her hand connects with yours, and the sight stops her breath entirely.

The strap, deep crimson and laced with faint magical etchings, is no longer simply something she was holding. It’s now fastened snugly to your body, the enchanted harness shimmering with scarlet runes, secured perfectly around your hips like it belonged there all along. Magic. Old, tailored magic. Magic that listens to arousal.

Her fingers twitch, then squeeze instinctively - and your body jolts forward slightly with a soft, fractured groan.

Wanda’s mouth falls open.

“I bet she didn’t teach you this trick,” you manage through your teeth, your smile strained by the pleasure that flashes visibly across your features.

Wanda doesn’t reply right away. She just releases the strap, palms sliding up to your shoulders instead - firm, grounding, trembling with adrenaline and something deeper. Her eyes lock with yours, voice low but resolute.

“Please stop talking about other people.”

And you’d agree to anything she asked in that moment.

The kiss she gives you is tentative at first, almost uncertain - like she’s afraid you’ll pull away, even though she’s the one fully dressed and you’re still barefoot and mostly naked in her bedroom. Her lips brush yours gently, a silent question.

But when she pulls back, cheeks flushed, eyes searching your face for any flicker of hesitation, you only stare at her like she’s the answer to a question you’ve been afraid to ask for centuries. You don’t need telepathy to know what she’s thinking: Am I crossing a line?

You don’t let her linger in that doubt. Your hands are already cupping her face, guiding her back to you. This time, the kiss is deeper, hungry in the way repressed feelings always are, tender in the way confessions often feel.

It’s the kind of kiss that anchors you. That rewrites the air in the room.

You lose yourselves in it for a while, long minutes of breath shared, lips parting slowly, tongues moving with lazy, reverent rhythm. Wanda's fingers twist into your hair, nails grazing your scalp in ways that make your knees threaten betrayal. And yet it’s the way her hips start pressing forward, restless and seeking friction, that truly tests your restraint.

She’s beautiful like this - messy and warm and open. Lips swollen from your mouth, skin flushed from the weight of wanting. Her whole body hums against yours.

When you finally pull back, it’s only to bury your face in the slope of her neck, placing slow, burning kisses along her collarbone, each one landing with weight. She shudders, fingers tightening around your arms. You feel her lean into you, legs weakening.

Then your fang grazes her skin - barely, a passing scrape - but Wanda’s response is immediate: a high, needy whimper that stokes something primal in you.

“You can feed,” she whispers, breath hot in your ear as she tilts her neck for you. “I don’t mind.”

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly as your grip on her waist tightens. The scent of her skin, still laced with soap and arousal, clouds your thoughts.

“I already have,” you murmur against her throat, voice hushed with restraint. “I don’t really need more tonight.”

Your tongue replaces the fang, a slow, wet stroke against her pulse point - soothing. Grounding.

But Wanda doesn’t want you grounded.

She reaches down suddenly, hand wrapping firmly around the base of the strap between you. The pressure is immediate - blinding - and the groan that rips from your chest is not subtle.

Her voice drops an octave. Confident now. Taunting even.

“I’m offering,” she says, eyes gleaming. “Don’t be rude.”

The enchantment responds at once, feeding off her arousal and yours, sending waves of stimulation back into your body. Your knees nearly buckle at the sensation, and your fingers dig into her hips just to stay steady.

The room spins slightly, heat swirling around you like smoke, thick with magic and want. You swallow hard, regaining your footing - but your fangs have already dropped, lips parting as you hover at her neck again.

There’s something sacred about the way she leans in, baring her throat to you like it’s instinct.

And something dangerous about how much you want her.

She whines sharply and low,  the sound of it vibrating in your throat like a tether pulled too tight. Her back arches into you, desperate for friction, and just as your fangs sink into her neck with controlled precision, her fingers move again - this time teasing the very tip of the strap.

It’s too much. Too much.

A sharp jolt runs through you, spine tightening, and you lose your rhythm in feeding as your hips press forward on instinct. Wanda gasps, not from pain but from impact, because the two of you stumble across the room, limbs clumsy and tangled, until her back hits the wall with a dull thud.

You try. You try to keep your fangs in her skin, your lips at her throat, to hold your body in check and drink without falling apart - but she’s a natural at destruction. Her grip on the toy doesn’t loosen. She keeps moving her hand with shameless precision, masturbating you through the strap like she knows exactly what she’s doing. And maybe she does.

You’re panting against her throat now, ragged and struggling, blood thick on your tongue and arousal hotter than anything you’ve felt in decades. Her power sings under your skin, and it’s not magic, it’s her. Wanda.

She giggles - soft but wicked - and the sound is a spark to dry kindling.

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” she purrs in your ear, voice molten. “Let go.”

Your fangs scrape her skin again, unintentionally, because your whole body is shaking from how tightly you’re holding the knot low in your belly.

“I want to see the big, bad vampire break for me.”

Then her tongue flicks your earlobe, her breath warm and wet. Her hand tightens once, twice - and it’s done.

You come undone in her hand with a raw, guttural groan. Your body convulses, the force of it dragging a cry from deep in your chest. One of your hands slams against the wall for balance, the strength behind it splintering the paint, your fingers flexing as your release pulses through you hard and hot. You’re left shaking, panting, head bowed against her shoulder, clinging to her waist like she’s the only thing keeping you from burning alive.

Wanda giggles again, and it’s unfair how pleased she sounds - mischief and something softer curled around her smile. Her hand finally goes still, slick with your cum, and when she lifts her palm to look at it, her expression flickers with something curious.

“I wasn’t sure that would happen,” she says, a little breathless, a little stunned. “But I’m definitely not disappointed.”

It takes a moment for your brain to connect the dots. She's not talking about the sex. Not exactly.

Her eyes flick back to yours, questioning but hesitant. “Is it…?”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to.

Still catching your breath, you manage a nod and a rough, low reply.

“Mine. Real. Yes.” Your voice is hoarse, but steady now. “Functions like the traditional kind… if you want it to. Witches have very creative, non-male methods for building families.”

You kiss her quickly, nothing but warmth, grounding yourself, then pull back, fingers pried from the wall with effort. Cracked drywall and bruised pride. But worth it.

Wanda’s biting her lip, the implications of your words flickering behind her eyes. It makes her look so devastatingly her -  intellect and feelings always working together. You use that second of distraction to inhale, gathering some of the control she just stole from you.

Not because you mind her leading. You don’t. You love it. But you're not about to let yourself lose control of your strength - not in this space. Not with her. She deserves better than unbridled force. She deserves intention.

You let the back of your knees find the bed, falling into a seated position, legs spread, arms behind you for balance.

The enchanted strap is still vibrating faintly between your thighs - hard and slick, pulsing in tune with the magic it fed off. A bit of your cum leaks down your thigh, gleaming in the soft lamplight.

You look up at her.

“Take off your clothes, darling.”

The flush that blooms over her cheeks spreads down her neck. Still, she doesn’t look away. Her hands move to the waistband of her pajama bottoms, fumbling slightly, awkward in a way that makes your stomach ache with affection.

You sigh, all heat and hunger.

“If you take too long,” you warn, “I’ll rip them off you.”

That gets her.

Wanda swallows hard, visibly trembling. She lets go, magic sparking in the air around her, and in one motion she’s out of her shorts. But her panties are still clinging to her hips when your patience runs out completely.

Your hand reaches up, fast, closing gently but firmly around her wrist. In one motion, you pull her down into your lap, chest to chest.

Centuries old. You've fought monsters, conquered cities, danced with death, and kissed gods. But nothing - nothing - compares to the feeling of Wanda Maximoff grinding into you, panting into your mouth, whispering your name like it’s holy and begging to be fucked.

Your grip on her waist tightens, enough to bruise if you weren't careful, but you’ve never been anything but careful with her. It’s hard when she’s like this, moving her hips in frantic circles, riding the enchanted strap nestled between your legs like her life depends on it.

You manage a breath, a brief second of stillness, just enough to let your mouth travel down her body. Open-mouthed kisses trace along her collarbones, then lower, tongue teasing one nipple, then the other. You suck her tits until she's trembling above you, grinding halted, too overwhelmed to do anything but shake and whimper under the weight of your mouth. Her hands dig into your hair, and her chest heaves, breaths ragged. You didn’t expect her to be this close already.

But because the strap is magically connected to her arousal, her orgasm takes you out of orbit. You don't come physically - but you feel it, the echo of it, the way the spell is designed to drag you along with her, the throbbing ache of your own desire flaring bright. Your hips jolt. You groan into her chest.

She whines, too, writhing, overwhelmed, and pretty sure she's going to combust if you don’t fuck her now.

“I need- ” she pants, trying to pull away just enough to yank off her panties, still in the way because you were too impatient before. But you grab her hips and hold her against the strap, grinding her down onto it. “I’m just - just trying to-”

You rip the fabric with a single swipe of your hand.

“Really?” she protests, glaring for a second. “Those were nice.”

But you’ve already flipped her onto her back, pinning her against the pillows. “I’ll buy you new ones,” you promise, eyes flicking down as your hands part her thighs. “I’ll buy you everything. The whole damn world if you want it.”

Wanda laughs, cheeks flushed. “God, you’re such a sweet talker.”

Scarlet sparks hum around her fingers as they tug your shirt away. Her hands hover nervously at her sides, the way they always do when she’s trying not to tremble.

“I’m not,” you murmur, gaze locked between her legs. You’re barely listening, distracted by the sight of her - dripping, swollen, aching for you. “I’m cranky. Suspicious. You just bring out the version of me worth loving.”

Her expression softens, and she reaches for you, not for a kiss, not for your hand.

No, she’s guiding you. Down, between her legs, until your fingers find her heat and sink inside with an obscene wet sound. She moans, breath hitching.

You take your time with this, one finger, slow and deliberate. Then two. Twisting, curling, finding the spot that makes her clench around you with a cry.

“I want- ”

“I know, baby.” You hush her, your voice thick. “Just stretching you first. You’ll take me easily like this.”

She mewls, hips stuttering, her hands clenching the sheets. And just as you're adjusting, the strap between your legs pulses hard - your body jerks, gasping. Wanda came again.

It’s fast, sharp - her body is too sensitive now - but it still rocks through her like a wave. Her cunt flutters around your fingers, and you don’t know how much longer you can wait.

“Please,” she begs, voice high and thin. “Please, I can’t-”

“I know, shh,” you murmur, soothing her while you line up the strap with her soaked entrance. You press the tip against her, barely nudging inside, dragging it through her slickness just to hear her whine. “You’re so ready for me. You’ve been ready.”

You try to keep teasing her, only because you can. Because centuries have taught you patience in the face of primal hunger.

But then-

Scarlet sparks push at your back, a rough shove that drives your hips forward. You sink in, deep, with a single sharp thrust.

Both of you cry out.

The strap fills her completely, pulsing with her magic, thick and hard and vibrating just enough to keep you both panting. Her heat wraps around you, squeezing like her body’s trying to keep you there forever. And you're a goner.

The bed creaks violently with each thrust. Your hips snap forward, steady and punishing. Wanda claws at your back - literal blood under her nails - but you barely feel it. She's shaking, gasping, her legs wrapped around your waist so tightly there's no air between your bodies.

You don’t relent.

Your pace is ruthless, fucking her deep, fucking her through it. The room smells like sex and magic and sweat, and your hand finds her clit mid-thrust. She sobs at the contact.

"Fuck-!" Her whole body jerks, her fourth orgasm slamming into her so hard the lights above flicker.

You falter, nearly losing rhythm, groaning against her throat. “Wanda-fuck-where should I-?”

“W-What?” she gasps, dazed.

“Should I pull out?” you manage. “Or - ”

“What?” she says again, this time angry. Offended. “Don’t you dare fucking stop, Y/N.”

Her ankles lock around you.

You don't argue. You can’t.

You slam into her, thrusting hard as your orgasm rushes through your whole body. You bury your face in her neck, a long, drawn-out groan leaving you as your hips roll forward, grinding deep inside.

The strap pulses, spilling your cum into her in thick, slow waves that make you both tremble.

Her cunt is a soaked mess around the toy, slick and clenching, and when your hips roll again just to stay grounded in her warmth, the wet noise that follows is so obscenely loud it makes her eyes roll back.

And still, she doesn’t let go of you. Doesn’t let you pull away. Her legs hold you in place, her magic curling around your spine.

You're both still struggling to breathe, lungs heavy with the weight of satisfaction, limbs warm and slack after the intensity of climax. But you fight the sleepiness clawing at your body - fight it hard - because Wanda lets out a soft, desperate whine when you try to pull away.

“I gotta pull out, sweetheart,” you murmur, biting back a groan when she clenches around the strap, undeniably on purpose. You push gently against her hips, trying to ease out of her hold.

“I don’t want you to,” she breathes, less demanding now, her voice languid and soaked in exhaustion. Her ankles have slipped from behind your back, but the longing in her tone still tugs at something primal inside you.

You laugh, quiet, honey-sweet and it makes her blush. So does the tender kiss you press just beneath her ear.

“Oh, I know you don’t, baby,” you whisper, adjusting slightly. The enchanted toy slides out of her, and you both sigh at the loss, overstimulated nerves fluttering. Your voice drops, playful but rough with restraint. “But this kind of magic runs on intention. And I’m having all sorts of unholy thoughts right now. I’d rather not knock you up by accident.”

Wanda chuckles breathily at that, but doesn’t protest further. Her body, well-fucked and trembling, is already past its limit. Even your gentlest touch now makes her flinch more than melt.

You slip the strap off with the same ease you'd show removing a coat, as though tonight - the spellbound lust, the raw confessions, the whole fucking-your-best-friend-into-the-mattress thing - was just another Thursday.

“Don’t fall asleep on me just yet, Maximoff,” you tease, catching her eyelids fluttering. Her tired smile is pure surrender. She tries to respond, but her body’s already slipping. “We made a mess, sweetheart,” you murmur, brushing her sweat-damp hair back from her face. “Don’t you want me to-”

Scarlet sparks answer you before she does, pulling you back down and holding you there, face resting on your chest, her magic clinging to your skin like a second blanket. That’s all the answer you get.

And honestly? It’s more than enough.

You settle in with her, bodies tangled, her breath steadying into your collarbone. She’s asleep within seconds.

It doesn’t take long for you to follow.

-

It isn’t the warmth of the sun that wakes Wanda  -  it’s the absence of yours.

The chill that slips into the sheets in your place is subtle but unmistakable. Still tangled in sleep, her hand stretches across the linen instinctively, searching for your body. When she finds only the faint impression of your form on the mattress, her brows knit together in a drowsy frown.

Footsteps shuffle across the wooden floor. The sound is light, familiar. The rustle of fabric follows  -  and something in Wanda's sleepy brain registers it as you.

"It's too damn early, Y/N," she rasps, voice rough with sleep, eyes only half-open. But she doesn’t flinch from the light bleeding through the window  -  because even as her voice breaks the silence, she sees you standing there, reaching up to draw the heavy curtains closed.

"I know, sweetie. That's exactly why I got up," you reply gently, not looking over your shoulder, too focused on shielding the room. "We forgot to close the curtains last night."

It takes a second  -  two, maybe  -  before her still-sleep-fogged mind catches up to the words. Vampire best friend. Sunlight. Her eyes snap fully open.

“Sorry,” she mutters, suddenly wide awake, guilt flooding her features as she tries to sit up.

But you're already crossing the now-dim room, waving off her concern with a shake of your head. “It’s alright. Didn’t get me,” you reassure her with a soft smile, and she breathes out, easing back into the pillows just as you crawl up onto the bed  -  and settle on her waist.

It’s a position that feels far too natural for something so new. And Wanda feels her cheeks bloom red at the thought  -  at how much she wants you to stay exactly like that.

"I know I promised you a day of studying," you murmur, eyes drinking her in like you haven’t seen her in years, “but I was thinking… maybe I could take you on a date instead? What do you say?”

Her answer doesn’t come in words  -  it comes in the small sound she makes when your lips press against hers, hungry and warm and deeply familiar. It steals her breath. She only manages a weak, dazed nod as you pull back with a teasing laugh.

You lean closer to press another kiss to her cheek, but your gaze lingers, catching sight of the scattered constellation of hickeys and bite marks blooming across her collarbone. It makes you pause, and your voice drops as you murmur, “I’ll be gentler next time. I promise.”

Wanda immediately frowns. “Don’t you dare,” she counters, and you snort at the conviction in her sleepy voice.

"Very kinky of you." You grin, and she rolls her eyes, sticking her tongue out at you like a defiant schoolgirl  -  except her fingers are already curling around your hips, pulling you down against her again.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” she says, gaze sharp despite the blush on her cheeks. “I know how much you like leaving your mark, Miss Vampire. The thought of showing me off must drive you crazy.”

You raise an eyebrow at her smugness, and the glint in your eye is all the warning she gets before you strike  -  fast, fluid, effortlessly dominant.

You pin her wrists above her head, your palms encasing her wrists like cuffs of silk and fire. She gasps, startled, and then gasps again as your hips grind into hers with calculated force.

“Oh?” you purr, low and dangerous, “You’ve been reading my mind, you naughty witch?”

She flushes, caught between embarrassment and arousal, unable  -  or unwilling  -  to deny it. Her thighs shift beneath yours, trying to find friction, but you don’t let her.

You adjust your position, sliding your thigh between hers. The slow, deliberate pressure makes Wanda moan  -  long and breathless  -  as her hips press down against you.

“Just practicing what you taught me,” she whispers, voice trembling, eyes wide with want.

“Let me teach you more, then,” you say, tone dipped in velvet, watching as she tries again to grind against you  -  only for you to shift back just enough to make her whimper.

“This,” you say, voice thick and sinfully sweet, “is called edging.”

Wanda's breath hitches. She opens her mouth to ask  -  what it is, why you’re doing it, maybe even to protest  -  but your lips are already back on hers, and your next words are spoken against her mouth like a spell:

“Questions are only allowed at the end of class.”

[frankcastler]

this one is so funny

⤿LET THEM COOOOK!ˎˊ˗

𐙚ᴍᴇɢᴀɴ ꜱᴋɪᴇɴᴅɪᴇʟ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ ꜱʏᴘɴᴏꜱɪꜱ ᯓ Sophia’s had enough of Megan whining about missing her girlfriend, so she pulls some strings and forces you two to cook together—because clearly talking like normal people is out of the question.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ ᯓ fluff(ish) / soft angst? Idk / oneshot / idol!AU / cute little angst with a happy ending / humor /

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ ᯓ Mature language / swearing / Implied romantic tension / miscommunication / Emotional arguments / shouting / got lazy at the end

ᴡᴏʀᴅᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ⭑ .ᐟ 3.2k

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ ⭑ .ᐟ this lowkey wasn’t fully proofread bc I tried fixing the awful pacing at 3am so if you see any typos… no you didn’t. also i’m kinda iffy on this one but hey! first katseye fic let’s gooo i love megan

: what in the sapphic wlw lesbian breakup is this… : meg lowkey looked like she was gonna cry when y/n gave the last bite to manon : Megan was the only one y/n didn’t feed her sandwich to. the world is ending lord : breakup announcement before the hard launch is so crazy actually : STOP THIS IS WORSE THAN MY PARENTS’ DIVORCE

Sophia reads the comments under a TikTok clip from the Weverse Live. It was the sandwich-making one filmed before gnarly dropped. The clip had already been reposted to multiple social media platforms. It showed you joking around with almost everyone in the group—except Megan.

Well. If a few stray glances and awkward eye contact across the table counted as “interaction,” then sure.

But anyone with half a brain—and unfortunately, Eyecons had more than that—knew something was up.

The two of you hadn’t said a word to each other on live. Or in real life, for that matter. Not in—what, two weeks now? After that fight that no one fully understood but everyone had heard. Bad enough that the group had been quietly walking on eggshells, pretending not to notice the tension even when it took up more space than the air in the room.

Megan had been playing it cool, Or at least, she thought she was. But Sophia had seen what cool looked like. And this—this was not that…

This was Megan curled up on her bed two nights ago muttering “I miss her so bad it’s making me sick.”

Meanwhile, you were acting like you weren't affected. Emphasis on acting because everyone else knew better.

If Megan was the match, you were the gasoline. And both of you were still smoldering.

The rest of the group had agreed silently to not get involved. Let you both be adults and sort it out yourselves.

That had been two weeks ago.

Sophia had officially run out of patience.

And the moment she leaned back on the couch with that glint in her eye, you should’ve known.

“You know what would be fun?” she says, tone casual. Way too casual.

That alone should’ve been the red flag.

They were on a break—finally. After a brutal promo week with back-to-back stages and 5AM call times, instead of resting, someone decided to throw a dorm sleepover. Bad idea? Maybe. But the worst idea came next.

“I think we should split up the tasks,” Sophia continues. “Like, into teams. So everything’s organized.”

Yoonchae, curled up in a hoodie with her legs over Lara’s lap, pops a marshmallow into her mouth. “Fun.”

“Okay, okay,” Sophia pointed across the room. “Daniela and Manon—you’re on movies and activities.”

“Wait—what kind?” Manon asked immediately.

“Anything.”

“Human Centipede—”

“No,” Sophia cuts in, already tired.

Daniela started cackling. “You’re banned.”

Lara made a noise of pure disgust and pulled a blanket over her head. “Gross.”

“What’s that?” Yoonchae asked, blinking.

“Don’t Google it,��� seven people said at once.

Sophia pushes through. “Yoonchae and Lara—decorating.”

Lara salutes. “You got it, Ma’am.”

Sophia scans the room, eyes landing on the last two people without a j*b.

“…And,” she starts, with that fake-sweet voice she only uses when she’s about to piss someone off,

“you and Megan. Kitchen duty.”

Your head whips around. Megan looks up at the same time.

“Huh?” you say.

“Nope,” Megan mutters, grabbing the nearest pillow like she might throw it

“Yes,” Sophia replies, grinning like she’s proud of herself.

Daniela perks up immediately. “Ouuu. That’s gonna go well.”

“Be serious,” you groan. “Pick someone else.”

“Literally anyone else,” Megan adds.

Sophia just shrugs, calm as ever. “You’ll survive.”

What none of them knew was that Sophia was so fucking done.

She had tried. Really.

But listening to Megan rant about you for days was starting to physically age her.

“She won’t even look at me,” Megan complained again, for what had to be the third time that hour.

Sophia didn’t even lift her head. “You told her you never wanted to see her again.”

“That was during the fight,” Megan groaned. “People say stupid things in fights. I didn’t mean it.”

“You also said—and I quote—‘I’d rather sleep on a bed of nails than breathe the same air as her.’”

“…That was also during the fight.”

Sophia flopped her head back against the couch cushion, eyes toward the ceiling like God Himself PLEASE give her the strength. “Then maybe shut up about being surprised she’s ignoring you.”

“Meggy, babe,” she sighed. “You lit the match. Don’t get mad it’s still burning.”

“This is so unfair. I miss her.”

Sophia rolled her eyes. “So do something about it.”

Megan didn’t answer. Just curled tighter into herself.

“I can’t just talk to her! That’s—ugh—humiliating.”

The thing is… everyone had heard it—the fight. 

It started with a slam. A bag? A door? No one was sure. But it shook the hallway frame hard enough to make Lara flinch. Her phone slid down her stomach as she exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Sophia across the room.

Then came the yelling.

“You don’t listen!” Megan’s voice rang through the dorm.

It cut through the living room background noise like a siren. Yoonchae froze mid-sip of her drink. Manon blinked, brows raising.

Another voice—yours—shot back.

“You don’t say anything worth listening to!”

Daniela instinctively grabbed the remote and muted the TV.

“You twist my words every time!” Megan again, her voice cracking now. “I say one thing, and suddenly I’m the villain?”

 “Oh, boo-hoo. If the crown fits—”

“Fuck you!”

That one landed like a punch to the gut.

Silence.

From the counter, Lara whispered, “Jesus.”

A pause.

A thick, suffocating pause like every molecule of air had drained out of the dorm.

“I never want to see you again.”

No one dared to breathe.

“Then don’t.”

Honestly, Sophia should’ve smacked you both right then and there.

But instead, she made a plan.

One that might totally blow up in her face.

“You can’t be humiliated and heartbroken,” she’d told Megan. “Pick one.”

When Megan didn’t answer, Sophia let out the loudest, most exhausted sigh of her life.

Fine.

If you two wanted to be stupid and miserable?

Perfect.

You could be stupid and miserable together.

Which is exactly how you ended up in the car the next day.

You sat in the passenger seat, (not the backseat, because even you had limits to how petty you’d be). Scrolling through your phone, pretending you didn’t notice how Megan kept glancing at you every other stoplight.

She reached for the AUX cord. “You can play something.”

You shook your head without looking up. “I’m good.”

She didn’t say anything. Just put on the first playlist she saw. Something vaguely acoustic and sad. Which—ugh. Perfect.

The silence between you wasn’t loud, just... heavy. Tense in that way that made you want to shift in your seat every two minutes. It sat between you, thick like fog, and neither of you had the guts to break it.

Megan tapped the steering wheel. “Can you—” she started, then stopped. “Never mind.”

You kept scrolling. Or at least pretended to. Your thumb hadn’t moved in two minutes.

Because all you could hear in your head was the fight again.

“Seriously?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“That thing you always do with Manon.”

“What thing?” you ask, genuinely confused.

Megan’s mouth twitches. “The flirting.”

You laugh. “What? I wasn’t—Megan, come on. You know that’s just how I talk to people.”

Her voice raises slightly. “Exactly. You talk to everyone like that.”

Now you're starting to feel defensive. “Because I’m being nice? You’re mad because I’m nice?”

“No, I’m mad because you act like nothing ever means anything.”

You stare. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means you get to act all sweet and charming and pretend it’s harmless, but then I look like the jealous freak when I say something—”

You shook your head slightly, forcing yourself back to the present.

Outside, the glow of the corner store came into view, buzzing faintly under a flickering sign. Megan took the turn a little too sharply, and the car jerked as she pulled in.

Your hand instinctively reached for the door handle. “God forbid you drive like a normal person,” you muttered.

Megan didn’t respond. Just threw it in park.

You both got out at the same time, the doors slamming shut with a little too much force.

Neither of you said anything.

This was gonna suck. 

You headed inside without a word. Grabbed a cart. Started walking.

Thirty minutes later, that same cart had approximately zero real ingredients in it.

This is not fine at all.

You slowed your steps so you wouldn’t have to walk right next to her. Megan, in a white tank top that clung a little too well to her frame and a cap pulled low over her eyes, trailed beside you.

 She stopped by the frozen section without a word, yanking open the door and grabbing the first frozen dinner she saw.

 It looks vaguely edible. 

“What about this?” The girl who said she never wanted to talk to you again asks.

You squinted at the box. “We both can’t cook, dumbass.”

She scoffs, not even looking at you. “It’s literally instant.”

“It also says marinate for four hours.”

“I didn’t see that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Can’t read?”

She glanced at you for the first time since entering the store. “Can you see?”

You opened your mouth and shut it. Because, fair.

You’d forgotten your glasses. Mostly because you were too annoyed when you left to remember them.

Megan sighs and shoves the box back into the freezer. “Okay, well—what do you suggest then, Gordon Ramsay?”

“I don’t know. Something microwaveable.”

You start walking toward the next aisle, and she follows—only barely crashing the cart into your heel.

“Ow.”

“Sorry,” she mutters.

You both turn the corner into the noodle section. 

“Wait, wait, this one,” Megan says, picking up a ramen pack. “The instructions are super short.”

You lean in. “That’s because it’s all in Korean.”

“…Oh.”

“Can you read Korean?”

“No.”

“...Me neither.”

She gently set it back, and for a second, your eyes met.

It wasn’t long. Maybe not even a full second. But something in it softened a little.

Megan shifted her weight like she was about to say something else—then didn’t.

But your brain wouldn't shut up.

It still kept dragging you back to that night—

“So this is about you being jealous.” Your tone sharpened.

Megan's eyebrows shot up. She let out a short, incredulous laugh, her hands flying up like she couldn’t believe what she just heard. “No. No—this is about you being oblivious.”

“I think you’re making shit up in your head.” 

That was the wrong thing to say.

Megan's jaw tenses. She throws her hands up, then lets them drop to her sides before pacing a few steps away.

“See?” she says, turning back sharply, voice low—too calm to be safe. “This is what you do.”

She gestures between you both, “You act all innocent, then make me feel crazy for noticing!”

Your breath catches. “I’m not gaslighting you—”

 “Yes, you are!” she cuts in, “You twist things around and play dumb and suddenly I’m the one who’s wrong for giving a shit!”

 “You don’t listen—”

You hate how clearly you can still hear it.

On the way back, the car ride was still quiet—but not in the same painful, suffocating way as before. 

Still, by the time you got back to the apartment, whatever temporary peace existed slipped right back into that same silence.

Now, in the kitchen, Megan stood at the sink filling the pot with water; the sound of the faucet didn’t do shit for the tension in the air.

Your managers—and Sophia, mostly Sophia—had forced you both to go live on Weverse to shut down the ignoring-each-other allegations, which, if anything, the awkward silence was only confirming. 

The phone sat propped on the counter, just far enough from the stove to be safe but still close enough for fans to catch every painfully silent moment between you two.

: why are THEY in the kitchen : omg megy/n crumbs i’m shaking : holy shit who let them cook : the unresolved tension giving me backshots through the screen 

The box of dumplings sits on the counter. A different brand this time because one you both grabbed last-minute from the store near the apartment after realizing the first pack required actual culinary skill. You also ended up with grapes and some kind of fruit salad that looked decent in its plastic container.

“Okay, so—” you start, flipping the box over. You squint at the back. “Step one: ‘Bring water to a rolling boil.’”

Megan eyes the pot. “What’s a rolling boil?”

“Are you serious?”

“Why would I lie about boiling water?”

You sigh. “It means, like, aggressively bubbling.”

“Oh. Angry water.”

“Sure.”

:  divorced parents trying to cook for the kids : THEYRE TALKINGGGG OMG

She turns the stove on; way too high, but keeps watching the pot like she’s expecting something to happen immediately.

“Mei, read chat,” you said, just to break the silence.

Megan pretended her heart didn’t stutter at the nickname, her eyes glanced over. “They’re calling us divorced.”

You snorted. “That’d imply we were ever married.”

She paused at that. You didn’t dare look at her expression, but you caught her reflection faintly in the microwave door; her lips twitched like she wanted to say something else.

You clear your throat, moving on. “Step two…Uh— ‘Gently add dumplings. Stir occasionally.’”

“Okay.”

you both stood there for a second. not really doing anything. just hovering. Like either of you might say something stupid if you moved an inch.

When you reached for the spoon—your fingers grazed hers and you glanced at her again.

She was still in the same white tank top from earlier, now half-covered by an off-shoulder oversized sweater that hung loose on one side, slipping just low enough to show the curve of her collarbone and the thin strap beneath as the sleeves were pushed up to her elbows.

“i still—” she started.

"Water's boiling,” you said, cutting in.

She shut up. didn’t finish the sentence and just picked up the dumplings and dropped them in.

you took the spoon from the counter. “Let me.”

she shifted, barely just enough to give you space but her arm still brushed against yours.

you leaned over the pot, stirring slowly like the box said. The stove clicked a little under the weight of the boil starting to pick up.

Megan stayed beside still thinking about what she almost said.

then, finally—

“...i didn’t mean it,” she mumbled, low enough that the mic wouldn’t pick it up. She angled herself slightly away from the camera.

You pause, hand stilling on the spoon. “Which part?”

“everything,” She exhales “—but mostly the part where I said I didn’t want to talk to you anymore.”

You let out a short laugh. “Yeah. Me neither.”

She side-eyes you. “Me neither—you never want to talk to me again?”

“Shut up.”

She smiles, a little sideways, obviously trying not to.

: are we interrupting something : they always flirt then fight then flirt again i’m sick : wait im nosy what are they saying

There’s a sudden click behind you.

Then a whoosh.The burner next to you lights up, fire shooting higher than it should.

Turns out, she had accidentally leaned on the ignition knob with her elbow.

You and Megan scream at the same time.

“TURN IT OFF!”

“I DON’T KNOW HOW—”

“THE DIAL—MEGAN, THE FUCKING DIAL!”

She fumbles for the knob. You’re behind her, uselessly waving your hands at the air like that’s going to help.

The flame finally dies down with a soft pop.

Silence.

: top 10 deaths caught on camera : goodbye wth : mustve been the wind…. : WHAT JUST HAPPENED GUYS : Megan trying to reignite the spark I fear

Later, she was behind you at the stove again, stirring whatever it was you were making now. It didn't look that bad, surprisingly. You glanced over your shoulder, saw her take a little spoonful and taste it.

“Can you hand the salt?” she asked, hand already outstretched without looking.

You passed it to her.

“Thanks, love y—”

Did she just—

“—that. LOVE that for you,” she blurted, spinning around so fast the spoon hit the pot’s side. Her grin was too wide, silently praying no one caught it. “Wow. That’s… great.”

…

You tried to keep your face neutral. You really did. But your lips folded in hard as you looked over the phone. Above it, you spotted their reactions.

Sophia ran her hand quickly across her neck, mouthing “cut it, cut it.”

Daniela looked confused as she didn’t catch what happened.

Yoonchae’s jaw was slightly open.

Lara’s silently laughing her ass off.

: HELLO THE SLIP UP IS CRAZY : “love you” is INSANE just say it with your chest and chin held up high : historians would call them bestfriends : THEY CANT KEEP GETTING AWAY WITH IT

“Okay, guys—” You stepped closer to the phone, grabbing it with both hands. “My phone’s about to die, we’ll be back later.”

Behind the phone, someone let out a poorly muffled snort.

“Hm—pff—” That was definitely Manon before Lara clapped a hand over her mouth to shut her up.

“Thanks for watching, go subscr—”

You didn’t even bother finishing the joke. You hit end live before anyone could speak again.

“Oh my god—Megan,” Lara burst out the second the screen went black, still laughing and half-buried under a mountain of throw pillows. “You could’ve just played it off. That was so bad.”

“She could’ve literally just said it and moved on,” Sophia added, still chuckling as she collapsed against the arm of the couch. “Some fans would’ve called it platonic”

You snorted, more out of disbelief than anything. Because honestly at this point, you and Megan were already too deep in the dating allegations that half the fanbase doubted anything you two did was platonic anymore.

“Wait—what happened?” Daniela blinked, genuinely confused. “I wasn’t looking.”

The clip blew up, obviously. You and Megan finally had a proper conversation after, and—management was not thrilled.

But the slip-up was small enough to be brushed off as a joke, and with the way fans ran with it, it kind of worked in your favor. No scandals, just a mildly stern talking-to, followed by a reluctant, “Just… be careful next time.”

And if anything, the timing weirdly helped gnarly’s promo. 

Mei mei🍒: GUYS!! Mei mei🍒: Stop with the allegations  Mei mei🍒: dumplings turned out yummy btw thank u for asking!

—-----------------------------------------------

Peanutbutterlover02: [voice memo: 0:09 seconds]  “I- i love! Th- that for you—ow!” “Shut the fuc—”

—-----------------------------------------------------

shoutout to bald ran for beta reading

[frankcastler]

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ masks & moonlight ୨ৎ Sophia Laforteza

you're catnip to a girl like me

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 batman!reader x catwoman!sophia ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 headcanons!

.ᐟ cw: enemies to lovers, injuries, violence, kissing

mistletoe can be deadly if you eat it

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: the elusive thief who keeps slipping through your fingers, the infuriatingly charming woman who wanders into your galas uninvited, stealing the spotlight (and occasionally your jewelry) just to see that flicker of frustration in your eyes.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who loves pushing your buttons because she adores the way you try so hard to stay composed—until one night, when she teases just a little too much, and you finally snap. and oh, she lives for it.

˚୨୧��. catwoman!sophia: who loves dogs more.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who keeps stealing your enemies in the dead of night, the charming thief who loves making your job harder because she is helplessly, attracted to you and absolutely adores the way you get so righteously annoyed every time she does it.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who is your greatest thorn in Gotham, the infuriatingly skilled thief who loves stealing your weapons mid-battle because she is obsessed with getting a rise out of you—and absolutely adores the way you get so adorably frustrated searching for your missing gadgets.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who always notice when it comes to someone flirting with you, when some overconfident rookie cop or a flirtatious socialite tries to get too close. when a charming informant leans in a little too much, she’s suddenly at your side, draping herself over you with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. she would never admit she’s jealous, but the next time you see that poor fool, they look like they’ve had an unfortunate “accident” involving a conveniently misplaced tripwire—or a mysteriously emptied bank account.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: that always near your crime scene so that she could help you defeat your enemies whenever you get outnumbered.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who knows when you get hurt. the first to notice when you don’t move as sharply, when your breathing is just a little too uneven. when you stumble into your loft, barely able to peel off your cowl, she’s already there—silent as a shadow, waiting. she would never admit she broke in just to check on you, but the sting of antiseptic and the careful way she stitches your wound say otherwise. she never stays until morning, but you always wake up to fresh bandages, a neatly cleaned workspace, and the lingering scent of her perfume on your sheets.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who sometimes gossip with alfred whenever you're out of the house.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who gets pissed off—and unfortunately, sometimes takes it out on you. she always throw the first punch when her frustration bubbles over, when a deal goes wrong, when the world pushes her too far. she finds you on a rooftop, masked eyes flashing, and suddenly, you’re dodging her strikes instead of trading banter. she would never admit she just needed to let off steam, but the way her hits are controlled—never meant to really hurt—tells you everything.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: stage being badly hurt so you could take care of her.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who, despite her fury, she couldn’t stop tracking the one who nearly killed you. She’d never admit it, but seeing you so badly hurt made her blood run cold. Already halfway to Gotham’s underworld, claws out, she was ready to tear apart whoever put you in harm’s way. She didn’t need permission, didn’t wait to be told to calm down—but when she returned, anger smoldering but subdued, she watched you tend to your wounds. Only when you met her gaze did the last of her rage fade. She’d never admit it, but you were alive, and that was all that mattered.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: gave you a kitten to make sure you remember her everytime you see it.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who you caught singing on the rooftop of your building, her voice a rare melody that drifted through the night like a whispered secret. Sophia never sang—not in front of anyone, not even you—but tonight, the soft lull of her voice wrapped around you, lifting you as if angels themselves had taken hold. You weren’t supposed to be here, weren’t supposed to hear this, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, afraid that even the slightest shift would shatter the moment.

˚୨୧⋆. catwoman!sophia: who, despite all your efforts to calm her down after a fight, still stormed around the room, her anger seething. words couldn’t reach her, and you were losing your patience. so, you did the one thing you knew would get her attention—without thinking, you grabbed sophia’s face, forcing her to look at you. before she could snap at you, you kissed her. it wasn’t gentle—it was forceful, raw, a way to take control of the moment. when you pulled away, she stood frozen, the anger melting from her eyes as she finally heard you, your lips still burning against hers. you didn’t need to speak to make her understand. your kiss said everything.

a/n: some random headcanon for catwoman sophia lolz. just read a spiderman!lara

[frankcastler]

spidey!r is my favorite and paired with dani even better

— CAUGHT!

daniela avanzini x tmasc!reader

summary: in which your girlfriend finds out you, are the vigilante that's been running the streets, when you show up beaten and bruised.

warnings/tags: fluff, established relationship, spiderman!reader, mild language

rewatched tasm and had to make something...i love superhero!aus

pain. all you felt at the current moment was pain. stumbling down the alleyways of new york, you were breathing shallowly while trying to see through your mask that was essentially torn in half. one of the eyes ripped off showing your bright pupils, and there was a large tear along the side accompanying the bleeding mark on your face. one of your ribs might've been cracked judging by the sharp pain and slight difficulty to breathe. you were limping due to landing on your ankle during the fight, probably fractured or at least sprained. you should've known better than to get into a fight you weren't determined you could win, and yet you did anyway.

glancing around, you find yourself in front of your girlfriend's apartment. you don't entirely remember how you got here, but you continue to walk around the building. staring up at the building, you take a deep breath before planting your hands and feet on the wall, slowly starting to climb up the wall. you can hear your heart beating in your ears, your head pounding as you move and eventually reach the window of her bedroom. removing one of your hands from the wall, you take the remainder of your mask off and look through the window, seeing daniela sitting on her bed reading a book. you knock on the glass a little harder than you anticipated, watching the latina jump and look over.

you can see her say "what the fuck" before she quickly gets up and goes to the window, opening it and seeing you clearly. but, you're in too much pain to notice or even remember that you were still in your outfit. letting her be the first person (excluding your aunt) to know who spiderman was.

"yn? what the fuck?" daniela says, her tone sounding angry but you know she's far from it with the expression on her face. she grabs your arm and pulls you inside, and you land on your back with a dull thud as you hit the ground.

"dani," you choke out, coughing up a bit of blood. the light in the room feels brighter than it is, and you have to close your eyes to keep your head from spinning.

"jesus fuck. what the hell yn?" daniela kneels down next to you, her hands cradling your face to make you look at her, your eyes tiredly opening at the feeling. "what happened? what did you do? why the hell are you wearing a fucking spiderman outfit?"

she's asking the questions so fast you can barely keep up, only really hearing the last one which is the one you most expected. "it's me," you murmur in response.

her eyes widen, looking over your face and then trailing down to see the parts of your suit ripped open with open wounds bleeding. she tries not to think on the fact you're a vigilante for too long, shaking her head and grabbing your arms. "get up," she tells you, pulling your arms.

it takes all your energy to pull yourself up off the ground, and immediately your legs are wobbling and you slouch against daniela, hearing the curse she mutters while wrapping her arm around you to keep you standing. she then guides you to her bathroom, sitting you down on the edge of the bathtub. "stay here," she says before leaving the bathroom.

you close your eyes, focusing on breathing that hurt every time you inhaled causing you to cough and feel an extreme sharp pain in your side. "fuck," you curse quietly. you're not sure how much time passes until you hear footsteps approaching and you slowly open your eyes, your vision slightly blurry but managing to make out daniela with a first aid kit in her hands. "dani..."

"don't talk," she tells you, stopping in front of you and setting the first aid kit down on the sink counter. "how the hell do you get this thing off?" she asks, clearly talking about the suit.

tapping the spider logo on your chest, your suit shrinks into a small trinket off your body, leaving you in just your boxers, causing daniela's eyes to widen and mumble a curse under her breath.

"okay...not going to ask," she murmurs. looking over your body and seeing the different cuts and bruises. "god, yn..." she sighs quietly. "you look like shit." she opens the first aid kit, pulling out a few different things from it.

"feel like it," you mumble, your eyes drooping closed.

"don't close your eyes," daniela tells you, pouring some rubbing alcohol on a pad before pressing it on your cheek.

"fuck!" you gasp at the stinging pain you immediately feel, your eyes shooting open.

there was a silence that filled the room after that as daniela put bandages around your waist and other spots that were bleeding. but it was far from a comfortable silence. you knew she was upset at multiple things, but you didn't know how to talk about it. your aunt was the only one who knew you were spiderman, and she found that out on accident, so you hadn't really prepared for when others would find out.

"i'm sorry," you mumble.

"don't start doing that." daniela shakes her head. she finishes with the last bandage and takes a step back to look at you better, letting out a short sigh. "were you ever going to tell me?"

you look down at the ground at her question. it takes you a moment to respond, both from the throbbing in your head and trying to figure out how to put it. "eventually," you answer.

"eventually?" daniela repeats. "what the hell does that mean?" she crosses her arms over her chest.

"it means i..." you take a shaky breath. "i didn't want you to know and possibly get hurt. i-i didn't want to risk losing you," you answer quietly.

daniela's face softens at your response. she sees you look down at the ground again and she grabs your hand causing you to look at her. "you aren't going to lose me, yn," she says in the same voice. "and while this is definitely not how i would've liked to have found out considering you're completely beaten and bruised, i'm glad you came to me."

"i didn't know where else to go," your voice cracks slightly, your breathing coming out in light wheezes from the pain you were feeling. "all-all i could think about was if i-i didn't get away i would die a-and i w-wouldn't see y-you and-"

"hey, hey," daniela interjects, her hands moving up to cup your face and seeing the tears starting to form in your eyes. "breathe, yn. you're okay. everything is okay. i swear." her thumbs wipe away the few tears that fell from your eyes. "i love you, okay? nothing will change that." she presses a soft kiss to your lips.

you can feel your heartbeat finally slowing down to an even pace when she kisses you, sighing softly against her lips as your arms snake around her waist. when she pulls away, she looks down at you with such love in her eyes that it makes your breath hitch in your throat.

"i love you too," you say quietly.

"c'mon, let's get you into some clothes. i think there's still some of yours from when you were last here," daniela says. grabbing your hand and gently pulling you up onto your feet.

you follow her back to her bedroom, standing there silently as she finds the clothes of yours and helps you get them on. once you've changed she grabs your hand again, going over to her bed and lying down on it while pulling you along with her.

you lay down on top of her, hearing the quiet gasp that escapes her lips at the sudden weight on her, but she doesn't mind it. you were honestly like a weighted blanket when you did this, and she knew how much pain you were currently in, so she didn't say anything. your head rests on her chest as you close your eyes to try and ignore the throbbing in your head, hearing her heartbeat calm you down so you were breathing correctly again. one of her hands drags its fingers through your hair, playing with the strands causing you to immediately feel the exhaustion seeping through your body.

"thank you," you mumble.

"don't thank me," she whispers. "i'm just glad you're okay."

you nod a little bit, feeling yourself about to fall asleep just by the way she was playing with your hair and her familiar perfume as you put your face in her neck. "i love you."

"i love you too." she presses a small kiss on your head. "get some sleep. i'll be here when you wake up."

a short hum escapes your throat at her words and within the minute you were passed out asleep on top of her. she glances down at you, her eyes wandering across the bruises that were already beginning to form on your skin and the bandages she used to cover the open cuts you had on you. she lets out a quiet sigh before closing her eyes, knowing she'll have to have a long talk with you tomorrow about all of this. but not for now. for now, you were okay, you were safe, and you were in the arms of the girl you cared about the most. and for now, that was enough.

[frankcastler]

jealous sophia 😵‍💫

- mine in capital letters

Pairing. Sophia Lafortezax Reader

w.c. 5.6 k

Sophia wasn't in love with you or anything, hell, she wasn't even dating you. But didn't mean much. You were still hers. Now could everyone else get the hint?

Possessive wasn’t the word.

Sophia didn’t have a right to be possessive. Jealous didn’t quite fit either. She had nothing to be jealous of. 

Mindful. That felt closer.

Sophia Laforteza was mindful. She paid attention. She liked when things had their place: neat, defined, clearly labeled. Right or wrong. In or out. Hers or not.

And you? You were hers.

Not romantically, of course. Not officially. Sophia wasn’t in love with you, not exactly, and she certainly wasn’t dating you. But that didn’t make the connection any less real. Some bonds didn’t need romantic titles to matter. They simply existed. Quiet, constant, understood without being said.

And Sophia had always been good with structure. She understood how to follow rules, how to bend them when it suited her, and how to keep things looking clean from the outside. She was agreeable, adaptable. The kind of person who could blend in when needed, who could read the room and fill in the missing pieces. She knew how to lead while making everyone feel like they had chosen to follow her. And she didn’t mind giving up control when it made sense. When it served a purpose. But that flexibility always had its limits, especially when it came to you. 

She remembered third grade, when some girl with a glittery notebook had declared you her best friend during lunch. Sophia had laughed. Not cruelly, not loud enough to get in trouble, just enough for the table to fall quiet. Enough for everyone to hear. For the message to land.

Because best friend? Cute. But no.

You were her BFF. Singular. Forever. There would never be an "s" at the end of that word, because there could only ever be one. It was you and her. No one else.

Looking back, she should have known that moment was only the start. You were always too likable for your own good: all bright eyes and easy laughter. The kind of presence people naturally drifted toward.

Back then, it had been simple. All it took was a pointed look or a well-timed interruption to remind people where you stood. Her place beside you was steady, unquestioned, and everyone understood it. Even if they didn’t like it. 

But things changed. You got older. Made more friends. Started dating. Got closer to other girls. Some even close enough to convince themselves they had a real place in your life. Close enough to think they mattered.

Sophia tried to be gracious. She told herself it was normal. Growing up meant letting people in, even the ones she wouldn’t have picked for you. 

She could be patient. She could adjust.

She could play the long game.

But even if she couldn't keep you all to herself, she could still make sure no one else took her place.

So, she watched. Quietly. Carefully. 

Most of them passed her silent tests, if barely. As long as they knew their role, understood the order of things, she’d let them stay. But the moment one of them began to forget, the moment they dared to think they might come first, things... shifted. Girlfriends became exes. Friends faded to strangers. Sometimes quickly, sometimes without warning.

And no, Sophia never interfered. Not directly. She didn’t need to. 

The universe simply had a way of correcting itself, especially when she gave it a little nudge.

Your high school girlfriend had come closest to disrupting that quiet order. A two-year relationship. Long enough to start feeling permanent. Long enough for the girl to believe she had a claim.

Sophia remembered the anniversary gift. A ring. Thin silver, nothing flashy, but heavy with implication. 

A promise ring. A brand. 

She remembered the first time she saw it on your finger, the way her stomach turned before her brain had caught up. You'd shown it to her with a smile, twisting it absently between your fingers like it was no big deal.

“She said it was just a token,” you told her. “Not, like, a real engagement or anything. Just... kind of a commitment?”

Sophia had smiled. Said all the right things. Pretended it didn’t matter. But later that night, when you were half-asleep beside her, warm and unaware, she let the question slip like an afterthought.

“It’s kind of controlling though, don’t you think? Like… what’s she trying to prove?”

You hadn’t taken it seriously. Never really had with these kind of things. You’d told her to go to sleep, then wrapped your arms around her like that was answer enough. But the word stuck with her, anyway. Commitment. Not just the idea of it, but the audacity. The assumption that someone else could own a piece of you. That someone else could make you theirs.

The ring stayed on for a few more weeks. And every time she saw it, every time it caught the light, Sophia had to fight the impulse to remove it. To slip it from your hand and replace it with something less... presumptuous.

Eventually, the two of you broke up.

“It just didn’t work,” you told her with a shrug. “Nothing to be done about it.”

You said it like it was simple, like it hadn’t meant that much to begin with. And maybe that was true. But when you showed up at school the next day without the ring, her shoulders relaxed in a way she didn’t acknowledge, even to herself.

Still, something had shifted. Not in you. In her. And from that day forth,she promised herself she would never be caught off guard again. 

So, on your next birthday, she gave you a necklace.

Something simple. Subtle. A delicate chain with the letters “SL” resting just below your collarbone. 

You had smiled when you opened it, told her it was cute, and fastened it around your neck without a second thought. She never explained what it meant and you never asked. 

To you, it might’ve just been a gift. To her, it was a quiet claim.

But then came Dream Academy. Then Katseye. Then her debut.

Schedules filled up, messages began to slow, and the distance between the two of you inevitably grew. Sophia told herself it was fine. You were chasing your dream. She was chasing hers. She had less time, less right, and less reason to think about you.

But then, every so often, you’d post something, a birthday selfie, a casual mirror photo, and the necklace would still be there. That little flash of silver. Her initials, resting against your skin.

And just like that, Sophia would breathe easy again.

—

The day was dragging.

A slow-burn kind of tired that settled deep in her shoulders, heavier with each take. Sophia was on her mark again, lights flaring hot against her skin, eyes fixed somewhere just off-camera. Her heels pinched. Her dress clung in the wrong places. She was counting beats in her head, already halfway out the door in her mind.

Just one more shot. She reminded herself. Then she could sit down. Change. Breathe.

She didn’t notice the figure at first. Not really. Just the ripple of movement on the edge of the crowd. Someone weaving through the space with their head down and shoulders hunched beneath a large zip-up. A baseball cap pulled low, hiding most of their face.

It was nothing unusual. Probably staff.

But then she looked again.

There was something about the way they moved. The gait. The lazy sort of elegance that looked almost accidental, just barely out of sync with the rush of production around them. It wasn’t noteworthy, but it was familiar.

And then the cap tilted up, and your smile hit her. Clear across the stage, cutting straight through the haze. 

The director hadn’t even called cut before she was moving. One step. Then another. Then a full run. She ignored the pinch of her heels, the way her dress snagged against her thighs, the startled voices trailing behind her as she dodged cables and light stands.

She didn’t slow down. She didn’t even think. And when she reached you, she didn’t hesitate. Just launched herself into your arms with the kind of full-bodied relief she didn’t allow herself often, and only ever gave to you.

You caught her like you’d been waiting. And in that moment, she couldn’t even bring herself to ask what you were doing there, because it didn’t matter.

“You’re going to get in trouble,” you chuckled, voice muffled against her hair as she buried herself in your shoulder. 

She held on tighter. Let herself breathe you in. Let it out slowly.

“I don’t care,” she whispered. And she didn’t.

You steadied her with both arms wrapped around her waist, rocking a little from the force of her landing. She felt the quiet press of your grin against her hair before she heard your voice. “Well, surprise. Semester’s over.”

Sophia leaned back slightly, just enough to see your face. Everything else fell out of focus, “You finished your finals?” she asked, not because she didn’t know the answer, but because it gave her a reason to keep looking at you.

You nodded, your smile lopsided in the sweet, familiar way she always loved. “Mm. And I missed you, obviously.” 

It was light, a little teasing, but it still found a place to land in her chest. She didn’t let it show.

Somewhere behind you, a familiar voice cut through the quiet.

“Oh my god, Sophia,” Lara called, far too amused. “You nearly took out half the production crew. I think you body-checked a light tech.”

Sophia turned, still catching her breath. Hair clung to her cheeks. Her dress had shifted out of place, but she didn’t fix it. Her fingers were still laced with yours, and she hadn’t thought to let go. 

“Sorry,” she said, laughing as it slipped out on the exhale. “Got a little excited.”

You turned toward the approaching footsteps, posture instinctively relaxed, shoulders rolling back into that easy charm you always wore like a second skin.

“Hi. I’m Y/N,” you said, offering a little wave. Playful. A little silly. Completely, unfairly adorable. “I’m Sophia’s friend.”

There was a pause. A beat as Lara slowed to a stop, taking you in with a look that started from your shoes and ended just above your smile. Her eyes lit, not dramatically, but enough for Sophia to notice the glint. She’d seen it before. Always the same: curiosity sharpened by attraction, never quite subtle enough.

Sophia held her tongue. Just this once.

Lara could look. As long as she remembered who you came for. And as long as you didn’t smile back the same way.

“Friend?” Lara repeated, like she was trying the word out. Her voice stayed light, but something in her tone curled with curiosity, like she was asking less out of politeness and more to see where the lines were drawn.

“Well,” you said, glancing back at Sophia with a grin she recognized all too well, “I suppose best friends. At least until she gets too famous to have time for me.”

Sophia opened her mouth, ready to argue. That would never happen. 

But another voice cut in first.

“Y/N unnie!”

The name came bright and excited from somewhere nearby. You turned fast, face breaking into something brighter. 

“Yoonchae!”

The younger girl reached you in a few quick steps, arms already open. She wrapped herself around you with an eager kind of affection, face tucked into your neck like it was the most natural thing in the world. Which, as far as Sophia knew, made no sense. Because how did you know each other?

Lara tilted her head, amused and now a little confused, “And Yoonchae’s best friend…too?”

Yoonchae looked up from the hug, eyes wide with delight. “Y/N unnie said we’re best friends?”

Three pairs of eyes turned to you at once.

You laughed, easy and unbothered, then tipped your head toward Sophia with a grin. “Well. Fia says I’m only allowed one best friend. But you’re definitely in the running.”

Sophia gave you a look. A little unimpressed. But she let it pass. At least you remembered the general message.

“So how do you two know each other?” Lara asked, her curiosity still poking at the edges.

Sophia wondered the same. It wasn’t like she ever intentionally hid you from the rest of Katseye all this time. She’d just never felt the need to bring you up. Or maybe, if she was being honest, some part of her had liked keeping you separate. Tucked away. Hers.

“I invited her,” Yoonchae said proudly. “As a surprise. You kept stalking her Instagram every day for a month. Sighing and saying, ‘ugh, I miss them.’ It was kind of sad, actually”

Sophia froze, and then blinked again. Slower this time. A flush of heat crept up her neck. She opened her mouth to deny it, but nothing came out. Because no, she had not! Okay, maybe she had.

Still.

She cleared her throat, recovering quickly. “Okay… so what? You found her Instagram and just DMed her?” Then, like a thought crossed her mind, she turned to you, brows raised. “And you respond to random girls in your DMs now?” The question came out sharper than she meant. 

You looked between them like you weren’t sure how you ended up on trial.

“Nope,” Yoonchae said simply. “I snuck into your phone and got her number.” Like it was normal. Like she didn’t just admit to breaking into Sophia’s phone. 

There was a beat of silence.

“You what?”

“Your password was really easy.”

Missing the point.

You turned to Sophia, eyes lighting up again. “Ooo. What is it?”

Yoonchae leaned in, conspiratorial, and all too eager, “It’s your birthday.”

A grin spread across your face. Lara snorted as Sophia groaned, dragging a hand down her cheek. “Great. Now I’m changing it.”

She wasn’t.

Yoonchae’s tone shifted, quieter now. “I just thought it would be nice,” she said. “You’ve been really stressed with our new EP. And you always take care of everyone. Me, especially. I wanted to do something for you.”

Sophia’s heart softened. Just enough to forget Yoonchae’s earlier betrayal.

She reached forward and pulled the maknae into a hug. It was quiet. Firm. Sincere. “Thank you,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You’re the sweetest.”

Yoonchae relaxed into her, arms winding around without hesitation. But after a beat, she gave Sophia’s back a gentle pat, clearly not one to be outdone. “Okay. You can let go now.”

Sophia did, unfazed. She knew better than to take it personally.

Lara, however, was too amused to resist. “Didn’t seem like you minded when Y/N hugged you.”

Yoonchae didn’t even blink. “Yeah. But that’s Y/N unnie.”

Sophia rolled her eyes without meaning to. 

Of course Yoonchae loved you. But that was fine. It was Yoonchae, afterall, and she had been the one to bring you here. Sophia could look the other way. Just this once. 

She let herself glance back at you again. Only for a second. But you caught it, eyes meeting hers across the room. She didn’t even try to hide the smile that followed.

Now, if Lara would just stop smiling too… 

—

The rest of Katseye, minus a still filming Megan, was introduced to you in quick succession, not out of urgency exactly, but because Sophia didn’t feel like sharing for too long. She smiled through it anyway, played the part, let everyone have their moment. But her fingers never fully let go of yours, and you didn’t seem to mind. And once the greetings were done and the chatter faded into background noise, she was all too eager to give your hand a gentle tug.

“Come on,” she said. “You should drop your stuff off.”

The ride back to the house was a blur. Mostly small talk, some laughter. You nodded off briefly on her shoulder, and she stayed perfectly still the whole time, like moving might risk waking you, or worse, end the moment too soon.

Now, her room was quieter. Cooler. The door clicked shut behind you, and for the first time in hours, she felt like she could breathe.

You set your small bag on the edge of her bed, a backpack barely larger than a purse, and looked over with a sheepish smile. “I… didn’t pack much. Might have to borrow a few things from you.”

Sophia tried not to beam. “Okay.”

Maybe too quickly. Maybe too eagerly.

You didn’t seem to notice either way. 

But the idea of you in something of hers, something small like a hoodie or an old T-shirt, it made her stomach do a stupid little flip. Even if it meant she wouldn’t get to steal one of your sweaters for herself. Still, she eyed the zip-up you were wearing now. That one looked soft enough to steal later.

You wandered a little, taking in her space. It had been a while since the two of you had been alone like this. Your fingers brushed over the spines of her books, pausing over old notebooks, trailing gently along her desk. Like you were trying to analyze every last detail. Like you were memorizing them, too. Eventually, your fingers stopped short of the photo on her bedside table. You picked it up carefully.

Her family. Her parents in the center, arms looped around each other. Her brothers, grinning like idiots. And on the end, just barely in frame but unmistakably present was you.

Your smile softened. “I still feel bad for photobombing your family picture.”

Sophia stepped beside you, voice quiet. Your shoulders brushed, but neither of you moved away, “You didn’t photobomb anything.” She reached out and gently traced the edge of the frame with one finger, gaze settling where yours had. “It’s my favorite one.”

You looked over at her, a little surprised. You remembered that day. The sun had been too bright. Someone’s eyes were closed in every shot. Better versions had been taken after. Clearer. Cleaner. More intentional. But Sophia’s gaze didn’t waver. 

“I mean it,” she said, like she could sense your doubt. “There’s a reason you’re in it. You’re family too.”

Your laugh was soft, touched with something warm. But you didn’t say anything right away. You just looked at her, eyes wide and quiet, and full of something else she didn’t want to name too soon. Not yet. Not if she could be wrong.

Her eyes dropped, anyways. Unthinking. Automatic. To your lips.

She really had missed you.

You were the one to break the silence, placing the photo back with a crooked smile. “I saw your dad recently, by the way.”

Sophia blinked. The moment slipped. “Oh god. Did he say something weird?”

You tilted your head like you were considering it. Which meant yes. Absolutely, yes. “I don’t think so. Just the usual. Said he and your mom miss you. Asked me to remind you to take care of yourself. And… when we were finally getting married.”

Sophia choked on a laugh, because of course he did, “Oh. Right. Still on that, I see.”

Internally, she groaned. Could he be any more obvious?

He’d figured it out a while ago. Not that she’d told him. But someone had. Probably her mom. Or maybe he just wore her down with questions until she cracked. He had a way of doing that.

“You want to shower?” she asked, cutting the moment short. Her voice was even, casual. “You can borrow something from my closet.”

You gave her a look, teasing. “Are you trying to say I stink?”

Sophia hesitated, half confused, half panicked, before catching the smirk on your face.

She huffed a laugh. “Not what I meant. But now that you mention it…”

You rolled your eyes and made your way to the closet. “Unbelievable.”

The door creaked open.

A second later, your voice floated out. “Hey. Wait. Half of these clothes are mine.”

Sophia crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, realizing she’d conveniently forgotten that little detail. “Oh. Right. Whoops.”

—

The shower was still running when the bedroom door cracked open.

Sophia sat up from where she’d been lounging on her bed, startled by the sudden sound. For a second, she thought something might’ve happened, until Megan strolled in like she owned the place.

Her hair was pulled into a loose bun, still damp from sweat, cheeks faintly flushed from set. No urgency. No apology.

Sophia could already tell this conversation was going to be a headache.

“So,” Megan said without preamble, “is she hot?”

Sophia blinked, though she shouldn’t have been that surprised, “Are you serious?”

Megan just grinned like she already had her answer and flopped into the nearest armchair, spreading out like she was planning to stay.

“Oh,” she said, settling back with satisfaction. “So she is.”

Before Sophia could even begin to respond, more footsteps sounded in the hall. Lighter, but quicker. A second voice followed. 

Laughter.

The door swung open again, with a little more force than necessary, and Lara slipped in with a grin like she was exactly where she meant to be. Which, unfortunately, meant she probably was.

Of course, Sophia thought. Lara.

“Guys,” she began, sitting up straighter, her tone clipped as she tried to get ahead of the problem, “please leave Y/N alone.”

She meant it as a warning. One they really should’ve taken seriously.

Lara only arched a brow, sauntering further in like she hadn’t heard a thing. “Why? Are you two a thing or something?”

“Or were a thing?” Megan added from the chair, visibly delighted with herself.

Sophia didn’t flinch. Her voice stayed even. “She’s my best friend.”

That should have been enough. It always was.

“Okay, well,” Megan went on, leaning forward with a grin, “I’m a good friend too.”

Sophia’s gaze sharpened. “About to be not so good.”

Lara let out a dry laugh.

Megan shrugged, resting her chin on her palm. “Is she single?”

“Megan…”

“I’m just asking. For future reference.”

“Drop it,” Sophia said, this time more firmly.

Megan let out a dramatic groan, falling back into the chair like the weight of Sophia’s protectiveness was simply too much to bear. “Fine. You don’t want me to be happy. Just say so.”

“You don’t even know her.”

“I’m trying to!”

Sophia didn’t bother responding this time. She just stared. One long, pointed look. 

Eventually, Megan huffed, pushing herself up like the effort physically pained her. She dragged her feet as she left the room, shoulders slumped with exaggerated defeat. Sophia didn’t bother saying goodbye, even as Megan tried one last, half-hearted guilt trip before the door clicked shut behind her.

Lara, of course, remained exactly where she was. Planted, unbothered, and clearly not planning on moving anytime soon.

Sophia raised an expectant brow.

“What?” Lara said innocently. “I want to see fine shyte one more time.”

Sophia sighed, grabbed the nearest pillow, and threw it at her. It landed with a satisfying thud against Lara’s chest. She didn’t even blink.

“I really need to start locking that door,” Sophia muttered, just as the shower turned off behind her.

Steam slipped out from the bathroom door a moment later. Then you emerged, towel wrapped snug around your body, hair damp and skin still flushed from the heat. You spotted Lara almost immediately.

“Oh,” you said, blinking at the unexpected audience. “Hi, Lara.”

Lara lit up like she’d won something, “Hi, Y/N.”

You smiled, bashful but kind, completely unaware of the tension in the room. Sophia watched you, eyes narrowed at the interaction.

Yeah. She really needed to start locking that door.

—

Dinner that night was a special event. It wasn’t often the whole group gathered together. Too many schedules. Too many excuses. But with you visiting, the others had apparently decided it was worth making an exception.

Sophia wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or suspicious.

She was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, pan sizzling. Pretty convinced that Megan and Lara had conveniently orchestrated this. “Let Sophia cook,” they’d said, like it was some kind of generous delegation. But Sophia had caught the smirks. She’d seen the way Megan had elbowed Lara under her breath when you walked in.

They were plotting. Obviously.

And yet… she couldn’t complain. Not really. Not when your face had gone soft with something fond at the mention of her cooking. 

You’d offered to help. She’d turned you down. You’d just gotten off a flight, and she wasn’t about to put you to work. Not in her kitchen. Not when she’d been daydreaming about spoiling you a little.

Now, of course, she regretted that.

Because from where she stood, wooden spoon in hand, Sophia could see all of them hovering over you like a pack of curious birds. New girl. Bright smile. Easy laugh. You were telling some story about a childhood dare, something about a rooftop and proving you could fly, and Manon was practically folded in half from laughter.

Sophia narrowed her eyes. That story wasn’t even that funny. She would know, she had been there.

Manon wasn’t even listening. Just watching. Which only made it worse.

Then came the moment Sophia had been dreading.

Manon leaned in a little, gaze flicking to your collarbone. “That’s a cute necklace,” she said. “What does charm mean?”

Sophia fought the urge to throw her spoon across the kitchen. 

You glanced down, fingers already finding the chain. You rubbed the pendant between your thumb and forefinger like you’d done it a hundred times. Like it was a habit. 

“Oh,” you said lightly, “it’s from Sophia.” You held the letters up between two fingers. “Her initials,” you added. Like it was nothing.

Manon tilted her head, and her expression shifted into slightly sharper. She sat up a little straighter, like a puzzle piece had just clicked. “Ohhh,” she said slowly. “I didn’t know you guys were dating.” 

You blinked, expression unchanged, “We’re not.”

Manon gave you a slightly confused look, then turned to Daniela, then back to you, “But… you did at one point, right?”

You shook your head again, more clearly this time. “No. Never.”

Silence. A long one. The kind that dragged. Manon’s face didn’t change, but you could almost hear the gears grinding inside.

Then, like she made up her mind, she muttered under her breath, “Nope. Nope. Not getting involved in that,” and stood up abruptly.

“What?” you asked, straightening up a little.

She didn’t spare you another glance, just turned away like she was afraid of being struck down where she stood, “Nothing. We’re gonna see if Sophia needs help.” She grabbed Daniela by the wrist.

Daniela frowned, having been very comfortable, “Why me? Sophia knows I’m straight.”

Manon’s voice dropped to a whisper as they passed the kitchen threshold, clearly trying to save her friend’s life, “I don’t think she cares.”

Sophia looked up from the stove and met Manon’s eyes across the counter. She didn’t blink. She didn’t smile.

Message received.

Back on the couch, you sat frozen for a second, watching the two girls disappear into the kitchen, wondering where you might have gone wrong, “That was weird.”

Yoonchae didn’t look up from her snack. She just shuffled a little closer to you and reached for another chip. 

“Yeah,” she agreed, mouth half full. “They’re always weird, though.”

You shrugged, accepting the next chip she held out to you.

And just like that, dinner carried on.

—

It was nearing the end of your visit, and Sophia was… irritated.

Not that she had any right to be. She knew that. She’d reminded herself, more than once, that a few days were better than none. That she should be grateful. That asking you to stay longer would be selfish. Maybe even manipulative.

But knowing that didn’t stop her from sulking in the corner of the living room, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like she could will the evening to bend in her favor.

Because even now, even with only a few hours left, the rest of the group hovered around you like you belonged to them.

Lara was the worst.

All coy smiles and drawn-out touches. Laughing too loud at your jokes. Sitting too close. Sophia loved Lara, truly, but that love was being tested. The girl had been pushing her luck since the minute you’d arrived, and now, whatever patience Sophia had left was hanging by a thread.

Across the room, Lara’s hand grazed your arm again. Lingering. Friendly, if one was being generous.

Sophia was not.

And you let her.

Sophia’s jaw tightened. Megan appeared beside her, drink in hand. Wrong place, wrong time.

“Can you believe the gall on Lara?” Sophia snapped, snatching the glass and dragging Megan a half step closer like a hostage. 

Megan blinked. “I—what?”

“Who does she think she is?”

“I think—”

“And why is Y/N letting her? Like we can’t all see this happening. In real time. With our own eyes.”

Megan’s laugh came out thin. “Uh huh. Uh huh. Can you let me go? I can’t breathe.”

Sophia relaxed her grip. Slightly.

“You could just walk over there and break it up,” Megan offered, still catching her breath.

Sophia looked at her, appalled. “I can’t do that. What would Y/N think?”

Megan raised a brow, unimpressed. “The girl wears your initials around her neck and hasn’t questioned it once. I don’t think she thinks at all.”

That gave Sophia pause. She blinked. Slowly. Then, with drunken solemnity: “Good point.”

She handed the drink back to Megan, stood, and smoothed down her shirt like it might steady her thoughts. Then she crossed the room. Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just with purpose.

Lara’s laugh reached her before anything else. That breathy kind of amusement she saved for when she wanted to be charming. Her hand was still perched between you on the couch cushion, close enough to count.

Sophia didn’t slow her steps.

And then you looked up and smiled. Soft. Instinctive. As if you hadn’t spent the evening letting Lara flirt with you. As if her hand hadn’t been skimming too close for too long. As if you hadn’t noticed the glances Sophia kept sending your way.

As if none of it mattered.

Sophia’s steps faltered. Just slightly.

She could walk away. Let it go. But she’d already come this far.

“Hey, Sophia,” Lara said smoothly, voice light, just shy of smug. Like she wasn’t halfway on your lap. “We were just talking about you.”

Sophia didn’t answer. Her eyes were just on you.

You tilted your head, the smile still there. “Hey. You okay?”

That should’ve been the moment she softened. Your voice. The way you looked at her like everything was fine. Like she hadn’t spent the whole week on edge, pacing the edges of something sharp. But instead, something inside her pulled taut.

Not anger. Not jealousy. Something deeper. Something more dangerous.

Because how dare you look at her like that after the week you’d just spent letting everyone treat you like you were theirs? How dare you smile like that—sweet, easy, innocent—after leaning into every lingering touch, every teasing remark?

Unless—

Your gaze flicked. Barely. Down to her lips. Then back up again.

Subtle. So subtle it could’ve meant nothing.

But it didn’t. Not to Sophia.

She’d spent too long studying your expressions not to know the difference between unintentional and deliberate.

And this?

This was deliberate.

There was something behind your gaze, now. Beneath the affection. Something knowing. Something dark.

Like you were watching her unravel on purpose. Like you’d been waiting for her to snap. Like this had been the point all along.

And suddenly, Sophia wasn’t sure if she was the one in control anymore.

She considered her options. She could stay composed. Pretend it meant nothing. Let silence do what it always had. Hold everything steady.

Or—

What the hell.

She reached for you. Hand wrapping firm around your wrist, tugging you to your feet before she had time to second guess herself. And then she kissed you.

It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t graceful. And it sure as hell wasn’t subtle.

All that careful structure, the unspoken, the constant, fractured into something loud and undeniable. Something claimed. Something undeniably hers.

She felt your breath catch. Felt your hands move to her waist. Felt the way your body shifted toward her like it had been waiting.

When she finally pulled back, your lips were parted, your gaze steady. Blown wide, but sure.

“Finally,” you breathed, “I was getting tired of pretending.”

And then you kissed her again.

Slower this time. But just as certain.

—

The next morning, Sophia woke tangled in your arms.

You were still sleeping, your breath slow and even, curled toward her in the way you always had. Just like when you were younger. Familiar. Easy.

But this morning carried something else. Something settled.

Sophia watched the steady rise of your chest, let her eyes trace the lines of your face, peaceful and unaware. Then, she let her gaze drift lower. 

The necklace was still there, resting against your skin. A soft glint of silver in the early light. Her initials. Unmoved. Unquestioned.

She smiled when she saw it. That familiar flash. That small, constant truth. Her fingers found the chain, brushing gently along its curve. Then feathered lower, to the skin beneath.

There was a shadow under her touch. Faint at first. Something her eyes might have missed if her fingers hadn’t found it first.

Her hand stilled. She looked closer.

The color was muted in the morning light, but it was there. A mark just below the silver. Small. Fresh. Placed exactly where she’d meant to leave it.

Her thumb hovered over it, not quite touching, as if confirming what she already knew.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, face pressing into her shoulder. The movement exposed more of your neck. The mark caught the light. Undeniable now.

Her initials. The bruise just beneath.

It didn’t shout. It didn’t need to.

It simply was.

Clear. Certain. Undeniable.

Mine.

—

listen to. gabriela by katseye

[frankcastler]

this summer really hits with back to back amazing movies based on comics

thunderbolts* big surprise

superman is spectacular

the fantastic four is incredible (sue storm mother of the year)

who loves both dc and marvel like me is in heaven

we are so back!!!!

[frankcastler]

oh wow… this is one really crushed me this is the kinda of stuff that makes you cry to sleep really really insane storytelling, can’t wait for the next part, it’s gonna be beautiful for sure

- simply incompatible | call me when you get this, or leave me if you don't

Pairing. Manon Bannerman x Reader

w.c. 14.5 k

Manon knew better than to go digging into her past for answers she never asked for. But what if the past wasn’t just the past? And what if Y/N had meant more than anyone else ever could? How would she even begin to explain an unraveling she still don’t fully understand?

Read: Part 1

There was a time when Manon believed in love, and worse, believed in Y/N L/N. 

Back then, though, she had just been Y/N : not the actress, not the director, not the name passed around the internet like a secret. But the girl who laughed with her mouth wide open and pressed her cold feet against Manon’s calves during sleepless nights. Who made even the silence feel full with a simple smile and could kiss away wandering doubts before they had the chance to take hold.

Manon isn’t sure when things started to change. Only that they did. 

One moment, everything felt certain. The next, it didn’t.

That was the thing about endings. They never came as endings. Instead, they arrived disguised as quiet mornings, as coffee in airport lounges, as shared playlists and easy silences, and as promises that tasted like forever because you needed them to.

And Manon had really needed them to.  

She thinks, maybe, the unraveling began with the DM. 

—

Manon was in bed, one sock on, one lost somewhere in the duvet, hair still damp from a too-late shower. Her laptop hummed beside her, paused halfway through a mediocre drama she’d promised someone she’d finish. She hadn’t. The plot was too predictable. The dialogue even worse. But she liked the main actress’s face and the way her eyeliner never smudged, so she chose to keep the show on anyway, even if on pause. 

Her phone buzzed on the comforter beside her: a new Instagram notification. She thumbed it open without thinking.

The message had been buried under five others: a brand wanting to send her lip gloss, a promoter inviting her to a party she’d never attend, a fan edit with a suspicious number of star emojis in the caption. Then, one unfamiliar brand. Blue checkmark. 

Dream Academy

She clicked it.

Hi Manon. We’re reaching out on behalf of HYBE and Geffen Records in collaboration with Interscope to invite you to audition for an upcoming global girl group project. 

Manon sat up slowly. Scrolled back to the top. Reread the name.

Dream Academy is a new initiative seeking multi-talented individuals from around the world. This year we are inviting performers…

She read the message through. Then read it again. It stared back at her like it was waiting to be believed.

….if you are interested, please reach out with your earliest availability. We believe you would be a great fit for this opportunity and our team hopes to hear back from you soon…. 

There was no suspicious link. No weird font. No sketchy punctuation that might’ve otherwise screamed bot. Even so, a knot of suspicion formed in Manon's stomach, so she opened Safari and typed: dream academy kpop scam. Just to be safe.

She scrolled a little. Clicked a few Reddit threads. A news article. Nothing useful, though. But every result pointed to the same conclusion: that Dream Academy was legitimate.

Still, she let the phone slip from her hand. Let it land on the comforter like it didn’t matter. Let the absurdity of the offer linger on her mind for a second longer. Then leaned back and looked at the ceiling, like maybe it might have something more reasonable to say.

The quiet stillness of the room was broken by a light, certain knock. Manon didn’t move, though. Barely even blinked. She already knew who it was.

The door creaked open a second later. Slow. Familiar. The sound of someone who never quite waited for permission.

“Manon?” a voice she knew by heart, called out, bright and a little breathless. Already halfway into the room. “It’s me.”

Y/N stepped inside a moment later, a sight to be reckoned with. Hair windswept, cheeks flushed, like she’d jogged the last few blocks just to get there faster. Which, knowing her, she very well might have.

Manon watched her. Let the sight settle before a sound slipped out, a half-laugh, half-sigh, despite her best attempt to keep it in. Because Y/N was the only person she knew who would think to announce herself after already walking in.

“Hey.” she said softly, still laughing, still smiling, “What are you doing here?”

Y/N paused just long enough to grin, all wide and proud, like Manon’s laughter was exactly what she had come to hear. Then, without missing a beat, she kicked off her shoes and stepped further into the room.

"Just missed you. Wanted to come visit." The hallway light behind her cast a soft golden halo across her shoulders, and for a moment, Manon almost believed it. “Your mom let me up. She told me not to let you stay up too late tonight though. I told her I’d try my best.” A pause, “But we both know it won’t be up to me.”

Manon raised a brow. Not at the words, or the way they were said, but the ease of them. She didn’t comment on the quiet assumption tucked between the lines. She didn’t need to. Of course Y/N would be staying the night. That kind of certainty had stopped needing confirmation a long time ago.

"You okay?" Y/N asked, her voice softer now, like she had noticed something amiss and didn’t want to startle whatever mood she’d just walked into. Her gaze drifted across the room, sweeping from the tangled sheets to the open laptop, then to the steaming mug on the nightstand. She didn’t make a big deal of any of it. Just took it in. Quietly. Like she always did.

A slight crease appeared in her brow. Not quite concern, just… awareness. The kind that came from knowing someone a little too well. Like she had already read the quiet, sorted through the pauses, and understood exactly what they meant without needing it explained.

Manon’s fingers tugged at the hem of her sweatshirt. For a second, she considered brushing off the question, tossing out a sarcastic "yeah, of course," just to make Y/N smile. But then she thought better of it. Because with Y/N, the usual deflection felt thin. She’d see right through it anyway. So instead, Manon picked up her phone, thumbed it open, and turned the screen toward Y/N without another word. 

“Tell me this is a scam.”

Y/N blinked once, just once, then crossed the room. No hesitation. No questions. She just… moved. Like she didn’t know what was yet wrong, but she was ready for it all the same.

She stopped when her knee touched the edge of the bed. One hand found the bedframe, fingers curling around it lightly, the other stayed hovered at her side.The screen’s glow lit her face in soft blue. Shadows carved themselves beneath her cheekbones as she read, her brows drawing tighter together, not in confusion, but thought. 

Manon watched her closely. Watched the way her lips parted slightly, then pressed together again. Watched her thumb twitch once near the edge of the phone and then still. She fought the small urge to smooth out the crease between Y/N’s brows.

“No,” Y/N said finally. “That… looks real.”  

Manon let her head fall back against the wall with a soft thud. “God. That almost makes it worse.”

Y/N raised a brow, “How do you mean?”

Manon gestured vaguely at the screen. “Well…if it had been fake, I could just block it, chalk it up to a scam. But if it's real…” she paused, waited, as if the silence spoke for her, “well, then someone seriously thinks I belong in a girl group, and I’m the punchline in their joke.”

A small smile tugged at Y/N’s lips. Less amused, now. More…knowing. “The punchline?” 

Manon let out a sigh. Loud. Too loud for how quiet the room had been a second ago. “I mean, come on. A global girl group? An audition? You’re telling me this doesn’t feel a little….absurd?”

The word hung there between them. Lopsided. Maybe even a little defensive. Like Manon was daring Y/N to disagree, though even she wasn’t sure why.

But Y/N didn’t argue. She didn’t take the bait. She just looked at Manon for a moment. Then, softly, almost like she’d only just figured it out, “I don’t think it’s absurd at all.”

Manon scoffed, “Right. Because I totally scream global pop sensation.”

Y/N’s brows rose, then fell, “You kind of do.”

Manon narrowed her eyes.

“Please be serious.”

“I am.”

“I don’t dance.”

“You move like you could.”

“I can’t sing.”

“Only because you don’t really try.”

“I have no media training.”

"You're hot!" 

That made Manon pause. She shot Y/N a look, attempting a glare, something that said not the time, but the small tug at the corner of her mouth gave her away. It always did, around Y/N.

"That's... not a skill." She grumbled. 

Y/N grinned, then let out a laugh. "It's definitely a selling point, though."

Manon looked away, but not fast enough to keep Y/N from catching the flush rising up her neck.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, letting herself fall back onto the bed. Her arms sprawled across the blankets like she was physically giving in.

“I shouldn’t want this, right?” The words came quickly, bringing with them the weight of her desire. And whether they were meant for Y/N or herself, she couldn’t say.

“I already have a whole life in front of me. A good following. A stable-ish career. I shouldn’t want to add getting screamed at on Korean television to that list.”

Y/N didn’t say anything. Not at first.

Instead, she moved, slow and certain, until the bed dipped beside Manon. She sat close enough that their knees brushed, and that slight contact, that easy press of warmth, sent something steady and alive through Manon’s chest.

“You don’t know that there’ll be screaming,” she offered, lips twitching. Amusement flickering at the edge of her voice. 

“There’s always screaming.” Manon deadpanned. “I’ve seen clips.” 

That got Y/N to laugh, warm and close and musical in the way Manon couldn’t help but get lost in every time. The kind of sound that wrapped around you before you even had the chance to resist it. 

Y/N leaned back on one palm, then let herself ease down until she was lying beside Manon. Manon felt the heat of her arms first, then the soft imprint of Y/N’s scent settling in the air between them. 

“Just… think about it,” Y/N said, like it was easy. Even though it wasn't. “I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Manon thought:

I could fail. 

Prove that I’m nowhere as great as you think I am. 

And then you’ll leave.

But what she said instead was, “I’ll humiliate myself on camera and die in a viral edit with ten million views.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, just barely. “And you’d look incredible while doing it.” She said it like she meant every word.

This time, it was Manon’s turn to laugh. Sharp and sudden. It startled her with how real it sounded, like it had shaken something loose in her chest she hadn’t even known she was holding. And for the first time in minutes, she turned to face Y/N fully.

“You really think I could do this?” 

Y/N didn’t even blink, “I know you could.”

And maybe the words started as comfort, but they landed like truths. Spoken like something Y/N

had always believed, and had just been waiting for Manon to catch up to.

Manon studied Y/N features. The eyes she’d stared into through too many sleepless nights. The lips that always seemed one second away from a grin. And really, without thinking, like her body had made up its mind before her thoughts caught up, she reached for Y/N hand. Found in the dark, without needing to search. 

Their fingers slipped together easily, instinctively, like they had done it a thousand times before. 

“Thank you.” she whispered, never quite understanding how Y/N always managed to know what she needed, even when she didn’t say it out loud.

Y/N leaned in, and Manon met her halfway. Whatever space had been left between them vanished, quiet and certain.

“Of course,” she murmured against Manon’s lips.

And maybe that was why Manon said yes that day. Lying there, held in the quiet certainty of someone who believed in her completely.

“Does this read well?” she asked, twisting the screen toward Y/N.

“Absolutely perfect,” Y/N said, nestling even closer, like she still hadn’t gotten close enough.

Manon would later tell her parents it was for the experience. Tell her friends it was on a whim.

But when she said yes to Dream Academy that day, she hadn’t been chasing a dream. She had been simply following the girl who made everything feel a little more possible.

—

The Dream Academy team took so long to respond that Manon nearly forgot the whole thing entirely.

Between the steady stream of brand deals and the low-hum of being a small-scale influencer, her days filled themselves with enough distraction to push the audition results into the background. She still wanted it, of course she did, but not with the same ache she'd once carried for recognition at sixteen. She had work now, consistency, a soft rhythm that kept her afloat. The waiting, the wondering, the what-ifs, they all settled into quiet instead.

Then Y/N showed up, sunlight in her smile and good news practically spilling from her hands.

“I booked it,” she grinned, holding up her phone like a trophy. “Lead role. First indie gig. Can you believe it?”

Manon blinked over the top of her laptop, brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Wait, you’re acting now?” She could never keep up with Y/N’s ever-changing ambitions.

“No,” Y/N said, practically vibrating, like her answer made sense. It did not, “But I figured when we’re rich and old and have six kids and a dog, I should at least have one cool story to tell the children.”

Manon nearly choked on air. “Sorry—what?”

“Okay, fine,” Y/N amended, shrugging slightly like she was making a concession, “Seven kids. But we better start getting busy.”

Manon shut her laptop with a soft click, the email she had been working on long forgotten, “Yeah, that’s not the part I was objecting to,” she muttered.

Y/N just laughed, already stepping in like she always did: shoes kicked off at the door, half-zipped hooding sliding off one shoulder. She crossed the space between them, reached for Manon’s hand mid-protest, and tugged her up with the kind of ease that made it feel like second nature. 

Manon swore she could feel her heartbeat right through her fingers.

“Come on… say you’re proud of me.” Y/N prompted, softly, almost teasing, but not entirely without something earnest underneath.

Manon sighed, not because she wasn’t, but because Y/N already knew she was. “Of course I’m proud of you.”

Y/N beamed at her words, nevertheless, like they held the world, “Good. Because when I inevitably win a Grammy, I’m definitely mentioning you.”

That pulled a reluctant smile from Manon. She tilted her head, one brow lifting. “You know Grammys aren’t for acting, right? It’s important to me that you do.”

“Not yet they’re not.” Y/N clicked her tongue, wiggling her fingers theatrically.

A puff of amusement escaped Manon, “What does that even mean?”

Y/N only shrugged, a sheepish smile playing on their lips, “I don’t know, I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t ask. ”

Manon smiled, softer this time. She reached up and cupped Y/N’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly across her skin. Y/N’s eyes fluttered briefly at the contact, “Well if you do manage to win a Grammy, you better make sure to mention our six kids too, then.”

Y/N turned her head and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the center of Manon’s palm. “Seven now, Manon.”

The moment slipped, “Oh, God help me.”

—

That night, they both went out. Half for Y/N’s good news, half for their friend’s birthday.

“I can’t believe you’re turning 23,” Manon said, raising her glass. “To Grandma, I guess.”

Their friend, Celeste, narrowed her eyes from across the table, then tipped her head with a mock threat. “Don’t test me on my birthday, Bannerman. I brought you and Y/N together. I can break you apart just as fast.”

Y/N gasped from beside Manon, clutching her chest in exaggerated horror. “Over my dead body.” Then she turned to Manon with a glint in her eye, like, See? Acting.

Manon snorted but didn’t argue.

By the time the cake came out, Manon had taken her usual place half-seated on Y/N’s lap, one leg curled beneath her and the other pressed against the living room couch. It was a posture that made no anatomical sense, but always seemed to happen anyway. It was just comfier that way, she’d tell people. But in truth, she just liked the way it let her stay close. The kind of close that made her forget where she ended and Y/N began.

The party continued to hum around them in a blur of music, laughter, and flickering candlelight.

Manon let herself sink into the moment, into the rhythm of everything. The easy joy of familiar voices, the warmth of Y/N’s arms around her, the steady comfort of being surrounded by people who felt like home. And in the moment, nothing felt uncertain or out of reach. It was all just… right.

Until her phone buzzed with a notification, and she stilled.

Y/N noticed it immediately. Her hand, which had been tracing slow, absent-minded circles on Manon’s back, paused.

“What is it?”

Manon didn’t answer. Couldn’t. So, she just turned the screen toward Y/N so she could see it herself.

The message was short, with one line bolded in the center:

Congratulations! We are excited to welcome you to the Dream Academy Pre-Show Program.

Y/N didn’t wait to read the rest. A breathless laugh escaped her as she pulled Manon into a hug so sudden it knocked the air right out of Manon’s lungs, “That’s my girl!” she exclaimed between laughs, her voice full of something like pride, maybe even awe. 

Her arms wrapped tightly around Manon, like she was trying to anchor them both in that moment. And for a second, it worked. The room faded, and the noise, the party, and everything else slipped out of focus. Until it became just the two of them. Suspended in joy.

“Put me down!” Manon wheezed. “You’re embarrassing me.”

But she was laughing too hard to mean it.

“You’re going to wear sparkly outfits and have a lightstick. I can already see it.” Y/N rattled off. How she already knew what a lightstick was, Manon didn’t want to know.

She thumped Y/N on the shoulders. “Put me down, Y/N L/N,” she warned again. 

Y/N L/N did not.

The others soon started to crowd around, drawn in by the commotion. Manon tried to explain between breathless giggles and Y/N’s overly proud interruptions, all too happy to brag that her girlfriend was basically a pop star now. Before long, the whole mood had lifted into something else entirely. Celeste loudly declared the night a triple celebration, insisting that it meant they all had to party harder as well. Glasses clinked. Music turned up. Someone called for more shots. 

But even as laughter rang around her, the message still lingered in Manon’s hand. Someone asked when she was leaving, so she scrolled, slower this time, finally catching what she had missed before.

To accommodate your experience, we invite you to join us for individualized training this spring. This program will be focused around preparing you to transition smoothly into the full competition and help bridge any gaps in your portfolio. If you are interested in attending, the pre-show training will begin in Los Angeles two days from now. Let us know your attendance and plan your travel accordingly.

Manon felt her breath catch in her throat. 

Los Angeles. Two days from now. 

The room spun without her for a moment, everything suddenly pressing in a little too fast, a little too real.

Dream Academy was happening. Not someday. Not eventually. Now. 

Manon gripped the phone in her hand, watching her knuckles turn pale. 

Someone glanced her way, concern flickering behind the smile, a question in their eyes. Someone else asked if everything was alright, though the words barely cut through the ringing.

Then—

“LA won’t know what to do with you,” Y/N called over the music, loud enough for everyone to hear. A little dramatic, sure, but it did its job. Their friends’ worried looks turned into laughter, and the tension hanging in the room eased, loosened, drifted elsewhere.

Then, quieter. Softer. Just for Manon. Y/N leaned in, her voice warm against Manon’s ear, “Hey, you’re okay. Don’t stress yourself out. You’re more than ready.” Said like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like it was fact.

And in that moment, Manon knew she had been seen. Not just heard, but seen. And with anyone else, that might’ve felt like exposure. Like too much.

But with Y/N, it just felt like living. 

Manon turned toward her and pressed a kiss to her cheek. There was no need to say thank you.

Y/N had already heard it.

—

At the airport, two days later, Manon’s hands held steadier than she had expected.

Her mom had kissed her forehead at the security check and made her promise to call the second she landed. Her dad had wept quietly into Y/N’s shoulder while Y/N mouthed help me over his back.

Manon had just smiled. It was awful. And funny. And perfect in just the way she liked.

And then it was just her and Y/N. 

“You’ll call?” Y/N asked, nudging the handle of Manon’s suitcase like she needed something to do with her hands.

“I’ll call.” Manon said, reaching out to steady Y/N’s fidgeting fingers with her own.

Behind them, her dad mumbled something into her mom’s neck about his baby girl growing up. Manon pretended not to hear it.

Y/N hesitated. Then pulled something from her pocket and slipped it into Manon’s hand. A small folded note.

Manon looked down. Almost opened it.

Y/N stopped her.

“Don’t. Not until you get on the plane.”

Manon nodded, curiosity flickering but held back, then pulled Y/N into a hug.

Their goodbye wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even long. Just a kiss. Short. Certain. The kind you give when you expect another one soon.

And when Manon finally settled into her seat, the hum of the plane already lulling her toward sleep, she unfolded the slip of paper Y/N had given her.

Just a scribble. Five words. Nothing else.

I believe in you, Meret.

The name landed softly.

It wasn’t one people used. Not really. Not anymore. Not since she’d declared herself a Manon back in the first grade and demanded the rest of the world adjust accordingly. Her parents caught on quickly. Her teachers soon followed suit. But somehow, Y/N had charmed it out of Manon’s mother one slow weekend over brunch and decided, then and there, it was hers to use.

Only for moments like this, though. Only when she needed Manon to hear something she wasn’t ready to believe on her own.

Because even though Manon hadn’t said a word, barely even let herself name the fear, Y/N had already answered it. 

Manon fell asleep with the note still clutched in her hands. 

—

The pre-show training was hard.

Not that Manon hadn’t expected it. She’d known it would be hard; the long hours, sore muscles, choreography that made your body forget how to breathe kind of hard.

But what she hadn’t expected was how quickly the confidence bled out of her.

The first morning, she’d woken up early, hair half-styled and her playlist already queued. A shared playlist Y/N had made for their one-year anniversary, completed with a corny and absolutely atrocious photo of Manon that Y/N had insisted was her favorite.

She’d done a warmup she found on YouTube, chugged a green juice that tasted like mint and punishment, then double-knotted her sneakers with the kind of optimism only someone wildly unprepared could have mustered.

By noon, she’d nearly thrown up during vocal drills.

By two, the choreographer had asked if she’d ever danced in front of a mirror before. 

By the end of day one, she was curled on the edge of her bunk with a heating pad against her spine and her pride freshly scraped raw.

No one had yelled at her. No one had even scolded. They had just corrected. And corrected. And corrected. Each “again” felt heavier than the last, and each “not quite” felt like they were waiting for her to reach her limit. 

Manon knew she was unpolished. Untrained. A mess, by anyone’s standard.

But worse than all of that? She was tired. Not the satisfying kind of tired, either, not the earned kind. But the kind that sunk into your bones and whispered, you don’t belong here over and over again until your head spun and your vision blurred.

And it had only been her first day.

—

Day two and three didn’t hit any harder. But they didn’t get any easier, either. 

Manon flinched every time the choreographer clapped. Her chest burned all through warmups. Her high notes broke early, even in scales. And by mid-week, she couldn’t look the vocal coach in the eye without feeling like a walking apology.

The mirror in the practice room soon stopped feeling like a reflection and more like a dare. One that turned her into a stranger with stiff arms and a messy center of gravity.  Like it was waiting to catch her in the act of trying to believe in herself. 

None of the trainers ever said anything cruel, though. Not they had to. Their faces said enough. Every strained smile, every sigh before another round of corrections. The way their pens hovered for half a beat longer before marking her clipboard. Manon saw it all. 

She started apologizing out of habit. A Sorry. Sorry. Got it. Sorry again, leaving her lips more often than her own name.

But apologizing didn’t make her a better singer, and it certainly didn’t make her a better dancer. And every time she did it, she felt the words chipped at something a little deeper.

—

The days blurred fast after, but the soreness never left. 

Some nights, she had to brace herself against the dresser just to lower herself into bed. She learned to ice her knees while reviewing recordings of her worst takes, trying to figure out if she looked as stiff as she felt. 

She did.

She heard it in the staff’s notes. In their wordless nods. In the way praise never came, even on the days she improved. Good job didn’t seem to be in their vocabulary. She didn’t even realize she was waiting for it until she caught herself scanning the room after each round, hoping someone would just say she was getting better.

No one ever did.

By the end of week two, Manon had learned to stop waiting for the silence to mean something else.

And maybe, she thought, that should’ve wrecked her more than it did.

But it didn’t.

Because Y/N never let it.

—

The first few weeks, they didn’t talk much. Y/N had fittings, or reshoots, or some all-night disaster involving a busted camera rig and two missing costumes. Budget movie things, she had told Manon. She texted when she could, though. Sent updates. Memes. A blurry picture of her lunch with the caption: “food poisoning waiting to happen but make it cute.”

It wasn’t enough to fill the silence, the ache of missing Y/N’s touch, the soft comfort of her own bed, or her mother’s cooking, but it was something.

Then came the voice memo.

It was a Wednesday. Nearly two month into the program now. Manon had just finished her fourth rehearsal of the day, fourth, tripped over her own feet, and muttered fuck’s sake into the studio floor loud enough for the interns to wince. She hadn’t even taken her shoes off when she checked her phone and saw the recording.

It was two minutes long.

She played it anyway.

“Okay, first of all—yes, you can do this. Yes, you’re tired. Yes, you feel like a disaster. That’s because you are a disaster. But you’re a capable one, and I’m not about to let you start spiraling just because some overpaid choreographer gave you the same note five times. You’ll get it on the sixth. Or the seventh. Or I’ll come down there myself and throw hands, whichever happens first.”

Manon let her head drop back against the wall. The smile crept in without permission.

“Also? Just for the record? You looked good in that clip you sent. Like, not good-for-you good, but good good. So maybe the world’s just slow to catch up.”

There was a pause. A breath. Then—

“Besides. I need you to make it. For, um, selfish reasons. Because I’ve decided acting’s not working out, and we have seven fictional kids to support now. They’re all hungry. They all want to go to college. One of them is allergic to soy. If you quit, they die. Do you want that, Manon? Do you want blood on your hands?”

It ended with a rustle and a muffled, “Okay I gotta go, the lighting guy slash mic guy slash costume guy is yelling at me again—I love you, say it back.”

Manon listened to the message twice that day. Just in that one moment. 

She didn’t cry, but she did stay seated on the floor a little longer than she needed to.

And when she finally gathered the strength to stand back up again, the thought maybe I don’t belong here quieted just enough for her to breathe.

—

Y/N showed up three weeks later. 

Manon didn’t even know she was in LA. She came home from rehearsal, hoodie damp with sweat and half a protein bar stuck to the wrapper in her pocket, and there Y/N was, barefoot on the couch, hair pinned up, sorting through three takeout bags like she’d just moved in.

“Hope you still like dumplings,” Y/N said without looking up, like they hadn’t seen each other in years, not months. Though it certainly felt like years. “I got three kinds because I forgot which ones you liked. Also, I ate two of them on the way. Sorry.”

Manon froze in the doorway.

Her fingers found the hook by the door on instinct, and she hung her keys there slowly, like if she moved too fast, the whole thing might vanish. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, voice thin around the edges.

“The producer dropped a scene. My schedule opened up. I hopped a flight,” Y/N answered, as if that were something normal people did. She shrugged. Casual. Unbothered.

Manon opened her mouth to ask what exactly “dropped a scene” meant in an indie film with $50 to its name, but then thought better of it. She decided she didn’t really care.

“You didn’t even text.” She said instead. Like that was the issue at hand here.

Y/N’s eyes flicked up, a smile already tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I wanted to see your face when you realized I got here first.” She grinned. Then, her voice dipped, soft but steady. “Also, you weren’t picking up, so I got worried.”

Manon blinked once, then again. The room grew warmer, but she couldn’t tell if it was from the heater or her own pulse.

“I missed you.” Y/N said between bites. 

She didn’t look up. She just reached for another dumpling like it wasn’t a confession, like she hadn’t just unstrung something in Manon’s chest with three quiet words.

And just like that, the shock ebbed. Relief took its place.

The softness of it settled low and sure, threading into Manon’s ribs like warmth that had been waiting there all along.

They sat on the floor after, with a half-unpacked dinner spread between them, Manon still in her training clothes, Y/N in sweats, leaning back on one arm and talking with her mouth full.

Manon didn’t say much. Not like she usually did. She didn’t need to.

Y/N filled the silence with updates about script rewrites and petty co-stars and a director who kept mispronouncing her name. Then she stole a bite of Manon’s rice, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and said, “By the way, you look stronger. Your form’s better. Less tension.”

Manon stared at her. “How would you know?”

Y/N rolled her eyes like it was obvious. “You think I didn’t watch every clip you sent? I had notes.”

There was no compliment in it. Not really. Just recognition. But that was somehow better. More honest, more them. 

It lingered between them in the quiet that followed, in the warmth of Y/N’s hand’s brushing hers and not moving away, and the steadiness of her touch as she held Manon against her chest. 

They dozed off around eleven, still on the floor, limbs tangled, backs against the couch, empty containers scattered around them like proof that the night had happened. Manon’s head tucked lightly against Y/N’s shoulder, Y/N’s hand resting at the hem of her hoodie like it had landed there by accident and simply stayed. No goodnight needed. 

Manon fell asleep without even setting an alarm, reckless perhaps, but she didn’t care. Because for the first time since arriving, she didn’t dream about failing. She dreamt of living. Of rising above it all. Of winning. With Y/N right by her side.

—

Training ended quietly.

No ceremony. No farewell speech. Just a final checklist, a printed schedule, and a reminder that contestants would be flown out in groups the following week. Rest well. Contact will be limited during filming. Thank you for your effort these last few months. 

Effort. Manon had nearly laughed at that. Effort was a funny word for what it took to survive.

Back home, everything felt strange.

Not bad. Just… softer. Like her body couldn’t quite remember how to relax inside familiar things.

The house looked the same. Her bedroom still smelled faintly like lavender detergent and old textbooks. Her mother had even left a plate of cut fruit in the fridge. But the air felt too still, and her mattress too forgiving. She lay flat on it the first night, arms crossed on her stomach, staring at the ceiling like she was afraid it might disappear.

She kept reaching for her phone, forgetting there was no next call, no countdown, no schedule to triple-check. Just hours and hours of… stillness.

Y/N wasn’t in town. That part shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

They’d been talking more regularly since the visit, late night voice memos, dumb memes, more blurry photos from set, but now, even that was about to disappear. Once the show began, outside contact would be nearly impossible. No phones. No unsupervised messages. No escape routes.

Manon didn’t say it out loud, but the idea of going radio silent, of going through all of this without Y/N in her ear, rattled her.

She hadn’t realized how much of her survival had been built on someone else’s voice.

Her mom noticed something was off by day two.

“You’ve been sitting in that same spot for an hour,” she said, walking past the kitchen with a laundry basket. “Are you meditating or just dissociating?”

Manon didn’t look up from her tea. “Bit of both.”

Her mother didn’t press. Just hummed and disappeared into the hallway. Then called out, casually, like it wasn’t pointed at all:  “Y/N always has a habit of showing up when you need her.”

Manon narrowed her eyes at the mug, pretended not to be bothered by the fact her mother had clearly been paying more attention than she let on. “You make it sound like she’s a witch.”

“Not a witch,” her mom replied. “Just inconveniently good at timing.”

—

The night before she was set to leave, Manon couldn’t sleep.

Too much quiet. Too many thoughts. She sat cross-legged on her bed with the lamp turned low, a pen in one hand and a sheet of paper she’d restarted three times already. The first draft had been too emotional. The second too vague. The third sounded like a thank-you card from a dentist’s office.

She didn’t even know if she’d be allowed to send it.

Still, she kept writing. Something about the weight of it made her feel less suspended.

Then came the knock.

Not at the door.

At the window.

Manon paused mid-sentence.

She looked up slowly and her brows drew together. Another knock. This time paired with a familiar face, pressed up against the glass and grinning like a menace.

Manon climbed off the bed and opened the window with a hiss. “What are you doing up here? You know we have a front door right? You’re going to make my mother think we’re delinquents.”

“Don’t worry, she already knows,” Y/N whispered back. Because of course her mother had known… and probably approved of this idea, “Also—this was more romantic.”

“You still could’ve taken the stairs.”

“I could’ve. But then I wouldn’t get points for effort.” 

Manon rolled her eyes at the general stupidity of the response, but still stepped aside to let Y/N in. It was still a dumb reason, yes, but Y/N was cute enough to soften it into the endearing kind of dumb.

Y/N swung a leg easily over the ledge like she’d done it a dozen times. Her feet hit the floor with a soft thud. She wore the hoodie Manon liked, the one that looked stolen from a movie set and smelled vaguely like clove shampoo and night air, and Manon made a mental note to steal it for herself later.

“You planned this with her, didn’t you,” Manon accused, squinting at her girlfriend.

Y/N looked just smug enough to confirm it.

“Come on,” she said, holding up a brown paper bag. “Let’s sneak out before your mom makes us take something ‘for the road.’”

—

They ended up parked in the middle of an empty hill just outside town.

It wasn’t anything special. Just a patch of open sky, a blanket thrown over the hood of the car, and a half-warm box of noodles between them. But it made sense in a way nothing else had in weeks. Like her body had finally stopped bracing for impact. Like her thoughts had finally gone quiet without having to fight for it.

Manon took a bite of her food, let the silence swell between them, then nudged Y/N’s shoulder with her own. “I should’ve asked earlier, but… how’s the shoot going? You never complain anymore unless it’s about fake blood or your co-star’s beard.”

Y/N stretched out her legs, then glanced up at the stars. “Shoot’s fine. Editing wraps in two weeks. Then we’re off touring to find distributors.”

Manon waited for more, but nothing came.

“That’s it?” she asked, unable to help her frown. “No trauma? No onset disasters? No diva breakdowns?”

Y/N twisted her mouth, like she was debating how much to admit. Then looked over, “Honestly, my biggest problem the last few months was you.”

Manon turned. Tried not to get preemptively offended. Failed. “Excuse me?”

Y/N shrugged, but it wasn’t careless, not paired with the way she smiled. “It's hard to focus when your girlfriend’s halfway across the world and you’re wondering if she’s eating real food or just chewing gum for dinner.” She explained.

Manon let out a dry laugh and nudged her again. Enjoyed the way Y/N leaned into it, “Wow. Touching.”

“Hey, you asked.”

“Yeah, well… I guess I have been a little preoccupied.” Manon’s voice dipped, quiet at the edges. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Y/N shifted, turning toward her fully. She reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind Manon’s ear, and let her fingers linger just a second longer than necessary, “I know. You don’t have to explain.”

Manon didn’t reply right away. She wasn’t sure she could. Her eyes dropped to her hands.

Then, quietly, like the words might break if she spoke too loud:

“I’m scared, Y/N.”

Y/N’s expression didn’t change, but her body softened around the words.

“Not of the show,” Manon went on. “Or—well, yeah, that too—but mostly… of going quiet. Of not having you. I think I only made it through training because I had you in my ear, telling me to try again. I don’t know what is going to happen when that’s gone, too.”

The words sat heavy between them. 

Y/N reached into her jacket pocket.

“Before you panic,” she started, pulling out a small, worn ring box, “this is not an engagement ring. Your dad would kill me.”

Manon blinked. Her gaze focused on the box. Her heart skipped once, then again, like it couldn’t decide whether to brace or settle.

Y/N cracked the box open and held it out.

“It just means—wherever you go, I’ll find my way there too. That you’ll never really be alone.” She tapped the box absentmindedly against her palm, a nervous tic she never outgrew, “And as long as you’re still wearing it, I’ll know you still want me there too.”

Manon stared at the ring. Simple. Silver. Already familiar in a way that made no real sense. 

It caught her off guard, then, how much she wanted something like this. Not the ring, exactly, just the certainty surrounding it. The promise tucked inside.

Then, flatly, like she couldn’t help herself: “You’re a sap, you know.”

Y/N groaned, loud, almost in disbelief, like Manon had just wrecked the perfect moment she’d so carefully crafted. But her eyes never lost their focus, her gaze never drifted away from Manon’s. 

Manon held out her hand. She didn’t make a show of it. Just rested it on the space between them, palm up, fingers slightly curled. Like she was offering something without saying it aloud.

Y/N smiled, soft, and took the ring from the box. She turned it once between her fingers, just to catch a feel, then slid it onto Manon’s hand, slowly, carefully, like she’d done it in her head a hundred times before. 

The metal was cool against Manon’s skin. 

“And scene,” Y/N murmured, almost to herself more than anything. 

Manon laughed, soft but sharp.

“Say that again and I’m taking it off,” she warned, but with no real heat behind it.

Y/N smiled again, but there was something steadier behind it this time. “Sorry. Sorry. Dully noted.” Manon leaned in to rest her head on Y/N shoulders. Admired the new glint on her hand.

Above them, the stars held steady. Below, the night began to press in close. But neither of them seemed to notice.

Not when everything else in that moment felt so…right.

—

Manon moved into the Dream Academy dorms with two bags, a ring on her finger, and a pit in her stomach.

The dorms were nicer than she expected. Not glamorous, not exactly cozy either, but clean. Polished. White walls, quiet halls, and a single laminated welcome letter waiting on the bed she’d be sleeping in for the next year and a half. And now with the actual contestants in it, the Dream Academy building felt all the more lived in than the sterile, jail-cell room she’d been given during individualized training.

Manon hadn’t even finished reading her welcome letter before they took away her phone.

“You’ll get it back on scheduled days. Otherwise, emergencies only.”

The staff had said kindly, like they were doing her a favor. Like being cut off from the outside world would somehow help her find herself. 

Manon smiled, nodded, and handed it over.

She didn’t let them see the way her fingers curled the second it left her hand.

—

Training didn’t start the next morning. It started that night.

Hours of drills. Floor routines. Vocal exercises with timers that beeped too loud and cut too sharp. She collapsed into bed past midnight, sore and starving, only to be yanked awake at six for morning stretches. No one coddled. No one slowed.

She had trained like hell to get here. But somehow, this was worse.

Because now, everyone else was good.

Not just good, next level. They hit every note, nailed every step. The kind of talented that made good look bad and perfect look expected.

Manon watched the others move with the kind of precision she couldn’t begin to fake. Watched them sing with resonance she could barely manage on her best days. She didn’t hate them, not exactly, but every time one of them breezed through a routine she had spent hours trying to crack, her stomach twisted. 

She thought, Jesus, this is terrible so often it bordered on blasphemy. Some days, she’d catch her reflection in the mirror and wonder if any of this was worth it.

But then she’d catch a glimpse of the ring.

She wore it on a thin chain now, tucked beneath her hoodie, close enough to feel when her breath hitched or her resolve began to crack. And the thought that if Y/N believed in her, she had to make it... kept her going.

By the end of week one, Manon had bruises on her knees and an ice pack permanently assigned to her ankle. Her confidence dropped. Then dropped again. Week by week. Month by month.

But still,  she kept going.

—

Month 1–2

Month one passed in a haze of early mornings and late nights. There were twenty girls in her dorm group, and by day five, Manon knew the exact sound of all their footsteps. She knew who cried in the shower stall three doors down. Knew who ran scales while brushing their teeth. Knew who never messed up, not once.

They trained from dawn to night, drills bleeding into feedback sessions, group critiques folding into individual evaluations. It was intimidating. Humiliating. And incredible, in a horrible sort of way.

Y/N’s presence helped. Even without a phone, she found ways to feel close. On call nights, she always picked up. Always followed up, even from the road.

Manon would open the cracked dorm laptop to find blurry selfies captioned “Can’t feel my face but I look cute, right?” or voice memos that said, “Missing my bed right now, but missing my beautiful, talented, stunning, gorgeous, jaw-dropping, mind-blowingly ethereal, heavenly…”—until she ran out of breath.

Once, Manon opened her phone to a fifteen-second audio clip of Y/N singing badly on purpose, ending with: “I’ve decided to audition too. I’ll be joining your company next year. Hope that’s okay.”

She laughed so hard she nearly got a warning that day.

But it helped. All of it. She was tired and sore and overwhelmed, but she felt remembered. And she couldn’t have asked for more.

Still, somewhere deep down, Manon quietly wondered how long they could keep it up.

—

Month 3–4

Then came the festival.

Y/N’s indie film got in. Manon found out during one of their rare breaks, scrolling through the one news site they were allowed to check. She screamed. Not loud, of course, but sharp enough to draw eyes anyways. 

When Y/N officially told her on their weekly call, her voice had been bright with disbelief. 

“They said it was original and grounded and risky in a way that worked. One of the judges even said they were still thinking about it the next morning. Isn’t that insane?”

She laughed like she couldn’t quite believe it, like she was still waiting to wake up.

Manon had grinned so hard her cheeks began to hurt.

“Of course they loved the film,” she said. “You’re in it!”

That stopped Y/N mid-laugh. Just for a beat. Her smile didn’t fall, exactly, but it shifted. Softened. Slowed. Like Manon’s words had landed somewhere deeper than any judge’s praise ever could. Like it was the one thing she hadn’t realized she needed to hear.

Then, softly: “I miss you.” Almost too quiet to catch. But Manon caught it.

She smiled at the screen. Reached out, fingers grazing the glass like she could somehow close the distance. “I miss you too,” she whispered. “And I’m so proud of you.”

And she was. Stretched thin. One mistake away from unraveling. But still, undeniably, fiercely proud.

Y/N looked at her like she wanted to reach back. Like she might not want to let go.

But they traded soft encouragements. I love yous. Quick reminders of what they were building toward. And said their goodbyes.

—

Month 5–7

Things started to change around month six.

Y/N looked tired on their next call. Not just sleepy. Not makeup tired. Bone tired.

Her voice was slower. Her face thinner. Her eyes shadowed in a way that hadn’t been there before.

Manon felt a quiet jolt of worry settle in her ribs.

“Hey. Are you okay?” she asked gently.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Y/N answered too quickly, expression flickering with something unreadable. 

She blamed the stress. Said she’d been losing some sleep over the new movie. Its reception. That it wasn’t anything serious or worth worrying about. But her voice lacked its usual warmth, and the look in her eyes no longer matched the words coming out of her mouth.

Manon sensed that there was something off. Something unspoken. Something Y/N wasn’t quite telling her. But Y/N still kept the mood light. Still cracked jokes. Still said, “This acting thing was supposed to be a side quest. But if my girlfriend’s going to be a megastar, I guess I’ve gotta keep up,” with a laugh that sounded close enough to real.

Close enough that Manon let the worry pass. Even as something else settled in her chest, tight and uneasy.

The call ended shortly after. And for a little while, Manon let herself believe things really were okay. That maybe exhaustion was just exhaustion. That the “I’m fine” meant just that. 

But texts slowed. So did the voice memos. Calls grew shorter. Replies came later. 

On some nights, they didn’t come at all.

Then Manon heard from her mom—casually, offhanded—that Y/N’s film had been picked up by a major distributor. It was huge. A game changer. 

But Y/N hadn’t told her, and that bothered Manon more than it should.

She waited for Y/N to mention it. On their next call. The one after that. But she never did.

And when Manon finally brought it up, Y/N blinked, like she genuinely didn’t see the problem. “Oh. I must’ve forgotten.”

Forgotten. Said like that should have been answer enough. 

But between the dwindling texts and the shorter calls, it didn’t quite feel like forgetfulness anymore. It felt more like distance. Like something slipping between them, quiet and steady.

Manon didn’t call it out. Not that night.

But she almost wished she had.

—

Month 8–10

Month eight was quieter.

Y/N got cast in something new. She downplayed it during their call, but her voice gave her away: bright, animated, thrilled. She sounded alive in a way that caught Manon off guard. Alive in a way she hadn’t sounded in weeks. And it stung, more than Manon wanted to admit, especially after all the half-asleep, barely-there conversations they’d had lately.

Still, Manon smiled. Said all the right things. Told Y/N to go kill it.

But it hurt. Not just missing the celebration in person, but how the congratulations had started to feel less like a hug and more like a postcard. Polite. Distant. Disconnected.

It wasn’t jealousy. Manon was proud, incredibly proud. But each time Y/N had great news, all Manon had to offer were stories of routines she had stumbled through or critiques that left her shaken. She began wanting Y/N to be proud of her too. The way she was proud of Y/N. But more and more, it felt like Y/N was pulling ahead while she stayed stuck in place, struggling just to keep up.

Like she was being left behind.

One night, after a long practice, Manon whispered, almost without meaning to, “I’m starting to feel like a ghost.”

Y/N’s eyes had widened. Asked what she meant. But it felt almost stupid to say out loud, especially when Y/N was doing so well. Still, she tried. Tossed out a vague explanation. How hard it has been to flag Y/N down lately. How it felt like she was being forgotten. Faded out of frame.

Y/N listened. More attentively than she had in weeks and promised she’d do better. Said quietly, “You could never disappear for me, Meret.”

Then, even softer: “Remember the ring. Even if I forget to show it, or if it starts to feel like you’re alone, I am right there with you.”

And it helped. Sometimes. Especially during rehearsals, when everything else felt like heat and noise and panic.

But even the ring couldn’t hold back the ache when their calls got cut short. Or when Y/N answered with a yawn instead of a hello.

And each time Y/N missed a call completely, the ring started to feel less like comfort and more like a reminder. Something cold and mocking against her skin.

—

Month 10–12

By month ten, Manon stopped waiting by the phone. Stopped watching the clock.

She still hoped. But not like before.

Y/N started showing up late to their scheduled calls, so Manon stopped marking them on her calendar.

She told herself it was fine. Everyone was tired. Everyone was doing their best. She was busy too. Mission prep had started. The stakes were higher. The first pair contestants were about to be cut. 

Still, one night, on a quiet call, when her voice was raw and her feet blistered from back-to-back choreography, Manon let it slipped. 

“I’m nervous,” she said, eyes on the ring rather than the screen. “For the missions. For what’s next.”

Y/N’s voice came clear over the speaker, “You’re more than ready.”

Manon hesitated, then sighed. "You’re not just saying that, right?"

Y/N smiled. The room behind her was dark, and Manon could barely make out the expression on her face, but she heard the smile, “Of course I’m not. You’ve got this.”

That steadied something in Manon. Not everything. But enough.

So feeling braver than usual, she let herself ask, soft, careful, like she didn’t want to scare the answer away. “I know we’ve talked about this before… but it’s been hard to reach you again lately.”

Y/N’s breath caught. Not loud, but enough to hear the shift. Guilt, maybe. Or something close.“I know,” she said. “Since then, I’ve been trying to frontload everything so I can actually be present when things calm down. But clearly things are not working out too well.” A chuckle, one that didn’t feel quite real, “Once the show airs. I’ll be more present. I promise.”

Manon nodded and didn’t press further. She reassured Y/N that she believed her. Or at the very least, that she wanted to.

Then she tucked the ring back beneath her collar and tried to convince herself that wanting to believe was the same as knowing it was true.

—

The show began filming on a Friday.

Not that it mattered. Days stopped meaning anything after a while. Time blurred into a loop of call times, camera tests, dress rehearsals, and feedback sessions that always ran long. Everything buzzed a little louder, moved a little faster. The cameras weren’t exactly hidden, but they didn’t need to be. Manon could feel them in the way her voice started to sound like a performance even when she wasn’t trying. In the way her skin prickled before she even realized they were rolling.

Everyone was tense. Even the girls who had coasted through training with flawless execution now moved with a stiffness they hadn’t before. Manon tried to keep her head down. Focus. Remember her training. Remember her breath.

It’s just a performance, she told herself. You can breathe through it. Hit your mark. Keep going.

And she did. She danced. She sang. She hit every step and didn’t choke. Her vocals didn’t falter and her hands didn’t shake. 

When she got up on stage, she simply gave the judges everything she had. 

It might not have been perfect. But it felt good. It felt like hers.

The judges were tough. Of course they were. This was Dream Academy, and this was the first mission; everyone got notes. Still, they hadn’t torn her completely apart. They’d had corrections, yes. But no scathing critique. Nothing personal that would have lingered on Manon’s mind. 

So when the rankings dropped and she saw her name higher than expected, a part of her surged. Just for a second.

Pride. Quiet and breathless. Finally, proof that her efforts had meant something.

And then it started.

Not from the staff. Not from the mentors. From the others.

The glances came first. Then the subtle hesitations in conversation. The extra beat before someone responded. The way a few girls exchanged looks when her name was called.

It wasn’t cruelty, wasn’t even dislike.

It was confusion, wrapped in something pricklier. 

How did she rank so high?

Manon didn’t let it get to her. Not at first. Her own pride outweighed the barely-there whispers around her. She had earned it, after all. She had fought tooth and nail to get this recognition. 

She raced back to the dorms after dinner that night, heart still buzzing, legs sore from the day’s rehearsals but mind sharp with anticipation. For once, she didn’t feel like she had something to prove. She had something to share.

She wanted to tell Y/N. Wanted to watch her reaction. Wanted to feel it reflected back. To hear it in her voice. To be seen not just as someone trying, but as someone succeeding.

Y/N answered five minutes late.

It probably shouldn’t have mattered. Five minutes meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. Y/N was probably on set. Probably just getting to a quiet corner. 

But by the time the screen lit up, Manon’s excitement had already begun to cool.

Y/N was breathless when she answered. “Sorry! I had to find a quiet spot. Everything’s chaos here.” 

Manon smiled. She’d already predicted this. But it didn’t bring her any satisfaction. Still, she didn’t want it to dampen her mood. She pushed forward, told Y/N everything. How she hadn’t missed a note. How she’d placed way higher than anyone expected. How one of the vocal coaches even nodded during her bridge.

Y/N lit up. She tugged her hood off and leaned closer to the camera. “That’s huge, Manon. I’m so proud of you. That cover is going triple platinum in my car. I’m serious. I’m burning it to a CD and playing it until they come after me for copyright infringement.”

Manon laughed. Waited.

Waited for the pride to settle in. For the moment to feel full.

But it didn’t.

The words were right. The tone was light. But something about it felt distant. Like she was hearing it through glass.  Like she was being told what she wanted to hear, rather than what someone actually felt.

And from Y/N, that was worse.

When the call ended, Manon sat still in the dark, the screen fading to black. Her reflection stared back, just barely visible in the glare. 

She didn’t look proud. She didn’t look accomplished.

She looked like someone trying to believe it mattered.

Y/N had said she was proud.

So why did it feel like no one was? Not even her.

—

Mission two came with a twist: group dynamics.

It was a teamwork-based performance this time. Coordinated vocals. Synchronized movement. Shared lines and shared pressure. Every member had to shine just enough without stepping on anyone else’s spotlight. It wasn’t just about being good. It was about being good together.

Manon could already hear the whispers before her name was even called for the team lineup.

“She’s lucky she ranked high last time.”

“Probably got a nice edit.”

“Someone must like her.”

They never said it outright. Or to her face. They didn’t have to. Whispers always found their way into the quiet parts of the room.

She wanted to complain, sometimes. To roll her eyes and text Y/N the snarkiest version of “you won’t believe what they’re saying now.” But her phone was locked away like everything else. So no calls. No messages. No distractions. Just practice, practice, practice.

And maybe, if she was being honest, even if she could reach Y/N, she wasn’t so sure anymore that she would. Not right away.

Not when the thought crossed her mind, quick and mean and unwanted: Would Y/N even care?

Manon didn’t let herself dwell on it. She filed it away instead. Somewhere deep. Somewhere behind the part of her that still believed this was worth it.

Because it was irritating. The whispers, the looks that said too much. But irritation was easier than insecurity. Irritation gave her something to prove.

The training was brutal this time. Singing and dancing at the same time wasn’t just hard. It was humbling in a way she hadn’t expected. Manon knew the choreography. She could sing the harmonies. But doing both while keeping up with the rhythm of four other girls? It made her voice tremble and her lungs burn. It made her feel like she was always half a beat behind and half a breath short.

When the mission ended, she didn’t feel good.

It hadn’t been awful. Not collapse-on-stage level bad. But it also hadn’t been enough.

She didn’t need a mentor to tell her. Or the buzzing silence that settled after rehearsals. She heard it in her own voice, in the way her chest tightened during the final chorus. She felt it in her footing, in the places where she overcorrected and under-delivered.

Later that night, she watched the performance back in her room and sat with the taste of almost in her mouth. That murky space where your best effort still didn’t translate. Where you did the work, but the work didn’t show. And that sucked.

Luckily, her team won. Somehow. Not because of her, though, despite her. 

Then came the elimination.

Four girls sent home. Just like that. Their beds stripped clean before the lights even dimmed.

That night, when her phone was finally returned, Manon’s hands trembled a little too hard around it.

She didn’t have anything specific she wanted to say to Y/N. Not at first. She just needed to hear her. Needed to exist in a space where she didn’t feel like she was sinking.

To her surprise, Y/N answered almost immediately. Her face was up-close to the camera, eyes wide, whispering loudly like a kid sneaking a call past bedtime.

“I’m backstage between takes,” she whispered, smile already curling. “But I couldn’t miss a call from my superstar.”

Manon smiled, soft and automatic.

“I voted for you like a bajillion times,” Y/N continued, lowering her voice dramatically. “You basically owe me an extra-special kiss when I get back.”

Manon laughed. It came out light, but frayed at the edges.

She told Y/N the basics. That her team won. That she was safe. 

She didn’t mention how disappointed she felt. How off she’d been. How her whole body still felt too heavy from a performance that hadn’t landed.

She wanted to. But she didn’t.

Y/N was still talking, something about the lobby crowd and how someone mistook her for another actress entirely, when Manon’s mind slipped sideways.

If they had lost…

If one more thing had gone wrong…

It could’ve been me tonight. 

Her fingers twisted in the hem of her shirt. Her gaze dropped to the floor. She didn’t even realize she was slipping until she heard Y/N’s voice through the phone again, calling her back. 

“Hey, did you hear what I said?”

Manon blinked, shook away her wandering thoughts. “Huh? Sorry.”

She opened her mouth to apologize. To admit she’d spaced out. To ask if they could talk, really talk. But the moment never came.

Somewhere off-screen, a voice called Y/N’s name. 

Y/N glanced back, then turned to the camera with a rushed smiled. “Oh, shoot. Sorry, I gotta go.” There was a muted rustling, followed by a distant laugh. A girl’s, maybe. Manon wasn’t sure. “You did amazing, though. I’ll call again soon, okay? I love you.”

The screen went black before Manon could say it back, and she was left staring at her own reflection again. 

Her stomach knotted. 

The words she hadn’t said pressed heavy against her ribs.

She’d been lucky this time. That was the truth of it. Luck had kept her safe. But it wouldn’t last forever.

And she hadn’t even had the chance to say it out loud.

—

Mission Three started before Manon had even registered the end of Mission Two. There was no breather, no room to decompress. Just a new assignment and a reminder from the staff that the stakes were only going up from here. “Step up or step out,” someone had said during prep. No one laughed.

The shift was immediate. Everyone moved differently now. Sharper, tighter, less forgiving. Gone were the playful glances between routines, the shared snacks in hallways, the light taps of encouragement. Mission Two had trimmed the roster. Four beds were stripped clean. Another when someone had quit.  It had sunk in for all of them: this wasn’t a training program anymore. This was survival.

And then Manon got sick.

It wasn’t dramatic at first. A scratch in the throat, a heaviness in her limbs. She thought it was just exhaustion, until it wasn’t. Until the fever came. Until her cough kept her up at night and her body gave out halfway through practice on day three. The staff sent her to the medic, clipped her schedule, and told her to rest.

Rest. As if that was an option.

Every hour in bed was another hour her team kept training without her. Another block of choreography she didn’t learn, harmonies she didn’t tighten, formations she couldn’t drill. She pushed herself to practice anyway, late at night, after lights out. Her voice was hoarse. Her muscles ached. Her head spun. She didn’t care.

She couldn’t afford to care.

Because she heard it. Loud now. Not whispers. Not hints. Just voices in the open.

“She’s a producer pick.”

“They’re trying to manufacture an underdog.”

“Girl can’t keep up and she still gets pushed through.”

It wasn’t even behind her back anymore. She’d walk into a room and conversations wouldn’t stop. They just shifted tone. She’d look up and see eyes that used to be neutral, now watching, waiting, judging.

And maybe it would’ve hurt less if she’d had something soft to land on. A hug from her mom. A call from Y/N. Anything.

But when her phone was returned at the end of the week, she unlocked it to nothing.

No missed calls. No texts. Not even a voice memo.

She waited.

She rationalized.

Maybe there was an emergency on set. Maybe the signal was bad. Maybe Y/N had tried, and the call just didn’t go through.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That she didn’t need Y/N to survive this. That she was fine on her own.

But the truth was, she wasn’t.

She needed that call. Just one damn call. She would’ve settled for thirty seconds. A joke. A dumb nickname. Anything.

She tried to text. Just to get something out. Just to say she was tired, that things were getting hard, that she missed home. The message sat unsent on her screen until her phone was taken again.

She didn’t even try the next week, but she waited anyway.

She stared at the ceiling, too sick to train and too wired to sleep, rehearsing what she would say. How she’d joke about her immune system being a traitor. How she’d tease Y/N about missing another call.

But the call never came. And worse, neither did the text. No apology. No nothing.

And that was what broke something open.

Not the delay. Not the missed timing. But the complete silence. Not even a heads-up. Not even a sorry.

If Y/N couldn’t call, she could’ve just said so. Then Manon could’ve used her one weekly call on her parents instead. Could’ve heard her dad’s laugh or her mom’s voice instead of another dial tone.

She stared down at the phone, breath short, chest tight, and all that built-up bitterness rose like a tide.

One call a week. One. And she had wasted it. Again.

Her fingers clenched around the phone so tight it might’ve cracked. She almost threw it. Almost hurled it across the room, into the mirror, into the wall, into anything. Just to feel something. Just to regain some semblance of agency in her life. Withing these sterile walls.

But instead, it slipped. Caught on her sleeve, bounced off her collarbone, and landed face-down on the mattress with a dull thud. Her hand dropped beside it.

Manon didn’t cry. She just went quiet.

—

Mission Three came anyway.

Her team covered for her in rehearsals. Helped her drill formations between water breaks. Fed her cough drops like contraband behind the camera crew’s backs. They tried. But it wasn’t enough.

Manon stepped on stage hollowed out and underprepared.

She hit the moves. Mostly. Her voice didn’t crack, but it wavered. Her eyes were trained on her marks instead of the crowd. Her smile was two seconds behind the music.

She knew it the moment she walked off.

She hadn’t bombed.

But she hadn’t soared either.

And the worst part? It was starting to feel normal.

After the performance, three more girls went home. Three more faces gone from the dorms, just like that. Girls who were better than her. Girls who got things right the first time. Girls who didn’t miss steps or forget formations.

She lay awake that night, ring pressed to her palm, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t think about winning.

She thought about leaving.

Not because she wanted to.

But because maybe everyone else was right.

And when she unlocked her phone, just to check, just to see—

Still nothing.

She didn’t even feel surprised anymore.

She didn’t call that week. Or the next. Didn’t text. Didn’t even try.

Not out of punishment. Just because she didn’t think Y/N would notice if she did.

—

Mission Four was the final stretch. Everyone knew it.

The prep lasted longer than anything before it. They were told it was to give the final ten a fair chance, a polished performance, a showstopping finale. But Manon knew the truth. It was to weed out whoever didn’t have enough left in them.

She wanted to believe she was pushing herself because she loved the work. Because she had something to say. But it wasn’t conviction that drove her anymore.

It was vindication.

She was tired of people questioning how she got here. Tired of being treated like the exception instead of the rule. Tired of wanting one person to see her and never knowing if she did.

Things with Y/N had deteriorated.

That’s what happened when someone missed three calls in a row.

On the third one, Manon had waited. Her phone rested on her pillow as she changed into her clothes. She even curled up by the window with a blanket, watching the dorm lights flicker out one by one.

She texted her parents an update. Just enough to let them know she was alive.

Then she stared at the screen.

Y/N had to remember this one. She had to.

Manon told herself if the phone rang in the next few seconds, she’d let it go. All of it. Every missed call, every silence, every almost-sincere promise.

She waited.

The phone stayed quiet.

And for the first time in months, Manon cried.

Not the tired kind she’d done in the shower after Mission Two. Not the silent, slow-burning tears that came with headaches, missed calls, and cold dorm beds.

This one was ugly. The kind that made her whole body shake, her chest ache, her eyes burn in time with the rhythmic patter of rain against the window. She didn’t try to stop it.

Because she couldn’t even pretend anymore. Couldn’t lie to herself, couldn’t play the part. She just didn’t understand.

Why everyone seemed out to get her. 

Why everything kept slipping through her fingers. 

Why Y/N hadn’t turned cold exactly, but distant. Like the warmth was still there, just aimed somewhere else.

And that hurt worse. Because there was no answer. Only the ache of not knowing. Of being in love with someone who might already be halfway out the door.

—

The next morning, Daniela knocked on her door.

“Get dressed. You’re coming with me,” was all she said.

No producers. No cameras. ust an off-site breather. Manon didn’t ask why. Or how. Daniela didn’t offer to explain.

They drove into the city and ate noodles on a rooftop. Manon didn’t talk much. Daniela didn’t force her to. 

Daniela never asked why her eyes looked puffy. Never ask why she hadn’t touched her broth. She just kept talking about unrelated things. Random things. Things that filled up the silence and made Manon feel the closest to steady she had in weeks.

Until the television in the restaurant corner lit up, and a headline scrolled across the screen. Grainy paparazzi footage, grainier audio. It wasn’t even a full segment. Just filler. Background noise.

But Manon’s attention snapped into focus at the name.

Y/N L/N Spotted Out With Co-Star After Late Night Shoots

And there it was.

A still image of Y/N stepping out of a car with someone else beside her. A girl. Her co-star, the voiceover said.

Y/N was laughing.

Laughing in a way Manon hadn’t seen in months. Head tossed back, eyes lit up, shoulders relaxed. The kind of laughter that doesn’t hide anything. That doesn’t come with a delay or a crack in the voice.

Manon didn’t realize she’d stopped eating until Daniela looked at her.

“Everything okay?”

Manon tried to say yes. Couldn’t.

She didn’t know how to explain that everything suddenly hurt.

Not because Y/N was laughing. Not even because she was with someone else. But because Manon couldn’t remember the last time Y/N had looked at her like that. 

Or when she had looked at Y/N like that either.

—

That night, she stormed back to the dorms and demanded her phone.

The producers pushed back, annoyed. “You know the rules,” they reminded her. “This isn’t a social hour.” She didn’t care.

They told her to wait until the weekend. She didn’t care.

They told her this would go on record. She didn’t care.

“It’s an emergency,” she said. “Now, give me the phone.”

The other girls watched from their corners, whispering. Calling it a tantrum. Entitlement. A girl who couldn’t take the pressure.

Manon let them talk. They would’ve found something to say anyway.

She took the phone and went to the farthest stairwell in the building, where the signal was best and no one could overhear her come undone.

Y/N answered on the third ring.

Her voice was low, sleepy and slightly muffled. Like she’d just been woken up, “Hello. What’s going on?”

Not hey, not Manon, not I’m sorry. Just a what’s going on.

Manon sat on the stairwell floor, cold concrete pressing into her spine. Her phone felt heavier than usual in her hand. Her throat was dry, but her voice came out sharp anyway. “Why are you whispering? Is your other girlfriend asleep next to you?”

A beat of silence.

Then a confused and groggy: “What?”

Manon didn’t flinch. Didn’t dare to back down, “You heard me. Or should I pull up the photos? The headlines? ‘New couple of the season.’ You and your co-star, walking out of some bar in Paris.”

There was a shuffle on the other end of the line. The kind that sounded like someone sitting up too fast. “Manon—what are you even talking about?”

“The photos,” she repeated. “The headlines. The ones I shouldn’t have to find out about from strangers online.” Her breath hitched, but she pushed forward, unable to stop. “And don’t act like I’m crazy. You know what I mean.”

Y/N exhaled. Not guilty. Just tired. “I told you. Didn’t I? The shoot got added last-minute. The pickup happened so fast. There were interviews, panels, press—”

“But Paris?” Manon’s voice cracked at the edge. “Really? You couldn’t have dropped me a text? One sentence? Any insight into your life at all?”

“I didn’t think it would make a difference.”

That hit harder than anything else could have.

“Oh,” Manon said, voice going cold. “So now I’m supposed to keep track of your life through strangers on Twitter? Oh wait! I can’t. I only get my phone for one hour each week.”

“Manon,” Y/N sighed. “Come on.”

“No. Don’t come on me. I waited, Y/N. For three weeks. One call. For three week. That’s all I asked for.”

“I wanted to,” Y/N said quickly. “I was trying to wait for a moment when I could actually talk. I didn’t want to just half-ass it.”

“Well, you didn’t even quarter-ass it. So congratu-fucking-lations, I guess.”

There was a pause. Then: “Can I please explain?”

“Please, go ahead” Manon said flatly. “Tell me how busy you were. How your time is just so much more valuable than mine.”

“I was busy,” Y/N snapped. “But not because I wanted to be. I’ve been getting shredded in PR meetings for missing scheduled appearances. For ducking out every week to call you. Apparently, disappearing every week to call my secret girlfriend in the middle of my mainstream debate doesn’t look very good on a press tour.”

Manon scoffed. “So I’m bad for your image now. That’s what you’re saying.”

“No. I’m saying the press is watching me. Watching us. You think I wanted to be in Paris posing for fake romance headlines? You think I asked for that?”

“I don’t know. You didn’t even tell me about it. So yeah, I think maybe you didn’t care.”

Y/N’s voice dropped. “I was trying to protect something. Maybe badly. But it was with good intentions. I just didn’t think it was worth bringing up and causing trouble.”

The gut punch was something Manon didn’t see coming.

“Oh,” she said. “So I’m trouble now.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“No, it’s fine,” Manon cut in. “I get it. I should’ve smiled and nodded. Let you show up when you wanted and disappear when it got hard.”

“That’s not fair, Manon.”

“You know what else is not fair?” Manon’s voice cracked. “Working myself to death and still feeling like I’m losing you. Convincing myself that if I held on just a little longer, you’d somehow come back.”

Y/N’s tone softened, then hardened again, “I never left.”

“Well you didn’t exactly stay, either.”

“I was staying up until 3 a.m. to make those calls,” Y/N protested. “I was skipping press, lying to my team just to talk to you. I was doing my best!”

“Then maybe your best isn’t enough.”

Silence.

A long, wide silence. Not begging. Not forgiving. Just... cold.

Y/N’s voice came quieter. “Do you really believe that? Do you really think I hadn’t even tried.”

Manon wanted to say no. But she didn’t.

“Do you think any of this is easy for me?” Y/N asked. “That it hasn’t killed me every time I saw you cry on my screen and couldn’t do anything about it? That every time we talked, I didn’t already feel like I was failing you? That every time I picked up, I enjoyed feeling like I was getting yelled at for not being enough.”

Manon’s hands trembled and the ring on her necklace dangled into view. “Then why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I didn’t think I had the right to.”

There it was. The guilt. It hit, but Manon didn’t let it stick.

She went for the ring next.

"Then maybe you shouldn’t have given me this stupid ring," she snapped, tearing it off the necklace. The chain broke and bit into Manon’s skin, but the sting was nothing compared to the ache in her heart. "Or made some stupid promise about always being here. Maybe you should’ve just stayed on your little movie set with your perfect little fake relationship and stopped pretending you knew what it meant to show up."

Y/N’s voice shook. Her words began to loop, as if saying them again might make them true. “That’s not fair!”

Manon didn’t flinch. Her voice just stayed low, bitter. “Nothing about this is fair.”

A pause, then, quietly, almost in defeat, “I’ve always been in your corner, Meret.”

“Then why doesn’t it feel like it?”

There was no silence. Not even a pause. Yet it felt like there should’ve been.

“I don’t know,” Y/N said quietly. Manon knew she meant it, “And I wish I did.”

It was honest, and raw, and exactly the kind of truth Manon had needed just a little earlier. But it wasn’t enough.

“Do you know what it’s like to feel like an afterthought in someone else’s story? Like the person who used to know you just... doesn’t anymore?”

Y/N barely whispered, but it came out loud, “Yeah, I think I do.”

Another pause. One that should’ve given Manon the clarity she needed to know that she should stop. That anything else she said could very well be something she could never take back. 

But Manon said it, anyway. The one line that would stay with her long after the call ended. 

“Try wondering if your person is just waiting for you to fall apart so they have an excuse to stop calling.”

Y/N’s voice trembled. There was a soft breath, a pause too long, like she was trying hard not to cry. But Manon could hear it anyway, in the way the word cracked when it finally came out. “I don’t know what else to say. I feel like I’ve already said everything I could.”

And the worst part? Manon had seen Y/N cry for her before. Plenty of times. In cars, on sidewalks, in airport terminals. In moments of goodbye, or love, or both. But this was the first time it had been because of her.

And for a second, Manon wished she could undo it. Take it all back.

But the damage was already done.

“Then I guess there’s nothing else for us to talk about.”

Y/N bristled from her end, alarmed, “Wait—”

Click.

The call ended before either of them could stop it.

Manon stared at the screen. She thought about calling back. But the producer was already at her side, reaching for the phone.

So, she let it go.

From that point forward, Manon’s heartbreak calcified into something colder. Sharper. Something that wouldn’t fall apart again.

Not when people doubted her. Not when the schedule broke her down to the bone. Not even when the cameras rolled and the pressure hit its peak.

She trained. Rehearsed. Took every correction and folded it into the next run-through. No crying. No complaining. No checking her phone.

When the guilt surfaced, quiet and unwelcome, whispering about the last call, about the way her words had landed, she shoved it down. Told herself she had no room for doubt. Not now. Not when everything was on the line.

And when the final mission came, she gave them everything. Every last ounce of discipline and effort and fight.

She crushed it.

The crowd roared. Her family cried. Her name was called.

She had made it. She was in Katseye.

Everyone around her celebrated like it was the end of something. A finish line, a victory. Daniela threw her arms around her, laughing and shouting that they were going to be famous. Manon hugged her back. Meant it. Thanked her quietly for having her side these past few weeks, when it had really counted.

But the win didn’t feel like it should’ve.

Because when the crowd thinned and the flashes died down, Manon looked out into the blur of faces and searched just for one.

It wasn’t there.

Her mother must’ve seen the way her eyes lingered, scanning past cameras and crew and confetti, because she hesitated before saying it. “She didn’t come. I’m sorry.”

Manon nodded like she’d already known. Like it didn’t matter.

But it did.

That night, long after the lights dimmed and the clamor faded, she stepped onto the rooftop alone.

The city buzzed somewhere below, distant and unreachable.

She turned on her phone. Finally hers again. Completely hers.

There were a few missed calls. A couple from family, one from a number she didn’t recognize.

But not the one she was hoping for. Not even a text.

And the absence hit harder than she’d let herself imagine all those weeks ago.  Because for all the things she’d said, and all the ways she’d tried to convince herself it didn’t matter: 

She had still looked. She had still hoped. And she still loved Y/N more than anything in the world.

She sat down against the ledge and opened her voice recorder. Lifted the phone to her mouth. Just her voice. Just the night.

“Hey. I don’t know if you saw, but I won. I got into Katseye.”

A pause. Her breath caught in the wind.

“Um. So yeah.”

Her voice cracked. “And I’m sorry. For everything. I shouldn’t have taken it all out on you.”

She drew in a shaky breath. The silence around her was louder than anything.

“I just… I just want to talk. I don’t even know what I’d say. But please.”

A whisper now.

“Please call me when you get this.”

She didn’t say the rest. She didn’t have to. The quiet answered for her.

Or leave me if you don’t.

—

obviously, dream academy manon hate was played up for dramatics. not to be conflated with real life. also who let me write something this long? hopefully the length makes up for how long it took me to get this out.

[frankcastler]

oh the end GAGGED ME 😵

- simply incompatible | opposites attract

Pairing. Manon Bannerman x Reader

w.c. 7.0 k

Katseye's new music video director is Hollywood’s golden girl: polished, polite, and absolutely unbearable. Too bad she’s also stupidly attractive, unreasonably talented, and immune to Manon’s charm. It’s fine though, Manon’s not catching feelings. She’s just catching… creative differences.

The floor of the van buzzed faintly beneath her feet, but Manon barely felt it. Her fingers tapped against her knee in time with a rhythm only she could hear. Outside, the city blurred by in streaks of neon: old storefronts, impatient traffic, the occasional fan with a poster held high, waiting for a glimpse of their idols. But Manon wasn’t looking. 

Her mind was on the comeback.

Katseye’s second EP was everything they had fought for. Bigger budget. Sharper choreo. Real momentum. And for once, people were starting to see her, not just as a pretty face or a producer’s plant, but as someone who belonged. Someone who earned their spot.

But a moment in the spotlight didn’t guarantee anything. Not in this industry. And Manon knew better than to let herself get comfortable.

A tap on her shoulder snapped her out of it.

"Hey, where’d you go?" A voice cut through the haze. Manon blinked, pulled abruptly back into the van. She turned to catch Daniela watching her closely, brows knit with concern. "You okay?”

Realizing she’d drifted off mid-conversation, Manon straightened, twisting the rings on her finger, if only to have something to do. “Oh sorry,” she apologized, though the word escaped with a sheepish laugh. She gave a quick shake of her head, clearing away the remnants of her wandering thoughts, hoping that it didn’t show, "I was…nowhere. What were you saying?"

Daniela didn’t press, just rolled her eyes in that way that meant she absolutely knew something was wrong but was choosing to let it slide, anyway, “Our new music video director. Y/N L/N? Have you heard of her?”

Manon paused. 

Daniela gave her a small, knowing smile. And why wouldn’t she. 

It was the Y/N L/N. 

Hollywood’s buzzword of the year. Rising indie darling turned box office favorite turned walking press cycle. Though calling her “rising” felt almost disingenuous when in just two years, she had built the kind of career most spent a decade chasing.

Manon’s stomach turned inexplicably. She hesitated for a fraction of a second too long, the delay barely noticeable even to herself, before shifting in place.

Yeah,” Sophia said from the row ahead, twisting around with one arm slung over the seat. She carried with her that natural sort of disappointment that told Manon she probably zoned out on an important debrief, “You missed, like, half the conversation.”

Lara snickered from across the aisle but dropped her gaze at Sophia’s pointed glance, no doubt having not paid attention either, suddenly very interested in the seam of her sleeve.

“Oops. My bad,” Manon offered, though the grin tugging at her mouth said otherwise. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting her head tilt lazily against the seat. “But Y/N’s an actress. What do you mean by the director of our music video?”

Daniela shot her a look that said we explained that too, but let Sophia answer anyway. 

“Rumor is she’s branching out,” Sophia explained, with the kind of shrug that tried to pretend it wasn’t a big deal. “New chapter. Wants to prove she has range.”

Manon’s brow creased. “New chapter? Didn’t she just start acting.”

Another shrug. “Probably testing the waters before she gets stuck doing romcoms with Hollywood’s white men of the month.”

Manon let out a sigh, long and far too weary for the situation. “And we get the honor of being her test run. Great.”

The words came out sharper than she meant. The thought of being someone’s pet project — for sale, replaceable — turned her stomach.

If Sophia noticed, she didn’t say. “Basically. I think our team just wanted her name attached.”

"Can’t blame them, though." Megan chimed in, snapping her gum as she stretched her legs into the aisle, “With all the press around Y/N lately, this could be great exposure for us.”

Manon made a face. “Heard she was a bitch. Didn’t she almost get canceled last year for being difficult on set?”

Daniela nudged her sharply with an elbow. “Language. Yoonchae’s right there.”

Beside her, Yoonchae raised her hand. “I heard she was nice?”

“Yoonchae,” Sophia sighed, “you know you don’t have to raise your hand to speak, right?” 

Yoonchae gave a sheepish smile.

“I don’t think Manon is entirely wrong though,” Megan said, glancing up from her phone. “I heard Y/N’s not a total nightmare, but... intense? Crew members say she only talks when she has to. Very professional. Which the media now translates to entitled.”

Daniela rolled her eyes. “God forbid a woman takes her job seriously.”

“God forbid she talks to her crew like humans,” Manon muttered back. 

Sophia arched a brow, unimpressed, “You don’t even know this woman.”

“That’s why I’m only muttering,” Manon replied, “I’m reserving the right to be wrong.”

Sophia opened her mouth like she wanted to challenge that logic, but stopped herself, “Well, Y/N L/N is good at her job,” she said instead. “Yoonchae and I watched her newest movie last month. We both cried in the first twenty minutes.”

“I did not cry,” Yoonchae protested. 

"I saw tears." 

“I had allergies.”

“In December?”

“Well, she can be whatever the hell she wants,” Lara cut in, suddenly very interested. “Because she is so damn fine.” She tilted her screen toward the rest of the group. 

Manon leaned in to look at the Instagram page. “You… pulled that up way too fast.” It wasn’t an accusation, exactly, but it might as well have been. 

Lara grinned, unapologetic. “What? I like looking at pretty people.”

“And you followed her already?” Manon squinted at the screen, spotting the telltale icon. 

The other girl’s smile widened, "I like to move fast.”

Sophia’s brows furrowed, a new thought forming in real time. "Wait—did the team even clear that follow? It hasn’t been announced yet that Y/N’s working with us. The Eyekons might start putting pieces together."

Lara only waved her off, slipping her phone back into her bag like it wasn’t a ticking PR nightmare. “Please. Knowing them, they’ll just assume I’m flirting.”

She paused. "Which I am."

The van dissolved into laughter, but Manon couldn’t stop her smile from fading just a little as she looked out the window:

The studio building loomed ahead.

Same place. Same group. But somehow, everything looked sharper. The lights glared a little brighter. The sets loomed a little taller. And from the way all the other girls fell quiet as they stepped out, Manon could tell she wasn’t the only one feeling it now. 

—

Inside, a staff member was already waiting. The group barely had time to compose themselves before they were ushered through a maze of cordoned hallways, the kind that felt deliberately out of sight, until they reached a tucked-away meeting room just off the main wing. 

It wasn’t anything glamorous: just a folding table, half a dozen mismatched chairs, and someone’s leftover iced coffee sweating on the windowsill. Someone from Y/N’s team greeted them almost immediately. He was tall, overdressed, and already mid-apology before the door fully closed behind them.

“So sorry for the delay.” The words tumbled out in a flurry, so rushed they were nearly unintelligible. “Miss L/N is finishing up a press event downtown, there were some issues with security, but she’s on her way now. Traffic is a nightmare, though, so we thank you all for your understanding. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to make all of you more comfortable. Anything—seriously.”

He offered a smile, but it barely held. It wavered at the edges, more a grimace than reassurance. 

Manon exchanged a quiet glance with Lara, half amusement, half concern. Someone stifled a laugh, probably Megan, but no one uttered another word. They didn’t have to. The man looked like he might unravel if they did.

Sophia stepped forward, “It’s fine. Don’t worry, we understand.” 

Manon was feeling less generous.

“Off to a strong start for our new director,” she murmured, just loud enough for Daniela to hear.

The other girl bumped her shoulder, “Be nice. We still haven’t met her, yet.”

Manon nodded, “You’re right, it could get worse.”

That earned her a smile as the two shared a knowing look, a grin flickering between them. Behind them, Megan began helping herself to whatever snacks had been left out, while Lara scrolled her phone with the kind of practiced disinterest that took actual effort.

Manon let her gaze drift back to the man in the suit, still nervously checking the time, still smoothing down his sleeves like they might wrinkle spontaneously. The stack of folders in his arms shifted as he fiddled with the peeling corner of a nametag, then glanced at his phone. Then the door. Then his phone again.

She couldn't help but wonder what kind of woman it took to make someone that tightly wound. He wasn’t even the one who was late, and yet here he was, sweating and apologizing on Y/N’s behalf like his entire job depended on it.

And maybe it did.

When it came to Y/N L/N, the press could never seem to quite agree. Brilliant, sure. Talented, obviously. But there were other words too depending on the day and the headline. Cold. Difficult. Impossible to read. The kind of reputation that might’ve been sexist if it didn’t come with just enough anonymous quotes to back it up.

Manon might not have known her, not really. But if Y/N was the kind of person who had her staff this jumpy before even walking into a room?

Well. Maybe the rumors weren’t completely off.

As if on cue, the door opened and a still breeze of press-ready perfection swept in.

Y/N L/N entered like she didn’t notice the room at all. Press-fit blazer, hair sleek, a small gold pin clipped to her collar. Deliberate, expensive, and wholly unnecessary. She looked every bit the headline: elegance first, humanity second. Her apology was leaving her lips before she’d even fully stepped inside.

“Hi, I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting,” she said, stepping in with a crisp bow. “There was a delay downtown, and then the security here, and—anyway, thank you for your time.”

Her voice was smooth, measured in the way people learn after one too many scandals. She looked at each of them as she spoke, eyes moving down the line of Katseye like she was trying to make up for lost time. And it worked, sort of. The apology sounded genuine enough. But her smile didn’t stick. It felt rehearsed. Staged. Like a scene she was re-enacting, not a reflection of her intentions.

Manon twisted the ring on her finger, hard. 

Or maybe not. Maybe Manon was being entirely too critical of someone she didn’t even know. People had said worse about her too, once. Perhaps, Y/N deserved more grace. 

Lara leaned in, “Wow. She’s even prettier in real life.”

That shook Manon out of it, “Of course that’s all you’d have to say.” She sighed. 

The other girl grinned, “What? She is, though.”

And for a second, Manon didn’t argue, just snuck a glance at Y/N. “Doesn't it matter to you that she's insultingly late to our first meeting?”

Lara shrugged. “Hot people get away with more.”

Manon didn’t have a response for that. 

Y/N continued with her introduction, now moving down the line. “It’s really nice to meet you all,” she said, pausing in front of each girl. Making sure to shake their hands. “Sophia, right? Yoonchae? And Megan? Lara—love your recent shoot, by the way. Daniela?”

She paused slightly before each name, like she’d memorized them just that morning. Manon tried not to read too much into it, just patiently adjusted the smile on her face into something more agreeable. 

And then—

Nothing.

Y/N moved right past Manon without so much as a glance.

And for a moment, she just blinked, watching Y/N cross to the table where her agent was already pulling out papers and talking logistics. She thought to herself that maybe it had been a mistake. Maybe Y/N had just missed her. Maybe—

Manon folded her arms, mouth pulling tight at the corners. She knew better than to believe in coincidences like that.

No. That felt strangely deliberate.

Forget the benefit of the doubt. It seem her and Y/N wouldn't get along after all. 

—

Back at the house, the group’s usual post-schedule haze had set in: shoes kicked off, water bottles scattered across the floor, someone’s laptop playing muted K-dramas in the background. It was familiar and easy, the kind of comfort you only earn after months of shared dressing rooms and overnight rehearsals.

Manon was stretched across the couch, a bowl of cereal balanced on her stomach, half-watching the screen and half-scrolling her phone when Sophia wandered in.

“So,” Sophia said, dropping into the armchair across from her. “That went well.”

Manon snorted. “Sure. If you ignore the part where Y/N pretended not to know our names. Oh! Or when she completely skipped mine.”

From the kitchen, Daniela looked up, “Maybe she was just nervous.”

“Well she’s supposedly a movie star,” Manon replied, “Shouldn’t she be better at pretending?”

Yoonchae piped up from where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, fingers busy with a half-finished bracelet looped over her knee. Lara sat behind her with a slightly less impressive bracelet, “She seemed nice.”

“She seemed polite,” Manon corrected, tapping her spoon against the edge of the bowl. “There’s a difference.”

“Okay,” Megan called from the hallway, half muffled by distance “How do you already have a grudge? We’ve known her for, like, half an hour.”

Manon sat up, a little too fast, the bowl in her lap wobbled dangerously “I don’t have a grudge.”

Daniela laughed, bumping the cabinet door shut with her hip. “You absolutely do have a grudge.”

“I just…” Manon hesitated, brow furrowing like the memory physically pained her. She looked toward the blank TV screen, then away again. She couldn’t explain it herself, not really. But that wouldn’t stop her from trying. “She rubs me the wrong way.” 

Lara raised an eyebrow, clearly fighting the urge to make a joke, then dropped her gaze back to her thread.

Sophia let out a dry cough, “Because she forgot one name? Or because she’s serious about her job?”

“Because she’s acting like she’s too good for this one.”

That landed harder than intended. 

Megan reappeared in the doorway, as if summoned, “That’s not what I saw. Honestly, she looked like she was just doing her best.”

A short silence settled over the room. Not heavy, exactly. Just... full.

Manon glanced around, meeting the eyes of each of her friends, and realized this was a battle she wouldn’t win. Not when anything else she said would only make her sound petty. She sighed and finished the rest of her cereal with one exaggerated crunch. "Whatever. She’s our director, so I guess I’ll play nice."

Sophia gave her a long, suspicious look. 

“As long as she does too,” She almost forgot to add. 

Sophia only exhaled, like she’d been expecting it all along, “It might just be you in this grudge.”

Manon stirred the last bits of cereal in her bowl and decided she couldn’t hear anything over the clink of her spoon.

—

It was barely past ten when they were called back to the studio for a production meeting.

Though “meeting” was generous. It was more of a creative session. Loosely defined. Costumes were still in flux, set design barely approved, but someone in production had clearly decided it was time to get everyone in the same room, pass around some coffee, and start pretending things were under control.

Manon wasn’t expecting anything special. Maybe another round of awkward greetings, a schedule rundown, a stiff apology from Y/N if she even bothered to show.

She definitely hadn’t expected Y/N to be there before them. Already deep in conversation with a lighting director, speaking in hushed, focused tones.

She wasn’t in her press-fit blazer, anymore. No perfect collar, no polished sheen of Hollywood. Just a fitted black sweater, slouchy at the wrists, and her hair pulled back, two strands falling artfully loose around her face. Too casual to be accidental. She stood beside the folding table where the production boards were laid out, flipping through notes with one hand and sipping something iced with the other. No entourage. No makeup team. Just her.

And yet, somehow, she looked even more curated. Like she had checked this outfit twice before leaving the house, then once more at the door. She’d traded her red carpet armor for something softer, but it only made her seem sharper. More untouchable.

It was impressive, if not weirdly unsettling.

"Y/N!" Megan called out, waving as the group shuffled in.

Y/N startled, just a half-second delay, a flicker of recognition before she smiled. Polite. Practiced. The kind of smile you give to strangers when you’re trying to be liked. Or not disliked.

But it almost felt like something she was slipping into. Like she'd reached for warmth without remembering where she kept it.

Manon watched it all, her mouth tugged down at one corner.

—

The MV concept, for what it was worth, wasn’t bad.

Actually, it was good. Surprisingly good. Clean. Well-structured. Symbolic without being heavy-handed. Y/N walked them through it in broad strokes, clear and confident. She wasn’t performative. She didn’t overcompensate. She just knew what she wanted and expected them to follow.

She sounded like a director.

Which annoyed Manon more than it should have.

Every time she’d catch Y/N narrowing her eyes in thought or scribbling something in that too-neat handwriting of hers, she had to fight the urge to roll her eyes. But then she’d catch herself and wonder what the hell even was getting to her.

—

They started filming on a Thursday. The sun rose indifferently. 

The group had only shown up a few minutes late, delayed by LA traffic, but everything was already ablaze when they arrived. Someone had forgotten to update the call sheet. The costumes department hit a snag. And almost everything that could go wrong, did.

Yet somehow, through it all, Y/N remained collected. 

She moved through the chaos with an almost eerie calm, giving quiet direction, adjusting shot lists, barely reacting when the grip team blew a fuse or an intern spilled coffee on a prop couch. It was as if she'd already accounted for every possible mistake. As if she'd expected the mess and chose not to be bothered by it.

Manon tried not to be impressed, but it was hard not to notice, anyways.

Lara, of course, chose the break between takes to strike. 

“So… are you seeing anyone?” she asked, all charm and shine, leaning casually against the lighting rig as Y/N reviewed footage. Her voice was just loud enough that it didn’t sound like a real question.

Y/N glanced up from her monitor. “Not at the moment, no.”

“Looking, perhaps?”

A pause. A blink. A small, unreadable tug at Y/N mouth that might’ve been a smile, or nothing at all.

“No. Can’t say I am.”

Lara tilted her head, thoughtful. “That’s a shame.”

Y/N shrugged.  And then…silence.

Someone coughed. Sophia groaned. Manon bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

It wasn’t that Lara had been shot down. Not exactly. It was just how completely untouched Y/N was by it all. Like the words hadn’t landed. Like the question hadn’t reached her. Like she was above it all, or worse, somewhere else entirely.

Not arrogance. But close. 

She was too serious. The kind of serious that didn’t quite belong on someone her age. 

And a part of Manon, quiet and curious, wondered what it’d be like to break that composure. Just a little. To see what was underneath.

Not to be cruel. Just to see if she could.

—

It started without thinking.

They were lining up for another take. The usual mess of cables, shouts, countdowns. Someone adjusted her mic. Someone else yelled about battery levels. Y/N’s voice crackled in through the headset, clipped and neutral:

“Let’s run that again, from the top.”

Manon, already half-bored, leaned toward Megan, her voice pitched just enough to carry. “How do you think she’ll react if we just said no?”

Megan snorted, barely looking up from her dress, “Try it.” She dared.

That was all the permission Manon needed.

“Okay,” she called out, louder this time. Casual. Like she might’ve been asking for another water bottle. “No.”

Megan’s head whipped up. “Wait—I was joking—”

Too late. 

Y/N looked up from her seat.

No?” she echoed, the word soft but level. She didn’t frown. Didn’t stiffen. Just stilled.

“Yeah.” Manon tilted her head, folding her arms loosely. “No.”

There was a pause, not long, just enough for Manon to recognize she wasn’t being ignored. Then, a nod. Smooth. Effortless. Detached.

“Okay. Reset,” Y/N told the rest of the crew.

And that was it. No follow-up. No correction. Just the clean, quiet pivot of someone refusing to take the bait.

Manon blinked.

“Well,” she muttered under her breath, “I guess that’s one way to react.” Megan let out an audible sigh of relief beside her.

Sophia was already half-apologizing from across the room, but Y/N barely glanced over, just waved her hand like she was brushing something off her sleeve, and turned back to the monitor.

Manon scoffed. Not loud. Just to herself. The whole thing felt like a bust. 

She wasn’t even sure why Y/N still bugged her. Maybe it was because the woman was always so unshakable, like nothing ever got under her skin. Or maybe it was the indifference: the way Y/N hadn’t even looked at her directly, hadn’t offered the dignity of irritation. Or maybe Manon just hated the thought of losing a game she hadn’t meant to play.

Whatever it was, it stuck. 

So on the next take, she paused a beat too long before hitting her mark. Then flubbed a line she knew by heart. She pretended not to hear a direction. Missed a cue. Shrugged when Sophia gave her a look.

Subtle things. Nothing that would cause a delay. Just enough to see if she’d get a rise.

And still. Nothing.

No scolding. No direct eye contact. Just the faintest crease between Y/N’s brows. A momentary glance toward her agent or Sophia like she was checking if there was a rule against talking back.

Never a confrontation, though. Never a single word actually directed at Manon. And somehow, that felt worse.

She still didn’t know what exactly she was trying to get from Y/N, but she knew she wasn’t going to stop looking.

—

The next few weeks passed in the kind of steady state of chaos Manon had come to expect. Long hours. Back-to-back rehearsals. Constant revisions. The usual choreography of comeback season. And yet, somehow, everything felt just slightly off-tempo.

It wasn’t anything obvious. Nothing she could point to outright. Y/N was still the model of professionalism. She gave clear direction, adjusted when necessary, took notes well. But something about her didn’t sit right with Manon. Or maybe, Manon admitted privately, it sat too right. Like something she couldn’t shake off.

Y/N had been late again that morning. Just by a few minutes, but it was enough to give Manon something to feel righteous about. She’d been adjusting a mic when she spotted the director walking in, coffee in one hand, script tucked under the other. No sweater this time. Just a hoodie and joggers. Still somehow put together. Still frustratingly unbothered.

Manon didn’t plan it. The words came before the thought.

“What kept you this time? Another press conference?”

Y/N barely blinked, “Something like that.”

Manon let out a low whistle, eyes tracking her movement across the room. “Must be hard being Hollywood’s princess.”

A low blow, she knew. Too casual to sound like one. But deliberate all the same.

Y/N paused mid-step.

And Manon nearly looked away then, already braced for the usual brush-off. Some practiced, polished non-response.

If it had been anyone else, she might’ve earned a raised brow, maybe even a snide comment. But Y/N wasn’t anyone else. With her, indifference had a rhythm.

A nod, if Manon was lucky. A glance that slid right past her, if she wasn’t. Always calm, always polite. That same infuriating poise that had been quietly unraveling Manon for weeks.

Like none of it ever mattered. Like Manon didn’t either. 

But this time— something shifted. The smallest twitch at the corner of Y/N’s mouth, quick enough to miss if Manon hadn’t already been watching. So quick it might’ve been nothing. Maybe should’ve been nothing. But Manon saw it, regardless. 

“Oh, is that what they call me now?” 

And it knocked Manon off balance.

She froze. No comeback, no grin. Just a second of raw stillness. Because for one heartbeat, Manon felt it. Something slipping. Something opening.

She straightened, pulse suddenly picking up. “Well… among other things.”

Y/N turned toward her, fully now. Still not quite smiling, but not walking away either. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

It wasn’t sharp. Wasn’t even sarcastic. Just.. curious. Like she might actually want to know. And for one dizzying second, Manon thought: this. This is what she’d been trying to get to.

But the moment came too fast, and she missed it by half a breath. 

“Nothing,” she said, too quickly. Too careless. “I’ll let the internet tell you instead.”

She hated it the second it left her mouth. All that buildup, the weeks spent poking and prodding, only to flinch at the finish line.

Y/N hummed in response. Low. Maybe amused, maybe disappointed. It was hard to tell. 

Yet still, Manon couldn’t bring herself to be too upset. 

Because, yes, Y/N still walked away untouched. Yes, Manon had missed her shot. But it was the closest she’d come to being let in. 

That was enough to keep her thinking about it long after Y/N was gone.

—

It happened again a few days later. They were in the middle of a long shoot, the kind that drags so much you forget what time it was. Y/N was by the monitors, doing what she always did: adjusting lighting, calling for another take, then another. Calm. Focused. Impossible to ignore.

Manon had told herself she was just watching. Out of boredom, mostly. Curiosity, maybe. But certainly not interest. 

Definitely not that.

Still, her feet carried her forward before she’d made a conscious decision.

“So,” she started, stopping just short of Y/N’s chair. She caught the flicker of Daniela’s raised brow, Megan’s slight glance. She ignored both. “What do you do for fun?”

Y/N didn’t look up. Barely even seemed to react, “Fun?”

“Yeah. Fun. Know what that is?”

There was a pause. Then a sigh. Not annoyed, not tired, just mechanical, like she was giving Manon a moment of her time out of principle rather than interest. Y/N turned her head just slightly, enough to meet Manon’s eyes.

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

Manon smiled innocently. Or tried to. Because suddenly, she couldn’t help but notice how steady that eye contact was. Couldn’t help the way her traitorous pulse kicked in for no good reason. Couldn’t stop staring at Y/N’s mouth instead of brushing off her words.

“So… no,” she managed, somehow.

A breath of something, amusement, maybe, passed through Y/N. Barely there, but it landed like more.

“Go to your mark, Manon.”

And she nearly smiled again. Just from the way Y/N said her name: quiet, certain, like she knew it well. But Manon fought the smile, held her ground for a beat longer, then tilted her head. “Fine. But only because you asked so nicely.”

Y/N’s brows lifted, then lowered, then lifted again. “I didn’t.”

Manon didn’t bother with a response. Just winked and walked away, for once, the one to exit first. 

But her smile lingered longer than it needed to. Her victory felt a little lighter than it was supposed to. She didn’t look back. But she wanted to.

And that made everything feel less like a win and more like a retreat. 

—

Later, when the group was sprawled across the break room couch in varying stages of exhaustion, Megan spoke up.

“Okay, but seriously,” she began, voice muffled as she pulled a pillow over her face. “What is going on with you two?”

Manon, half-asleep, cracked one eye open. “With who?” 

“You and our lovely director,” Megan said, like it was obvious. And maybe it was. “Flirting or feuding? Because it’s getting hard to tell.”

Daniela chuckled, earning her a light kick from Manon. “I think Manon might have gotten a laugh out of her, today.” She grinned, a no-good traitor to the cause.

“No way!” Lara gasped. “Not possible. I couldn't even get a laugh.”

Manon pretended not to be offended. 

“It wasn’t a laugh,” she muttered. “It was a... huff.”

“She huffed at you?” Lara repeated, and yeah, it sounded more ridiculous when she said it like that.

“Forget it.”

Sophia looked up from her phone, perhaps feeling generous, perhaps simply amused, “Honestly, Manon has a better chance than the rest of us. And all she does is antagonize the poor woman.”

“Maybe she’s into that,” Megan offered. Like it might be helpful. It wasn’t. 

Manon frowned, “Yeah, maybe if she’s a masochist.”

That got a ripple of laughter, and she leaned into the noise, letting it carry the moment somewhere else. Because she wasn’t thinking about the teasing, anymore. Or the huff. Or even the raised eyebrow. 

She was thinking about the silence that had followed. The way Y/N had looked at her: steadily, like she was waiting for something else. Like she almost expected Manon to say more.

For reasons Manon couldn’t explain, that was beginning to feel like a real problem.

—

The next day felt unusually quiet. Not in a bad way, just… off-kilter.

They were running pick-ups for a dream sequence: slow tracking shots, soft lighting, the kind of heavily aesthetic scenes that required more posing than dancing. Which meant the wardrobe had full reign, and apparently, they’d decided to let the girls have more input.

Manon arrived a few minutes early to hair and makeup, half-asleep and balancing an iced americano in the crook of her arm, only to pause at the rack of outfit options.

"Are these... new?"

“Director’s request,” the stylist chirped, almost excited. “She thought it’d be nice to give each of you something a little more personal for this part. More freedom of expression.”

Manon raised a brow. “Y/N said that?”

The stylist nodded. “Verbatim.”

That alone gave her pause. She hadn’t even known Y/N believed in expression, let alone endorsed it. But she wasn't going to be the one to reject a miracle in this lifetime.  

She flipped through the hangers, fingers catching on something she didn’t recognize from her original pull. A little unexpected. Structured but dramatic. It wasn’t her usual silhouette, but it looked almost too good to not at least try on. 

She slipped on the dress. Checked the mirror.

She looked��� like someone else. Not bad. Just different. Almost like the kind of girl no one would dare overlook.

It wasn't her, exactly. But it felt close enough.

She tilted her head. Adjusted the neckline.

By the time everyone was on set, the rest of the girls were fussing over their own picks: Sophia had gone for sequins, obviously, and Lara had layered something neon over something sheer just to piss off wardrobe, but the moment Manon stepped into the light, the conversations seemed to dip for a second.

“Damn, Manon,” Daniela said as she stepped into better light. “Where’d they even hide that dress?”

Manon shrugged, feigning innocence. “Stole it off your rack. Figured it was time you shared.”

Daniela scoffed, though it was playful, “I think I’d remember a dress like that.”

“I think I finally know what it's like to be the stylists’ favorite.” Daniela laughed at that.

“Okay, hold still,” one of the stylists chimed in, stepping forward to adjust a strap on Manon’s shoulder. “You’re pulling focus — in a good way. But not if you don't let me fix this.”

Manon raised a brow but didn’t argue. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Daniela mouthed a quick goodbye as she gestured toward the makeup team. Manon gave her an understanding nod.

“Actually,” the stylist added, now eyeing the fabric more closely, “Can I grab your rings? The fabric is delicate, and I don’t want anything to get caught during the take.”

Manon blinked, then glanced down at her hands like she’d forgotten she was still wearing the rings at all.

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

She slid them off easily, one by one, and dropped them into the stylist’s waiting hand. A soft clink of metal echoed as they landed: silver on silver, just barely audible.

Footsteps approached, measured and purposeful. Manon turned just in time to see Y/N step away from the monitor, probably reacting more to the delay than anything else. Her gaze flicked toward the commotion, searching for the holdup, then caught on Manon.

Not dramatically. Not like she’d been struck. But not entirely indifferent, either. Just a glance held long. 

“Is that…” she started, the words trailing off. 

“I made a few changes,” Manon replied, casual. Though her chin tilted, half-daring, half-defensive. Like she might have to argue if Y/N requested her to change. 

Y/N’s eyes tracked down the dress again, slow. Then back up. “Yes. I can see that.”

A beat.

“…Why? Is that going to be a problem?”

Another pause. Still short. But now thick with something else.

“No. It’s fine.”

She hesitated. Almost unsure. Then added, a little quicker, a little quieter, “You look good.” The closest thing to softness she’d shown so far.

And that? That threw Manon far more than anything else ever could have.

“Oh,” she said, voice suddenly quiet too, “Okay.”

Y/N looked away, something almost like shame dusting across her cheeks. It seemed so out of place, Manon couldn’t tell if she’d imagined it. 

The director cleared her throat. “Everyone, let’s get to our marks. We have a long day ahead.” Her voice was steady again. Back in place. Like nothing had happened at all.

But Manon couldn’t find it in her to move right away.

She just stood there, for half a second longer than she should have, watching Y/N refocus on the monitor: jaw tight, eyes too fixed. And for the first time, she caught a glimpse of something she hadn’t noticed before. 

Because it no longer looked like Y/N was in control. It looked more like she was just trying to hold it all together.

And Manon? She wasn’t so sure how she felt about it all, anymore. 

— 

The final day of filming dragged like an open wound.

Not that it was anyone’s fault, exactly. The scenes they were wrapping weren’t particularly hard. No stunt-heavy choreo, no tricky camera rigs. Just slow, wide-angled shots to stitch the narrative together. Easy in theory. Tedious in practice. And made worse by the fact that Manon could barely walk.

She hadn’t told anyone about the sprain.

It wasn’t a break, or even that serious. Just a rolled ankle during rehearsal earlier that week. But the swelling hadn’t gone down, and the dull throb was quickly becoming sharp. Every time she stepped onto the soundstage, it screamed at her. Every take made it worse.

But the clock was ticking. They were already behind schedule, and Y/N had another project lined up in a matter of days. If Manon couldn’t finish her scenes, they’d have to scrap the footage entirely; reshoots weren’t an option. And that, that wasn’t happening.

Not when she’s worked this hard. Slogged through too many months of barely being enough. Letting it go to waste now felt worse than pain. Worse than limping through the takes, worse than the shame she tried not to let herself feel when she messed up the same step for the third time in a row.

So she pushed. She gritted her teeth and pushed. All day. 

The others were exhausted, as was she. Y/N had been watching from behind the camera, notes in hand, asking for redos, alternate takes, wider coverage. Perfectionist stuff. Nothing new.

But it was during the second to last setup that everything crumbled: she missed her cue.

Not by much, just a beat. But enough. Enough that Megan, then Daniela, then the crew to all noticed. Enough that Manon’s foot dragged in a way that wasn’t just tired, but compromised. Enough that someone else had to step in.

And then, it was over.

Just like that.

“Manon,” someone from her team called after she’d limped her way into her dressing room. “You can stop getting ready. We’re done for the day.”

She blinked, not understanding, “What? But we didn’t get the shot.”

“Y/N called wrap.”

Silence.

“What do you mean, she called wrap? We were behind.”

The staff member shrugged, clearly not having been told details, “She just said she wanted to rewrite the scene. Or try something new. I don’t know, she said she had a different vision.”

Manon stared at the vanity mirror, her fingers paused on the edge of the cold counter. An uncomfortable veil casted over the silence. An even more uncomfortable truth hid beneath. As if feeling it, the staff member awkwardly asked to be excused from the room.

Manon nodded a goodbye.

She thought to herself that she should’ve been relieved. She should’ve welcomed the reprieve, taken the rewrite, let it go. Should’ve, if she were in a more generous mood, seen it as kindness. Mercy, even.

Y/N was sure to catch heat from the higher ups, maybe spark a few more headlines from the press if the "rewrites" interfered with her next project, but she also had the kind of career that could survive the damage. Manon didn’t.

Because if Y/N was tired — of pretending, of biting her tongue, of holding together whatever fragile illusion they’d been balancing between them this past month — then this would’ve been the perfect out. 

But Manon had never been good at accepting charity, and she was worse at letting people make decisions for her.

Especially not Y/N L/N. Especially not her.

The storm came before Manon knew she was moving.

Her feet carried her across the lot, fast enough to regret, hard enough to feel, anger pulsing like blood in her ears. She ignored her ankle. Ignored the throbbing in her calf. Ignored the pounding in her chest.

When she shoved open the door to the director’s room, it slammed into the wall with a crash that rattled the frame.

Y/N flinched like she’d been struck. Her eyes snapped up. And for a second, neither of them moved.

“How dare you.” Manon said, and it came out low. Almost a growl.

Y/N froze, fingers resting on the folder like she couldn’t remember what she’d been doing with it. She looked tired. Hollow around the eyes. And maybe she was. Maybe they both were: had both been for a while now. 

But Manon didn’t care.

She stepped further in, each foot-fall feeling heavier than the last. Her whole body buzzed. Each word tore out from someplace deeper than breath.

“How dare you?” she said again, louder this time, like the first hadn’t landed hard enough. Like she needed to feel the echo of it in her own chest.

She didn’t wait for an answer.

“How fucking dare you.”

Y/N’s expression twisted, confusion, then guilt, then something else entirely, “Manon—”

“No,” Her voice cracked like lightning. There was a weight in her chest, one she’d been carrying for too long and it finally surged to the surface from where it had been dragging her down all this time. All while she had pretended she wasn’t struggling to stay afloat. "When will you understand? You don’t get to make that call. You don’t get to decide for me and hide behind concern.”

Y/N’s voice faltered. Her hands twitched, fingers curling slightly around the folder like she wasn’t sure whether to close it or throw it, no longer the calm, collected director she was just seconds ago, “I just thought—”

“Well, I didn’t ask.”

The words dropped like stones. But they didn’t settle. They pressed in, thick and real. Threatening to tear through the fabric of lies and indifference between them.

“Meret, please.”

The name hit like a slap and landed like a blow. It cracked something inside Manon, sharp and immediate, and spilled out pieces she thought she had long buried away.

Manon flinched. Hard.

Y/N’s own voice broke on the name, like she didn’t mean to say it. Like it slipped out from a time before they’d both grown claws. Her face went pale, and her mouth opened, as if to take it back. As if she knew she had torn something open that could never be closed again.

“Wait, I’m sorry—”

“No.” Manon's voice was barely a whisper, but it still cut like steel. “Don’t you call me that.”

She was shaking. But she didn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel anything past the roar in her chest, the way her name still echoed in the air like a wound held open.

“You don’t get to say my name like that,” she breathed. “It no longer belongs to you. Especially not that one.”

Y/N looked sick. Physically sick. And Manon almost laughed at the irony. She’d spent weeks trying to break Y/N down. Trying to get something, anything, from her. And in the end, it was Y/N’s own damn words that shattered everything.

“I could’ve done it. I would’ve done it. I didn’t need you saving me. Not now. Not ever.”

The room felt too small. Her pain suddenly too big. It spilled into every corner, thick and suffocating, like smoke in her lungs. It filled the space like a flood, swallowing reason, drowning whatever voice might have told her to stop.

“You’ve done well enough forgetting me this long,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “Don’t start pretending to care now."

—

[Next]

[frankcastler]

M A S T E R P I E C E

「 Clash of Pride 」

r. lara x butch ! f reader ✎𓂃 the attention is normal for both of you. known as serial womanizers, you two playgirls seem to take an interest in each other. the problem is, both of you deem yourselves as tops, but that's definitely not going to last long.

word count ! 12.4 k

tags ! top! reader, switch! lara, strap (L! receiving), ehem butch reader, ehem major femme lara, gay all around, tiny bit of degradation and overstimulation

There was a feeling of a cool breeze brushing against your skin, the sound of sputtering coming from the exhaust pipe of your motorcycle as you drove along the coast. You could feel the sunset hitting your face, casting a beautiful orange hue across the lane you were riding on.

The hum of the engine rumbled beneath you, your grip tightening on the handlebars as you took an exit off the highway.

As much as you wanted to ride longer, you had a feeling Sophia would yap your ear off if you didn’t make it to the dorm on time. Not wanting to worry her, you pulled up into the driveway and parked in the garage.

You turned off the ignition, locked the bike, hopped off, and waltzed through the white-painted door.

“What’s up, fuckers?” you yelled, spotting Yoonchae on the couch watching Squid Game part 3, giving you the nastiest side-eye of all time.

You let out a scoff, moving behind her just to whisper in her ear, “You know you love me, Yoonchip.”

You cackled as she swatted the air near her ear, looking at you in disgust. Just then, Manon walked in from the kitchen holding a bowl of noodles.

“Stop bullying my child, Y/n,” she said, plopping down on the soft couch and blowing on the steaming noodles twirled around her fork.

“Uhm, not your child—my child,” Sophia chimed in, coming down the stairs in a cute jean skirt and a cropped top that was very much see-through, a black strip across her chest keeping it PG.

“In better terms, our child,” you concluded, pointing between yourself and the other two oldest.

Yoonchae had asked the three of you for directions on her first day, and ever since, the four of you had become a package deal. Sophia would always make sure to find Yoonchae in the morning, then meet up with you and Manon at whatever random spot you’d all agreed on before classes.

“Gay ass,” Manon muttered, slurping up her noodles. Sophia leaned on the back of the couch, giggling as she looked between the two of you.

“Me?” you asked, mock offended, spreading your fingers across your chest and pointing at Manon.

“Says you,” Sophia laughed, almost spitting out her water, and Manon slapped her arm lightly.

“Why are you all dressed up?” you asked, hopping over the couch to sit beside the youngest. Sophia tapped on the badge pinned to her purse for the day, and you immediately recognized the colors.

“Ooooh, something you need to do with Kappa Wolf Theater?”

Manon cackled. Yoonchae held in her laugh as she kept her eyes on the screen, while Sophia gave you a death glare.

“Kappa Alpha Theta.”

“Yeah, that one,” you said casually, making her roll her eyes. She’d been your friend since high school, and you even stuck through her entire sorority rush process. But of course, you wouldn’t remember which one she actually joined… four years ago.

“Is it a party?” Manon asked, and Sophia shook her head, walking around the couch to sit down.

“We have a meeting. It’s about the fundraiser in like four days, then the party next week on Saturday.”

You sat up a bit, your mind catching on something. “Wait… then why’d you ask me here to be here early?”

Sophia gave you a guilty grin, your brows furrowing deeper. “I thought we were supposed to be hanging out?!”

“We can hang out after… if you give me a ride,” she said, pouting and giving you those annoying puppy eyes.

“You’re so sick,” you groaned, leaning back and pointing at Manon, who was still happily eating like this wasn’t her business.

“You have a car! Why don’t you take her?”

Manon gave you a side-eye, placing her now-empty bowl on the table. “For your information, I just got home from a seminar for my English class, so I’m pooped and will be waiting for you both to return.” She threw on a posh accent, whipping her hair back dramatically as she walked to the kitchen.

You couldn’t even say anything to Yoonchae—she didn’t drive or even have a license yet. Though Manon did mention she’d started teaching her last week.

“Oh, c’mon, it won’t be so bad. You’ll probably fuck someone from my org… again,” Sophia teased with an overly ‘sweet’ smile.

You gave her an unimpressed look, biting back whatever insult was at the tip of your tongue. Yoonchae shook her head, unfazed. Nothing new with your antics.

The three of you had basically adopted her—sharing rent, helping her settle in, and pitching in a bit more once she moved into the house.

Still, your first interaction with her was a bit rough. You had tried flirting with her. She responded by stomping on your foot—with heavy boots—then told you she was a minor and walked away.

That day, you swore you could’ve done a backflip off a skyscraper. You usually had a rule about asking what year someone was, but you’d assumed she was older because she was close with Sophia.

You caught the subtle look the youngest gave you and blurted out, “I SAID I WAS SORRY, OKAY!”

“You saying sorry doesn’t delete it from happening.”

“Fair point,” you muttered, raising your hands in surrender and scooting away. Yoonchae just shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips.

From that day on, she knew you were genuinely sorry. You made an active effort to make sure she wasn’t uncomfortable around you or your trio. You introduced her as your little sister to anyone new, cooked for her, gave her rides, and basically did whatever she needed.

At this point, Yoonchae saw you all as her older sisters, too.

“Chop chop, Miss L/n,” Sophia said, already heading toward the door. You rolled your eyes and followed.

She heard your keys jingle as you swung a leg over your bike, kicked up the stand, and turned the ignition.

“How long is this gonna take?” was the complaint that nearly left your mouth, but you held back.

“Like forty-five minutes. Now hush up and drive to campus, please.”

She had brought the helmet you gave her for Christmas last year—something you were actually proud of, despite usually sucking at gifts. You’d gotten personalized helmets for each of the girls, and they even had their own little shelf by the door, above everyone’s shoes.

The campus was about thirty minutes away by commute, but since two of the four of you had rides, the others would pitch in for gas here and there. It worked out, especially since you loved riding your motorcycle anyway.

Luckily, it was already 7 PM. If it had even been noon, Sophia definitely would’ve dragged you into a coffee shop, and you’d end up with the condensation of iced coffee clinging to the back of your shirt.

You pulled up to a tan, Greek-style building with the same symbol from Sophia’s pin displayed out front. She gave your shoulder a pat before hopping off and leaving her helmet with you.

So, there you were, slouched on your bike, unsure of what to do while waiting. You were even considering a walk around campus or grabbing a snack, but as you got up and started hooking the helmets onto your arm, something caught your attention.

A girl wearing an extremely short light blue skirt and a white, one-shoulder cropped tank top walked past you into the Alpha Theta building. She made it very clear she was checking you out—her eyes dragging slowly up and down your figure as she left you behind.

You were well aware of how sorority girls got down; this wasn’t the first time it had happened. It also wasn’t the first time you saw that brunette—you were almost certain she was a third-year on the volleyball team… and a team you were very publicly a fan of.

Looking around to make sure no one was paying attention, you slipped through the front door. To your luck, not many people were in the lobby—just mystery girl and her cute friend, who had blonde highlights.

They both locked eyes with you after hearing the door shut, giggling immediately.

There was a mischievous glint in their eyes, and you were more than willing to play along.

Miss Brunette beckoned you with one finger, while her friend didn’t break eye contact. Every time you glanced her way, her stance shifted just a little. You pointed at yourself—the clueless act always worked; girls seemed to find it cute.

They both nodded, giggling beside each other as they led the way down a hallway. You followed. When they entered a room, you picked up the pace and shut the door behind you…

And, well, you can probably guess what happened in there.

A quick twenty minutes later, you stepped out, leaving both girls practically collapsed in the room, hoping to get out before Sophia caught you in the dirty act. But when it came to your friends, you had the worst luck.

Because as you made your way out of the lobby, a soft, unimpressed “Really?” came from the top of the stairs.

You turned around slowly—like a kid caught stealing from their mom’s purse—and saw Sophia standing there, brow raised. Her group was beginning to file out behind her, a few of them waving at you with seductive finger curls as they walked past.

“I didn’t do anything, I swear.”

Sophia knew you too well for her to believe that. She knew “I swear” meant I just finished fucking someone. She never got mad, though. In her opinion, it wasn’t lying if she already knew—just pathetic for you.

Which, really, is why your friendship with her worked in the first place.

Before you could sneak back to your motorcycle, the two girls exited the hallway behind you, clearly trying to fix themselves up.

The brunette’s pink lip gloss was smudged toward her chin as she adjusted her skirt’s waistband. The blonde did her best to straighten her heel-thong sandals and make sure her whale tail looked right beneath her low-rise jeans.

Sophia tilted her head at you— judgment radiating in one single look—as you gave her an awkward smile and slowly backed away. You hadn’t even asked for their names or numbers. One, because you suck at remembering names. Two, because the only people you actually text out of your hundreds of contacts are Sophia, Manon, Yoonchae, your older sister, and occasionally your dad.

They probably tried to catch up with you, and thanks to Sophia, they did.

You leaned against your bike as the two girls exited the building, arms linked. The blonde put on a shy act as if you hadn’t just seen her naked.

“I’m Jenna, by the way. And this is my best friend, Morgan,” the brunette said, giving a shy wave and barely holding eye contact.

You sat there, boredom written all over your face, but neither of them seemed to notice. They kept talking, voices fuzzy in your ears, everything they said going in one ear and right out the other. You just stared at them like they had three heads.

Your brows furrowed, confused as to why they were suddenly acting all shy and innocent. Just fifteen minutes ago, they were flirting like crazy.

“That’s all we wanted to say,” Morgan finished, then dragged Jenna away. Tried to, at least. Their skinny heels had them wobbling like deer.

What you didn’t know was they could walk in heels perfectly fine—they were just still shaking from... other variables.

You shook your head, pulled out your flavored vape, and took a long drag.

There was a point in time when you had a phase with cigs, but Sophia hated the smell. She told you to smoke if you had to—just not those. So now you were stuck puffing on this big, bulky, popsicle-colored vape that made you look like a kid. But it worked. It helped level out the post-rush adrenaline after... well, you know.

Deciding to walk around campus for a bit, you took another pull and pocketed the vape.

The sky had deepened into a dark, blue-purple gradient—like a glowing lampshade—while the walkway lights began to flicker on, a light breeze sweeping your hair back.

You wandered into a campus convenience store, grabbed a pack of salted nuts, tossed three bucks on the counter, and waved off the cashier on your way out.

Further into campus, you reached what everyone called The Garden. Despite the lack of actual flowers, the wide, grassy field made up for the otherwise dull atmosphere of school.

Picnic blankets were scattered across the grass, students lounging, snacking. A few girls waved at you like usual, and you flashed them a polite grin. You’d already had your fun today and needed to meet back up with Sophia in ten minutes, so you kept walking.

As you passed the library building, a group of girls crossed your path—two in front, chatting, with one trailing behind.

She had deep brown skin that glowed beneath the lamplight, long black hair cascading down just above her hips. She wore a yellow bikini top, a netted cropped sweater, and a mid-rise white bodycon skirt.

Her attention was completely locked on the phone in her hands, eyes scanning whatever she was reading.

But your attention was locked on her.

Time felt like it slowed down, like in one of those cheesy romance movies. A breeze lifted her hair like a perfectly timed movie scene. You rubbed your eyes. Maybe you were imagining things.

She didn’t even glance at you, simply brushed her hair off her shoulder, and kept walking.

“What in the fuck…?” you muttered, heading back toward the Alpha Theta building. Sophia was already walking down the stone steps when you arrived, her heels clicking with each step. She clocked your dazed expression immediately.

“You good?” she asked, raising a brow.

You shook your head and passed her the helmet from your arm. “Yeah. Just got confused by someone.”

“Mixed up one of the girls in love with you again?”

“Oh, shut up,” you said with a grin, giving her a light shove. Too light. You knew better. The last time you pushed her for real, she sprained her ankle and didn’t speak to you for a week.

Meanwhile, a block away, the same girl groaned as her phone buzzed nonstop. “She’s still blowing up your notifications?” Megan asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“Yes! It’s getting annoying—I’m about to block her,” Lara said, dragging her hand down her face.

“Why do you even keep her around if you’re not together?” Daniela asked. Lara pretended not to hear. Well, she actually couldn’t—her on-again-off-again fling was blowing up her phone.

“She obviously likes them obsessed with her,” Megan teased. Lara rolled her eyes and shoved the phone back in her pocket.

“I just wanna get back to my room and chill,” she muttered.

Daniela raised a brow. “And see Tatum there? You’re gonna end up crashing at our dorm again—you know it.”

Lara didn’t respond because it was true. Her parents had told her to stay in the dorms for one more year before they’d buy her an apartment off-campus. They wanted to make sure she could handle herself alone.

So far, she’d managed—though she hadn’t actually slept in her own dorm since the first week.

First and second-year dorms were small, while upperclassmen got four-bedroom units. When Lara first got accepted, she quickly made a name for herself. Her first year, she partied every weekend, crashing in other people’s dorms—mostly because she was sleeping with their roommate.

She couldn’t keep it in her pants. And really, with how many hot people were on campus, could you blame her?

The moment she met Tatum, it was downhill. First day, Lara thought: she’s hot, I’m hot, let’s fuck.  Now, five months later, Tatum was practically living in her bed.

“Why don’t you just lie to your parents and get them to buy the apartment sooner?” Megan asked.

“If I rush them, they’ll get me a place that makes me feel ‘safe’—like if I complain about some crazy girl who won’t leave me alone. But Tatum’s not crazy crazy,” Lara argued. “And I’ve been good—I could get that three-bedroom for the three of us.”

“Tatum’s not crazy yet? Did you forget she ransacked your closet and flipped your entire side of the room?”

Lara rolled her eyes. That wasn’t even close to the craziest thing she’d seen someone do. She didn’t think it was that deep.

The girls entered the dorm building and headed to Daniela and Megan’s shared space. Their corner-unit dorm was surprisingly roomy enough for a small couch, and Lara had made it her permanent spot.

“I’ll thug it out—for the three of us,” she said with a grin.

Megan smiled. Dani shook her head, amused by the effort.

A phone buzzed. All three of them looked around to check whose it was. Lara almost rolled her eyes before pulling hers out, fully expecting Tatum’s name again.

But instead, she raised her brows. Lara pushed between the two girls, holding her phone out so they could all read the screen. Daniela squinted. Megan peeked. It was a notification from an anonymous user on Yik Yak.

Now, if you know about the app… well, then there isn’t much else to say about the kind of shit that happens on there.

But ever since Lara started uni, it had become her favorite app to scroll for all the piping-hot tea. It was also how she found out about every party—so when she showed the girls a post about a party Kappa Alpha Theta was throwing, she could barely contain her excitement.

“Oh, you know those sorority girls know how to throw one,” Lara said, a cheesy grin plastered on her face.

Dani looked at her suspiciously. “Isn’t Alpha Theta a pretty scholarly group?”

“They’re a sorority, and I’ve seen some of them. If they’re scholarly, it’s not all of them,” Megan chimed in, and her friends gave her amused looks.

“That sounds like it’s from experience,” Dani teased, chuckling as Megan shoved her shoulder lightly.

“Probably because of Harper,” Lara added, smirking. Megan’s eyes widened, not realizing how much Lara knew about her short-lived fling with the Theta girl.

“Harper Lin?” Dani asked.

Lara nodded, and Megan’s ears turned the lightest shade of pink at the mention. “Okay, next topic, please!” Megan rushed out, waving her hands.

They stepped off the elevator on their floor, and once they reached the corner of the building, Dani opened the door. Everyone rushed inside to claim their usual spots in the dorm.

“So, when’s the party then?” Dani asked, kicking off her shoes.

Lara reopened the app to check the details. “Next week. Saturday. Says it’s gonna be in West Hall.”

“The big one?!” Megan sat up straighter. “How’d they manage to rent out that place?”

“Probably made bank from their last fundraisers,” Lara replied.

“They’ve got another one coming up too,” Daniela added, pulling out her phone. She showed them a flyer from their school’s news app—it was for a small carnival fundraiser on campus, with a few student performances listed.

“We going to those?” Megan asked.

The three of them thought about it for roughly three seconds before giving a unanimous nod.

“Lara, I swear on everything—you better not get shit-faced drunk and fuck someone in a damn port-a-potty.”

“Okay, first of all, no promises. Second, ew—not a fucking port-a-potty... at least make it behind the tent of a booth.”

“LARA!”

Both girls shouted at the same time, and Lara just cackled, slouching even deeper into the couch.

“I don’t understand why I neeeeeed to be there, Fia,” you almost moaned into her ear. It hadn’t even been five minutes since the two of you got into the house, and Sophia was already dragging you into another unwanted expedition.

“Helping us out for the carnival would be fun!”

You stared at her as she ran up to her room. Shaking your head, you quickly followed, not letting her escape the conversation. She tried shutting her bedroom door in your face, but failed miserably at locking it. Before it could fully close, you swung it open with an easy shove.

“You guys have so many people. I don’t need to be one of them,” you argued.

But instead of giving you her full attention, she focused on stripping out of her clothes, and your face stayed scrunched in confusion as she began pulling off her top.

“Y/n, you’re like, one of the strongest people I know,” she said, shirt now tossed to the side. “It would just be nice if my best friend were there to help.”

You dragged a hand down your face. “How about Manon? Or even Yoonchae?”

“Both of them have classes on Thursday, while you don’t,” she replied, pulling her skirt down. She sat on the edge of her bed, fabric mid-thigh, and looked at you with soft, pleading eyes.

“How about this?” she offered, “help us out with the carnival setup, and I’ll make sure your entire carnival experience is free. You just need to help on Thursday, then come by Friday to enjoy it.”

Your eyes lit up instantly at the deal. “I get free churros? …Sick.”

“No churros, but there will be elotes.”

“Even better.” She could hear the excitement in your voice and glanced down at herself.

“Well then, can you leave my room so I can change in peace?”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” you mumbled as you closed the door behind you, only to hear her yell your name like you’d said the most outrageous thing in the world.

“I meant when we changed during gym in high school!” you called back. Heading down the stairs, you entered the open living room, where Manon was already cozied up on the couch with a blanket.

“Yoonchae went to bed?” you asked, walking around the L-shaped couch to plop down beside her.

“Yeah,” Manon replied. “She said she’s got an exam at eight that she needs to wake up for.”

You winced. “I’ll never understand how she does early mornings.” Manon chuckled. “First of all, it’s an online class—she just needs her camera on. Secondly, you know Yoonchae likes waking up early for some reason.”

“Again. Something I will never understand.”

You settled into the couch, legs slightly spread, arms resting comfortably on your lap as you sank into its cloud-like softness. Manon leaned her head against your shoulder, still wrapped up in her weighted blanket.

Footsteps echoed down the stairs as Sophia hopped over the back of the couch. Now dressed in fuzzy shorts and a tight tank top, she mirrored Manon’s position by laying her head on your other shoulder. Just like that, you became a human headrest for both of your best friends.

No one spoke. You all just sat there, eyes fixed on Pitch Perfect, a movie the three of you had sworn to rewatch together every other month. Halfway through, Sophia opened a bag of chips and passed it back and forth between you and Manon.

A quiet wave of tranquility settled over you—Anna Kendrick on the screen, the crunch of potato chips, and the scent of a tropical candle drifting through the room. These were the college days, you were truly grateful for.

Even if they were coming to an end soon due to graduation in literally three months.

But you don’t focus on the future. That’s never been your thing anyway. It’s why you mess around so much in the first place. You could just never get enough, huh?

Setting aside your womanizer tendencies for now, the two girls beside you had clearly dozed off. Being the night owl that you are, you stayed up to finish the movie. Every time one of them shifted or sighed in their sleep, you smiled a little.

Sophia clung to your arm, while Manon nuzzled her face deeper into your shoulder with slow, steady breaths.

When the credits rolled, you didn’t bop along to the music. Instead, you got to work. Sophia had latched on like a koala, so you figured she’d be first.

Gently, you moved Manon’s head with your free arm, trying not to wake her. Once Sophia was loose, you slipped your arms underneath her, lifting her bridal-style and carefully navigating the stairs.

Luckily, her bedroom door was open, and you tucked her into her mountain of blankets, turning on her AC and closing the door behind you like the best friend you were.

Next was Manon. You opened her icebox of a room ahead of time—you’d learned the hard way how difficult that door was to open with her in your arms.

But when you got back downstairs, you found her hunched over, sleepily blinking at you. She pouted, opening her arms toward you like a child asking to be carried.

It made you chuckle. The oldest of the three of you, yet such a baby sometimes.

“Come here, you big baby,” you muttered, scooping her up. She wrapped her arms around your neck and her legs around your waist, her blanket squished between the two of you. Her breath was soft against your neck.

You laid her into bed just as gently, her blanket tangled around her as you turned off the lights and closed the door.

Now, where did you sleep?

The marvelous basement, of course. Which isn’t as bad as it sounded. When you all moved in last year, Yoonchae’s room was originally yours. It was closest to the stairs, convenient, and average-sized. But once the three of you decided to offer her a room instead of letting her live in the dorms, you offered up your space immediately.

So now, you have your own basement kingdom. The lavender-scented air freshener greeted you as you descended. Somehow, the little thing managed to keep the whole place smelling clean.

You changed into a sports bra and shorts before flopping onto your full-sized bed. The space around you was personal and comforting. A seating area with bean bags and a rug. A large TV that you rarely use. A mini fridge, two large closets, and a snack cart. Shelves filled with boxing gloves, a camera, a jewelry case, and blind box figures. A whole wall of hooks for your hats and bags.

Your dresser was full of undergarments, oversized shirts, and let’s be honest—hella gay shit.

It was your ‘Y/n cave,’ as the girls lovingly called it.

Eventually, exhaustion crept up on you, and you passed out without realizing it.

The sound of your alarm had you stirring in the cold, cozy dark. The blanket felt like heaven, and the AC blasting was just dangerous enough to make you want to sleep in again. You blinked your eyes open to a pitch-dark room with just the faintest hint of light creeping in.

Your shoulders felt heavy as you pulled yourself out of bed and shuffled to the dresser for a shirt.

You trudged upstairs like a zombie, opening the door to find Yoonchae cooking breakfast. She was plating eggs and rice, with a side of kimchi, while you checked the time.

10:15 AM.

“Good morning, potato head,” she said with a peek over her shoulder. You groaned and headed straight for the coffee machine, pouring yourself a cup.

“Want breakfast?”

“That’d be great. Thanks, Yoonchip.” You nodded at her and took a seat at the island, sipping your coffee. Instead of heat, the coffee had cooled down, now warm yet smooth. It didn’t stop the black coffee from giving you a boost of energy either.

When she finished plating, you dug in. You always appreciated how openly Yoonchae shared her culture with you. Korean food was always welcome in your book. You still remember the first time she made Korean BBQ and handed you metal chopsticks—definitely a learning curve, but the food was worth it.

“You heading out later?” you asked. She sighed, chewing a bite of kimchi. “Yeah. I’ve got philosophy this afternoon.”

“What about Sophia and Manon?”

“Sophia-unnie left before my exam this morning. Said she had to turn in papers for Alpha Theta. Manon-unnie left a few minutes before you woke up.”

“I’ll give you a ride later. Just text me or Manon when you’re done.”

She nodded, smiling. The two of you ate in comfortable silence. Ten minutes later, you both finished, and you got to work hauling boxes from the garage into the house.

Sophia, being who she is in her sorority, handled most of the event coordination, which meant you handled the heavy lifting. Because, in her words, you were helpful.

“Gosh… It’s going to be a long couple of days.”

Finally, on decoration day, Sophia was up early, already finalizing decor plans and dressed in yoga pants and a sports bra. With how much movement she’d be doing all day, there was no point in wearing anything more.

She’d been banging on your door a few minutes ago until she finally heard your weak, muffled “I’m up.” That was enough for her to stop the noise campaign.

When she opened the door, she found you standing in the frame in a large T-shirt that somehow still fit perfectly across your broad shoulders. You’d paired it with some straight-leg jeans and sneakers, key in hand.

Sophia tilted her head. “Are you ready to go?”

You didn’t respond right away, mostly because a disheveled girl suddenly walked past you and rushed out the front door. Sophia blinked, recognizing her: Stacy, another senior from her Finance class.

Sophia just stood there, deadpanning.

“Now I’m ready,” you finally said, completely unfazed. She didn’t even bother replying—just shook her head as you grabbed Manon’s car keys.

You had talked to Manon the day before, letting her know you’d need to borrow the car. You told her if she needed it back by a certain time, you could always swing by and return it, taking your motorcycle and Sophia’s helmet instead. She agreed, which led to your current situation: loading heavy boxes into the trunk while Sophia handled the lighter ones and shoved them into the backseat.

When you finally arrived in the parking lot, it was already swarming with girls—likely Sophia’s sorority friends—unpacking their own cars and chatting away.

Sophia hopped out first, yelling a name you couldn’t catch as you stayed in the car, waiting for your inevitable instructions. Sure enough, after a minute, she knocked on your window. You sighed, turned off the engine, and stepped out to find a large cart for transporting the boxes.

Together, you and Sophia moved the supplies, and once all the boxes were out of the car, it became a game of follow-the-leader. You wheeled the cart behind her as she led you to the designated spot in the garden area.

Once there, she immediately switched into “event leader” mode, giving out directions to a dozen different people, yourself included.

Which is how you found yourself pitching up several tents in the middle of campus while the day was barely even underway. It felt like you were being pulled in eight different directions at once.

Sophia had you lifting crates, hammering stakes into the ground, adjusting the signage, testing the sound system, re-testing the sound system because it still wasn’t loud enough, and hauling props around like your back wasn’t going to be sore for the next three days.

Honestly, if you ever needed a workout routine outside of the gym, this was it. You hadn’t even stopped to sip water, and your shirt had a clingy sheen from your light sweat, not that anyone around seemed to mind.

You’d been here for a couple of hours now, and you were currently balancing on a ladder, arms above your head as you fiddled with a strand of fairy lights that refused to stay in place. Sophia stood below you, steadying the ladder with both hands like a concerned mom making sure her child doesn’t faceplant on the pavement.

“I swear, I should’ve made you wear a harness,” she muttered up at you with a furrowed brow.

“I’d rather fall and die than let you clip a safety belt around me like a toddler at a mall,” you grunted back, trying to wrap the thin wire around a cross beam overhead. The ladder wobbled a bit—just a little—before Sophia tightened her grip and let out a gasp.

“Do not test me today, Y/n.”

Still, you couldn’t help but let your eyes wander a little. You’d been working your ass off, and a little break in the form of eye candy didn’t hurt.

And like the gods listened, a girl walking by in the distance caught your attention so intensely that it felt like the rest of the world fizzled out of your mind. Your hands stilled above your head. She wasn’t walking so much as gliding. Hips swaying with intention, and the outfit?

She wore a rust-colored halter top made of something light and flowy, low in the back and tied around the neck like a bow. Her cargo mini skirt hugged her hips just right, worn with knee-high black boots and silver jewelry that caught the light with every step she took. Her toned stomach peeked between the fabrics, and despite the casualness of the pieces, everything looked meticulously curated.

It was the girl from the other day.

That same warm-toned skin now glowed in the sunlight, and her sunglasses slid halfway down her nose as she glanced around the setup casually, seemingly unaware of the chaos she was causing, both around the field and in your chest.

You didn’t realize you were staring until—

“Hoy.”

Sophia’s voice, sharp Filipino accent, snaps you out of your daydream so fast you nearly drop the lights. You blink, looking down at her with wide eyes. “What?”

“Keep working,” she narrowed her eyes, clearly following your gaze, “Please. We are not doing this right now.”

You cleared your throat, trying to regain your focus, and returned to wrestling the fairy lights into place. She still stood below, arms crossed now, giving you that very specific brand of best friend judgment you were very familiar with. The kind that silently said, I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t like it.

As you adjusted the last clip into place, you caught some giggling behind you. You peeked over your shoulder and saw a group of younger girls—probably first or second years—standing near a table of bottled water. One of them was clearly mid-gossip, twirling her finger through her hair while trying to act casual.

“Is that Lara?” one whispered loudly—loud enough for your bored, eavesdropping ears to pick it up.

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god, wait—wasn’t she the one who slept with that girl from the basketball team and her roommate?”

You blinked. Your arms rested across the top of the ladder as you listened in, pretending to adjust the lights.

“She’s so hot, though,” another girl chimed in. “Even if she’s the way she is. My friend hooked up with her once and literally couldn’t walk straight the next day.”

You let out a quiet snort. You weren’t someone easily phased by casual gossip like that, but now you had a name for the girl that had you stunned, twice now by the way.

Lara.

It wasn’t supposed to mean much to you, but it stuck. You thought how fitting it actually was for her. Short but made a statement, and that seemed like her thing.

The ladder creaked as you stepped down and wiped your hands on your jeans. You and Sophia wrapped up the rest of your section and started heading back toward the car to start loading up the remaining decor for tomorrow’s booth.

Manon had texted you saying she had practically slept through her class, and to keep the car for now since she didn't have any plans.

“Alright,” you said, stretching your arms behind your back. “I’ll toss the signs in the trunk—can you go start up the car?”

Sophia gave you a suspicious look. “Why?”

“I’m gonna talk to those girls real quick. Think I might’ve met them before.”

She narrowed her eyes and muttered, “You better not flirt right now. I swear.”

“I won’t!” You said, too defensively. She rolled her eyes, took the keys, and left you in the parking lot.

As you walked over, the younger girls paused their chatter, looking up at you like they had been caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

“Hey, uh…” You started, scratching the back of your head, “Have we met before?”

One of the girls squinted. “Uhm… yeah, at that party last month? You were the one who drank the jungle juice and took one of the older girls to uhm, ehem, a bedroom ehem.”

“Ohhh, that’s right,” you said, remembering vaguely. “Sorry—I’m really, really bad with names.”

“I’m Ava,” the one with curls said.

“And I’m—”

“Wait, don’t tell me. I’ll forget,” you said with a half-laugh, pointing at yourself. “Just not my strong suit.”

They giggled, clearly not holding it against you, only if you knew how much your charm worked on people. “Can I ask something kinda random?” you added, trying to sound casual. “That Lara girl—you said she’s… what? Second year?”

“Yup. Lives in the dorms still,” Ava answered. “She’s like… kinda infamous, honestly. Super chill, but not the best record with relationships.”

“Yeah, but it’s college,” the other told you and shrugged. “Nobody really cares.” You nodded thoughtfully, absorbing that information with a neutral face, but your mind was already tucking away the little details.

Second year. Not a great track record. Insanely attractive. Seemingly unbothered by the world. Got it. She was basically just an alternate version of you.

“Thanks,” you said simply, giving them both a little chin nod. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

They waved, and you jogged back to the car, where Sophia was already in the front seat with the music turned up a little too loud for this hour of the day. “You done?” she asked.

“Yup.”

“You flirt?”

“Nope.”

She looks at you sideways, but you ignore her. The drive home was quiet in that nice, tired kind of way. You felt sore in your back and arms, and your shirt clung to you slightly as the air conditioning blew in your face. You leaned back against the seat, letting the day settle in your bones.

But your mind was just on that girl.

You didn’t know what it was, but you had a feeling you were going to see her again at the carnival tomorrow.

You were gonna make sure you looked damn good—just in case.

The next morning, you managed to wake up at a reasonable hour, perfectly timed for your noon photography class. Honestly, you could’ve slept in, but your brain was racing with thoughts about the carnival. Specifically, what might happen at said carnival? 

You didn’t even speak to anyone in the house that morning. Yoonchae was still eating cereal in her oversized tee, Manon was organizing one of her playlists for the stage performances later, and Sophia was already gone—probably at the Garden yelling about color-coordinated signage to a table full of hungover Theta girls.

You just showered, dressed, grabbed your things, and left. And you looked good, which was the most important part of the carnival.

Your outfit was effortless but said exactly what it needed to. You wore an olive green cutoff mesh tank that showed off the slope of your collarbones and hinted at your black sports bra underneath. The khaki cargos you wore hung low and loose on your hips, cinched at the waist just enough to show your shape. Your sneakers were worn but reliable, and your scattered tattoos were on display from the tank sleeves.

You slung your backpack low, and your helmet didn’t fit inside, nor did you want it to be a hassle, so you shoved it into a drawstring bag that clung to your side. The ride to campus was quick, the air hitting your face as your bike revved across the road like your own personal soundtrack.

Your only class of the day was your Photography Composition II course. Normally, you like it, but today made time feel super slow.

You sat near the window, leg bouncing under the table, trying to focus on your professor’s droning voice about depth and shadows. Meanwhile, all you could think about was the potential chaos of the carnival—the games, the music, the food—and, maybe, seeing her again.

When class finally ended, you were out of there fast, one of the first students to hit the hallway. Your fingers flew across your phone, texting Sophia a quick message.

You omw there  don’t put me to work today 😭

Fifi 👸 no promises but ill be waiting for u at the entrance

By the time you got to the Garden, the place was packed. Lines for cotton candy, carnival booths blasting music, a small ferris wheel lit up in the corner, and a stage where music majors performed everything from acoustic covers to chaotic band remixes.

People were everywhere.

You scanned the crowd, spotting Sophia’s high ponytail from yards away as she waved you down. She had that same clipboard she always did, but her face lit up when you approached.

“There she is,” she beamed, slipping a blue braided bracelet onto your wrist. “That’s your all-access pass. Everything’s free now—games, food, rides. Go wild.”

“Blessed,” you said, giving her a dramatic bow. She rolled her eyes but gave your shoulder a quick squeeze before rushing off again to probably go micromanage the popcorn machine.

You spotted Manon and Yoonchae under one of the larger tents with picnic tables, fries, and lemonade spread across their shared tray. You took a seat beside them, munching on a few fries like you hadn’t eaten since yesterday.

For a while, the three of you just wandered—watching someone try and fail miserably at a ring toss, laughing at a couple screaming on the spinning teacups, and judging outfits like it was your full-time job.

That is… until you needed a cherry slushie. You told them you’d be right back, waving your bracelet at the vendor like a hotshot and grabbing the oversized cup. You were sipping it lazily, turning a corner, when you ran into someone worth pausing for, not literally, though.

She leaned against the booth table, laughing at something the worker said, the dimples in her cheeks practically hypnotizing. Wearing a white fitted halter crop that laced up her sides and a low-rise pleated mini skirt that flared every time she shifted her weight.

A clear belly button piercing flashed from her toned stomach, and her hair was in a high ponytail. When she caught you looking, her lips quirked up immediately.

“Well damn,” she said, walking up with a sway in her step. “You’re exactly what I hoped to run into.”

“Really? I was just looking for my friends,” you said, eyeing her up and down slowly. “But I’m not complaining.”

“I’m Nylah,” she said, tilting her head, eyes already gleaming with flirtation. You took a step closer, lips curling as you offered your hand. “Y/n.”

Her fingers slid into yours and stayed there a little too long. Her nails were painted black and silver, and her grip was confident, thumb tracing your knuckles like she was testing the waters.

“Let me guess,” she said, voice teasing. “You're the mysterious type who breaks hearts and disappears before breakfast.”

“Only when I’m late for class,” you replied, making her laugh—an actual, cute laugh that had her biting her lip as she looked at you.

What you didn’t know was that Lara had just spotted you from a distance. She stood with Megan and Daniela near the elotes stand, still chewing on the last bite of her snack, when her eyes drifted over to the crowd.

She didn’t even mean to say it aloud, just blurting it out, “Who is that?”

Megan turned, saw who she was staring at, and almost choked on her drink. “You’re joking.” Dani blinked, “Wait—you don’t know Y/n?”

Lara furrowed her brows, licking sugar off her thumb. “I know of her.”

“Oh my god,” Megan muttered, like Lara had just admitted she barely used TikTok.

“Lara, she’s like you, but worse,” Dani said, half-laughing. “The hot masc who’s rumored to have fucked MANY girls on campus… and she’s a senior, so I mean manyyyy.”

Lara turned her full attention back to you now, finally taking you in—and yeah, it made sense. The mesh tank top was clinging to your torso in all the right places. Your cargo pants were hanging dangerously low on your hips, and that black sports bra peeked out just enough to distract anyone.

But what really caught her attention was the way your hand—those large hands—rested confidently on Nylah’s waist. A placement you were clearly an expert in.

Lara’s chewing slows down, her eyes narrow slightly as she watches you whisper something in the girl’s ear. Nylah giggled, curling closer into you, her fingers trailing down your arm, slow and sensual, stopping near your wrist as your other hand trailed up her spine with a familiarity that was way too hot.

Megan whistled low, “She’s working her magic already.” Lara said nothing, oddly, just watching. Your lips curled into a smirk, and you tilted Nylah’s chin with a single finger, lifting her gaze until she met your eyes. There’s confidence in your stance, you leaned in without hesitation—damn. 

And then you kissed her. It’s slow and deep, and Nylah had practically melted into you almost instantly, arms winding around your shoulders while your palm slid smoothly down to her ass. Her reaction was visible: face relaxed, eyes fluttering, back arching just slightly.

Lara’s lips parted, but a word never came out. Her mind was just racing.

Because, not even a few hours ago, Lara did exactly what her friends asked her not to do… well, part of it at least. 

She found a girl leaning into the masc side, took her behind a booth after much flirting, and made out. The girl had some decency, you know?

Lara had control. She loved dominance, and it was rare for her to give it up. But now, seeing you, made her curious. Would it be like that with you? Would you make her melt the same way Nylah just did?

She didn’t realize how long she’d been staring until the music from the stage kicked up behind her, pulling Megan and Dani’s attention. They turned, heading closer to the performance.

But Lara kept looking back as you dragged the girl away. Whisking her into an area under a tent that had some space in the back, behind a curtain.

Because now? She had you imprinted in her damn head.

A couple of days had passed since the carnival. And you hated to admit it, but you’d been in a bit of a daze ever since. Not even because of the girl from that night. Nylah had been in your bed the next morning, still naked, her bra on the floor. She kissed your jaw before leaving and left her lip gloss stain on your pillowcase.

But all you could think about was Lara. You hadn’t even spoken to her. You felt like you could still hear her laugh, even if she hadn’t been laughing anywhere near you. The magnetic pull wasn’t something you were used to, and it was pissing you off. No one ever made you the one to wonder, until now.

So the night of the Kappa Alpha Theta hit.

Sophia had invited you early, but you still showed up late, letting the chaos come about just so it wasn’t a bunch of girls trying to get at you.

The party had been moved to Kappa Alpha Theta's house due to the rumor spreading quickly about the hall, which had a counselor protest about it happening in that building. LED lights glowed in every corner, music thumped so loud the windows trembled, and the smell of weed, sweat, and sugary vodka clouded the air. Bodies were pressed together, some grinding in the living room, others making out against walls, and a few people had already migrated to the stairwell like a pack of raccoons.

You weren’t fazed, puffing your vape lazily—mango flavored—and walking through the cloud of hormones 

Your drink of choice tonight was straight whiskey. You poured it heavily and let it burn down your throat as you walked into the main room. There was a massive sectional couch lining the wall, bodies sprawled over it—some whispering in each other's ears, some dancing on it, and a couple so deep into each other's mouths.

You found a spot near the end of it. Distant enough to just watch and observe all the energy that surrounded you.

That’s when Lara walked in, wearing something that could get her arrested on the right street. Her legs looked long and toned in the short pleated skirt, while her lips were glossed like cherries.

She came in with Megan and Dani, but they all scattered quickly, so to loosen up, she headed toward the kitchen for a drink. Lara exits with a red-filled solo cup in hand, looking around the room. Her eyes fall onto your relaxed figure, and she smirks

The couch shifted beside you on your right, and your eyes grazed over to see who you’ve been wanting to meet. Sitting just inches away.

Lara didn’t look at you, just sitting there, watching the chaos around her with a casual smile on her face like she was bored with it all.

Neither of you said anything yet, letting your presence breathe. Eventually, you turned your head, gaze low and steady. “Hey.”

She smiled without looking. “Hey.”

“I’m Y/n.”

She turned to you then, finally meeting your eyes. “I know.” You raised a brow. “Lara, right?”

That made her pause. Her brow lifted, and her lips curled slowly. “So you know me, too.”

“Campus gossip,” you replied, taking another sip of your drink. “Hard to avoid.” She turned her body a little toward you, letting one leg drape over the couch casually. “So, you here to party?”

“Sure,” you shrugged. “Also supporting my best friend.”

“A sorority girl?”

“Mhm. Same one who had me almost crashing into a doorframe when I dropped her off at this house.”

That made her laugh. And right on cue—like a devil summoned by mention alone—the same girl from before the time you dropped Sophia off found her way to you, making a beeline in heels. A tiny, sequined dress clung to her like plastic wrap, and she didn’t ask before plopping down right on your lap.

You didn’t flinch. Just gave her a polite smile, sipping your drink. She leaned into you, brushing her fingers along your chest. “Hey, I’ve been looking for you all night.”

“I’ve been busy,” you answered flatly, still looking at Lara.

“Oh come on,” she purred, trying to kiss your neck. “You weren’t busy last week.”

You didn’t react, not even lifting a hand to touch her.

Lara watched all of it, amused. Her eyes sparkled, her lips twitching like she was trying not to laugh. The other girl tried again, shifting her hips against you.

Still nothing.

She finally got it, huffing as she stood up, giving Lara a glare before storming off into the sea of bodies. Lara laughed, turning fully toward you now. “That was brutal.”

You smirked. “Wasn’t in the mood.”

“Really? Girl in a slutty dress, on your lap, practically begging—”

“I was… getting to know someone else,” you said honestly. That made Lara quiet for a second.

She looked at you differently now. A flash of something unreadable passed through her eyes.

“You wanna get some air?”

You didn’t even wait for an answer. You stood first, and she followed along your trail. The backyard was just as chaotic, but easier to breathe in with the fresh air. Lights strung across the fences, the pool glowing from below. A couple of people were passed out on deck chairs, and someone was vomiting behind a bush. Thankfully, they were far away.

You found two open lounge chairs near the edge of the pool and took them. Looking over at her in the chair beside you, you spoke, “So… you have a reputation.”

“So do you.”

You raised a brow. “I saw you at the carnival, you know.”

“Oh yeah?” she teased. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“Almost as much as you enjoyed mine.”

She laughed, tipping her cup toward you in a toast. “Touché.” You clinked your plastic cup with hers.

“So,” you said, tilting your head. Giving an icebreaker seemed to be your best bet to keep a conversation going. But you weren’t one to make it… boring.

“Top or bottom?” Lara didn’t hesitate. “Top.”

Your brows shot up. “Damn. Confident.” She shrugged. “I know what I want.”

You chuckled, taking another sip. “You’re rare.”

“Oh?” she smirked. 

“Femme top. Doesn’t happen often.”

She leaned in, eyes glinting with interest. “Would you try it out?” You smirked, thinking of it almost as a joke. Honestly, if it were anyone else, you would’ve just gone for it. Yet with Lara, you thought of it as a joke? “Don’t tempt me with a good time.”

“I’m not joking.”

You met her gaze. “Yeah, but I probably wouldn’t let you win.”

“Wanna bet?”

You leaned forward, elbows on your knees. “What’s the wager?”

“If you win,” she said, eyes sharp. “You can call me whenever. I’ll show up. You know what for.”

You licked your bottom lip, trying not to laugh. “And if I lose?”

“You deal with Tatum.” You look confused, again… bad with names and all. “That girl is obsessed with me,” Lara muttered. “She keeps blowing up my phone. I need her to latch onto someone else. Preferably someone hot.”

“So I’m a… distraction?”

“You’re a challenge. And an escape.”

You stared at her. Just this determination in her eyes to make her wishes come true.

You smirked. “You’re on. Go upstairs, end of the hall, it’s a storage room.”

She nodded, not waiting for anything else. You got up slowly, walking back through the crowd, grabbing your bag from a room Sophia let you put it in, and making your way up the stairs. The hall was dim, but you found your way to the room.

Opening the door, Lara’s now sitting in a chair, she evidently unfolded herself, legs crossed, eyes glittering under the soft yellow light of a single lamp someone left in the corner.

You shut the door behind you. For some reason, this feels like a test, but if it were, you were sure to ace it.

The second you shut the door behind you, the air inside the storage room thickens. Your eyes drag up from Lara’s legs — crossed like she owns the world in that damn chair — to the slow smirk spreading across her glossy lips. 

She didn’t say a single word when you walked in. Just leaning back, arms loose on the sides of the chair, one hand toying with the hem of her skirt.

Your bag hits the table behind you with a light thump. You don’t look away and neither does she.

“So we’re actually doing this,” she purrs, voice sweet and challenging, like she didn’t spend the last few days burned into your brain.

“I don’t back out of bets.” You start toward her, slow and heavy-footed as she hears each step clearly. Her legs part just slightly in that chair, enough to invite, enough to taunt. “And I always win.”

Lara tilts her head, dark eyes scanning your body. That mesh tank of yours still sticks to your back in some places from the heat, sweat glinting at your collarbone. 

“That’s cute, it sounds like your already in denial.”

You laugh — quiet and sharp. One hand grabs the back of her chair, and you lean in, lips brushing her ear as you speak, and in a whisper, “I have enough experience, so I know I’m gonna win.”

Your voice is low enough to hit a nerve, because her thighs clench just slightly under you.

Lara doesn’t let that slide.

She stands up, slowly, and even though she’s a little shorter, the confidence drips off her as she backs you toward the nearby table with her body pressed close. Chest to chest, hips to hips. You feel her nails trace up your sides, her breath grazing your lips.

“Then prove it,” she whispers.

That moment was all you needed, your hands find her hips, spin her, and slam her against the edge of the table with a dull thud. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt her either, the tables were just hollow to make that sound. Lara gasps—not out of fear, but excitement. 

Your hand tangles into the back of her hair and tugs, hard enough to expose her throat. Her lashes flutter, mouth parted, letting out a tiny breath as you lean in and press a slow, open-mouthed kiss against her neck.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Lara,” you murmur against her pulse, tongue slipping just slightly against her heated skin. The way you said her name weakened her knees, luckily you had her bent over a table.

“Funny. I was gonna say the same thing.”

Before you can think of anything, she twists around, flipping your bodies so it’s you pinned against the table now. You were facing her as she trapped you in between her arms, and fuck—her knee comes up to wedge between your legs just right. Her hands find your wrists and pin them down behind your back to the tabletop, a wicked gleam in her eyes. 

She was extremely close to you, to the point where you feel her breath right on your lips.

“What now, big shot?” she taunts, lips ghosting over yours. “I’m being nice,” you grit out, using all your strength to begin getting out of her hold and feel her flinch as you begin to slip, “but keep talking and I’ll wipe that smirk off your face.”

Lara smirks anyway.

You were able to push her off you with enough force, and the sound of the chair scraping across the floor fills the room. She barely stumbles before your hand catches her jaw, thumb sliding across her bottom lip as you guide her back down into the chair—all of this is about to go your way.

“You like playing rough, huh?” you ask.

“Rough?” she laughs, breathless. “Baby, this is nothing to me.”

Oh, she’s cocky… but so are you.

You sink to your knees in front of her and watch her confidence flicker, if only for a second. 

Her breath catches in her throat. Your hands spread her legs, and you press open-mouthed kisses up the inside of her thighs—slow, just to tease. Her skirt rides up. Her hips shift, just a little, chasing more.

And then your teeth graze skin ever so lightly. “Fuck—” she whispers. You pull back, eyes dark.

“Say please.” She scoffs. “Not a chance.”

That was the wrong answer for you, but as your knelt, Lara does her best to move her leg. As you focused on the fabric covering her pussy, kissing it slowly, Lara uses her heels. Should’ve known she was going to get creative as you feel her heels rubbing against your core.

It’s an indescribable feeling, but the friction is preassurable that your groan. The sound could be felt by Lara, as little kitten licks combine with her juices were damping her underwear. Your tongue then drags up with a slow, yet devastating stripe.

The feeling has Lara grip your hair, and you smirk at her efforts. “You won’t be able to do that unless you ask nicely for it,” she challenged. Your face kept still, hands moving up quickly and before Lara can react, you push the lace underwear to the side.

“I don’t think you should be testing me while I’m here.”

She feels how you use a finger, swiping upward and hitting her clit. The action makes her jolt, a tiny yelp escaping her lips. 

“What a cute sound,” your fingers roamed slowly, “I wanna hear it again.” Lara feels you flicking upward again, at a quicker pace this time which has her jolting, this time a restrained moan tugged at her lips.

“Ah, ah, ah. That’s not what I was looking for,” you did the move again, and Lara gives in due to the speed. “There it is.”

Having you take control over her was nice, she would admit, but she wasn’t about to lose. Doing her best, Lara leans forward, even with your finger still grazing in between her legs.

Her hands find the back of your head, bring it close to smash her lips. Gosh, the flavors of whiskey and cranberry vodka intertwined as you feel her tongue against yours. Lara leaned forward, possibly trying to get you off-balanced as your hands find their way back up.

You hold her face with both hands, beginning to stand up but just enough to keep her seated. Her tongue swipes your bottom lip, and her hands travel down to the button of your cargo pants. “Frisky little hands,” you mutter into her lips, lifting up her top to expose her soft mounds. Fingers brushed against her nipples, feeling how hard they were. Smirking into the kiss, you pinch and she squeals, but only being drowned out by the way both of you began to breath heavily. 

Your hands palm her boobs, while Lara’s hand was slipping past your own undergarments. Only letting her reach so far, she feels like she’s so close yet so far as you shift your hips back a bit.

“I want you, now,” she practically snarled, sounding like a decent command. Shaking your head, you quickly moved your swollen lips down to her tits, sucking on one to give it a pop out of your mouth. The move has Lara shutter a bit, and her chest moved up and down, her breats bouncing a bit with the staggered breaths.

Backing up, you stand again, towering over her, dragging her up by the wrist and spinning her around to put her back on her original spot. She’s bent over the table now, and you press your hips against her ass as your hand reaches back to your bag and unzips it. The click of the harness clasps is loud in the quiet room. You know she hears it.

And she moans, you’re not even inside her yet.

She turns her head to look at you, eyes locked on the way you adjust the purple strap. Her chest rises and falls hard. 

She bites her lip. “You brought toys?” she breathes.

“I always come prepared.” You run a hand down the curve of her back, over the dip of her ass, before gripping it—hard enough to make her whimper. “Thought you’d want the full experience.”

You lean over her, lips brushing her ear. “Tell me who’s on top now.”

She huffs a laugh, but it’s shaky. Her fingers grip the table, as you drag your cock through her folds and watch her squirm, her body betraying her pride—wet and pulsing, ready to take it. 

You push in slowly at first, giving her enough to gasp and squirm—but not all of it is in yet.

“You’re dripping, Lara,” you say, almost entranced by the way her juices dripped down her thighs once you stood her up.

“Shit,” she curses under her breath but lets out a pleased sigh when you slowly move out a bit.

Your hips snap forward, bottoming out with a low groan in your throat, and she lets out a needy moan, hands gripping hard at the edges of the table. You stay there for a moment, fully inside, both of you breathing hard. 

But Lara wasn’t done yet. She pushes back—trying to take control again—but you slap her ass once, and she stills.

“You gonna behave?” you ask. She’s breathless, but answers, “Not a chance.”

You pull back and slam back into her, hand gripping her hip hard, forcing her to take it. She moans louder, her voice high and wrecked now, and it’s music to your ears. Your pace is brutal and relentless—her moans becoming broken gasps between curses.

“Fucking hell, Y/n,” she breathed out, now panting a bit. “This is too good.”

Your hand reaches her throat, pulling her back against your chest as you fuck her deeper, as the table shakes a bit at the force.

“You’re loud for a top,” you growl against her ear. “You like it,” she bites back.

You squeeze lightly, just enough for her to feel it, and her eyes flutter shut. Your free hand slips around her body, finding her clit and circling it in slow, tight motions while you pound into her. She shakes, nearly coming apart, and you don’t stop until she’s gasping, moaning, squirming in your hold.

And when she finally finishes, her body shudders, collapsing against the table, slick and weak.

That didn’t stop you, though. There was a small pause, giving her a moment to breath as she panted against the table. Lara’s too tried, too tired to even try and spin you around to even eat you out. 

But being the menace you are, you began moving your hips slowly while catching your breath. After every slow roll of your hips, Lara lets out a slow moan and she doesn’t even comprehend what your about to do. You lift one leg up, using one arm to hold onto the raised thigh. Making a slight adjustment, you bend your knees to make sure your hitting the right spots.

“What a nice view,” she hears you and looks over to find you smiling at her tired self. The sight was perfect, as you moves slowly, Lara’s tits and ass would bounce in sync with you. Ever the ‘dom,’ her eyes stay locked on yours as you begin to quicken the pace.

She tries to not give you the satisfaction, and she was going strong. Her lips pressed shut tight, and you shake your head with a chuckle. “You obey me, Lara.” Those words have her even more wet than before, as if that was even possible. You hips snap quickly, her juices having your strap coated, slipping in and out with ease.

“Ever felt like a bottom?” You ask, licking your upper teeth and she shakes her head, her eyes shutting against her will. “I’m honored to be the first then,” you spoke and your other hand finds her clit.

“What a sopping wet pussy. All because of me, huh?” Your fingers where going in circles and Lara’s thighs begin to tense.

You press down on her lower stomach, making sure you kept up with the pace. It was evident that she’s about to cum, Lara biting her bottom lip at the feeling. She can’t hold back, leaning up to kiss you as her brows scrunched. 

“Shit,” she squeaks against your lips, then kissing it again like it would stop the inevitable. You feel how her thighs shake at your sides, and you continue to fuck her until she setteles down, slowing your pace.

Lara’s now leaning on your chest, half naked while your also huffing out breaths. The sight of her tired figure on you makes you chuckle again, “soooo whose the top now?”

A small laugh escapes her lips as she hits your chest, now taking a needed break.

It had been a few weeks since that night in the storage room, and to be blunt, you still thought about it way too often. 

After that night, you believed that it would happen again. Especially after winning the bet and actually getting her number for the deal you guys made.

What started as a supposed fuck buddy deal quickly became something else. After exchanging numbers, you and Lara found yourselves running into each other more and more. Some of those times were planned, and some of them weren’t, but eventually… it didn’t really matter.

The two of you just started spending time together. Like—a lot.

There were nights she’d meet you after class to grab late-night tacos, or mornings you’d spot her on the quad and end up sitting in the sun together just talking. It felt, oddly, natural even if you didn’t know her for that long. 

Maybe it was because you guys fucked and are so similar. You weren’t really together… but the line blurred more and more by the day.

And it wasn’t just one-on-one anymore.

Lara had started joining you and your friends for chill nights at the house—she was there for random game nights, for Manon’s “mandatory movie marathons,” and even when Sophia was baking and needed people to test her creations. And just like that, you started hanging out with her friends too, often enough that Megan and Dani didn’t even question it anymore when you’d just show up at events Lara was already at.

It wasn’t like either of you were hiding it. But it’s not like either of you said anything, either.

Still… your friends noticed, and they noticed fast.

You were in your shared house, couch sunk, one arm over your eyes after a long-ass day. Sophia was pacing around the kitchen island with a bowl of popcorn, popping pieces into her mouth like a machine gun. Manon was scrolling her phone next to you. Yoonchae was curled up with a blanket and the TV remote.

The casual vibe didn’t last long, because your best friends like being nosey. “So,” Sophia suddenly said, sharp enough to cut through the quiet. “You and Lara.”

You blinked, dragging your arm down. “What about us?”

She gave you a look. “You guys act like you’re dating.”

Manon didn’t even look up from her phone. “Because they probably are.”

Yoonchae perked up from the blanket. “You literally shared her drink yesterday and wiped sauce off her lip.”

“She wiped it off my lip,” you mumbled, trying not to sound too defensive. “And it was one bite of my sandwich—”

“Oh my god,” Sophia muttered, putting the popcorn down. “That’s what couples do, Y/n.”

You sat up straighter, now regretting coming out of your room. It wasn’t serious or anything, but you hadn’t exactly made up your mind about how you feel. All you knew was the world seemed to stop everytime you were with her… on denial is a damn river in Egypt. “Y’all are delusional.” 

“Are we?” Manon asked, finally glancing over. “You let her braid your hair.”

“She was bored!”

Yoonchae chimed in. “You got mad when Megan made a comment about her boobs.”

You paused. “…That one was fair.”

All three of them stared at you like you were part of a museum, watching your brain try to do the mental gymnastics to pretend you didn’t care. But your pulse was quick, a little annoyed, and maybe… a little exposed.

Sophia raised a brow. “Where are you going, anyway?”

You grabbed your bag and keys. “To meet Lara.”

All three voices: “Exactly.”

Sophia threw popcorn at you and shouted, “You’re proving our point!” as the door slammed behind you.

Outside the main school building, the sun was soft, golden hour beginning to hit—the lighting that made Lara’s skin glow and made you hate yourself for noticing things like that so often.

You leaned on your bike, helmet hooked on one forearm and a second helmet dangling off your fingers. Your other hand tucked into the pocket of your baggy jeans, the breeze tugging at your loose thank top. You probably looked like some shitty college action movie cliché.

Lara spotted you from the steps, eyes landing on the helmet immediately.

“I still can’t get over how fucking hot it is that you ride a motorcycle,” she said, casually, like it was just a fact. That made you grin.

But before you could say anything else, a voice you didn’t recognize—shrill and weirdly desperate rang out, “Lara?”

You watched her face tighten and look over at the girl who called. “That’s Tatum,” she muttered under her breath, jaw tensing.

Tatum, her dorm roommate, was exactly the kind of girl who dressed like she still thought she was in a high school hallway drama. Lip gloss, skinny jeans, vans, and a graphic tea. She stomped over like she had a lot to say.

“Lara, you haven’t been answering me. I’ve been texting and calling—do you even care?” she said, completely ignoring you as she all but cornered Lara. “I miss you. Can we please talk back at the dorm—”

Before she could even get another word in, Lara stepped closer to you and wrapped her arms around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“She’s my girlfriend,” she said, point-blank.

You froze. Wait. Girlfriend?

Tatum blinked, thrown completely off. “You’re what?” Lara only smiled sweetly before looking up at you like it was your line now.

So you went with it.

You let your arm fall around her shoulder and pulled her closer, smirking. “Yeah,” you said. “I’m her girlfriend.”

And to seal the deal, you pressed a light kiss to Lara’s temple. It wasn’t weird for some reason. Not after what you two had already done. But it felt… intimate in a way that made your chest feel too tight under your shirt.

Tatum looked like she might explode. “What about us? What we had?” she snapped.

Lara didn’t even blink.

That’s when you stepped in. “I think that was all in your head,” you said calmly. “Because she’s with me now.”

Tatum’s eyes welled up fast, and before either of you could say anything else, she spun around and walked away, aggressively wiping her eyes and cursing under her breath.

Neither of you pulled away after the dramatic exit. You glanced down to find Lara already looking up at you, a smile teasing at her lips.

“Girlfriend, huh?” you asked. She tilted her head, playfully, “You like that idea?”

You chuckled softly, hand still on her shoulder, your body warm from her closeness. “Wanna make it happen for real?”

Lara laughed—a real, head-tossing kind of laugh. You’d think she was mocking you, but her face said otherwise. It was pure happiness and delight written all over her.

“Take me out on a date first,” she said, eyes sparkling.

You nodded once. “Deal.” Well… now its time to make the girl who you specifically remembered, officially yours.

[frankcastler]

entering into the KATSEYE world and this blog is amazing, really good written plot and angst.. this one is one of my favorite of sophia for sure!! keep up the great work 😊💖

「 Never Getting off my Mind 」

l. sophia x f reader ✎𓂃 Everyone loves Sophia Laforteza—she’s basically the golden girl of the school. But for some reason, you’ve never really liked her, and the feeling seems mutual. You’re close with her friends, somehow always around without actually being part of the group. The two of you clash constantly, especially in Student Committee meetings. People say you’d make a great pair, but it’s hard to tell if that’s a compliment or a warning.

word count ! 11.8 k

tags ! enemies to lovers, dom! reader, top! reader, bottom! sophia, switch! sophia, jealous! sophia, overstimulation, rough sex, fingering (s! receiving), oral (s! receiving), cunnilingus, heavy making out, usage of many pet names, a little degradation, teasing, praise

author's note ! fic inspo is this song and if u haven't seen the mv for this... its simple but effective for the wuh luh wuh is all ill say 🥰

also like dont be quiet! comment, reblog, send anons IDC LETS BE FRIENDS PLS #lonelyandnofriends

Riuscita University is a world-renowned school, producing some of the best in multiple fields, and having a successful alumni. A school that thrives and encourages its students to be plausible mentors of their crafts in due time.

Normally, students disliked school. It can be boring, hectic, soul-crushing, and cause crashouts. Yet, almost 90% of Riuscita students love the school.

The campus has this ultra-modern look, multiple buildings, large fields, and the atmosphere is always lively. Many people would describe the school to be similar to Pepperdine University or, commonly known as, Pacific Coast Academy of Zoey 101.

A dream school for many and a goal for most to achieve, only a handful get picked to become a Riuscita student.

Though a successful group of students are Sophia, Manon, Daniela, Megan, Lara, and Yoonchae. Many people knew the girls who always emphasized that ‘blood is thicker than water’ for them. 

It started with Sophia and Manon, who were friends from their previous high school, then Daniela, who joined the duo when she met Manon in a Psychology class. Lara was from the same high school, and Megan met Dani in her first year in Dance. Yoonchae, the latest addition, is a freshman who just clicked with the five girls.

It’s reality, but the girls somehow made their reality become a movie experience. 

They’re the diverse popular girls of campus, from students wanting to be their friend, students wanting to be them, or students wanting to date them. Some people wanted all three—that’s how much influence they have.

Everyone had their role, and all six girls seemed to ‘play’ it well. 

Sophia, who is the evident ‘leader’ amongst the girls, holds the most power. The Student Government President of Riuscita is adored by every single person to exist on campus, and that alone made her the jolliest girl.

“I’ve been wanting to try a hot stone massage on someone—if anyone's down at least,” Daniela spoke, her eyes on her iPad, then looking at her friends who sat around the circular table.

“Hot Stone Massage?” Megan perks up at the info, Dani nodding at the younger. “Is that for your massage therapy class?” Lara asks, and while the Latina happily nods, Manon chuckles.

“I can’t believe that’s an actual class here. How do you even get graded? Massaging your Professor? Because that would be weird,” Manon gives her two senses, and the younger sticks her tongue out.

“It’s an easy class, and we’re graded by tests and participation, party pooper.”

“I may need that massage,” the words escape Sophia’s lips, her acrylic nails clacking on the keyboard of her laptop while her eyes flash across the screen multiple times. She shuts the computer as she finishes, staring at Dani with tired eyes, “Student Government is going to be busy, and I need all the mental fortitude I can get.”

“Cause the semester just started?” 

Sophia nods at Yoonchae’s question, the younger girl tossing some chips into her mouth. “The last president planned so much for the student welcoming that we have events the entire month.” Lara’s lips pursed, a look of confusion in her eyes, “Can’t you just rearrange or cancel some of them? You are this year's president after all.”

“And be the girl who ruined everyone’s fun this year? Yeah, no can do,” Sophia says matter-of-factly, her shoulders raised at the dilemma. 

“You have good staff this year—I’m sure they’ll have your back on everything,” Manon tells her, but Sophia could only tell herself that once, then fail to believe it every other time.

Oh, and Sophia being adored by everyone?  Yeah, the fact is somewhat false.

Because there is one person who doesn’t.

“Oh look! I guess Y/n already started posting on the school page,” Lara says excitedly as she shows Megan the post.

Sophia could only roll her eyes at the sound of your name.

Y/n L/n. Part of the student government as the social media manager, all-rounder in every aspect, and super involved in Riuscita’s activities.

It could be argued that you and Sophia are the most adored students on campus, but the Filipina wouldn’t dare admit to that. Because you were the only one who didn’t like her, and you could say the feeling is mutual, with her not liking you either.

There isn’t an exact sequence of how it all happened, but Sophia always recalled why it started in the first place. During her second year, Sophia began building this sophisticated, intelligent, and leader-like brand, which is why she’s in the position she is today.

That year was when she first met you, when you became a shadow for the previous social media manager.

Sophia had the intention of making sure she was friends with everyone, no matter what the cost was. But none of those efforts worked on you—none at all.

When Sophia bought the student government food, you wouldn’t eat the food or thank her; you’d just eat a snack from the school’s vending machines. When she helped make you the homeroom representative during the third year, there wasn’t an ounce of gratitude. When the school had an awarding ceremony and you didn’t shake her hand while on stage.

The last straw for her was when you became Yoonchae’s big sister in the buddy program, then proceeded to find out all the girls were friends with you… other than her.

Sophia couldn’t even express her rage and irritation with you in peace because the other five constantly defended you.

“Y/n helps a lot of the students in the wellness club. She’s honestly so helpful.” —Manon

“She did the choreography for dance club—during the 2 weeks I sprained my ankle.” —Daniela

“The coach called me boring, and Y/n helped me get better!” —Megan

“Gosh, I struggled writing lyrics yesterday, and Y/n stayed with me after club hours to complete it!” —Lara

“Oh yeah, I helped Y/n-unnie cook some Bulgogi for Cultural Awareness! She’s a really good cook.” —Yoonchae

That wasn’t even the end of it all, but Sophia had trained herself to have selective hearing when it came to you. She often zoned out when you became the topic of conversation, because even if you weren’t friends with her, you had become this looming, phantom 7th member of the group.

And oh, how she fucking hated that.

Sophia made up her mind about you. Unfortunately, she thought about it quite a lot—why you didn’t like her, why you didn’t interact with her, or how you became her friend’s friend.

She jogged it up to the two of you being completely different people, and you would think, due to her smarts, that she knew what the real reason was. But she’s just plain wrong.

“Oh shit, my class starts in five minutes.” 

Sophia gets brought back to reality when she hears Megan’s chair scrape the concrete, her body fleeing away before she could even comprehend her words.

“I have class in thirty, but it’s also across campus, so I need to start walking,” Manon tells the four left, leaving them to make her way to one of the farther buildings of the school.

The Filipina’s eyes drift to the time on her phone, finding the time to be 9:15, “Ugh, I have a meeting, so I gotta go. Kill me now.” Lara giggles at the attitude, while Yoonchae and Dani wave the older off.

Sophia made her way to the school’s main building, her plain Mary Jane shoes thumping on the floor, and took the elevator to her respected floor. Both her devices were held close to her chest, hugging them so they wouldn’t slip, while her shoulder had a large purse placed on it.

While entering the spacious room, many of the students inside straightened their posture, and whoever sat down immediately stood up. You're the only exception, leaning against the wall with the window open, staring at your phone.

Sophia noticed the focus on your face, brows scrunched together as your thumbs tapped away.

Staring straight at you, she raises her voice, “Everyone, take a seat please, let’s get this meeting started!”

Everyone scrambles to their seat while you don’t even flinch, just turning off your phone and walking over to the opposite side of the meeting table. She could only hold back the urge to roll her eyes, taking a seat while looking through her tablet.

“Gabriella wanted to do six projects before the end of this month for a proper school welcoming,” Sophia says while everyone begins typing through their own laptops, using Google Docs for notes or a group spreadsheet.

When looking up, she finds you scrolling through your phone again, luckily, everyone’s focused on listening to her words as she successfully rolled her eyes in a discreet way this time.

“Are we able to complete the baking fundraiser, the car wash fundraiser, the welcoming party by the end of this month, two career fairs, and a guest lecture?”

This time, Sophia’s worried tone has you turning your phone off, looking at everyone else in the room who nods.

You shift in your chair, leaning forward with your elbows on the table while suggesting a proper schedule. “Can I suggest a schedule?”

Sophia bit her tongue, only nodding her head to let you proceed.

“Everyone expects a fun time at school, so we should begin with the baking fundraiser. It’ll help students get acquainted with delicious baked goods. We also already have a bakery in mind from an alumnus who's willing to provide the food for us.”

You then take out your phone, staring at the calendar for dates. “We should then spread out everything. The second week can be the fundraiser and career fair for earlier students. The guest lecture and the second fundraiser should follow next week. Last week should be the car wash, it’ll generate more money on a Monday since students and staff would be driving in for the entire day. Then the last Friday should be the party, so almost everyone won’t have work the next day.”

Instead of acknowledging the plan, Sophia turns to the vice president, assistant, and event coordinator, “Does that seem doable for us?”

“Other than the fact that we’ll have to slow down events the next month, then it's doable.”

“That’s fine, club activities will probably happen by then. I’ll have Laurence oversee that.” 

The Club Activities Manager stiffens when she says his name, and you press your lips together to stifle a laugh. While everyone seems to their panties in a bunch around her, you could almost just laugh while everyone looks like they’re about to piss themselves.

The Student Government Assistant, Kayla, who would suck up to Sophia, smiled at her. “I’ll start adding events to the calendars and sending everyone their jobs by the end of tonight.”

Sophia grants this graceful smile while the younger girl gets right to her job. “Is the guest speaker going to be ready by the following week?”

“We’ll get in touch with them and keep you updated.” “Budgets and decorations?” Sophia’s eyes flicker to the other end of the table.

“We have a budget of twenty thousand for all six events from school funds and backers. We’ll make sure to make do with what we can.”

“The first fundraiser should happen within two days time, reach out to the bakery before closing time,” she tells the vice president. Everyone nods along while you just think about how muscular your feet are about to be by the end of the month, with all the walking.

“I’ll have Kayla send everyone any extra details. I’ll be here until 12, so please reach out to me if anything is needed,” Sophia tells everyone, adjourning the meeting. You try to exit the room as quickly as possible, but Carl stops you first, that friendly smile he always gave you easing the annoyance.

“I think I’m gonna need some help with the clubs for next month,” he gives you these puppy eyes, and you cackle, catching Sophia’s attention.

“I’ll list possible events some groups have, then I’ll report it to you by the end of this month.”

Carl squeals, like his usual self, and gives you a tight hug, “You're the best Y/n!”

While Carl tries to crush your bones, you catch the glare that Sophia gives you from afar, eliciting a smile from you.

“Piss off,” the Filipina mutters and focuses back on speaking to Kayla and the vice president. 

You leave the room, heading to your first class of the day, which is luckily in the same building. The hallways were a bit warm due to multiple students crowding in their own little groups. You slip through the side entrance of the Life Sciences wing of the building, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag.

It was the first real week of the semester, but luckily, most of your professors seemed laid back. You went to the third floor for your Aging and Chronic Illness class, happening in one of the building’s newer lab-style classrooms. It’s one of your final requirements to graduate as a Gerontology major, and the content wasn't so bad. Professor Cho, who had a gentle grandma energy, made sure of that.

You walk in and immediately make your way to the front row, second seat from the left. “Damn, early again?”

Raya’s voice comes from behind in a teasing manner. She’s holding two protein bars in one hand, and she tosses one at you before pulling out her chair. “Thanks,” you mumble, catching it with one hand. You tear off the wrapper and toss your bag under the table in a smooth motion.

Raya plops into the seat beside you, crossing one leg over the other. “So... how’s your morning been? Anyone try to fight you yet?”

You snort. “Close. Sophia gave me another one of her death stares during the meeting.”

Raya rolls her eyes. “Again?”

“Yeah,” you deadpan, chewing your bar slowly. “I think her brain almost exploded when Carl hugged me.” Raya leans forward with her arms on the desk, grinning like she already knew where this was going. “You love pissing her off.”

You shrug. “I don’t love it. It’s unintentional.”

She gives you a look of, ‘Oh, be for real right now.’ “You act so different with her compared to literally everyone else. Like, I’ve seen you sit with freshmen crying over their GPA, and you’re all comforting and ‘here’s a snack, it’s okay,’ but then Sophia breathes and you look like you want to stand in a lane with fast cars.”

You raise a brow. “She ‘started’ it.”

Raya snickers and shakes her head, clearly amused. “You are the weirdest social butterfly I’ve ever met.”

“She just… rubs me the wrong way. Like we’re oil and water.”

“You say that like you haven’t thought about it enough,” she teases, half-turning toward you. “Is it really just a vibe thing?”

“Of course.” You don’t meet her eyes. “I mean, yeah. She’s fake and controlling and… I don’t know, I just don’t like her.”

“That actually seems like a fair statement to make, but you don’t even know her,” she says softly, her voice sing-song.

Before you can argue or give her another look, the door swings open, and Professor Cho walks in. Raya pulled her notebook out while you took out your own. The professor clicks the projector on, the screen behind her lighting up with a slideshow labeled: “AGING AND CHRONIC ILLNESS – WEEK 2: Psychological Perspectives on Aging”

“Good morning, everyone,” she says, her voice calm. “Today we’re going to start looking into how the aging process affects cognition, behavior, and emotional development, especially in relation to chronic illness.”

You zone in, but Raya bumps your arm lightly with her elbow before class fully starts.

"Wanna bet you and Sophia will be friends before graduation?"

You give her a death stare and scoff. "I’m not wasting my money, but also not happening."

“Pussyyyyyy~”

“Oh, be quiet and focus, please.”

Two days went by quicker than expected, and it was finally time for the first event of the Student Government.

The central courtyard, normally home to passer-by students and people doing assignments, had been transformed into an outdoor bakery.

White booths lined the concrete path, decorated with royal blue streams due to the school colors. The air was full of sweet scents—sugar, cinnamon, and warm butter that could make anyone salivate. Banners hung from light poles, proudly reading, ‘Welcome Back Fundraiser!’ and ‘Butter & Bloom Bakery here today!’ 

Clarisse, class of 2012 and former culinary student, was something of a legend on campus. Her bakery had since expanded to three cities, and the fact that she came back for this event had half the culinary majors geeking out.

Over 5,000 baked goods had been delivered by truck early that morning by her catering team. From lemon poppyseed madeleines to boxes stacked high with ube-stuffed croissants, the bakery had sent a variety. There were eclairs piped with vanilla cream, matcha macarons in pastel boxes, and yes, an entire glass display case for multiple cupcake flavors.

The school took 30% of the proceeds for their various club and scholarship funds, while the bakery kept the remaining 70%, though she promised to donate back a large portion “just because.”

The booths had been open since 9 in the morning. By 11:30, Sophia was sitting on a sun-warmed bench near the fountain, her dainty fingers holding a glazed lemon tart with brûléed sugar on top, and a candied slice of lemon perched right in the center.

“Okay, I get it now,” she says after the first bite, eyes wide in delight. “This is insane.”

“I told you Clarisse wasn’t playing around,” Manon hums, pulling apart a chocolate-hazelnut cruffin. Daniela, beside her, got a cinnamon-apple twist, sticky with glaze. “If I die today, bury me in one of these.”

“You’d attract ants,” Yoonchae pipes up, munching on a ube cookie while giving a disgusted look. Lara, the most practical of the six currently, is carefully using a fork and knife to eat a tres leches cupcake on a paper plate. “Did you guys see the brownie cheesecake hybrid thing? I couldn’t even look at it.”

Megan nods, her fingers brushing powdered sugar from her lips as she finishes a strawberry mochi donut. “I took a pic of it for my insta. I think I fell in love.”

Sophia, basking in the rare moment of calmness, let herself lean back slightly to take in the sun, legs crossed at the ankles, the hem of her skirt brushing her thigh. “This was a good idea,” she admits, almost begrudgingly. “The turnout’s great, Clarisse looks like a celebrity, and everything is functioning.”

Somewhere across the courtyard, a loud laugh pierces the air. Students shuffle between booths, and the music playing from the outdoor speakers continues to blast with soft pop music.

Sophia glances up toward the crowd.

You were doing laps around the event like a trained soldier. Wearing your usual plain white tee, camera slung around your shoulder, and a phone in one hand, you were busy directing shots, snapping crowd photos, close-ups of the pastries, and even artsy scenery pictures of the decorated campus.

You were exhausted, being there since 6:30 that morning, helping set up banners, guiding Clarisse’s team, and making sure the layout was symmetrical enough for the drone shots the school planned on using later.

But finally—finally—you had time for a small break.

You made your way to the cupcakes because they were calling your name as soon as you saw them that morning. There were a variety of flavors, ranging from plain vanilla to even a red bean-flavored sweet.

You picked a red velvet cupcake since it was your favorite flavor, tapping your phone screen to snap a quick picture of it before paying, and finally, letting yourself enjoy something sweet for once.

“Y/n!”

You turned your head to see Megan approaching, her drink in hand—something lavender-colored in a tall plastic cup with tapioca pearls. Could only assume it was taro bubble tea from the milk tea stand.

“Hey,” you said with a tired grin, your voice a bit hoarse from hours of talking.

“Don’t tell me you just now got something to eat,” Megan says, half-scolding.

“I did. Needed to make sure I got the best shots before sundown.”

Megan laughs, standing beside you as you unwrap the red velvet cupcake. “You work too hard. But you looked cool doing it, not gonna lie.”

“I always look cool.”

You show her the screen of your phone—a short boomerang of Clarisse handing out mini boxes to students, followed by a gallery of vibrant pictures. Some pastries lined in neat rows, smiling students mid-bite, and a close-up of the welcome banner swaying with the wind. Then you swipe to your camera—a DSLR that gleamed with how well taken care of it was.

“Some of these are getting passed off to the editor.”

Megan leans in and gasps softly. “Wait, go back— that one!”

You scroll back two photos—a candid shot of Sophia holding the tart earlier, eyes bright, smile wide.

“I’m gonna need you to send that to me,” she declares instantly. “You’re so talented, it’s actually annoying,” she says, nudging your shoulder. “Anyway, I should get back before they send out a search party.”

“Tell Sophia I’m still alive,” you joke, waving her off as she heads back toward the bench.

When Megan returns to the group, she’s practically bouncing. “I just saw Y/n!” Sophia doesn’t look up from her phone, but her brows twitch ever so slightly.

“Oh yeah?” Lara asks, licking some frosting off her fork.

“Yeah, she was by the cupcake stand. She got such pretty photos—like, she showed me some? They're so good, it made me want to scream.”

“She always has that eye,” Daniela adds, brushing her hair behind her ear. “I saw some of the shots she did for the Spring Gala last year, and they looked like they should be in a magazine.”

“She took this one of Sophia,” Megan says, holding out her phone with the picture you had just sent from your phone. “Look how good it is—like she’s glowing.”

The girls crowd around to look, and Manon lets out a low whistle. “Okay, that’s actually stunning. You look like you’re in an ad.”

“Of course it looks good,” Sophia says, voice tight, her tone sharp enough to cut. “It’s literally her job.”

The comment has the other five girls pause, turning to her slowly. “Damn, who pissed in your latte?” Dani mutters under her breath.

Manon raises a brow. “You okay over there, Supreme Leader?”

Sophia glares. “I just don’t think we need to throw her a parade for doing what she’s paid to do.”

“She’s not paid, unnie,” Yoonchae chimes in, “She’s technically on scholarship.” Sophia presses her lips together. “Same thing.”

Megan tries to lighten the mood. “I’m just saying—she’s got talent, okay? And taste. You should’ve seen the shot she got of me. I looked gorgeous.”

“I’m sure,” Sophia mutters.

“I mean, she made you look extra good,” Manon teases, sipping her iced coffee with a smirk. “Maybe you should ask her for a photoshoot.”

Daniela snorts, taking her last bite while saying, “She’d start a fight before that ever happened.”

“You guys are so annoying,” Sophia groans, standing up abruptly, the remains of her lemon tart left in a cute container.

The girls erupt into laughter. “She’s blushing!” Lara exclaims, pointing at her. “I’m not!” Sophia snaps, already walking away.

“I’ll ask Y/n to take a couple of shots of you next time,” Manon calls after her. “Maybe you’ll stop hating her if she gets your good side.”

“Every side is my good side,” Sophia fires back, but her cheeks are pink. The girls are still giggling when she disappears into the crowd.

Sophia didn’t understand the hype around you despite everyone’s admiration. Sure, you were involved in multiple school activities, but that didn’t mean you were on her level.

That’s what Sophia told herself, at least.

But if you asked everyone on campus, everyone would say you two are alike, even if either of you didn’t admit to it. You had a similar charm and a natural-born leader-like aura, even if you only had minor roles within the activities you participated in.

The list is quite surprising, actually. You are the Student Government’s social media manager, part of the Buddy Program, a member of the cultural awareness club, music club, wellness club, vice captain of the school’s dance team, and have helped out with fundraisers.

You made sure to get all the experience you could while being on a scholarship, and all the efforts paid off after four years. Everyone recognized your efforts, even Sophia did deep down.

“Ugh, get out of my head,” she groans quietly, trying to make sure no one sees a stressed version of Sophia Laforteza out in the wild.

Although to her luck, the one person she would’ve liked to avoid stopped in their tracks at the sight of her gripping her dark locks.

You held the camera right to your chest, looking toward the left, where you found her behind one of the booths.

Sophia’s face morphed into disappointment. “This cannot be happening right now,” she muttered. 

She sees this amusement in your eyes, the same look you gave her when you successfully annoyed her. There's this tension that feels forbidden to speak of, and all Sophia can do is push past you.

The shove of her shoulder lingered on your own, hand caressing the targeted spot while the other made sure the camera didn’t fall and break.

“Can’t believe my major role in life is to piss off the student president,” your eyes shimmered, but your voice laced with sarcasm.

There’s Sophia’s point of view in this entire “rivalry,” but what about yours?

It was simple. Much simpler than the Filipina made it out to be.

You believed Sophia was a fraud since day 1.

Initially, you thought that the woman wanted to make friends. The way you remembered the first meeting with her is a complete 180 from what she remembers. Because her first interaction with you was when you met her during your prerequisite class during your sophomore year of college, not in the student government.

Sophia’s position at the time was assistant to both the vice president and the student body president at the time. She sucked up to the older girls, making sure she looked good and outshone others.

That’s not how she portrayed it, but that's what it felt like, and you hadn’t liked her ever since. Through the years, there wasn’t any evident change to Sophia’s character, but it made her predictable.

Like when she bought everyone food, gave you a class rep position, hell, even her moving up in the school’s ‘political’ hierarchy made sense.

You simply didn’t like her, completely aware that the feelings were mutual.

The similarities in personalities and work ethic are uncanny between the two of you. Yet the biggest difference was that you have all your friends, connections, and even assignments through effortlessness, while Sophia made it feel like she had to plaster her face on the walls to make sure people paid attention to her.

It’s probably harsh to say, but because of how blunt you are, that’s just how you feel.

You doubt that will ever change, either.

There’s another world or dimension where you and Sophia didn’t know or hate each other, but not in this timeline. Because the next few weeks were about to be you and her spending a lot of time together with all the events happening.

Especially since you took photos of anyone and anything, there was no way she could avoid you.

Just when she didn’t think it could get any worse for her, the world decided to go against her during the second fundraiser.

Sophia knew that you had a persevering and determined work ethic, willing to get work done and to help. She wasn’t aware of what lengths you’d go to help, though.

That day, she could only stop by the parking lot due to a busy schedule and some assignments needing to be done. Once she made it, there were loads of cars lined up—some being rinsed while others were lathered in soap.

Kayla stood next to her, handing the Filipina a clipboard to check if things were running smoothly. Her eyes traveled down to a list of volunteers, where she found one of the wash girls had not made it.

“Didn’t we have 15 students on the list? Why didn’t Giovanna show up?” Sophia squinted behind her shades, and Kayla straightened her posture at the question. “She recently sprained her ankle during soccer practice, so she couldn’t make it.”

“Well, who replaced her?” Before Sophia can finish her question, the younger student points at the red car currently being washed, where she finds you in a cami top and skimpy, low-waisted denim shorts.

Thank the heavens for her large shades. Sophia blinked furiously as if her vision blurred, and one she coughed once, her cheeks almost turned pink through her makeup.

She had never seen this side of you. This hot, sensual one. The white cami you wore had practically gone see-through from the water, the fabric soaked top clinging onto every curve on your body. The denim shorts showed off your legs, how they glistened in the sun like diamonds, covered with water droplets on them.

Don’t even get her started on the midriff she saw peaking through. You rarely ever wore crop tops, at least at any given moment while Sophia’s around. So when she sees your defined abs, the wet top molding into them, she covers her mouth with the palm of her hand at the shock.

“What the hell…?”

“Is she doing here?” Kayla tries to finish the question, Sophia only nodding her head in surprise. “Y/n finished posting on all the socials, so she decided to help out when she saw one team had missing members.”

The older person could only mumble, “What about the high-end cars from larger customers?” “She dries her hands and takes pictures with her phone instead of the camera.”

Sophia can’t even respond, her eyes never leaving you, no matter how busy you were. The strands of your hair are obviously wet, losing their volume as some of it clung to your exposed skin. The way your top had become see-through, the dark blue bra you wore was vibrant through the now sheer top.

Her breath hitches when you flick your hair back upward, making sure it isn’t in front of you. It looked like those movie scenes where the hot girl flings her hair upward while leaving the pool.

…Safe to say that Sophia couldn’t believe that’s actually you.

She had only ever seen you in the professional light, and seeing you like this? Had heat pooling low in her stomach.

The best course of action was to walk away, and she did just that, Kayla following her trail yet falling back due to Sophia’s pace despite in heeled boots.

“Uhm, Sophia? Where are we going?” she hears a trembling voice behind her, and Sophia’s brows furrow, not at the question, but at the fact that her brain couldn’t stop thinking of you.

“I want to check out venues for the welcome party.”

“Outdoors is an option.”

“No. We did the bakery outdoors, and the fact that students and staff will likely be drunk, we can be liable for any mishaps. I’m not taking that chance, Kayla.”

There was urgency in her voice as she walked toward the campus housing office, eyes full of fury as she tried to get her mind off you.

Once Sophia and Kayla got into the room, the younger student began doing what was asked of her while Sophia sat in the waiting area. The blonde had brought a list of usable houses, trying to see which one fit the needs of MANY students.

“Every house isn’t fit for multiple students in the school; the list is pretty much comprised of outdoor venues other than one.”

“The modern-looking house in Beverly Hills?” Kayla nods, and she hears a groan from the senior. “I want a change of scenery and a spot easily accessible for students without cars.”

Before her assistant can respond, Sophia is already standing and walking over to the desk with a formidable walk.

Her hands slam down on the table, causing the employee at the front desk to flinch. Trying to keep her image intact, Sophia gives the man a friendly smile, her nails drumming on the counter. “Julian, right?”

The boy just nods, and she begins to give a very believable performance. “The newly built dormitory just passed the inspection, right? I was hoping we could use it for the welcoming party for students and staff this upcoming Friday. We can restrict it to only the first floor with all the amenities.”

“I’m sorry, Sophia. I’m not sure how doable that’s gonna be.”

Kayla, who does well in acting as her counterpart, leans over the counter with an evil smile, “Get Joe in here, please?”

The boy can only nod, scared to piss off the two, and runs to the back room. About five minutes later, Julian comes out with Joe behind him, who's evidently exhausted from all the work he’s doing.

“Ah, Laforteza. What can I do for you?”

“New dorm as venue for the welcoming party?” Her voice is high-pitched while she speaks fast, in hopes it will get him to agree. Yet she’s well loved by everyone, so why would he say no?

“Done, I’ll fax over the papers of me approving it—I’m sure the dean and principal will sign. If not, and that’s a really low chance, I’ll look for a place that fits your needs.”

“Cool, Kayla, send him the details.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sophia’s charms, unsurprisingly, did their damn thing with Joe.

Technically, the school’s Residential Director, who pretty much operated more like a cool uncle who wandered campus with a hippie shirt on, had successfully made everyone agree to the girls' wishes. One little meeting, a couple of compliments about the architecture of the newly-built Verano Dormitory, and a perfectly packaged proposal from Sophia herself, and the man had agreed.

By Friday night, the lower level—bigger than even some of the academic buildings—was converted into a party den. String lights flickered along the ceiling beams, the color-changing LEDs wrapped around pillars bathed everything in soft blue and gold. 

There were food trays near the shared kitchen, music pumping through the large tower speakers, and enough students packed into one building to classify as a slight fire hazard. But amid the music, laughter, and chaos, Sophia sat neatly curled into the corner of one of the velvet couches in the common lounge, back perfectly straight, one arm draped over the cushion.

Manon, Daniela, Lara, Megan, and Yoonchae were on the same couch—three of them well into a couple of drinks by now. Megan and Yoonchae, on the other hand, sat cross-legged in their spots, nursing cans of soda and passing around a pack of gummies.

“Remind me to never mix hard seltzer and Soju again,” Manon muttered, nearly falling into Dani’s lap. “That’s literally what I said when you started mixing them,” Dani giggles, poking her side with a painted nail.

Sophia sipped lightly from her cup—a citrus cocktail someone had made that tasted like melted sugary fruit—and scanned the room like a hawk, making sure she watched everyone.

“I still can’t believe Joe gave us the dorm,” Lara said through a hiccup, tilting her head up. “Like, this space is huge. Do you see that staircase?”

“Do you see how tipsy you are?” Megan asked, snickering.

Sophia smiled a little, only half-listening, her eyes drifting across the room every few seconds. “Presidential duty,” she said earlier, when they asked why she chose the corner seat. “I should be able to observe everyone from here.”

Then a quick, bright flash and shutter sound caught her attention.

You were standing about six feet away from the group, camera raised, snapping a quick photo, hands swiftly clicking the button, looking way too good in a semi-casual fit that made her think something she absolutely shouldn’t.

You didn’t even say hi— just capturing them mid-laughter, unaware until you pulled the camera away from your face. Dani looked up first, waving with a smile. “¡Y/n! ¡Ven acá!” she shouted above the music, motioning you over.

With no hesitation, you look over to the group who considered you a good friend of theirs, of course, other than Sophia.

Sophia didn't move or bat an eye as she glared at you.  Dani leaned back slightly, cheeks flushed from drinking and how warm the corner was. “¿Aprendiste la nueva coreografía del club de baile ya o no?” (Did you learn the new choreography from the dance club yet or not?)

You gave a small laugh, nodding as you replied, “La aprendí, sí. Pero también le agregué unas partes nuevas para la segunda mitad. Si quieres, podemos practicar este fin de semana para presentarla.” (I did, yeah. But I also added a few new parts for the second half. If you want, we can practice this weekend to present it.)

“¡Eso me encantaría! ¡Mañana o el domingo?” (I’d love that! Tomorrow or Sunday?)

“Lo que te sirva más. Yo me adapto.”(Whatever works best for you. I can adjust.)

You looked effortlessly cool while speaking to Danila, the other, picking up that the conversation was between the captain and the vice captain of the dance team. But while you talked, Sophia felt like her drink suddenly had much more alcohol in it.

Because hearing you speak Spanish shouldn’t have been anything. But it was smooth and fast. Dani laughed again at something you said, and Sophia just stared. She barely caught half of it, but it didn’t matter. The way you became more relaxed while speaking in another language—it had her all nervous in a way that pissed her off.

It wasn’t fair—she’s supposed to hate you. And yet, here she was, borderline malfunctioning over a few fluent sentences.

You glanced over and caught this unfamiliar look in her eye.

It wasn’t her usual look that silently read condescension or superiority complex. No, Sophia looked caught red-handed for some reason.

You furrow your brows slightly, unsure of what to make of it. Was she drunk? Was that just the lighting? Was she—

“I should let you guys hang out,” you muttered, pulling your camera strap higher onto your shoulder. “I’ll see you all on Monday.”

“Wait!” Yoonchae piped up suddenly from her spot on the couch, eyes wide. “Unnie, don’t forget the buddy scrimmages tomorrow! Volleyball, 1 PM. You’re my partner!”

You groaned sarcastically but smiled anyway. “I didn’t forget. I’ll be there.”

“Good,” she said, all proud and chipper. You gave the group a final nod before slipping back into the crowd, blending in with a group headed toward the refreshment table.

Sophia blinked once—then twice. Her drink was now untouched for the entire interaction. Megan leaned over and nudged her arm. “You good?”

“Huh?” Sophia snapped back. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Mm,” Megan said, raising a brow. “You’ve been real quiet since Dani pulled Y/n over. Just sayin’.”

“Don’t start.”

“You sure? Because you were practically drooling when she started talking.”

“I wasn’t drooling,” Sophia snapped, her voice a little too high-pitched to be believable. “You kind of were,” Manon slurred a bit, lifting her drink with a laugh. “But it’s okay. She’s pretty.”

“She is,” Dani agreed, sighing wistfully. “And she dances so well. Like her body control? Ugh. She could step on me and I’d say thank you.”

“Oh my God,” Sophia muttered, sinking deeper into the couch.

“I’m just saying,” Megan grinned. “You’ve got that look again. You only get that when you're obsessed.”

“I’m not obsessed,” Sophia snapped, cheeks burning.

“Then why are you still staring at the spot she was just standing in?” The girls howled.

Lara spilled her drink on her own leg from laughing so hard. Yoonchae was half-giggling, half-mouthing “Unnie has a crush” in Dani’s direction.

Sophia groaned, hiding her face with one hand. “I hate all of you.”

All of her conflicting feelings made her unsure of how she felt about you. 

Before she can make up her mind, Sophia wants to figure out a couple of things first.

You walked through the party, gripping your camera while trying to get to the table full of drinks. Successful enough to get a fruit punch, you take a sip, deep in thought about the look Sophia gave you. There was this interest or longing in her eyes that you’ve never seen before. She’d never been the kind to be shy about her distaste for you—or at least, that’s how it felt. 

“Hey.”

You turned, mid-sip, and found a girl named Cynthia who is in your sociology class. Her hair was styled in a sharp bob and gave you a cheery grin. She distinctively always wore those vintage-style earrings and kept an extra highlighter tucked behind her ear while in class. Tonight, though, she was dressed in a cropped blouse, high-waisted pants, and just the right amount of eyeliner. 

“Hey,” you greeted, polite but a bit confused at the encounter. You lowered your camera and sipped your drink again, scanning the space for new shots. Cynthia, however, wasn’t going to let the moment pass.

“I saw you across the room,” she said, stepping in just a little closer. Her subtle perfume was sweet and filled your nose. “You look really good tonight.”

You chuckled lightly, giving a modest shrug. “Yeah, well, school made me bring out the big camera. Can’t fully enjoy the party.”

“Well, the camera suits you,” Cynthia replied, head tilted. “But I think it’s unfair that you’re behind it instead of in front.”

You smiled, unsure how to respond without sounding rude or leading her on. She clearly meant well, and you didn’t want to embarrass her. “That’s kind of you to say.”

She leaned slightly into your space, eyes sparkling in the low lighting. “You know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you more. You always seem so focused in class.”

“Focused or sleep-deprived,” you joked.

“Both can be hot,” she shot back easily, and you let out a startled laugh. Cynthia was bolder than she seemed in the classroom, probably the liquid courage coursing through her veins.

In the other room, Sophia had excused herself to the bathroom, needing a breather from the relentless teasing of her friends and actually needing the bathroom. She made her way through the hallway, heels clicking, her eyes roaming as she navigated the groups of people clustered near the stairs. On her way back, she cut through the side of the common area and paused.

There you were, leaning against the table, camera resting on your hip, soft smile on your face as you talked to Cynthia.

Her heart stalled a bit. She knew she wasn’t jealous, that much she knew. But maybe curiosity, concern, annoyance? She isn’t really sure about what it was. But it made her stop walking altogether, partly shielded behind a group of students in front of her, who were stuck in their own conversation. She watched as Cynthia laughed too loudly, as she touched your arm too comfortably, as you gave a tight smile and shifted your weight, but didn’t move away. 

You looked stuck as Sophia squinted. Your body language was hesitant, but like her, you were probably too nice to tell the girl off. Still, Cynthia kept leaning in, twirling a piece of hair and batting her lashes.

Sophia didn’t know why it made her jaw tense, but her body seemed to walk forward on its own.

Cynthia was saying something else flirty—something you were clearly not paying attention to, but she didn’t get the memo. It took all your restraint not to choke on your punch at comments that surprised you.

“Hey,” Sophia said, breezy but loud enough to stop the conversation. You and Cynthia both turned. “Sorry to interrupt. You’re needed back on coverage Y/n. Joe wants a couple of story shots from the east side before people start heading out since it's getting late.”

You blinked. “Oh. Yeah, of course.”

Sophia gave a closed-lip smile. “Now, preferably.”

Cynthia took a small step back, lips pursing at Sophia’s intimidating aura. “Oh, right. Of course… School stuff.” Her voice lost some of its luster.

You nodded apologetically, lifting your camera. “Rain check,” you told her with a polite tone.

“Maybe,” she said, but the flirt had drained from her smile.

Sophia didn’t wait for either of you to say more. She turned and started walking, clearly expecting you to follow. And you did, adjusting your strap and catching up.

Once out of Cynthia’s earshot, you glanced sideways at her. “Did Joe really say that?”

“He didn’t have to.” Sophia didn’t look at you. “That’s what you're on Student Government for.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Are you my supervisor now?”

“No,” she said. “But it looked like you needed help.”

You gave her a long look. “Is that some concern I’m hearing, Pres?”

Sophia finally met your gaze, but her expression was unreadable. Her voice was cool, but softer. “I don’t like distractions.”

“I wasn’t distracted.”

“Cynthia was being obvious.”

“Not my fault, she wanted to talk.”

Sophia didn’t respond immediately; she only walked ahead until you both reached the east side of the common area. You raised your camera and began taking the shots she claimed were ‘needed.’

After a minute, Sophia spoke again, just blurting out the first thing that came to mind. “She’s not your type.”

The camera is frozen in your hands, and you turn slowly. “You think you know my type?”

“I know what kind of girls you look at.”

“Really?” Your voice dipped, teasing but quiet. “And which kind is that?”

Sophia crossed her arms, eyes flicking toward the ceiling for a moment like she regretted starting the conversation in the first place. But then she tilted her head and shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “The intense kind. Driven. Maybe a little too controlling.”

You smirked and told her, “Sounds familiar… but you definitely don’t know me at all.” The comment was meant to be serious, but it came off more playful, probably for the better.

Sophia rolled her eyes, but there was no heat to it. “Get your shots. You have fifteen minutes until you're finished for the night.”

You lifted the camera, but not before whispering in a teasing manner, “You were watching me.”

Sophia turned to leave without answering, but her ears were red. Later, when she rejoined the girls on the couch, Dani noticed immediately. “Where did you disappear to?”

“Bathroom,” Sophia replied.

“Definitely longer than a bathroom break. Did something happen?”

Sophia sat back in the corner spot. “No one important,” that just slipped out.

“Huh.” Manon sipped her drink and grinned. “Because Cynthia came back muttering ‘dammit, Sophia’ while distraught.”

Sophia didn’t reply, but her smile was smug, “good.”

“That sounded evil,” Lara pointed to the older, and Sophia rolled her eyes for like the fourth time tonight.

“Bet it’s about Y/n, again!” Megan practically cheers, and Yoonchae nods. “For sure, unnie always talks about that girl staring at her… a little too clueless that she’s crushing on her.”

“That reminds me, I have to text her about something,” Dani says while whipping out her phone. As much as Sophia wanted to probe, her brain wouldn’t let her, but luckily, the rest were friends with you, right?

Manon, who's sobering up a bit, shifts in her spot with a confused look, “About?”

“She wants to get more cardio in at the gym and wants a regimen for it. I offered to help.”

Megan’s brows furrow together, not understanding why, “Isn’t she like… already ripped?” “Says she’s lacking stamina,” Dani just shrugs, always supportive to help a friend out. “Stamina’s lacking, but she’s always running around events for photos without getting tired easily.”

Lara nods at what Manon points out, but all Sophia can think about is how much work you do within a week. It did intrigue her as to how you found the time for yourself.

One other thing about the President, she’ll make sure she finds out.

The sunlight filtering through the tinted windows of the Student Government office was soft and golden. It stretched across the meeting table. Sophia slumped over, writing furiously in her planner, because her day was pure shit. Her head was pounding, a dull ache blooming behind her temples.

Three meetings back-to-back, including a long one with the Dean, who somehow managed to turn a five-minute update into an hour-long guilt trip. Plans for community partnerships, reports about last semester’s scholarship funding discrepancies. Not all of it was about her duties, but all she could do was sit down and listen without being disrespectful.

The dean even had a field trip proposal from the Environmental Club to review by next week. Some homecoming committee budget approvals, a contract negotiation email is waiting in her inbox with “urgent” flagged twice.

And then, to add to it all, she had Communications.

Professor Mendelsohn had his usual peppy attitude during class that afternoon, announcing a new project. Something about personal brand audits, analyzing online presence across platforms, conducting peer reviews, submitting a report, and presenting findings to a mock "corporate board" made up of your classmates in exactly one week.

Just pain, without any extension because, as he would say, “Making deadlines for work without extra days is part of life.’

Sophia had clenched her jaw the entire walk back to the Student Gov room. Her famous heels had clicked furiously against the tiled flooring of the hallway. By the time she got there, she was already at capacity. Already tired of pretending to smile at people asking for favors or dropping in to “chat” about updates they could’ve easily emailed her.

She’d snapped at two underclassmen who forgot to clean up after a lunch break they had. Her voice had raised high pressure and tension in the air. A junior trying to propose a small charity event had blinked at her and awkwardly mumbled, “Maybe next week.”

Now, finally alone in the office, Sophia was breathing unevenly, her planner open, but her pen hadn’t moved once. She hated being like this, but it kept happening as it came with the position she worked hard for. 

No one gives you a rule book on how to be a Student President; if someone did, Sophia would’ve been reading it nonstop by now.

She ran a hand through her hair and leaned back, the room echoing slightly with her sharp sigh.

The door then suddenly creaked open, you walking in like it was nothing—quite frankly, it was no big deal. But with the mood Sophia was in, she was about to make it one.

You causally sauntered in, looking around the room and not minding her presence one bit. Just your phone in hand and a slight wrinkle in your brow that probably meant you were annoyed.

“Sorry—” you started, already heading toward the corner cubby. “I left something.” Sophia didn’t look up. “Of course you did.”

You paused, blinking. Her giving you attitude was nothing new, but in a space where it was just the two of you, the comment felt more personal.

There was a moment of silence between you, but then, finally, your voice—deadpan. “Was that supposed to mean something?”

Sophia closed her planner with a loud thud and leaned her elbow onto the desk. “Ugh. Not you right now.”

That earned her a sharp look, your arms crossing against your chest. “Is there a problem, Laforteza?” you asked.

‘Oh. Oh, you really wanted to do this right now,’ was the first thing she thought.

Sophia straightened, her face twisted in something between disbelief and exasperation. “You wanna know what my problem is?”

You arched a brow, “That’s what I asked.”

“My problem,” she snapped, “is that I’ve been going nonstop since 7 A.M. I’ve been in meetings about scholarships and event budgets and field trip insurance, I got called into the Dean’s office because apparently no one else knows how to handle the sustainability grant forms, and then Mendelsohn gave us a comms project due in seven days where I have to dissect my entire online existence and pitch it like I’m applying for Shark Tank.”

You walk around the table, nearing her as she continues to rant, not seeing how any of her reasons had anything to do with you.

“And then,” she added, voice rising, “I come here, to the one place that’s supposed to be quiet now because everyone’s gone, and guess who walks in acting like the world owes her space?”

“I didn’t know your whole world revolved around me,” you shot back, tone calm but standing your ground.

“Oh my God,” Sophia muttered. “You are—infuriating. You’re friends with all of my friends, but you never talk to me unless it’s sarcastic or condescending or to give me that little fake smile like you’re above all this.”

“I don’t give you fake smiles.”

“You don’t give me anything,” her head snapped toward you, now standing as she glares. “You talk to everyone else like they’re human, and then you look at me like I’m nothing.”

A brow raises unconsciously as you listen to her.

“I don’t even know what I did to you,” Sophia went on, eyes shining with something sharp. “But you always have an attitude when you speak to me, like you’ve got me all figured out and you hate what you see. You hate me, and I don’t even know why.”

The room was quiet, and your eyes didn’t leave hers. “I don’t hate you.”

Sophia’s breath hitched at the short sentence, her stance faltering slightly.

“I don’t hate you,” you repeated. “But I hate the version of you everyone sees. The perfect student body president. You're like a PR girl. The nice voice, the hand on the shoulder, the polished laugh.”

Sophia’s arms slowly folded over her chest, her face blank now. “I hate how fake it feels,” you continued. “Because your friends? They’re real. They don’t portray themselves the way you do. You sound and look rehearsed in every way—no one sees through it.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice just enough to force her to listen. “But I do.”

Sophia couldn’t breathe properly, listening to the longest conversation the two of you have had since you’ve met. “You try so hard to be liked,” you murmured. “And I think you hate that I’m not one of the people who gives it to you.”

She swallowed hard.

There was a heat in the air now, like the moment before all the chaos. Her fists clenched, eyes darting across your face like she was looking for something other than your honesty to feel better about herself.

But she couldn’t see anything else.

“I’m not fake,” she finally said, her voice low, shaky.

“I didn’t say you were,” you replied. “I said the version you show everyone is.”

She stepped forward, but you didn’t move back. “You don’t know me.”

“Then show me the version that doesn’t talk like a LinkedIn profile.”

That comment, despite being a joke, irked the girl. Sophia’s jaw tensed with her perfectly manicured fingers curled, then straightened—and then one sharply dug into your chest as she pointed.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

“No,” you said, eyes flicking to her lips, “you hate that I don’t pretend with you.”

Her expression didn’t waver, her nostrils flaring with anger. If cartoon smoke were something you could see in real life, you were sure you would’ve seen it coming out of her nose and ears by now.

She hated that you were able to say the right things to get this version of her. The one that’s all riled up, strands of hair tousled, her outfit looking wrinkled from the busy day—this is the real Sophia you were talking about.

Her eyes gleam under the bright light while holding back the brimming tears, pouty lips trembling slightly. 

“This is the real you, huh?” You murmured.

She let out a short, almost broken laugh—like you’d caught her off guard for the first time all day. Her fingers curled slightly into your shirt. You didn’t even flinch.

“You’re such an asshole,” she breathed.

“That doesn’t seem to stop you from thinking about me.”

There was a pause, Sophia seeming to calm down yet not responding to anything you said.

She then repeated, “You don’t know me, Y/n.” Your head tilts, head leaning back a bit, while your hand rests in the pockets of your joggers. “Then if you want me to be friends with you so bad, you're gonna have to show me, Sophia.”

It was a challenge. A challenge that rapidly took over Sophia’s brain and body.

There wasn’t a thought that took over her, but something did as she tugged on your shirt hard, pulling you in as your lips crashed onto hers.

Processing everything wasn’t going to happen, especially when you see her eyes shut, hands gripping your shirt even harder, like she wanted to rip it off. Your hands started up with your elbows up, not understanding what was going on. 

You didn’t hate it, but it caught you off guard.

Once you noticed that Sophia wanted to prove herself by not letting go, your shoulders relaxed as your hands fell onto her slim waist. She feels how your hands rested on the fabric of her sheer button-up, the touch warming up her body.

You thought, ‘Hey, this isn’t so bad!’ Which quickly changes when you feel her hands releasing your shirt. 

Thinking she had enough, you almost back away until Sophia presses her chest against yours, no space left, and her fingers combed through your hair—gripping with all her might.

The feeling has you groan against her lips, arms fully wrapping around her waist to balance her from falling back. You feel how her back arched, torsos touching each other as a muffled moan escapes her lips. There was no space between you, just the feeling of temperatures rising as you kissed back.

One of her hands begins caressing your back, and you turn a slight angle to raise her up, leaning her on the table. Having Sophia seated, she feels your fingers fiddling with the hem of her shirt. Lips begin to trail down to her neck, and a trembling moan comes out of her lips.

“This is the real version you wanted to show me?” You tease, and Sophia practically hisses at the comment, “Shut up.”

“Shut up?” You questioned, lifting her up swiftly to turn her over, her upper half now pressed onto the large table. “Let’s hope we don’t argue during this, hm?”

The comment is harmless, but as your hands roam from her back onto her thighs, her body goes rigid. You lift the skimpy skirt over her ass, being given a good view of the thong she’s wearing.

“Isn’t it a good day for me?” she hears you mumble, pressing a finger on the clothed core. Sophia lets out a high-pitched whimper, the warmth of one of your fingers already having her aching down below.

The small line of fabric slowly became damp, and she heard this low chuckle from you. “Who knew Miss President could be so… slutty?”

Sophia wanted to respond, but the feeling of the fabric being pulled to the side had her shuddering as she felt the cool air brushing against her wet cunt.

You kneel down, ready to dig in, but hear a knock that has both of you pause.

… The damn door isn’t locked, and both of you were now staring at it in case the knob began to turn.

“Sophia? You in there?” The voice is too recognizable, and both of you seem to relax a bit when hearing it’s Kayla.

“Yes!” Sophia shouts softly, but sees how the doorknob begins to turn slightly, making her yell, “Don’t come in!”

The franticness in Sophia’s voice has you smirking, deciding to take matters into your own hands. You inch forward, face right in front of her pussy, and give a small lick. She bites her bottom lip, afraid any sound she makes would be heard by her own assistant.

Kayla’s voice is worried behind the door, “Is everything okay?”

There was this quick silence, because past those doors, your tongue plunged into Sophia’s soaking core. You hum against her, her heels kicking up from time to time as a hand covered her mouth. “You should answer before she walks in,” you mumble, loud enough for only Sophia to hear.

As she moves her hand, Sophia practically grits her teeth trying to answer, “I’m fine, Kayla, j-just need some alone time.” The girl stuttering makes you chuckle, taking a long stripe against your tongue out of amusement.

“Is there something I can bring you to help? I know you had a rough day.”

The concern almost makes Sophia break, her mouth agape as she feels your tongue doing laps over, and over, and over again. “Look at how caring she is towards you. I wonder how she would feel if she found her role model and crushed bent over for me.” Sophia’s hand finds the top of your head, gripping your hair again, “she doesn’t like me.”

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.” You stand behind her, adding a finger and feel Sophia tightening around it. “Must wanna trap me here, huh?”

She wants to say something, with freedom, but Kayla’s voice keeps interrupting, “Sophia?” “Uhm,” she lets out one sound, and you add another finger, you move with aching patience, fingers slipping back and pressing in. Sophia almost chokes a yelp, covering her mouth with a hand to quickly recover.

“I’m f-fine. Get some rest, Kayla!”

“You sure? Because you don’t sound too good?” She tries to respond in a friendly manner, but there's a switch in tone when you begin curling your fingers deep into her slit.

“I’m fucking fine, Kayla! Go home!”

Your brows raise, and you look at the wooden door; luckily no frosted windows to show the inside. There’s a heavy sigh. “Sure, have a good night, Sophia.” Both of you hear her footsteps fade away, and using whatever strength she has in her position, Sophia pushes you back with a hand.

You back up, and she flips over, knees apart with her pussy full on display for you. Her eyes are dark, looking a bit annoyed. “There’s no way you just did that.”

“And did,” you simply tell her, pressing your fingers back in as you thrust at a slow pace. You could feel her clench around them, greedy for more. 

The eye contact you made with her only made Sophia want to kiss you again. You were so consistent while watching every reaction she gave you. The sounds of her cunt squelching made you chuckle, biting her lip as she watched you.

“Your ‘dear’ Kayla is probably so heartbroken right now.” You inch closer, picking up the pace that made Sophia whine profusely. “How her favorite person in the world is being fucked by someone deemed as her enemy,” you whisper against her lips, foreheads touching as you make her lean forward more. She feels how your breath grazes against her mouth, the warmth making her even wetter.

You, once again, curl your fingers, hitting the exact spot that has Sophia giving you a loud moan. “What if she walked in? She’d probably be crying at the sight.”

You add another finger, Sophia’s pussy clenching around all three. Her head hangs back at the sensation of feeling full, while you're successfully hitting her G-spot with every thrust and curl.

You quicken the pace just a bit more, and Sophia’s gasping for air. “Kayla would see how well your slutty cunt took my fingers.” Sophia feels you pressing a thumb on her clit, and her thighs begin to quiver. 

“Fuck, Y/n, just like that.”

“She’d see you at your worst behavior, how you're just letting me use you,” You hiss while feeling how slick and messy she was becoming undone on your fingers. Pulling them out, you begin to rub her cunt with her juices coating each finger.

The circular movements at rapid motions have her thighs tensing, “I wanna cum,” she breaths out. You hum and shrug a bit, “Go for it.”

Not stopping her, Sophia’s thighs squeeze around your arm, keeping up the pace as her eyes roll back. You had no intentions of stopping, and she could only hold your forearm to slow you down.

“You must like the possibility of someone walking in, huh?” You take out your hand, flicking them downward to shake off some of her juices.

Sophia thought she had had enough; she couldn’t even respond to you as she took deep breaths. But when you took each finger, sucking each one clean, your tongue sticking out before you put one in… she wanted more.

Her hands trail on the button on her top, quickly undoing it as she sits up from her spot. You're a bit surprised at her course of action, but follow by lifting up your shirt slowly.

“You seem too tired to go on,” you admit, bunching up your shirt and throwing it to the other end of the table. She unclips her bra, staring you down with her eyes full of hunger, “I want you to use me.”

Your hands land on the table, your body leaning forward as your eyes look at her chest rising and dropping quickly, her pussy all swollen from you fucking her, and the way her petite mounds were fully out and hard.

“I-I need you to use me.” She revises her statement, and despite the stutter, it came out with full confidence. You tilt your head, amused by how different this was from her, and effortlessly take off your sports bra.

“So dirty, Laforteza,” the way her surname rolled off your tongue had her spiraling as she spread her legs wider for you. “Use me, Y/n.”

With the demand, you climb on top of her, Sophia feeling your nipples brushing against each other as your fingers go to work. You rub all five fingers against her leaking slit, moving with every intent to make her go crazy.

“This want you want?” You grunt, and Sophia shook her head against the table, “m-more.”

The invitation has you pulling her up to stand, her ass pressed on the edge of the large table as you kneel again. It gave Sophia such a pretty view of you, how the bottom half of your face had a like shine from her juices.

You lick at first, flicking her clit up, and Sophia hunches over slightly. She feels your hands pressing her thighs apart to give yourself more room. “You're so pretty like this,” you blurt against her, then sucking on her clit while one hand thrusts a finger up.

“See how wet you are for me? Such a good girl—doing so good for me,” you admit, but while talking, Sophia just feels the vibrations coursing through her body, leaving her mouth agape with aching moans.

“S-shit, too good,” she licks her lips, becoming dry from how much noise she was making. Her knees buckle slightly, her hand holding her up on the table as you. There was nothing gentle in the way you mouthed at her, tongue plunging deep as she sounded like she was about to sob.

“Y/n, I can’t-” You feel her legs closing, squeezing your head in between. She feels how you shake your head against her, standing and replacing the feeling of your mouth with plunging three fingers in instead.

She’s trying to lift her body away, but you pull her flush against your body, arm wrapping tight around her waist as your fingers never leave her sopping pussy. “Don’t run now—this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Sophia’s trembling at your words, using your body as balance, as she gasped. “Keep those legs open. I’m not done.” Each roll of her clit sent her hips jerking upward, trying to pull away, only to be dragged back in. "You said you could take it—so take it."

She’s biting her bottom lip, her upper teeth tugging hard as she tries to gain any sense of composure. You look at her, a gleam in your eyes as she holds onto your arm.

“Don’t you wanna be a good girl? “I wanna be good—please—let me be good—” She yelps, not being able to finish her sentence when your hand begins rubbing on her clit. You loop your arm around her back and under her arm, folding with her tit, rolling her nipple between your two fingers.

The begging and overstimulation have tears slowly gliding down her face, the slick sounds getting louder, wetter. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Sophia mumbled repeatedly against your shoulder, head leaning against you like it would help her case.

You feel her legs twitching, sobs turning into breathless whimpers as she comes again with the way your fingers keep plunging in, curling deep.

Feeling bad, you slow down as Sophia’s entire weight leans on you. The moment felt serious and exhausting for both, yet you feel Sophia’s head shaking and her chuckles against your skin.

“Is that enough about me?”

You burst out laughing at the question, the sudden comedic relief hurting your abs. “It’s definitely one version of you.”

She does her best to stand up straight, still using you as somehwat of a crutch while her legs feel like jelly. “Wanna know more?”

Sophia’s clearly looking up at you, deer-like and pleasing as her swollen lips pout like she wants you to spoil her.

“How so?”

Even with you just fucking her, she smiles and wraps her arms around your neck, “Take me out?” 

The question was supposed to come out with the intention of commanding you to do it, but it comes out more uncertain than she wanted. You found it adorable, giving a small peck on her nose to make the moment a little cuter.

“Your wish is my command, President… so like now or?” 

Sophia slaps your arm and the joke, wrapping her arms around your waist this time to give you a hug. “Oh, shut up.”

“You like telling me to do that when you know I won't listen.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever L/n.”

A/n: I used the little Spanish knowledge I had from hs and google translate for that Dani convo SO PLS IF IT ISNT GOOD AND DOESN'T MAKE SENSE kindly tell me pls and ty 🥹

[frankcastler]

oh this is beautiful, thank you so much because there aren’t really any super!r x lois lane around 🥺

boundaries - lois lane x reader

summary: lois comes home late from work, and her apartment is not empty. Maybe it's time to discuss some things with her ex.

warnings: exes-to-lovers; emotional intimacy; soft smut; heartbreak and comfort; food as love language; mild angst; superhero injuries; windows are for lovers. | words: 4.854k

a/n> careful, the kitchen makeout scene from superman might turn your children bisexual. this does not contain any movie spoilers bwt. I actually thought this would take place before any of the movie plot.

main masterlist | dcverse masterlist |

-&-

Lois needed a bath.

A bath, a soft bed, and dreams that didn’t include deadlines or front-page disasters.

After a long, soul-draining day at the Daily Planet, all she wanted was to peel off her clothes, sink into warm water, and forget the world existed. But just as her hand turned the doorknob, the low murmur of a television echoed faintly from inside her apartment.

She paused.

That wasn’t right.

She hadn’t even touched the remote that morning, and barely managed to grab her coat on the way out. Her brow furrowed. Slowly, cautiously, she pushed the door open.

The familiar scent of home greeted her, but it did little to soothe her nerves. She moved in silence, her heels muffled against the wooden floor. In the corner, she reached instinctively for the baseball bat - her emergency companion - and raised it with practiced form.

But then came the laugh.

The most unmistakable, heartwarming of laughter.

Her muscles lost all tension in an instant. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, returned the bat to its resting spot, and tossed her keys into the ceramic jar by the door with a muted clink. Kicking the door shut with her foot, she marched into the living room, frustration already mounting.

“How the hell did you get in here?”

You were lounging comfortably on her sofa, still chuckling at the black-and-white chaos of The Addams Family playing on the screen. That stupid, charming smile was plastered across your face when you turned to face her, and Lois’s heart had the nerve to skip.

“You still leave the spare key in the same place,” you said casually, one arm draped along the back of the couch as you shifted to face her.

She crossed her arms, willing her heart to behave. “That doesn’t mean you get to break into my apartment.”

“Break in? I used the door,” you replied with a grin, as if that made it any better.

She didn’t bother answering that. Her gaze had already drifted past you, narrowing at the chaotic sea of boxes strewn around the living room. Some were sealed, others open, spilling out belongings - too familiar for her comfort.

“What is all this junk? Is that why you’re here?” she asked, already stepping closer. Her eyes scanned over trinkets, clothes, photos, each one tethered to a memory she hadn't been ready to revisit.

And then she saw it.

The teddy bear. The one she'd impulsively bought you on your first date, after you'd offhandedly mentioned never getting one as a kid. Her steps faltered.

You noticed. Of course you did.

You always noticed when it came to her.

Clearing your throat, you shifted on the couch, suddenly unsure of yourself.

“I’m not... returning your gifts,” you said awkwardly, scratching behind your ear. “Well - I mean. Kinda. The internet said that’s what I should do.”

She turned sharply, her expression unreadable.

“You’re what?”

“I did some research,” you explained, with a helpless little gesture. “You know. ‘What to do after a four-year breakup with someone.’ Step three: return sentimental items to gain closure.”

Lois blinked at you. “You’re kidding.”

It took less than a second before your composure cracked. Laughter burst from you like a wave, unfiltered and genuine. She couldn’t help the faint smile that pulled at her lips, even as she rolled her eyes and grabbed a throw pillow to hurl in your direction.

“Asshole,” she muttered, her aim decent, but your reflexes better.

You batted it away, still laughing, and she crossed the room with a grudging exhale. “Seriously. What really happened?”

“Flood,” you said simply, still catching your breath.

Her expression shifted instantly - brows furrowed, concern replacing irritation.

“Everything in storage got hit,” you added with a shrug. “I just... grabbed what I didn’t want to lose.”

She glanced again at the boxes. Her voice was quieter now, almost hesitant. “Most people would save appliances.”

You didn’t look away. “I was more concerned with what was irreplaceable.”

Her gaze flicked back to you. And stayed.

For a long second, neither of you said anything. The television continued playing behind you - Morticia and Gomez dancing across the screen, black and white shadows flickering over the furniture.

Lois felt her throat tighten.

She hated how easy it was to get lost in your eyes.

How natural it felt to have you here.

She forced a laugh, light and brief, as if that might dispel the weight in the air.

Instead, it only made it settle deeper.

“Don’t even start,” Lois warns, her tone sharp enough to draw a line.

You raise both hands in surrender, staying silent, letting her focus drift back to the contents of the boxes. A pause stretches between you as she kneels beside one, brushing her fingers over old photographs like they’re artifacts from a life she’s still trying to make sense of. She opens jewelry boxes with hesitant curiosity, chuckles at notes you'd once tucked into books and cabinet drawers, each one a tiny time capsule. There’s nostalgia in her movements, but also caution.

You finally stand, your body unfolding with a soft exhale. “I saved some of the food too,” you murmur, voice casual as you step past her, but closer than you need to. The couch offers plenty of room, but you take the narrow path, close enough to catch the sudden hitch in her breath.

“My aunt left a bunch of homemade stuff,” you add, heading toward the kitchen like you’ve done a hundred times. “And I thought, since it’s Wednesday and Lois Lane definitely hasn’t eaten a proper meal, I’d better bring something for my girl.”

You’re already rummaging through the fridge when the words hit her like a thrown stone. Lois crosses her arms tightly over her chest, trying to fold herself against the quiet thrum in her ribs.

“We’ve talked about this,” she says, stepping into the kitchen behind you. The room feels smaller now, too full of memory. “I’m not your girl anymore.”

You glance over your shoulder, feigning a wounded expression as you unpack a container with practiced ease. “Don’t be silly, Lois,” you reply, flipping open the lid. “Dating or not, you’ll always be my girl.”

You wink.

Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She nearly chokes on the heat climbing her neck and face. She hopes - prays - you don’t hear the slight shake in her voice when she answers. “That’s not how this works, Y/N. We’re broken up. We need... boundaries.”

You stop what you’re doing. Close the microwave door, press a button. Turn to her slowly, leaning back against the counter with both palms braced behind you. The casual stance doesn’t hide the way your brow creases.

“We have boundaries,” you say, genuinely puzzled. “You told me not to call anymore. I haven’t. I don’t show up at the Planet. We don’t have date nights. We don’t even sleep together.”

Lois presses her fingertips to her forehead and groans softly. “Yes. Because we’re broken up!” Her voice echoes slightly in the tiled kitchen, her frustration rising.

You tilt your head at her, not quite getting it.

“That means,” she says firmly, pointing between the two of you, “you can’t just barge into my life whenever you feel like it. Not anymore. Tonight is an exception - because of the flood. That’s it.”

She gestures toward the boxes now, to the steaming container in your hand, to the unspoken rhythm you always fall back into so easily.

“We - as in the couple, the thing that was - don’t exist anymore. You don’t bring me your aunt’s home-cooked meals. That’s what you do for a partner, Y/N. And I’m not your girlfriend anymore.”

You sigh, arms folding across your chest now, your expression dimming with quiet defiance.

“That’s absurd, Lois,” you mutter. “Humans have the most ridiculous customs about ending relationships, I hope you know that.”

She scoffs despite herself, a bitter little sound as she shakes her head.

You hesitate, then add, more softly, “Besides... we only broke up out of convenience.”

Her head snaps up. "Oh, we did what now?”

You shrug, like you didn’t just drop a grenade in the middle of her kitchen. “I moved. We had zero time. Your job keeps you tethered to Metropolis. Mine doesn’t. Plus…” You raise an eyebrow. “You’ve got commitment issues.”

Lois lets out an incredulous laugh, her eyes wide. “Me? I have commitment issues?”

You nod solemnly. “Absolutely.”

“Wow. Just - wow.” Her arms fall to her sides, and she stares at you like she’s reevaluating her entire life.

You grin, playful now. “It’s okay. This is a safe space.”

She takes a threatening step forward. “I’m going to kick you out of my apartment.”

You burst into laughter, unbothered. She lunges to grab your shoulders, half-exasperated, half-laughing herself - but you're ready. You dig your heels in, refusing to budge. Lois underestimates the resistance and stumbles forward, catching herself only by grabbing the counter beside you.

Too close now.

Your hands are at her waist before either of you can pretend otherwise. It’s muscle memory. Dangerous and familiar.

“What happened to boundaries, Miss Lane?” you ask, your voice dropping, amused and almost tender.

Your eyes drop to her lips, slowly and deliberately. Lois exhales shakily, her hand still on the edge of the counter like she needs grounding. 

“I told you last time was the last time,” she says.

Your mouth is so close now that she can taste the breath between you.

“We’re not going to relapse,” she promises, though her gaze has already fallen to your lips, too. “Again,” she finishes, the word barely a whisper.

But neither of you moves away.

And when your lips brush hers, soft and fleeting, Lois summons every shred of mental discipline she has left.

She pulls away.

Firm and breathless, her body protests in silence - heat pulsing beneath her skin, heart pounding in her throat - but she doesn’t let it show. Not entirely.

You let out a quiet giggle, not teasing, just... disarming. You don’t press the moment further. Instead, you pivot effortlessly, moving to retrieve the food just as the microwave lets out its soft beep.

Lois leans against the doorway for balance, pressing a hand to her chest as if she could will her heart to slow down.

“Stop beating yourself up, Miss Lane,” you call over your shoulder, casual and light as you begin plating the food. “This is just dinner. Friends have dinner together.”

Lois laughs dryly and humorlessly, a breath caught between amusement and disbelief. “Friends usually don’t date for years. Or sleep together. Or break up. Not in that order, anyway.”

You shake your head, grinning to yourself as if her logic is merely technicalities. “Can you clear the table?”

She exhales in resignation at the subject shift, but she doesn’t argue. As you finish plating, she returns to the dining table in the living room, sweeping aside notebooks, a tablet, and some pens. The space between the two plates looks neat. Too neat. Like she’s preparing for something she doesn’t want to name.

You join her with the food, placing each dish down. Neither of you speaks right away.

It’s not uncomfortable.

Not at all.

You’ve had dozens of dinners like this before - quiet, cozy, sometimes exhausted, sometimes flirty. Lois eats like she’s starving, and in truth, she is. Her body finally relaxed enough to demand what it’s been denied all day.

Your aunt’s cooking tastes like memory. It fills the silence. There are a few mumbled complaints about work - Lois vents about her editor’s last-minute chaos, and you grumble about scheduling disasters - but eventually the rhythm slows again. The silence stretches, not quite as easy this time.

It lingers. 

You catch her stealing a glance at the boxes still cluttering the living room, then another glance at you.

She clears her throat.

“Do you plan on staying here?” she asks. Her voice is measured, casual on the surface, but too careful. “Because of the flood, I mean.”

You dab at your mouth with a napkin. “I was going to. But that was before you freaked out about my visit. Now I’m thinking I should find a hotel.”

Lois groans softly, rubbing her hand through her hair. “I didn’t freak out,” she argues, shooting you a look you know too well.

You smirk knowingly. She ignores it.

“I was just... serious,” she says, quieter now. Her voice carries the exhaustion she’s been holding back since the moment she walked through the door. “We need boundaries, Y/N. So we don’t keep hurting each other.”

You nod once, expression softening, eyes searching hers.

“It’s not healthy to pretend nothing’s changed,” she continues. “We ended things. Even if we’re... still us, in some weird way, we can’t just slip back into habits and ignore the fallout.”

You sit with that for a moment. Let the silence speak first. Then, gently:

“I feel, Lois,” you say quietly. “I know it might not seem like it. Like I’m just coasting through this, pretending we didn’t break up. But I feel it.”

Her eyes flick to yours. Vulnerable and guarded.

You offer a small, sad smile. “I guess I haven’t been showing that, huh?”

She doesn’t answer,  just swallows hard. You glance down, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the table.

“I know there are some things, some customs, that you have a hard time guessing or following right away, but I'd rather you ask. Instead of assuming everything's okay when it's not.”

A beat. You raise your eyes again.

“Okay. Then let me ask.”

Her posture shifts. She leans slightly forward, curious despite herself.

“Do you want me out of your life?”

Her face changes. Quickly. Like she didn’t expect the question to land so heavy. Lois looks away, heat rising beneath her skin. 

She crosses her arms and mutters, “Straight to the point. That’s great.”

“You told me to ask!”

“Okay, okay,” she says, waving a hand as she stands, like she needs physical space to respond. You watch her, but you don’t push. You wait. 

She paces slightly, only a step or two, then stops. Her shoulders drop. She sighs loudly and turns to face you again.

“I obviously don’t want you out of my life,” she begins, voice firm but raw. She lifts a hand preemptively when you open your mouth to respond. “But I don’t want to pretend I’m not hurt, either.”

You blink, gently stilling again.

“We were together for a long time, Y/N. And then suddenly... we weren’t. You were gone. You are gone, and I know you have to be, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped feeling your absence.”

She swallows. The words are thick. 

“I don’t want to pretend that it doesn’t upset me. That it didn’t break something. That there isn’t this distance now, and that it doesn’t matter.”

You stare at her like she’s the only thing in the room. You don’t move. You don’t interrupt.

“I want space to heal,” she says. “We decided to break up. We did it kindly. But if we want to stay kind - if we want to preserve anything real between us - we have to honor that decision. That means space.”

You lick your lips before you dare to speak.

“So… you want me to leave?”

Lois exhales. Slow, sad, and heavy.

“The thing is…” Her voice falters just enough to hurt. “I never wanted you to leave in the first place.”

Your breath catches.

“That’s the problem,” she adds, her tone gaining a bitter edge. “You left.”

“Lois-”

“No, come on,” she cuts in, shaking her head with a dry, humorless laugh. Her arms cross, a reflex to brace herself, like she’s afraid of what she might say next, or what you might say back. “Let’s be honest, yeah? I suck at relationships. I know that. I don’t date. I pull away. I shut down. I isolate myself when I should reach out. I’ve got baggage and walls and a thousand excuses.”

You open your mouth, but she doesn't let you interrupt.

“Well, Y/N, you leave.” Her eyes lock onto yours, unblinking. “That’s your thing. When things get hard, when they start to get real, you just… disappear. You step back. You leave.”

You’re quiet. The room seems smaller. Tighter. Like there isn’t enough air between the two of you, yet somehow, the silence feels vast.

“I...” Your voice barely escapes your throat. The protest dies on your tongue, unspoken. Because the truth is - she’s not wrong. You can’t look her in the eyes. You sigh instead, gaze falling. “I’m sorry.”

Lois huffs, no satisfaction in her expression. “Apologies don’t fix anything.”

“No,” you agree quietly, lifting your gaze back to hers. “But they’re what I can offer. Right now, at least.”

You straighten, standing slowly, and the distance between you shrinks. Neither of you moves, but the space feels charged now.

“I can’t undo what I did, Lois. I can’t rewrite the last few months, or pretend I was the girlfriend you deserved. I let my work come first. I let everything come first. But you- ” your voice breaks for a moment, your jaw tightening to stay steady, “you were always my person. Always.”

Lois’s throat bobs as she swallows hard. You can see the shine in her eyes before she speaks.

“I fucked up,” you continue, more quietly now. “I know I did. But I won’t lie and pretend my feelings disappeared. Because if we’re being honest? They haven’t. They won’t.”

She blinks slowly, and when her gaze meets yours again, it’s full of something heavy. Something raw.

“You can’t do this,” Lois whispers hoarsely, stepping toward you like her body has made the decision for her. “You don’t get to vanish for weeks and then show up with food and a kiss and tell me you still love me.”

“I haven’t said that yet,” you murmur, smiling softly.

She rolls her eyes, but it’s mostly to cover the way her hands reach out, finding your shoulders like they belong there.

“Yet.” Her voice is scolding, but she’s already too close for it to stick.

Then she kisses you.

And you melt.

It’s not rushed, at least not at first. Your mouths meet like a slow, aching memory, like you’re trying to relearn the shape of each other all over again. It’s deep and drawn-out, breathy and broken in places, full of unsaid things that bleed through parted lips and shallow exhales.

Lois’s hands are in your hair before you know it, nails grazing your scalp just enough to make you groan softly against her mouth. Your fingers tighten on her waist, tugging her closer until your bodies press together, heat chasing the space that had separated you for weeks.

For a moment, the world vanishes. The mess, the flood, the heartbreak - none of it exists. Only her.

Then she breaks for air, just barely, and your lips chase hers instinctively. Her breath catches - soft and sharp - and when she kisses you again, it’s hungrier and hotter.

Lois licks into your mouth with slow precision, and when your tongues meet, the sound she makes - a desperate, breathy whimper - is shamefully real. You swallow it.

The kiss deepens. Turns urgent. Her fingers tangle and tug in your hair with little grace, and your hands clutch her waist tightly, possessively. Needy. She presses into you, and your knees nearly give when her body meets yours that firmly.

You’re not sure when she started backing you up. You don’t even notice the couch behind you until the backs of your legs hit it and you fall back with a soft oof. The kiss breaks just long enough for you to look up and she’s already climbing into your lap.

Her mouth finds yours again, this time fiercer. Everything is spiraling faster now. Her breath ghosts against your cheek between kisses, her hands all over, gripping your shoulders, raking down your back, anchoring herself to you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear again.

You hold her like you never meant to let go.

Because maybe you didn’t.

Lois kisses you like she’s been holding her breath for weeks - and maybe she has.

In your lap, her thighs bracket your hips, her hands still threaded in your hair as her mouth moves against yours with growing desperation. There’s no rush in her rhythm, but there’s hunger in it; slow and certain, like she’s remembering what she already knows too well.

You don’t speak. Not yet. You just follow her lead.

Your hands slide over the curve of her waist, over fabric and memory, holding her like she might vanish again if you let go. Her hips shift subtly against yours, and your breath catches in your throat. She notices. She always notices.

When her lips break away from yours to trail along your jaw, you tilt your head instinctively, giving her more room, your pulse fluttering beneath her mouth. You can feel her sigh against your skin, warm and familiar, and it draws a shiver up your spine.

“Lois…” you whisper, but it’s half breath, half prayer.

“Shut up,” she murmurs against your neck, but there’s no heat in it. Just need. Just ache.

Your hands roam slowly now, reverently. Up the curve of her back, down her sides, memorizing her all over again. When your palms settle under her shirt and touch bare skin, Lois lets out a soft gasp that sinks straight into your chest.

“You okay?” you murmur, finally daring to speak.

She just nods, barely.

You lift her shirt only as far as she’ll allow, revealing smooth skin. Your mouth follows, pressing soft, open kisses along her ribs, her stomach, the edge of her bra. You worship with silence and lips, and she melts under the weight of it.

Lois’s fingers curl into your shoulders, grounding herself.

“This okay?” you ask again.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “Don’t stop.”

You don’t.

You shift just enough to let her straddle one of your thighs, guiding her gently with your hands on her hips. She groans softly at the contact, burying her face into your neck as she starts to move - slowly, hesitantly, testing herself against you.

You offer her only comfort. Still beneath her, letting her choose the pace. Letting her feel.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper into her hair, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’ve missed you.”

Her movements stutter. Her arms tighten around you.

“I’ve got you,” you promise. Your hands slip beneath her waistband with practiced gentleness, and she doesn’t stop you. She just kisses you again - deep and aching, like she’s pouring every fractured piece of herself into the taste of your mouth.

You explore her with careful fingers, unhurried and soft, touching her like she’s precious. Like she’s not yours anymore, but you remember how to love her anyway.

Lois clutches at your shirt, breathing harder now, mouth trailing over your cheek, your throat, anywhere she can reach. When your fingers dip between her legs, finding her aching heat, she gasps and tilts her head back - her body trusting yours again despite every part of her trying not to.

“You’re doing so good,” you murmur, kissing her collarbone. “Just let go. I’m right here.”

Her breath comes faster. Her hips grind down, chasing rhythm, chasing release. You keep whispering soft encouragements, each word meant to soothe, to hold her steady, to remind her she’s safe with you.

“Don’t think,” you tell her gently. “Just feel. You deserve this. Let me take care of you.”

Lois comes with a strangled breath, clinging to you as she shudders apart. Her head falls against your shoulder, lips brushing your skin as a long sigh escapes her chest, relieved, spent, and vulnerable.

You wrap your arms around her tightly, pressing kisses to the crown of her head while she tries to catch her breath.

Neither of you says anything for a while. The only sound is the quiet hum of the television still playing in the background, forgotten.

Eventually, Lois shifts just enough to tuck her head beneath your chin, her body heavy with exhaustion. Her breathing slows, settling into something steady. You think she’s going to pull away. But instead, she lets herself rest against you, her limbs warm and limp, her cheek against your shoulder.

“I should… go to bed,” she murmurs, barely audible.

“You should,” you agree softly, but you don’t move. Neither does she.

A long beat passes. Her grip on you loosens, just slightly.

“You’re warm,” she mumbles, almost asleep now.

You smile.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper. And this time, you mean it.

You don’t say much after that.

Just the gentle shift of your arms around her, the way your hands cup the backs of her thighs to lift her without asking. Lois hums softly, too tired to argue, too raw to pretend she doesn’t melt into your hold like she’s always belonged there.

Her bed is still a mess of half-folded laundry and scattered notebooks. You clear just enough space with a quiet laugh, settling her down and tugging the blanket over her body like you never forgot how.

She reaches for your wrist before you can pull away.

“You staying?”

Your breath catches. You don’t answer right away, just brush a thumb over her knuckles and press a kiss to the back of her hand.

“I’ll stay,” you whisper. “Go to sleep, Lois.”

She doesn’t let go until she does.

-

The smell of coffee comes first.

Then, toasted bread. Then fruit - her favorite, chopped just the way she likes, not that you’d ever say it out loud.

Lois pads barefoot into the kitchen with sleep-mussed hair and warm skin, her nightshirt twisted around one hip and eyes still puffy from a dreamless sleep. The apartment is quiet, too quiet - and you’re not there.

Just a plate on the table. A steaming mug. A folded napkin with your terrible handwriting scribbled in blue pen.

“Got called in. Supervillain throwing tanks off the Starbridge, you know how it goes. Didn’t want to wake you - you looked too peaceful, and I’m not a monster.

Eat everything.

 - Your favorite alien.”

She stares at the note for a long time, expression unreadable. Then she sits and eats slowly.

She doesn’t cry.

Lois is used to people leaving.

She showers. Dresses. Applies her lipstick like armor and pulls on her boots with practiced ease, telling herself it was always going to be like this - that last night didn’t change anything, not really.

And then - 

The bedroom window creaks open.

And you crawl through it, covered in ash and soot and some sort of cosmic glitter that probably isn’t FDA-approved. Your suit is ripped at the shoulder, one of your gloves is missing, and there’s a faint trail of smoke rising from your hair. You’re breathless, and you look like you’ve just fought the universe with your bare hands and still came back for breakfast.

Lois freezes halfway to the door, her purse in one hand, keys in the other.

“You’re tracking dirt all over my floor,” she says dryly, but her voice is softer than it should be.

You grin, one eye squinting as you wipe at a smear of blood near your brow.

“Could’ve used the door,” you offer. “But I remembered something about boundaries?”

She crosses her arms, ignoring the way her heartbeat triples at the sight of you. “You did promise not to break into my apartment again.”

You glance back at the open window and shrug with faux innocence. “Technically, I climbed. No glass was harmed. Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“I’ve got the trauma to prove it,” you deadpan, limping slightly as you step into the apartment, your suit groaning with each movement.

Lois watches you for a moment too long. Watches the way you wince when you lower yourself to sit on the arm of the couch. Watches the way you’re trying to play it cool, despite the exhaustion in your eyes.

She clears her throat. “Don’t think I’m answering that boundary question.”

“Thought so,” you say, almost smug, like her silence is its own kind of intimacy. “You heading to work?”

“Was,” she mutters, grabbing her coat. “Then a superhero broke into my apartment and slowed me down.”

“Lunch later?” you ask, already halfway out the window again, balance impeccable despite the limp. “If I’m not buried under rubble again by noon?”

Lois hesitates, fingers tightening around the doorknob. You can see the moment she softens. It’s small - a twitch at the corner of her mouth. But it’s there.

“Just don’t bring another supervillain with you,” she says, not quite looking at you.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you promise, then blow her a kiss as a new explosion echoes faintly from somewhere across the skyline.

And just like that, you're gone again - flying into the chaos, smoke trailing behind you, but Lois’s apartment still smells like toast and fruit and quiet hope.

She closes the door behind her, her heart still echoing the kiss she didn’t catch.

[frankcastler]

great chapter!! wanda is really gonna ruin everything isn’t she 🥹

The Maid - Part 6

Socialite!Wanda Maximoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

Maid!Natasha Romanoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

18+ only, read at your own risk

Word count: 4043

Summary: You are married to a wealthy socialite, but your newly hired housemaid doesn’t approve of the marriage.

AN: I've been waiting a long time to write this chapter...Enjoy!

Read part 5 here.

*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.

It feels strangely normal to be living out of Natasha’s apartment. You still go to work, shutting yourself in your office and avoiding any unnecessary contact with your colleagues. Everyone knows what you’ve been accused of by now and you won’t feed in to any of their speculations. 

Natasha gives you her spare key so you can let yourself in when she’s out at her own job. You don’t like the idea of her being around your neighbors, most of whom have blindly taken Wanda’s side, but they’re not the ones you need to convince of your innocence. 

Wanda is still in a coma, and every day she doesn’t wake up chips away at your sanity. If she doesn’t survive, you will have to face a jury tasked with determining what degree of murder you committed. Most of Wanda’s abuse and manipulation happened behind closed doors. You were the only witness to them, but also the only victim, and now the only suspect. No matter what happened, you would not let Natasha take the fall for this. 

You return home early and prepare a casserole for the oven while you wait for Natasha to finish her last shift of the day. You don’t mind taking care of the household for once–Wanda had done virtually nothing despite her lack of employment anyway. And you like being able to help Natasha. 

The front door creaks open.

“Y/N?”

“In the kitchen! Dinner’s almost ready,” you say, grabbing a pair of plates from the dishrack and setting them on the table. Natasha drops her bucket of cleaning supplies by the front door and trudges in. She looks more exhausted than you feel, but she brightens up when she sees you doting over the oven.

“We could’ve ordered takeout. You didn’t have to cook,” she says.

You shrug, not used to being praised for the bare minimum. “It’s just a casserole. I got the recipe from my mom.”

“It smells great. Give me five minutes to freshen up and I’ll join you.”

You finish setting the table and cut two heaping servings from the casserole. Natasha emerges from the bathroom, dressed in an old sweatshirt, her face pink from washing. Even when she clearly isn’t trying to impress, you think she still looks so beautiful it almost takes your breath away. How had you stayed with someone like Wanda when someone like Natasha existed at the same time?

“How was work today?” Natasha asks, scooping food into her mouth.

You shrug. “You’d think with my personal life falling apart, I could at least get it together professionally. Apparently they are not mutually exclusive.” Natasha chuckles. “I hope your day was better than mine.”

She mirrors your shrug. “The whole neighborhood is infatuated with you and Wanda,” she says. “It’s the only topic of conversation that seems to exist there.”

“Yeah.” It’s not entirely surprising to you, given the close-knit community and Wanda’s involvement with practically every person. 

“Any…updates?” Natasha asks. You shake your head and she lets out a pained sigh. “If I had known this would happen–”

“Stop,” you say. It makes you uncomfortable to see her guilt. Maybe she wouldn’t feel so bad if she knew that the gun was never intended to be used for violence until you switched the bullets. Only Wanda was supposed to pull the trigger and face the consequences alone. Now, three of you were involved. You’ve considered telling Natasha the truth, but you decided it’s better if she doesn’t know.

“You protected me that night,” you say. “And you made me realize what I was missing out on by staying with her.”

Natasha puts her fork down. “But if Wanda dies…”

“I’ll be charged with murder.” A thought that is constantly in the forefront of your mind.

“And if she lives…”

“She’ll tell everyone I wasn’t the one who shot her.”

***********************************************************************

Natasha can hardly sleep. Not because she knows you’re in the other room, crashed out on her couch, but because of the whirlwind of emotions and scenarios that invade her mind at any given second. She loathes the thought that your life is at the mercy of her actions. Part of her considers marching down to the police department and announcing her involvement, but she knows that’ll only make things worse.

Wanda is out of the picture (for now), you have basically declared your love for her, yet it all feels completely wrong. She knows her seemingly-perfect world could crumble at any moment, entirely due to variables not in her control. This is not the first time she wished she could run away from it all, but maybe this time she didn’t have to run alone.

She keeps her normal work schedule, although she comes to loathe every client (besides the Rogers) in your neighborhood. The beliefs spread by Agatha and her gang have only ramped up into the most outlandish rumors, like you being involved with the mafia and trying to kill off Wanda to pay your debts, or even that you had hooked up with an old flame and Wanda had found out. Natasha does not want to draw attention to herself by defending you, but it never gets easier to hear the awful things spoken about you.

Nearly a week after the shooting, Natasha is at the Rogers’s house. She’s upstairs, vacuuming the master bedroom, and nearly jumps out of her skin when someone taps on her shoulder.

“It’s just me!” Steve says, backing away as she turns the vacuum on him.

“Oh, hi Steve. You startled me,” Natasha says.

“I know, I’m sorry, I should’ve waited for a break.” 

“That’s okay.” She flicks the power off so she can hear him better. 

“Have you seen Y/N lately?” he asks.

She pauses for a moment, debating on telling the truth or not. While Steve was her most-trusted client, she thinks housing you is still something she wants to keep a secret. “No,” she answers. “Ever since…the whole thing with Wanda, I haven’t been to the house.”

“If you get asked back, will you go?” His question catches her off-guard.

Natasha debates her answer. If Wanda was there, she might as well remove your whole family from her clientele. But if it was just you…

“I’m not sure,” she says, proud she can be honest of one thing. 

“Is it because of the shooting?”

The shooting I committed? she wants to say, but holds her tongue. “Well, we still don’t really know what happened,” she says. 

“I think you know exactly what happened,” Steve replies, and Natasha’s blood runs cold. Did you somehow confide in him of her involvement that night? Or did he catch a glimpse of her jumping neighbors’ fences at midnight? 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Natasha whispers. 

“You worked for both of them,” Steve explains. “You had a front row view of how different they were. Peggy and I always said they were the most extreme polar opposites we’d ever seen. Not like night and day. Like…good and bad.” Natasha sees a shadow of emotion pass over his face. “But, after what happened, maybe the difference between them isn’t as obvious as we thought.”

“I trust Y/N,” Natasha declares. She might stay silent while the neighborhood ladies gossip about you, but she won’t let Steve tarnish your name. “I did before all this happened, and I still do now.”

Steve stares at her and Natasha prepares to further defend you, but instead of questioning her, he nods slowly, as if this was the answer he wanted to hear. 

“Thanks for coming to the house today. I left your check on the kitchen table.” It’s a sudden, strange turn of topic, but he leaves before she can ask anything else. Natasha’s head is full of confusion and concern, but she goes through the motions of vacuuming and mopping without interruption. She snags her check and leaves the Rogers’ house without seeing Steve again.

Back in the safety of her car, Natasha lets out an enormous sigh of frustration. She doesn’t know who she can trust anymore (besides you, of course). If even someone like Steve was beginning to have doubts, she wouldn’t survive in this neighborhood much longer. Someone might find out what she had done–if someone didn’t already know. 

Panic overtakes her and she calls Clint. Perhaps she was acting irrationally now, but this neighborhood was no place for sanity. 

“Hi, Nat,” he answers on the third ring. 

“Can you find me someone in New York who can sell me a gun?” she asks, ignoring all formalities. “Immediately. I’m not going back to my apartment until I have one in hand.”

Clint is silent for a moment. “Is everything okay? Did Y/N–”

“No, I’m fine. There’s just…a lot going on, Clint.” Natasha bites her lip while she comes up with a convincing cover. “Every time I come to this neighborhood, it feels like I’m being judged. Someone might approach me for the wrong reason one day and I need to be ready–”

“If you get caught carrying a gun, Nat–”

“I won’t,” she promises. “Wanda could wake up any day, and if she sends someone after me–”

“Jesus, Nat.”

“I won’t use it on anyone unless it’s an emergency. You know that,” she says.

“I know, I know, but…someone with a background like yourself, it doesn’t matter why you’re carrying or why you shot. You could end up in a position where even I can’t save you,” he says.

Clint isn’t the only one who can save me, Natasha thinks, but she doesn’t comment. “I’ll be fine.”

Clint sighs. “Okay. Let me make some calls, and I’ll get back to you in thirty minutes.”

“Thank you,” Natasha says. “If they have a Smith & Wesson Model 686, that’d be even better.”

Clint doesn’t ask why. “You got it.” 

***********************************************************************

Even after her little detour, Natasha still makes it home before you. She hides her new weapon in her underwear drawer, then goes to order takeout for dinner. Just as she’s finished setting the table, the door unlocks and you step in, holding your work briefcase and a handful of mail, looking very tired from your day, but your face lights up the second you see her. 

“Hi, Nat,” you say, hurrying over and greeting her with a hug and a kiss. Wasn’t this what she had always dreamed about? Having a partner who came home to her and filled her with love and affection. And yet…it doesn’t feel entirely right, with Wanda still lurking in the picture. But Natasha tries to forget about her. Wanda would be eating out of a tube tonight, while she got to spend her evening with you. 

Dinner is uneventful but peaceful. Natasha doesn’t talk much, still thinking about what Steve said to her and the gun in her bedroom. While you go off to shower, she tidies up and rests in front of the television to unwind. You come out in your pajamas (which are just a pair of sweatpants and a thin white T-shirt that clings to your skin and emphasizes the muscles of your torso) and join her on the couch without speaking, slinging your arm casually over her shoulder and Natasha snuggles towards you. 

She hardly thinks about how easy it is being around you, how you already feel like hers. She thinks about the future the two of you could finally have now that Wanda’s gone–but not really. You were forever chained to her whether or not she woke up, and at this point Natasha isn’t even sure if she wants Wanda to pull through or not. 

She still had nightmares about that night, sometimes with Wanda stealing the gun out of her hands and shooting you and then Natasha. And then one time, after you confessed you knew about Natasha’s background, Wanda shot up from the floor, blood flying from her mouth, as she screamed that she would have Natasha put in prison for–

It suddenly clicks to her. You had never elaborated how you knew her background, and she hadn’t found the right time to ask yet. Now would be as good of a time as any.

“Hey, Y/N?” she says, sounding as small as she feels. “Can I ask you something about…that night?”

You hesitate, but say, “Sure.”

“You said you knew…my background.” Natasha looks up at you. “What did you mean by that?”

You shift on the couch, removing your arm from her shoulders and she fears she’s said the wrong thing. “Wanda wanted it done,” you start, and it takes Natasha a moment to understand, but when she does, she feels faint. Wanda too knows what she’s done? Maybe she should’ve aimed the gun a little higher. “I told her it was entirely unnecessary but…you know my wife.”

Natasha clutches onto your bicep, willing the room around her to stop spinning. 

“You’re from Russia,” you continue. “You worked for a man known as Dreykov.” Natasha shivers at the mention of her former boss’s name. “He was killed by an employee identified as Natalia Romanova. However, she escaped prison shortly after her conviction and was believed to have fled overseas.”

“You have to understand, it wasn’t exactly like that,” Natasha says, not even realizing she’s admitting to murder right in front of you. “It was self-defense. He was a horrible, abusive man, and I was just trying to protect myself–” She stops talking. It dawns on her what she must look like to you: an escaped convict wanted for murdering her former boss, now responsible for shooting her current boss. 

“Like you were trying to protect me from Wanda?” you ask. 

“Yes,” she says, her fingers brushing your cheek. “I couldn’t stand seeing her hurt you like that. I know it wasn’t right to shoot her either, but I had no choice–”

“Are you going to kill me too?” you ask suddenly. 

“No. No!” she repeats for emphasis. “I would never hurt you, Y/N.” She scoots closer to you. “You believe me when I say that, right?”

“I do,” you say, kissing her. Natasha grabs onto your shirt, pressing her lips against yours harder. 

“I love you, Y/N,” she whispers, swinging one of her legs over your waist. “I love that you treated me with respect and like I was an equal, not your slave.” Her weight rests on your legs and she rocks forward, purposely brushing the bulge in your sweatpants. “I love how you always showed kindness to everyone–even if they didn’t deserve it.” She won’t name your wife, afraid it’ll take away from the moment. 

“Nat,” you whisper, and she smiles when she feels you start to harden. 

“I love you, and I’ll wait as long as I need for us to be properly together.” Easier said than done, of course, but Natasha was determined to show you how much she cared by being as patient as she needed to.

Your hands close around her hips, guiding her forward until she’s practically sitting on top of your clothed dick. “I don’t think you need to wait much longer,” you say. “Guess what came in my mail today.” Natasha tilts her head, not following. You lean up until your lips graze the shell of her ear. “Doctor says I came back clean.”

“Oh?” Natasha feels the flame of arousal spark in her belly. 

“So you don’t have to wait much longer unless you want to,” you hum, kissing her neck as your hands slip under her shirt. Natasha’s skin burns where you touch her. She can’t believe this is finally happening.

“But what about…” Again, she cannot bring herself to say your wife’s name out loud.

You pull back to look into her eyes. “Forget about her. Tonight is about us,” you say, and Natasha’s heart soars. She grabs your face, smashing her lips to yours, igniting the fire inside of her. She can’t even describe how badly she’s wanted you, how many hours she’s spent thinking about your body under hers or on top of hers. She wants to make you moan and cum and feel your cock properly stretch her out. And now it’s about to be a reality.

You slip your arms under her thighs and lift her up like she’s made of glass (but Natasha hopes you won’t be afraid to throw her around), carrying her into the bedroom and setting her on the edge. Natasha’s embarrassed her bedroom is in a constant state of disarray; she could never find the energy to tidy up after cleaning master bedrooms all day. She wishes the two of you could have your first time in a more romantic environment, but she has a feeling all she’s going to remember of this night is you.

She grabs onto your collar, pulling you down on top of her as you kiss her neck and wrap your hands around her hips. Your grip is tight but not painful, and Natasha senses your desperation as you push her legs apart and lay in between them. The emptiness of her core intensifies at you being so close to where she needs you. 

“Y/N,” she whimpers, clawing at your sweatpants. 

“I bet you taste so good,” you murmur into her ear, and Natasha nearly faints at the thought of having your head between her legs. “Can I have a taste, baby?”

Natasha practically rips off her clothes, thrusting her hips up as if you’ve forgotten where she wants you. Your muscular arms circle her thighs, spreading them apart and Natasha wishes she could take a picture of this moment because she never wants to forget it. She’s practically shaking with excitement when you dip your head down and your mouth makes contact with her center.

She moans and arches her back when your tongue presses against her slit, moving up and down. You repeat the motion longer than Natasha prefers, and she humps against your mouth to encourage you to enter her. Her walls clench around your tongue and she keens in pleasure, as you kiss and lick at her with increasing enthusiasm. Your fingertips dig into the plushness of her thighs and she gropes her own breasts, trying to stop herself from yanking on your hair. 

“Y/N,” she pants, tipping her head into the mattress with another drawn-out moan when your lips wrap around her clit and suck. “Shit, that feels so good.” You mumble something that she can’t hear, but she does feel the vibrations it causes and she almost finishes right there. Not that she expected you to be bad at giving head, but it was clear you had likely not been with anyone but Wanda and needed a little bit of guidance to please someone different.

Natasha rocks harder against your face, eager for your tongue to reach deeper into her (but she knows she’ll soon get something else that will stretch her out properly). Your left hand trails up her stomach, closing around her breast and pinching her nipple. Natasha squirms and moans until the stimulation is too much for her. She floods into your mouth, and you eagerly lap up every drop, nipping the insides of her thighs and crawling up her body.

“Delicious,” you pant, kissing her and Natasha pushes her tongue into your mouth to taste herself. She feels your hardness pressing against her leg and cups it, relishing in the groan you let out.

“I need this,” she begs. “And I think you need me, too.” 

“I need you so badly,” you admit, sitting back to quickly pull off your clothes. Natasha watches you undress and practically drools at the sight of your broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and the creases along your pelvis that disappear behind your sweatpants. You remove your sweatpants next, and Natasha has to hold her breath when you finally drag down your boxers and kick them off. 

Your cock is huge and hard, the head glistening with pre-cum already. Natasha can’t stop herself from reaching out for it, closing her fingers around your thick shaft and stroking it until you moan. 

“Fuck, Natasha,” you say and your voice cracks, clearly on the edge of losing control like she is for the second time. “I can’t believe I finally get to have you like this.”

Natasha hums, rubbing her thumb along the pulsing vein on your cock and your hips twitch. She tugs on your cock to guide it towards her soaking entrance. “I’m all ready for you,” she declares, gasping when the head of your cock makes contact with her opening. 

“This pussy is all mine,” you say, leaning back to ready yourself. “And I’m all yours, Nat.”

“Hurry,” she whines and you thrust your hips forward, sliding your cock through her tight heat that barely parts to let you in. Natasha moans so loud she fears the neighbors will complain, but she doesn’t care, losing her train of thought as you keep pushing forward until your entire length is buried inside her. 

“Ugh, fuck,” you moan, adjusting to the tightness around you before rolling your hips in short bursts. You’re afraid you’ll cum too early, but you don’t want to pull out, so you move slowly and deliberately, angling your hips as you try to find the spot that will make her moan.

Natasha runs her hands up your carved abs and you lean into her touch, reaching for her breasts again and massaging them roughly. 

“Come here, baby,” she says, looping her hand around the back of your neck and drawing you down on top of her. You kiss her in sync with your thrusts, your bare chest rubbing against hers. Natasha’s hands skate down your back and stop on your muscular butt, squeezing the flesh there until her nails bite into your skin. You grunt and quicken your pace, losing all reign of control as you ram into her hard enough to send her moving across the bed. 

“Finish in me,” Natasha begs, her pussy clenching around you so tightly it takes your breath away. “Fill me up with your cum.” Wanda was the only other person you ever slept with, but there was no chance you’d go back to her now. Being with Natasha–being in her–makes you feel so complete. You trust her and love her and want to do this with her the rest of your life. 

“Natasha,” you groan into her ear, your hips faltering in their steady rhythm. Your cock is throbbing for release as it slides through her tight heat. “I love you,” you proclaim, kissing below her ear, trying to focus on her smooth body beneath you rather than the borderline painful ache between your legs.

She clutches onto the back of your head, pressing it to her chest. “I love you, too.”

You can’t hold back anymore. Your muscles flex as you finish, cum shooting deep into her womb. You collapse on top of Natasha, a little embarrassed you couldn’t last longer, but maybe with a few minutes’ rest you would regain some energy to continue. She strokes your back, and in her arms you feel like you’re finally with someone who truly loves you.

***********************************************************************

Your phone ringing wakes the both of you. Natasha stirs next to you and you kiss her on the forehead as you reach over her to snag your buzzing phone off the nightstand.

Murdock is calling.

You sit up immediately, the blankets sliding off your body. “Hi Matt.”

“Hey. Sorry to bother you so early, hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”

“Uh…” You look down at Natasha, naked and beautiful next to you after a long but satisfying night. “No, of course not. What’s up?”

“I’ve got a big development.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Wanda just woke up.” Your heart punches against your chest and you practically gasp for air. Natasha rolls over and looks at you. “She’s causing a huge ruckus in the hospital, but she says she only wants to talk to you. How fast can you get over here?”

Natasha shakes your arm. “What’s wrong?” she mouths. “Wanda,” you mouth back, and her eyes grow wide. To Murdock, you say, “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Almost forgot Wanda still existed for a second there. 😭 Only a few more parts to go now...

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

[frankcastler]

yesss new chapter!!!

The Maid - Part 5

Socialite!Wanda Maximoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

Maid!Natasha Romanoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

18+ only, read at your own risk

Word count: 3923

Summary: You are married to a wealthy socialite, but your newly hired housemaid doesn’t approve of the marriage.

AN: This took longer than expected, but it's the moment you've all been waiting for...

Read part 4 here.

*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.

Natasha hasn’t left her apartment in two days. Her phone is on max volume, awaiting any calls or messages from you, but she hasn’t heard from you since she ran out of your home after shooting your wife. She played the local news 24/7 on her ancient television whose image blacked out every time the upstairs neighbors jostled her apartment. They reported a shooting in your neighborhood and showed a clip of flashing police cars and an ambulance fanned out on your street, with the victim hospitalized, but no further updates.

The anticipation was killing her. 

She had called Clint to tell him you knew about her background, despite what he had promised, and he offered to move her out of the city–state, even–immediately. But Natasha couldn’t do that to you. Perhaps she was a little naive to expect you to reach out to her after what she had done, but she believed you would keep your word.

Now, she has to get ready for a shift at Steve’s house, and she’s terrified to go back to your neighborhood. Clint had told her to cancel all her shifts there, but she refused, thinking it looked too suspicious. Plus, she was hoping to catch a glimpse of you while she was in the area. With anxiety knotting her stomach, she packs her car and drives to your neighborhood.

She doesn’t know why she didn’t expect to see your house still standing, as if the police would burn down a crime scene after their investigation. While the exterior looks perfectly normal, something feels off about it. Natasha wonders if you’re home, but she won’t dare knock on your door now.

Steve comes out of his house just as she squeezes her Nissan between a Mercedes and BMW. The street is surprisingly full of cars.

“Hey, Natasha!” Steve calls as he jogs down the sidewalk. “I’m so sorry, I forgot to text you to cancel. You can go home now if you want, and we’ll pay you for the trouble of coming over though–”

“Cancel?” Natasha asks, stepping onto the street. “Is everything okay?”

“Peggy’s hosting a little gathering right now, so there’s a lot of people in the house,” Steve says. “It’s been so chaotic around here the past few days–”

“Why? Did something happen?” She and Clint had agreed it was safer for her to play dumb, to reinforce the idea that she had been far away from your home the night of the shooting.

“Um.” Steve moves closer to her, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Did you hear about what happened at Y/N and Wanda’s house two days ago?”

“No.” Natasha tries to put on her best expression of confusion.  

“There was a shooting,” Steve says, and Natasha feigns a gasp of shock. “Wanda got shot, and she’s in the hospital now, but in a coma. No one’s seen Y/N since it happened either, and obviously there was only one person who could’ve shot Wanda…”

“No!” Natasha says, more out of disbelief that you’re taking the fall for her. 

“The whole neighborhood is shaken up,” Steve says. “Why don’t you come inside? A lot of the neighbors are here. We have food, and it might make you feel better to not have to process all this information alone.”

Against her better judgement, Natasha follows Steve into his house. It’s not nearly as big or grand as yours, but it feels more like a home. Steve proudly displays pictures of his family on the walls, and his children’s toys and belongings are often scattered everywhere. Natasha had met them only once as they were usually at school when she was there, but James was a mini image of his father, and Sarah was an adorable little girl. Steve’s wife Peggy was also extremely kind to her (unlike yours was), and Natasha genuinely enjoyed having the Rogers family as her client. 

There are only adults present currently, with most of them sitting on the lawn in the backyard, shaded by a canopy. Peggy is in the kitchen, slicing into a gigantic watermelon. 

“Hi, Mrs. Carter. Do you need any help?” Natasha asks out of instinct.

“Oh, hi, Natasha! I thought Steve was going to tell you to stay at home,” Peggy says. “Not that we don’t enjoy having you here–”

“I forgot,” Steve says, walking in behind Natasha. “Too much stuff going on–”

“Well, since you’re already here, help yourself to some food, Natasha. And you can join everyone out back.”

“Thank you.” Some of the people here are also Natasha’s clients, and the last thing she wants to do is share a meal with them, but she forces herself to stay. This is her chance to gather more info on you and Wanda.

Natasha grabs a paper plate and lightly loads it up with fruit and some appetizers she can’t name, then steps out into the yard. While the Rogers don’t have a pool like you do, they make up for it with a half basketball court and a little playground that even Natasha finds herself jealous of. 

“Is that Natasha? Having some fun on her day off?” someone calls out.

“Well, I came here to work, but apparently I wasn’t needed today,” she responds.

“Come sit with us, dear!” The loud voice of Agatha Harkness booms out. While she wasn’t a client of Natasha’s, she knows to keep a wide berth. It feels like she’s entered the lion’s den as she takes a seat next to Agatha, joining the circle of the neighborhood’s elite gossipers. “We were just talking about you.”

“You were?” Natasha feels her cheeks heat up.

“Of course! You do housework for most of the families here, so you must have a front-row seat to all the juicy drama, right?” Agatha says.

“I try to mind my own business.”

“Yes, but if something happens in front of you, won’t look away, right?” Dottie Jones, your next-door neighbor, asks. Natasha spares herself from answering by shoving a whole apple slice into her mouth.

“You heard what happened to Wanda?” Agatha asks. “Oh, poor thing. We tried visiting her in the hospital yesterday, but we were turned away. Apparently, Y/N won’t let any visitors in, but conveniently no one’s seen Y/N since the incident, that piece of shit.”

“Wanda should’ve gotten a divorce before it came down to this,” Dottie says. “I can’t believe she might lose her life to that bastard.” She wipes her eyes for dramatic effect, but Natasha sees no tears on her face.

“I heard it was a money issue,” Monica Rambeau chimes in. “Apparently, Y/N’s company is on the verge of bankruptcy, and Wanda wasn’t too keen on loaning her trust fund money to a failing business.”

“It’s just so fucked up,” Agatha sighs. “If your business is failing, that’s your fault and you need to take responsibility for it. Trying to kill your own wife to get her money is just so wrong on every level.”

It hurts Natasha to hear these women speak so poorly of you. She would defend your honor, but she also doesn’t want to give herself away.

“Did the police come talk to you ladies yet?” Dottie asks. “They came this morning to my house and asked a few questions. I told them I’d heard yelling a lot recently–mostly from Y/N. And what Wanda’s told us about not feeling safe or cared for in her marriage anymore.”

“But you didn’t hear the gunshot?” Monica says. Dottie shakes her head.

“I thought it was a trash can falling over or something.”

“Vision’s the one who made the call,” Agatha says. Natasha almost chokes on a cheese cube. “And it’s a good thing he did, otherwise they might not have been able to get to Wanda on time–”

“He’s always looking out for her,” Monica agrees. “He’s a good man. Wanda should’ve left Y/N for him already, then this would’ve never needed to happen.”

“When she pulls through–not if, when–I hope she sues the fuck out of Y/N,” Agatha says.

“I hope Y/N gets life in prison,” Dottie adds. “That bastard deserves to rot for eternity.”

Natasha stares down at her plate, wanting to cry and scream at the same time. She hates how these women talk about you, but she hates herself even more for not standing up for you. 

***********************************************************************

Natasha finally manages to escape their clutches and goes home, feeling much worse than she had when she left this morning. While she worked for half of them, she had never seen this side of them before. Clearly, Wanda had influenced them beyond reason: you were none of the awful things they said about you. It also made Natasha extremely uneasy to see how many people were on Wanda’s side when they didn’t know any part of the truth.

She trudges up to the third floor of her building because her elevator is broken again and nearly collapses when she sees you standing by her front door.

“Y/N?”

“Hi.” You look like you haven’t showered in two days, and your eyes are strained like you hadn’t slept since you last saw her. Your cheek is still a little swollen where Wanda hit you several times. “Sorry to catch you like this. I would’ve called ahead, but I didn’t want to leave any digital traces.”

Natasha doesn’t even bother to ask how you know where she lives, but she quickly goes over to unlock her door and usher you inside. She wishes she had spent more time cleaning her own place, she thinks, as she eyes the dirty dishes piled up on the counter, the unopened mail on the floor, the kitchen table loaded with used Tupperware.

“Are you okay?” Natasha asks. “I just got back from Steve’s house. He was hosting the neighborhood ladies, and they said no one’s seen you since–”

“I know. I just got released from jail,” you say, running a hand through your hair. “My lawyer posted bail, so I can’t go far, but I knew I couldn’t go back to the house. I’m sorry to bother you here.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Natasha wishes she could say how happy she is to see you again. “Make yourself at home. Sorry it’s not the cleanest at the moment–when you spend all day cleaning, it’s hard to do it for myself–”

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, “Do you mind if I use your shower? It’s been two days since I washed up, I know I look like crap.”

Natasha wants to say you still look good as ever, but holds her tongue. “Please, go ahead. I can go down to the laundry room and wash up your clothes while you’re showering too.”

“I don’t want to burden you–”

“You protected me that night and you had no reason to,” Natasha says. “You could never be a burden to me.” She makes eye contact with you and feels her knees go weak when you smile at her. 

“Thank you.” You look away first. “I’m sorry Wanda was always so awful to you and that I never stood up for you. You were always so respectful to her and me, even when neither of us really deserved it.”

“You deserved it,” Natasha says, finding her courage. “You deserve better than her.”

You don’t respond, only nodding and walking to the bathroom.

***********************************************************************

You’re not entirely sure why the first place you went after being freed from jail was Natasha’s. Your lawyer, Murdock, had offered to book you a hotel, but you could’ve done that yourself and to be honest, you were afraid to be alone. It was an extremely vulnerable time for you. You were being charged with aggravated assault that could easily be upped to attempted murder depending on the investigation and Wanda’s condition. Murdock had played the self-defense card, which was an easy sell because of your injuries, but you knew not to celebrate too early.

When news got around of what you had done, you weren’t so sure how many would take your side. It would be dangerous to underestimate what Wanda might’ve said about you behind your back. But Natasha knew the truth. She was responsible for part of it, but you didn’t blame her at all. You knew you could trust her. Maybe that was because you haven’t slept in two days or had a proper meal, but you felt safe with Natasha. More than you ever had with your own wife. Even knowing what she had done in her home country that forced her to flee and take on a new identity. 

It was Wanda’s idea to run a background check on Natasha. You had protested at first, but she was adamant about needing to know every detail about the woman who would be spending all her time in your home. She made a good point, but the second you met Natasha, you knew you didn’t have to worry about her stealing or vandalizing, and to be quite frank, Wanda never cared about those things either. She just wanted the information so she could blackmail Natasha if she ever acted out, but neither of you were prepared for what the investigator came back with, and you were even more shocked when Wanda still agreed to employ her.

“She won’t kill us. It’ll be too obvious who did it,” Wanda says.

“I feel like being dead is enough of a problem on its own,” you counter. 

“If we hire her, with this information–” Wanda clutches at the thick folder the investigator had compiled “–she’ll have to do whatever we tell her. She’ll never argue back, she’ll never refuse, because if she does…” She flips the folder open to the page of a decade-younger Natasha, slightly blurred from the movement of running away from the crime scene. “Everyone will know what she did back in Russia.”

Your stomach twists at the way your wife is viewing the situation. She has no qualms allowing a convicted murderer to clean her home, simply because she could threaten her into doing whatever she wanted. You want to spare Natasha from this fate, but you know there’s no changing Wanda’s mind. 

Besides, if you never had the guts to kill her, maybe Natasha did.

You shower until the hot water runs out, and wrap yourself only in a towel to step out. Natasha is off washing your clothes as promised, but you’re shocked to find her waiting not only with your clothes neatly folded and clean, but also a bag of takeout on the table.

“I thought you’d be hungry too, so I went and picked something up. I would’ve cooked, but the fridge is a little empty right now–”

You cross the room in four large strides and scoop her up in a hug. You barely restrain yourself from kissing her too, but she doesn’t shy away from your hug, pressing her face against your chest and squeezing you back tightly.

“Thank you,” you whisper to her.

“Anything for you.”

You change into your fresh clothes quickly and sit down with Natasha on the couch to eat. The silence is not uncomfortable as you shovel food into your mouth, while Natasha’s appetite seems more reserved than you. She lets you eat all the leftovers and you feel like a bear before hibernation, tiredness hitting you full force as you sink back into the cushions.

“Let me clean up and then I’ll let you sleep,” you hear Natasha say, and she pats your arm as she gets up but you grab her hand to stop her from walking away.

“Thank you,” you say, knowing you sound like a broken record, but you’ve never meant the words more in your life. “You know you saved my life, right?”

Natasha looks away and shakes her head. “I almost killed your wife.”

“Exactly.” You tug on her arm and she loses her balance and falls into your lap. For the first time ever, her body is pressed against yours, her cheap vanilla perfume swirling around your head. Natasha puts her hand on your chest, as if she’s going to push away from you, but she doesn’t, trailing one hand up the back of your neck and cupping your head. You know it’s totally wrong to want her like this, to even have her touching you like this, but as far as you were concerned you weren’t married to Wanda anymore.

“Natasha,” you whisper so faintly you’re not sure if she heard you, “I think I’m in love with you.”

“Wanda doesn’t deserve you,” she says. “But I deserve you.”

The proclamation is enough for you. You tilt your head back and part your lips slightly, inviting Natasha to kiss you. She takes full advantage, slamming her mouth into yours, threading her fingers into your hair to hold you there. The touch of her lips is electrifying, with more passion than any of the kisses you’d shared with your actual wife. Your arms wrap around her back; it just feels so right to have her weight in your arms, her body pressed against yours. You never want to lose this woman; you never want to go back to Wanda again.

Natasha surprises you by grinding down in your lap. You moan when her thigh brushes over your bulge. You’re instantly light-headed by the way blood rushes to your groin and your hands slide down to her butt, squeezing until she groans into your mouth. 

She suddenly pulls away, panting, a rosy glow to her cheeks. “Y/N, you’re still married,” she says.

“We’re separated,” you tease, but you know she’s right. What you’re doing with Natasha right now makes you no better than Wanda. Your hands drop from her body to the couch in a sign of submission. “But…yeah. Things are complicated right now.”

“I think we should wait,” Natasha continues, and she sounds as pained as you feel about not being properly together. “I don’t want to rush into this, especially with everything going on.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” you admit. You feel yourself deflate in your pants. “Besides, I should probably get tested first. If Wanda gave me anything…I don’t want to give it to you.”

Natasha’s cheeks flame red when she realizes what you’re talking about. “That’s fair. We won’t do anything until you’re tested and all this is settled.”

“Yes,” you agree, even though it’ll take all your willpower to keep your hands to yourself. Natasha stands up and you join her, reaching for her hand again and spinning her around to face you. You can’t help yourself from bending over to kiss her, because you already miss her lips on yours. “You’re so beautiful,” you whisper, brushing your thumb over the curve of her cheek. “I could never stop thinking about you when you weren’t at my house.”

Natasha hums as she wraps her arms around your waist to hug you. “I walked in on you and Wanda doing it once,” she admits. “And ever since, I thought about your body and your cock every time I touched myself.” You practically shiver at the thought of Natasha using you in her fantasies. You can’t wait for her to show you exactly how she wants you. 

“Well, I can’t wait to make it a reality,” you respond, pushing your hips forward so Natasha can feel your growing bulge against her stomach. She brushes her fingers over the outline in your pants.

“I can’t wait until you’re properly mine.”

***********************************************************************

It feels wrong returning to your neighborhood the first time since the incident. But you didn’t plan on staying long, just grabbing some clothes and a few things from the home. Your lawyer had said to be quick and quiet–not that you weren’t allowed to go home, just that it wasn’t the best look to the public. You picked the middle of the day, hoping your neighbors would be out or working so you wouldn’t have to face any of them, but your luck was never great.

“Y/N?”

Your shoulders tense, but quickly drop in relief when you see Steve jogging across the street. “Hi, Steve.”

“Are you okay?” is the first thing he asks, and you’re touched by his kindness. If any of your neighbors had seen you here, they would’ve run you over with their car before speaking two words to you.

“Can you talk inside?” you ask, not taking any chances with anyone eavesdropping.

“Sure.”

You usher him through the front door and lock it. The house feels dirty and wrong, despite its clean appearance. Who knows how many pairs of police boots had walked through it, the amount of chemicals used to clean Wanda’s blood off the floor. But you don’t have a chance to think about that now.

“I’m so sorry about Wanda, Y/N,” Steve says. “If there’s anything Peggy and I can do–”

“Don’t. She doesn’t need anything from anyone,” you interrupt. Steve looks shocked at your words. “She was cheating on me. With a lot of people from this neighborhood.”

He’s silent for a moment as if having some kind of internal struggle. “Wanda tried to sleep with me, shortly after you guys moved in,” he finally reveals. “I should’ve told you, and I’ve been kicking myself ever since because I didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you?” You won’t tell him you were there, spying on them through the closet like a voyeur in your own home. 

“Wanda said she’d tell Peggy we had slept together. And all the other women in the neighborhood,” he says, sounding strained. “Peggy wouldn’t believe her, but I wasn’t so convinced the other women wouldn’t. Wanda has a lot of influence here. You’ve seen how they hang onto every word like it’s gospel.”

“I know.”

“And there’s something else I wanted to tell you,” Steve continues. “I knew about the gun.”

“The gun?”

“Wanda asked me if I knew where she could buy a gun,” Steve says. “I referred her to my friend Bucky, who runs an armory, and he sold her a revolver. It was done legally of course, and we’re all adults here, so I didn’t think much of it. It’s her right to have a gun if she wants.”

“Yes, it is,” you state, although you’re not sure why Steve is telling you all this. 

“The weird part is that Wanda specifically asked Bucky to sell her blanks instead of bullets,” Steve says. “He tried telling her that guns aren’t toys, and if it was for protection she needed live bullets. No noisy, flashy blanks were going to protect her from anything.”

You start to laugh. Steve was right; blanks wouldn’t protect anyone, but they would put on a good show. And your wife was all about the theatrics. But you knew her better than anyone, and if she was going to go as far as to fake a shooting, you would make sure she regretted it. 

“She said she wouldn’t buy the gun unless she got her blanks, so Bucky caved,” Steve says. “She could’ve gotten bullets from another source, but it was just so odd. We figured she might’ve just wanted the gun for show, you know? But she could’ve gotten a fake for much cheaper–”

“Steve,” you finally interrupt his rambling. “I knew about the gun.”

“Oh, you did?” Relief breaks out on his face. “That’s great–”

“And I noticed the gun had blanks in it. So I switched them with real bullets.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: The plot continues to thicken...Did this answer any questions or create more? 🤔

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

[frankcastler]

amazingly written!!! jules millin simp forever

‘PLEASURE.’ (Jules Millin x Intersex!Reader)

Warning(s): Hurt/Comfort, Coping, GN Reader, (breasts & peen mentioned but not really interacted with) Top!Reader, Alcohol consumption, tears shed, reader gets walked in on, dubcon, (alc involved) fingering, reader is a rebound. Requested Fic

You tore your mask and gown off with a smirk after another successful transplant surgery. You glanced up to the gallery and your smirk instantly dropped, your eyebrows scrunched as you headed to the sinks to scrub out. Your eyes locked on an anxious looking Millin who looked a moment from hurling herself off a building.

It had been a while since you last spent time with her. She had found what was apparently the girl of her dreams and had had tunnel vision ever since. Something you respected. You fell back and focused on your work. But when you looked at her now you knew something was terribly wrong.

You exited the scrub room and made your way to the Attendings’ Lounge. Your shift ending soon. You decided to take the moment to undress and wind down. You were in the middle of changing. Your scrub top was in your work bag waiting to be taken to your apartment to wash and you were buttoning up your jeans – only wearing your black bra – when Jules slipped quietly inside the room, eyes red and puffy. She paced back and forth for a moment.

“Hey, what’s going on?” You asked your voice soft with concern in that way that made the mahogany-haired woman’s stomach churn and heart warm.

She stopped pacing, her eyes trailed from your socks to your abs and further up to your face. She seemed stuck in time, a tear slipping down her cheek that made you drop the black long-sleeve you were about to don and pull her towards you by her arms. Your thumbs swiping the tears from her cheeks, a pit sinking into your gut. You questioned more insistently, “What’s wrong Jules?”

She attempted to pull away from your touch but you refused to let her.You cupped her cheeks attempting to draw her stormy brown eyes to your own – she refused to yield. “Hey, don’t do that. You came to me for a reason. Talk to me. I want to help,” You whispered patiently, tenderly.

Jules didn’t want that right now. She shoved your chest harshly making you stumble backwards nearly falling over an end table. Your lips parted in shock.

“Jules.” You mumble and she wiped her tears with her palms. A deep breath and more silence…Your jeans sagged on your hips as you waited.

“Just… don’t.”

You nodded slowly. She still couldn’t meet your gaze.

“She left.” Jules spat through gritted teeth like she was in physical pain and your expression instantly slacked from confusion as the realization dawned on you.

“Wait… Yasuda sh–”

Jules runs her fingers through her hair as more tears breach her stormy irises that still refused to meet yours.

“Fuck.” You mumbled knowing the brunette well enough to know if you dared showed an ounce of pity she would run and never look back.

“Yeah.”

The door to the attendings’ lounge swung open in that moment and you grunted as Millin shrunk in on herself. You brushed past her and glared at Dr. Ndugu, pushed a hand against his chest, and forced him out of the room as he protested.

You walked back to your locker and pulled your long-sleeve over your head before wrapping your jacket around Jules’ shoulders. You snatched your bag up and pulled your shoes onto your feet, then you wrapped a strong arm around her waist and guided her out of the lounge. Her head hung, her footsteps unsteady.

You bypassed families and coworkers alike not even chancing a greeting as you guided her out of the hospital and into your old F-150. You opened the passenger door and practically lifted her into the truck, tugged the seatbelt over her trembling frame and shut the door. You climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled out of the parking lot carefully.

Five minutes into the drive she began sniffling. Five minutes after that the silence of the road was replaced by the sound of her heavy sobs. Your jaw has set by the time you pull up to your apartment. You shut off the engine and slouched into your seat. Gazing at her as she sobbed and after a while you opened your arms offering a shoulder.

She glanced at you teary-eyed and sniffling to keep her nose from running. The sleeve of your jacket over her mouth to muffle the sobs that tore through her and you draped your arm over her shoulders. She scoots into you leaning towards you sliding across the bench seat until her head is resting on top of your thigh her tears seeped through the denim as you rubbed her shoulder and back soothingly.

“Let it out.” You whispered.

She sobbed harder burying her face into the denim of your jeans as you moved to pull the elastic from her hair and stroke your fingers through it. “I’ve got you.”

“She left me!” She cried out.

“I know. I know.”

An hour later the sobbing seemed to recede and Jule’s phone was blowing up with texts from her friends wondering where she was. You watched as she held down the power button and turned her phone off.

“Let’s go inside. I’ll heat you up some leftovers and we’ll watch a horror movie.”

Jules rolled her eyes and scoffed. “I don’t need coddling, I need something hard.”

You smirked at the unintentional innuendo.

Her face scrunched in disgust and she smacked your chest. “Not! Like that!”

She groaned. You laughed warmly. “Ouch.”

“Don’t be a baby. I just meant Tequila.”

You nodded as you climbed out of the truck and she followed, wiping her face with the sleeve of your jacket. Her nose, eyes, and cheeks rosy. “I don’t keep that shit in my house, it tastes like cayenne pepper and bad decisions.” You shiver at the memories as Jules groans loudly and drags her feet.

“I have whiskey though.” You informed as you walk up the steps and open the door to your apartment building.

“That’ll do, I guess.”

You nodded as you walked up the flight of stairs with the brunette in tow. You finally reached your apartment and unlocked the door. You dropped your bag and kicked off your shoes, setting them on the rack. Calmly, you made your way to the cupboard reaching up to the top shelf. You pulled down the large three-quarters full bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

Jules sighed and leaned against your kitchen island shoes having tracked in mud but you’re too focused to care. You opened the bottle and poured two glasses to which Millin snatched them both and downed the sickly sweet liquid inside. You gaped in shock and chuckled as she grimaced and wiped her lips. You poured more into the glasses and snatched the second one before she could get her hands on it. You took a breath in and clinked your glass against hers. You tapped the glass on the counter and breathed out, tossed it back with her and inhaled slowly– shivering in disgust.

Jules smirked. “Pussy.”

You rolled your eyes and moved to the fridge to pull out the leftover fried chicken and homemade mac and cheese.

“How do you find time to cook?” The brunette asked as she poured herself another glass.

“Day off.” You mumbled with a smirk as you pressed the buttons on the microwave to heat the food and moved to the fridge to grab a Powerade.

You slid the bottle of blue electrolytes to her. “Electrolytes with your liquor?”

Jules rolled her eyes and twisted the cap open begrudgingly taking a sip. You nodded approvingly and headed to your bedroom to get undressed. You sighed as you tugged your shirt over your head and unbuttoned your jeans letting them fall, still stained with the brunette’s tears.

You stood confidently in your boxer-briefs and bra taking a breath and a moment to yourself. You were shedding your boxers and pulling up a pair of thin pajama pants when Jules walked in with her thumb pointing to the kitchen her eyes instantly falling on your limp dick.

You cursed and turned your back on instinct.

Her spluttering halted as she tilted her head and smirked at the ink scribbled across the lower part of your spine, “Is that a tattoo?”

You hurriedly pulled the pajama pants up and tied them securely. “What did you need?”

You asked ignoring the heat in your cheeks and ears.

“What does it say?” She asks referring to the tattoo on the back of your thigh just below the curve of your glute.

You groaned and brushed past her hearing the microwave beep. “Your dinner is done.”

You tried to brush her off but she didn’t let you. She followed you into the kitchen and poured herself another glass as you grabbed her a fork and slid the tupperware to her.

“I won’t eat until you tell me what it says. I will starve myself, I swear.”

You roll her eyes at her tipsy dramatics. “Fine. It says ‘Pleasure Over Matter.’”

Jules snorts before keeling over laughing and you smirk embarrassed but glad to see her smiling. You just watch her with a soft look in your eyes. “Now eat your food. You know you want it.”

“You are so… full of yourself, my god!” She cackled.

You rolled your eyes and picked up the fork, stabbing some elbow noodles and held it to her lips. “Eat.”

She takes a bite and moans softly before taking the fork and digging in. “Am i drunk already or are you a good cook?”

You smirk. “Both.”

You watched her eat and poured yourself another glass of whiskey and downed it in one go. You stuck your tongue out and made a noise of distaste. Jules eats slowly but surely and taps her glass for you to top her off. You do. She downed it, took a pointed sip of Powerade and went back to eating as you screwed the cap on the bottle and placed it in your freezer to the brunette’s disappointment.

“Come on.” You mutter and guide her to your living room as she eats. You turn on the tv and let her pick a horror movie as you sink into the cushion of your couch beside her. She settles on Scream, one of her favorites.

You sit through most of the movie together. She finishes eating and sips at the Powerade you gave her and she turns to look at you. “How are things with you and Dr. Shepherd?”

You press your lips together and turn away from the gorey movie to hold her gaze. “Uh… nonexistent. I don’t accept that type of betrayal as something to move past.”

Jules nodded slowly. “So you two are over? Like for good? How can you walk away that easily?”

You snorted. “You just walk away and don’t look back.”

Jules nodded slowly again. The alcohol made her slow to process. “Is it that easy?”

You scan her face and realize hastily she’s conflating her situation with Yasuda to your’s. “Hey, she’s a fool for leaving you. Don’t get me wrong, grief makes people do stupid things they wouldn’t necessarily do… but.. You didn’t betray her. You did nothing wrong. She simply walked away. And that might be what she needed… that doesn’t reflect on you, Jules. That reflects on her. You deserve all the love in the world. Someone who will see it through with you. Not that half-in half-out bullshit you usually settle for. She’s going through a lot and she made the choice to deal with that on her own and abandoned you in the process. That’s the facts of the situation. Focus on the facts, don't draw conclusions, especially ones that mess up your own self worth.”

Jules nodded her eyes tearing up again. “I just.. I feel so..”

You nod slowly. “Hurt?”

She nods and wipes at her eyes. “I thought… we could get through it together. I thought we had something. I just don’t want to think anymore. I shouldn't have ever gotten involved, I should have kept my head down.”

You sigh and pull her towards you by her ankle until her legs are across your lap and you hug her. “Don’t shame yourself. There’s no shame in… falling in love. You’re human.”

“I-I know, but…”

You shush her as she sniffles against your neck. “There is no but. You lead with your heart that was brave. Not stupid.”

Jules fell silent sniffling over the screams that echoed from your flatscreen. You held her together and kissed the top of her head and she leaned into you. She looked teary-eyed and dejected and you pouted, bringing a hand to her cheek. She leans into your touch and you clench your jaw as she gives you a certain look, her gaze darkening as she leans upwards her lips parting slightly. You rest your forehead against hers.

“Are you sure?”

She responds silently by bringing a soft hand to the back of your neck, her nails gently biting into the flesh there. You nod slowly and lean in to capture her lips. You stop just before they meet. “You won’t hate me for this?”

Jules pulls back to catch your eye. “Shut up.” She mumbled and captured your lips roughly with her own and you melted– kissing her back with a certain reservation. While she… she was rough with you because she knew you could handle it. Handle her. That’s what she wanted…to be handled. And handled well.

She bites down on your lip and straddles your lap as she forces her tongue into your mouth and you suck on it causing her to groan and pull away only to dive back in– her hands trailed over the lace of your bra and down your clenched abdomen.

You dragged your lips away from hers and along the edge of her jaw to catch your breath. You smirked and licked her pulse point sucking lightly before moving on. The brunette shrugged your jacket off her lithe frame and pulled her scrub top over her head.

You licked your lips as she cupped your cheeks before dragging your head forward so that your swollen lips grazed against the tops of her breast. You kissed the skin languidly feeling her heart pound under your lips as you reached behind her and unclasped her bra with one hand.

She chuckled as you smirked devilishly and pulled the straps down her arms until you were able to toss the constrictive garment aside. “You’re so smooth with that.”

“Practice makes perfect.” You mumbled before sucking one of her rosy pink nipples into your mouth laving your tongue over the peak as you massaged the other. She grinded down on your abs as your mouth world her eyes on your face as she pushed your hair out of your way.

You switched to her other breast as she grabbed your free hand and untied her scrub bottoms before shoving it inside. YOu moaned against her breast as you cupped her wet cunt over her panties before pushing them aside. She gasped as your fingers gently traced her clit.

You rubbed the bundle of nerves languidly trailing your fingers further until you could swipe some of the slick from her entrance up against her button. Jules' hips jerked and her head fell backwards. “Fuck. Please.”

You released her nipple–a string of your spit connecting you to her breast still. You cupped her jaw and dragged her lips back down to yours as you plunged a single finger into her entrance swirling it around. She moaned into your mouth her arms wrapped around your neck as you swirled your tongue over hers.

You nibbled her lower lip as you curled your finger. She pulled away with a whine– her clit dragging over the heel of your palm. You knew what she wanted before she even asked plunging a second finger inside her tight, wet heat. She groaned and let her forehead rest against your’s.

“Feel good?” You smirked as you dragged your fingers through her pussy rubbing against the textured patch just inside her entrance.

Her back arched as she whimpered and grinded her clit harder against your palm. She rolled her hips perfectly to ride your long fingers that reached deeper than anyone else ever could including herself. Her breath fanned against your face and smelled of pure whiskey–how intoxicating. She nodded mindlessly and you chuckled hotly.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck. Yes!” She cried as you scissored your fingers inside her.

You groaned as she tightened around your fingers, more wetness gushing into your palm. You fucked your fingers into her faster in response. You made sure to hook your fingers on every pull to drag against that spot that made her walls clench tighter every time. That spot that made her hold on your wrist tighten and that airy moan spew from her lips. Her face scrunched in pleasure.

“Right there?” You inquired though you knew the answer before she frantically nodded her head in desperation.

You smirked and scissored your fingers inside her. Feeling her walls tighten and her cunt gush in response. The brunette ground her clit against your palm letting out a growled mewl.

“There you go, take what you need.” You whispered and sucked her pink nipple back into your mouth as she rode your fingers frantically.

Jules whined and bounced on your fingers insistently canting her hips forward to rub her clit against your palm over and over. That's when you brought your other hand down and swiped at the bundle of nerves hastily, your fingers slipping on the sheer amount of slick.

You arched your hips up unconsciously seeking attention but remained focused as Jules' breath stuttered. The smell of whiskey filling your senses as she cupped your cheeks and brought your lips to hers her eyes rolling back as her back arched–-with a gush and a breathless whine she came hard all over your hands. Her eyes rolled back and her breath caught as you rubbed her clit and g-spot simultaneously as her walls seized.

The sounds spilling from her lips tasted of pure heaven on your tongue as you pulled away to gaze at her pleasure-overcome features. Her eyebrows drawn together her lips open her jaw tight. Her hips canted wildly chasing the euphoria you helped her achieve until it all came crashing down.

The brunette slackened in your arms. Her breath fanning against your neck, her mahogany tresses tickling your jaw and shoulder as you wiped her slick on her thigh before pulling your hand out of her pants and wrapping her in your arms holding her close. Silence befell the room, the credits of the movie playing in the background as she caught her breath.

Jules shuddered as she was hit with aftershock after aftershock. Her eyes welled up again as the euphoria faded and her reality came crashing back down on her. You heard her sniffle and instantly tightened your arms around her.

You held your breath as she began to sob into your neck. You kissed her shoulder as she cried well into the night, and you fell asleep with her curled up in your arms.

[frankcastler]

i think i’m in the group of a very select people who watched marvel’s runaways

which is really sad because the comics are great and the show really captured the teen’s essence, the dynamics between them was awesome, we had good couples like Nico and Karolina and Gert and Chase

it really saddens me that disney chose to erase the TV show from the streaming platform because they cancelled it

although i must admit that season 3 wasn’t great like expected, i really enjoyed the show and feel like they wasted so much potential

maybe one day we’ll see them again on the MCU who knows

I JUST REALLY MISS THEM