soluversworld

[soluversworld]

Ok so uhh I know requests are closed but this is more of a question-

Now where the hell did all of those Mr. Shoujo fics go of Geo💔 either your the wrong person or I'm blind and a retard

Not wrong at all! Imao-

I'm the person who wrote the fanfics

as you can see! I unpublished them, mentioned here

again, I didn't wanted to. But I'm paranoid because of the hate I got. ( I know a few people shouldn't let me change the fact of my posts but) I don't want hate, I unpublished most of my old things. I didn't want the hate.

The hate is silly, too. but again I don't want to risk it.

I'll rewrite the fanfiction in the future. If people wants (along with other Sol fanfics)

For now, Please. I prefer to keep them unpublished, because I'm duckin scared mate.

[soluversworld]

Kierr

Please take me away😔💗kier.....

He is so cute......

[soluversworld]

STOP REPOSTING MY ART ON TIKTOK WITHOUT CREDITS. DO Y'ALL NOT SEE MY BIG ASS WATERMARK??? 💔☹️

[soluversworld]

suggestions for a 500 special?

[soluversworld]

This was so cute wahhhhh!!! REDACTED, OH MY HUBBY BABE, HE'S SO CUTE. EXPLODES DIES AND REVIVES.

Heyyyy MOMO!! 💖

Can you write me Teo fic?/silly /lh

lol jokes apart, but I have had this lil headcanon of artist Redacted and their muse angel. Or a WEBTOON creator redacted and their editor angel, slow burn pro max hehehe ✨✨

Blowing you up mwah mwah 💥 🖤🖤

forgot my own formatting WHATEVERRR

💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

Unsociable Webtoon Artist Ren yayyy

"Thank you for supporting us! Enjoy the rest of the con!" With a bright smile, you wave away the two attendees and sit down. 

The man beside you gives off a grumble as he loudly slides your chair closer to his. "Finally. 'Thought they'd never leave." He practically drapes himself over your shoulder, pink hair brushing against you. [REDACTED]'s lips press to your cheek, chin, then find a favored spot on your neck.

"You're gonna get us kicked out," you whisper, but make no move to get away. 

"Don't get my hopes up."

You let him be. It was your last day in the artist alley. They'd done almost everything to keep people away from the booth, but the allure of Always With You merch and an autograph from the (disgruntled) creator was enough for a few devoted fans to approach.

Some even stopped by more than once. 

"Heyyy you guys!" came the voice of a patron you'd seen plenty over the weekend. They wore an obscure cosplay each day, and today's outfit was a sight to see.

You stood up as they came closer — both of you ignoring your partner's tch of annoyance. "Oh my god. A Gloomy cosplay??" You scrambled out of the booth to get a closer look.

"Yeah, I just had to after yesterday. It was rushed, and I didn't really do too well with the wig—" They shake their head to let the dark bangs fall over their face. "—but I think it looks great, right?"

"It's amazing!! Ren, we've gotta take a picture!" Excitedly, you turned back to him. 

He reluctantly stood, dragging himself over to you as if pulled by a leash. "We're not supposed t'leave the booth unattended, Angel. Regulations."

You give him a look. The gall of him to say that after running sabotage all weekend. "Okay, nerd. Make it quick then."

[REDACTED] pushes up his glasses and pulls out his phone. As you scoot beside the cosplayer, you suddenly remember his… horrible picture taking etiquette. "Actually, let me do it."

You take his phone — despite the screen being cracked to shit, it did have much better photo quality than yours — and nudge him towards your number one fan, then line up the shot.

The fan wore a huge grin, completely opposite to Gloomy's character. But someone had to be smiling in this picture. "Rennn," you goaded him. 

He managed to draw his mouth into something more presentable than his trademark frown, and gave a sarcastic thumbs up.

It was the best you'd get. You snapped the photo.

💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

You spent another twenty minutes gushing with the fan about AWY while [REDACTED] openly sulked. Having someone else around to match your non-stop-yapper energy had other attendees coming up to take a look. In spite of your partner's menacing aura, the cheery atmosphere of your booth didn't drop when the Gloomy cosplayer left. There was even a line for a little while.

By the time the artist alley closed, you'd sold way more than you expected. But you were exhausted.

"Ugh, I'm so glad we're not tabling tomorrow," you mutter as you shove the remaining merch box into his car. 

Your blue eyed companion gave a smug smile over the open trunk.  "Never goin' to a con again?"

"Not what I said." You roll your eyes and lean against the car. "Come here."

He slams the trunk shut, all too happy to have the ordeal over with. As they step closer, you're tempted to collapse into his arms. 

Instead, you reach up to ruffle his pink mop of hair. "You survived another ten hours of people who aren't me. Good job."

The sudden blush creeping up his neck betrays his outward calm. "... 'S fine as long as y'had fun."

With a quick look around the parking garage to make sure no one was around, you decide to tease him further. "Who's my good boyyy?"

"Me," came his instant, proud reply. He lets you go on a bit longer before leaning down to bump his forehead against yours. "Ready to go home, love?" 

"Oh good you're still here!" The smile on [REDACTED]'s face melts away into pure disgust, and you turn around to find the source of his mood. 

The Gloomy cosplayer waves as they run over. "I forgot to give you my socials so you can tag me!" Surprisingly, they approach your notoriously unfriendly partner. 

You can see the angry gears turning in his head as they hand him a crinkled napkin scribbled with their information. 

They seem unperturbed and continue talking as he stands there with a frown. "I can't wait to see the picture! And for the next Always With You chapter. Gloomy is such a great love interest! He really compliments the main character so well and — I mean I don't need to tell you that but honestly they're my OTP!!"

"... … … … Thanks," [REDACTED] eventually replies. You stare in amazement. He hadn't said a word to them all weekend.

Someone across the garage shouts for them and they hurry away. "Bye!!"

Confused but somehow satisfied with the interaction, you take the paper from his hand before those unhealthy urges get the better of him. You both get into the car. [REDACTED] mulls over his thoughts, biting the corner of his lip for a few moments.

"I coulda ripped that stupid paper up in front o'them just now," he suddenly says. You nod. "But I didn't." 

You nod again. "Yeah, you didn't."

He confidently nods along as he starts the engine. "So I deserve more praise n' head pats when we get home."

"That's not how it works."

[soluversworld]

BACKSTAGE SECRET ! - KIER X G.N READER

This game is called backstage Infatuation! This game is so underrated. So, I will doing some one-shots, because I love the characters!!

Genre: Fluff

Summary: — Backstage, you lost your bracelet, Kethan gifted you! Don't worry, There's someone to help you!

( Reader is a g.n!)

Content Warning : Yandere themes

Did not proof read/Rushed.

You were there.

Wrapped in a too-thin coat, media pass clutched between chilled fingers, lens cap off and camera ready. The cold bit at your ankles, but you barely noticed. Not when tonight mattered so much. Not when it was LUXE’s comeback debut—and Kier’s first solo single release.

The press line was chaos: journalists elbowing for position, flashes flaring like lightning, muttered complaints fogging in the air. Everyone wanted to be the first to capture them all.

You weren’t supposed to be in this area. Technically, your badge said “general coverage.” But you’d arrived before sunrise, staked out the best possible angle, and refused to budge. If anyone asked, you were supposed to be here. This was going to be one of the biggest shows of the year… right?

You flipped through the concert pamphlet for the hundredth time, fingertips numb but careful not to crease the page.

Oriel: dignified, dazzling. Min: cool, collected. Kier…

Your eyes paused on him. His picture was radiant. Almost too perfect. Hair falling in sleek strands over sharp cheekbones. A slight smirk—arrogant, maybe—but only if you didn’t know better.

You did know better. You’d seen him before that—offstage. With no stylists, no cameras. Just Kier, buying two caramel lattes and an absurdly bitter iced americano like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You hadn’t forgotten. Actually, you'd brought a caramel latte today, too. Warm, still tucked in your coat pocket, for yourself!

Were you friends?

He did tell you to think like that.

But could a fan and an idol really be… anything real? Like friends?

He’s up there. Ethereal. Shining. Beautiful. You’re… you.

You smiled to yourself anyway, lips chapped from the wind. Sam was going to freak when you told her about this. Minji had been kind enough to let you off early from work—a miracle.

"I wonder what his single will be like?" you murmured, heart fluttering. "I can’t wait."

And just as the excitement bubbled in your chest, your stomach made a dramatic protest.

You groaned softly. “Seriously? Now?” You doubled slightly. “God… I knew I shouldn’t have let Kethan talk me into that second round of dumplings…”

You bolted for the restroom the second you found an opening—half-jogging past camera rigs and stacks of cables, muttering half-apologies to the tech crew and other reporters. Your stomach churned like a traitor. Of all the times…

You got your business done in record time, hands barely dry as you burst back into the hallway, still holding onto your press pass like it might anchor you to this timeline.

But as you rounded the corner—slam.

You collided with someone. Full force. Something clattered. You went down like a folding chair.

"Aiiyo—!" the woman beneath you yelped. A mop bucket sloshed, something wet hit your shoe, and you realized with dawning horror you had flattened the poor cleaning lady.

"Oh my god—I’m so sorry—!"

You scrambled up, brushing off your pants with shaky hands, cheeks burning.

She blinked at you from the floor, visibly unharmed, just startled. “You okay?”

“I—uh—yeah. Yeah. Totally fine,” you managed, voice tight with embarrassment.

She gave a breathy chuckle, waved you off, and walked away muttering something about “young people with ants in their pants.” You nodded dumbly, offered another apology to her retreating back, and turned to fix your jacket.

That’s when your stomach dropped again—but for a different reason this time.

Your wrist felt bare.

You looked down.

The bracelet. The bracelet.

“Shit.”

Your eyes widened. Not the bracelet you’d been wearing casually for months, not some accessory. No—the one Kethan gave you yesterday. The one he dramatically claime

You had laughed. It had fit weirdly well. You hadn’t taken it off since.

You scanned the floor in panic. Nothing.

You crouched low, heart hammering, crawling slightly as you peered beneath the mop cart, near the baseboards, under your own boots. Nothing. Not even a shimmer.

“No, no, no…” you whispered, biting your lip. You retraced your steps toward the hallway where you’d sprinted earlier, eyes darting to the corners, past spilled mop water and the distant sound of the opening act starting. No time. If you waited any longer, the concert would start and you’d lose your spot in the media pit.

But the bracelet—damn it,

"I got this for you. During I was-."

Fuck you! Y/n!

Luckily, the backstage area was quite small, and you found the janitor's closet in no time. Lost things had to be kept here, right? That was your best bet.

You reached for the doorknob. Locked.

You sighed, stepping back and scanning the hallway again. No janitor. No bracelet. You weren’t giving up just yet.

You started checking corners, crouching behind crates of lighting equipment, peeking under utility carts. You thought it would be a five-minute detour.

But half an hour passed, and you were still no closer.

Your anxiety was scraping at your throat, panic starting to edge in, when—

Knock knock.

A voice from outside. Male. Calm. Curious.

"Anyone in there?"

Your brain malfunctioned.

"Nope!"

You absolute idiot.

"I mean—WAIT—"

Too late.

The door burst open.

And someone stepped in.

"K-Kier?!"

Kier immediately held a finger to his lips. "Shush. Keep it down."

You blinked. Twice. "What are you doing here? Shouldn’t the concert be starting soon?"

He looked over his shoulder, then back at you, hair slightly mussed, eyes brighter than you’d ever seen them.

"I’m just... hiding," he muttered. "My assistant won’t shut up. I know he’s doing his job, but the nagging is driving me insane."

You stared at him. This was weird. Kier—The Moon Prince—just slipped backstage to... hide?

Something was off. He was talking fast. Fidgeting.

"Kier, are you okay?"

He paused. Looked away. Then back again with a gentle smile.

"Can I ask you a favor?"

"Yes?"

He hummed a soft tune. Low, delicate, threading through the silence between you. You didn’t recognize it, but it made your shoulders relax a little.

"Is that part of your single album?" you asked. "It’s good. Really good."

He smiled, a little lopsided. "You think so? I feel a bit better, then. I just hoped you’d really like it."

You tilted your head. "By 'you', you mean your fans?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Last time I checked, you said you were a fan too."

Then he stuck his tongue out at you.

You blinked. Blushed. "Oh—shit. Sorry."

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. The tension in your chest melted just a bit.

Kier glanced around the cramped closet space with a skeptical eye. “So... what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be out there with the others, cheering like a proper fan?”

You laughed, a little too loud. Nervous. “I, uh... lost something. A bracelet. It was a gift.”

At that, the teasing edge in his voice dulled. “Important?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Kethan gave it to me yesterday. It’s dumb, but—”

“Not dumb,” Kier cut in, his gaze surprisingly sharp. “It matters to you. So it matters.”

Before you could even thank him, he clapped his hands once with mock drama. “Alright then. Operation Rescue Sparkly Thing is a go.”

You blinked. “That’s seriously the name we’re going with?”

He glanced at you sideways with a grin. “Don’t sass your rescuer.”

He crouched down and began scanning the dim floor under a metal shelf, muttering under his breath, “...if I were a bracelet, where would I hide? Maybe under some lost dignity…”

You crouched beside him. The space was cramped, filled with wires, old props, and dust, the air sharp with disinfectant.

“Thanks, Kier. You really don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His voice was soft this time, no teasing. Just truth. It made something squeeze warm and tight in your chest.

You both kept searching in silence, eyes scanning every shadow. At one point, Kier pointed toward the tablet you’d dropped earlier.

“You checked under that?”

You waved it off. “I did. I swear, it’s not there—”

“Humor me.”

You sighed and moved to lift the tablet. You both leaned in at the same time, reaching—and didn’t notice how close you’d gotten until—

Thump.

Your shoulders bumped, then your hands, and then—Kier’s balance tilted forward. In the most embarrassing, slow-motion moment imaginable, he fell.

Right on top of you.

You landed flat on your back with a soft “oof,” the air rushing out of your lungs. Kier didn’t hit you hard, but his weight was unmistakable, his body flush against yours.

His face was hidden in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

You froze.

“I—I’m so sorry!” you blurted, trying to sit up, but his hand pressed gently against your side.

“Wait.”

That was all he said. Just wait.

So... you did.

For a heartbeat, maybe two, maybe more, he stayed there. His breath slow. His voice low, nearly a whisper.

“You smell nice,” he mumbled, the words barely making sense. “Like... caramel.”

You didn’t catch the flicker in his eyes as he slowly pushed himself up. You didn’t see the sudden heat, the way his pupils had dilated, that half-mad glint he tried to blink away too late...

You only saw the soft smile he wore when he looked down at you.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. You?”

“Peachy.” He stood and held out a hand. You took it.

Still no sign of the bracelet.

You both went back to searching.

Kier crouched beside you, trailing his fingers lazily over the floor, but you were the one truly focused—moving crates, lifting wires, mumbling to yourself. “Ugh, it must’ve fallen when I tripped on that mop. God, I’m such a klutz…”

He hummed. Low. Noncommittal.

“...It’s just—Kethan gave it to me, you know? My best friend since forever... He came back a few weeks ago, He gave it to me...." You laughed.

Kier froze.

You didn’t notice. Still talking. Still smiling.

“We used to build little cardboard forts after school, pretend we were superheroes.. Said he’d be ‘Magma Boy’ and melt anyone who messed with me.”

You didn’t see it—how Kier’s shoulders tensed. How his gaze dropped, no longer scanning the floor,with such intensity it might’ve burned a hole clean through.

Kethan.

He hadn’t said a word yet, and that wasn’t like him.

“Kier?” you asked, still grinning. “You okay?”

“Mm.” His voice came tight, but practiced. Still smooth. Still sweet. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

He stood. A slow, precise movement.

You blinked up at him. “You sure?”

He smiled down at you. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“That bracelet,” he said softly. “It really means that much to you?”

“Of course,” you said without hesitation. “It’s from Kethan.”

Kier tilted his head, like a curious cat. His hands were in his coat pockets now. One foot slightly forward. Blocking your exit.

You didn’t notice.

Not yet.

"That nickname," he echoed, voice low. Too low. “Magma Boy.”

You chuckled. “Yeah. Dumb, right?”

“Hilarious.” The smile widened. “So… are you close?”

You blinked. “What, with Kethan? Yeah, of course. He’s my—” You were still searching..

Kier took a slow, deliberate step forward.

“He’s your what?”

“...My friend,” you said, laughing nervously. “My best friend.”

Kier nodded. Just once.

“Right.”

His voice was smooth now. Velvet over a blade. Carefully controlled. He didn’t want to scare you.

Not yet.

But inside, the thoughts spiraled.

HE tries to take you.

From him.

Even before he had you.

And still—still—you kept smiling about someone else.

He could melt people, huh?

How cute.

Kier leaned down, brushing invisible dust from your sleeve with gentle fingers. His eyes met yours—warm, blue beautiful.

And yet—

"Don’t worry," he murmured. "I’ll help you find it. I’m very good at finding things…”

His fingers lingered.

His voice dropped an octave.

“…and keeping them.”

You dusted off your knees, still crouching as you scanned the floor, and glanced through the cracked door toward the faint thrum of the crowd outside.

“Sheesh,” you muttered. “The fans are really out there in full force tonight.”

Kier shifted beside you, standing straighter as he peeked through the door too. “I’m honestly surprised this many showed up,” he murmured. “It’s windy as hell out there. Felt like my ears were gonna freeze off earlier.”

You smiled. “Well, that’s fans for you. fans especially. Rain, snow, war—they’ll still show up.”

He chuckled, soft. “I guess that’s what 'fan' means, huh? Fanatic.”

“Yeah,” you said, pulling your coat tighter. “But it doesn’t always have to mean crazy. Just… passionate.”

Kier’s expression shifted—just slightly. “I’m happy to be on stage again,” he said, voice lower now, slower.

You nodded, but caught the flicker in his eyes.

“…But?” you prompted.

“…But I hate those."

You blinked.

He didn’t elaborate immediately, so you tilted your head. “Did something happen?”

Kier’s gaze drifted toward the far wall, as if he were looking into a memory instead of the dim backstage space.

“During our first interview as LUXE,” he said slowly, “we were in this tiny studio. Three chairs. One little lamp above us. We were just rookies. I looked up, and something felt off.”

You stayed quiet, listening.

“The bulb in the lamp was tinted weird. When I looked closer, I realized it wasn’t just a bulb. There was a lens in it. A camera. Hidden. Filming us.”

You straightened a little. “I heard about that—”

“My members were answering questions, laughing, totally unaware. So I pretended to take selfies. Tilted my phone just right. Took a few shots of the lamp.”

Kier’s jaw tightened.

“That’s when Aurora Rising Records stepped in. Replaced the entire staff team. Turned out one of the production staff was actually a fan. In disguise. Pretending to work there, just to spy on us.”

You stared at him.

“That’s… awful.”

He looked back at you then.

And smiled.

But there was something quieter about it. Not fake. Just… weathered.

“I hate crazy fans,” he repeated. “But it’s not just that. The way they want to own you. Break pieces off of you. Call it love.”

You didn’t know what to say.

Until he looked at you again—and that smile shifted. Softened.

“…But you,” he said.

Your stomach fluttered. “Me?”

“You never screamed at me,” he said plainly. “Never shoved a phone in my face. Never begged me for anything.”

You flushed, mouth opening—closing.

“Every time I saw you,” he continued, “you were just… quiet. Present. Kind.”

He reached out, brushing a loose thread off your sleeve. His fingers were gentle.

“You treated me like a person,” he said. “Even though you’re a fan… you’re a real one. A gen one. The kind people forget exist.”

You blinked. “Kier, I…”

Your voice caught.

He smiled again—this time, soft and warm. Like moonlight instead of stage lights.

“Thank you,” he said. “For that.”

You looked down at the dusty floor, eyes beginning to sting.

You didn’t get it.

Why did things like this always happen?

It was just a bracelet—but it wasn’t just a bracelet. Kethan gave it to you.Who always remembered things when no one else did. He’d given it to you yesterday-

Now it was gone. Your chest hurt just thinking about it.

“…Hey.”

You looked up.

Kier was watching you, the playfulness gone now—replaced with something quieter. Something… concerned.

“I’ll let my staff know,” he said gently. “We’ll find it. I promise.”

You stared at him. The stage was probably about to start any minute. He shouldn’t even be back here.

“But the show—”

“There’s still a few minutes.” He tilted his head. “Let me help, alright? I’ll get them on it.”

Your throat closed up a little. You hated being seen like this. Teary-eyed. Small.

You didn’t know what else to do—so you reached into your coat and pulled out the warm paper cup you'd forgotten you were even holding.

The caramel latte. The one you'd bought for yourself. The one you almost wanted to give him… just in case you saw him.

You shoved it toward him with both hands.

He blinked, surprised. “...What’s this?”

You kept your face straight. “You helped me. I wanted to thank you.”

He just stared at the cup.

“There’s nothing mixed in it,” you added flatly. “Just.."

He burst out laughing—eyes crinkling, face flushing a soft pink. He took it from you, his fingers brushing yours briefly.

“...It’s my favorite drink,” he said quietly, smiling like you’d handed him something sacred.

You blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You remembered that?”

“No,” you admitted. “But I’ll remember it now.”

He looked at you—really looked at you—and then took a long sip from the latte.

When he lowered the cup, something about him seemed looser. Warmer.

“Thanks,” he said, voice smooth. “I feel a lot better now.”

Seeing him smile, made you smile too..

Kier stared at you for a moment, then without warning, pulled you into a hug.

It wasn’t brief, either.

His arms circled around your shoulders with warmth and a kind of desperate gentleness, like you were something he was afraid to let go of. You stiffened for a second—caught off guard—but quickly melted into it.

“I feel better too,” you whispered into his chest.

You felt him exhale against the crown of your head, a little softer this time.

When you finally pulled away, you smiled, still a little dazed. “Thank you, Kier. Seriously.”

He only nodded, eyes unreadable. That soft smile back on his lips.

You stepped away, turning to leave before you could overthink it. The hallway echoed with your retreating steps.

Idols are human too, you thought. Not just distant, glowing stars on stage. They get tired. They get frustrated. They hide in janitor closets and complain about assistants. They drink lattes and help search for lost bracelets and… they hug.

From now on, you promised yourself, you'd treat idols better.

Not like gods. Not like dolls.

Like people.

Like him.

You disappeared around the corner.

Meanwhile, back in the cramped space of the janitor’s closet, Kier exhaled slowly.

His shoulders dropped.

Then his fingers reached into the pocket of his oversized jacket.

There it was. The bracelet.

That thing.

His expression warped—dark, twisted, flat with disdain. That cursed trinket—tacky, mismatched, with a fraying cord and an ugly little bead in the shape of a cartoon skull.

He gave you this?

His jaw clenched. His lips curled into something cruel.

He remembered how you looked while talking about Kethan—laughing softly, eyes gleaming with memory. It burned. It burned.

You were his muse. His light. His obsession. Not Kethan’s. Not anyone’s. You had no idea what you did to him—how deep you'd sunk into him. Into his skin, his veins, his voice.

Ugly. Cheap. It doesn’t suit you.

It burned him just to imagine it on your wrist. Something from him. Some other boy. Some fool who thought he could mark you with a trinket.

He could get something way more expensive or pretty....

Still staring at the bracelet, Kier crouched. Placed it on the floor like a delicate relic.

Then stood.

And drove his boot down hard.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

He hated it.

The crunch of cheap beads and snapped cord echoed like tiny bones.

He smiled, expression pitch-black and wild under the soft closet light.

“Mine,” he muttered, voice venom-laced silk.

You’re my muse. My only one. You have no choice.

I will claim you.

The broken shards glittered at his feet.

And Kier—Kier smiled again. Beautiful. Chilling.

The stage lights began to rise.

Time to put on a show. For the fans. For the world. But mostly… For you.

[soluversworld]

ANNOUNCEMENT, FOR A DOL AND 14DWY FANS..WE NEED SOMEONE WITH CODING EXPERIENCE!..

Me and my friends have been wanting a DOL! au x 14DWY, FOR REDACTED! (14dwy)

Hey guys! Me and my friends have planned a DoL mod for quite a while now and we need help since we aren't exactly the best with modding and coding! </3

Message for a friend!

The mod includes another game with 14DWY's character, REDACTED. The mod is to be able to interact with the main character like the other love interests in DoL.

We already have an art sprite and ideas, we only need help with the code. Fortunately, you don't even need to know much about 14DWY since we will be the ones providing the writing and ideas to you! Maybe have some knowledge about DoL modding/just coding in general tho! We need all the help we need.

Thanks that's all!!

We already have artist! and I can do the scripts so, you don't have to worry about writing!

What is 14 days with you?

14 Days With You is an upcoming romantic horror visual novel, currently in development by creator cutiesai!

What is Degree of Lewdity (DOL) ?

Degree of Lewdity (often abbreviated as DoL) is a free, open-source text-based adult life-sim game created by a developer known as Vrelnir.

TW : open-ended gameplay, and sandbox mechanics, with a heavy focus on NSFW (Not Safe for Work) content, including non-consensual scenarios and kinks.

WHO IS REDACTED?

The main love interest's real self!!

Since none of us having coding experience, we would/could realize appreciate if someone has experience and could help :') (you don't have to know redacted too! my friend could help with art I AND another friend could help with writing)

[soluversworld]

ANNOUNCEMENT

FIRST OF ALL HAPPY PRIDE MONTH EVERYONE!

TW : MENTIONS OF DEATH THREATS

I'll be making the announcement first!

FIRST, Thank you for 500 followers! I seriously didn't expect people will even like my things but they did and I have to thank you all!

SECOND, I have decided to come as NON-BINARY, I'LL BE USING THEY/THEM NOW! MY PARENTS ACCEPTED ME SO WOOHOOO!

THIRD, I'll be unpublishing most of my TKATB Fanfics, because I have been getting a lot of hate! I'll explain- I'm still in the fandom and I am still going to write for the fandom! But, I'll be unpublishing and re-doing them all!

FOURTH, No, I just write smut because I like to write - I gen just enjoy whatever I want to write. I don't see REDACTED as a thing ( a person in my ask said it ) I have to say REDACTED means a lot to me as a character ! The comfort they gave me is so much. So Please, don't say Just because I only published mostly smut for them. I see them as a thing.

FIFTH, explanation- (TKATB) - (WHY DID YOU WRITE SOL SO MANIPULATIVE)

So Basically- TKATB, For the recent ones, I have wrote- There was a issue for people telling me- I wrote SOL (Manipulative) I'm pretty sure that's what Fantasia intended his character to be- So I'm pretty sure I'm not- bad? I am just writing how his character was intended to be. If you HATE that please just block me. He is a yandere, That's how he is written. I'm just writing, what I like to write- Please. No, I don't diss Sol, No- I'm not mistaken the last time I checked! He was obsessive and manipulative. He's a yandere. He is NOT saying the truth. He might be soft with MC, but it's all a act. He's delusional in love. He will use his sweetness to make you fall for him . Please, don't send hate to me in inbox, if you think I am writing sol badly, Please block. Unless you have valid reason to complain. DON'T interact with me.

SIXTH, - (SMUT) (14DWY) - (Why do you disrespect REDACTED so much? You only write smut for them- You "use" them as a thing?) 'First of all, I'm sure many people write smut. So It's not a crime. I did do fluff pieces for REDACTED, I just like to write smut because I think we need more and yes, I'm not ashamed about it. but- Again- I don't see them or use them as a thing. Please, again- REDACTED is a important character for me. He helped my mental health a lot. It's fictional yeah but I only find peace in the fictional world SO, I'm going through a lot. REDACTED gen helps my mental health state. So, I am kinda sensitive if you comment I only see them as a thing. No I don't. I'll stop writing smuts a lot from now on. Being called some names I don't want to say. I'm not- and I do this for free.

SEVENTH, (Lazy why didn't you publish _______ soon ?)

If you realize how much I write? You will know it's a lot. I need time. I need time to write to plan to re-read etc. Please don't be mad. I am writing everything slowly. I gen love it. I need time tho. I don't do great fanfics, I just do good ones- if you give me time. I write fanfics because- It's a comfort for me, if it comforts or makes someone's day that's enough for me

EIGHTH, (You started to publish TKATB less and less why?)

I currently feel less interested in TKATB, I do have like 4 drafts. But again, I feel really forced to write. It will come back but Please wait. I am into 14DWY now. It's my current interest. So I'm happily writing for it.

THING : I DID GET DEATH THREATS LOL, BUT I SORTED OUT WITH THE PERSON SINCE, THEY WEREN'T USING ANONS! I DELETED ALL AND THEY APOLOGIZED SO, LET'S LEAVE IT AT THAT.

END OF ANNOUNCEMENT

SINCE, 500- I'LL BE DOING A Q/A! YOU CAN ASK ME ANYTHING!!!

[soluversworld]

Uhm First what?

[soluversworld]

LOVE BITES - REDACTED X G.N READER (SMUT)

Genre: SMUT - (SHORT ONE, IT WAS A DRAFT!)

Summary: — Just a small biting session, he's yours to mark after all <3

( Reader is a g.n!)

Content Warning : Nsfw jokes, biting, marking!

Did not proof read/Rushed.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, minding your own business. Kind of. Kicking your feet a little, waiting for the kettle to finish in the kitchen. The sheets are rumpled from earlier and still warm with him—REDACTED had just gotten up to change his shirt, but apparently your moment of peace is about to be brutally interrupted.

Because there’s that sound.

That slow drag of socked feet across the floor.

You don’t even get a chance to turn before his arms wrap around your waist, slipping under your shirt just enough to chill your skin.

“Hello, Angel,” he mutters, voice half-rasped and half-mocking, still sleepy-soft. “Missed me?”

He nuzzles into your back, hair falling over your shoulder as he breathes you in like you’re oxygen. You can feel the weight of him leaning into you, his chin slotting over your shoulder, his body folded around yours like he’s trying to fuse into your spine.

And that’s when you strike.

You tilt your head, just enough, and bite his arm. Not hard. But enough to sink your teeth in and make a sound escape his throat.

“Oi—! Angel—!” he wheezes, dramatic and delighted all at once. “Y’fuckin’ feral. Thought y’died n’ got replaced with a lil’ possum.”

You bite again, on his forearm this time.

He doesn’t even pull away. Just laughs, arms hugging you tighter like you’re his favorite chew toy.

“Nnnh—yeah, okay, that’s cute,” he drawls, head flopping forward to press against your neck. “Takin’ lil nips outta me like you’re starvin’. Go on, then. Eat me up. I’ll be real sweet.”

You blow a raspberry on his arm instead, which makes him grunt a laugh into your shoulder.

“You’re obsessed with me,” you say sweetly, chomping down again.

“Damn right,” he groans, happily, melting into your back. “Got a whole fuckin’ addiction. Call it biter’s syndrome. Symptom one: me lettin’ you chew me like jerky and likin’ it.”

You twist slightly and he follows like a shadow. Still wrapped around you. Still clinging.

You try to pull away.

“Nope,” he says instantly, arms caging you in. “Warm. Soft. Mine.”

“You're gonna have bite marks.”

“Good. Proof I’m yours. Now n’ gimme another one.”

You sink your teeth into his neck again.

He moans.

Your mouth finds the side of his neck, warm skin flushed from all the biting and nuzzling. You don't think — you just lean in and bite.

Not enough to break skin, but enough to make his breath stutter.

"Ahn—fuck," REDACTED huffs, half-laughing, half-aching. His hands squeeze around your waist like instinct. “Y’really like chewin’ me up, huh, Angel?”

You feel him twitch against your back — you don’t say anything. You just kiss the spot you bit, tender, like an apology and a tease.

He leans into it, head tilting to give you more.

And then—

He bites back.

Right into the curve of your neck. His teeth sink in with a groan so low it vibrates against your spine.

"Agh—!" you gasp, jolting slightly.

He doesn't stop.

You twist in his arms, facing him now, and he’s grinning, lazy and smug and flushed all at once.

“You started it,” he mumbles, lips brushing your cheek. “Bit me like I was yours. Guess that means you’re mine too now, huh?”

His voice dips lower, slurring soft and obsessed. “Gonna leave lil’ love marks all over y’if you don’t stop makin’ those sounds.”

You're both breathing heavier now. Close. Too close. His thigh slotted between yours, his fingers slipping under your shirt like he owns every inch of you already.

You drag your lips to his jaw, his throat, his collarbone. Kiss after kiss after kiss, slow and reverent where you bit him.

And he—he melts.

REDACTED just melts, arms loose but trembling from how much he wants you.

"You’re real soft like this," you whisper.

"Only for you," he breathes. "Shit, Angel—kiss me again."

You do.

It’s messy now. Hands and mouths, all spit and heat and want. He kisses like he’s starving. Like you’re the last thing he’ll ever taste. Tongue greedy, fingers needy, voice ragged in your mouth.

Just groans against your lips, “Fuck… y’undo me so easy.”

Then, quieter, right in your ear—

“Don’t stop, Angel. I’ll be real good for you. Let you bite me wherever you want.”

You don’t stop.

Neither does he.

His shirt up over his head, lets you trail your fingers over his stomach, his ribs..

His hands settle at your hips, warm and possessive.

You’re both bare from the waist up now. Skin against skin. His heartbeat thumps wild under your palm. He looks wrecked just from kissing you.

“C’mere,” he drawls, voice thick with need, sleep, devotion. “Wanna feel all of you, Angel. Wanna make you mine for real.”

You straddle him again. This time it’s slower. You rock your hips, teasing, drawing soft gasps from his mouth. His nails press little crescents into your thighs. He’s flushed pink, black hair messy and damp from your earlier bath, lips swollen from your kisses and bites.

When he finally sinks into you, his moan is low and broken.

“Fuck—y’feel so good,” he mumbles into your shoulder, trembling just a little. “So warm f’me. So sweet. So good…”

You whisper his name. Kiss his jaw. Hold his face like he’s something fragile.

And then you ride him.

Slow, deep, teasing. Grinding down hard just to hear him whine. His hands grip you like he’s drowning. His head tips back, exposing the bite mark you left earlier.

He’s so fucked out already, but still babbling.

“Y-you like doin’ this to me, huh? Like makin’ me melt?” His voice breaks into a soft moan when you roll your hips just right. “T-take it, Angel. Take all of me. I’ll give you anything—everythin’—just don’t stop…”

You kiss him to shut him up, and he melts again. He always melts when you kiss him.

The way his voice goes hoarse when you praise him. The way he begs when you speed up. The way he clings, legs shaking, trying to keep it together when he’s already falling apart.

You both finish with messy gasps and soft curses. His arms don’t let go. He wraps them around you so tight it’s like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together.

He cleans you both with sleepy fingers, fumbling for a tissue or towel, mumbling about how you ruined his soul and maybe also the sheets.

You lie back, heart still fluttering, and REDACTED collapses onto your chest.

“Mmph…” he mumbles, face buried in your neck. “Y’really did all that jus’ to make me sleep better, huh?”

You run fingers through his hair, kissing his temple.

“Maybe.”

He hums. “Wanna sleep in you forever.”

You laugh softly. “That’s not anatomically possible.”

He grins, lazy and happy and wrecked. “Then I’ll just glue myself to you. Keep you in my arms. Forever. You’re warm. Smell good. Bite good, too…”

You swat him playfully.

He only holds you tighter.

Your hand strokes his back while he nuzzles under your chin, completely relaxed, completely yours. His eyes are half-lidded, lips curled into a sleepy smile.

"Y’real sweet t’me,” he mumbles. “Don’t deserve you. But I’m not givin’ you back.”

"You don’t have to," you whisper.

He makes a soft noise. A mix between a sigh and a purr.

Let's just say you had a long time (I'm edgying some ppl I will share this part of the fic later!)

Morning light slips through the curtains.

You shift under the covers with a low, exhausted sigh. Every muscle in your legs complains. Your hips ache. Your thighs are weak. And as for walking? Yeah, that’s not happening anytime soon.

And of course—of course—REDACTED knows it.

“Mornin’, Angel,” he purrs, already wide awake, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His arms are still wrapped around you, one leg tangled over yours like he’s worried you might escape.

As if you even could.

You groan. “...You broke me.”

He laughs—soft, smug, and delighted. “Damn right I did.”

He lifts his head and stretches lazily, showing off the faint red marks scattered across his neck and collarbone. A constellation of lovebites and claw scratches—all yours.

He admires them in the mirror, even turns his head left and right. “Y’really tried to eat me alive, huh?” he smirks. “Don’t blame you. Look at me. 'm delicious.”

You throw a pillow at him. He just catches it, still grinning.

Then he turns back to you, crawling over with that playful, filthy glint in his sleepy eyes.

“But y’know what I like more than these?” He taps a finger to one of the love bites. “The way you limp when I ruin you just right. Don’t even need a leash, you barely movin’ anyway.”

You try to swat him again but he grabs your wrist, gently, possessively, kissing your fingers before pulling your hand to his lips.

Then—without warning—he plays with you.

Just his fingers. Soft and slow. A cruel tease.

“You feel that, Angel?” he murmurs, kissing your temple while he touches you just right. “Still so sensitive from last night. You’re so good f’me. Always so sweet an’ warm an’ mine…”

You whimper, already melting, already clinging.

His breath hitches when you grind helplessly against his hand.

“Y’can’t even walk…” he whispers against your neck. “And you’re still lettin’ me play, huh? God, you’re perfect…”

He bites your earlobe—just gently. “Don’t worry. I’ll carry you everywhere today. Gotta take care of my precious angel...”

“Awahhh—! REDACTED—!”

Your voice breaks, breath catching as his fingers move faster, slick and greedy, curling just right with every stroke. You’re trembling, overstimulated and needy, your thighs twitching around his wrist as he groans low against your skin.

“Thaaaat’s it…” he drawls, mouth right by your ear. “God, listen to you, Angel. Cryin’ so pretty for me already.”

He kisses your cheek, sweet and slow, while his hand never stops.

“You love when I do this, huh?” he coos, half-laughing as your back arches. “Poor thing… Can’t even walk ‘cause of me, an’ I still can’t keep my hands off ya.”

You shake under him, a soft sob escaping when he presses harder.

“Hahhh— REDACTED—too much—!”

He stills, just for a moment. Just to make you beg.

“…Y’really want me to stop?” he whispers, brushing his thumb exactly where you’re twitching the most.

You grab at his shoulders, desperate.

“N-No—!”

He grins against your skin. That’s all he needed.

“Mmm… knew it. Knew you liked bein’ ruined.”

And then he speeds up. Rougher now. Deeper. Lazier but filthier, like he’s enjoying dragging it out—like he could keep going forever just to watch you break again and again under him.

You cry out, trembling in his lap as the wave builds and shatters through you.

“Y’sound so cute when you beg,” he moans, kissing the tears from your cheeks. “Gonna keep you like this forever—ruined and mine.”

You’re shaking.

Barely held together in his lap, your fingers tangled in the loose collar of his shirt, your mouth parted as if you’re still trying to catch the last breath he stole from you.

And REDACTED? He doesn’t stop. Not until you finish again—completely.

You collapse forward, your forehead resting against his neck, gasping, spent, body melting in his arms like you’ve got no bones left at all.

He hums, deep in his chest, kissing the top of your head like he didn’t just break you on his fingers alone.

“There ya go, Angel… s’good for me, always so good.”

You don’t answer. You can’t—not with the way your heart’s racing, your lungs still trying to remember how to work. But he doesn’t need words. Not from you.

He tilts your chin up and kisses you slow.

Sloppy. Sweet. Lingering.

Your lips move together like you’ve got all the time in the world. Like he’s starved for you. Like he wants to memorize the taste of your tongue, even now when you’re dazed and twitchy and soft.

“Mhm… gimme another,” he mumbles between kisses, nuzzling you like a lovesick stray. “One more. Gimme.”

You kiss him again.

He hums like he’s satisfied—but still greedy—his fingers finally trailing away, only to wrap around your waist, dragging you closer so he can rest his cheek on your shoulder.

“Y’cry so cute, Angel…” he whispers against your throat, where the sweat still clings. “Might make you do it again later. Y’don’t mind, do ya?”

He nuzzles. He kisses your jaw.

You're still gasping softly, thighs twitching as you try to pull yourself together—but he won’t let you go. REDACTED’s arms cage you in, lips dragging slow down your neck, tongue dipping low before—

Teeth.

He bites again, just under your jaw this time, enough to make you whimper out loud.

“‘S cute, y’know that?” he breathes, voice still lazy, wrecked. “Now we match…”

He kisses the bite, then pulls back to look at you. His smirk is devastating. “All over your neck… all over mine…”

You can see them—love bites blooming across his collarbone, dark marks like bruised petals. He didn’t stop you earlier when you were grinding down on him, panting against his throat, biting the shit out of him just to shut him up.

“You said I could,” you whimper defensively, reaching up to tug his hair, still flushed and trembling. “You said I could, REDACTED…”

He huffs a soft, breathy laugh—not mocking, but amused. Filthy. Adoring.

“I did, didn’t I?” he drawls, leaning in like he’s gonna kiss you again—then pauses, lips brushing your ear. “But you promised, Angel…”

His teeth graze your earlobe now. “Y’didn’t say you were gonna pull my hair like that…”

You gasp, trying to squirm, but he’s got you anchored to his lap.

“I—”

“Ah ah,” he cuts you off, voice thick with that lazy sin, hand slipping lower to grab a handful of your ass, giving it a possessive squeeze. “Too late. Y’got me all riled up again…”

He grins against your skin as you whimper louder.

"Y'feel that?" he presses closer, his words a growl now. "That's what y'did to me, sweetheart. Gonna take responsibility for it or just cry again like last time?"

You hide your face in his shoulder.

He laughs—soft, teasing, unrelenting.

“You’re gonna, huh?” he taunts, low and sweet. “Cry real pretty while I ruin you all over again... ‘Cause I’m not done yet.”

And he wasn’t. Not by a long shot....

You didn't know...You only remembered kissing him and being one with him.

It always felt right.

Your bodies.. just connected too...

It's just longing.

You loved him, He loved you.

He loved you so much..

You’re both a mess. Tangled sheets, bitten lips, flushed skin. The room is still thick with heat, the air tasting faintly of sweat, sighs, and each other.

REDACTED lies back with a pleased groan, one arm slung over his eyes, the other lazily pulling you to his chest. He’s still a little breathless—and very, very smug.

he murmurs, voice rough with afterglow. “Bitin’ me like I’m a fuckin’ snack…”

You whine into his collarbone, cheek resting against his skin. “You liked it…”

He grins wide, even as he shifts to lift his arm and peek at you—messy, glowing, tangled in his lap. His fingers find your hips again, tracing the spots he held tight, kissed deeper, marked softer.

And then he sees them.

The little constellation of love bites down your neck.

The matching ones along his own.

He sits up on one elbow just to look—tilts your chin so gently to the side.

he whispers, like he can’t believe it. “All mine.”

You watch as his eyes take it all in—possessive, but soft. So soft. He leans in and presses a kiss over one of the bruises he left, so slow you shiver.

Then, cheeky and low: “Matchin’ now, huh?”

You nod, a little dazed, and whisper back, “I like it…”

He smiles. Not his usual crooked, cocky smirk. This one is quieter. Real.

“Yeah? Y’like bein’ all marked up for me, Angel?”

You nod again.

He nuzzles your jaw, then your throat. You feel him murmur the words against your skin.

You do. You always do.

He gets up just to grab a warm cloth and wipe you down gently—almost reverently. The gentleness of it makes your chest ache. Every stroke, every little touch, is careful. Adoring.

Once you're clean and in a fresh tee (one of his, of course), he pulls you back into bed and tucks you under the covers. You cling, and he doesn’t resist. Just laughs softly, burying his nose in your hair.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere, Angel,” he says.

Then whispers, half-asleep, half-drunk on love, “M’gonna leave every mark on ya I can… but only if you do the same.”

You kiss his shoulder. He hums. The room still smells like him.

You're both quiet for a long time—until he opens one eye, glancing down at your neck with a tired, satisfied grin.

“Y’think anyone at the Library's gonna notice?”

You bury your face deeper into him.

“…Good,” he says, smug and half-asleep again. “Wanna see ‘em jealous.”

[soluversworld]

（☆/＞u＜/）

[soluversworld]

We got A BRITTNEY FIC

❛ 𝓎𝓊𝓂𝓂𝓎 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝓉𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓍 𝒻𝑒𝓂! 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: In a world of karaoke bars disguised as clubs, emotional repression disguised as sarcasm, and outfits tight enough to challenge God—you are just trying to survive.

Survive what, exactly? Her.

Brittney Claire: Tall. Blonde. Simply Perfect. Probably drinks iced coffee with no milk and doesn’t even flinch. She walks like she owns the planet, looks like heartbreak dipped in glitter, and speaks to you only when she’s feeling generous or dangerous.

Sometimes both. And unfortunately?

You might be obsessed. But not in a “teehee I have a crush” way. More like a “set her perfume collection on fire because it makes you feel feral and emotionally compromised” way. Everything’s on fire and somehow smells like her vanilla body spray. And honestly?

You’d still call it yummy.

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: Me, a certified menace, felt kinda bad for emotionally wrecking y’all with [ 𝒶𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓅𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒 ]. So this is my formal apology: a new fic that’s funny, spicy, chaotic, and full of feelings no one asked for. Wrote this on the way to a bar. Woke up hungover. No regrets.

Art by [ @666hellgates ]

Also, it’s fem ‘cause Brit is only for the girlies. You’re welcome. 💋

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: brit x reader, tori x jade inspo (from victorious), dom!brit x sub!begging reader, mutual pining, enemies to lovers, flirt-heavy tension, “we’re not dating” energy, ride-or-die dynamic, karaoke chaos, lowkey drunk, heavy making out, oral (f receiving), semi-public tension, post-mess hangover, feelings??? gross.

Ah. The mall.

That half-alive monument to capitalism, still limping along like a zombie in cute shoes. It hummed with the dull chatter of bored shoppers, the occasional screech of a sale-hungry teenager, and the distant echo of a pop song that sounded like it had been playing on loop since 2012.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they were seconds from giving up entirely, bouncing off the polished tile floors that probably hadn’t been mopped since last semester.

The air was a confusing cocktail of cinnamon pretzels, knockoff cologne, and a faint undercurrent of mall fountain mildew. It was the scent of reckless spending and mild regret.

A paradise. Sort of. 

You moved with purpose—or at least, with the aggressive energy of someone who wanted to look like they had a mission. In reality, you were just storming from shop window to shop window like a very stylish tornado, arms crossed so tight they might’ve fused to your ribcage, eyebrows locked in a deep frown that could cut glass.

Crowe followed at a safe distance, like a handler trailing a moody fashion-forward cryptid. He watched silently as you charged into a boutique, glared at a rack of jackets like they had personally insulted you, then spun on your heel and marched right back out without touching a single thing.

It was like watching a military operation—if the operation involved aggressively ignoring every piece of clothing in a ten-mile radius. You were usually precise, surgical, and almost graceful in your shopping. Today? Your movements were jerky, impatient. Like you were searching for some elusive artifact that didn’t exist… or trying to outrun a feeling you refused to name.

Crowe blinked slowly, watching you march past a wall of pastel sweaters like they’d slapped your mother. 

Something was definitely up.

“Alright,” Crowe finally said, catching up to you as you stood frozen in front of a boot display. “What’s going on with you? You’ve looked five seconds away from committing arson since we got here.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared at the store window like it had personally offended you. Your lips were pressed into such a tight line they could’ve been surgically sealed, and your eyes, usually sharp, calculating, were locked in that distant, blank stare Crowe had learned meant you weren’t here. Not mentally, anyway. 

You were off in some dark emotional corner of your brain, probably plotting world domination or aggressively repressing a feeling.

Crowe nudged your arm gently. “Hey. You’ve been storming around this mall like a cursed Victorian ghost. What’s wrong?”

You blinked, startled, like you’d just remembered he existed. Your mouth opened a little, like you were about to say something snarky. But then—Crack. Not a full break. Just a hairline fracture in that carefully polished mask.

“Why does she hate me?” you blurted, voice sharp.

Crowe stopped mid-step, eyes widening. “Wait, what?”

“She—Brittney,” you snapped, turning toward him with that frustrated glint in your eye that usually came out during group projects and printer malfunctions. “She’s always glaring at me, rolling her eyes, acting like I’m some fungus she can’t scrub off her designer shoe!”

Your voice wavered, just for a moment. And before Crowe could comment on it, your hand shot up to fiddle with your sleeve in the most suspiciously casual way possible.

But he’d already seen it—the glassy flicker in your eyes, the slight tension in your jaw. Vulnerability, rare and uninvited, just slipped through. He tilted his head, brows raised, not with judgment—but surprise.  

You cared. Really cared. Which, for you, was like… full emotional nudity.

“She doesn’t hate you,” he said, his tone softer now, more careful.

You let out a dry laugh in exhaustion. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“No, seriously.” He stepped in front of you, forcing you to meet his eyes. “You think Brittney wastes that much energy on people she hates? She ignores people she doesn’t care about. You? She watches. She challenges. She’s threatened.”

You stared at him, jaw clenched, unsure whether you were more angry at Brittney—or at yourself for caring.

“She’s not threatened,” you muttered. “She’s just mean.”

Crowe grinned, just a little. “She’s both. Mean and threatened. Classic Brit.”

You let out the kind of sigh that could’ve powered a wind turbine and finally let your arms drop to your sides like two dead weights. Around you, the mall kept doing its thing—buzzing, blinking, radiating consumerism—completely oblivious to the emotional soap opera unraveling inside your skull. A silent, dramatic, entirely unsolicited war. And its name?

Brittney. Claire. Ugh.

Just thinking her full government name made your left eye twitch like you were about to be possessed by a mildly inconvenienced demon.

You stared dramatically into the distance like a tragic heroine in a shampoo ad—wind machines nowhere to be found, but the emotional damage was there. You could practically feel your soul evaporating one brain cell at a time just remembering that day. 

The day your inner peace was shattered.

Before her? You were doing great. Genuinely. Sunshine in human form. Helping people cross metaphorical streets and giving free therapy to your friends over iced coffee. Your chakras were aligned. Your crystals were charged. Your rage was… contained.

And then she came into you life.

Brittney. Fucking. Claire.

It was one of those annoyingly perfect college afternoons, where the sun was having an identity crisis and decided it was auditioning for the second coming. Everything was golden and aggressively cheerful. Birds were chirping. Someone was playing guitar unironically under a tree. 

The grass was way too green. Students bounced around like over-caffeinated Sims with iced coffees and oversized headphones, pretending they weren’t sweating through their overpriced athleisure.

You were already over it.

Your flashback self—half-fueled by caffeine, minimal REM sleep, and that signature blend of optimism and latent combustion—had just finished dragging yourself out of class. Your tote bag hung off your shoulder like a defeated soldier. Then your phone buzzed.

Princess [2:06 PM]: Come to the quad. It’s an emergency.

An emergency. Of course it was.

By the time you spotted Crowe, you already knew something was up. You exhaled with a dramatic groan, too tired to mask your theatrical disdain, and resumed walking like the reluctant antihero of your own teen drama. Your hands sliced through the air as you marched toward him.

“Seriously? Come on. Just meet them. Geo, Jess, Deryl… and Brittney,” he said, like he was naming a particularly chaotic cocktail recipe. “It’s not a cult. Mostly.”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You say that like that’s supposed to reassure me.”

Still, you sighed and gave in, lifting a shoulder in resignation. “Fine. Whatever. It’s not like I have anything better to do today. And hey—you’re the one who did all the heavy lifting. All I have to do now is show up and not implode.”

Crowe gave you that crooked, knowing smile—the one that always made it hard to stay mad at him for long.

“That’s the spirit,” he said.

And for a moment, you almost believed it.

You were dragged—gently but with firm authority—to a shaded table near the courtyard fountain, the kind of place that looked peaceful until you got within a six-foot radius and realized chaos lived here rent-free.

Two people were already in a heated argument over whether pineapple belonged on pizza. Not politely debating. No. Shouting. Like—“It’s a betrayal of trust and taste buds!” Like their entire friendship depended on the outcome. Then—“It’s culinary innovation, you coward!”

You were mid-blink when suddenly Deryl spotted you like a hawk sensing weakness and latched onto your soul. “HEY! Neutral party! Pineapple on pizza—yes or no?” he demanded, practically lunging across the table with jazz hands and desperation.

“Uh—” you started, only for Jess, smiling softly like a sunbeam wrapped in sarcasm, to interrupt with, “Oh my god, I love your boots,” she kindly said in a gentle tone.

Before you could respond to either, Geo—mysterious, quiet Geo—just… stared at you. No words. No blinking. Just mild ghost energy and the unnerving vibe of someone who definitely knows five different ways to disappear a body.

You almost smiled. Almost.

And then she arrived. 

Like the final boss in a fighting game.

Tall. Blonde. Sculpted like the universe had spent an extra day on her because it was bored and wanted to flex. She walked like the ground was lucky to be walked on. Wearing sunglasses in the shade. The kind of woman who probably intimidates mirrors.

You weren’t sure if it was the sun bouncing off her hair or the sheer audacity of her whole vibe, but you physically squinted.

Crowe lit up like the ending to a queer rom-com. “Brittney! Come meet my gremlin of a friend!”

You stopped mid-sip of your drink. “I’m sorry—what did you just call me?”

But it was too late.

Brittney Claire had already removed her sunglasses with the slow, menacing grace of someone about to deliver a verbal execution. She gave you a once-over. A very thorough, very unsubtle scan from head to toe. Her mouth tightened slightly.

Judgment: Delivered. Swift. Brutal. 

“You’re the one Crowe keeps bragging about?” she asked flatly, arms folding like a villain in a CW pilot episode.

“Bragging?” you echoed, smiling a little too hard. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

Crowe leaned in. “It’s… mostly complaining. But, like… affectionate complaining.”

You turned back to Brittney, trying for polite. A small, bubbly-yet-civilized smile. “Nice to meet you.”

She tilted her head slightly, like she’d found a bug in her drink. “You don’t look like someone who needs a social intervention.”

You blinked. Then smiled wider. “You don’t look like someone who talks to people below their standards.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that screams ‘oh no you didn’t.’ 

Jess’s jaw dropped like someone had yanked her audio cord. Deryl clutched his imaginary pearls and whispered, “OH—she went there.”

Geo didn’t even flinch. Just popped another grape like this was the best Netflix show he’d seen all year. Brittney blinked. Slowly. Like a predator deciding whether to attack or let you run for sport.

“…Charming,” she muttered.

You gave her your most angelic, glitter-glazed smile. “I try.”

Crowe, visibly dying, muttered under his breath, “Oh good. Great start. Nothing’s on fire yet, technically.”

You didn’t mean to antagonize her. Truly. You were a warm person. A helper. A hugger—if consent was given. But something about the way she looked at you—like she’d already filed you under “doesn’t matter”—set off a deep and ancient rage in your chest.

The kind you only reserve for line-cutters and group project freeloaders.

Brittney didn’t say anything else after that. Not a word. Just watched. With that quiet, unreadable intensity. Like she was evaluating you for a sport. Or plotting something. Or both. Definitely both. You weren’t sure if she hated you... Or if she just hated how much you didn’t care whether she did. And that…

That was the beginning of whatever the hell this was.

You blinked out of the memory like someone had slapped you with a wet receipt. Your expression dropped, mouth twitching downward as the mental image of Brittney Claire’s unimpressed face faded from your brain like a cursed vision.

You sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. Full Disney-princess-having-a-breakdown energy. “God,” you groaned. “I’m deadass at the mall.”

Crowe, who had been fidgeting with a pair of sunglasses that absolutely did not suit him, glanced over with a raised brow. “Yeah, I was wondering when you were going to realize this wasn’t a fever dream. Wanna tell me why we’re here? Because so far, all you’ve done is emotionally pace like a haunted shop mannequin.”

You stopped mid-step, turned, and smacked your hands onto your hips like you were about to drop an infomercial. “I’m stress-shopping.”

“Because of exams?”

“No.”

“Classes?”

“Nope.”

“…Geo again?”

You narrowed your eyes. “No! This isn’t about your man being weird and mysterious and looking like he reads people’s horoscopes for fun.”

Crowe blinked slowly. “Excuse me—?”

You turned toward him like a tragic figure in a drama, one hand gesturing broadly to the sky like you were making an Oscar speech. “It’s Brittney. I am stress-shopping… because of Brittney fucking Claire.”

Crowe snorted. “Oh. Of course. We’re still on that.”

You gestured wildly at a display of discounted clothes. “Do you understand how ridiculous this is?! I’m here, slowly losing the will to live between a Claire’s and a freaking Yankee Candle—because some girl with villain DNA and a superiority complex keeps glowering at me like I broke into her glitter vault!”

Crowe leaned against a store pillar, arms crossed, watching your rant like it was a five-star performance. “And yet… somehow you still managed to drag me here. Am I supposed to be the emotional support in this situation, or are we looking for matching BFF necklaces?”

You ignored him and kept going, your voice rising an octave with each word. “I’ve tried, okay? I really have! I’ve smiled, I’ve complimented her unnecessarily expensive platform boots, I even asked her about that weird magazine she reads—”

“‘Weird magazine’?”

“Okay, it’s like… Japanese gyaru fashion meets high-gloss pastel crime scene, and I didn’t get a single word of it, but I still said ‘Oh cool!’ like an idiot!” You flailed dramatically toward a row of mannequins, nearly knocking one over. “She just gave me a death glare like I spat on her lip gloss collection!”

Crowe tilted his head like a particularly judgmental princess that he is, arms folded, as he watched you pace in what could only be described as a tight, emotionally unwell circle near the perfume counter. “Wow,” he said, blinking slowly. “I can’t believe I’m saying this… but this is totally a love-hate relationship.”

You stopped cold, like someone had slapped a ‘To Be Continued’ freeze frame across your life. “...What?” you asked, blinking like you’d short-circuited.

“Yeah. You know the vibe,” he said, too smug for someone standing next to a giant display of Justin Bieber body sprays. “‘She’s always around, she’s too chipper, she tries to be nice and it makes you want to push her into a volcano.’ Sound familiar?”

He smirked. That dangerous, knowing smirk he always wore when he was trying to emotionally destabilize you for entertainment.

You rolled your eyes so hard it felt like you were about to astral project. “Oh, please. This isn’t some flirty enemies-to-lovers trope, Crowe. This is just hate. Bold, unfiltered, lip-gloss-scented hate. I am living in a hostile environment sponsored by Maybelline.”

Crowe shrugged, already stirring the pot like a man who knew exactly what he was doing and was thriving. “Mmm. Right, dear. And I absolutely didn’t watch you throw a tantrum at your place because she rolled her eyes at your outfit and then wore the same color scheme the next day.”

Your scowl could’ve curdled dairy. “And what about you and Geo, huh? What even is that relationship? You two bicker like old married vampires.”

Crowe didn't even flinch. He just waved a hand with theatrical flair. “That’s different. We have chemistry. And also trauma bonding. It’s sacred.”

You sputtered. “Oh, and I don’t have chemistry with Brittney?!”

The words escaped before your brain could slam on the brakes. Crowe blinked. Hard. Like his soul briefly left his body. 

You paused.

Your face twisted in horror like someone had just suggested low-rise jeans were coming back. “...I mean—NO. Shut up. Don’t look at me like that.”

Crowe’s grin spread slowly, wickedly, and way too self-satisfied. “Aww. You’re obsessed.”

You made a noise. A sound. Something between a shriek and a threat that could get you arrested in three states. Then you spun on your heel and dramatically stormed off toward a rack of overpriced jackets that you absolutely could not afford and had zero intention of buying.

“I swear to God, I will set something on fire,” you hissed, yanking a faux leather blazer off the rack like it personally offended you.

“Sure, babe. But make it a Yankee Candle. Preferably vanilla-sugar-death.” He followed casually, still grinning. “And while you’re burning retail, tell me what you’re actually mad about.”

You froze, one hand awkwardly clutched around the sleeve of a neon hoodie you absolutely hated, heart still rattling in your chest like a vending machine on its last leg.

Because it wasn’t just the glaring. Or the passive-aggressive eye-rolls. Or how Brittney always looked at you like you were a walking Wi-Fi connection she didn’t trust.

No. It was worse.

It was that you couldn’t stop thinking about her. Her ridiculously perfect hair that somehow looked editorial, even on windy days. That terrifying Barbie-doll poise, like she could snap your neck and do her eyeliner without breaking a sweat. The way she smirked like she knew what nightmares you had, and was flattered to be in them.

And worst of all?

That deep, soul-damning, pride-eating part of you kind of wanted her to like you. 

You slumped dramatically against the rack of hoodies like a tragic Victorian ghost. “God. I need a refund on my feelings.”

Crowe, ever the supportive menace, patted your head like he was about to ground you. “Too late, sweetheart. Welcome to the Brittney Claire Emotional Crisis Club. Population: you.”

You groaned like a haunted house.

Crowe smiled like it was Christmas. “Honestly, the signs have always been there.”

You gave him a sharp look. “What signs?”

“Oh my god—everything,” Crowe said, already rolling his eyes and launching into his monologue like this was his moment. “Do you remember the time you had to pat her down in the quad because you thought she brought her pink taser?”

You blinked. “That was a safety precaution!”

“She threatened to tase you because you breathed too close to her nail polish. You damn near vaulted into Deryl’s lap like a cat seeing a cucumber.”

“That thing had rhinestones on it, Crowe! It looked cute, but it made the same sound as trauma.”

Crowe wasn’t done. “Or the time—God, I will never forget this—you asked her for a fry during lunch and she coughed on it like a mafia boss marking her turf.”

You tried not to laugh. “That was strategic germ warfare.”

“Or, OR—let’s talk about the soda incident,” he said, eyes twinkling with the sort of chaotic joy reserved for gossip and birthday coupons. “You tried to get under her skin by licking the rim of her soda can. Like, full tongue-to-aluminum contact.”

“She took it back and kept drinking it.”

Crowe held up both hands like the evidence was stacked and final. “Exactly. So, tell me that’s not a love-hate situation. You’re both literally insane. It's romantic psychosis. You’d rather fight than flirt, but also? You kind of do both.”

You stared at him, slack-jawed. “Crowe. That’s not love. That’s mutually assured destruction.”

He shrugged. “So is marriage, remember now, it's legal? I hope you know that people still do it.”

You groaned again, louder this time, and dramatically leaned backward into the jacket rack like you were preparing for death by fleece. “Why is she like this? She’s not even real. She’s like—if a Pinterest board came to life and immediately judged you.”

Crowe tilted his head, thoughtful. “I mean… she is what people call a dream girl. Blonde. Dangerous. Owns thirty lip glosses and somehow makes them all terrifying. Probably journals in glitter ink. Has never eaten a carb without making it feel personal.”

“I mean, everything she wears looks like she’s about to star in a Japanese gyaru fashion ad,” you said bitterly, like each word tasted like lemon juice and heartbreak. 

“Like, how is it fair? Her shoes match her nails, and her nails match her hair clips, and her hair clips match the literal aura of unattainable beauty. It’s sick. She reads fashion magazines like she’s studying for a bloodbath. I once saw her shade someone with nothing but a hair flip. A hair flip, Crowe. That’s not just disrespect—it’s an Olympic-level power move.”

Crowe, who had long since stopped pretending to be emotionally invested and was now chewing on a bubblegum-flavored lollipop he’d stolen from a sample bucket, slid his sunglasses on and gave you a side-eye worthy of a reality TV judge. 

“And yet,” he drawled, “here you are. Talking about her. Thinking about her. Fuming about her. Spiral-shopping in a mall because of her.”

“I am not spiral-shopping,” you snapped, like the lie could save your dignity from crumbling into dust.

Crowe didn’t argue. He just tilted his head… pointed at the shelves around you… and waited.

You glanced around. You were in a Crocs store. A Crocs store.

“…No,” you whispered, in the tone of someone discovering they’d blacked out and committed a minor crime. “No. No-no-no. What am I doing here? Why am I here?!”

Crowe looked mildly amused. “That’s what I’ve been asking for the last ten minutes.”

You slapped both hands over your face like you could physically scrub the memory of this day off your skin. “I need to get my life together. Immediately. Right now. Like—I want a refund. On me.”

Crowe grinned and casually looped his arm through yours like the enabler he was. “Nah. You don’t need a refund. You just need to admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That you don’t hate her.” He smirked. “You’re just emotionally constipated and sexually confused.”

You gasped like he’d smacked you with a glittery Bible. “That’s homophobic.”

Crowe winked. “So is your denial, babe.”

You smacked his arm—aggressively, dramatically, as was your God-given right—and dragged him out of the Crocs store like you were leading a hostage escape. Because you were done. Done with the mall. With capitalism. With your own emotional instability.

You were two seconds away from ripping your heart out and yeeting it into the food court fountain with a battle cry of "I volunteer as emotionally repressed tribute!"

“I can’t do this,” you muttered, storming past kiosks and squealing toddlers and a guy in a Pikachu onesie who may or may not have been doing illicit things with a bubble tea.

“I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to go home. I want to lie down on my couch. I want to eat carbs in silence and pretend my feelings never evolved past 2014 Tumblr poetry. I want to emotionally repress myself into a carb coma.”

Crowe sighed. He’d seen you like this before. The flailing. The dramatics. The emotional tailspin cloaked in sarcasm. It was like watching a rare bird crash into a windowpane in slow motion. Painful. Predictable. A little funny.

“Fine, dramatic baby,” he said, steering you toward the car like a handler with an unruly celebrity on a breakdown watchlist. “We’ll leave. But tonight? We’re going out.”

You blinked at him like he’d suggested ritual sacrifice. “Out where?”

“Karaoke,” he replied, already pulling out his phone like it was a holy weapon. “I’m sick of looking at you like you just got dumped by a fantasy you created in your own head. I’m texting the group chat. Everyone’s coming. No exceptions.”

By the time you reached your front door, you were mentally preparing a list of reasons to fake your own death. But Crowe had already made himself at home, phone still out, sitting cross-legged on your couch like a smug little demon prince.

“I have no,” you moaned dramatically, flopping next to him with the dead weight of someone who’d just lost a duel with the universe.

“No what?” he asked, still typing with the energy of someone who had no idea how close he was to being suffocated with a couch cushion.

“No will to exist in the presence of other humans. No desire to make memories. No voice for singing. No outfit that hides the fact that I’m a human disaster dressed in anxiety.”

Crowe didn’t even blink. “You need to go. You’ll feel better. And let’s be real—only Deryl will be singing like he’s auditioning for The Voice again. Jess will quietly whisper a Mitski song and then shrink into her oversized hoodie like a sad elf. No pressure.”

You groaned louder, grabbing a pillow and yeeting it over your face.

Crowe, now fully lounging like this was his apartment, crossed his legs and rested an arm on the back of the couch. “You don’t even have to sing. Just show up. Be mysterious. Judge people’s song choices in silence like the emotionally unavailable cryptid you are.”

You peeked out from under the pillow like a wounded animal. “I’m not emotionally unavailable—ugh, what if she’s there?”

He looked at you—really looked at you. Not smug, not teasing. Just real. “Then she’s there. And you’ll be there. And you’ll look hot and act unbothered and eat fries while she pretends she’s not watching you the whole night.”

You didn’t respond. You just groaned again, rolling to the side like your very soul was being peeled apart.

And then Crowe dropped the bomb. 

“I already said you’re coming in the group chat.”

You sat up like he’d spoken in tongues. “YOU WHAT—”

“She heart-reacted,” he added with a satisfied smirk. “Brittney. So she’s coming. With Jess. Deryl’s coming too. Geo didn’t want to, but I threatened to send screenshots of his old vampire roleplay account if he didn’t, so now he’s in.”

Your soul left your body for a moment. 

“You’re such a bitch,” you whispered.

“I’m a genius,” Crowe corrected. Then he stood up and clapped his hands once. “Now. Go shower. I’m picking your outfit.”

You stared at him. “Why?”

“Because tonight, I’m putting you in a fit that screams, ‘Yes, I am chaos in heels. Look upon me and weep.’”

“But I don’t see the point,” you grumbled, trailing after him as he beelined for your closet with the energy of a stylist in a teen makeover montage. “What’s the point of looking hot when I’m internally dead?”

Crowe spun, holding up a sheer black mesh top with rhinestone accents. “Because I’m dressing up. And if I’m going full thirst trap, you’re not showing up looking like you just crying in sweatpants.”

You scowled. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I learned from the best,” he replied with a wink.

And that was that.

You let him pick the outfit. Begrudgingly. Resentfully. Like some kind of sacrificial rite.

A black halter top—tight enough to feel like a statement, low enough to make your ancestors weep. The matching lace mini skirt barely qualified as legal. And the heels? Strappy, spiked, and clearly forged in hell. The whole ensemble screamed club rat with standards, not karaoke, but Crowe swore it was “the vibe.” You stared at yourself in the mirror, smearing on the final layer of gloss like war paint.

Your eyeshadow was sharp enough to commit a felony. Your highlight was a lighthouse. Your lips looked like sin. You hated how good you looked.

You hated that Brittney might see you and say nothing.

You hated that she’d probably say everything without a single word.

And worst of all—you hated how much you didn’t hate the idea of her seeing you. Not like this. Not hot, composed, and bitterly radiant like you hadn’t been emotionally spiraling in a Crocs store just hours ago.

You stared at your reflection, heart pounding like it knew something you didn’t, and accepted the truth.

You were going.

Whatever this night brought… it wasn’t going to be boring.

The karaoke bar looked like it had been possessed by the ghost of a Y2K fever dream. From the second you walked in, it hit you: this wasn’t some sad little dive where awkward people mumbled pop songs into sticky microphones. No. This place was alive.

Strobe lights blinked in chaotic rhythm above a haze of pink-and-purple neon. The bass of an early 2000s club remix of “Toxic” thrummed through the walls, vibrating the floor under your stilettos. A mirrored disco ball spun from the ceiling like it had no intention of ever stopping. The main lounge was practically a dance floor with karaoke booths scattered like VIP dens, each one glowing under a different hue of LED-induced sin

It smelled like cocktails and bad decisions and glitter body spray.

And somehow, Crowe had booked the private room. The one that looked like a lounge in a futuristic villain’s lair—velvet couches, glass walls, its own sound system, and bar access. You were already there, sitting stiffly on a black leather couch as lights pulsed around the room like the heartbeat of the emotionally unstable.

Crowe had insisted on arriving first—because of course, he did. “Group leader energy,” he said with a wink, like he was the emotionally manipulative CEO of karaoke night. His assistant had already arrived and was fluttering around, checking lighting angles and app-based song queues like this was a live taping.

You sat with your legs crossed, drink in hand, staring at the swirling lights and trying to pretend this didn’t feel like a prelude to something catastrophic.

Maybe you should get drunk.

That was a dangerous thought. But maybe, just maybe, it was the kind of night where danger felt welcome. You sipped your drink slowly, cool and bitter, watching the room’s shadows stretch and twist as the music shifted into another early-aughts banger. “Hollaback Girl” this time. Somewhere in the distance, you heard someone absolutely butchering it.

You didn’t even flinch.

Crowe sat beside you, already half-reclined with the confidence of someone who lived for this kind of spectacle. He glanced at you, smirking. “You look hot.”

“You picked the outfit,” you muttered, sipping again.

“And I stand by it. Honestly, you look like heartbreak wrapped in lace. You’re welcome.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t disagree. Couldn’t, really. You looked like a heartbreaker in a revenge plot. And worse—you felt like one. Dangerous. Buzzing. Stupidly vulnerable under layers of lace and highlighter.

Your phone buzzed on the glowing table, screen lighting up in the corner of your vision. The group chat—“Crowe’s Cult” because no one had stopped Crowe from naming it that—was alive and ticking.

Jess the Bless [9:30PM]: We on the way 💖

Bitch Brittney [9:30PM]: be there soon

ADHD Deryl[9:31PM]: dragging Geo’s antisocial ass now 🙄🙄

You stared at Brittney’s message a second too long. The words burned brighter than they should’ve. Simple. Straightforward. Be there soon.

You read it again. And again.

Crowe, lounging like the nosy psychic he absolutely was, noticed your pause before you even processed it. He leaned closer, the chain on his earring catching a glint of light, voice like velvet over gravel. “She’s coming. You’re already here. You look lethal. Don’t waste it.”

You didn’t respond.

You just drained the rest of your drink with the slow intensity of someone about to commit emotional arson. The ice clinked against the glass as you set it down, lips tingling, stomach tightening. “I need to be a little drunker,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the swirling LED lights across the ceiling. “Not wasted. Not sloppy. Just...dangerously self-assured.”

Crowe grinned. “A light buzz with violent intent. I like it.”

He pressed the button to call the in-room bartender—because yes, of course this bougie private karaoke lounge had one—and ordered another round. You didn’t even hear what. Didn’t care. You just needed liquid confidence. Something to blur the edges of your spiraling logic.

Because if Brittney Claire walked in here looking like heartbreak in pink and eyeliner again, you needed enough alcohol in your bloodstream to keep from folding like a lawn chair.

“She’s not gonna say anything,” you mumbled, eyes now locked on the empty doorway. “She’s gonna walk in. Look perfect. Say hi to everyone but me. Like I’m furniture. Like I’m... filler.”

Crowe tilted his head, unbothered and smug. “Or, plot twist—she walks in, sees you, and short-circuits. But sure, keep manifesting rejection like it’s your kink.”

You scowled. “I hate you.”

He grinned wider. “You love me. And you’re gonna love tonight too. I’ve got a plan.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of plan?”

“The kind that ends with Deryl making a fool of himself, Jess crying during a ballad, Geo trying to leave three times but failing, and you? Looking like the final boss of karaoke night while your not-girlfriend malfunctions in real-time.”

“…That’s not a plan. That’s chaos.”

He shrugged. “Same thing.”

You sighed, sitting back deeper into the velvet couch as your next drink arrived—icy, sharp, and neon pink like it knew what kind of night it was walking into. You took a sip. Then a bigger one.

The music thumped louder outside the private room. Someone was screaming “Since U Been Gone” in the hallway like it was a blood ritual.

You smiled a little. One more drink. Or two. Then maybe—just maybe—you’d be ready to face Brittney Claire like you hadn’t spent the last six hours emotionally unraveling over her hair flips and weaponized lip gloss. 

The door creaked open with the unceremonious bang of someone trying too hard not to be here.

Geo walked in first, looking like he’d been dragged behind a truck and then forced to dress up. Still, annoyingly hot. All black. Resting jerkface expression fully activated. And behind him was Deryl—sweaty, wheezing, and beaming like he’d just won a prizefight.

“I swear to God,” Deryl panted, shutting the door behind them, ���he almost tackled a hostess just to escape. I had to physically block the hallway with my body.”

Geo shoved his hands in his pockets and slouched against the nearest wall like a teen in detention. “You make it sound like I’m the problem.”

“You are the problem,” Deryl smiled, then flopped onto the couch next to Crowe with all the elegance of a falling anvil. “We haven’t even started yet and I already need water and therapy.”

Geo’s eyes scanned the room once. Noted the drink in your hand. The dress. The fact that you were already curled up on the couch like a cat ready to claw anyone who looked at you wrong.

He scoffs. “So. You shooting your shot tonight or just trying to look hot and emotionally unavailable?”

You didn’t even flinch.

Just sipped your drink and said, flatly, “Shouldn’t you be asking yourself the same question about Crowe?”

That got his attention.

Crowe choked on his drink. Deryl laughed so hard he slapped his knee. Geo just stared at you, expression unreadable for a second, before he scoffed. “Cute.”

You cocked your head innocently, smiling like you hadn’t just thrown a Molotov cocktail into his whole ego. “What? Just two ‘close friends’... totally normal... unspoken tension and mutual stares that last too long. No homo, right?”

Even Geo couldn’t stay annoyed. He rubbed the back of his neck, muttering something under his breath that might’ve been “You talk too much,” but it had no heat. Your comebacks were too quick. Too casual. You delivered them like little knives wrapped in ribbon.

Crowe leaned in beside you, smug as hell. “I taught you well.”

You raised a brow. “Please. I was born this way.”

“Don’t bring Lady Gaga into this.” Crowe joked as the karaoke room pulsed around you, lights dimmed in soft blues and purples. LED strips lined the ceiling, glowing gently like ambient club lighting.

The private space had velvet couches circling the center, a mounted touchscreen for song choices, and an in-room bar setup in the corner manned by a bartender who looked far too sober for what was about to go down tonight.

Geo took a seat, farthest from the stage, closest to the exit. Classic.

Deryl was already halfway through cueing up Owl City’s Fireflies, grinning like a man possessed. “I hope you all are emotionally prepared for this cultural reset,” he announced proudly. “It’s going to change lives.”

“Oh my God,” Crowe muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We just got here and already it’s cursed.”

And then—like the universe wanted to drop a cinematic entrance on cue—the room’s atmosphere shifted. The door creaked open with the theatrical timing of a horror movie and the glamour of a perfume ad.

In walked Brittney Claire.

She didn’t just walk—she arrived.

Her presence filled the space before her voice ever needed to. Like smoke curling under a doorframe, she took over everything: air, attention, the very axis of the room. 

She wore a deep baby blue corset top, snug and structured, laced up the front with delicate pink ribbons that framed her hourglass silhouette. Her skirt was a denim pleated mini with gold accents, swishing with each step, short enough to tease, long enough to command respect. Her boots were platformed and leather, polished to a dangerous shine, laced up to the knee like she was ready to stomp someone’s heart out for fun.

Every detail was a threat. Her perfume reached you before her voice did—subtle, sharp, rich. Her blonde curls cascaded perfectly down her back, styled like they’d never known humidity. Her earrings were bow-shaped. Of course they were.

She looked like she’d been rendered in high definition while the rest of the world was buffering.

And she knew it.

Jess came in behind her like a moon orbiting a sun. Soft pastels, cotton-candy hair pinned half-up with delicate crystal clips, soft smile lighting her face. “Hi guys,” she said gently, her voice as soft as tissue paper, like she didn’t want to disrupt the vibe. “It’s so good to see you.”

She fluttered over to give Crowe a hug, waved at Deryl, and kissed your cheek with a featherlight warmth that made you remember why you actually liked Jess—even if she was best friends with your mortal emotional enemy.

Meanwhile, Brittney made a slow circuit of the room with her signature brand of weaponized poise. She acknowledged Crowe with a chin tilt, offered Deryl a smirk, and let Jess fuss briefly over her earrings.

And then her eyes landed on you.

You were already sitting. Already braced. And still—it hit like a truck.

Your eyes met. Her gaze slid over your outfit. Down. Back up. She said nothing, but you felt it. Like an analysis. Like a judgment. Like a low hum of electricity right beneath your skin. She didn’t look surprised to see you dressed like you had somewhere to be and nothing to prove.

She just looked... Neutral??? Infuriatingly neutral.

A flicker of a smirk ghosted across her lips—there and gone—and then she gave you the smallest of nods. Not a greeting. Not a challenge. Just enough to say, I see you. 

Then she turned away without a word, like her presence hadn’t just punched a hole through your psyche, and flopped onto the couch beside Jess, crossing her long legs like royalty on vacation.

You didn’t realize you were still holding your drink until Crowe leaned in again and whispered with the delighted malice: “Well. This should be fun.”

You drained what was left in your glass, swallowed the burn, and set it down with finality. 

Game. Fucking. On.

The air had shifted. Not metaphorically. You could feel it. The room, once wild and electric with laughter and off-key singing, had settled into something heavier—hotter. Like the atmosphere knew something was about to go down.

The drinks hadn’t stopped. Neither had your third one. The couch beneath you was sinking low like it wanted to swallow you whole, and the mic on its stand pulsed faintly under the LED lights like it had a heartbeat. You didn’t trust it. Or yourself. But that didn’t matter. You were already in this.

Crowe clapped, sharp and theatrical. The room fell quiet.

“Alright, my unstable disciples of music and mayhem,” he declared, sounding like the ringmaster of a very sexy, very unhinged circus, “We’re doing duets now. And by ‘we,’ I mean all of you. Geo and I have curated teams. No backsies. No trades.”

You sat up, slow. “Wait—what?”

Geo leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed, wearing the kind of smug grin that promised violence but in like, a poetic way. “We did a vibe check,” he added.

“A vibe check?” Deryl raised an eyebrow, already halfway through a Red Bull and deeply unimpressed. “That means nothing.”

“It means everything,” Crowe said.

Geo pulled out his phone like he was reading from ancient scripture. “Team one: Crowe and I. Obviously. Prepare to be emotionally destroyed.”

Crowe raised his drink. “We’re doing Toxic. You’re not ready.”

The room collectively groaned.

“Team two,” Geo continued, undeterred, “Jess and Deryl.”

Jess clapped her hands together like she’d just been gifted a kitten. “Yay! I love duets.” Deryl bumped her fist. “Let’s make everyone cry. Or regret being here. Either works.”

You already knew what was coming next. The weight in your stomach sank. “Don’t,” you said, pointing at them.

Crowe’s grin widened. “Team three. You and Brittney.”

Your soul left your body.

You turned to Geo. “I hate you.” 

Geo just shrugged, unapologetic. “You’re welcome.”

You glanced across the room. Brittney sat on the couch like she owned it, legs crossed, ankle bouncing in slow rhythm to a song only she could hear. Her hair gleamed in the neon, golden and soft-looking in a way that pissed you off. She sipped from her glass lazily, as if the announcement barely registered. But then she turned her head.

Her eyes met yours.

No smirk. No obvious expression. Just… interest. Calculation. The smallest flick of her gaze down your figure, then back up to your eyes, like she was making a mental note for later.

And still—nothing on her face. Nothing but that infuriating cool.

You sat back down, forced your breath out slowly. Okay. Fine. This wasn’t high school. You weren’t going to throw a punch in a karaoke lounge with LED butterflies on the wall and glass tables covered in empty glasses and someone’s lost fake eyelash.

You weren’t going to fight her. You were going to out-sing her.

You were going to scorch the room so hard the air itself would hum your name. Let her strut in with her perfect hair and dangerous smile. Let her ignore you like she hadn’t been the only thought in your head since the moment you saw her name pop up in the group chat. Fine. She could pretend you didn’t matter.

But once the music started—she wouldn’t have the option to look away.

The first duet went off like a fever dream. Geo and Crowe turned Toxic into a damn performance art piece—Crowe spinning with the mic stand like it was a stripper pole, Geo belting notes that should’ve been illegal. Chaos. Applause. Deryl is throwing napkins like confetti.

Then Jess and Deryl came in with Can’t Take My Eyes Off You, and honestly? It was kind of beautiful. Deryl didn’t ruin it, Jess had that soft anime energy that made everyone shut up and feel things, and by the end of it, even Crowe looked mildly moved. Mostly annoyed, but also moved.

And then.

It was your turn.

The screen blinked. The instrumental began. The lights dipped low and sultry, casting the room in that velvet-glow shade of things-are-about-to-go-wrong. Pink and purple hues melted across the floor. The mic pulsed like a countdown.

You stood. So did she.

Your shoulders grazed on the way to the mic—innocent, accidental, except it felt like someone had jammed a live wire into your spine. Brittney didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift. Her perfume, all vanilla and expensive threat, lingered too long in your lungs.

You stared her down. She looked like a whole problem: shimmered top clinging just right, denim skirt that threatened to climb, boots that promised violence. She didn’t pose—she existed. Boldly. Like the room was already hers, and you were just lucky to breathe the same air.

She gave you that slow, knowing smile. The kind that made you want to either kiss her or throw a drink.

The music built. Heat simmered in the space between you. Then—

You both reached for the mic. Fingers brushed. Neither of you backed off.

There was a split second of shared stillness. A tense little heartbeat.

And then chaos.

“Let go,” you hissed, hand tightening around the mic.

“You let go,” she snapped back, grip iron-strong, eyes narrowed like a sniper.

“I’m leading the first verse.”

“Since when? No one voted for that.”

“Because we’re not doing democracy with you, Brittney.”

“Oh, I’m the problem?”

At that point, the music had already started. The screen blinked lyrics neither of you were singing. Instead, you were playing a dangerous game of mic tug-of-war, with escalating whispers that were very quickly turning into raised voices.

“You’re literally trying to steal it!”

“I’m trying to save this performance from your off-key attempt at sultry.”

“Oh, bitch—”

“—I dare you—”

Crowe groaned so loud it echoed. “Oh fuck, Geo—go in.” Geo dove between you both with the practiced timing of someone who'd broken up fights before. “Okay, okay, okay, alright, NOPE. That’s enough lesbian rage for one night.” He snatched the mic from both your hands and handed it to Deryl like it was a bomb. “You’re both done.”

Brittney stepped back, breathing hard, arms crossed. You looked away, trying to cool the heat in your face—half fury, half something else. Something worse.

Crowe clapped his hands again, this time with the energy of a dad who just found gum under the couch. “New plan! Karaoke is clearly above some of our emotional paygrades, so guess what? We’re going dancing. Out. Like, real club, real strangers, real sweat, no microphones.”

Everyone agreed a little too quickly. 

Within five minutes, they were gone. Gone gone.

You stood near the snack counter, watching the empty space where your friends had been. The echo of Jess’s laughter still lingered. Someone had forgotten their drink. The door clicked shut.

You turned. Brittney was still standing across the room, arms still crossed, looking equally shocked and insulted. “Did they��did they ditch us?”

Your phone buzzed with a little too much cheer for the situation. You glanced down, expecting some half-hearted apology or a meme. What you got instead was Crowe, in digital form, wielding his unchecked chaos like a weapon:

Princess [10:04 PM]: You two need to work out your shit. Or at least learn to be in the same room without ruining the vibe. The room’s paid for 3 more hours. This is now officially a date. If either of you leaves before midnight, you owe me for the whole room. That’s $842.19. I’ll know. My card’s linked. I get an alert. :) Happy dating! ❤️

You stared at the screen. Blinked once. Reread it.

Then another message.

Princess [10:05 PM]: P.S. Don’t break anything. P.P.S. There’s a cheese board and wine in the mini fridge.

Then, slowly, as if offering proof of a crime scene, you rotated your phone toward Brittney, holding it out with two fingers like it was covered in nuclear fallout.

She leaned in, her bracelet jingling softly. Her eyes darted across the screen. Her mouth fell open. “He did not.”

“Oh,” you deadpanned, “he absolutely did.”

She sat back like she’d been slapped with a velvet glove. “He turned this into a date?”

You nodded, dry. “Technically a hostage situation masquerading as a date, but yes. A designer-prison experience.”

Brittney dragged a hand down her face, fingers smearing across her cheek with theatrical despair. “My parents would disown me if I spent that much on anything that wasn’t a college credit or a funeral.”

You leaned back against the couch, stretching your legs out, one ankle crossing over the other. “I haven’t seen that much money since I spent my refund check on dumb textbooks I didn’t read. I refuse to touch my savings unless my place is literally on fire.”

Both of you sat in stunned, mutual financial horror for a beat. Your faces mirrored disbelief. Your limbs hung limp like dolls abandoned on sale racks. Brittney leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, holding her head in her hands. You sipped your drink like it might somehow teleport you to another timeline where none of this was happening.

Then, it slipped out—one of those dry, tired snickers that escaped from the back of your throat. The kind that sounded less like amusement and more like surrender. She looked at you. Then she cracked, too. Not loud, not dramatic. Just a quiet, snort-laced exhale that said, ‘of course, this is happening to us.’

“He’s such a menace,” she muttered, shaking her head.

“Oh, he’s the devil,” you replied, stretching your arms above your head, “but like… hot and organized.”

That made her pause. “You think he’s hot?”

“I think I’m terrified of him. And that kind of power is attractive.”

The grin tugging at Brittney’s mouth was a silent betrayal of her otherwise dramatic eye-roll. She fought it—chin lifted, lips tight—but you caught it. Just the smallest twitch at the corners, like her composure was fraying, and she hated that you could tell. Her eyes darted away from yours, sweeping the room with the desperate energy of someone trying to pretend she wasn’t amused.

Then she moved, standing up with a rustle of denim and attitude, walking over to the mini-fridge Crowe had smugly stocked like a hotel concierge with a god complex. She crouched, pulled it open, and stared into its cold depths like it had committed a personal betrayal. 

From within, she retrieved a cheese board so meticulously arranged it looked like it had been composed by someone with a vendetta and a food styling degree. There was also wine—obviously.

Brittney held the board aloft like an artifact, one brow lifting in suspicion. “Well,” she muttered, plucking a grape off the bunch and tossing it into her mouth with the grace of a queen sampling poison, “since we’re stuck here, might as well eat his expensive cheese. I bet he imported this. Probably made the cows sign NDAs.”

You snorted, lounging back with your drink resting casually on your thigh as she poured wine into your glass with a flourish that was only barely sarcastic.

You raised it lazily in mock toast. “To surviving extortion in the name of friendship.”

She clinked her glass to yours with a smirk that almost—almost—reached her eyes. “Or whatever the hell this is.”

The sound rang out in the half-lit room, sharp and brief and echoing like it meant more than it should. You held each other’s gaze a moment too long. Not challenging. Not warm. Just aware—two rival queens in exile, forced to share a throne made of passive aggression and overpriced brie.

“Worst night ever,” Brittney muttered, breaking the spell as she flopped dramatically onto the opposite couch.

“Oh, you think I’m fun on this ‘date’?” You added air quotes with venom and drained half your glass. “Because I’m not.”

“Then let’s not talk,” she snapped, crossing her legs with finality.

“Fine.”

A silence followed. Thick. Teetering.

Then you opened your mouth. “You know—”

Brittney groaned, throwing her head back with the force of someone auditioning for a Greek tragedy.

You rolled your eyes. “There is no reason why you and I shouldn’t be able to sit here together and have a conversation.”

“I got a good reason,” she shot back instantly.

“Oh yeah?” You raised a brow. “What is it?”

“I don’t like you.”

You blinked. That one actually stung. You masked it well, but your shoulders went still, and your eyes dimmed just enough to be noticeable.

“Really?” you asked, voice lower. “Like, Britt, you can’t think of one thing you like about me?”

She barely hesitated. “I like it when you don’t talk to me.”

You sucked in a breath through your teeth. “Boo, you whore. Try again. Reach deep down into that twisted, bitter bitch soul of yours and see if you can find anything nice to say about me.”

Brittney rolled her eyes for the fiftieth time tonight, but she paused. “Uhh… okay. Your outfit isn’t awful.”

You arched a brow. “Wow. Such heartfelt praise.” You nodded, took a sip, and nodded again. “Thanks so much.”

She tilted her glass your way. “Now let’s hear you say something nice about me.”

Right. Fair game. You cleared your throat and sat up straighter, squinting at her like a critic evaluating a painting. “Sure,” you sighed. “Um… I admire how you’re never afraid to say what you think.”

“That’s stupid,” she said flatly.

“See?” you shot back, pointing your glass at her. “You proved my point.”

She looked away again, muttering something under her breath, but her shoulders relaxed. Just a little. “Now it’s your turn again,” you prompted, curious to see where she’d go with it.

She hesitated. Looked at you. Then flicked her eyes away like the words were embarrassing. “Uh—I guess… some people might say that from certain angles… you’re hot.”

Silence. The air shifted. Your heart skipped. You blinked. “Wait—what?”

Brittney didn’t meet your gaze, just fiddled with the stem of her glass. “You could say I’m hot.”

You swallowed. That warm, teasing confidence you wore like armor slipped for a moment. “You’re hot,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Really hot. Sometimes I can’t stop looking at you.”

Brittney’s eyes softened. Slowly, she turned to face you, studying you with something dangerously close to vulnerability.

You looked away. Fast. Like the truth had caught you off guard.

Silence again—but not the uncomfortable kind this time. It sat between you, heavy but alive, like something was shifting. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t enemies after all. And that realization might’ve been more terrifying than anything Crowe could've planned.

You and Brittney had somehow migrated from opposite couches to the middle of the L-shaped booth, huddled in the warm glow of LED lighting that made everyone look just a little too pretty.

She had her legs crossed toward you now. One arm draped lazily over the back of the booth, the other holding her wineglass like a weaponized accessory. You’d stopped trying to pretend you weren’t watching her when she smiled at her own joke. She didn’t smile often—when she did, it felt like catching lightning in a bottle. And you were maybe, kind of, sort of addicted to that spark now.

Then the door creaked open.

You both turned. Slow. Dread-heavy.

Two strangers stumbled into the room like a bad omen, wearing knockoff cologne and misplaced confidence 

One had a mop of shaggy red hair and a shirt that screamed, “I peaked in high school.” The other had dyed his hair a shade of blue so dark it looked like a black hole had thrown up on his scalp. They swaggered in like they were the headliners, not the uninvited side characters in your worst timeline.

“And this night actually gets worse,” Brittney muttered, straightening up and giving you a wide-eyed look of pure, elegant horror.

The redhead flopped down on the booth like he belonged there. “Yo, this room is lit.”

The blue-haired one was already eyeing the cheese board like a raccoon who’d found an unlocked dumpster. “You ladies mind if we join?”

You stood up so fast your glass nearly tipped. “Actually, we do mind. We really want to hang out alone.”

Red smirked. “We are alone.”

Blue added, smiling like he’d just solved a riddle, “Just the four of us.”

You and Brittney locked eyes, a simultaneous internal scream echoing between you.

“Oh my god,” you both groaned in unison.

“This is torture,” she muttered under her breath, lips barely moving.

Red leaned closer, and you could smell his breath—cheap vodka and bad decisions. “How ‘bout a song, babe?”

“No,” Brittney snapped instantly, her tone sharp enough to cut glass.

But Red kept grinning, entirely immune to shame or self-awareness. “C’mon. Two beautiful girls like you? I bet you sound hot together.”

Blue, not to be outdone, slurred, “I’ll buy you a drink.”

You stiffened, inching closer to Brittney, one arm subtly pressing to her side. “I’m good, thanks.”

Blue leaned forward. “I didn’t say you could say no.”

Brittney’s eyes flashed. You barely caught it, but she reached for her bag—the kind of movement that spelled danger. She was seconds from unleashing what could only be the tiny pink taser you’d seen her carry around like a fashion statement with voltage. 

“No,” you hissed under your breath, catching her wrist gently. “We can’t break anything. Crowe will kill us.”

She glared at you. “I’m not trying to break things, I’m trying to break noses.”

Red was still talking. Something about duets. Blue was singing a horrible, off-key version of "Don't Stop Believin’" to no one in particular. Brittney flinched.

You scooted so close to her now, you were practically sitting in her lap. She didn’t move away. Instead, her arm found your waist like muscle memory.

“We’re going to die here,” she whispered, deadpan.

You nodded solemnly. “And Crowe will charge our families for the damages.”

“I’m pulling the taser.”

“Give me two minutes and I’ll help you drag the bodies.”

Both guys were now hunched over the karaoke tablet like it was sacred scripture, their fingers jabbing at the screen as they argued. “Nah, dude, queue this one—my guy said it’s a banger—”

“Man, shut up, they don’t wanna hear that weak-ass playlist. What we got here are a couple of sing hoes, huh?” Redhead cackled, elbowing Blue like he’d just invented comedy.

You had to physically stop Brittney. You caught her hand just in time, slipping your fingers around hers under the table—warm, tense, ready to snap like a spring. You gave her a warning look, and she inhaled slowly through her nose, trying to resist her murder instincts.

“Sing us a song,” Redhead grinned, eyes a little too gleeful. “Yeah, we wanna hear a little songy-song action.”

Brittney stood up so suddenly the table wobbled. She smoothed her hair behind her ear with the grace of a predator in heels. Her smile was too slow. Too sweet. Dangerous.

“Babe,” she said, all sugary innocence. Her voice dripped with an exaggerated lilt that didn’t belong to her. “They want to hear a little songy-song action.”

You blinked, caught off guard, but then you saw it. That look in her eyes. Sharp. Calculated. She was plotting. You exhaled, letting the smile bloom slowly across your lips as you placed your drink down with surgical precision.

“Kay,” you said softly, playing along. “We’ll sing you a song.”

Red and Blue exchanged high-fives like frat boys winning a bet.

Brittney turned and grabbed your hand again, pulling you up like she’d just chosen you for a duet on a reality show. Her fingers were tighter this time—excited, electric. Her body brushed against yours as she leaned in, whispering just loud enough for you alone to hear.

“Let’s give them a show.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Oh, they won’t know what hit them.”

“What number?” one of the guys asked, bouncing on his heels like a golden retriever in human form.

“L403,” you answered without hesitation.

“Ooooh,” Brittney smirked, letting go of your hand just long enough to take the mic from Redhead’s outstretched arm with a graceful little twirl, like she was born onstage. You took the extra from the stand, flipping your hair back slightly—not because you needed to, but because it made your neck look damn good.

The music started slow—low, sultry, bass curling through the speakers like smoke. The guys' rowdy energy dulled instantly, their cheers faltering as the vibe shifted. You met Brittney’s gaze. Her smirk said everything.

You turned toward the two of them like a performer stepping into a spotlight. With a deliberate flick of your wrist, you blew Redhead a slow, mocking kiss. His grin cracked wider, stupidly flattered, unaware that was the last crumb of attention he’d be getting.

Behind you, Brittney moved in close—close enough for the curve of her chest to brush your back as she leaned in like a dark halo, hands ghosting the shape of your waist without ever touching. Her breath was warm at your ear, and it gave you a perfect opening line.

You sang with a lazy, practiced pout:

“Why am I always hit on by the boys I never like?”

Then you spun on your heel, passing the next lyric to her like a game of cat and mouse. Brittney smiled easily, circling behind you with the confident sway of someone who knew eyes were locked on her.

“I can always see 'em coming, from the left or from the right,”

she sang sweetly, one hand ghosting just past your hip, the other brushing her own thigh as if weighing the interest they never asked for.

You turned your head slightly, eyes catching hers. “I don’t want to be a priss,” you chimed, taking the mic, “I’m just try’na be polite.”

You glanced over your shoulder. She was watching you—eyes half-lidded, and you caught a flash of something genuine when you added, “But it always seems to bite me in the—”

Brittney spun around in front of you now, practically gliding, and lifted her brow as if daring you to finish that lyric. Then she cut in sharply,

“Ask me for my number, yeah, you put me on the spot.”

The dudes were still watching, confused but clearly entertained, sitting forward like kids at a magic show. They still didn’t get it.

“You think that we should hook up,” Brittney sang, shifting back to you with an exaggerated shrug, “But I think that we should not.”

You stepped into her space—closer than necessary—eyes locking, “You had me at ‘hello,’ then you opened up your mouth—” breaths syncing as you sang in unison, already turned to the guys with matching deadpan expressions: “And that is when it started going south. Oh!”

The chorus hit like a warning siren. You and Brittney moved as one, circling each other, ignoring the guys completely.

“Get your hands off my hips, ‘fore I’ll punch you in the lips—”

Brittney dragged her fingers across your hip slowly, then let her hand drop like she was physically shaking off the memory of unwanted touch.

“Stop your staring at my—hey!” You swatted playfully at her hand and laughed, as if you were the one being harassed by her, twisting the dynamic into something charged and theatrical.

“Take a hint, take a hint.”

You both sang into your mics like sirens at the edge of a battlefield, grinning like devils. “No, you can't buy me a drink—”

You raised your empty glass dramatically and turned it upside down. “Let me tell you what I think…”

Brittney leaned in again, lips brushing the mic as she murmured: “I think you could use a mint.”

You covered your mouth with your hand like you were scandalized, then winked at her and delivered the chorus with both your voices overlapping:

“Take a hint, take a hint…”

“T-take a hint, take a hint!”

The two guys were still clueless. Even after the sultry duet and pointed lyrics, Red was still licking his lips like he thought he had a chance, and Blue looked like he was about to start clapping off-beat again. It was honestly pitiful.

So you upped the ante.

You turned, giving them one last chance to catch the vibe, then—deliberately—strutted over to Red and lowered yourself onto his lap, slow and graceful, like slipping into the role of a femme fatale. His arms twitched like he wanted to hold you. He didn’t dare.

You leaned in, breath ghosting the side of his neck, microphone lifted to your lips like a secret. Then, with a wicked little smile—

“I guess you still don't get it…”

You let the words hang, your voice syrupy and slow.

“So let's take it from the top.”

The backing track kicked in again. You snapped your fingers to the beat as Brittney’s head jerked up—eyes locked on you, instantly annoyed. Her jaw ticked. Red was smirking, but the smirk died when Brittney crossed the room in two steps.

She grabbed your wrist—not hard, but possessive—and tugged you up off Red’s lap with force masked as grace. You practically stumbled into her arms, landing sideways across her thighs as she took the seat. The mic slipped slightly, but you caught it.

Her hands curled around your waist, holding you there, anchored.

You didn’t fight it. In fact, you leaned in, resting the side of your head lightly against her shoulder with the kind of intimacy that sent a very clear message. You could feel the heat of her cheek next to yours, and a thrum of electricity passed between you.

“You asked me what my sign is,” you sang, teasingly sweet.

You turned your head just enough to look at her—nose brushing the edge of her jaw. “And I told you it was ‘stop.’”

Brittney’s brows lifted, half in amusement, half impressed that you were still in character. She tucked a lock of your hair behind your ear like she had the right.

You smirked, turning your full attention to her now.

“And if I had a dime for every name that you just dropped…” You stared at her, eye to eye, singing it like a dare. She smirked back, catching on instantly, and joined you for the next line:

“You'd be here, and I'd be on a yacht—OH!”

You both stood, fast and in-sync like dancers, turning your backs to the stunned dudes as the chorus hit again.

“Get your hands off my hips, ‘fore I’ll punch you in the lips!”

You swayed your hips exaggeratedly, and Brittney followed right behind you, mimicking the move like a threat and a promise.

“Stop your staring at my—hey!” she added with a dramatic head toss.

The two of you turned to face the guys again. Red looked offended. Blue was awkwardly laughing.

“Take a hint, take a hint!” you both chimed in, walking slowly toward them with purpose.

“No, you can't buy me a drink…” Brittney sang, pulling a faux-sympathetic pout. She leaned her weight on one leg, hands on hips.

“Let me tell you what I think—”

You slid beside her and pointed to your mouth like a commercial.

“I think you could use a mint.”

The two of you finished the chorus in eerie, perfect sync:

“Take a hint, take a hint—t-take a hint, take a hint.”

Silence from the dudes. Thick and sharp, the kind that buzzed against your skin like static. The kind that reeked of tension, perfume, and just enough humiliation to make grown men visibly shrink. Red looked like he wanted to square up—jaw clenched, eyes burning like he thought he’d been wronged somehow. Blue, meanwhile, shifted awkwardly, looking like he wished he could disappear between the couch cushions.

That’s when you stepped forward, slow and deliberate, every movement dripping with threat disguised as grace.

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes with mock sweetness, and let your voice drop to a velvet growl.

“What about ‘no’ don’t you get?”

Your hips swayed with every word, one hand trailing down the mic stand like a caress before you let it go, strutting closer like you might do something wild.

Brittney came in right after you, gliding like a predator on a runway. Her voice was honey-laced venom, her smile too pretty to be safe.

“So go and tell your friends.” She leaned back slightly, running her hand along the edge of the table, nails clicking softly—like a countdown before detonation.

The guys took a subtle step back. Not a conscious one. Just the instinctive recoil of two lesser creatures sensing they’d wandered into a den they weren’t meant to survive. 

You and Brittney exchanged a glance. One of those perfect, wordless signals forged in chaos and shared annoyance.

“I’m not really interested,” you both sang like twin sirens at the gates of hell, voices harmonized, sweet and sharp.

And then the circling began. You took Red. Brittney took Blue. You moved slow—hips swaying, steps soundless, your bodies orbiting them like planets with teeth. “It's about time that you're leavin’,” you sang, twirling your finger in the air before pointing straight at the exit like it owed you money.

“I'm gonna count to three and—” Brittney lifted her hand, extending one manicured finger. Her lips curled, parting in a playful little snarl. She looked ready to pounce. And it was beautiful.

You leaned in toward Red, eyes alight with something sharp and theatrical.

“Open my eyes and you’ll be gone.”

“One,” Brittney said, her voice slicing the air.

You swung back around to face the boys, eyes locked on Red, singing:

“Get your hands off my—”

“Two,” Brittney added with a snap of her fingers.

She stepped forward, closing the distance to Blue.

“Or I'll punch you in the—” you sang, walking straight into Red’s personal space, chest nearly brushing his. He blinked. Too slow.

“Three.” 

Without ceremony, Brittney shoved her palm into Red’s chest—not enough to knock him over, but enough to throw him off-balance and straight back into Blue, who let out a startled, awkward grunt.

Red’s face flushed with a cocktail of confusion and bruised ego as he stumbled back toward the door. He glanced at you like he still didn’t get the joke. That made it funnier.

You turned on Blue, giving him a look like he was something beneath your heel. He recoiled like you’d actually hit him.

“Stop your staring at my—hey!” you snapped, flicking your hair and rolling your eyes.

Brittney laughed—loud, chaotic, beautiful. It wasn’t even singing anymore. It was triumph. You stepped closer to Brittney, brushing shoulders like it was casual, your fingers just barely grazing her waist. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned into you, cheek near your temple, mouthing the intro while her voice filled the room like velvet dipped in heat.

The two guys were suddenly a little quieter. Staring. Possibly confused. Probably aroused. Definitely played.

“Take a hint, take a hint!” she howled, throwing an arm around your shoulder and pulling you in close.

You both stood tall, side by side, hair a mess of wild curls and lipstick slightly smudged from all the movement. The boys were frozen. Baffled. Powerless.

“I am not your missing link,” you sang, lifting your hand to your temple like a mock salute.

Brittney pointed to her mouth again, slow and exaggerated.

“Let me tell you what I think.”

You leaned forward, practically whispering into the mic: “I think you could use a mint.”

“Take a hint, take a hint—take a hint, take a hint!”

The last note rang out like a curse—sugarcoated and deadly.

You turned in time with the beat, circling Brittney slowly, hips sashaying like you were walking a runway designed to burn egos alive. Your mic hovered just at your lips, your gaze fixed on hers like she was the only soul left standing in a room full of ghosts.

She didn’t break eye contact. Didn’t even blink.

The lights above cycled in soft blues and purples, casting a dreamy haze around your silhouettes, painting the air with nightclub sin and something heavier. Brittney swayed in rhythm, leaning her weight back just enough to make her body curve in ways that made the guys squirm. She bit her lip—barely—and you caught it. Not a nervous tic. A performance. A dagger in pink gloss.

And it was working.

By the time the second verse hit, you were shoulder to shoulder again, backs arched just enough to touch. A living, breathing siren duet. You both faced the boys now—every inch of you close, aligned, radiating that raw, intentional intimacy. Voices wrapped around each other like silk. 

Seductive. Mocking. Untouchable.

Brittney dragged her fingertips down the mic stand slowly—deliberately—before gripping it tight and leaning forward. She brushed her hip against yours. You didn’t flinch. You leaned back.

Together, you were art and chaos and humiliation wrapped in lipstick and silk. Red cursed under his breath—angry, lost, trying to figure out how this all spiraled out of his control.

Blue mumbled something about going for a smoke, voice cracking mid-sentence. You didn’t even watch them leave. Didn’t need to. The power shift had already gutted the room. By the time the door slammed shut, the only thing left behind was the sound of their egos deflating and the faint perfume trail you both left in your wake.

The mic buzzed faintly in your hand.  

Your chest rose and fell, breath quick and electric.

You and Brittney stood frozen for a beat, then turned in unison—grinning like foxes. With exaggerated grace, you gave a slow, mocking bow to the ghosts of your audience, fingers flourishing in the air like you were accepting an award. Then you both sashayed out like queens leaving a castle they’d just set on fire.

The second the door closed behind you, Brittney was the first to break.

She bent at the waist, letting out a ragged, breathless laugh that echoed through the hallway. One hand pressed to her stomach as she gasped between wheezes.

“Oh my God—did you see their faces?” she half-screamed, half-laughed.

You leaned back against the wall, legs weak, breath caught somewhere between giddy and wild. “They looked like they got hit by a truck,” you managed through your own laughter, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

Brittney wheezed harder. “An overpriced truck. With a fog machine.”

“We’re never telling Crowe.”

“Absolutely not. This dies with us.” She held up her hand for a high-five. You slapped it—but didn’t pull away right away. The contact lingered. Brief. Electric. Unspoken.

And something shifted.

The karaoke room suddenly felt too quiet. Too slow. Like a pause in a film right before the scene gets serious. You both blinked. But neither of you moved. The high from the song still burned in your lungs. And for the first time that night… it didn’t feel like a mistake. Or a trap. Just something unplanned. Unfolding. She turned to you, arms folding, her smile returning—cocky, smug, but there was heat behind it.

“A bit dramatic, don’t you think?” she said, tilting her head.

You scoffed, grinning. “You literally pulled me onto your lap.”

She shrugged. “Jealousy’s a hell of a motivator.”

You raised a brow. “Oh?”

She didn’t elaborate. Of course, she didn’t. She just watched you, eyes tracing your face like she was trying to memorize it under this light.

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just thick. Loaded. Eventually, you broke it—your voice quieter now. Controlled.

“Okay… this still isn’t a date.”

“No,” she agreed softly. “But it’s not a disaster either.” The way she said it made something in your chest twist.

You stepped forward—slow, deliberate—tugging the mic cord between your fingers like a nervous tic. It slithered between your knuckles, but your eyes never left hers. Brittney stood perfectly still, lips parted just slightly, her eyes shadowed in low light, unreadable.

Your hand brushed hers. Barely.

But she felt it. Like electricity. Like something inevitable. 

“…Wanna finish it?” you asked, voice soft, teasing—but there was weight behind the words. A challenge. A confession.

Her smirk curved back, but it wasn’t sharp this time. It was slow. Dangerous. The kind of smile that said she was past pretending. She stepped forward—close enough that your breaths mingled—and tilted her head, deep purple eyes locked on yours like gravity had a personal stake in keeping them there.

“I’ll sing another song,” she murmured, her voice huskier now, private.

“Just me. Sit.” She gestured to the couch behind you, and the authority in her voice made your knees obey before your mind caught up.

She stepped away, sauntering toward the mic stand like she was walking down a lover’s spine. Her hips rolled with each step, and the crowd—if they even still existed in your mind—melted into shadows. 

There was only her.

The room faded—no lights, no sound, no one watching. Just Brittney, bathed in violet and midnight hues, stepping into the spotlight like it owed her something. Her fingers curled around the mic stand with an elegance that was almost predatory, like it was just another body under her control. But her gaze? Her gaze was locked on you.

She singing only to you.

“You think you know me…” Her voice slipped out low, rich, wrapped in smoke and velvet. Each word a calculated caress. She stepped forward, slow and liquid, like her body had become part of the music.

“…but you don't know me.” Her heel clicked once on the tile, but it was the only sharp thing about her. The rest was smooth, sinuous. Her hips swayed with intention—not for show. For you. Like every note was a thread pulling her closer.

“You think you own me…”

She tilted her head just slightly, lips curling as she sang.

“…but you can't control me.”

Her eyes dropped, traced the lines of your collarbone with a slow blink. Her voice was fierce now—feminine power, unshaken and deeply personal. Then—“You look at me and there's just one thing that you see…”

Her gaze dragged up your frame, unabashed. From your knees, to your mouth, to your eyes. Her stare lingered there. Quiet. Knowing.

Your breath caught. 

“So listen to me…”

Her voice dipped into a sultry whisper.

“Just listen to me…”

She knelt in front of you, eyes never leaving yours. Her fingertips brushed your knees—delicate, almost reverent. Just enough pressure to remind you how close she was. Her nails grazed your skin in passing. Then she rose again—unfolding herself like the crescendo of a storm.

She began to circle you slowly, predator-smooth. One finger traced your shoulder as she passed. Another ghosted the line of your jaw, then pulled away—like she was thinking about touching your lips, but changed her mind at the last second.

You weren’t sure if it was mercy or cruelty.

“You push me back…”

Her tone darkened.

“I'll push you back—harder, harder…” 

Her fingers slipped behind your neck now, brief and warm, then vanished again like smoke.

The next line slithered against your skin:

“You scream at me…”

She was behind you. You felt her breath graze the edge of your ear.

“I’ll scream at you—louder…”

Her voice teased, rhythmic, and slow. “L-l-l-l-louder…”

You shivered. And then she was in front of you again. Closer now. Between your knees. She didn’t speak, didn’t look away—didn’t have to. Her eyes said it all: stay right there.

And you did. duh who wouldn't?

Then—slowly, deliberately, with the kind of hesitation that made it all the more intimate—Brittney climbed into your lap. Her thighs straddled yours like she’d done it before in a dream. Like this wasn’t new, just finally real.

Her body settled against you carefully, tentatively. Not to seduce—but to trust. Like she was giving you something fragile. Something she didn’t know how to hold herself. Her arms looped behind your neck, loose and almost lazy, but her body was trembling slightly against yours. You weren’t sure if it was the music or the meaning.

Her lips hovered above yours—achingly close, like a question she didn’t know how to ask. And yet, her expression had softened into something dangerous in a different way.

Not sharp. Not smug. Just bare.

“I’m dangerous…” Her voice wasn’t smooth anymore. It cracked in the center, but she didn’t try to fix it. “I’m warning you…” 

The smirk she always wore like armor wavered. Just a flicker. And then—just for a breath—she looked like she wanted to run. Or cry. Or both.

Her lips parted again like she was about to speak—but no words came. Instead, barely audible:

“But you're not afraid of me…” 

No. You weren’t. Not even a little. You saw her, the way no one else ever dared to. And she hated that. She needed that. 

You weren’t sure which one was worse.

“And I can't convince you…” Her voice broke entirely on that line. Not performance. Not art. Just pain. She reached for your hand then, almost shyly, and slid it against her waist—holding it there. Anchoring herself to you like you were the only solid thing left.

“You don’t know me…” Her eyes—those deep violet eyes—were wide now, raw, almost too much. Her pupils swallowed the color. And still, she looked at you. Only you. Like you were the one thing in this moment that made her feel like a person and not a performance. Like she was trying to confess something without ever saying it.

“…And the longer that you stay…” Her breath touched your cheek. Her lips barely moved. “The ice is melting…” Her fingers brushed your collarbone, so soft it made you ache.

“And the pain feels okay… it feels okay…” She didn’t sing it.

She let it fall from her mouth like a secret. Like the truth. 

Then her forehead touched yours. Gently. Like she was trying to breathe in time with you. Her fingers cradled your jaw, the pad of her thumb sweeping your lower lip with excruciating slowness. She didn’t kiss you. She just looked at you. And that was somehow worse. Her gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lifted. Still asking. Still not saying it.

“You push me back…” Her voice had returned, quieter now. Like it was hurting her to keep going. “I’ll push you back…”

“You scream at me…” She leaned in again, her nose brushing yours. “I’ll scream at you…”

Her voice shook, the tempo fraying, the melody unraveling. “Louder… louder… louder, louder, louder—”

You couldn’t take it anymore. You didn’t let her finish.

You kissed her.

Not like in stories. 

Not like fireworks and music and happily ever afters. You kissed her like something was cracking open inside you—slow, aching, inevitable.

Like if you didn’t, you’d both fall apart. Her breath caught between you. A soft, startled inhale. Her mouth froze, just for a second—like her brain hadn’t caught up to her heart. But she didn’t pull back.

She pressed in.

Her fingers slid into your hair, gently at first—then with sudden urgency, curling tight at the base of your skull like she needed something to hold on to. She kissed you back like it hurt. Like she had been starving for it and now didn’t know how to stop. Her mouth moved against yours with deliberate, trembling slowness—testing the edges, tasting what had been forbidden for too long.

She melted into you. 

And you let her.

Your hands found her waist—warm, tense, familiar—and pulled her in. Closer. Until there was no space left between your chests, your hips, your breathing. Your fingers gripped her ribs, thumbs brushing just under the edge of her shirt like you needed proof she was real. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t clean.

It was clumsy in all the right ways.

A collision of heat and heartbreak. Of longing and everything you hadn’t dared to say. Her breath hitched again against your mouth, just before she tilted her head, deepening the kiss. Her lips opened with a quiet, helpless sound. Not lust. Not power. Something softer. Sadder. Need. 

Her hands moved—traced your jaw, your throat, back into your hair—like she was trying to memorize you. Not with her eyes, but with touch. As if you’d disappear if she stopped. 

The mic hit the floor with a soft, muted thud. Neither of you flinched.

Your hands were still on her waist. Her fingers still tangled in your hair. And your lips—parted, trembling—had just left hers. You didn’t know what this meant. Not exactly. But you knew this:

Love her or hate her, you needed her.

Because the truth was… you’d been orbiting her for months. 

Eighty percent of your day was spent thinking about her—what she’d said, how she’d said it, what it meant beneath the words. And the other twenty? You spent it hoping someone else would mention her name just so you didn’t have to be the one to bring her up again. 

You were obsessed. 

Pathetically, unreasonably, helplessly obsessed with Brittney.

The lights overhead dimmed, letting violet and blue seep across the walls like bruises healing in real time. A low, humming quiet wrapped around the room—thick enough to drown in.

And in that quiet, there was only her.

Her breath brushed your cheek—warm, shaky, sweet with mint and something darker. Her scent clung to you now, faintly floral, faintly sharp. And her lip gloss… that glossy pink defiance now smudged against your mouth, like you’d been marked. Because Brittney was chaos in lipstick. Pink and blue violence. A siren in the platforms. A storm with eyeliner wings sharp enough to cut.

And right now, her storm wasn’t raging. It was quiet. Tired. Curled into you like she didn’t want to be a force of nature anymore—just a girl. Just this. Just yours, if only for a moment.

When she finally pulled back, it wasn’t with drama or flair. No sharp breath. No witty quip. Just a slow retreat, like her lips were reluctant to leave. Like she had to force them away. 

The kiss ended, but she didn’t let go.

And her eyes… Her eyes.

Those deep violet eyes—so striking they never felt real until you were close enough to fall into them. They didn’t just look at you. They studied you. Wide. Luminous. So open it almost hurt to look back. There was no armor in them now. No sarcasm. No perfectly timed cruelty. 

Just… her. Bare. Honest.

And shimmering like dusk after a fire.

She looked like she wanted to say something but couldn’t shape the words. Her lashes were damp at the tips. Her pupils—wide, devouring—pulled you in, and for once, she didn’t try to hide what she felt.

She was scared. Not of you. 

Of this. Of how much it meant. Of what it could break.

Her voice came out soft, frayed at the edges. “Looks like I can’t convince you…” She pressed her forehead gently to yours, eyes still open, watching you from up close like she was memorizing this exact version of you—breathless, stunned, shaken.

“…And I don’t have to.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. 

Your throat was tight, and your heart felt like it was trying to beat through your ribs. So you just stared. And she stared back. And for the first time—ever—Brittney didn’t look away.

“I think you know me…” she breathed.

Your lips parted. Then, finally, you nodded. “Not yet,” you whispered.

Her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite sadness. Half amusement, half ache. Like she'd just remembered something she wasn’t ready to forget. 

Then you asked quietly, “How much time do we have left in this room?”

Brittney blinked, her lashes fluttering. She looked down, slowly peeled her hand from your jaw, and turned her wrist to glance at her watch, still catching her breath. “It’s 12:30 PM,” she mumbled.

There was a flicker in the air.

Like the dream was cracking at the edges.

She lifted her gaze again, her expression shifting. The softness didn’t vanish—but something sharper slid in beside it.

“I think it’s time to go,” she said, head tilting, one brow raising ever so slightly. “What do you think, babe?”

You exhaled. Deep and long. Thought about the kiss. The chaos. The way her lips had felt on yours—like a secret kept too long. The things she hadn’t said, but poured into your mouth anyway. 

And then… You smiled. Not at her.

At yourself.

It felt like stepping onto a stage after a lifetime of rehearsing in the dark. Every movement, every breath, every stolen glance had led here—but now, there was no script. No audience. Just the two of you, tangled in something raw and reckless, something that had been building for longer than either of you would admit.

Because this—whatever this was—wasn’t over. 

STOP. A PAUSE, this is from your lovely author, Vivi, girl, let me say something real quick.

Please forgive me—truly—for what you’re about to read.

I was cleaning up my writing, trying to piece things together because, as previously mentioned... I was drunk. Not cute, giggly drunk. No. Gone. I barely remembered what I had written until I scrolled back, and when I did, I just sat there in stunned silence like, “Baby… who wrote this? This is… wow.”

So, consider this your formal warning, dearest readers. I’m horrified. Mortified. Somewhere between laughing at my own chaos and contemplating disappearing into the floor.

I feel an unspeakable level of secondhand shame from myself.

Read on... if you dare.

Not even close. Funny part that, you didn’t remember everything from that night. Not clearly. Not in order—well maybe you do…

The night bled at the edges, smudged like lipstick on a wineglass. Memories came in flashes—heat, hushed laughter, the dull thud of a door closing behind you. Brittney’s voice, thick with sleep or wine or something far more intoxicating, murmuring against your skin like a secret.

And then—her question, a challenge wrapped in velvet:

“So, are you going to eat or be eaten?”

Her fingers worked at the black dress of your dress, slow, deliberate, like she was savoring the reveal. Your smirk was instinct. “Mhm, eat.”

Her laugh was dark, pleased. “Good answer, baby.”

Then she was pushing you back onto the bed, her body bare in the moonlight, all golden skin and sharp edges. She spread her legs, and you didn’t hesitate—you dove in like a woman starved.

The taste of her was intoxicating, salt and sweetness, the kind of flavor that lingers in your dreams. Your tongue traced slow circles, then firmer strokes, teasing before fucking into her with a rhythm that had her gasping.

“Shit—you’re doing such a good job for me.” Her praise was a purr, fingers tangling in your hair, not guiding, just holding on. “Such a nasty little girl.”

You moaned against her, pressing your face deeper, lips and tongue working in tandem until her thighs trembled around your ears.

“Oh my god—you dirty bitch—” Her voice cracked, hips jerking. “Ahh, what the fuck—” Then her hands were on you, dragging you up by your hair, her mouth crashing into yours so she could taste herself on your lips.

“So fucking yummy,” you murmured, dizzy, drunk on her.

She smirked, nipping at your bottom lip. “Guess I’m the eater now.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You fell back onto the sheets, legs parting before she even touched you.

“Look how pretty that fucking pussy is,” she murmured, dragging a single fingertip down your slit, watching the way your body arched for her.

Then—her tongue. One slow, torturous lick.

“Yes—” you gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets.

She did it again, slower this time, tracing a path from your clit to your stomach, then higher, until her mouth closed around your nipple, sucking hard before soothing it with her tongue.

“So tasty,” she hummed, switching to the other breast, lavishing the same attention, her teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper. “All for me.”

Her hands roamed, squeezing, pinching, worshipping every inch of you. And when she finally kissed you again, deep and filthy, you could feel her smile against your lips.

“Such a good fucking girl.”

The air is thick with the scent of vanilla, sweat, and desperation as Britney hovers over you, her body glistening, her eyes dark with lust. She’s in control, and you’re nothing but her willing plaything—her filthy, eager little whore. "I bet you were like, totally obsessed with me, all those times I’ve been mean to you... Were you turned on?"

Her fingers twist your nipples, sharp and teasing, making you arch beneath her. You whimper, nodding like the desperate slut you are.

"Yes..." you moan, your voice trembling with need, your body already aching for her touch. The air between you is thick with desire, every movement charged with raw, filthy energy. Britney smirks down at you, her eyes gleaming with triumph—she knows exactly how badly you want her, how completely she owns you in this moment.

"You stay right fucking there," she commands, her voice dripping with dominance.

"Yes, ma’am," you whimper, surrendering to her completely. Your breath hitches as she crawls over you, her movements slow, deliberate, savoring the way you squirm beneath her. Then—oh fuck—her perfect ass hovers right above your face, her slick folds glistening, her thighs trembling with anticipation. The sight is intoxicating, overwhelming, and you can already taste her on your tongue before she even gives you permission.

"Is that right in your pretty face?" she taunts, grinding down just enough to let her heat brush against your lips.

You don’t even hesitate—your tongue is already out, hungry, desperate for her. "It’s right there," you pant, shameless, your voice wrecked with lust.

Britney lets out a filthy laugh, rolling her hips just enough to tease you. "Is that right there in your fucking face?" she goads, pressing down harder, forcing you to taste her. 

And god, you dive in like a starving animal—your tongue laps at her cunt, wet and sloppy, before sliding lower, deeper, until you’re fucking her asshole with your tongue, messy and obscene, the sounds lewd and undeniable.

"Are you tasting my asshole—you fucking whore?" she gasps, her voice shaking between pleasure and disbelief.

You answer by slapping her ass—hard—making her jolt, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. But Britney doesn’t let you have the upper hand for long. In an instant, she retaliates, her fingers plunging into your cunt, her mouth sealing over your clit, sucking hard, relentless. 

You writhe beneath her, but you’re not done—oh no. With a growl, you flip her over, pinning her down, your fingers working her pussy with the same filthy rhythm she just used on you.

"Oh my goodness, yes, yes, yes, bitch—you’re so fucking pretty!" Britney moans, her back arching, her body trembling under your touch.

"Lick your fucking hand and do that again," she orders, her dark, lust-drunk eyes locked on yours.

You obey, making a show of it—your tongue drags slowly over your palm, coating your fingers in spit before plunging them back inside her, fucking her with wet, filthy strokes.

"Yeah, make it nice and fucking wet—I wanna see it. Oh, that nasty bitch!" she cries, her hips bucking against your hand.

You fuck her harder, your mouth returning to her clit, sucking, licking, devouring her until she’s shaking, until she’s cumming all over your face, her thighs squeezing around your head like a vise.

"Okay, okay—calm down, I’m a little scared of you now," she pants, laughing breathlessly, her body still twitching from the aftershocks.

But you’re pussy-drunk, lost in her taste, in the way her heat clings to your tongue. You can’t stop—won’t stop.

"Damn it, bitch, I have to fuck you. I have to—you just nasty. One nasty whore. What are you so nasty?" she breathes, her voice a mix of awe and desperation.

You grin up at her, delirious, your lips glistening with hers. 

"Hm, all because of you!"

You and Britney laugh together, the sound light and carefree—until her gaze drops between your legs, where you’re still throbbing, untouched, desperate for relief. Her lips curl into a wicked smirk as she takes in the sight of your need.

"Aww, poor girl didn’t get to cum yet..." she coos, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Here, I’ll help you."

She doesn’t waste a second. In one smooth motion, she spreads your legs wider, kneeling above you, her perfect tits blocking your view—so fucking maddening, so goddamn perfect. You whine, squirming beneath her, and she just laughs, low and husky. "Let me get in between here," she murmurs, her voice thick with desire.

"Please," you beg, hips lifting off the bed, already chasing the friction you crave.

"Aww, I’ll get right here," she teases—and then she’s pressing her dripping cunt against yours, grinding slow and deliberate, her wetness mixing with yours in the most obscene, delicious way. "Oh my," she moans, her breath hot against your ear, "I’ll make you all wet... nice and wet." Her fingers circle your clit, teasing just enough to make you whimper, her hips rolling against yours in a rhythm that has you seeing stars. "Is that better?" she taunts, her voice a sinful whisper. 

"Sorry, I didn’t give you enough attention."

But she’s definitely making up for it now.

Her body moves against yours like she was born to fuck you, her slick heat grinding down as her fingers work your clit with relentless precision. "Your pussy is so fucking wet," she growls, lifting your leg to press even closer, your bodies sliding together, slick and desperate. "You just dripping against me so much... Ugh, I just wanna fuck you."

And she does—until your thighs are trembling, until your moans are ragged and broken, until you’re both shaking on the edge. She doesn’t let up, doesn’t stop, not until you’re cumming together, cunts pressed tight, her mouth crashing onto yours in a deep, filthy kiss that steals your breath.

"Oh, when I cum, I suck everything up... for you," she gasps against your lips before biting down, possessive, marking you as hers before collapsing against you—both of you ruined, both of you completely satisfied.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

"Here, I have a surprise for you."

Before you can even process her words, Britney pulls out a large twin violet dildo, glinting under the dim light. Your breath hitches as she grins, wicked and knowing. "I got somewhere I can put this," she purrs—and then she’s shoving it right into your mouth. "Put it in your fucking mouth. Your pretty fucking mouth."

She fists her hand in your hair, yanking your head back to get the perfect angle as you obediently drag your lips up and down the length, sucking it like your life depends on it. Britney watches with dark, hungry eyes, her free hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise. 

"Oh shit, how my fucking goddess," she moans, her voice rough with lust. "There you go, bitch. Look at these pretty fucking lips, getting it all nice and wet... This gonna go right into your greedy pussy."

Her fingers tighten in your hair as she drags the slick, spit-coated dildo from your mouth, a string of saliva still connecting it to your swollen lips. "That’s it, baby," she purrs, her voice dripping with filthy promise. 

"Get it nice and wet for me." Her other hand slides down your body, nails scraping lightly over your ribs before cupping your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until it’s hard and aching. 

You arch into her touch, gasping as she leans down to bite at your collarbone, her teeth marking you as hers.

She doesn’t wait—doesn’t give you time to think. With a rough push, she spreads your thighs wider, the cool air hitting your soaked folds before the blunt tip of the dildo presses against you. "You ready?" she breathes, her voice a dark, delicious threat.

And then she takes what she wants.

“Fuck, look at you,” Britney groaned, her hips rolling as if she could already feel it inside her too. “So fucking greedy, taking this whole thing like you were made for it.” She pushed in slowly, then pulled back, teasing, watching your face twist in pleasure. “You want it all, don’t you?” Her voice was a dark, sinful whisper. “Say it.”

You whimpered, hands clawing at the sheets as she finally sank the toy deep, filling you in one relentless thrust. “Yes—fuck, Brit, yes!” Your back arched off the bed, nails digging into her hips as she started to move, setting a brutal pace that had you seeing stars. She leaned over you, her wild hair curtaining your faces as she kissed you, messy and desperate, her tongue mimicking the filthy rhythm below.

“You feel so good,” she panted against your lips, her own hips grinding down on nothing, desperate for friction. “Wanna make you cum so hard you forget your fucking name.” Her free hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles as she fucked you harder with the dildo. 

The dual sensation was overwhelming—your thighs trembled, your moans pitched higher, and Britney’s breath hitched as she watched you unravel.

“That’s it, baby, come for me,” she demanded, her voice raw. 

And you did—your orgasm crashing through you like a wave, your walls clamping down around the toy as you cried out, her name a prayer on your lips. Britney didn’t stop, riding you through it, her own pleasure written across her face in bitten lips and fluttering lashes.

When she finally slowed, both of you were breathless, sweat-slicked, and utterly wrecked. She collapsed beside you, the dildo slipping free as she pulled you against her, your bodies still thrumming with aftershocks. Her fingers traced lazy patterns over your hip, her lips brushing your shoulder in a kiss that was unexpectedly tender.

There was hunger in it. Yes. 

Like that’s all you recall that night, so much… But there was softness too. A certain reverence, like the two of you were afraid to speak too loudly, in case the moment shattered.

And now… 

You woke in a bed that didn’t feel like yours—too soft, too warm, too sweet. Golden morning light spilled through sheer curtains, soft as satin, casting a hazy pink glow across the room. It painted everything in cotton-candy warmth, like you’d woken up inside a daydream dipped in perfume and gloss.

And maybe you had. 

Because this room?

It was a shrine to aesthetic rebellion. To glittering, hyperfeminine chaos.

Magazines lay fanned out across the floor like flower petals—Popteen, Ranzuki, Egg—the glossy kind that smelled like perfume inserts and unattainable cool. Their covers stared back at you: girls with overdrawn lips and candy-colored hair, all attitude and eyelash glue. The walls were papered in posters of J-pop idols and obscure Harajuku models, taped up with glitter washi. Stickers. Sparkles.

There were platform heels kicked lazily under a velvet bench. A vanity cluttered with open palettes, rhinestone compacts, tubes of lip gloss in too many shades of pink to count. Bottles of perfume—Dior, YSL, and something suspiciously shaped like a bunny—lined up like weapons on display. Glitter and chaos lived here.

It was pink. It was blue.

It was glossy and bratty and a little unhinged.

It was so Brittney.

And you were still wrapped up in her world. Your leg was tossed lazily over a crushed velvet heart-shaped pillow. The oversized baby blue T-shirt you were wearing (hers, clearly) had the words "baby girl” stretched across your chest in glittery font. Your breath came easy, steady, like your body hadn’t yet realized how much had changed.

“Hey, you awake now?”

A voice sliced through the haze like honey poured over a knife.

Your eyes cracked open fully, the room blooming slowly into focus like something underwater rising to the surface. Everything was softly lit in cotton-candy pinks and baby blues, as if Barbie had run off to Tokyo and decided maximalism was a lifestyle. The air smelled faintly of sweet perfume, old lip gloss, warm skin, and possibly fried bacon—if sinning had a scent, this was it.

And there she was.

Brittney stood at the vanity like some chaotic, sleep-deprived deity of bad decisions and incredible thighs. Her platinum hair gleamed under the overhead lights, the strands glossy and curled into two absurdly perfect high pigtails that bounced with every toss of her head. The kind of pigtails that dared you to look away and punished you for trying.

Her makeup was in that delicious state, even her lips were lined in a bold rose-pink, but the fill-in clearly got interrupted—probably by several very loud, very enthusiastic activities.

She wore micro booty shorts that barely existed, hemmed in white lace like an ironic afterthought. Above it, her ribbed crop top clung tight and bold across her chest, rhinestones glinting defiantly: “Angel Energy.” A lie. A warning. A brand.

“I feel so scrumptious!” she announced to no one in particular, admiring herself in the mirror with a proud little spin. She posed, pouted, adjusted her shorts like they hadn’t betrayed physics last night.

In one hand, she clutched a crinkled brown paper bag like it held all the answers—or at least greasy salvation. The scent wafting from it was divine. Breakfast sandwiches. Warm, possibly illegal, and smelling suspiciously like redemption wrapped in wax paper.

You groaned and rubbed your face like you were trying to wipe away your own sins. In the mirror, your eyes met hers—violet, sharp, gleaming with sleep and the kind of smugness only people who remember everything can wear.

And just like that, it hit you.

Not the full memory—no, that would’ve been generous. Just splinters. A smear of lipstick across someone’s thigh. The sound of moaning. Glitter everywhere. 

The kind of noise that made neighbors consider moving or joining in.

“Yeah…” you rasped, voice coated in regret and awe. “Shit. What happened?”

She smirked, watching herself in the mirror like she was the main course. And truly? She was. Brittney wasn’t just feeling herself—she was devouring herself, one glance at a time.

And you? You were already starving again.

Being around Brittney was like waking up still tasting the night before: sticky, sweet, and wickedly addictive. Like licking sugar from the rim of a cocktail you couldn’t handle but drank anyway. She was the dessert you shouldn’t have ordered, the one that ruined your appetite for anything else.

And damn, she knew it too.

Brittney turned. Sauntered over. Flopped onto the bed like a satisfied cat who’d just knocked over a glass of water out of spite. Her violet eyes were half-lidded, smug, still drunk on sleep and ego. She stared at you with the lazy amusement of someone who knew exactly what they did and had zero regrets.

“You,” she said, voice like velvet and villainy. “What happened is you. You’re a freak. Who would've thought Miss Sweetness could take it that hard?”

Your face ignited like a bonfire in a shame spiral.

She grinned wider—shark teeth in lip gloss—and took a huge bite of her sandwich like she hadn't just detonated your soul.

And still… beneath it all… something lingered in her eyes.

Something soft. Something real. And then—buzz-buzz. 

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a notification: FaceTime – Crowe.

You groaned. Loudly. Of course he was up. The one morning you needed silence, sanctuary, and possibly an emotional exorcism, his name lit up like an omen. With a resigned sigh, you reached out, swiping the screen—and there he was.

Crowe. Grinning like he just discovered Red Bull. Shirtless, hair sticking up in every chaotic direction like he’d wrestled his sheets and lost. His eyes were puffy, his voice still scratchy, but the enthusiasm? Blinding.

“Heeeyyy,” he said so softly, his tone so chipper it made your soul ache. “Just checking in, you know, how did you and Brittney do last night? I see y’all made it through to the end, so spill me everything, please.”

You blinked at the screen.

Emotionally paralyzed. Spiritually concussed. Mentally buffering.

Before you could speak, Brittney snatched the phone out of your hands mid-sip of her iced coffee, the straw still hanging from her glossed lips like a dagger. She didn’t even pause. 

“She just got fucked,” she said smoothly, like she was offering both a customer service statement and a threat, “does that answer your question?”

Crowe’s face froze mid-grin. Eyes wide. Mouth parted. He looked like someone had just tossed a bucket of glitter and trauma directly into his synapses. He choked on air.

“GEOOOO!” he screamed, panicked.

You and Brittney both jerked back slightly at the volume.

“Geo?!” you echoed, scandalized. There was no way you heard that right.

No. Way. But there it was. Confirmation.

Another face slid into frame. Geo. Shirtless. Hair a wild halo of sleep. His eyes squinted, expression like someone had been summoned from purgatory without coffee. He blinked blearily into the camera, clearly regretting every decision that had led him to this exact moment.

“Why is Geo there?!” Brittney barked, suddenly way too awake.

Crowe just shrugged, casual as ever, tossing an arm around Geo’s bare shoulder like this was brunch and not a crime against personal boundaries.

“He slept over,” Crowe said simply. “What about it?”

Geo scowled at the camera like it had insulted his bloodline, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “fuck all of this”, then yanked the phone out of Crowe’s hand. With the precision of a man whose patience had been tried for the final time, he hung up.

The screen went dark.

For a long, suspended beat, silence settled over the room like fog—soft, hazy, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. You and Brittney just stared at the darkened phone screen, the final absurdity of that FaceTime still echoing like a fever dream.

Brittney blinked once. Then slowly turned her head toward you, her expression completely deadpan, unimpressed in the most hilarious way.

“…Okay,” she said dryly, voice still rough with sleep, “why does their ‘sleepover’ sound more dramatic than our night?”

You sighed—deep and gravelly, a sound dragged from the bottom of your ribs. Then you let the words slip out in a whisper, raspy and a little wry. “I don’t think so,” you said, leaning toward her. “I knew they were meant for each other.”

And then your voice dropped an octave, dark amusement bleeding into something deeper.

“Anyway,” you murmured, nudging her back against the mattress with a grin that was more instinct than thought, “it’s just you and me now.”

Brittney let herself be pinned, her body loose beneath yours, bones still syrupy from sleep. She looked up at you through heavy lashes, a satisfied gleam in her violet eyes that shimmered like mischief wrapped in velvet.

“…You tasted so yummy last night,” you added, unable to stop yourself.

Her eyes fluttered closed again, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Aww, did I?” she mumbled, voice soft, smug, utterly unbothered. “Thank you, love.” She nuzzled into your shoulder like a sleepy cat claiming its favorite spot, exhaling against your skin. Her smirk was shameless, her exhaustion real—but even now, she was basking in the glow of her own effect on you.

“You’re welcome,” she added lazily.

You let out a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Something in between. Half amusement, half “what the hell just happened.” Because honestly? You still didn’t know. The night was a blur of heat and softness, teasing and tension, sharp teeth and sweeter things. 

But it had been good.

Dangerously good.

It was the kind of night that didn’t just satisfy—it unmade you a little. Peeled you back like layers of fruit skin, too ripe and too ready. You were left somewhere between full and famished, body sated, soul restless. The ache of it still lingered in your limbs, in the places she had kissed like promises. 

You were reeling, and still—still—you wanted more.

The room was soft around you, thick with pink light filtering through gauzy curtains, the scent of perfume and sweat and yesterday’s thrill hanging in the air like expensive smoke. A messy comfort surrounded you: strewn pillows, the rustle of satin sheets, the muffled hum of the city just beyond the walls.

And then her hand moved—barely.

Fingertips brushed your jaw, featherlight but sure, like she was etching you into her memory by touch alone. Her thumb paused at your bottom lip, tracing the curve of it as if it belonged to her. As if it always had. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Something settled deep in your chest—slow and dangerous. Heavy and warm.

This wasn’t just about lust.

It wasn’t about the rush of conquest or the delicious heat you could still feel in your skin. It wasn’t even about Brittney’s sharp mouth and perfect chaos.

It was about need.

Yours. Hers.

Equal. Inevitable. Muddled. Unspoken. 

And terrifyingly, violently, real.

“…Don’t say anything stupid, please,” she mumbled, eyes still closed, voice barely more than a breath. She sounded tired and smug and like she already knew what you were going to say.

You smiled. Leaned in. Kissed her forehead gently, reverently, like it was holy.

“Too late,” you whispered into her hair. “I love you.”

She groaned, dramatic and theatrical, immediately curling in on herself like she was physically repulsed. But her head didn’t move from your shoulder.

“Ugh,” she grumbled. “Gross.”

But her mouth betrayed her—a small, sleepy smile tugging at her lips that didn’t fade, no matter how much she tried to hide it.

Last night had been chaos, yes. But also weirdly tender. A little sacred. A little profane. Like two choir girls got wine-drunk in the vestry and decided God could take a rain check.

Brittney handed you a breakfast sandwich with one hand—casually, like you hadn’t just confessed your soul to her—and let out a long, fake-suffering sigh as her head dropped onto your shoulder.

She smelled like strawberry lip balm, vanilla lotion, and something deeper. Something sharp and secret, like clove or ambition.

“We’re doing that again, okay?” she said, not even bothering to ask. It was a decree. The sky could fall. The world could burn. Didn’t matter. This was happening again.

You didn’t argue.

You were too busy remembering how to breathe.

Too busy marveling at the way she looked beside you in the morning light. Too busy thinking that loving Brittney felt like biting into the sweetest, most forbidden fruit—ripe, dripping, and just dangerous enough to ruin you.

And damn it, didn’t it taste divine. So fucking yummy.

[soluversworld]

www.tumblr.com/veriitasu/782470448966434816/14-dwy-doodle-dump-time--yippiee?source=share, can you make any scenarios from one of these arts?

SWEET MOMENTS WITH YOU! - REDACTED X G.N READER

Genre: Fluff

Summary: — Just the doodles from the artist @veriitasu THEY DREW REDACTED SO CUTEY! AND I LOVE THEIR OC THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING!! AHHHHHH, ALSO MY FRIEND ASKED AND THEY DID GIVE PREMISSION SO HERE WE ARE!

I decided to do them as series of cute moments! ^^! I know anon said any one but I say why not some!

Link to the doodle post - Link

( Reader is a g.n!)

Content Warning : Nsfw jokes so </3

Did not proof read/Rushed.

1. THEIR HUG

You were folding laundry by the window, soft light spilling across the bed when you felt it—those familiar arms slipping around your waist, slow and silent, like he was scared of being too loud for the moment. His body pressed to your back, chest warm, their chin resting gently on your shoulder.

You stilled, holding the last shirt in your hands, breath catching just slightly.

“...Hey,” you murmured, looking down at their hands as they stayed clasped around you. “You okay?”

No answer at first. Just his quiet breathing, the weight of him settling into your spine. REDACTED didn’t always have a reason. Sometimes he just needed to touch, to hold, to bury himself in the shape of you when his thoughts got too loud.

You let the silence stretch. Let him have it. Let him take his time.

After a while, you leaned back into them, giving them your weight, grounding him. He made a sound—something quiet and sweet in his throat—and tightened his hold. His face tucked into the curve of your neck, his breath fanning across your skin like a prayer.

“You don’t gotta talk,” you whispered, resting your hand over his. “Just stay.”

He stayed.

You both stood there for a while—bodies swaying a little in the soft light, the room quiet except for the hum of outside life. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel how badly he needed this, how tightly he was holding everything in just to keep still. Sometimes his love wasn’t loud. It was desperate in the softest way.

Eventually, you turned in his arms.

His hair was messy, pulled into that loose ponytail you’d tied earlier. Black with hints of pink still fading. His eyes met yours, heavy-lidded but calm now. Less tension in his jaw. He looked a little startled when you touched his cheek—just a thumb along the bone, gentle and fond.

“You always sneak up on me like this?” you asked, smiling.

REDACTED huffed, lazy and amused. “S’not sneakin’ if I live here.”

You leaned forward and kissed his lips. He let out a small sound—surprised, but grateful. His hands moved from your waist to your back, then up to your neck, holding you like you were something soft he didn’t know how to keep, but wanted to learn.

He kissed you again, this time slower. Mouth warm, tongue just barely teasing the edge of your lips before he pulled back.

You whispered against him, “You deserve to be loved.”

His breath caught.

“Even when you're quiet,” you continued, “even when you don’t know why you feel the way you do. Even when you’re bratty or weird or scared. I want you to know—every version of you is still yours. And still mine.”

His eyes shimmered slightly. Not teary. Just full.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, voice low and almost broken with affection. “Y’really are an angel, huh.”

You nuzzled your nose against his. "Nah, you're a angel.”

His smile was slow, sleepy, full of something that looked like awe. Like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

“I used to think,” he murmured, “that love was somethin’ I had to earn. Like… like I had to perform to keep it. Be someone better. Sharper. Cleaner. Less me.”

You traced your fingers through his hair, nodding. “....”

He looked down. “After now But you—Angel, you never asked me to be anyone but myself. Even when I didn’t like myself. Even when I tried to hide behind Ren or Haruko or whoever the fuck else.”

You leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “....I liked the persona, I really did...But that’s because I didn’t fall in love with a persona. I fell in love with you.”

He didn’t speak. Just held you tighter. You felt the way his fingers trembled slightly at your back, like this moment was too big to hold.

“Hey,” you whispered, tilting his chin up. “Look at me.”

He did.

“I love you,” you said, soft and fierce and steady. “You’re safe. You’re wanted. You’re not alone anymore.”

He broke then. Not into sobs or tears, but into relief. A full-body exhale as he rested his forehead against yours, breathing in the comfort of your presence like it was the only oxygen left in the world.

“D’you ever get tired of lovin’ me?” he whispered.

“Never.”

“You sure? I’m a handful.”

You laughed, brushing your nose against his. “You’re my handful.”

He grinned, lazy and crooked and so stupidly beautiful it made your chest ache. “You’re stuck with me, y’know.”

“I want to be.”

“Might cling to you like a fuckin’ burr.”

“Do it. I’ll hold you tighter.”

“Might never let go.”

“Good.”

REDACTED looked at you like you just handed him the moon. And in a way, maybe you had.

“You’re so good to me,” he said quietly. “Dunno what I did to deserve you.”

“You woke up,” you whispered. “You stayed. You chose to try. That’s all I ever needed.”

He leaned in again, this time burying his face in your neck and sighing so deeply it vibrated in your chest.

You stood like that again, swaying slowly in each other’s arms, like a slow dance with no music. Just breath, heartbeat, warmth.

He deserved this. All of it.

And he knew—finally, maybe—that he didn’t have to earn love. He already had it.

2. JUST WOKE UP - BATHING (WASHING THEM UP!) <3

Morning Light gonna touch you bro.

The sun spilled through the curtains in slow, golden ribbons, casting a warm glow over the tangled sheets and your still-sleeping mess of a man.

REDACTED was on their stomach, one arm flopped off the edge of the bed, the other curled beneath his head. Their hair was loose and soft, ink-black strands tangled over their cheek, lips parted, breath slow and deep. He looked peaceful here. Vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself be when awake.

You slipped under the covers and curled beside them, heart clenching at the little sound he made—half sigh, half hum.

“Good morning, REDACTED…” you whispered into their hair, wrapping your arms around his waist.

He stirred, brow twitching, but didn’t open his eyes.

He was really a "My lil baby boy"

You kissed his shoulder. “C’mon, pretty guy. Sun’s up.”

Still nothing.

Then, slowly, so slowly, he groaned and rolled toward you, throwing an arm over your body and burying his face in your neck with a muffled grunt.

“Don’t wanna,” he mumbled, voice thick and lazy with sleep. “Lemme stay here. Jus’ like this... S’warm…”

You giggled, cupping his cheek as he nuzzled closer. “You big clingy thing. We gotta get up.”

“M’not clingy. Jus’ love you,” he slurred, still half-asleep. “Like... so much it’s stupid. G’night.”

“It’s morning, sweetheart.”

“Mornin’. Night. Same thing.”

You kissed his forehead, soft and lingering. He sighed. You kissed his lips. He kissed back, barely awake, a lazy mess of warmth and affection and soft sounds.

Eventually, with coaxing, promises, and another kiss, you dragged them to the bathroom. He moved like a sleepwalking puppy—head down, steps slow, eyes barely open. You turned on the shower, and he stood there blinking blearily, like it hadn’t occurred to him that he was even awake.

“Arms up,” you said gently.

He obeyed. No words. Just sleepy, automatic movement.

You undressed them slowly, lovingly, planting kisses on his shoulders and collarbone as you went. He shivered when your hands brushed their skin but didn’t resist—just let out a sigh and leaned into you like he couldn’t hold himself up on his own.

The water was warm as you guided them under it, your arms wrapped around his waist. He slouched against you with a soft, content noise, head lolling to rest against yours.

You grabbed the shampoo, lathered it between your fingers, and gently started washing his hair.

That’s when he made a little noise. The kind you’d only heard when he was really content.

“Angel…” he murmured. “That’s nice... Dun stop.”

“I won’t. You deserve this,” you whispered, working the suds through his hair, massaging his scalp gently. “You listen so well. So good for me.”

He made another little hum, eyes still shut, lips barely curled into a smile.

“Y’like takin’ care of me, huh…” he drawled, still too sleepy to be smug. “Spoilin’ me like this.”

You leaned in and kissed them again—on the tip of their nose, then their cheek, then their lips.

He kissed back, finally opening his eyes. They were soft and heavy-lidded, a little dazed, but all for you.

“Hi,” you whispered.

“Hi,” he echoed, voice hoarse and low. “M’so lucky.”

“No,” you said, kissing him again. “I am.”

The warm water ran in steady streams as you gently worked your fingers through REDACTED’s hair, massaging in soft circles at their scalp. He let out a sigh—low, relaxed, completely at peace.

“Y’real good at that…” he mumbled, voice syrup-thick with sleep. “Y’can keep doin’ that forever, Angel.”

You smiled. “Forever’s a long time.”

“Don’ care. S’worth it.”

You leaned in, kissing the curve of his jaw. “You always this obedient when you're half-asleep?”

He huffed a lazy laugh. “Only for you.”

Rinsing out the suds, you ran your fingers through the long black strands, the pink tips still faint and grown-out near the ends—a reminder of how far he’d come, how long you’d loved them. You cupped water in your hands and gently poured it over his head, careful not to get it in his eyes.

“Mmph… pretty sure this qualifies as heaven…” he slurred.

When you finished, you kissed his forehead and whispered, “Let’s get you out, sleepyhead.”

He stepped out of the shower like a limp cat—blinking, dripping, completely pliant.

You wrapped a big fluffy towel around him, pressing it close to his chest and rubbing his back. “There we go. Warm now?”

“Mmhmm. Don’t stop…” He rested his head on your shoulder, towel clutched like a blanket, hair sticking to his face.

You dried them off like he was something precious and fragile, brushing the towel through his damp hair and rubbing gently at his arms, chest, thighs. He just stood there, barely swaying, letting you do it all.

“You’re so spoiled,” you murmured fondly.

He blinked slowly, then smirked in that sleepy way that made your heart squeeze. “Ain’t my fault you love me too much.”

You booped his nose. “Guilty.”

Tossing the damp towel in the bin, you guided him to sit on the edge of the bed, grabbing a pair of soft black boxers and a matching oversized shirt from the drawer.

He did wear the boxers himself, and sat like a baby bear again.

“Arms up.”

He obeyed with a slow, floppy motion, eyes half-lidded.

He let out a soft noise at that, cheeks flushed from your praise.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, flopping back dramatically. “Y’gon’ kill me with all this sweetness…”

You straddled his waist, leaned over, and kissed his cheeks. “Better get used to it.”

You combed your fingers through his hair, pulling it gently into a loose ponytail, then tucked the soft strands behind his ears. His face was still dazed, warm, and flushed, eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

And you were.

He sighed, tilting his head into your touch like a puppy.

“Y’really gonna keep doin’ this every mornin’, huh…”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “Because you deserve to feel loved like this. Every damn day.”

He smiled slowly, the kind that reached his eyes. “You win. M’yours. Totally. Completely. Forever.”

You leaned down and kissed him again, and he kissed back like he meant every word.

3. YOU WENT TO STORE, HE BECAME A MESS.

"I'm just going to the store real quick," you say, ruffling their messy hair as you pass by the bed. "I'll be back soon, Redacted!"

He groans softly, face buried half into the pillow, giving you one of those lazy, heavy-lidded stares that always melts your heart. The comforter’s barely hanging onto his hips, ponytail lopsided from sleep, shoulders bare and warm from your shared body heat. He blinks slow, like a cat disturbed too early.

“…Dun wanna be here if you’re not,” he mumbles, voice thick and scratchy with sleep. “Lemme come with.”

“It’s literally down the street,” you laugh, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “You’ll survive twenty minutes without me.”

He gives you a dramatic little sigh and rolls over onto his back, clearly offended but too drowsy to argue. His arm flops over his eyes, but not before you catch the reluctant pout twitching at the corner of his mouth.

You kiss him again—this time on the tip of his nose—and whisper, “Stay warm, clingbug. I’ll bring snacks.”

The door clicks shut behind you.

For a moment, the apartment is still. REDACTED stays flopped on the bed, silent, staring up at the ceiling like he’s just been left behind in a war zone. The silence starts to crawl into him.

“…Fuck this,” he mutters.

He stumbles out of bed after a long pause, dragging the blanket you’d been using with you. Not his. Yours. The one that still smells like your shampoo and the soft detergent you insist on using. He wraps it around himself like he’s a damn burrito—arms tucked in, head peeking out, the whole thing trailing behind him like a royal cape.

He waddles into the living room.

“…M’dyin’,” he grumbles to no one, plopping down onto the couch.

The blanket swallows him whole. All that’s visible is a single eye, his nose, and the mess of black-and-pink hair spilling out like he’s a sad anime villain. He curls in tighter.

“Angel left me. Said they’d bring snacks. But what if they get distracted by shiny things and never come back…”

He groans dramatically into the cushions. Reaches out to grab one of your hoodies from the nearby laundry basket and clutches it to his chest like a security object.

He misses you.

It hasn’t even been ten minutes.

After a while,blanket draped over his head like a hood

“…Not even five feet away,” he mutters. “Still. Could get hit by a pigeon. Or distracted by—what’d they call it? Clearance candles.”

His hand emerges from the blanket like a claw and he taps the glass.

“Angel…” he whispers dramatically. “Return to me…”

He lets out another sigh and shuffles over to the bed again. This time, he drags your pillow with him too. Rolls himself up, burrito-style, and flops back against the mattress.

After a moment of silence, he mumbles into the fabric, voice low and fond:

“...Hope they know I’m gonna latch onto ‘em the second they get back.”

Because yeah, he's bratty and clingy and full of dramatics—but he's also completely and hopelessly yours

The bed feels too big without you.

REDACTED lies on your side now—buried in your pillow, blanket still tightly wrapped around him like a stubborn little burrito. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes brushing the skin beneath them, but he’s not really sleepy. Not anymore.

Just lonely.

He buries his face deeper into the sheets where your body had been moments ago, pressing his nose into the faint warmth you left behind. It still smells like you—faint traces of your skin, your shampoo, whatever lotion you always use that drives him wild.

“…mmnh.”

He exhales slow, rubbing his face into the fabric like a lazy cat, nuzzling as if it'll bring you back faster. His cheek presses flush to the sheets, eyes fluttering shut for a moment while his body relaxes. It’s the closest he can get to holding you right now.

“Missin’ you..” he mutters into the sheets, lips curling slightly in a half-smile. “You got no idea, Angel…”

He presses a kiss into the fabric, slow and warm, like maybe if he kisses your side of the bed enough, you'll magically reappear. His hand slides under the pillow, fingers curling around the place where your head usually rests.

He turns his face to the side, cheek now smooshed against your scent, exhaling again in a sigh that turns into a sleepy whine.

“Y’re so warm even when you’re not here,” he mumbles, voice honey-slow. “s’not fair…”

He rubs his cheek in again, dragging it across your sheets like he's scenting you, eyes fluttering open and shut in lazy half-blinks. His black-and-pink hair fans out across the pillow like a halo, ponytail slipping loose.

There’s a beat of quiet. Then, softly:

" All stupid ‘n clingy.”

He pauses. Smirks.

“…like I’m not already.”

He shifts, rolling over onto his back, still cocooned in the blanket but now hugging your pillow to his chest like a body. He stares at the ceiling for a while. Eyes half-dreamy.

“I’m gonna smother you in kisses soon as you get back. Gonna cling. Not lettin’ go, Angel. Gonna carry you to the kitchen. Feed you snacks. Tell you, You're cute.”

He smiles at the thought.

His fingers drag slowly across your side of the bed, tracing invisible patterns.

He misses the weight of your body beside him. The way your thigh presses against his when you’re scrolling on your phone. The soft hums you make when you’re focused. The warmth of your laugh.

And god, he misses your hands. The way they run through his hair. The way they always cradle his face like he’s something precious.

“M’gettin’ spoiled,” he whispers to the ceiling. “Ain’t used to bein’ someone’s favorite person…”

His throat catches just a little. He hides it by tucking his face back into your pillow, breathing in deep and slow.

“...But I like it. Like bein’ yours.”

You unlock the door, the jingle of your keys echoing in the quiet apartment.

"I'm home, REDACTED!" you call out, smiling to yourself.

You expect a sleepy response, maybe the sound of feet padding toward you, or at least a muttered 'm comin’, Angel from the other room. But silence answers instead.

Suspicious silence.

You step into the bedroom—and there he is.

Your sheets are half-ruined, crumpled up like someone’s been rolling in them for hours. And sure enough, your clingiest hacker is sprawled right in the middle of your side of the bed, shirtless, hair a tousled mess, arms wrapped tight around your pillow. His face is buried into the fabric, nuzzling hard like he’s trying to fuse with it. You hear the soft, telltale sound of sniff sniff followed by a dreamy little sigh.

He doesn’t even look guilty. In fact, when he hears your voice, he just lifts his head slowly, blinking up at you with the laziest, most satisfied expression ever.

“There y’are,” he drawls, voice low and heavy with affection. “Mmm… y’left me all lonely, Angel. Had t’ improvise…”

“REDACTED,” you deadpan, stepping into the room. “Are you sniffing my sheets again?”

He grins. Actually grins. Shameless.

“Hell yeah I am.”

You groan, walking over to the bed, hands on your hips. “You promised you’d stop doing that after the last time you drooled on my pillow, remember?”

“Wasn’t drool,” he mutters, stretching with a slow, feline arch of his back. “Was emotional condensation.”

You toss a pillow at his head.

“Emotional condensation doesn't leave teeth marks.”

He catches it with a lazy hand, still burrito-wrapped in the blanket. His eyes sparkle, smug and sleepy all at once. “Y’smell good, Angel. I missed you… real bad.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the sight: REDACTED, wrapped in your blanket, clearly having made a nest on your side of the bed while rubbing his entire face against every inch of your sheets. You’re not even sure if that’s your shirt he’s wearing or one he stole from your laundry basket.

“Lost bed privileges,” you mumble, grabbing the blanket and starting to pull. “You’re banned.”

He groans dramatically and flops forward, hugging your waist before you can escape.

“Nooooooo,” he whines, dragging his words out like a child. “Don’t ban me, m’suffocatin’ without you. I’ll die. I’ll perish. I’ll rot into your mattress.”

“You already did,” you mutter, trying not to laugh.

He’s clinging like a starfish now, head nuzzled against your side again, shamelessly sniffing you this time. His arms tighten around you.

“Missed your smell. Missed your voice. Missed your hands."

You roll your eyes, gently running your fingers through his messy hair.

“You were literally alone for twenty minutes.”

“Longest twenty minutes of m’life,” he says seriously, pressing a kiss to your side through the fabric of your shirt. “I thought about textin’ you like seven times. But then I thought—nah. I’ll just roll around in their scent like an animal. It’s romantic.”

You give him a look. “It’s feral.”

He shrugs, cheek still pressed against your stomach. “Close enough.”

A beat passes. You’re rubbing your hand gently over the back of his head, petting him like he’s your sleepy pet fox. He melts under your touch, eyelashes fluttering closed.

“…Mighta sniffed the pillow too,” he mumbles.

“REDACTED!”

“Kidding. …Kinda.”

You lean down to kiss the top of his head, laughing despite yourself. His grip tightens, his arms wrapping around your waist as he presses a lingering kiss to your ribs through your shirt.

“I’m obsessed with you, y’know that?” he murmurs. “Proper gone. Can’t even sleep right without your heartbeat near me.”

You blush, letting your hands cup his cheeks as you pull him up to meet your eyes.

“I missed you too, clingy burrito guy.”

He grins, eyes half-lidded and lazy, gaze full of adoration.

“Still bannin’ me from the bed?”

“…Maybe just your side.”

He perks up instantly. “Can I bribe you with kisses?”

“You can try.”

And oh—he does.

But it didn't work! HAH! SUCK THAT REDACTED!

You cross your arms, tapping your foot against the floor like a disappointed mom. REDACTED is still tangled up in your blanket like a guilty-looking tandoori wrap, blinking up at you with big, lazy eyes.

“Okay. You definitely lost bed privileges,” you say, pointing sternly toward the living room. “To the couch. Now.”

His face twists into a theatrical frown, bottom lip sticking out immediately.

“Angel… nooo,” he groans, dragging the word out like he’s dying. “Don’t exile me. S’cold out there. I’ll die of heartbreak. An’ y’gonna have to live with the guilt of buryin’ me in the couch cushions.”

You raise a brow, arms still crossed.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have been sniffing my pillow, REDACTED.”

He pouts harder, dramatic as ever, blanket still wrapped tight around his shoulders like he’s a little goblin monk of mischief.

“But it smelled like you,” he whines, sitting up now, hair sticking out in five different directions. “An’ your side’s warm, n’ your hoodie was right there, n’—‘m not even sorry, really.”

You blink at him. “…So now you admit to sniffing the hoodie too?”

“Mighta rolled in it a little,” he shrugs, looking way too pleased with himself.

You sigh and grab a pillow, smacking it into his chest as you shove him toward the hallway.

“Couch. Now. Sleep like the clingy little freak you are.”

“Y’mean- he mumbles, trudging dramatically, dragging his feet with the blanket trailing behind like a defeated prince being banished from the kingdom.

“No bed,” you remind him again, following him just to make sure he doesn’t sneak back into it like last time. “And no fake apologies either. You’re only sorry you got caught.”

He flops dramatically onto the couch, cocooning himself in the blanket again with a pitiful little sound.

“Angel, this is cruel n’ unusual punishment,” he whines. “Don’t y’wanna fall asleep to my face in your chest like usual? Y’know I sleep best when I’m smothered in love n’ hoodie lint.”

You throw another pillow at him. “That’s exactly why you’re on the couch. You get too comfortable.”

He catches the pillow with a dramatic little “hnnngh” noise and then just stares at you with those huge, pleading eyes. The worst part? You know he’s real for 80% of it MAYBE 100%, and yet you still feel your resolve cracking.

He senses it too. Of course he does.

“Angel…” he murmurs softly, scooting a little closer to the edge of the couch, one hand sneaking out of the blanket burrito to reach for your wrist. “Y’really gonna leave me out here all cold n’ lonely? What if I cry?”

“You won’t,” you say flatly, even as he starts to lean his cheek against your hand.

“What if I do, though? What if I sob real pretty n’ tell River you emotionally abandoned me?”

You snort. “River would tell you to suck it up and laugh. Would you really tell him tho?'

He sighs dramatically, burying his face into the pillow you gave him.

“Then maybe I’ll sleep in the laundry basket tonight,” he mumbles into it. “Y’haven’t banned me from that yet.”

You groan. “REDACTED—!”

“What? It’s got your scent n’ everything…”

He trails off as you march off with another huff, only to come back a few minutes later with a glass of water and one of your older hoodies. You toss it into his lap wordlessly. He looks down at it, then back up at you, eyes sparkling.

“…Angel?”

“Don’t read into it,” you grumble. “It’s just so you don’t sneak into the bed while I’m asleep.”

He lifts the hoodie to his face instantly, breathing in like it’s a sacred ritual.

“Y’really do spoil me,” he whispers dreamily, voice muffled.

You roll your eyes and walk away.

And behind you, you can hear him muttering softly, smug and sleepy:

“Still winnin’…”

Yeah. He might’ve lost bed privileges. But he’s definitely still winning.

EXTRA : THE MEME!

You returned with two drinks in hand—your trusty water bottle and a black-and-pink Monster can that looked suspiciously like REDACTED’s hair during The Pink Era. The second he saw it, still swaddled like a feral prince in your blanket on the couch, his eyes lit up with that sleepy, chaos-goblin glee.

“Ohhh,” he grinned, reaching out with grabby fingers, “is that s’posed to be me?”

“Obviously,” you snorted. “You’re the one getting punished with get hydration and moral superiority.”

He cracked open the Monster with too much enthusiasm, slurping dramatically before giving you a devilish look. “Bet your water bottle can’t do this.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do what—rot your insides and make your soul vibrate?”

He held up the can like it was Excalibur. “No. Inspire greatness, Angel.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your phone and holding it up. “Okay, okay. Before you say anything dumb—pose. This is a historical moment. First night you’re banned from the bed. We need documentation.”

REDACTED sat up slightly, then grinned like a madman. You went for a standard selfie look, bottle held close, smiling sweet and victorious.

He, on the other hand, tilted the Monster can dramatically beside his face, eyes wide and slightly crazed, mouth open in a villainous cackle, eyebrows arched to hell. He looked possessed.

Snap.

You stared at the picture.

You. Soft lighting, hydrated, proud. LIVE! REDACTED. Monster chaos incarnate. “Kill” energy in one frame.

He looked at the photo and snorted.

“Y’gonna print this out? Put it on the fridge like a gold star?”

“Yup,” you said. “Caption it: ‘First couch night: he earned it.’”

He rolled his eyes but smiled into his Monster can, the kind of smug, clingy smile that said he wasn’t even mad about being punished. If anything, he looked proud of it.

“…Y’like me like this, don’tcha?” he drawled lazily. “All pitiful. Leashed to the couch. Missin’ you already.”

“You sniffed my pillow.”

“Cuz I love you.”

You bonked him lightly on the head with your water bottle.

“Clown.”

“Your clown,” he mumbled, curling deeper into the blanket burrito, Monster can still in hand like a cursed trophy.

You tried to be strong.

You really did.

You pointed to the couch like an angry sitcom mom, you gave him the Monster can, took the incriminating selfie, made a whole speech about consequences and “learning lessons”... but it didn’t matter. Because ten minutes later, you heard the faintest shhff of the blanket burrito moving.

Then—shuffle, drag, thump.

Then—warm arms around your waist. A soft, smug noise pressed into the back of your neck. His breath was still sweet with artificial berry-caffeine sin.

“…Thought I said couch,” you murmured weakly.

“Yeah, but y’also said ‘I love you’ like. Five times today,” he murmured into your shirt, voice slow and syrupy, like it was your fault he had no self-control.

“You’re the worst,” you whispered, but you didn’t push him away.

Instead, your fingers found his hair—now messy from all the rubbing and Monster chaos—and combed through it slowly. His little ponytail was barely hanging on. You tugged it loose gently, and he hummed, melting into you like a sleepy fox under sunlight.

He curled closer, one leg hooked over yours. Blanket wrapped around you both now.

“Angel…” he said softly, voice slurred with drowsy affection.

“Mhm?”

“…You always let me back in.”

“‘Cause you’re my greatest weakness.”

He chuckled, lazy and low. “Lucky me.”

You kissed his forehead. Then his cheek. Then the soft corner of his lips.

“Goodnight, REDACTED.”

He sighed into you. “Goodnight. Love you.”

And even though he was banned, even though he technically stole back bed rights through pure, shameless neediness—you didn’t care. Not really.

Because nothing beat sleeping tangled in his arms.

[soluversworld]

Ren realized Angel likes "Ed She-" What happens next is shocking.

He wants your love Angel, Give it to him.

[soluversworld]

I hope I'm doing this right but I have a request for 50 shades of Redacted/Ren The ideas been in my head for ages!

Reader finds out a certain someone has been sneaking into their house at night to steal their underwear, reader catches Ren or Redacted in the act and reader after catching Ren/Redacted ties him to a chair to “interrogate”(tease) him and then things get steamy?

It would be a nice change of pace to see a more dominant/teasing reader

Genre: smut

Summary: — Reader finds out a certain someone has been sneaking into their house at night to steal their underwear, reader catches Ren or Redacted in the act and reader after catching Ren/Redacted ties him to a chair to “interrogate”(tease) him and then things get steamy?

It would be a nice change of pace to see a more dominant/teasing reader

I decided to make both of them switch, My friend asked for a DOM REDACTED for this request too..

THEN YOU SMASH!!

( Reader is a g.n!)

Content/Trigger warnings

Explicit Sexual Content (NSFW)

Dom/Sub Dynamics (Teasing, control, and edging)

Praise Kink

Strong Emotional Intimacy

Light Roughness (Biting, marking, possessive touch)

Overstimulation

Did not proof read/Rushed.

[REDACTED] had always been meticulous. Quiet as a shadow, gliding through the house like it belonged to him. Like you belonged to him.

Well, For fuck sake- You moved with him 5 months ago. Today, You're sleeping alone because you're little mad at him. (It's very silly)

And in a way, you did. You just didn’t know it yet.

But tonight? Tonight was different. Maybe it was the creak of the door. Maybe it was the way the floorboard near your bed gave just a little under his weight. Or maybe, just maybe, you’d finally gotten tired of pretending you didn’t notice your favorite underwear disappearing one by one.

So you waited. Pretending to sleep, breathing steady. Listening.

And sure enough—

A breath. A shuffle. The whisper of your dresser drawer sliding open.

You moved fast.

The lights snapped on. [REDACTED] froze like a deer in headlights, your underwear still dangling from his fingers. Their pink-purple hair was a mess, slightly curled at the ends from the soft humidity of the night. His cheeks flushed a deep red, eyes wide and glinting with something that wasn’t quite shame. It was darker. Needier.

“Angel—” he started, but you were already grabbing the belt off your robe.

“Sit. In. The. Chair.” You pointed toward the wooden one by your desk. It was sturdy, high-backed. Perfect.

“…Y’don’t gotta do that,” he mumbled, shifting awkwardly. ��Was just… lookin’.”

“Oh, I know exactly what you were looking for.” You took slow steps toward him, the belt hanging loosely in your hand. "Go on. Sit down, pretty guy."

His breath caught. Still flushed, he obeyed.

You worked efficiently, looping the belt around his wrists and securing them to the slats of the chair. Not too tight—yet. Just enough to keep him still.

“Y’really gonna tie me up?” he drawled, smirking through his flush. “Y’plannin’ on punishin’ me, Angel?”

“You broke into my room to sniff my panties. I think that earns you at least an interrogation.”

“Didn’t break in… live here too,” he muttered, eyes flicking down to where your thighs were now perfectly visible thanks to your raised hemline. “And I didn’t sniff ‘em. Not yet.”

You arched a brow and stepped between his legs, resting your hands on his knees. “So you admit it.”

He smiled, all teeth. “Y’know I’d never lie to you.”

“Come on! REDACTED! It's only for one night.'” you said softly, voice edged with playful danger. “Even though we live under the same roof.”

“Can’t help it,” he murmured. “You're just so damn soft… 'n warm… smell like heaven. S'why I can't stop.”

You leaned down until your faces were inches apart, lips brushing against his ear.

“Well, since you’re already in trouble… why don’t we see just how far you’re willing to go for what you want?”

A shiver ran down their spine.

You ran your fingers under the collar of their oversized sweater, tugging it down just enough to expose the delicate chain around his neck—and the quickening beat of his pulse.

He was beautiful like this. Flushed. Tied up. Breathing heavy while pretending not to care. His eyes were half-lidded now, that same sleepy lust pooling like ink.

“Tell me, REDACTED. How long have you been sneaking into my room? When I lived at Rat's kingdom's apartment?” You stick out your tongue, expect for Vi- You hated at place.

He paused. You tightened the belt slightly, just enough to dig into their skin. He hissed, then chuckled lowly.

“….”

Your hand slid down their chest, feeling his breath catch.

“And what do you do when you're in here?”

He hesitated again.

He groaned.

“Look at you. So cocky, but now that I’ve got you tied up, you can’t even answer a simple question.”

His voice dropped, breathless. “Touch myself… sometimes. Just… look. Smell. Pretend you’re there.”

“Oh?” You rocked your hips ever so slightly, watching the way his breath stuttered. “Do you imagine me doing this?”

“Fuck… Angel—”

You cupped their cheek, soft and sweet. He actually shivered.

“You’d jump if I said I loved you, wouldn’t you?”

Their eyes immediately shined over. You saw it—just for a second—the complete unraveling of that dangerous, apathetic persona. He leaned into your hand like a starving man.

“I would,” he whispered. “God, I would.”

You leaned in, lips just barely touching his. “Too bad I won't say it.”

He whimpered.

But then, something in him cracked. His smirk returned—wobbly, desperate, but still him.

“Y’keep this up, Angel,” he drawled, voice low and fraying, “I’m gonna break this chair and fuck you into the mattress.”

You ground down on him, slowly, deliberately.

“No, you won’t. Because if you do… I’ll stop.”

He went utterly still beneath you.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Good boy.”

He trembled.

“Say it,” you demanded.

“…Good boy f' you” he repeated, wrecked and breathless.

You smiled and dragged your nails down his chest, leaving butterfly kisses, that peeked through his turtleneck. Their head dropped back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut, hips bucking instinctively.

You were in control. Completely.

You leaned close again, this time letting your lips press firmly to his. It started slow—soft, almost sweet—but the moment his tongue brushed yours, it was over.

He kissed like a man starved. Like he’d been waiting years for this exact moment. And maybe he had.

You pulled back just long enough to whisper against his lips, “You’ll ask permission next time, won’t you?”

He nodded frantically. “Yes, yes, fuck, anything you want—”

“Shh,” you said, pressing a finger to his mouth. “I want to do something with you a little longer.”

He moaned under his breath, already hard and straining beneath his pants.

You rocked your hips again, slow and torturous, watching as he fought against the urge to buck. He was shaking.

“I could leave you like this,” you murmured. “Tied up."

He whimpered.

“But I won’t. Because I want you to remember how it feels when I make you fall apart.”

“Angel, please—”

You kissed them again, harder this time. Wet and possessive. Biting their bottom lip just hard enough to make them gasp.

And when you pulled back again, their eyes were glazed, lips swollen, panting.

“I think you’ve been punished enough,” you said sweetly.

“…You gonna untie me now?”

You smirked.

“No.”

You slipped your hand between his legs.

He was already half gone. Breath ragged, hips twitching under you, wrists still bound to the chair like a pretty little prize you’d won. His hair stuck to his forehead in soft waves, tips brushing their flushed cheeks.

And you?

You looked like sin perched in his lap.

“You gonna keep squirming, buttercup?” you purred, voice like velvet, “Or are you gonna behave like a good love and let me play?”

REDACTED whimpered—actually whimpered—as you rolled your hips again, dragging along the length of their through the fabric.

“F-fuck, Angel—y’can’t keep doin’ that, I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna what?” you tilted your head.

Your fingers brushed the metal of his nipple piercing. He sucked in a sharp breath.

Oh.

So that’s what got them.

You smirked and pinched it—not hard. Just enough to test it. He choked on a moan, head lolling back against the chair with a shudder.

“Well, well,” you hummed, voice sickly sweet, “I should’ve known you were this filthy. To be honest, we both are damned for each other but I guess, For Tonight- I enjoy being on top of you."

He mumbled something low and shaky—“only for you”—and you rewarded him with a slow drag of your tongue along the shell of his ear, nipping just below his piercings.

“Y’keep teasin’ me like this, I swear t’god—” Their words died in his throat as you moved to straddle them fully, thighs spread on either side of theirs.

“Swear to God what?” you asked, rocking forward deliberately as your fingers dipped . “You gonna do something about it? Gonna fuck me into the chair like you said?”

REDACTED’s hips jerked up helplessly. “Fuck—can’t like this—m’arms—”

“That’s the point,” you whispered, dragging your nails up his stomach. “You’re not supposed to do anything. Just sit there and take it.”

He whimpered again, utterly pliant under you. Revealing pale skin marred with black ink—lines of kanji, wisps of waves, bold strokes twisting up his arm in the form of dragons and koi fish.

Jesus, why did he hide such a beauty while he was pretending to be Ren?

“Oh my god,” you laughed, leaning down to kiss it. “You are so obsessed.”

Their breath hitched. “Only you,” he rasped. “Told you... I’d do anythin’ for you.”

You kissed a trail , pausing just over one of his coding tattoos. “Wanted to ask you, Is this... a password?”

He groaned. “Y’already got my heart, figured you might as well have access to my email.”

“Fucking- REDACTED!” you giggled, but your hand slid lower, teasing “

He shook his head slowly.

You sucked a breath through your teeth. “God, you’re a.....”

And he moaned. Like that word alone unraveled him.

His cock slapped up against his stomach, already hard and leaking, the metal of his Jacob’s Ladder catching the light.

Your mouth went dry.

“...Well? Remember when you teased me back at the Library- Making me count how many times you.....pumped me in?” you asked, voice thick with lust.

REDACTED was panting now, his head tilted back, eyes dark and desperate.

“Might’ve been thinkin’ about how good it’d feel inside you,” he said, voice hoarse. “Been dreamin’ of it, Angel. You bouncin’ on my cock, squeezin’ ‘round the piercings—fuck—”

You leaned forward and dragged your tongue slowly up the shaft, letting the cold metal roll against your lips.

He howled.

“Shit—shitshitshit—Angel, please—” His hips bucked instinctively, only for you to pull back and slap his thigh.

“Ah, ah,” you tsked. “You move without permission again, and I’ll leave you tied here all night.”

REDACTED whined, trembling.

You lined yourself up and sank down slowly, letting him feel every single inch, every bump of his piercing dragging deliciously against your walls.

He sobbed.

You hadn’t even moved yet and he already looked ruined. Sweater pushed up over his chest, metal glinting from his piercings, eyes wet and glossy.

And when you finally rolled your hips—just once, testing—he let out a strangled, “Please, Angel, pleasepleaseplease—”

You smiled.

“God, I love you like this.”

His breath hitched.

“I didn’t say I love you,” you teased, leaning down to kiss the heart-shaped tattoo on his neck that said angel. “But I love watching you fall apart.”

Then you rode them.

Hard.

Every grind sent their head lolling back against the chair, his abs tightening under your touch, the metal of his piercings pulling sweet friction that made you tremble. His voice cracked under the pressure, cursing, begging, worshiping your name like it was the only word he knew.

“Angel, fuck, Angel, y’feel so good—can’t hold it—m’gonna come—”

“Not yet,” you growled, tightening your grip on his jaw. “Not until I say.”

You bounced harder, chasing your own high, letting the stretch and heat and metal ruin you just as much as it ruined him. Every drag of him inside made you cry out, made your thighs quake.

“Please,” he gasped. “Please let me come, Angel, m’so close, can’t take it—”

“You gonna beg like a good boy?”

He nodded desperately, tears clinging to his lashes.

“Say it.”

“Please, Angel—please let me come—I’ve been good, been so fuckin’ good for you—”

You leaned forward, lips brushing his again.

“Come for me.”

The second he heard it, he broke.

REDACTED came hard, cock twitching inside you, thick ropes spilling as he moaned loud and wrecked, their whole body convulsing under your touch. You followed not long after, burying your nails in his shoulders, the pleasure dragging you under.

When it finally faded, you collapsed against them, still breathless, his cock softening inside you as the sweat on your bodies mingled.

He was shaking.

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

He whimpered.

“I’m gonna untie you now,” you whispered, “but if you ever steal my underwear again...”

His eyes fluttered open, dazed and glassy.

“You’ll punish me again?” he rasped.

You smirked. “You want that?”

He grinned, slow and drunk on you. “Only if y’ride me again.”

You laughed.

“God, you’re hopeless.”

“But m’yours,” he whispered, voice rough and raw and devastatingly sincere. “Always.”

You were still catching your breath, sweat cooling on your skin, when you reached up to start untying him.

Big mistake.

The second the last knot slipped free, he moved—fast. Strong hands grabbed your waist, and before you could blink, he flipped you onto your back, dragging you down the bed with him until your spine hit the mattress.

“REDACTED—?!” you started, but his mouth was already on your neck, hot and open and claiming.

"Thought y’could tie me up and ride me like a toy," he murmured, voice ragged and low against your skin. “That was real cute, Angel.”

Your legs trembled as he slotted himself between them, Their weight caging you in. He was still panting, flushed and glistening, their hair a wild halo around his sharp face—but there was something dark in his eyes now. Unleashed.

“You’re the one who came in my room,” you gasped, trying to sass through the heat that pooled low in your gut.

He chuckled darkly, dragging his teeth down your jaw.

“And you’re the one who left me tied up,” he growled. “Now I’m thinkin’ it’s your turn to be ruined.”

Then he rocked his hips down, his still-sensitive cock rubbing against your entrance. You gasped, and he smiled—feral.

“That’s it,” he drawled, grinding slow, lazy. “S’posed to be my sweet Angel. But I want to be the one breakin’ the rules. You're okay with this..?"

You nodded.

Well,

Make up!

He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one big hand.

His other hand slid down between your legs, brushing through your slick, teasing your sex.

“Y’already this wet again?” he whispered, eyes locked on your face, drinking in your reactions like it gave him life. “Fuck. Guess you really liked my piercings, huh?”

You moaned, arching up into him—and he pushed in without warning, bottoming out with a guttural groan. The stretch, the metal, the heat—it knocked the air right out of your lungs.

“F-fuck—REDACTED!—”

“Shhh,” he hushed, leaning in to kiss your temple sweetly. “I got you, Angel. Just let me make you feel good.”

Then he started to ride you.

And not gently.

REDACTED’s hips snapped into you like he had something to prove—each thrust deep and brutal, dragging every ridge of his piercing inside you until your legs wrapped tight around his waist. His hand gripped your wrists like iron, keeping you trapped beneath him.

"You teased me," he rasped. "Made me beg. Had me cryin’ in that fuckin’ chair."

He pulled out slow—just the tip left in—before slamming back in so hard the headboard rattled.

“Now it’s your turn.”

You cried out, thighs shaking, body overstimulated—but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.

“Ohh, you're gonna cry f’me now?” he cooed, biting down hard enough on your collarbone to leave a mark. “Yeah... yeah, that’s it, Angel. Wanna see those pretty tears. Want y’to feel everything.”

Your body clenched around him, pulsing with the oncoming orgasm, and Redacted felt it.

“Mm, there’s that grip,” he moaned. “Fuck, keep squeezin’ me like that and I’ll come again inside you.”

His hand left your wrists and grabbed your face instead—tilting it up so you couldn’t look away from him.

"You love it," he whispered. "Love bein’ under me. Love when I lose control for you."

You nodded frantically, hips jerking up to meet his thrusts, everything else turning white-hot and hazy.

Then he leaned in and bit your lower lip, tugging just enough to sting.

“Come for me,” he growled. “Right now, Angel.”

And you broke.

Your body spasmed, nails digging into his shoulders as you came hard, pulsing around his cock like you were made for it. And the second you did, REDACTED’s hips faltered—his breath caught—and then he was right behind you, groaning into your neck as he spilled inside you, deep and raw and messy.

For a long moment, all you could hear were your gasps, tangled bodies shaking against each other.

Then—

“...‘M not done,” he murmured, voice still wrecked.

You blinked up at him, dazed. “W-what?”

“I said,” he repeated, grinning with teeth now, “I’m not done.”

He rolled his hips again, still inside you, still hard.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

"I swear! I'm gonna get back at you!"

Your legs were still twitching, your whole body strung tight like an overworked wire. But Ren didn’t pull out.

He stayed buried in you, hips gently grinding, just enough to keep you on that razor edge of overstimulation.

And then he looked at you.

That cocky, smug grin softened—melted—like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

“Angel,” he breathed, voice low and reverent. “You’re so pretty like this... y’don’t even know.”

He leaned in slowly, eyes flicking over your tear-streaked cheeks. Then his tongue darted out, slow and purposeful, and he licked a tear from the curve of your cheekbone.

“Mm,” he murmured. “Tastes sweet.”

You gasped, caught between a moan and a shiver.

He kissed the trail after, soft and warm, and then nuzzled into your face like some oversized cat—his breath ragged but his touch so gentle.

You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the sharp angle of his cheek, and pulled him in for a kiss.

It wasn’t rushed.

It was deep—melting—your mouths moving slow and heavy as if the world had slowed just for you.

He sighed into it, his body relaxing above yours, even as his cock stayed throbbing inside you. His fingers skimmed your waist, holding you like you’d slip away if he wasn’t careful.

When you finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, slick, and his pupils were blown wide.

"...You okay?" you whispered, brushing back the damp strands of hair stuck to his temple.

He smiled, soft and almost shy now—like he hadn’t just wrecked you six ways from Sunday.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, m’okay.”

Then his smirk returned.

"But you..." he drawled, tapping your lips with two fingers. “Y’real cute when you cry. Bet y’don’t even know how good your face looks when you're beggin’. Makes me wanna ruin you real slow next time.”

Your cheeks flushed hot, and you smacked his chest weakly.

“Asshole.”

He chuckled and kissed your forehead.

“Y’love me.”

You muttered something about smug bastards, but didn’t push him away when he wrapped his arms tight around you, holding you like a furnace.

“Shhh, I got you,” he whispered again, lips brushing your ear. “Always got you, Angel.”

He stayed buried inside you, warm and pulsing, his cock twitching every time you shifted, but now it was less about teasing—more about closeness. Like he didn’t want to leave you even for a second.

And when your body trembled from another aftershock, he just tightened his hold, their fingers rubbing soft circles into your back.

“Gonna take care of you,” he murmured, kissing the space between your brows. “Always.”

[soluversworld]

I CAN'T STOP LAUGHING

‼️CW/TW??: Loud sounds in the end

Sleep fonk really helps, trust me

Pics:

Idk if you need then but here

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and I know that work on Unsent memories and on River is currently on hold and he has returned to Sai's original concept of him, but I don't have any new information about him yet, but I want to make memes, so please understand and forgive <з

[soluversworld]

TRANSLATION!!

"Life is like a play, with joys and sorrows"

——————————

Hyugo: "How could this happen…sol"

Sol: "Ah…it's you, Hyugo, it's all right, everything is over…

Supporting role: "Ahem! Damn it, I, I'm going to kill you, you lunatic, ahem"

Hyugo:! (noticed)

Hyugo: "sol——!!!!!!"

Sol: "…Hyugo, I"

Bang——! (gunshot)

————

Mc: "… sol, sol, wake up"

Sol: "Uh… mc?"

Mc: "Really? You said you would be my model today, but you're slacking off, (｡•ˇ‸ˇ•｡)"

Sol: "Ha, sorry… I'll keep an eye on you this time."

Mc: "You said it, don't lie (ー`´ー)"

Sol: "Well… I promise, so you must keep an eye on me this time too

——end——

Hyugo: "Haaaa~ You two are really too much, you came to the movies together but left me behind."

"But don't forget me for tomorrow's lunch box"

"Ah" (sigh)

"Hmm-- (stretching) Ah, I'm so tired"

“人生如戏，悲欢离合”

———————————

Hyugo:“怎会这样……sol”

Sol:“啊……是你啊Hyugo，已经，没事了，一切，都结束了……

配角：“咳额！该死的，我，我要杀了你这疯子，咳”

Hyugo：！（察觉）

Hyugo：“sol——！！！！！”

Sol:“……Hyugo，我”

砰——！（枪声）

————

Mc:“……sol,sol，快醒醒”

Sol:“额嗯……mc?”

Mc：“真是的，不是说好今天当我的模特吗，竟然在开小差，(｡•ˇ‸ˇ•｡)”

Sol：“哈，抱歉……这次我会好好看着你的。”

Mc:“这可是你说的，不准撒谎哦(ー`´ー)”

Sol:“嗯……我保证，所以这次（你）也一定要好好看着我哦

——end——

Hyugo:“哈啊~你们两个可真过分啊，一起来看电影却先丢下我离开。”

“不过明天的午餐便当可不要忘了我哦”

“唉”（叹气）

“唔嗯——（伸懒腰）啊，真是累死人了”