strawb4kdior

[strawb4kdior]

AHHHHH I LOVE THIS

hihihi

would you pretty please write vi x fem reader in a high school au with the slowest slow burn ever? like i want a GUT WRETCHING slow burn that will make me be so impatient like istg GET TOGETHER

anyways thanks 😛

teenage dream - vi x f!reader

wc: 13.8k

notes: this kinda feels like a romcom lol, idk if i like it 100% but i gave it my best 🫡 hope you enjoy it !!!

Senior year was supposed to feel like a clean slate—a final era. Your last shot. You’d promised yourself that this year, everything would be different. Not just different from any other year—different from the last three. You were done wasting weekends locked in your room, scrolling through your phone, or playing board games with Ekko while the rest of the world seemed to actually be living.

No more hiding. No more being the background characters of your own lives.

Ekko had made you swear to it. Sitting on the curb outside the corner store, sharing a bag of chips, legs stretched out into the street like the world could wait for you. He nudged your shoulder and said, “We’re not doing that again. No more hermit mode. No more wasting time. Senior year, we actually live.”

You knew it was corny, but it felt necessary.

So you woke up two hours early.

Yeah, ridiculous. But you needed the time. You stood in front of the mirror longer than you’d ever admit—curling the pieces of hair that refused to behave, wiping and redoing your eyeliner until the wings were almost symmetrical. You cycled through at least four outfits, standing there like your closet held the keys to the future, before settling on something that said—I’ve changed. I’m different now.

By 7:30 a.m., you were sitting at the dining table, chewing toast on autopilot while your parents flipped through their phones and sipped coffee like this was just another monday.

“So,” your dad said, lowering his paper just enough to peek at you, “you ready for your last first day?”

“Yeah!” you said—too fast, too bright. “I mean... it’s still the same people, but... I don’t know. I just don’t want this year to be like the last three, y’know? No more spending every weekend locked in my room or playing board games with Ekko like we’re retired.”

Your parents exchanged the look. That classic ‘Ah, youth’ meets ‘You’ll learn’ kind of glance. Equal parts nostalgia and amusement, probably betting how long your sudden burst of optimism would last.

“Well,” your mom said, pouring coffee into her mug without looking up, “just remember—no recreational drugs, and protection is non-negotiable.”

“MOM.” You nearly launched your toast across the table. “Oh my God.”

Your dad choked on his coffee, sputtering into his mug. “Honey... maybe... maybe don’t start with that.”

“What? I’m being realistic.”

“Oh my God.”

Before either of them could permanently scar your psyche, a car horn beeped twice outside. Your head snapped up—Ekko. Right on time.

You shoved back your chair, snatching your backpack like it was a parachute. “Gotta go! Love you, BYE!”

“Make good choices!” your mom called.

“Text me if you need bail money!” your dad added.

“STOP!!”

The front door slammed behind you.

Ekko was already waiting in his dad’s ancient death-trap of a car, elbow slung over the steering wheel, passenger door popped open for you like always.

“Damn,” he said as you climbed in, giving you a once-over. “Look at you. All grown up.”

“Ugh, thanks. Took me forever. I redid my eyeliner, like... four times.”

“Worth it.” He pulled out of the driveway, throwing you a reckless grin. “This is it. Senior year. We actually live this time.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, half to him, half to yourself. “We live.”

And you believed it.

Right up until the second you walked into homeroom... and saw her.

Slouched in the back row, furthest from the teacher’s desk. One leg kicked lazily over the other. Leather jacket half-zipped over her uniform like the rules were more of a suggestion. Scuffed boots tapping against the chair leg. Her hair tied back just enough to stay out of her face but messy enough to scream I don’t care.

Sharp jaw. Bruised knuckles. That cocky grin—the kind that could ruin a life without even trying.

You didn’t know her. Definitely not. No way. You’d remember someone like her. No one forgot someone like her. But somehow, despite being new, she already had half the class orbiting her like gravity itself bent toward her.

And she didn’t even seem to care. She looked at them like she was doing them a favor just by existing.

She seemed exactly like the kind of girl your parents would warn you about.

And yet...

Your fingers twitched, shoving deep into your pockets.

Nope. Nope. Not doing this. Not today. This is supposed to be my year. My fresh start. I’m not getting distracted by reckless, dangerous, beautiful—

“Hey.”

The voice was low. Lazy. Too close.

You blinked.

She was looking directly at you. Head tilted. One brow arched. A knowing smirk tugging at her mouth—like she’d caught you staring (which, fine, you were) and was absolutely waiting to see what you were gonna do about it.

And just like that—boom.

Your brain blue-screened. Fully fried. Your heart cartwheeled straight into your ribs, then backflipped again for good measure. Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Her smirk widened, sharp as a blade. “You gonna stand there all day, or...?”

Panic. Full-body panic. You fumbled for words—any words—but your brain handed you nothing.

“Uh—I mean—yeah—no—I just—uh.”

Real smooth. Stunning work. A masterclass.

Behind you, Ekko let out the loudest, most audible snort, barely covering it behind his hand.

Her eyes dragged down your body, then back up. Quick. Calculating. Like she was deciding whether you were worth her time... or just another face in the crowd.

Then, just as fast as she locked on, she leaned back in her chair. Kicked her foot up on the desk. Looked away.

Ignoring you.

Like you were nothing.

Like you hadn’t just suffered a full cardiac event because of a girl who looked like she belonged on the cover of some underground punk magazine.

Ekko elbowed you so hard you nearly tipped over. “Oh, dude,” he wheezed, “you are so screwed.”

And you knew.

This... this was gonna be a problem.

A massive problem.

──────────────���───────

By third period, you already knew her name — Violet Lane, Vi. And by lunchtime, there were already rumors swirling. Not just about her, but about her entire family.

Because, of course, this was high school. New kid? Instant investigation. Gossip was practically its own elective.

Ekko — obviously — had wasted no time collecting intel. By the time you sat down at your usual lunch spot, he was practically vibrating with how much he’d dug up.

“She’s got three siblings,” he started, leaning in like this was classified information. “One girl, two boys. She’s the oldest.”

You raised a brow, poking half-heartedly at your mystery meat masquerading as lunch. “Okay... and?”

“And,” he said, eyes lighting up like he was about to drop the most dramatic plot twist of the century, “they all live with their dad? I didn’t get the full story. And apparently—get this—she’s already been arrested.”

Your head snapped up. “Seriously?”

He nodded, grinning like a cat who just stole an entire rotisserie chicken. “Dead serious. Some kid from bio said his cousin’s neighbor’s sister saw it go down. Or something like that.”

You groaned, half laughing, half horrified. “Oh my God, Ekko. You’ve known about her for — what? — a couple of hours? And you already have her whole life story? Get a hobby. Touch grass. Something.”

“This is my hobby,” he shot back, smirking as he popped a fry into his mouth. “Besides, it’s not like she’s making it hard. You saw her. It’s like she’s asking to be talked about.”

You hated that he wasn’t wrong.

Your eyes involuntarily drifted across the cafeteria to where Vi was sitting — or more like sprawled. She was laughing at something one of the guys next to her said — head tossed back, grin sharp enough to cut glass. Every time someone passed her table, they either tried too hard not to look... or flat-out stared.

You shoved a piece of bread in your mouth and chewed like it was the only thing tethering you to earth.

“Yeah,” you muttered, half to yourself. “Problem. Huge problem.”

──────────────────────

You really weren’t trying to get into Vi’s line of sight. You weren’t trying to befriend her. You weren’t trying anything.

But it didn’t matter.

Because it felt like she was everywhere.

Chemistry. English. Biology. Even your stupid electives. No matter where you went, there she was — like the universe itself had decided to make her impossible to avoid.

You tried. You really, truly tried not to sit anywhere near her. You mastered the art of strategic seat selection, ducking behind taller classmates, pretending to be busy tying your shoe while everyone else picked their spots. But deep down, you knew it was only a matter of time before the odds turned against you.

Apparently... today was that day.

You’d spent the entire week pretending — and failing — not to think about her. Yes, she was pretty. Fine. Yes, she had the kind of magnetic, ice-blue eyes that made your stomach drop and your brain misfire. Whatever. But you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t go there. You couldn’t go there. This was supposed to be your year. Your fresh start. Your last shot before graduation.

And yet...

Friday. Last period. You were itching to go home, to put this cursed week behind you. Of course — because life hated you — you were running late. You half-jogged down the hallway, backpack slamming against your spine, rounding the corner just as the bell shrieked its last warning.

And when you slid into the doorway — panting, flustered — you instantly saw it.

The only empty seat.

Right next to her.

You froze. Completely. Feet planted, backpack straps clenched in white-knuckled fists.

Mr. Heimerdinger’s head snapped toward you, those huge, unsettlingly round glasses magnifying his already too-large eyes until it felt like you were being X-rayed.

“Ms. Y/N,” he said, blinking slowly, voice overly polite in that ‘I’m two seconds away from losing my patience’ way. “Would you please join us?”

You swallowed hard. Loudly.

Your eyes flicked to Vi, who was already leaned back in her chair like she owned the whole back row. One brow raised. A knowing smirk tugging at her lips. She didn't say anything — but her eyes followed you, like she was already guessing exactly how uncomfortable this was making you.

You forced your feet to move. One step. Then another. Backpack thudding as you crossed the room, each step heavier than the last.

Don’t trip. Don’t trip. Don’t trip.

You slid into the seat beside her, trying to make yourself as small as possible, pulling your stuff onto your desk with a shaky sigh.

“Hey, princess” Vi murmured under her breath, voice low enough that only you could hear it.

You whipped your head toward her, wide-eyed. “What?” you squeaked.

She shrugged, looking far too pleased with herself. “Nothin’. Just... didn’t think I’d get to annoy you again so soon.”

Your heart slammed so hard against your ribs you were genuinely concerned the entire class could hear it.

This is fine, you told yourself, staring straight ahead, willing your face not to burst into flames. This is perfectly fine. Totally normal. Absolutely not a complete disaster.

──────────────────────

It was not fine. Actually, it was the complete opposite of fine. It was catastrophic.

You couldn’t hear a single word Mr. Heimerdinger was saying. Not one. You were so focused on pretending Vi didn’t exist that all your brain managed to do was... obsessively catalog everything about her.

Like how, halfway through the class, she started bouncing her leg under the desk. Restless. How the silver ring on her middle finger clicked rhythmically against her pen as she tapped it — over and over and over. How she scribbled messy, half-legible notes on her notebook, pausing every so often like she couldn’t decide whether to care or not.

And then there was... her smell.

Sweet. Soft. Something vaguely warm, like vanilla mixed with something sharper — citrusy, maybe? Definitely not what you expected. Not that you had ever sat around imagining what she smelled like — except apparently you had, because some dumb part of your brain was half-expecting punching bags, cigarette smoke, and... prison cells? Which wasn’t even a real smell. What were you thinking??

You squeezed your eyes shut. Stop. Stop thinking. Stop existing.

“Ms. Y/N?”

A voice. Distant.

“Ms. Y/N.”

“Ms. Y/N!”

You practically launched out of your chair, heart slamming against your ribs. “Huh — what — I mean — yes?”

Half the class turned to look at you. Vi included — brows raised, very obviously trying not to laugh.

Mr. Heimerdinger frowned, adjusting his comically huge glasses. “I asked you a question.”

You blinked. “...Could you maybe repeat it?”

His sigh was long. Painfully long. “What is the molar mass of sodium chloride?”

Your brain completely stalled.

Sodium chloride... sodium... salt. Salt. SALT. Your neurons were firing blanks.

“Fifty-eight point four” Vi whispered from next to you, her voice low, lazy — like she wasn’t even trying, like it cost her nothing to know this.

You blinked. That... that couldn’t be right. Could it?

Was she actually smart?

No way. No way. She didn’t look like someone who paid attention. But then again, neither did you right now.

Still, at this rate, you had no other choice. You swallowed hard. “...Fifty-eight point four?” you repeated, voice way more unsure than you wanted it to be.

For a split second, you braced for impact — expecting disappointment, maybe even an exasperated lecture.

But Mr. Heimerdinger just adjusted his glasses, nodded once, and offered a pleased smile. “Excellent, young child. You were paying more attention than I thought, after all.”

Your jaw nearly hit the floor.

As he turned back to the board, rambling about how beautiful, fragile, and ridiculously expensive the universe was, you slowly turned toward Vi. She was leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, looking way too pleased with herself.

That smug little grin tugging at her lips like she’d just won something.

“Thanks” you muttered, trying — and failing — to sound cool about it.

She tipped her head, all faux innocence. “Anytime.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Didn’t think you were... you know. Someone who paid attention.”

Her grin curved sharper. “Yeah? Didn’t think you were someone who spaced out so bad they forgot what salt was.”

Your face burned. “I did not forget what salt was.”

She raised a brow, clearly fighting a laugh. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

You huffed, turning back toward the board, pretending to care deeply about Heimerdinger’s tangent about molecular bonds, but it was useless — you were hyper-aware of Vi. Of her presence. Of the way her knee barely brushed against yours when she shifted. Of how even that tiny contact had your heart acting like it had no idea how to do its job.

──────────────────────

After that little interaction in chemistry, it was like Vi had made it her personal mission to embarrass you at every possible opportunity.

Anytime she could squeeze in a snarky comment, a teasing remark, or an infuriating smirk—she absolutely did.

Caught you rambling to yourself in the library while rewriting your notes for the third time?

“Didn’t realize you were giving a TED Talk” she’d quip, leaning against the bookshelf like she had nowhere else in the world to be.

Used the wrong pronunciation in French?

There she was, right next to you, snorting quietly, whispering through a giggle, “It’s ‘voilà,’ not ‘voilaay,’ genius.”

Oh—and another thing? She now sat next to you. In. Every. Single. Class.

Even when Ekko was supposed to be your buffer, your safe space, your emotional support best friend—Vi somehow managed to kick him out of his seat just to take his place.

No warning. No shame. Just a lazy, “Scoot, dude,” and Ekko would sigh dramatically but move anyway, like this was some sitcom he’d willingly subscribed to.

“Seriously,” you groaned one morning as Ekko drove you to school, arms crossed tight over your chest. “You have to stop letting her do that. I thought you were my friend.”

“I am your friend,” he grinned, fiddling with the radio until he found some indie playlist that sounded just pretentious enough. “But I also think it’s the funniest thing in the world how red she makes you.”

You smacked his arm. “Traitor.”

“Look,” he said, laughing, “she’s obviously messing with you because you give her the best reactions. You go full tomato mode, and she eats that up. If you acted like you didn’t care, she’d probably get bored.”

“Yeah. Except I do care. And I can’t act cool. Have you met me?”

“Valid point.” Ekko flicked on his blinker. “But also... maybe you secretly like it.”

Your mouth dropped open. “I do not.”

He just grinned wider. “Sure.”

You wanted to argue. You really did. But the fact that your face was heating up again kind of ruined any defense you could’ve possibly made.

And when Ekko pulled into the parking lot and you saw Vi leaning against the wall near the entrance—jacket slung over her shoulder, pink hair catching in the breeze, grinning the second she spotted you—you realized...

Yeah.

This was going to be the slowest, most painful emotional death known to mankind.

─────────────────���────

By the time Friday was over, you were fully, completely, and emotionally destroyed.

You’d barely survived an entire week of Vi relentlessly tormenting you with her stupid smirks, her shameless teasing, her... existence. It was exhausting—being hyper-aware of someone’s every move, every glance, every brush of their knee against yours. You felt like you’d been holding your breath since Monday.

And yet, apparently, the universe wasn’t done torturing you.

Because besides Vi... there was a whole lot of nothing going on in your life.

You didn’t know what you expected senior year to feel like, but it definitely wasn’t this.

You expected freedom, maybe. Some kind of movie-magic glow. The year where you’d finally be that girl—the one who had it together. Carrie Bradshaw voiceovers narrating your life while you strutted through the hallways in fabulous outfits, balancing friendships, a thriving social life, and the occasional romantic entanglement. (You probably should stop binge watching Sex and The City.)

But no.

It was just... essays.

Essays. Group projects. Labs. Quizzes. College applications breathing down your neck. Stress acne appearing in places you didn’t even know could get acne. And a very unglamorous amount of existential dread.

There was no whimsical montage. No soulful jazz in the background. Just the sound of your laptop fan threatening to explode as you stared at a blank Google Doc titled “The Impact of Industrialization on Modern Society.”

“This is not what the movies promised me,” you grumbled, slamming your forehead onto your desk. “Carrie Bradshaw never had to write a five-page analysis on the French Revolution.”

Ekko, sprawled out on your bed flipping through a textbook, snorted. “Yeah, well, she also never had to figure out the square root of disappointment, but here we are.”

You groaned louder, pushing your chair back and pacing your room like moving would somehow convince your brain to start functioning. “I thought this year was supposed to be... different. You know? Last year. Bucket list. Memories. Parties. Something. Anything. Instead, it’s just me drowning in homework, applying to colleges I can’t afford, and—”

You caught yourself. Cut the sentence off before her name could tumble out.

But Ekko caught it anyway. His eyes flicked toward you, one brow lifting, waiting.

“Nope,” you said quickly, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t. Not doing this.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he said, deadpan. But the shit-eating grin tugging at the corner of his mouth said otherwise.

“Didn’t have to.” You groaned and flopped dramatically onto the floor, staring up at the ceiling like maybe—just maybe—the meaning of life was written there. “This year is actually trying to kill me.”

“Same,” Ekko sighed, sliding off the bed to lie next to you on the floor. “But hey... at least you’re not totally alone in the dumpster fire.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “Nothing says ‘senior year memories’ like joint academic suffering.”

For a moment, the two of you just laid there in silence. But no matter how hard you tried to focus on the French Revolution, college deadlines, or literally anything else... your mind kept drifting. Right back to a certain pink-haired menace. And how, somehow, she was the only part of this year that didn’t fit the script.

You eventually sat up, dragging yourself back to your desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, pretending to care about how the French revolutionized—whatever—a million years ago. But your brain was having none of it.

A groan ripped from your throat. “The semester’s halfway over, and we haven’t been to a single party.” You turned to Ekko, dead serious. “Do you know how much of a loser you have to be to not get invited to anything?”

Ekko flipped another page of the massive history book he’d borrowed from the library and shrugged. “Well... you’re a loser, and I’m always with you, so that just makes me a loser by association.”

You gasped, grabbing the nearest pillow and hurling it at his face. “I’m not the physics nerd here, nerd!”

He caught the pillow with one hand, deadpan. “Wow. Riveting. Such clever insults.” He tossed it back at you. “Inspirational, really.”

“Shut up.” You laughed, shaking your head.

Ekko shut the book with a dramatic thud and leaned back. “Y’know what? No. We’re not doing this. I’m gonna find us a party. I don’t care how. It’s happening.”

You blinked. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.” He pulled out his phone, already scrolling. “We are not ending senior year as the weird shut-ins who spent every Friday night crying over AP assignments and eating instant noodles.”

A grin tugged at your lips despite the gloom. “Godspeed, soldier.”

“You’ll thank me later.” He shot you a finger gun without looking up. “Or blame me. Either way, it’ll be entertaining.”

──────────────────────

After spending the rest of your weekend (trying to) finish your schoolwork, Monday hit you like a truck.

The second Ekko left your house, you dove headfirst into the mountain of projects still waiting for you—which, unsurprisingly, consumed the rest of your weekend... and then some.

By the time you dragged yourself to school, you looked like a complete disaster. So much for “looking your best” this year. Your gray hoodie had a suspicious stain you couldn’t remember getting, your coffee was roughly 80% espresso, and your backpack felt like it contained the entire French Revolution itself.

By second period, you were one minor inconvenience away from crumbling into dust. You flopped into your usual seat, pulled out your laptop, and pretended to care about whatever class this was—chemistry? Geometry? Who even knew anymore—while your mind spiraled through the same exhausting loop:

Deadlines. Stress. Coffee.

Deadlines. Stress. Vi.

Deadlines. Stress. Vi, Vi, Vi.

Because, of course, there she was again—sliding into the seat next to you like she belonged there, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Vi.

Wearing a red hoodie, pink hair perfectly disheveled in that “I don’t care, but somehow I still look stupidly good” kind of way.

“Morning, princess,” she greeted, her voice lower than usual, a little scratchy like she hadn’t fully woken up yet. She stretched her arms above her head, and just enough of her hoodie lifted for you to catch a glimpse of the tattoo inked along her back—

You yanked your gaze back to your screen like it had personally wronged you. “Don’t call me that.”

“Relax,” she chuckled, nudging your shoe with hers under the desk. “You look tense. Didn’t get your beauty sleep?”

“Not everyone spends their weekend drinking and flirting.” You shot her a glare, pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose. “Some of us were actually being responsible.”

“Mhm.” Vi rested her chin in her palm, her smirk lazy and far too self-satisfied. “You mean rewriting your French Revolution essay three times... while binge-watching Sex and the City?”

Your jaw dropped. “How the hell do you know that?”

She tapped the side of her head, all smug. “I’ve got my ways.”

You groaned, sinking lower into your seat, already mentally drafting Ekko’s obituary. It was definitely him. It had to be him. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Her grin widened, the kind that could ruin a person if they weren’t careful. “Face it, sunshine... you’d be bored without me.”

The worst part? She was probably right.

The class dragged on forever—an endless stream of equations or chemical reactions or maybe both; you weren’t sure—but eventually, finally, the bell rang.

As students shuffled out, Vi leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Hey... wanna grab coffee after school? I promise I won’t make you write any essays.”

For a second, you hesitated. You really shouldn’t. Not with the avalanche of homework waiting for you and your mental stability hanging by a thread.

But then again... maybe a break wouldn’t hurt. Maybe dealing with Vi was slightly less exhausting than dealing with your own brain.

“Fine,” you blurted before your common sense could stop you.

Her grin stretched instantly—cocky, victorious, like she’d just won some invisible game you didn’t even know you were playing. “That’s the spirit.”

As you shoved your laptop back into your bag, a creeping realization settled over you like a bad omen. Was getting coffee with Vi actually a good idea? Probably not.

Maybe it was dangerous. Maybe this—whatever this was—wasn’t just casual teasing anymore. Maybe it was something bigger. Something scarier. Something with the potential to pull you under so fast there’d be no crawling back out.

Not that you were thinking about that, of course. Definitely not. Totally fine. Totally normal.

Absolutely. Totally. Fine.

──────────────────────

By lunch, your internal panic spiral hadn’t stopped.

Ekko sat across from you, rambling about something—maybe a new indie album, maybe a game update—but truth be told, you weren’t hearing a word. Your brain was too busy catastrophizing:

What did Vi even mean by coffee? Was it just coffee? Was it a peace treaty? A trap? Would it be weird? Would it be—

“...and then I pulled out a gun and shot myself in the head.”

Your head snapped up. “What?!”

Ekko deadpanned, holding his fork mid-air. “Oh, so now you’re listening. Cool. Just making sure you hadn’t actually flatlined.”

You blinked. “Sorry. I... zoned out.”

“Zoned out?” Ekko blinked at you. “You’ve been staring into space like a Victorian ghost for the last ten minutes. What’s going on?” His eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Wait... let me guess. Vi?”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “I hate that you know me this well.”

“Oh my God. What did she do now?”

“I...” You sighed, sinking further into the table. “I accidentally agreed to get coffee with her after school.”

Ekko blinked. “...Accidentally?”

“Yes. Shut up.”

A grin spread across his face like wildfire. “So let me get this straight. You got a date with Ms. Criminal Record herself?”

“It’s not a date.”

“Sure. Totally. Not a date.” He wiggled his eyebrows like he was physically incapable of controlling himself.

You groaned louder, shoving a french fry into your mouth just to avoid having to answer.

──────────────────────

You stood outside the little coffee shop two blocks from school, hands shoved deep into your hoodie pocket, already questioning every decision that had led you to this exact moment.

You could still back out. Just make up some excuse tomorrow. Maybe something tragic. Like... your poor dog suddenly died. (Not that anyone would believe that. You didn’t even have a dog. But... she didn’t know that.)

Before you could spiral any further, a familiar voice snapped you out of it.

“Well, look who showed.

You turned—and there she was.

Leaning against the wall like she was posing for some effortlessly cool magazine cover. Pink hair windswept and messier than usual, a few loose strands falling over her face. Her red hoodie hanging a little loose on her frame, but that stupid, infuriating smirk? Oh, that was very much still there—the one that made it impossible to tell whether she was about to flirt with you or ruin your entire life. Probably both.

“You actually came” she added, pushing off the wall with her boot.

“I said I would” you muttered, trying—failing—to sound casual.

She grinned, holding the door open with an exaggerated bow. “After you, sunshine.”

“Stop calling me that” you grumbled, stepping inside.

The place was small but cozy—dim string lights hanging along the ceiling, the faint smell of roasted coffee beans mixing with cinnamon, and some random indie song playing softly in the background. Mismatched chairs, hand-painted tables, and customers pretending to study while actually scrolling through their phones completed the aesthetic.

Vi ordered an iced coffee with two extra espresso shots (because of course she did), while you went with something safer, something warm and without any caffeine. You were already anxious enough without turbo-charging (more) your nervous system.

As you waited, the silence between you felt... weird. Not awkward, exactly. More like... charged. Heavy in a way that made your skin buzz.

When you sat down, she stretched her legs out under the table, and her boot knocked against yours. You weren’t sure if it was an accident. (It wasn’t.)

Vi drummed her fingers against the table. “Didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, stirring your drink unnecessarily. “Didn’t think you’d actually ask.”

Vi laughed, head tipping back slightly, a few strands of pink falling over her eyes. “Fair.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. You stared at your drink like it might offer you answers. She stared at you like you were the answer.

“So...” you started, voice coming out a little tighter than you intended. “What is this? Some new form of torture?”

Vi tilted her head, smirk softening just slightly. “Nah. Just... wanted to hang out. You’re fun.”

You blinked. “You have a really weird definition of fun.”

She grinned wider. “Maybe. Or maybe you just don’t know how to loosen up.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “Oh yeah? And you’re gonna teach me how to... what? Break the law? Get arrested?”

Vi actually laughed at that. A real one. Loud, full, and genuine—like you’d just told her the funniest joke in the world. It caught you off guard. The corners of her eyes crinkled in a way that made your stupid heart squeeze in your chest.

“You know that’s not actually true, right?” she said between chuckles.

“It’s not?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No!” she snorted, shaking her head. “Where the hell do you people get this stuff from?”

“Oh, I don’t know...” You gestured vaguely, feigning deep thought. “The seventeen detentions... the rumors... the fact that you’ve been in a fistfight like, what? Twice this semester?”

“Pfft.” Vi waved a hand dismissively. “Okay, first off, one of those wasn’t my fault. That guy walked into my fist. Totally different situation.”

You blinked. “Right. Sure. Completely believable.” You crossed your arms, leaning back in your chair. “Besides, someone’s friend’s cousin’s neighbor —or something, saw it happen.”

Vi raised a brow, her grin sharpening. “Oh yeah? And does someone’s friend’s cousin’s neighbor have a name?”

You squinted at her. “What? Why? What are you gonna do—beat them up too?”

She laughed, taking a sip of her iced coffee like she hadn’t just casually confessed to semi-accidental assault ten seconds ago. “Relax, sunshine. I’m not that bad. I just... have a reputation. Doesn’t mean it’s all true.”

You rested your chin in your palm, narrowing your eyes like you were studying her under a microscope. “So what you’re telling me is... you’re secretly... what? Misunderstood?”

Vi tilted her head, smile softening around the edges. “Maybe.” She shrugged, leaning back in her chair. “Guess you’ll have to figure that one out for yourself.”

The air between you shifted—just slightly. Less banter, more... something else. Something heavier. Something that made your heart do that annoying stutter thing it had absolutely no right doing.

And that was terrifying. Because you realized—maybe for the first time—that under all the teasing, the cocky grins, and the reckless energy... there was an actual person sitting in front of you. Someone complicated. Someone interesting. Someone who was starting to feel even more like a bad idea.

“Yeah...” you muttered, taking a sip of your drink. “Not sure if that’s a good thing or a terrible thing.”

Vi smirked, tapping her boot against yours again. “Guess we’ll find out.”

──────────────────────

The second you stepped out of the coffee shop you fumbled your phone out of your hoodie pocket with shaking hands.

Your thumbs moved before your brain could catch up.

YOU: 🆘🆘🆘 EMERGENCY. CALL 911.

EKKO: what now 💀

YOU: I JUST GOT OUT OF THE COFFEE SHOP WITH VI. SHE WAS. NICE???

EKKO: hold on nice??? vi? pink-haired menace vi?

YOU: YES. SHE WAS ACTUALLY NICE. OR LIKE... FAKE NICE?? IDK. SHE SMILED. NOT THE "IM GONNA BULLY YOU" SMILE. THE OTHER ONE. THE... SOFT ONE.

EKKO: oh no. ur doomed. rip.

YOU: THIS IS NOT FUNNY. IM PANICKING. WHAT IF I LIKE HER. 😭😭😭

EKKO: lmao u’ve BEEN liked her. ur just now realizing?

YOU: SHUT UP. IM SERIOUS. WHAT DO I DO????

EKKO: idk. maybe stop fighting it?? 🤷🏽‍♂️ get ur little enemies-to-something arc going.

YOU: NOT HELPING.

EKKO: ok fine. step 1: breathe. step 2: admit u wanna kiss her. step 3: idk figure it out.

YOU: IM BLOCKING YOU.

EKKO: no u won’t. ur too busy spiraling over vi

You groaned, aggressively locking your phone and shoving it back into your hoodie pocket like that would somehow mute your own brain—and more specifically, your heart—that was now screaming in seventeen different languages.

Nope. Not dealing with this right now.

You decided to power through it. Focus. You had enough problems as it was. Adding "possibly liking Vi" to the pile? Yeah, no. Not happening.

You tugged your hoodie tighter around you as you walked home, headphones in, trying to drown out your own thoughts with music. But it didn’t work. Your brain kept spiraling back to the same stupid question:

What happens now?

Would she treat you the same? Were things going to be weird? Did she think it was weird? Was this a one-time thing, or…?

By the time you unlocked your front door, your head hurt more than your overstuffed backpack. You threw it onto your bed with a dramatic sigh, flopped next to it, and buried your face in the pillow.

Bzzzt.

Your phone lit up. A text from an unknown number.

Unknown Number: got home safe?

You blinked. Sat up. Stared at it.

You: ??

You: who is this?

Unknown Number: the love of your life, sunshine.

Your stomach dropped—and flipped—and caught fire all at once.

You: vi??

Unknown Number: ding ding ding 🏆

You stared at the screen, jaw slack, brain buffering.

How the hell did she even get your number??

Another text popped up before you could even process:

Vi: relax. i bribed ekko with gummy worms. not my proudest moment.

Vi: worth it tho.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, completely useless. No thoughts. Head empty. Just static and panic and... butterflies.

You: you’re unbelievable.

Vi: yeah yeah. but admit it... you missed me already.

You flopped back onto the bed, phone to your chest, letting out the loudest, most dramatic groan the universe had ever heard.

It was pathetic, but the actual truth was that you kinda did.

──────────────────────

By the time morning rolled around, you were running on approximately three hours of sleep, sheer panic, and the lingering chaos of that text conversation. You had stared at your phone way longer than you should’ve last night, reading and rereading her messages, debating whether each one was a joke, flirting, or some strange Vi-brand mix of both.

Needless to say, you looked like death. Again.

Slam.

Your locker door shut louder than intended, making you jump. And of course—because the universe loved making your life worse—there she was.

Vi.

Leaning casually against the locker next to yours like she lived there now. Hands stuffed into her red jacket pocket, head tilted.

“Morning, sunshine.” The smirk was back in full force. “Sleep well?”

You deadpanned. “Absolutely not.”

She chuckled. “Weird. Wonder why.”

“Oh, gee, yeah, I wonder,” you shot back, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “It’s almost like someone decided to text me stupid stuff until midnight.”

Vi grinned, walking in step with you down the hallway. “Midnight? Weak. I could’ve gone longer.”

“God, you’re exhausting.”

“And yet,” she bumped your shoulder lightly with hers, “here you are. Still showing up.”

You side-eyed her, heat creeping up your neck despite your best efforts. “Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta supervise you before you get arrested for... I don’t know... breathing wrong.”

Vi laughed. That warm, genuine kind of laugh that made something in your chest tangle into a knot.

As you rounded the corner toward class, a familiar voice cut through—

“Well, well, well,” Ekko drawled, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “Look who’s become... inseparable.”

Your face practically caught fire. “Shut up.”

Vi just raised a brow, grinning. “What, jealous?”

Ekko scoffed. “Please. I don’t have the emotional energy to handle two of you.”

You shoved past both of them. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be throwing myself into the nearest garbage can.”

“Oh, we know,” Ekko called after you. “We absolutely know.”

Vi just laughed again, falling into step beside you. Like she belonged there. Like this was... normal now.

And the scary part? You kinda wanted it to be.

Then days turned into a week. Then two.

And somehow... Vi didn’t go away.

She started showing up more. Sliding into the seat next to you like it was her God-given right. Stealing your fries at lunch without asking. Sending you dumb texts late at night—things like, “Are sandwiches technically tacos?” followed by, “No, but seriously, I have evidence. Prepare yourself.”

She was... just there now. In your space. In your routine. In your head.

And God help you... you liked it. Way more than you should.

But the more time passed, the more this uncomfortable little thought started gnawing at your brain like a rat in the walls:

Maybe that coffee “date” wasn’t actually a date.

You were the one who read it wrong. Of course you were. It was Vi. Vi flirted like she breathed—effortless, constant, automatic. With everyone.

This was probably just... a game to her. A joke. Maybe she liked seeing you flustered. Maybe you were just something fun to mess with—a puzzle, a toy, a distraction from her own boredom.

So you didn’t say anything. You shoved it down. Bit your tongue every time she called you sunshine, or princess, or sweetheart with that infuriating, devastating little grin.

Because what if you asked—“What is this? What are we?”—and she laughed? What if she said, “Relax. Don’t take it so seriously.”? What if you ruined everything?

Because as exhausting as it was, as much as your brain scrambled every time her knee brushed yours under the cafeteria table, or she slung her arm around your shoulder like it meant nothing... you didn’t want her to go away.

You liked this.

You liked her.

Even if it hurt a little.

Even if it meant pretending you were totally fine with being “just friends.”

Even if it meant ignoring the fact that every time she smiled at you, your heart felt like it was trying to jailbreak out of your ribs.

And as you lay sprawled out on your bedroom rug—half-heartedly scrolling through social media, half-staring at the ceiling—you found yourself thinking:

What would Carrie Bradshaw do?

Probably something chaotic and self-destructive. Probably humiliate herself so Big would stay with her... and then cry about it to her friends over overpriced brunch.

Unfortunately, you weren’t a successful writer in your mid-thirties with a nicotine addiction and a talent for making terrible life decisions look glamorous.

Before you could spiral any further, a voice interrupted from your doorway.

“God, you look awful.”

You sat up to see Ekko leaning against the doorframe, a box of pizza on his hands.

“Thanks,” you deadpanned, dragging yourself off the floor. “Nice to see you too.”

“Who died?”

“My dignity.”

Ekko snorted, kicking the door shut behind him. “Again? Damn. How many lives does that thing have left?” He put the box on your bed and sat down on your desk chair. “Brought you pizza. Though honestly, I figured you were dead since I didn’t hear from you.”

You opened the box with a groan. “You weren’t wrong.”

“About?”

“She doesn’t actually like me,” you mumbled around a bite of pizza. “She’s just... being Vi. Y’know. Flirts with everyone. Makes stupid jokes. Drives me insane.”

Ekko gave you a long, unimpressed look. “I don’t know if this helps, but... she doesn’t flirt with everyone. She’s actually kinda rude most of the time.”

You snorted, nearly choking. “Wow. Thanks, I feel so much better now.”

Grabbing a slice for himself, Ekko leaned back against the chair. “But the real question is... do you actually like her?”

Your silence was deafening.

“Right,” he sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, well, if you’re gonna keep wallowing like a sad Victorian ghost, I’m officially dragging you out of this pit before you start writing love letters by candlelight or—God forbid—buying a typewriter for aesthetic purposes.”

You squinted at him. “...What?”

“If you actually read the texts I sent you, you’d know I found us a party.” He gave you a look that screamed “Yes, I’m awesome. Worship me.” “It’s next Saturday.”

You groaned, flopping back onto your bed like the dramatic mess you were.

Because somewhere between promising yourself you’d actually live this year—and whatever the hell living even meant—came the inevitable downside: socializing.

A thing you categorically hated.

“I have plans next Saturday,” you tried, weakly.

“You’re going to the party. Not up for debate,” Ekko shot back, already calling you out with zero mercy. “And no, rewatching Sex and the City for the hundredth time does not count as plans.”

You scowled, hugging a throw pillow to your chest. “I’m not in the mood to socialize, okay? I’m one hundred percent sure Vi’s gonna be there, and I am not emotionally prepared to watch her flirt with other girls.”

“God, I hate her,” you muttered.

“Sure you do,” Ekko snorted, spinning lazily in your desk chair. “You hate her so much that you’ve memorized the exact shade of her stupid eyes.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You groaned. “Seriously, Ekko, I cannot deal with her right now. I just... I need a break. A Vi detox.”

“Tough luck,” he shrugged, propping his feet up on your desk. “Last week you were practically begging me to find us a party, and guess what? I delivered. So you’re coming.”

You sighed dramatically. “Why does the universe hate me?”

“It doesn’t. You just have a crush.” He grinned like the menace he was. “And if you don’t go, it’s like... letting her win.”

You blinked. “Win what?”

“Your sanity. Your dignity. Your spot in the food chain. I don’t know. Something important.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

And annoyingly… he was right.

That’s how you found yourself being dragged into a house you didn’t even know the owner of on Saturday night.

The second you stepped through the door, the overwhelming smell hit you like a brick wall—a chaotic cocktail of cheap beer, weed, sweat, and the unmistakable stench of too many underage boys crammed into one place. Whoever’s house this was clearly had no concept of fire codes, personal space, or carpet maintenance.

Music blared from a speaker that was definitely not designed to handle bass that heavy. The floor vibrated under your shoes. Bodies were everywhere—crammed into corners, perched on countertops, lounging on beat-up couches, or tangled together on the stairs. Half of them you’d never even seen before in your life.

Were these people even from your school? Where did they come from? Did someone open a portal to the next town over?

You tugged your sleeves down over your hands, already regretting every life decision that led to this moment.

“I feel like I’ve walked straight into hell,” you muttered, glaring as someone stumbled past holding a bottle of something that was absolutely not soda.

“C’mon,” Ekko grinned, annoyingly chipper about all of this. “Let’s get something to drink.” Without waiting for your consent, he hooked his arm around yours and practically dragged you toward the kitchen.

You wove through the crowd, sidestepping sweaty bodies, dodging two girls aggressively making out against a wall, and narrowly avoiding being collateral damage in an increasingly hostile beer pong argument.

The kitchen wasn’t much better—just slightly less packed. The counters were a crime scene of half-empty bottles, red Solo cups, discarded bags of chips, and mysterious sticky puddles you decided not to investigate.

Ekko let go of your arm long enough to rummage through the chaos. “Alright, what’s your poison? Mystery punch that’ll probably kill us, or…” He picked up a bottle, sniffed it, and immediately recoiled. “...something that smells like nail polish remover.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Tempting.”

“Yeah, we love a choice between food poisoning and gasoline.”

Still, you grabbed a cup—more to have something to fidget with than any real desire to drink it—pointedly ignoring the suspicious floating things in the punch. “Remind me why I let you talk me into this?”

“Character development,” Ekko smirked. “Also... senior year. We’re supposed to make bad decisions. It’s, like, a rule.”

You sighed, leaning against the counter, tapping your cup but not drinking yet. Your eyes scanned the crowd—half on autopilot, half on edge—until, like clockwork…

There she was.

Leaning against the doorway to the living room, one boot casually kicked back against the frame. Vi’s signature leather jacket was—surprisingly—nowhere in sight, abandoned for the night. Pink hair pulled back just enough to show off the sharp undercut, with a few loose strands falling perfectly (and infuriatingly) over her forehead.

A half-empty beer bottle dangled lazily from her fingertips as she laughed at something the girl next to her said—a pretty brunette with a red streak in her hair and a hand resting just a little too comfortably on Vi’s arm.

Like gravity itself had shifted, every nerve in your body zeroed in on her. Of course she was here. Of course she looked stupidly, unfairly cool. Of course she had that cocky, heartbreaker grin tugging at the corner of her mouth like she owned the house.

Ekko followed your gaze, groaned, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh no. Don’t do it. Don’t even start.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you shot back, defensive. “I’m literally just standing here.”

“Mmhmm. Sure.”

Then, because betrayal runs deep, Ekko mumbled something about “blue hair” and promptly vanished into the crowd. So much for ‘Yeah, I won’t leave your side. I’m your emotional support human.’

“Traitor” you muttered under your breath.

With a sigh, you glanced back toward the doorway—because you were weak and apparently a glutton for pain—but... she was gone.

Vi was no longer there.

The brunette she’d been talking to was still standing there, frowning and glancing around like she hadn’t expected her conversation partner to ghost her either.

For one brief, ridiculous moment, you actually wondered if you’d hallucinated her. Maybe the combination of party fumes and emotional damage had finally fried your brain.

“Cool. Awesome. I’m officially losing it,” you muttered, pressing your palm to your face.

“Miss me, sunshine?”

Her voice—low, smug, dangerously close—purred into your ear.

You jolted so hard you nearly flung your drink. Whipping around, you came face-to-face with her.

She was standing way too close. Hands shoved into the back pockets of her ripped jeans like she hadn’t just scared you half to death. Her cropped tank showed off toned arms and tattoos that curled out from beneath the fabric.

“Not really,” you shot back, trying—and failing—to sound casual.

Vi grinned, tilting her head. “Liar.” Her eyes flicked over you, softer now, almost fond. “Didn’t know you were coming tonight.”

“Didn’t know you’d be here either,” you mumbled, instantly hating how breathless you sounded.

“Oh please.” She bumped your shoulder lightly with hers. “It’s me. Of course I’m here.” Her grin softened just a fraction. “Glad you showed up though.”

You blinked. “Wait... really?”

“Yeah.” Her smile was lazy but genuine. “Parties are boring without you.”

And before you could even begin to figure out what the hell that meant, a voice from the living room yelled over the music, “SPIN THE BOTTLE! LIVING ROOM. NOW.”

Vi’s eyes lit up instantly. “Wanna play?”

You looked between her excited face and the drink going warm in your cup. “Screw it.”

You tipped the cup back, downing the whole thing in one go. It didn’t taste as bad as you expected—but it wasn’t good either. Wincing, you wiped your mouth. “Let’s play.”

Vi grinned wide, her fingers curling gently around your wrist. With a playful tug, she pulled you toward the living room. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

You knew—you just knew—you were gonna regret this. But with her looking at you like that, and the growing crowd surging in the same direction, any resistance felt... pointless.

Senior year was made for bad choices, wasn’t it?

A circle had already formed on the floor—red solo cups, empty bottles, and shoes scattered around like landmines. Someone shoved an empty beer bottle into the center, laying out the rules with a drunken grin: spin the bottle, kiss whoever it lands on. No chicken-outs. No take-backs.

Hovering awkwardly at the edge, you felt whatever flimsy bravado you’d gathered start to crumble. But Vi didn’t let go of your wrist. Instead, she tugged you down next to her, thigh pressed firmly against yours, anchoring you to the spot.

She nudged your shoulder, smirking. “Relax. It’s just a dumb game.” Her voice softened, losing some of that usual cocky edge. “If it lands on someone weird, we can just pretend it was rigged. I’ve got your back, sunshine.”

...God, why was she being nice? Friendly. Sweet, even. This wasn’t fair. She wasn’t allowed to be hot and considerate. It was emotional terrorism.

The bottle spun a few times—cheers, groans, awkward laughter as strangers kissed. Your nerves shot through the roof every time it started slowing down.

Then someone nudged the bottle toward Vi. “Your turn, Pinky.”

Vi rolled her eyes but smirked, leaning forward and giving the bottle a lazy flick of her wrist. It spun wildly, clattering against the floor as the whole circle leaned in to watch.

Your stomach dropped.

The bottle slowed... slowed... then—

It landed on you.

A stunned beat of silence. Then someone let out a sharp whistle. Another voice gasped, “No freaking way.”

Your entire face went up in flames. You swore you could feel the heat radiating off your skin.

Vi blinked, like she hadn’t expected it either. But then her grin stretched wider—less cocky, more... mischievous. A softness tugged at the corners of her mouth.

She scooted in closer, her voice low enough that only you could hear. “Wanna skip? Or...” Her gaze flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes, softer now. “...Or do you want me to kiss you?”

You swallowed. “It’s... it’s the game, isn’t it?” you mumbled, trying—failing—to hide how badly you wanted to say yesjust because it was her.

Vi didn’t say anything. Instead, her hand slid up, fingers finding the side of your neck, warm and gentle. Her nose brushed yours as she leaned in, close enough that you could feel her breath, hot and uneven against your mouth.

Then she kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed, or rough, or showy like you expected. Neither of you fought for dominance. None of the dumb clichés. It was... soft. Warm. Her lips moved against yours like it was the most natural thing in the world—like you were something delicate, something meant to be held like this.

It made your head spin. Your fingers twitched uselessly against the fabric of your jeans, torn between gripping onto her or pushing her away before you fell any deeper into whatever trap this was.

When she pulled back—just barely—her forehead lingered against yours, her breath mingling with yours. Her thumb brushed lightly at your cheek, absent, casual... like muscle memory. Like this wasn’t a big deal to her. Like it was nothing.

And that’s when the crack split straight through your chest.

Because as much as you wanted to believe—God, you wanted to believe—that this meant something, you knew better.

This was just Vi being Vi. Flirty. Charming. Sweet when it suited her. A kiss for the sake of a game. A moment that meant absolutely nothing to her while it meant way too much to you.

You weren’t special. You were just the person the bottle landed on.

Of course she didn’t really want you. Not like that. Not really.

“Excuse me” you muttered, barely able to get the words out before the lump in your throat suffocated you.

You scrambled to your feet, ignoring the laughter and the teasing whistles from the crowd. Your chest felt too tight. The walls too close. The air thick like smoke.

“Hey—wait—” you heard Vi start, but you were already pushing through the bodies, practically shoving your way toward the front door.

The cold air outside hit you like a slap the second you stepped out. You gulped it down like you’d been drowning, wrapping your arms around yourself as you paced toward the curb, trying to make the knot in your chest unclench.

“Damn it,” you hissed under your breath. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”

“Hey. Hey—wait.”

The door creaked open behind you, and heavy boots clattered down the porch steps.

You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

“Sunshine, what the hell?” Her voice was a mix of confusion and something—something almost guilty. “Why’d you run off?”

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to keep your back to her. “Go back inside, Vi.”

“What? No.” Her boots crunched against the gravel as she stepped closer. “Are you—what’s wrong?” Her voice softened, worried now. “Did I… did I do something wrong?”

You shook your head quickly, biting the inside of your cheek until it hurt. Because talking to her—hearing her voice that soft, that close, that worried—when you knew it was probably just more of the same sweet nothings would break you.

“It’s… It’s nothing,” you managed, voice shaking. You wiped at your eyes with your long sleeves, trying—failing—to stop the sting of tears. “I’m just… I’m being stupid. You didn’t do anything.”

Vi huffed, trying to laugh it off, like it might fix something. “Was the kiss that bad?” she joked, a crooked smile tugging at her lips. “C’mon, sunshine... I didn’t think I was that bad.”

Your stomach twisted.

It’s a joke to her.

God. Of course it was.

“Jesus, Violet.” You spun around, not caring that your eyelashes were wet or that your voice was barely holding steady. “Is this all a joke to you? Is that what this is?”

Her smirk faltered, confusion knitting her brows. “What?”

“You—” Your hands flew up, gesturing wildly between the two of you. “You tease me. You flirt with me. You ask me to get coffee. You make me—” your voice cracked, sharp and bitter, “—you make me like you. You make me think maybe... maybe this means something.”

You shoved your hands into your hair, tugging at the strands like it might ground you. “And for what? For a laugh? For fun? Some experiment? Am I just—what—a game to you, Vi?”

Her face fell, eyes widening. “What? No. No—no.” She stepped forward, hands half-raised like she wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if she was allowed. “That’s not—God, that’s not what this is. I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what, exactly?” Your voice was sharp now, brittle and trembling. “Didn’t mean to lead me on? Didn’t mean to kiss me like I was—like I was something more than just another one of the girls you flirt with?”

“I never—” Vi’s breath caught. Her jaw clenched, and for a second, her eyes softened like she was about to say something real—something honest. But the words got stuck. “It wasn’t supposed to—Shit.”

Before she could untangle herself, another voice cut through the tense silence.

“Hey.”

You turned, breath still ragged, to see Ekko jogging up from down the sidewalk. His eyes scanned the scene—your tear-streaked face, Vi standing frozen, guilt and frustration painted across her features.

“The hell happened?” Ekko asked, glancing between the two of you, then settling his gaze on you. His entire face softened. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” you lied, wiping at your face again. “Can you—can you just take me home?”

“Yeah. Yeah, c’mere.” Without waiting for permission, Ekko shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over your shoulders like a shield. He shot a glare at Vi, jaw tight. “You seriously upset her this bad? What the hell, Vi?”

“I didn’t—” Vi started, reaching out, but you flinched away before she could touch you. Her hand froze midair, hovering like even she didn’t know what to do with it anymore. “It’s not what it looks like, I just—”

You stepped back, hugging Ekko’s jacket tighter around yourself. You looked her dead in the eyes, knowing exactly how exhausted, hurt, and done you must have looked—hating how your voice trembled, but pushing through it anyway.

“I just… need some time.”

Vi’s lips parted like she wanted to argue—wanted to explain, to fight for whatever this was—but no words came out. Her hands balled into fists, then relaxed, then balled again, as if even her own body couldn’t decide whether to hold on or let go. She just stood there, helpless, watching as you finally turned your back on her.

Ekko’s arm slipped around your shoulders, firm and grounding. “C’mon,” he murmured. “Let’s get you home.”

You let him lead you away—away from the party, from Vi, from the chaos. And not once did you look back.

If you did…

You were afraid you might break completely.

──────────────────────

The drive was quiet. The only sounds were your soft sniffles and the low, rattling hum of the old engine in Ekko’s beat-up car.

He didn’t say anything at first—just drove, hands steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road like he knew you needed the silence.

Eventually, he broke it. “You wanna talk about it?” His tone was gentle. Careful. He didn’t push—you could either dump everything out or let it stay bottled. Your choice.

You let out a shaky breath, staring out the window like the night sky might have answers. “I’m so stupid, Ekko.” Your voice cracked, raw. “I don’t know what I was thinking. We were talking and... she was being so nice. Saying she was glad I came. Acting like... like she actually cared.” Your fingers curled tighter around the fabric of his jacket. “And then suddenly, we’re sitting in a spin the bottle circle—like, seriously, what are we, fifteen?”

You scrubbed at your face aggressively, frustrated with yourself for crying, for feeling. “And because the universe hates me, it was her turn. And the bottle just—of course—had to stop on me.”

Ekko’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “Did she… do something you didn’t want?” His voice was careful now. Protective. Ready to fight if he needed to.

“No,” you blurted out quickly. “No. Nothing like that. She... she kissed me. And it was... God, it was good. It was soft, and warm, and... she was being so... careful. Like she actually cared.” Your throat tightened. “And that’s exactly why I had to get out of there.”

Ekko glanced over, brow furrowed. “Okay… but I still don’t get how it went from that to... you crying in the middle of the street.”

You sighed hard, leaning your head back against the seat. “She made a joke. A stupid, dumbass joke about not thinking the kiss was that bad. Like—like it was just... funny. Like it was nothing to her. And I just—” You let out a bitter laugh that didn’t sound like you. “I realized I’m a joke. I’m the joke.”

“I don’t—” Ekko started, but you cut him off, voice rising.

“She flirts, she teases, she calls herself ‘the love of my life’ like it’s some punchline. And then what? Nothing. Nothing ever comes of it. Who the hell does she think she is?” You threw your hands up in frustration. “She kisses me like it means something, like it’s real, like—like I’m not just the idiot who watched her flirt with some random girl the second I walked into that party.”

Ekko pulled into your driveway, shifting the car into park. He leaned back, raising an eyebrow as he looked over at you. “Okay, so... do you want my opinion? Or should I just sit here and nod like an enabler?”

You sniffed, wiping your face with the sleeve of his jacket. “Go ahead. Let’s hear it.”

He pointed a finger at you. “First off... I think this? This is more about you than her.” You opened your mouth to argue, but he held a hand up. “No. Uh-uh. Let me finish.”

“She’s single. She can flirt with whoever the hell she wants.” He gave you a look—firm but not unkind. “And also... she doesn’t know you like her.” His head tilted. “Like, actually like her. Until a month ago, you would’ve rather eaten glass than admit you didn’t hate her. Hell, you probably still wouldn’t admit it.”

He gestured between the two of you. “You think everyone’s a mind reader? Not everyone’s mentally connected to you like I am.”

You opened your mouth to fire something back... but nothing came out. Because he wasn’t wrong. Not even a little bit.

Ekko sighed, softer this time. “And look... I’m not saying you don’t have a right to be upset. You do. If she really likes you—like likes you—she could’ve been clearer. She could’ve handled this way better.” His hands tapped the wheel absently. “But you both? You’ve been dancing around each other for months. Pretending. Poking. Flirting. Fighting. And neither of you wants to admit it’s real unless the other says it first.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight, heart heavier than before—but not in the same way.

“I think,” Ekko continued, glancing over, “you both need some time. To figure your shit out. And then you need to sit down, talk it over... and actually talk.” He nudged your arm with his elbow. “Without yelling. Without storming out. Like actual functioning humans.”

You stared at the dashboard, then sighed. “I hate feelings.”

Ekko grinned. “Yeah. I know.”

──────────────────────

The week that followed the absolute disaster of that party was, without a doubt, one of the weirdest weeks of your life.

Vi gave you the time you’d asked for. Completely. No texts. No teasing. No dumb flirty comments. Not even that annoying smirk she always threw your way when she passed you in the hall. Nothing. It was radio silence.

And God... it felt awful.

You felt empty.

How could someone who’d only been in your life for a few months leave a void this massive? It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense. But it did.

Everywhere you went, there were things that reminded you of her. A song playing in someone’s car that you knew was on her playlist. A broken vending machine that still had the dent she put in it after punching it last month. Even stupid little things—like seeing strawberry gum at the corner store and immediately thinking of her.

More times than you wanted to admit, your thumb hovered over her name in your contacts. Ready to text. To send a dumb picture. Or ask if she still wanted her hoodie back. Or say... something. Anything.

And every single time... you locked your phone, shoved it back into your pocket, and told yourself you needed to get your head on straight. That if you were going to talk to her, it needed to be for real. Not another half-baked argument. Not another awkward almost-conversation.

You didn’t see her at lunch. You didn’t catch her between classes. It was like she was a ghost—everywhere and nowhere all at once. You couldn’t tell if she was actively avoiding you or if the universe was just being cruel.

“Can you not look for her every five seconds?” Ekko’s voice dragged you out of your thoughts. He was halfway through annihilating the saddest excuse for a cafeteria chicken sandwich you’d ever seen. “Seriously. Either do something... or stop torturing yourself.”

You sighed, slumping forward, poking half-heartedly at the fries on your tray. “I’m not—”

“You are.” He pointed at you with a fry. “You keep pretending you’re not, but every time someone walks past that door, you flinch like it’s her.” He chewed, swallowed, then added, “It’s getting sad, dude.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I know... I know. I just... I don’t know what to say to her.”

“Try ‘hey.’ Or ‘can we talk?’ Or, I don’t know, literally any words that exist in the English language.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Look, I get it. You don’t wanna screw it up. You wanna do this the right way.” He paused, looking at you seriously. “But avoiding her isn’t the right way either.”

“I’m not avoiding her,” you muttered, though you knew it was a lie.

Ekko snorted. “Yeah. Sure. That’s why you nearly dove behind the vending machine this morning when you saw her coming.”

You winced. “That was... situational.”

“Sure, bro.” He popped the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. “Totally situational.”

You sighed, letting your head thunk against the table.

You were miserable. And this wasn’t fixing anything.

You missed her.

God, you missed her so bad it physically hurt.

And maybe... maybe it was time to stop running from that.

For the rest of lunch, you sat in silence, pretending to care about Ekko’s ongoing rant about how cafeteria pizza should be a crime against humanity. But your mind wasn’t really there.

It circled the same thought, over and over like a broken record:

“Talk to her. Just… talk to her.”

Easier said than done.

Your knee bounced under the table as the anxiety built. You were so deep in your own head that you didn’t even realize lunch had ended until Ekko snapped his fingers in front of your face.

“Earth to emotionally constipated lesbian.” He stood, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “You good?”

You nodded. Sort of. “Yeah... yeah. I’m gonna do it.”

Ekko’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah. I mean... I have to.” You shoved your tray aside, gripping the strap of your bag like it was some kind of life preserver. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending like it didn’t happen. Like none of it meant anything.” You swallowed hard. “Even if it’s just to get closure... I need to know.”

“Okay, yeah!” Ekko grinned, clapping you hard on the back. “Now we’re talking! So... what’s the plan?”

You stared at him blankly. “I have... absolutely no fucking idea.”

He groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face like this was somehow his problem too. “Damn. Why do I always gotta do everything around here?”

You snorted. “Tragic, really.”

Rubbing his eyes like you were physically exhausting him, he muttered, “Alright, first of all—you cannot ask me how I know this.”

You squinted. “That’s... very suspicious.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved you off. “Look, I’ll text you her address. You still have her hoodie, right?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Cool. Use that as your excuse. Tell her it’s her favorite hoodie and she’ll literally die without it. I don’t know. Be creative. Improvise. Lie a little.”

You blinked at him. “...I don’t know how you got her address, and I don’t think I wanna know. But you’re a lifesaver.”

“Damn right I am.”

The rest of the school day was a blur—an endless loop of your brain spiraling between panic and regret. You barely heard anything your teachers said, your leg bouncing under your desk the entire time as you worked yourself into a mental breakdown over:

How the hell were you going to explain knowing where she lived without sounding like a stalker?

What the hell were you even going to say when you got there?

“Hey, sorry I accused you of using me in front of half the party.”

“Hey, my bad for melting down after you kissed me in front of everyone.”

“Hey, I think I might actually be in love with you and it scares the absolute shit out of me.”

No. Nope. Absolutely not that last one. Not even under threat of death.

By the time school ended, you had worked yourself up so badly that your hands were actually shaking as you punched the address into your phone.

The walk there felt longer than it probably was. Every step sounded like a countdown to your own execution. You stopped a few houses away, took a deep breath, and before you chickened out completely, you fired a quick text to Ekko:

You: just got here. if i die tell my mom it was self-inflicted.

Ekko: 🫡 soldier’s death. respect.

You stared at the door. You could still back out. Run. Pretend you got lost. Fake a kidnapping. Anything.

But no. You were here. You owed it to yourself to face this.

You raised your fist and knocked.

A few seconds later, the door swung open, revealing a girl with long blue hair and sharp eyes. She looked vaguely familiar, but you couldn’t quite place where you’d seen her before.

“Uh... hi.” You tried your best not to sound like you were about to have a stroke. “Is Vi home?”

The girl blinked at you, unimpressed. “Yeah? Who’s asking?”

“It’s... uh... Y/N. I’m one of her classmates.” Your voice was way too shaky for your liking.

The moment your name left your mouth, her bored expression morphed into something far more interested. Her eyebrows shot up. “Ohhhh. You’re Y/N?” Her lips curled into a mischievous grin. “Damn. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Your stomach flipped. “...Is that... good?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “Fat Hands is upstairs. Second door on the left.” She jerked her thumb toward the stairway behind her. “You can go up.”

“...Fat Hands?” you echoed, confused.

“Yeah.” The girl smirked. “It’s a long story. You should ask her about it sometime.”

You didn’t know whether to be concerned or amused. Probably both.

Clutching Vi’s hoodie to your chest like it was some kind of emotional shield, you nodded. “Uh... thanks.”

“Good luck,” she added, a little too cheerfully. “You’re gonna need it.”

You gulped and stepped inside, every nerve in your body screaming.

Each step up the stairs felt like climbing a mountain. Second door on the left. Second door on the left. You hovered in front of it, fist raised but frozen midair. Your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

This is so stupid. This is so stupid. Why am I like this?

But before you could talk yourself out of it... you knocked.

From the other side, her voice came through—groggy, surprised, and a little confused.

“Yeah? What—?”

The door creaked open.

Vi stood there, in an oversized t-shirt, hair messier than you'd ever seen it, one eyebrow raised the second her eyes landed on you. Her lips parted slightly, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

“...Y/N?”

You swallowed, throat dry. “...Hey.”

Her expression shifted—surprise first, then caution, then something softer that she quickly tried to mask behind a casual lean against the doorframe. Her arms crossed, like she was bracing herself.

“I brought you this.” You held out the hoodie—hers—the one you'd conveniently “forgotten” to return. Every speech and rehearsed line you’d come up with vanished from your head like smoke.

“...Okay...” Vi took the hoodie slowly, like she wasn’t sure if it was a gift, a trap, or both. “Why are you... I mean... what are you doing here?”

You shifted awkwardly on your feet. “Can I... come in?”

For a second, she didn’t answer. Her mouth opened like she was about to say something, then closed again. Then quietly, almost hesitant—

“...Yeah. Yeah, okay. C’mon in.”

She stepped back, letting you into her room.

It was... surprisingly clean. Organized chaos. Posters covered the walls—bands, old boxing matches, graffiti art. A few half-built mechanical things sat scattered across her desk, alongside a screwdriver and a pair of welding goggles. The air smelled faintly of citrus, metal... and Vi.

You stood there awkwardly, not sure whether to sit, stand, or bolt out the door. The silence between you was suffocating.

“Uh, I...” you tried, but nothing made sense anymore. “I had this whole speech, about how this is your favorite hoodie and you really needed it back, and how I’m an idiot for not returning it sooner and—”

Vi sighed, dragging both hands over her face. “Look... if you’re here to yell at me again, just get it over with. I swear, I still have no idea what the hell I did that night.”

You inhaled sharply. “That’s... that’s the thing.” Your gaze dropped to the floor, then back up to meet hers. “You didn’t really do anything. Not... not technically.”

Her brow furrowed. “Then why...?”

“Because...” You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing the words out. “Because you drive me insane, Vi.” Your voice cracked. “You flirt. You joke. You act like it’s all fun and games. You kiss me like it means something, and then... the second I walked into that party, you were flirting with someone else.” Your throat tightened. “And I didn’t want to care. I really didn’t. But I do. I care way more than I should. And it scared the hell out of me because... because I thought it was just a game to you.”

Vi’s face softened instantly. “Hey... no. No, Y/N...” She stepped toward you, then paused like she wasn’t sure if getting closer was allowed. “It wasn’t a game. Not to me. Not... not with you.”

“Then why do you act like it is?” your voice broke—thick with frustration and something dangerously close to heartbreak. “Why do you call me every pet name in the book and keep proclaiming you’re the love of my life like it’s some kind of joke? Like I’m supposed to just laugh it off and pretend it doesn’t mean anything?”

Vi flinched, like the words physically hit her. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out for a second. Then finally—

“Because that’s... that’s how I am, Y/N. That’s how I’ve always been. Joking’s easier. Safer. I didn’t think you’d... I didn’t think you’d ever actually... care.” Her voice softened, breaking. “I didn’t think I was allowed to hope you would.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

You blinked, stunned. “...Wait. What?”

Vi dragged a hand through her hair, pacing a few steps like she couldn’t sit still with everything bubbling out of her. “Yeah. Yeah. Look, you think I was messing around? God, Y/N, I’ve been terrified. You’re...” she shook her head, laughing bitterly. “You’re smart, you’re gorgeous, you’ve got your shit together... I never thought I had a chance. So yeah, I flirt. I joke. That’s what I do. But that kiss?” Her voice dropped, raw, trembling. “That wasn’t a joke. That wasn’t a bit. That was... real. And I’ve been losing my mind ever since.”

She stopped pacing, turning to face you fully, breathing like it physically hurt. “I wanted to kiss you. I wanted it so bad. And then you ran, and I... I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to make it worse.”

Your breath caught. The tension between you was like a live wire—crackling, fragile, dangerous.

Vi bit her bottom lip, then let out a shaky laugh, almost self-deprecating. “...I really fucked this up, huh?”

You stared at her. “...You kinda did.” You crossed your arms. “But it’s okay... because I kinda fucked this up too.”

She winced, then smiled—soft, lopsided, and so Vi it hurt. “Yeah. Fair.”

And God... seeing Vi— reckless, cocky, unbothered Vi—standing there looking vulnerable, nervous, uncertain... it tugged at something deep in your chest.

You exhaled a shaky breath. “...So what the hell do we do now?”

Vi blinked at you, surprised for a second, then grinned—tentative but real. “I don’t know. But... maybe we stop running from it.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper when she added, “From... this. From us.”

Your heart stuttered. “...Yeah. Maybe we do.”

Vi stared at you like she was waiting for permission. Like if she even breathed wrong, you might vanish. Her fingers twitched at her sides—like she wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if she was allowed to.

And you were tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of fighting it. Tired of holding yourself together like you weren’t seconds from falling apart every time she looked at you like that.

“Vi...” you started, but the words barely made it past your lips.

Her gaze dropped to your mouth. Her tongue darted out, nervously wetting her bottom lip, and that—God, that—snapped something inside of you.

“Screw it,” you whispered.

You stepped forward at the same time she did, like gravity itself finally gave up pretending you two weren’t being pulled together. Her hands cupped your face, tentative at first, but the second she felt you lean into her touch—like you needed it—her grip tightened.

And then she kissed you.

Not like the playful teasing at the party. Not like something for show, or a joke, or a dare. This was different. This was desperate, and clumsy, and real. Her lips were soft but firm against yours, a little shaky, a little frantic, like she’d been thinking about this every second since the last time and had no idea if she’d ever get to do it again.

Your hands fisted in the front of her shirt, pulling her closer, like you could physically make up for all the distance and the hurt and the confusion that had built between you. Her arms wrapped around your waist, holding you like something precious—like she was terrified of letting go.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, both of you were gasping like you’d just surfaced from underwater.

“...Okay,” Vi rasped, smiling so softly it hurt. “Okay. Yeah. We’re really doing this, huh?”

A laugh bubbled out of you, watery and real. “Yeah... I think we are.”

Her thumb brushed your cheek, gentler than you’d ever thought Vi could be. “I meant it, you know... what I said. None of this was ever a joke. Not you. Not... us.”

Your hands slid up, cupping her jaw, your thumbs tracing the line of her cheekbone. “I know. I... I didn’t want to believe it at first. But... I do now.”

Vi grinned, but it was softer than her usual cocky smile—almost shy. “Guess that means you’re stuck with me now, huh?”

You pretended to think. “Hmm... yeah. Guess I am. What a nightmare.”

She chuckled, dipping her head to kiss you again—softer this time, slower, like she wasn’t in a rush anymore. Like she had all the time in the world now that you weren’t running from each other.

──────────────────────

The next morning felt... weird. But the good kind of weird. The kind that made your stomach flutter every time you remembered how Vi had kissed you, how her hand fit perfectly in yours, how the two of you had talked until way too late—about everything. About the party, about the feelings neither of you had been brave enough to say out loud until now. About you. About her.

So when your phone buzzed with a text from Vi that read:

“Get ready. I’m picking you up for school. No arguments.”

—you couldn’t even pretend to be annoyed.

And true to her word, ten minutes before you were supposed to leave, a loud, familiar motorcycle engine rumbled outside your house. You peeked through the window to see Vi leaning against her bike, looking all cocky like she wasn’t absolutely whipped.

Your heart did a stupid little flip.

By the time you grabbed your bag and stepped outside, she was grinning. “Mornin’, princess.”

“Morning,” you said, trying not to smile like an idiot.

She handed you a helmet, waiting for you to strap it on before sliding onto the bike. The second you wrapped your arms around her waist, she squeezed your hand against her stomach like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

The ride to school was a blur of wind, adrenaline, and the kind of giddy happiness you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Meanwhile Ekko who had stood on your front porch, and knocked for longer than he had to, was calling you like no tomorrow. His brows furrowed. “Hello? You alive? Where the fuck are you?”

He was ready to call your parents when the distant sound of a motorcycle made him glance toward the street.

His eyes squinted. “No. No way.”

Sure enough, he watched as a very familiar red motorcycle pulled into the school parking lot... with you sitting on the back of it. Arms around Vi. Laughing.

And then—oh.

Vi parked, kicked the stand down, and helped you off like it was the most normal thing in the world. And when you slid your helmet off, she took it from you, casually threading her fingers through yours as the two of you started walking toward the school entrance.

Hand in hand.

Ekko blinked. Stared. Looked down at his phone like it might be lying to him. Looked back up and shook his head, snorting under his breath as he shoved his phone back in his pocket. “About damn time.”

As he caught up to you two, he didn’t even bother hiding his smirk. “Wow. Look who finally figured it out.”

Vi shot him a grin. “Took some elbow grease, but yeah. We got there.”

You rolled your eyes, blushing. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely starting.” Ekko wiggled his eyebrows. “I’m milking this for weeks.”

Vi threw an arm around your shoulders. “Let him. He earned it.”

And for once, walking into school didn’t feel heavy. It didn’t feel complicated. It felt... kinda perfect.

──────────────────────

masterlist

[strawb4kdior]

how'd i miss this - my girl cait i want to marry you

@cosmiclily - you have blessed me! te amo

domestic cait omgggg... winedrunk chats on the balcony, swimming together, forcing her to go fishing/hiking with u, her dragging you to fancy dinners AHHH I NEED HER

domesticity never looked better on you - caitlyn x f!reader

wc: 3.3k

notes: 😖 i want her!!!! i like cassandra but had to make her mean for the sake of the plot lol

When you first started dating Caitlyn, you were convinced your social status would be a huge problem.

You were raised in a perfectly normal family, in a modest little house miles away from anything even remotely close to a mansion. No housekeepers. No garden parties. No marble foyers or private tennis courts. Just cracked sidewalks, secondhand furniture, and dinners that came out of crockpots—not five-star kitchens.

Caitlyn, on the other hand? She grew up behind iron gates. Old money. The kind of wealth that didn’t need to be flashy because it was so deeply ingrained it didn’t have to prove itself. Quiet wealth. Generational. Silver spoons. Ballroom etiquette. Family heirlooms that were probably worth more than your entire zip code.

So when she started showing interest in you, it honestly felt like a joke. Some kind of social experiment. A rich girl slumming it for the thrill of it. You half expected hidden cameras to pop out from behind the bushes.

“Surprise! You’re on ‘How Long Can the Poor Girl Last?’”

Weeks turned into months, and yet... you never once invited her to your tiny downtown apartment. Maybe it was pride. Maybe shame. Probably both. It just seemed easier—safer—to keep her in her world. Rooftop bars. Sleek restaurants with floors so polished you could see your reflection. Minimalist lofts where dust dared not exist.

But one dinner turned into two, then three, then too many glasses of wine. Then hands—her hands—hungry and desperate, fingers tangling in your hair, lips dragging across your skin like a whispered promise.

Suddenly, your one-bedroom apartment was a lot closer than her fancy penthouse.

Horniness beat shame. Every time.

And when she shoved you against the door of your cluttered little hallway, laughing breathlessly into your mouth, it hit you like a freight train—she didn’t care. Not about the pile of dishes in the sink. Not about the bathroom faucet that wouldn’t stop leaking. Not about the cabinet door that hung crooked and refused to close all the way.

She cared about you. About this.

And God, that was a dangerous thing to realize.

After that, she started coming over more often. It became a rhythm. A routine. A quiet sort of domesticity neither of you acknowledged out loud but both leaned into.

You’d cook dinner together—cheap pasta or something overly ambitious from a YouTube video—and laugh when it inevitably went wrong. You’d split a cigarette on the tiny balcony with the rusty railing, legs tangled together on an old chair that squeaked every time you shifted.

You talked about the future. Sometimes seriously, sometimes just… hypothetical.

"Maybe we should get a bigger place," she mused one night, exhaling smoke through a lazy grin. “Somewhere with a balcony that doesn’t feel like it’s plotting our murder."

"Somewhere with more than one drawer," you grinned back, pretending the idea didn’t make your heart somersault.

She made you feel like the most important person in the world. Like you were the luxury.

The way she’d cup your face with one hand, fingertips gentle beneath your chin, while the other hand held a cigarette between two fingers, the ember catching in her lashes as she looked at you like you were something sacred.

"You know," she’d whisper, her accent syrupy-sweet, "you drive me absolutely insane."

And then she’d kiss you—hungrily, desperately—like she needed you more than air. Pinning you against the kitchen counter. The old leather couch that complained beneath your weight. The rickety dining table. The bedroom door you never managed to fix properly.

She’d sip wine from the fancy glass she bought you for Valentine’s Day—because “no one should drink good wine out of a mug,” she’d scold—and look like a painting. Legs crossed. Chin tilted. Sunlight pooling in her hair like gold.

“You look surreal right now," you’d tell her, breathless, like it was the first time you’d ever seen her.

She’d just smile, slow and knowing. “Good," she’d murmur, sipping her wine. "Because I feel surreal whenever I’m with you."

──────────────────────

Then things got serious-serious. No going back. “Bring her home to meet the family” serious.

Which, of course, meant the annual family hiking trip. A tradition that sounded wholesome in theory but, in practice, was a chaotic mess of your brothers arguing over who forgot the fishing bait, your dad retelling the same “legendary stories” you’ve heard since you were in diapers, and your mom sighing her way through it all with a wine thermos and her well-practiced tolerance.

Caitlyn, in designer boots—boots that had definitely never touched mud before—stepped onto that dirt trail like she was walking a runway. You half expected her to tap out before the first mile. But no. She laced her fingers with yours, smiled like it was the easiest thing in the world, and just… fit.

And then, as expected, came The Story.

Your dad cracked open a beer, leaned back in his folding chair like a king, and started with the classic dramatic sigh.

“You know, girl… there was this one time… I almost took down a bear. All by myself."

You groaned internally. Here we go.

“It was me and my buddies. Middle of the woods. Big hunting trip. They all ran—scared shitless of the damn thing. But not me. I stood my ground. Looked that bear right in the eye and—"

Your mom let out a groan of her own, leaned over toward you, and whispered behind her wine cup, “There he goes again.” Shaking her head, but smiling anyway.

But Caitlyn? Caitlyn sat there with her legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded neatly in her lap, nodding like she’d never heard a more riveting story in her life. Her blue eyes wide, her lips parted just a little, like she was utterly captivated.

"Wow," she said softly when he paused for dramatic effect. “And what happened next?"

Your dad lit up like a Christmas tree. “What happened next? Hell, I scared it off, of course! Big ol’ thing ran like hell. Must’ve known it was no match for me." He slapped his knee, letting out a big belly laugh.

Your brothers exchanged a long, telepathic sibling eye-roll.

But Caitlyn? She just nodded like he’d confessed the cure to cancer. “That’s… that’s really brave of you.”

And somehow, in that moment, watching her charm your family—your chaotic, loud, beer-drinking, fish-failing family—you felt something squeeze in your chest. Something warm. Something terrifying.

She wasn’t just tolerating it. She was choosing it. Choosing you.

Mud, fishing disasters, exaggerated bear stories and all.

Later that night, as you sat together on an old log by the fire, watching the flames flicker against her cheekbones and the stars get tangled in her hair, she nudged your shoulder softly.

“You know… I think I could get used to this."

You turned to her, something huge and heavy and terrifying blooming in your chest. "Yeah?"

“Yeah." She smiled, lacing her fingers through yours. “ I like seeing where you come from. It makes sense now… why you are the way you are."

You laughed, nudging her playfully. “Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"Definitely a compliment." A pause, then softer, like a secret: “A very, very big one.”

And that was the moment you realized… you were so, so in love with her.

──────────────────────

After that trip, something shifted. Quietly. Permanently.

It started with a toothbrush. Then a silk robe. Then a drawer. Then two. Her favorite mug. Her preferred brand of tea—loose leaf, of course, because “You are not putting that cheap microwave-heated water near me ever again.”

"It tastes the same," you argued.

She rolled her eyes. "It really doesn’t. I’m fixing this. For both our dignity."

Mornings became a ritual. You’d wake up tangled together, sunlight pooling across her skin, her cold toes tucked under your calf like they had every right to be there.

"Five more minutes," she'd mumble into your neck. “Just… five.” Always bargaining with time. Always pulling you back in.

She’d shuffle into the kitchen wearing one of your shirts—nothing else—while scrolling the news, groaning dramatically every time a headline pissed her off.

"Your country is insane," she’d mutter, sipping her coffee.

"Yeah, well. We make up for it with free refills."

Even arguments became familiar. Comfortable.

"That’s not how you cut an onion."

"It’s fine. It’s rustic."

"It’s a crime against vegetables."

Some nights you cooked together. Other nights it was takeout eaten on the floor, because the couch was covered in unfolded laundry neither of you were willing to touch.

She started humming. Classical. Jazz. Sometimes stupid jingles that got stuck in her head. And when she thought you weren’t paying attention, she’d sing softly under her breath—barely a whisper.

Sundays became sacred. Farmers markets. Bickering over which wine to buy or what flowers would last the longest in the tiny vase on the kitchen windowsill.

"Get the sunflowers."

"They never last."

"Yeah, but they’re happy. Look at them. They're objectively happy flowers."

She bought them anyway. You never argued.

Even silence became something soft. Something safe. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch—her reading some heavy political memoir, you scrolling through nonsense—but her leg always touching yours. Always.

She fell asleep on you more often than not. Her head on your shoulder. Her breath warm against your neck. You’d lower the volume, pull the blanket over her, press a kiss to her temple without even thinking about it.

By then, it wasn’t a question of if you loved her. It was just… a fact. Quiet. Irrevocable. Written into the very fabric of your everyday life.

It wasn’t grand. Wasn’t cinematic.

It was folding her laundry without being asked. It was her refilling your shampoo before you noticed it was running low. It was kissing you goodnight even when you were mid-argument.

It was love.

Carved softly into the routines of your day.

And God… it was the most terrifying, most beautiful thing you had ever known.

──────────────────────

Everything was great.

Until you met her family.

Her father was welcoming—warm smile, firm handshake, the kind of man who knew how to make anyone feel comfortable. But her mother? No. Her mother had that look. The kind that peeled back your skin and saw every flaw you’d tried to hide. Cold eyes. Tense mouth. Perfect posture.

It hit you like a punch straight to the gut—dragging you all the way back to the beginning. Back to those first months with Caitlyn, when you felt... unworthy. Out of place. Dirty.

Her mother’s gaze swept over you like you were a scuff on her polished floors.

“So,” she started, tone razor-sharp but calm. “You’re the one my daughter has been spending all her time with.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement wrapped in judgment, tied with a bow of condescension.

Your throat tightened. “Yeah. Yes, ma’am. I—”

Her eyes flicked over your clothes—simple, nothing designer. Your shoes—practical, a little worn. And then back to your face, where she lingered, unimpressed.

Caitlyn, bless her, immediately stepped in. “Mother,” she warned, voice clipped. “Don’t.”

“I’m simply making conversation,” her mother said, tilting her head with a smile so practiced it felt weaponized. “It’s not every day Caitlyn brings someone... different... home.”

“Different how?” Caitlyn snapped, jaw tightening.

“Oh, darling, you know what I mean.” Her gaze didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “It’s... refreshing, I suppose. To see you… expanding your horizons.”

It felt like acid under your skin. You shifted your weight, suddenly hyperaware of how small you felt in this pristine, echoey sitting room—with its velvet furniture and marble fireplace that probably cost more than your entire apartment building.

Caitlyn’s fingers found yours, squeezing tightly. Her thumb brushed against the back of your hand—reassuring. Grounding.

“I’m not expanding my horizons,” Caitlyn said, steel in her voice now. “I’m dating someone I love.”

Her mother’s smile thinned. “Of course. Love. Naturally.” She stood, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her silk dress pants. “Well. I hope you understand, dear,”—this, aimed at you, dripping in false politeness—“that our family has certain... expectations.”

Her father coughed awkwardly into his glass, choosing silence.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. Your stomach twisted in on itself, throat tightening until you felt like you were going to suffocate.

Caitlyn stood abruptly. “We’re leaving.”

Her mother’s eyes barely flickered. “Suit yourself.”

Caitlyn didn’t even wait for her father’s awkward attempt at a goodbye. She laced her fingers with yours and marched you out the front door, heels clicking sharply against marble.

The second you were outside—air hitting your lungs like a slap—you pulled your hand from hers. “Cait, wait—”

She spun around. “No. No, don’t. Don’t defend her. Don’t tell me it’s fine. Don’t do that thing where you pretend you’re not hurt when I know you are.”

“I’m not pretending. I just... God, Caitlyn. What was that? She looked at me like I was—like I was some stray dog you brought home!”

“You think I don’t see it?” Her voice cracked. “You think I didn’t hear every little thing she was implying?!”

You shook your head, backing away a step. “I knew this would happen. I knew it. I don’t belong in your world, Cait. I never did.”

“Stop.” Her hands trembled as she grabbed your face, forcing you to look at her. “Stop. Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”

“You heard her! You heard exactly how she sees me.”

“I don’t care how she sees you!” she shouted, voice raw, breaking. “I don’t care how anyone sees you. I love you. I choose you.”

Your lips trembled. “I... Caitlyn, this isn’t just about today. It’s—God, it’s every time I step into your world. I feel like I’m holding my breath. Like I have to... shrink. Make myself smaller. Pretend I fit when I don’t.”

Her breath hitched. “Then let’s stop pretending.”

Silence. Thick. Heavy.

“W-What?”

“Let’s stop pretending we live in two different worlds. Let’s move in together.” Her eyes searched yours, desperate, pleading. “Really move in. No more overnight bags. No more ‘your place or mine.’ Just... ours. A real place. Together.”

You blinked, stunned. “Caitlyn...”

“I’m serious.” Her voice softened, cracking around the edges. “Let’s get a place that’s ours. Somewhere where no one gets to look at you like that ever again.”

Your heart stuttered. “You mean it?”

She exhaled, stepping forward until your foreheads touched. “I mean it. I want... I want a kitchen that smells like us. A bed that feels like ours. A home where you never—never—have to question if you belong.”

Your hands curled into her shirt, gripping tight. “I want that, too.”

She kissed you then. Desperate. Fierce. The kind of kiss that tasted like promises. Like defiance. Like home.

When you pulled apart, breathless, she grinned. “Let’s go apartment hunting.”

“God,” you laughed wetly. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.” Her thumb brushed away the tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “I don’t care where it is. Penthouse, shoebox, treehouse—I don’t care, as long as it’s with you.”

And just like that, the fear—the weight of not fitting, of not being enough—started to crack. Not disappear completely. But crack.

──────────────────────

So, apartment hunting you went.

And, God, it was harder than either of you expected.

Trying to find a place that fit both your budgets was like searching for a unicorn. You didn’t want to drown yourself in extra shifts just to afford half the rent—and Caitlyn, well, she wasn’t thrilled about sacrificing every ounce of comfort and freedom she was used to.

It was a balancing act. A frustrating, exhausting, sometimes hilarious balancing act.

“This one’s cute,” Caitlyn said, scrolling through listings on her phone as you both sat on a park bench with iced coffees. “Two bedrooms, decent commute for both of us. Oh… wait. Nope. No pets allowed.” She tilted her head, frowning. “You do want a cat eventually, right?”

“Obviously,” you snorted. “Non-negotiable.”

She grinned. “Agreed.”

The next place had gorgeous natural lighting but smelled like old cigarettes and regret. Another was perfect—until you saw the price tag. Your stomach dropped so hard you thought it might leave your body entirely.

Then, finally, you found it.

A little apartment on a quiet street, right in the middle between both of your jobs. Big enough for the two of you, with space for her obnoxiously large bookshelf, plus a balcony that didn’t feel like it was one loose screw away from collapse. The rent was… steep. Manageable for her, definitely. For you? Not without sacrificing sleep and sanity.

Caitlyn could see the stress written all over your face. She reached over, lacing her fingers through yours. “Listen,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “I can cover the rent. You can help in other ways. It’s not a problem for me. Truly.”

But your stomach twisted. Your jaw tensed. “It is a problem for me,” you said, sharper than you meant to, pressing the heel of your palm into your eyes like you could physically hold the headache back.

She sighed, squeezing your hand tighter. “Why? Why does it have to be this complicated?”

“Because I don’t want to feel like a charity case, Caitlyn,” you admitted, voice cracking at the edges. “I don’t want to wake up every day knowing I can’t pull my weight. I don’t want to owe you. I don’t want to owe anyone.”

Her face softened immediately, some of the tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Baby.” Her thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Is that seriously what you think this is? Some… some transactional thing? You think I’m keeping score?”

You stayed quiet, staring at the scuffed floor of the real estate office.

“Hey,” she said more gently now, tipping your chin up so you had no choice but to meet her eyes. “Look at me. I don’t care about the money. I care about building a life with you. And that life? It’s gonna look like us. Not like what my mother expects. Not like what anyone else thinks it should be.”

You swallowed thickly. “But it feels unfair.”

“Then let’s make it fair,” she countered immediately. “You handle groceries, I handle rent. You cook, I’ll fix the Wi-Fi when it inevitably dies at 2 a.m. You deal with the plants—because God knows I’ll kill them—and I’ll make sure we always have a bottle of good wine in the cabinet. Equal doesn’t mean identical.”

Your lip wobbled. “That’s… actually not a bad deal.”

A soft smile tugged at her lips. “It’s a pretty damn good deal.”

You sighed, leaning your forehead against hers. “I hate that you’re good at this.”

“I know,” she chuckled, brushing your hair behind your ear. “It’s very annoying.”

A beat of silence passed. Then, grinning mischievously, she added, “So… should we go sign the lease before someone else steals it?”

You laughed, despite everything. “Yeah. Let’s go get our place.”

And just like that, it became real.

It wasn’t just moving boxes and new keys. It was picking out curtains together and arguing over which plates to buy. It was discovering that Caitlyn folded towels like some kind of military operation—perfect rectangles stacked with mathematical precision—while yours looked like abstract art.

It was realizing that her version of grocery shopping involved imported cheeses and $30 olive oil while you were just trying to find the cheapest ramen.

It was watching her struggle to assemble IKEA furniture, muttering under her breath in perfectly enunciated rage, while you tried (and failed) to hold in your laughter.

It was burning your first dinner in the new kitchen because neither of you remembered the oven ran hot. Eating cold pizza on the floor, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes, laughing until your sides hurt.

It was whispered “I love you” in the soft light of the morning, when your voices were still scratchy from sleep.

It was making out, half-tipsy on wine, tangled together on the living room floor because the couch wasn’t built yet—but neither of you cared.

It was falling asleep with her arm draped lazily over your waist, her soft breathing warm against your neck, knowing—really knowing—that this was yours.

──────────────────────

masterlist

[strawb4kdior]

Take a Chance with Me or I don't wanna know you AU

ok so why not give a visualizer for my au cause why not so you'll know how to imagine Vi in this story.

⌗TACWHorIDWKY — link for my au

[strawb4kdior]

“i can’t help it, you’re fun to mess with” modern Vi au ? 🩷

✮⋆˙𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 modern!vi x reader ✮⋆˙𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 none ✮⋆˙𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 hi so i had this little thing in my drafts and changed a few things to fit the request !! i hope you like it ♡︎ also - modern vi has a special place in my heart (i just know she'd be a smug bastard)

♡︎ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ♡︎

Vi was sprawled across the bed, shirtless, hair still damp from her shower, one arm lazily slung around your waist. You were both on your phones, legs tangled under the covers. Her thumb scrolled absently, while yours hovered over your latest post.

You tried to act casual, but Vi caught the smirk you were failing to hide.

“What did you do?” she asked, suspicion in her voice.

You bit your lip, turning your phone so she could see the photo — a perfectly timed shot of her mid-workout, abs flexed, expression intense, the caption: “yes, she’s mine. no, you can’t have her.”

Vi blinked. “When did you even take that?”

“I have my ways.”

A beat of silence. Then her phone buzzed.

“Oh my god.” She stared at the flood of likes and comments. “‘Vi could ruin my life and I’d say thank you’? Damn.” She let out a low whistle. “These people are thirsty.”

You laughed. “Can you blame them? Look at you.”

Vi rolled onto her side, grinning. “You like showing me off, huh?”

You shrugged, smug. “You’re hot. I’m proud.”

She leaned in, brushing her lips against your neck, voice dropping. “Keep talking like that and I’ll give ‘em something new to thirst over.”

“Vi!” you squeaked, pushing at her chest as she laughed.

“You started it,” she said, scrolling again. “Wait—this one says ‘gym? I thought she carried hay bales on a ranch and threw people for fun.’”

You raised a brow. “Did they lie?”

Vi chuckled, clearly loving every second of it. “Nope. But now I feel like I should go shirtless more often.”

“Please don’t,” you deadpanned. “I don’t need a full-blown internet meltdown.”

She winked. “Too late. I am the meltdown.”

You groaned and buried your face in her chest. “Why are you like this?”

She kissed the top of your head. “Because you love me, i can’t help it, you’re fun to mess with”.”

You roll your eyes at her, smug idiot - unfortunately, you really, really did.

[strawb4kdior]

mwah! thank you gorg!!! 💞

@cosmiclily @lolitalovess @krfttin @bebeluvvv @ultravioletlane @elliesangel444 @hyperbabes @marscardigan

favirote moots?

(People you tag have to reblog and say their favorite moots)

Okay wait

@ibrokeurheartbcuzubrokemine @foliverfalls @allyeilishh @addisonraesbaby @emiliesblohsh @bilsslut @noodleswashere @bilsbabyy @bitchesbrokenpromises @billsdollie

[strawb4kdior]

R.I.P Kaz Brekker you would have loved rubix cubes

R.I.P Jesper Fahey you would have loved Mod fashion

R.I.P Inej Ghafa you would have loved WMMA

R.I.P. Nina Zenik you would have loved geoquest

R.I.P Wylan Hendricks you would have loved band

R.I.P Matthias Helvar you would have loved Abba

[strawb4kdior]

Eepy, weepy, sleepy, baby~

Pairing: Caitlyn Kiramman × f!reader

Warnings: none. just pure fluff.

A/n: AHHHHHHHHH I WANNA CUDDLE HER SO BAD PLEASE

You fling the door open, kicking it shut with a tired sigh. The day had been brutal, a relentless onslaught of papers, nasty customers, and more papers. You just wanted to collapse.

What do you do?

You call out in a tone akin to desperation, already heading towards the living room, “Cait?”

There, you find her curled up on the couch, a book in her hand. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, her lips slightly parted as she reads. You smile, the sight of her always a breath of fresh air.

You only sigh loudly, dropping onto the couch with a soft thud before finding your spot.

Caitlyn lets out a soft startled squeak and you immediately regret your choice of landing spot. You were sprawled across her lap, head resting on her stomach, a small cheeky grin gracing your lips.

“Oh, darling,” Caitlyn says, her voice laced with amusement as she looks down at you, the cute gap between her teeth visible from the grin she gave you. “You’re a bit heavy, you know.”

"Heavy?" You exclaimed in disbelief to which Caitlyn returned a small chuckle.

"I only jest, my sweet," she responds.

You groan a second time, burying your face further into her soft sweater, bunching them in your hands. “I’m tired,” you mumble.

“I can see,” Caitlyn chuckles, reaching down to gently cup your cup. “How was your day?”

“Exhausting,” you say, your voice muffled. “I swear, I’ve spent the last eight hours unable to understand what was happening.”

“Well, I'd rather not let you dwell on your woes. You’re home now, darling,” Caitlyn says, her voice softening, her thumb now stroking your cheek. “In my arms. You've got to admit that it’s the perfect remedy.”

You snuggle closer, enjoying the warmth of her body and the gentle rhythm of her breathing.

“You’re warm,” you murmur, your voice barely audible. Caitlyn’s hand continues to move through your hair, a soothing gesture that reminds you that you were all safe and loved.

“I’m glad,” she says, her voice a soft murmur. “You’re warm too. You sure you're not catching a cold, love?”

You sigh contentedly, shaking your head before closing your eyes. You were so tired, but you did not want to move. You just wanted to stay here, in Caitlyn’s arms, forever. If you could, you would even melt into her skin.

“Cait?” you say, your voice a sleepy whisper.

“Hmm?” she hums, her voice barely audible.

“I love you,” you say, your voice barely a breath. Caitlyn hums softly, telling you that you have her attention.

“I love you too,” she says, her voice a soft murmur. “More than anything.”

You feel her lips brush against your forehead, a soft, loving kiss. You smile, feeling a wave of warmth wash over you.

“Cait,” you say again, your voice a little stronger now. “I’m too tired to move.”

“I know, darling,” she says, her voice laced with concern. “But still, let’s get you to bed.”

Caitlyn carefully lifts you off the couch, her arms wrapping around you. You sigh, your head resting against her. She carries you to the bedroom, her movements slow and gentle.

Once she reached your shared bedroom, she lays you down on the bed, tucking you in a soft blanket. You snuggle deeper into the sheets, feeling the warmth of the bed and the comfort of Caitlyn’s presence.

“Are you comfy?” she asks, her voice soft.

“Mm-hmm,” you say, your voice barely a whisper.

Caitlyn sits beside you on the bed, her hand reaching up to gently stroke your cheek. You lean into her touch, feeling her warmth and her love.

“You’re so beautiful,” she says, her voice a soft murmur.

You blush, feeling a warmth spread through your cheeks. “You’re beautiful too,” you say, your voice barely a whisper.

Caitlyn smiles, her eyes sparkling with love.

“I’m going to stay here with you,” she says, her voice soft and soothing. “Well, until you fall asleep, that is.”

You close your eyes, content to simply lie in her presence, feeling her love radiating all around you.

“Cait,” you say, your voice a sleepy whisper.

“Hmm?” she hums, her voice barely audible.

“Can you scratch my head?” you ask, your voice barely a breath.

Caitlyn chuckles, her hand moving to gently scratch your scalp. You sigh contentedly, feeling the warmth of her touch and the soothing rhythm of her fingers.

“You’re so needy,” Caitlyn teases, her voice laced with love.

You open your eyes, looking up at her with a sleepy smile.

“I know,” you say, your voice a sleepy murmur. “But I know you like it.”

Caitlyn smiles, her eyes filled with warmth.

"Sleep tight, my love. I'll be here when you wake."

She continues to scratch your head, the gentle rhythm of her fingers lulling you to sleep, and just like a ship lulled in the soft waves, you slowly drift off to peaceful slumber.

Note: I may or may not be back to writing. I'm so rusty so please bear with me 😭

This small fluffy write-up is also dedicated to my bubba baby @caitlynsrighteye cuz she's been so tired these days. She deserves cuddles and hugs and kisses 😞🫂💋

[strawb4kdior]

I have no idea if you did this already, but if not could you write the spiders reaction to finding out their crush sleeps with plushies?

─ ⊹ ⊱ GOODNIGHT, PLUSHIES

headcanons

summary their reaction to finding out you sleep with plushies!

request by anonymous

a/n this is a short one sorry!! i’ve been so busy w my summer classes 😭😭 (overachiever core)

warnings none!

˖   ࣪ 𓂃  1610!MILES MORALES ☆  ׂ  ׅ*

he’s so cute about it! he asks you to introduce him to all of them, asks you what their names are, how old they are, when you got them, where you get them, etc. he would definitely take pics of you sleeping with them and show them to you when you wake up. he would draw you hugging your plushies, but he wouldn’t show you (unless you really asked him to). he would buy you some and you would have one you both own!

“what’s this ones name? and this one?”

˖   ࣪ 𓂃  GWEN STACY ☆  ׂ  ׅ*

first she would be like… what… but then she would see how much you love them and share the love you have for them! she would rearrange them when you’re not looking, add a new plushie to your collection occasionally, that kind of thing. she’s the typa person who would sleep with them as well, despite her tough girl persona. you would lose one, then realize it’s gwen who took it. she always returned it in the end though!

“hey, look what i found for you. another one!”

˖   ࣪ 𓂃  HOBIE BROWN ☆  ׂ  ׅ*

he would tease you about it at first, but then overtime love that you love your plushies. he would walk in on you sleeping and absolutely love the sight he sees. you would go on your rambles talking about your plushies, and he would just silently admire you. he would get you a spider punk plushie, just so that he’s always with you.

“here ya go, a plushie that’s just like me.”

˖   ࣪ 𓂃  PAVITR PRABHAKAR ☆  ׂ  ׅ*

oh my god he’s so excited!! he also sleeps with plushies, so he would introduce you to all of them! he would ask if you could introduce yours to him and he would introduce his to you. you guys would buy plushies for each other and then become the parents to one! he would buy clothes for yours, buy little accessories for them, basically spoil them. he would not shut up about it (in a good way), and always tease you by asking how they are.

“this ones name is chikku! ooo, what’s this ones name?”

˖   ࣪ 𓂃  42!MILES MORALES ☆  ׂ  ׅ*

he won’t stop teasing you about it. whenever you guys are arguing, he would also bring up how you are the one who sleeps with a plushie at night. though, he finds it super cute. he loves what you love, so he has no choice but to love them too. he would buy them for you all the time, occasionally surprising you with them. he now knows what to get you, and it makes his heart flutter whenever he sees you sleeping with the ones he got you. continuation of this

“y/n, you’re the one who sleeps with stuffed animals at night. you can’t talk.”

TAGS ↣ @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx

[strawb4kdior]

I'd like to request an x reader (GN since I haven't specified) with Gwen Stacy where the reader twirls strands of their hair very very often. Headcanon format, light-hearted and romance, if you will.

Please and thank you in advance.

The Hair-Twirler

mcu masterlist masterlist

sorry its really short

It’s not even conscious—your fingers just find a strand, and suddenly you’re looping it around, again and again. While you're thinking, talking, even when you’re eating cereal sometimes. It’s just your thing

Like, date #1, five minutes in, bam—there you go, twisting your hair while you listened to her talk about drumming. She tried to ignore how cute it was. She failed.

She was lowkey panicking like, “Am I intimidating?? Are they uncomfortable?? Did I say something weird??” Until she saw you doing it while zoning out during a movie and she realized: oh. it’s just a Them Thing.

You’ll be reading something and casually twisting a strand around your finger, and she’ll just stop what she’s doing to stare at you for a second. She's soft for it. Like heart-eyes, butterflies, why are you so cute-levels of soft.

Messy and fast? You're frustrated. Slow and rhythmic? You're content. Twirling the same strand over and over with a dreamy look in your eye? You’re thinking about something—probably someone. (Hopefully her.)

Like, when you’re lying on her lap, she’ll trace her fingers through your hair and find that same strand you always twirl. Sometimes she’ll do the twirling for you, just for fun. Bonus if you’re half asleep and don’t even notice.

When you asked her what that was for, she just shrugged and said, “You were doing the thing again. I couldn’t not.”

It’s her phone background. You have no idea.

If you ever call her over comms while she’s patrolling and she hears that little distracted pause in your voice? “You’re twirling your hair right now, aren’t you?” “You don’t know that.” “I can hear it. You’ve got your ‘flirt-voice’ on too.” “...Shut up."

And she wouldn’t trade it for the world. (Sometimes she even catches herself doing it too—just a little—when she misses you.)

[strawb4kdior]

thank ara for the tag - luv u hermosa!!

here's mine ~

here's my taglist: @cosmiclily @krfttin @ultravioletlane @bebeluvvv @violetszn + anyone who wants to join <333 🪩💐🫶

pinterest tag game

search; song, colour, vibe, outfit, art, quote to make your own pinterest mood board! just pick the first pics that pop up and post them in that order !

ty for the tag @pizzaapeteer 🖤🖤

npt: @obsessedwithceleste @riddlesrizzler @dearmisshoney @godricgryffinsnore

[strawb4kdior]

may I please request a protective Spider-Gwen x GN!Reader fanfic where Gwen learns Reader has been getting bullied in school and she tries to stop it by being her awesome protective Gwen self?

“who are they”.

pairings: gwen stacy x gn!reader

genre: hurt WITH comfort.

summary: you’ve been getting bullied and gwen defends u!!

a/n: hope this is good. I haven’t written for gwen in awhile I’m just out of ideas omggg

every time you and gwen hung out you were your bubbly self.

that’s what she loved about you— you always put smiles on others faces, making the energy in any room bright.

but not everyone appreciates that.

at school, you were bullied. people said you act crazy because of you being kind and hyper. you thought being nice and bubbly helped you always make friends but maybe that wasn’t the case.

one hangout, gwen was waiting for you at the park. she had her eyes closed while swinging on the wings until she heard sniffling.

she opened her eyes to see you. fighting to hold back tears.

“woah woah what’s wrong?” she got off the swing to hug you.

“people are so mean.” you mumbled.

“why what happened?” she spoke, making you hesitate.

“love you know you can tell me anything right?” she adds on.

“it was some people at school.” you said.

“oh okay.” you knew what that meant..

—

you went to school the next day and suddenly they were nice to you. they complimented your outfit and even bought you lunch.

they got sent out the classroom and never came back. that made you confused until you heard the rumors

“did you know gwen got them expelled?” is all you heard.

even though you should be worried. you couldn’t help but let out a laugh.

you walked to class then saw gwen in the hallway.

“what did you do,” you spoke.

“whaaat?.. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” she spoke, but you gave her the ‘don’t play with me’ look.

“okay sorry but they were messing with my all time favorite person! I couldn’t let them get away with it.” she held her hands up in defense

you chuckled shaking your head.

“you’re forgiven.”

—miyseilish2025 , grah don’t steal my stuff anywhere

[strawb4kdior]

Mini Series

All I Ask - Part I - Part II - Part III Devotion or Delusion - Part I - Part II - Part III Can't Love You in the Dark - Part I - Part II - Part III Into The Looking Glass - Part I - Part II A Soulmate Who Wasn't Meant To Be

Not Safe for Work (18+)

Dirty Laundry - Part I Part II Poisonous Touch - A Touch of Jealousy 5 More Minutes Same Ol' Mistakes Sweet

Oneshot

We Can't Be Friends Untamed Chaos I'd Choose You, No Other Way, Glimpse of Us, To Be Close To You, Till There Was You, My Girl HALLOWEEN SPECIALS

[strawb4kdior]

whiskey & honey 3

ranch girl ellie williams x city girl fem!reader

every summer since you were fourteen was spent in Ellie’s family ranch. your mothers are best friends, which only made it harder to understand why you and Ellie were never even friends. or maybe the question isn’t about friendship at all.

a/n: here it is! I’m currently on summer vacation back in my hometown, and things have been crazyyy. I’ve been sneaking in time to write whenever I’m not out with my cousins or caught up in the chaos. Hope you enjoy this chapter! ♡

Part 4

Celine was out in the garden when you pulled in, crouched over her tomatoes with sun on her shoulders and a floppy straw hat shielding her eyes. She looked up at the sound of the truck, hand resting on her hip.

“Back in one piece,” she called over the hedge.

“Yeah, well, she dents easy,” Ellie said, sliding out of the driver’s seat with a grunt and slamming her door like she hadn’t just made your heart do something stupid. “Gotta drive like I’m hauling crystal.”

You rolled your eyes and shot her a glare, but it didn’t quite land—not with the way your chest fluttered at the sound of her voice saying your name like that, even if she didn’t.

You hopped down barefoot, still holding your sandals in one hand. The porch steps radiated heat as you walked past them toward the house, but instead of going inside, you lingered — trailing just behind Ellie as she veered toward the barn.

“Hey,” you called after her. “Where are you going?”

She glanced back over her shoulder, expression unreadable. “Feeding. I forgot to check on Bramble this morning.”

You fell into step beside her, ignoring the ache in your calves from running in sand. “Can I come?”

“Lunch will be ready soon.” She reminded, raising her eyebrows.

“I’m not hungry yet.”

Ellie glanced over, her eyes trailing down your figure before flicking back up.

“Yeah,” she said dryly. “That’s kind of your thing, huh?”

You scoffed, half a smile tugging at your mouth. “I eat well,” you said. “You just never notice.”

She didn’t answer, just pushed open the barn door and left it swinging behind her. So you followed.

The air inside the barn was thick with the scent of sunbaked hay, leather, and the comforting musk of horses. Dust floated in the light filtering through the rafters, like tiny stars suspended in the heat.

Ellie disappeared into one of the stalls with a rustle of movement and soft huff from a horse.

You hung by the doorway for a second, taking in the quiet rhythm of the place, the creak of wood, the slow shifting of hooves. And then you stepped forward, curiosity pulling you closer.

“You don’t remember any of this, do you?” Ellie’s voice floated out from the stall.

You leaned on the edge. “Vaguely. I think I was scared of stepping in poop the last time.”

Ellie made a noise that might’ve been a laugh. She emerged a moment later holding a bridle, bits of hay stuck in her rolled-up sleeves.

“You want me to teach you something?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Or are you just going to follow me around and talk?”

“Why not both?” you teased, shrugging.

That earned you a half-smile — one of those crooked ones she tried to hide.

She handed you the bridle, and it was heavier than you expected — the leather warm and smooth, the metal cool against your palm.

“Alright,” she said, stepping close. “This is basic. You hold it like this—no, not like that. Here.” She adjusted your hands, her fingers brushing yours, firm but gentle.

You tried to focus, but the warmth of her body so close behind yours was impossible to ignore. Her voice was low, the kind of tone that filled your chest more than your ears.

“Reins over here. Loop under here. You tuck this strap behind the bit. That’s it.”

You squinted at the mess of buckles. “I’m gonna break this horse’s face.”

Ellie scoffed lightly. “You’re not even on the horse yet.”

“I’m helpless,” you sighed.

“It’s cute,” she said — too easily, too naturally, like it slipped out before she could stop it.

You turned your head toward her, surprised.

She was already looking at you, close enough that your breath could’ve met hers in the space between. For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then she stepped back, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Try again,” she said, voice quieter now.

You fumbled through it with her watching. Not too close this time, but close enough that her gaze felt like a second set of hands guiding your movements.

When you finally got the bridle looped properly — or at least close enough — she nodded with approval and a small grin.

“Not bad,” she said.

“I expect a certificate,” you said, holding it up proudly like a trophy.

She leaned back against the stall door, arms folded, her smile still lingering. “You get a gold star. Maybe.”

You were about to reply when a faint voice called from the house. “Girls! Wash up! Food’s getting cold!”

Ellie pushed off the stall door with a sigh, brushing off her jeans. “That’s our cue.”

You hesitated, looking around the barn one last time, reluctant to leave the moment.

“Can we come back later?” you asked.

She gave you a look you couldn’t read, then nodded once. “Sure.”

The sunlight slanting through the window had just been so warm. The ceiling fan overhead whispered lullabies. Your limbs were heavy, your skin still tinged with salt and sun, and before you knew it — hours had slipped through your fingers like warm honey.

You stirred awake sometime past five, the golden light already creeping lower across the floorboards, stretching long and soft like lazy fingers reaching across the day.

Panic fluttered in your chest as you sat up too fast, your shirt sticking slightly to your back. The bridle lesson. The plan to come back. You'd said you would. You'd wanted to.

You groaned under your breath and swung your legs off the bed, your bare feet hitting the cool wooden floor.

By the time you stepped outside, the sun was already sinking low behind the ridge, casting the yard in hues of burnt gold and honeyed orange. The breeze smelled like hay and honeysuckle, like open fields and somewhere far from obligation.

You padded across the yard toward the barn, adjusting the soft white shorts you threw on and tugging lightly at the hem of your yellow tank. The thin white cardigan you wore over it moved with the wind — cropped, gauzy, more for feeling than warmth. The kind of thing that slipped down one shoulder without trying.

You tugged it back in place as you reached the open barn doors.

Inside, the horses shuffled gently in their stalls, tails swishing, the air thick with the warm musk of animals and wood and old dust. Ellie stood near the last stall, silhouetted by the golden spill of sunlight through the open back doors. She was brushing Bramble with slow, practiced strokes, the horse’s flank glinting with a healthy sheen.

For a moment, you just watched her.

She hadn’t noticed you yet — or maybe she had, and chose not to say anything. Either way, she looked calm. Centered. One hand resting on Bramble’s side, the other running the brush in lazy circles.

You stepped forward quietly, the soft pad of your sandals barely making a sound.

“Hey,” you said, voice was almost sheepish. “I fell asleep.”

Ellie looked up. Her face was lit from the side — all soft edges and warm tones, her auburn hair glowing like a campfire. She blinked at you once, then offered a small shrug.

“Swimming takes it out of you.” She said simply.

Your cheeks warmed. “I just— I didn’t mean to ditch. I thought we’d come back here. I kinda—made it a whole thing earlier.”

Ellie chuckled under her breath, going back to brushing the horse. “You’re not that dramatic.”

You stepped closer, tucking your hands into the pockets of your shorts. “I might be a little dramatic.”

She glanced sideways at you, eyes flicking down — just for a moment — before returning to her task. “You’re wearing yellow.”

You looked down at yourself, surprised. “Yeah. Too much?”

“No,” she said. Her voice was softer now. “It suits you.”

You felt your face heat again, this time without any excuses.

You leaned lightly on the stall door. “I’m not great with… high-energy stuff. Swimming. Running. That sort of thing. Sometimes I just crash.”

Ellie gave a faint smirk. “I know.”

You tilted your head, eyes flicking to hers. “You could just say you missed me,” you said, careful, like you were testing the water.

“I could,” she said, brushing the horse in one last stroke. “But you were snoring.”

You gasped. “I was not.”

She didn’t answer — just walked past you toward the tack room, her smirk growing.

You stared after her, flustered and grinning, and tried not to think about how the barn lights were starting to come on, one by one, blinking softly in the dusk.

You were right back where you'd started.

And somehow, it felt exactly right.

The opening credits rolled slow across the screen, a soft instrumental fading into the quiet. The living room was warm and dim, lit only by the soft orange glow from the floor lamp and the faint hum of the TV. You hugged a throw pillow to your chest, legs curled under you on one end of the couch, the wine glass loose in your fingers.

Celine had fallen asleep halfway through the last movie, muttering something about early morning errands before disappearing upstairs with a blanket over her shoulder. Now, it was just you and Ellie — both sun-drowsy and half full of pasta, your body warm and just fuzzy enough to feel a little braver.

You sipped the last of the wine, lips tugging into a sleepy grin.

With a sigh, you let your head fall back on the couch cushion. “God,” you murmured. “I just love it here. Can your mom adopt me?”

Ellie, tucked into the other end of the couch in an old T-shirt and gray sweatpants, turned her head to look at you, eyebrow raised. “Why?”

You hugged the pillow closer, voice playful. “She’s so cool. And I don’t know, it’s just… I love it here.”

Ellie leaned back, arms crossed, watching you like she was trying not to smile. “I love your mom. What’s wrong with her?”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, gaze still on the wide flat screen. “I love her too, but she’s… pushy. Always asking when I’m gonna find a boyfriend like that’s a personality requirement.”

Ellie snorted. “Boyfriend, huh?”

You whipped your head toward her, glaring through your wine haze. “Hey, It’s not funny. Why would I need a fucking boyfriend?” You were pouting now. “I can live without one. I got, like, plants. Spotify. And air.”

Ellie’s mouth twitched. Her eyes danced with laughter as she reached for her water bottle. “Jesus. You talk shit when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” you said, even though the way your head lolled slightly and how your limbs felt extra floaty said otherwise.

“You sure?” she tilted her head, sipping. “You’re one more glass away from making out with that pillow.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Well maybe the pillow is emotionally available.”

Ellie laughed — really laughed — and it made something flutter behind your ribs. You stared at her like you were memorizing the sound.

Then she added, between a grin and a shrug, “Too bad my mom’s pushy too. But I definitely don’t want you as a sister.”

You gasped, eyes narrowing. “You’re mean.”

Ellie shrugged. “You’re the one trying to get adopted into my family. Don’t be mad you ruined the vibe.”

“Whatever,” you muttered. “We’re like… basically sisters anyway. Our moms are obsessed with each other.”

“Yeah,” Ellie said slowly, side-eyeing you. “Let’s not unpack that dynamic.”

You turned toward her, shifting closer across the couch, still hugging your pillow like a shield. “You say that like we didn’t share a bed that one summer.”

“Yeah,” Ellie replied, her voice low and dry. “When you snored and kicked me in your sleep.”

You giggled, cheeks warming. “Okay, rude—”

“I still have the scar.”

“You’re lying.”

“Prove it.”

You stared at her for a second. Then leaned in, just a little. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Ellie raised her brows, amused, but her body didn’t move away. Her tongue flicked briefly along the inside of her cheek.

“You talk so much shit when you drink. I didn’t know that about you.”

You smirked, head tilted now, fully facing her. “Well, Ellie… there are things you still don’t know about me.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nodded. “So many things.”

There was a pause. The air thinned.

“Wanna find out?” You ask, soft.

Ellie’s expression shifted — subtly, but enough that your heart stopped for a moment. Her eyes dipped — not by accident — to your lips.

You saw it. She didn’t try to hide it.

“What do I get if I do?”

Her voice was quiet now. Low. Different.

Your breath caught. You blinked once, heartbeat spiking.

You swallowed the air between you and whispered, “What do you want?”

Ellie leaned in slightly, not enough to close the gap — just enough to tip you forward with her. Her gaze flicked between your eyes and lips slowly. Deliberate.

“Don’t ask that unless you mean it,” she said, the smallest hint of a dare in her tone.

You didn’t move back.

Neither did she.

But then, of course, without warning, Ellie looked away — just a glance to the side — and leaned back slightly. Her mouth twitched, almost smiling, almost not.

She stood up.

You watched her move toward the TV, the silence stretching again, soft but tight like a string between you.

She picked up the remote, clicked the screen off, and let the darkness settle. Only the lamp glowed now.

“We should sleep,” she said, not looking at you.

You groaned, slumping into the couch. “We didn’t even finish the movie.”

Ellie didn’t answer right away — she just walked past and reached out, ruffling your hair like it was nothing.

“Hey—!” you laughed, swatting her hand away.

She grinned as she started walking toward the stairs. You stood, hugging the pillow tighter, and followed.

You walked together, quietly, the floorboards soft under your steps.

Your rooms were across from each other, just a few feet of hallway between them. She stopped in front of hers, her hand now rubbing the back of her neck like she didn’t want to open the door yet.

She looked at you once before looking away. But then her eyes were all over you again.

You were just standing there — barefoot, holding the pillow like armor — your heart somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

Ellie sighed, her lips twitching like she was losing an argument in her head.

“…That’s your room,” she said finally, eyes flicking toward your door.

You blinked up at her. “Uh. Yeah. That’s…” You pointed to the door behind her. “That’s your room too.”

You bit your lips as silence enveloped the two of you.

Ellie’s eyebrows raised slightly, her mouth twitching again. “Incredible observation.”

You wanted to melt into the floor.

“Okay, alright,” you said, laughing under your breath, stepping back. “I’ll go inside.”

“You should,” Ellie said, but she didn’t move either.

You nodded again, fiddling with the hem of your shirt as a small smile escaped.

Turning, you slipped into your room and closed the door gently behind you — then immediately leaned back against it, heart pounding, grinning so wide it hurt.

You barely had time to let out a silent scream into your hands before a knock made your heart jump.

You opened the door quickly — too quickly.

Ellie was standing there.

“Yes?” you breathed.

She scratched the side of her jaw, her voice a little raspier than before.

“Goodnight.”

Of course she said it like that.

“Goodnight,” you said, trying not to smile like a maniac.

She gave you a small nod, then turned and walked back into her room.

You closed the door slowly this time, pressed your back to it again, and screamed without sound — body buzzing, heart in shambles, hands gripping your face like you were losing your mind.

Because holy shit.

She said goodnight.

And she came back to say it.

tag lists:

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[strawb4kdior]

checkmate | e.w

written by greenbuns

° . Pairings : Ellie Williams × Fem!Reader (you)

° . Contains : slight nsfw, enemies to lovers, rivals, bet, swearing & bickering, mutual tension, suggestive content, eventual confessions, eventual kiss, slight nudity and mention of sex, theatremajor!ellie, musicmajor!reader, college vibes, men & minor DNI

"chess match with ellie came with stakes. the rules are simple; each time ellie loses a piece, she owes you 10$, and for you—you strip out of your clothes for her"

♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕

Your fingers pound a restless rhythm across the piano, a chord that tastes like burnt coffee and unresolved feelings. You tell yourself it’s just warm‑ups before your orchestration class, but really you’re trying to drown out the voice drifting in from the corridor;

“No, no, no, Jesse—you’re delivering the monologue like you’re apologizing. Lear’s a storm, not a drizzle. From the diaphragm, man!”

Her. The theatre-arts star, self-anointed director, campus darling with a chip on her shoulder and a clipboard in her hand. Every professor adored her “vision” and every actor bent to her will, she was poetry with a cigarette edge—smirking in spotlight, living for drama both onstage and off.

You hunch lower over the keys, jabbing staccato notes. It’s unfair that her voice still gets under your skin—warm cedar timbre wrapped in sandpaper sarcasm. You can’t remember a time you didn’t know that voice. She’d been lodged squarely under your rib cage since kindergarten—the sandbox tragedy, eighth‑grade spelling bees, senior‑year talent shows. Wherever you went, she was a step away, tossing barbs like confetti. She's the equal parts muse, rival, and the most infuriating person you’d ever wanted to kiss just to shut her up.

Okay, maybe not kiss. Or maybe yes kiss.

When the rehearsal door swings open, you heard footsteps.

You swear you can smell Ellie Williams before you spot her—warm cedar cologne and permanent stage‑paint residue.

“Hey, Treble Queen.” The greeting lands with practiced drawl. “You composing Swan Lake 2: Electric Boogaloo in here?”

You glide into a thundering tremolo and keep your gaze on the sheet music. “Just trying to drown out the wailing from the hall. Someone’s butchering Shakespeare.”

“Oof.” She paces behind you, casual predator. “I’ll tell Jesse you think he’s butchering it. He cries easy; should be fun.”

“You could direct him better.” You strike a dissonant cluster. “Or is yelling your only coaching tool?”

She appears in your peripheral vision, leaning her hip against the piano. Loose jeans rucked at the knees, black tee flecked with silver paint, auburn hair tied up messily—infuriatingly magnetic. Her eyebrows lift. “Yelling’s efficient. And cathartic, especially when the Music Department won’t stop practicing the same four bars of Les Mis outside my studio every night.”

“That’s called rehearsal,” you retort. “You theatre people should try it sometime.”

Ellie’s grin blooms, all teeth. She flicks a folded index card onto the music stand. “Speaking of rehearsal: you. Me. Chess match. Midnight at black-box.”

Your head snaps up despite yourself. “Chess? What is this, retro rivalry week?”

“Try lifelong vendetta.” She crosses her arms. “Unless you’re scared.”

“Must be desperate for humiliation.”

Her grin widens, shark‑sharp. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m counting on you being the desperate one.”

You scoff but your pulse jumps. Chess has been your shared battleground since middle school—a quiet war fought behind library stacks, hospital waiting rooms, band‑trip buses, and the occasional rainy cafeteria lunch when neither of you wanted to talk about feelings. It wasn’t just a game between you two; it was ritual, a sacred tradition of sharp glances over pawns and smug grins after a stolen queen. An unspoken agreement lingered like smoke between your fingertips: if you could beat each other on sixty‑four squares, maybe—just maybe—you could beat each other at life. Your record? Dead even. Thirty-two wins each. Ten draws. And one game interrupted by a fire drill and never resumed, still the subject of playful arguments to this day.

“Stakes?” you ask warily.

Her smile sharpens. “Every piece I lose, I owe you ten bucks. Every piece you lose…” She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “You shed something.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” She taps the card like a judge’s gavel. “Call it high‑stakes strip‑blitz. Unless the Music Department’s prodigy doesn’t believe in performance art.”

You thumb the edge of the sheet, knuckles tense, your pulse thudding a steady rhythm against the cotton. Part of you wants to hurl your metronome at her smug face—watch it bounce off her stupidly sharp jawline and shatter that ever-present glint in her eyes. But another part—one you don’t examine too closely, the one that lives somewhere deep in your gut and hums like an electric current—thrums with a different kind of anticipation.

The idea of making Ellie pay, piece by piece? Delicious. Watching her frustration simmer behind that cocky grin as her pawns fall like dominoes? Even better. But the idea of risking bare skin under her gaze? Or peeling off your layers one by one, her eyes trailing, lingering, devouring? That idea sends heat curling low in your belly. You're not sure if you’re about to win this game—or fall straight into her trap, breathless and bare.

Terrifying... but much more delicious.

Shit.

“Fine,” you hear yourself say, mentally slapping yourself. “But if campus security finds me half‑naked in your studio, you handle the scandal.”

Ellie pushes off the piano, swagger in every line. “Director’s privilege. See you at twelve.”

She strolls out whistling a parody of your arpeggios. You stare after her, heart playing triplets, wondering if accepting tonight’s gambit was brilliance—or checkmate waiting to happen.

♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕

11:37 p.m.

You pace your dorm room like a storm cloud waiting to burst, counting heartbeats like metronome clicks—each one faster than the last, like you're already halfway into the game. Your laptop glows dimly from your desk, the only witness to your growing nervous excitement. You pause in front of the mirror, smoothing down your top with shaky fingers, double-checking your outfit like it’s armor.

Blue jeans. Teal crop top. Your favorite silver hoops—the ones that sparkle just right under warm light. Strategic choices. Clothes you wouldn’t mind sacrificing early if it came to that. Easy enough to peel off. Easy enough to look good doing it.

Underneath? Lacy peach bra and matching boyshorts, a set you swore was for laundry day comfort but deep down… you know better. It’s soft, delicate, flirty. It says I didn’t dress for you, I dressed for me—and maybe, just maybe, for you a little too, shut up.

You catch your own reflection biting your lip coated with cherry gloss, eyes gleaming with something between war-readiness and something far more dangerous. Anticipation pools low in your belly, warmth blooming like a threat.

This isn’t just another chess match.

This is Ellie-freaking-Williams. And you’re about to go to war.

You throw a hoodie over everything and cram a water bottle, spare hair tie, and your battered chess notebook into a tote. Your roommate, Dina, grins from her own desk on the other side of the room.

“Hot date?” she asks.

“Hot disaster,” you reply.

“Same thing,” she sing‑songs.

You flip her off fondly and bolt.

The quad’s lamps cast honey pools on wet pavement. Rain earlier left petrichor in the air. You stride past the fine‑arts building—stone gargoyles peering like silent gossipers—into the theatre wing’s rear entrance. Half the campus is asleep; the halls echo with your sneakers.

Ellie’s studio door lies ajar, gold light spilling. You push in.

The black‑box is transformed; center stage cleared, two director’s chairs at a scarred wooden table holding a well‑worn walnut chessboard. A single work light hangs overhead like a spotlight. Coils of lighting cable snake across the floor. On the table: neat stack of twenties, digital chess clock, and—unsettlingly—an empty coat rack.

Ellie lounges in a chair, feet propped on another. Dark sweatpants, army‑green flannel, battered Converse. She’s rolled her sleeves, exposing her tattoo, more freckles, and lean forearms painted with faint charcoal streaks. Her brow lifts as you enter.

“Punctual. I’m impressed.”

“Just want this over with.” You drop your tote, trying to ignore how your pulse spikes at the sight of her. “Rules clear?”

She fishes a Sharpie from her back pocket and uncaps it with her teeth. “Let’s codify.” On a scrap of gaffer tape stuck to the table she writes:

Ellie loses piece = $10

(You) loses piece = Strip 1 item

She peels the tape, slaps it down. “Signed, sealed, humiliate‑delivered.”

“You’re awfully confident,” you mutter, pulling out the White pieces.

“Statistically,” she says, tossing you the bag, “White wins 52 percent. But I thrive on underdog tension.”

You line pawns. The board’s earthy smell triggers memory of summer camp tournaments—Ellie across from you, slurping melted Popsicle, swearing she’d beat you before lights‑out. She did. You cried behind the mess hall and vowed revenge. Four… what, five years later? Same vow, fancier stakes.

Ellie sets the clock: five minutes each, 3‑second increment—blitz. “Faster game, hotter drama,” she winks, handing you White’s side.

“Let’s burn,” you say, sliding your D‑pawn two squares.

Clock punched. Game on.

♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕

You steer toward the Lasker Defense—lines you rehearsed all week for a campus blitz tourney. Ellie’s playing Black but falls right into theory, mirroring classic moves. On turn three, you capture her center pawn. She peels a ten off the stack and flicks it into a mason jar labeled Tuition Relief. You smirk.

“Beer money,” you correct.

She taps the clock. “Worry about your clothes.”

A minute later she blunders a pawn again; you seize it immediately. Another ten. But she’s smiling—that predator grin—which worries you. You glance at the position; symmetrical, but her minor pieces hum with latent energy.

“Predictable,” she purrs. “You still play the book like you’re afraid to improv.”

“Oh please, Miss Theatre Kid lecturing me about originality?” you retort, pushing another pawn to harass her bishop.

Ellie shrugs. “At least I know drama sells. You musicians lock yourselves in practice rooms because the real world scares you.”

You snort. “Spoken like someone who’s never faced a juried recital.” Your bishop lands on d3, eyes her kingside. She castles quickly.

On move 10, you slide your pawn forward with deliberate ease—sacrificing it like an offering on an altar. It’s calculated, clean, and utterly dangerous. You know the moment she sees it, her brow arches ever so slightly, eyes narrowing with suspicion. Two full seconds tick by in the silence, her fingers hovering above her black bishop. She hesitates. You can practically hear the gears grinding behind that smug expression.

And then—she takes it.

Click.

You grin, slow and wicked. The trap is set, and she just walked right into it.

“Trying to honey‑trap me?” she drawls.

“Trying to see if you remember your endgames.” Your queen slides to h5, threatening mate. Ellie’s eyes narrow—lip bite, concentration crackling. Her knight leaps to block the threat.

The clock ticks; you have 3:42, she 3:19. Not bad.

When you pull a fork move; king and rook, the classical Greek Gift, Ellie groans. Finally tips her rook.

Her total: $40.

“God, I saw that in YouTube shorts last night,” she mutters.

You lean back theatrically. “Should have gone to sleep earlier.”

She retaliates, sweeping your pawn off the board like it personally offended her—of course, you counter, slamming your piece down with a smirk, knuckles brushing the edge of the board.

For a heartbeat, the silence between you sharpens—then all hell breaks loose.

What follows is a messy fight—pawns crumbling, knights leaping into suicidal charges, rooks skewering from opposite flanks. It’s blitz now, and the room buzzes with tension, the clock ticking down with merciless speed. Your fingers move faster than thought, chasing her through a tactical minefield, but it’s getting harder to breathe, harder to keep up.

Ellie’s brow is furrowed, lips parted slightly as she calculates, and you hate—hate—how good she looks when she’s thinking like this.

Three moves later, in a blur of bad judgment and adrenaline, you miscalculate. Your fingers brush the wrong square. Your light‑square bishop is hanging—undefended. Exposed. Ellie doesn't hesitate. She snatches it off the board with a flourish and an audibly smug inhale.

“Oops,” she says, teeth flashing. “Was that important?”

You grit your teeth. Damn it.

“Strip,” Ellie sing-songs.

You inhale, heart banging, and reach up to unhook your silver hoops. They clink onto the table. Small sacrifice.

Ellie exaggerates a pout. “Aw, I was hoping for something bigger.”

“Your ego’s big enough,” you mutter, moving your rook with force.

She laughs, cheeks flushing. “Touché.”

For the next minutes, Ellie’s pieces coordinate with predator grace. On move 18 she launches a pawn break, cracking your center. You misjudge, your queen misplaces on e2, and her knight lands a killer fork. Off goes your knight.

“Hoodie,” she commands.

You slide it free, cotton dragging over your top, tossing it onto the rack. Heartbeat drums in your ears. Ellie’s gaze flickers down, then back to the board, a faint flush blooming on her cheeks. She tears her eyes away and slaps the clock.

Your advantage evaporates. Two moves later you lose your dark‑square bishop in a tactical skirmish—she pins your queen to your king.

You gulp.

“That top,” Ellie whispers. Her voice is suddenly rougher.

You peel the teal top you were wearing, chill air kisses your bare arms; gooseflesh rises. Ellie’s pupils dilate.

“Quit staring.”

“Trying,” she rasps. “Eyes keep malfunctioning.”

You slide a pawn, more forceful than necessary. Ellie counters. The board is chaos—queens roving, rooks on open files. You’re down material but compensation lurks in active squares.

“Why the strip rule?” you blurt mid‑calculation, attempting calm.

Ellie shrugs, moving her rook. “Needed motivation. You always play safest lines. Thought risk might coax you out.”

“You could’ve just asked.”

She glances up, expression unreadable. “Thought you’d say no.”

The truth hits you like a misfired spell to the chest—sudden, electric, and disorienting.

She’s not trying to humiliate you. Not really.

She’s not gloating like she used to when you were thirteen and shoved a queen off the board just to piss her off. There’s something else in her gaze now—sharp, yes, but not cruel. Focused. Curious. Hungry in a way that has nothing to do with winning and everything to do with you. Her eyes flicker, not to the board, but to your bare shoulder, to the slope of your neck, the rise and fall of your breath like it’s the most fascinating thing in the room.

She wants to see you.

Not dominate. Not destroy.

See.

And the realization fries a circuit in your brain. Suddenly the room is too hot, your skin prickles under her gaze, and you're no longer thinking in moves or strategies. You reach for your rook on instinct—half-aware, off-balance—and place it a square too far.

Ellie blinks.

Then smiles.

“You sure about that?”

You look down and your heart sinks. You blundered. Badly.

You don’t even have time to curse before she takes it, slow and deliberate.

And gods, the way she’s looking at you now—like the game’s no longer about chess at all.

“Sock,” she murmurs.

Your pulse spikes; you tug off a sock, toss it onto the rack. She smiles softly, almost apology. “We’re even now.”

“Hardly,” you mutter, but nerves tangle with something gentler.

While Ellie ponders her next move, you recall sophomore year of high school—community‑theatre production of Into the Woods. You were pit‑orchestra percussion; she was Jack. One tech rehearsal the fly system jammed, set piece dangling precariously. Ellie had climbed the rigging to fix it before anyone else reacted. You’d watched her silhouette against stage lights, heart jackhammering with adrenaline and… something else. She’d winked after, and you’d told her to go fall off a cliff.

Back then, you didn’t understand why your insults sounded like confessions in reverse.

Back on the board, time dwindles: you 1:14, Ellie 1:01. You sacrifice another pawn for an attack, ignoring the clothing risk. Ellie fumbles under pressure, her queen briefly hanging; you snatch it with your rook. Ten bucks whoosh into the jar. You beam.

“Overacting again,” you tease.

She rolls her eyes. “Directed chaos, babe.”

The term of endearment slips out, both of you freezing. For half a second the black‑box silence roars. You swallow. Ellie’s ears redden.

You capture her remaining bishop. Her ten hits the jar. Total $100.

She leans in, elbows on knees. “Gonna bankrupt me?”

“As soon as I’m done performing my strip routine apparently.”

Her tongue clicks thoughtfully. “Maybe I’m paying admission.”

Your breath stutters, cheeks blaze. You capture her last knight. She owes $110. You’re ahead in pieces taken, but down to bra and jeans.

Not great.

Ellie forks your queen and rook with a pawn deflection. Rook gone—another socks gone. You grip the cotton hem, tug your sock and pulled it off from your foot. Chilly air plus vulnerability goose your skin. You refuse to cross arms; instead you stare at the clock like the plastic digits hold salvation.

Ellie’s gaze tracks lower but she snaps it to the board, jaw tense. “You okay?” she murmurs.

“Focus,” you say, voice ragged.

She swallows. “Roger.”

Despite exposed skin, you’re weirdly emboldened—fear converted to kinetic energy. Your queen spearheads an attack, delivering perpetual checks. On move 32 you snag her rook with a between‑move discovered tactic. You’re material up again. Two more tens hit the jar.

Ellie huffs. “I swear you studied Tal games just to torment me.”

“I did,” you confess. “You like drama; Mikhail Tal was the drama king.”

She chuckles, low and genuine. The laugh warms you more than your hoodie ever did.

With pieces traded, endgame looms: your king slightly safer, but Ellie’s passed pawn menaces. You realize with horror that your knightless army can’t stop promotion without huge losses.

You bite your lip, think of earlier camp vow. No giving up.

You push your pawn to distract. She ignores, queen escorts pawn. You sacrifice your last rook in desperation. She captures; grin triumphant.

"Jeans,” she says quietly.

Your hands tremble. You stand, unbutton jeans, shimmy out. Damn AC hum makes your skin pebbled. You refuse to blush, planting yourself back on chair in just peach lingerie. The bare stage light paints your shoulders in amber.

Ellie’s breathing grows uneven. She rubs a hand over her mouth as though wiping away drool—then blinks guilt. “You sure—”

“Play.” Your command wavers but holds.

She nods, sympathy flickering. Somehow that kindness slices deeper than mockery.

Two moves later you salvage a skewer tactic; Ellie’s queen falls. The jar climbs to $130. Gasps echo from both of you: her at the loss, you at rescue.

With queens gone, only bishops and pawns skitter. You’re down to a single pawn on h7; Ellie’s has advanced to d2. Kings race across board like marathoners.

Sweat beads on Ellie's temple. You’re each under 20 seconds. The clock’s increment barely saves you from flag.

Your pawn promotes, snatching a spare queen from the box. Ellie counters by queening hers with check. Suddenly bare kings and shiny queens square off in mutual zugzwang.

The position repeats twice. You glance up, breathing hard. Ellie mirrors you across the table, eyes liquid.

“We’re… stuck,” you pant.

“Draw?” she whispers.

You examine the board. You could play on, but one misclick could lose. Pride says fight; heart says enough bloodshed.

“Draw,” you agree, pressing the clock button three times. The digital display freezes.

Your world spins down to silence.

♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕

Neither of you moves. The board sits between you like a battlefield in the aftermath—pieces scattered, kings still standing, but barely. Sweat clings to your hairline, trickling down your spine, and adrenaline pulses hot through your veins, leaving a subtle tremor in your limbs. You can’t look away from her, and she doesn’t look away from you. The silence is thick—electric—buzzing with everything unsaid.

Then Ellie stands.

She moves without a word, strides across the studio to swipe a towel from the backstage rack, her posture loose but eyes still burning. You expect her to toss it at you with a snide remark, something cocky and offhand.

But she doesn’t.

She returns, stepping into your space with a strange softness. And then—gently, so gently—it’s draped over your bare shoulders like a queen’s mantle, warm and worn, smelling faintly of stage paint and sandalwood.

Her fingers linger a moment too long at your collarbone, brushing your skin like a secret. The contact jolts you like a live wire. You inhale sharply but say nothing. Your mouth is suddenly dry.

“You cold?” she murmurs, voice lower than before, rough with something that has nothing to do with teasing.

“A bit,” you exhale, suddenly felt small under her gaze.

She gathered your clothes on the rack, placing them on your lap without comment on your near‑nakedness. The jar sits heavy at $130.

“Keep it,” Ellie says softly. “Call it hazard pay.”

You shake your head. “Split after pizza."

She chuckles. “Alright.” A beat passes. “We, uhh—we should talk.”

You clutch the towel. “About?”

Her eyes find yours—vivid green ringed by exhaustion and honesty. “About why chess matters so much… why you matter so much I had to make a stupid strip bet just to keep you in the same room after midnight.”

Your lungs seize, breath catching on a sudden swell of memory. Fireworks crackling in July darkness, her laughter splitting the night; the dizzy height of the rigging where she’d steadied you with a gloved hand; the endless hallway skirmishes—hip‑checks, sharp words, sparks flying off metal lockers. Each recollection clicks neatly into place, stacking like polished chess pieces until a single, aching truth towers over everything: you hated her because hating was simpler—safer—than admitting how badly you wanted her.

“I thought college would be escape,” she admits. “But then you showed up at freshman orientation wearing those ridiculous headphones and I felt…” She exhales. “Everything all over again.”

You toy with the cotton towel, “And so you challenged me to chess instead of, I don’t know, coffee?”

“I don’t do gentle,” she murmurs. “I do rivalry. Conflict. Direction notes. With you it’s always been… high stakes.”

You swallow. “What if we tried gentle? Just once?”

Ellie’s gaze softened, “Define gentle.”

You step into her space. Under the midnight shadow, freckles pattern her cheeks like constellations. Fingers trembling, you let the towel slip from your shoulders and drop to the cold floor beneath your bare feet, grounding and intimate all at once. Ellie pointedly looks away, giving you space rather than devour.

Respectful, longing, maddening.

You raise a hand, brush an auburn strand behind her ear. She shivers.

“This,” you whisper, bringing her face to look at yours. “No bets, no insults. Just honesty.”

Her breath catches, eyes trailed down from your eyes, lips, collarbones..

Fuck. Your tits gorgeously wrapped with the lacy peach bra.

She's clearly better than no man.

"I’ve wanted to kiss you since you played that solo song sophomore year and glared at me like I’d stolen your thunder," she whispered, her eyes back on you.

Your laugh cracks. “I glared because you cheered louder than anyone and embarrassed me.”

“Did it work?”

“Like a charm.”

Silence brims with possibility, thick enough to taste. You lift your chin by a breath; she closes the distance, breath fanning across your lips like the hush before a decisive move.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Ellie breathed, the words slipped out before she could stop it. Her eyes locked with yours when she murmurs, "Can I kiss you?"

When she saw you gave a small nod, both of your lips finally connect. The kiss is feather‑soft—tentative as a pawn’s first step—but heat sparks instantly, an opening gambit that leaves you both hungry for the middle game.

She presses closer, lips molding to yours with newfound certainty, and you feel pieces topple inside your chest, scattering strategy into pure sensation. Her fingers anchor at your waist, thumbs brushing against your bare skin, igniting a shiver that races up your spine.

You cup her jaw, fingertips tracing the sharp line to her ear before sliding into her hair, tilting her even deeper. She tastes of peppermint gum and adrenaline, cool mint over molten desire, and when her teeth graze your lower lip—a teasing, wicked scrape—you answer with a soft gasp that vibrates between you like a struck chord. The world narrows to shared breath, quickened heartbeats, and the heady realization that this is no longer a game; it’s surrender, bold and breathtaking on both sides of the board.

Her tongue sweeps along the seam of your mouth and you open for her, hunger roaring to life. One hand skims up your ribcage—calloused fingertips tracing reverent lines until they brush the edge of lace—while the other slides into your hair, tilting your head so she can drink you in deeper. She breaks the kiss long enough to nip your bottom lip, eyes dark and wicked, before capturing you again with a groan that vibrates straight to your core. You arch into her, hips meeting denim with dizzying friction, nails grazing down her back in a plea you’re no longer shy about voicing.

Ellie shifts, guiding you gently backward until your spine presses against the cool wall of the studio, her body a furnace against yours. She kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense—like she’s memorizing you piece by piece, savoring every reaction she pulls from your mouth. Her knee slides between your thighs, coaxing a breathy moan as you grind down with desperate instinct, chasing friction like oxygen. Her hand cradles the back of your neck, grounding you as her lips trail from your mouth to the edge of your jaw, then lower, brushing your pulse point with a heat that borders on reverence.

"Fuck," she breathes against your throat, voice wrecked. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this—wanted you."

Your reply dies in your throat as her fingers skimming the soft underside of your lacy bra with a graze so light it’s cruel. You gasp, hips twitching in response, and she huffs a laugh against your collarbone—low, soft but maddening. “You like that, sweetheart?” she murmurs, voice dripping with challenge. You grip her by the collar of her flannel and pull her flush against you, heart pounding like a war drum. “Stop teasing, Williams,” you whisper back, half threat, half invitation. Her answering grin is wicked and victorious just before she kisses you again like it’s the only language she’s ever been fluent in.

Her lips trail down your neck with unhurried hunger, teeth grazing sensitive skin just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips rise instinctively against her. She groans low in her throat—a sound born of want, raw and impatient—as her hands slide under again, this time with purpose, fingertips tracing the edge of the lace before slipping beneath it to palm your breast. "Mmmh.." Your head falls back with a soft, broken but heavenly noise, and she takes the invitation, mouth latching onto the curve of your throat as if claiming every inch of you she can reach.

"Yeah, keep making that sound, baby,” she murmurs against your skin, voice thick with desire as she keeps on playing with your left breast, “Every time you open your pretty mouth, I want to either argue with you or fuck you senseless.”

You moan—half scandalized, half soaked in how true it feels—when she unclasped your last armour and latched her wet tongue around your hardened nipple, gently licking then sucking it while she kept whispering sweet nothings in the process. You pull her in tighter, your own hands roaming her back, curling into the hem of her flannel. "You're a menace, a pretty one," She murmurs, grinding her hips against yours, slow and devastating, and you feel everything you’ve ever denied flood to the surface, hot and impossible to ignore.

Every stolen breath clings to the heat blooming between you; strategy, pride, and years of rivalry melt away until only her name trembles on your tongue like the final, breathless move of the most dangerous game you’ve ever played.

And now? You’re both ready to fall.

♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕

The heat has settled into a slow, glowing hum between your bodies.

You lie tangled together on the worn couch at the edge of the black‑box, skin still warm and flushed, breaths mingling in the dim light. Ellie’s arm is draped lazily over your waist, fingers tracing idle, possessive shapes across the bare skin just above your waistband. Her jacket is haphazardly thrown over both your bodies, soft against sweat‑damp skin, still smelling of her. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s heavy with everything that just happened, everything you finally let go of. Your legs are twined with hers, your cheek resting against her collarbone, and she presses a kiss into your hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You realize this is the real checkmate: not victory over each other, but surrender to everything that’s been waiting, patient and inevitable, just beneath the rivalry’s surface.

“I never hated you,” she murmurs, voice low, raw from breathless moans and whispered curses. “I just didn’t know how else to want you.”

You smile against her skin, your fingers brushing the hair away from her face. “All those years—every fight, every argument—I was just trying not to fall apart wanting you.” You whisper back.

Ellie then cups your face, forehead resting against yours, and you feel her exhale—shaky, like this moment has unraveled something in her too. “I want you. Every version. Even the one who calls me a pretentious theatre bitch.” You laugh, breathless and dazed, curling your fingers in her shirt to keep her close. “Good,” you whisper, “Because I want the overdramatic director who smells like peppermint and chaos.”

Ellie chuckles, soft and wrecked, then tips your chin up and kisses you again—slow, deep, claiming. When you break apart, you’re both smiling.

“Check,” she whispers.

“Mate,” you breathe, and she laughs, bright and disbelieving. [•]

[strawb4kdior]

thank you for the tag @arahiraaai here's mine (ps. im sooo sorry it's late)

1. bittersuite ~ billie eilish

2. november rain ~ guns n roses

3. meddle about ~ chase atlantic

4. timeless ~ the weekend

5. pyramids ~ frank ocean

6. hex ~ 80purr

7. les ~ childish gambino

8. alive ~ ari abdul

9. classy 101 ~ fied, young miko

10. baile inolvidable ~ bad bunny

tags: @sweetbcgs @lolitalovess @krfttin 💐🩵

shuffle your on repeat playlist and post the first 10 songs, was tagged by my girl @chirpybirdy …. I added one extra for luck.

1. Time- Pink Floyd

2. You Don’t Have to Cry- CSN

3. Bus Stop- The Hollies

4. I’d Love to Change the World- Ten Years After

5. Out on the Weekend- Neil Young

6. The Water is Wide- Joan Baez

7. Summer 68- Pink Floyd

8. Come on In- The Monkees

9. One- Harry Nilsson

10. Helplessly Hoping- CSN

11. Poison Tree- Grouper

tagging @leveebreak-s @snafugender @theklaapologist @guarnerepdf @lookoutjoe @negativegrl

[strawb4kdior]

wrapped & melted | e.w

written by greenbuns

° . Pairings : Ellie Williams × Fem!Reader (you)

° . Contains : cozy morning (kinda aftercare), slight nudity, skin contact, cuddling & snuggling, soft romance, clingy, lovey-dovey, taking a bath together, fluff fluff fluff, full of kisses and ellie is deeply enamoured with you

Rain taps gently against the windowpane, its soft rhythm soothing, almost like a lullaby lingering in the early hours of the morning. Outside, the world is shrouded in a gray hush, the streets damp and glistening beneath the kiss of dawn.

The red‑digit clock on the nightstand blinks; showing that it was six in the morning.

Inside the cozy apartment, the bedroom is cloaked in a dim amber glow from a single candle whose deep‑berry scent perfumes the air—sweet, tangy, and comforting. Clothing lies in disarray across the wooden floor, scattered trophies of last night’s fervent passion; Ellie’s soft flannel shirt draped over the armchair, one sock half‑stuffed into her boot, your own underwear tangled somewhere near the foot of the bed like a silken white flag of surrender.

Beneath a thick, off‑white blanket you are wrapped up together, a knot of limbs and quiet heat. Ellie’s arms encircle your waist as if she never intends to let go. Her head is tucked just below the curve of your breasts, your skin her personal pillow. Her cheek feels pleasantly cool on your warm torso, her breaths gentle puffs of air that graze you and leave goosebumps in their wake.

You drift in a hazy space between dreams and waking until a flutter of kisses brushes your neck—soft, feather‑light, the kind that say I treasure this and I treasure you. The affection woven into every press of Ellie’s lips stirs you more effectively than any alarm. A languid hum slips from your throat as your fingers instinctively slide into her short, tousled hair. She looks up at you, green eyes drowsy but brimming with warmth.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” she whispers, voice hoarse with sleep yet tender enough to melt steel.

Your lips curve sleepily. “Hi," you murmur back, the single word coated in the honeyed haze of early hour intimacy. Ellie props herself on one elbow, brushing a stray lock behind your ear. Her palm settles on your waist, thumb drawing lazy circles that kindle sparks beneath your skin.

“You feel okay, baby?” she asks softly, searching your gaze. “Was I too rough on you?”

Last night rushes back; love, heat, hunger, whispered confessions spoken on shaky breaths. The way your moans and whimpers were the realest form of heavenly sound in her ears, and her green eyes lit like all the bright stars when she saw the entirety of you—raw, tender, and wild.

You swallow, heart swelling until it nudges your ribs.

“More than okay,” you say, cupping her freckled cheek. “I loved every second of it.”

Ellie’s lips lift into a smile so radiant it rivals sunrise. She leans down to kiss you—slow, reverent, savoring. When she finally pulls away you feel as if your soul has been dipped in warm sunlight. “Good,” she murmurs. “Because that sex, it healed me, babe."

You let out a soft chuckle before she continued, "Could practically provide a full fucking health insurance.”

Then you cackled, "Weirdo." And Ellie just gave you the stupid grin you fell in love with.

The candle flickers, casting soft shadows that dance lazily over the ceiling. Rain provides a steady backbeat as you and Ellie lie in each other’s arms, trading unhurried kisses punctuated by little sighs of contentment. She murmured gentle phrases in your ear like "you're so beautiful" and "can't wait to marry you one day" that made your cheeks heated. There is no rush in your world; the outside may be full of schedules and obligations, but here time stretches like liquid caramel.

Ellie snuggles closer, burying her nose against your collarbone. “Let’s stay in bed all day,” she proposes, voice muffled.

“We don’t have to do anything today,” you tease, tracing invisible patterns on the strong line of her shoulder.

“Exactly.” She lifts her head just enough to smirk. “Which means I get to do this.” A playful kiss to your chin, then your jaw, she went lower and doesn't stop until her lips kissed one of your perky nipples. Each press of her mouth is a tiny spark, and together they build a gentle fire in your chest.

Minutes—or maybe hours—slip by in a blur of half‑sleep loops. You drift off, wake to her fingertips twining through yours, drift again. Occasionally you talk in whispers about nothing: the dream she had where a dinosaur tried to steal your coffee, the song repeating in your head, the shape the rainwater makes on the balcony railing. There is intimacy in sharing the mundane; it is a different kind of nakedness, one that bares the heart.

Eventually the candle has melted into a berry‑scented puddle of wax and the rain outside softens to the hush of mist.

♡ + ♡ + ♡ + ♡ + ♡ + ♡ + ♡ + ♡ + ♡ + ♡ + ♡

The bathroom was warm with steam, the windows fogged up, and the soft sound of water gently sloshing in the tub filled the space. The bubble bath was full, soft foam cresting over the rim, shimmering under the golden bathroom light. The air was heady with the scent of berry and warmth, clinging to your skin like a memory.

Your girlfriend insisted for you both to have a bath together. She claimed so innocently like her expression made of cotton, saying something like "the water crisis is increasing, must start using it wisely to support earth welfare" when what she actually wanted was to see your glistening naked skin pressed against hers.

Ellie stepped into the tub first, letting out a satisfied hum as the hot water wrapped around her sore muscles, the heat soaking into her skin. She settled against the back of the tub with her legs stretched out, arms draped along the edge, her toned frame relaxed, bare, and glistening in the haze.

She looked over at you with that familiar lazy smirk. “C’mere, baby. Water’s perfect.”

You slid in carefully, the heat rising up your spine, making you sigh out loud as it welcomed you in. Without a word, Ellie opened her arms and guided you back into her embrace, pulling you gently to lean against her chest. Her hands found your waist underwater, fingers splaying lovingly across your stomach.

Your back pressed into her front, her chin resting just over your shoulder. The warmth of the water was nothing compared to the warmth of her skin wrapped around yours. Every inch of you softened into her, into the comfort of being held, of being cared for.

“Mmm,” Ellie murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Perfect fit, aren't you?”

You smiled and let your head rest against hers. Her arms curled tighter around you, one hand trailing up to cup your breast under the water, giving it light squeezes, thumb stroking gently. It wasn’t sexual, not really. Not yet.

It was grounding. Intimate. Devotional.

“So pretty,” she whispered into your damp skin, her gaze coming back to you, "Feel good?"

“Like heaven,” you replied, voice low and relaxed. “I never want to move.”

“Take your time, baby," She kissed your shoulder next, slow and soft. “I've got you.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as her fingers started drawing little circles along your thigh, the movements slow, hypnotic. Every few moments she’d shift to press a kiss somewhere new—the back of your neck, behind your ear—like she couldn’t get enough of you, like you were something delicate she was learning all over again.

“You smell like berries,” she mumbled, smiling without opening her eyes.

You chuckled softly, felt her breath warm on your ear, “That candle’s really working overtime.”

“Or maybe it’s you,” she teased, turning your face just enough to meet her lips for a kiss.

You kissed her back immediately, the hand on your thigh stilling as she leaned into you, water shifting gently around your bodies. The kiss was slow, deep, unhurried. Her tongue brushed lightly against yours, tasting you like it was the first time all over again. She held you tighter, the water sloshing softly as her knees bent to keep you nestled snug between them.

When the kiss broke, she didn’t pull far—just rested her forehead against the side of your face.

“You’re everything,” she whispered.

Your fingers found hers underwater and laced them together, “Sappy,” You whispered.

Ellie smirked against your skin, “You say that like you wouldn't let me get into your pants every night.”

She earned a little smack.

You turned in her arms just enough to kiss her again—more tender this time, full of quiet gratitude and aching affection. Her hands roamed your back, soothing, loving, like she was anchoring herself to you.

They stayed that way for a long time—just two bodies molded together in heat and silence. Even as the water began to cool, neither of you moved. Ellie shifted only to brush a few bubbles off your shoulder or adjust the way her legs cradled yours. You leaned into her, fully, completely, letting her hold all of you.

“Let’s never leave this tub,” you whispered, only half-joking.

Ellie nuzzled your cheek, her smile audible in her voice. “Deal. But only if I get to wash your hair.”

You laughed, heart full. “That’s your condition?”

“That and maybe.. " She trailed, her lips curled into a smirk, "Making out with you for like... twenty more minutes.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re irresistible.”

You melted into laughter, then into another kiss, and another, and then one more that didn’t end for a while. The tub may have cooled, but the heat between you hadn’t gone anywhere.

Wrapped in each other, hearts unguarded, the world outside could’ve vanished—and neither of you would’ve noticed. [•]

> thanks for reading i hope u guys liked it. good day/night <3

[strawb4kdior]

snoopy of the day