#mop rack

[ssiat]

early Laundry today or naked tomorrow SET

[1] 85$ Towel drying rack(deco)

[2] 10$ Drying rack(deco)

[3] 13$ Powder detergent

[4] 45$ Cleaning bucket

[5] 45$ Caution sign

[6] 45$ Mop

[7] 15$ Poster

PATREON(early)

[fuckingwhateverdude]

why does furnishing/just getting all the basic fucking shit u need for an apartment costs thousands of dollars….debt collectors love to see me coming

[winghangers]

U-VERSE L-Shaped Mop Set for Efficient Cleaning

The U-VERSE L-Shaped Mop Cleaning Set offers effortless cleaning with its ergonomic design. Perfect for reaching tight corners and tough spots, this mop is ideal for keeping your floors spotless. The set includes a durable mop head and an easy-to-use handle, ensuring a stress-free cleaning experience. Upgrade your cleaning routine by visiting Wing Hangers and enjoy a cleaner home today.

[cicadidae-tm9899]

Ffffuuck i am in so much pain

[whore-ibly-hot]

"Just a one time thing... Right?"

Yan!Eltingville Club x Fem!User

18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Dub-con (reader isn't aware of the sexual attraction to them), masturbation, lewd art, mentions of fatphobia, groping, stealing, sexism, questionable group hierarchy, misogyny, Pete Dinunzio.

AN: I promised Eltingville and I will deliver, even if i usually only do OC stuff. I'm so hot for these dork bitches, especially Pete Dinunzio. He owns. My. Ass. (PS, Eltingville girls please let me into your club, leave some comments because I'm working on characterization and the fics in this community are so good!)🙏

It's yet another argument, the sounds of heated yells and complaints ringing through the wood panneled walls and up the sbasement stairs of the Dickey household, as another meeting of the Eltingville club kicks off. "Don't even think about it." Bill Dickey, infamous narcissistic leader of the Eltingville club for comics, games, and all things nerdy, has started the meeting already pissed off. "Fuck no, we aren't letting some c-chick into our club! A femoid! Are you serious? Just drop it, Pete." He spits, face red and glasses slipping. He adjusts them as the others glance at Pete.

Across Bill's mom's basement, horror expert Pete Dinunzio, clad in his backwards cap and questionably stained 'House of Wax' shirt, rest on a beanbag. Huffing, the black haired man rolls over, glaring. "Come ooooooon, it's not like she's gonna fuck anything up. Just- I don't know, she's showing interest. Check it," he stands up, shoes hitting the dhag carpeting and clapping his hands together like he's gonna give the best social studies presentation of his freakin' life.

"She's showing interest, you see any other girls lining up to join, shit, to even talk to us. Especially not girls with a big fucking rack-" He cackles, raising his hand for a high-five with a quiet Jerry stokes, who is simultaneously red and sheet white, sweating out of nerves.

"Gross man, get a mop!" Pete snickers, pulling his hand away quickly.

"Jerry-" The blonde immediately squeaks at the mention of his name, shifting on the creaky old tweed couch. He had been absorbed in his journal, trying to stay out of the fight. He knew who you were, shit, who in town didn't? You moved down the road a few weeks ago, and seemed genuinely nice. You immediately made friends at the school, kind and outgoing, but not discriminating. You didn't stick to one clique or group, and it didn't help you were smokin' hot. You have math together, and he's falling behind. He can't seem to think around you, his math notes full of doodles of you, slowly turning far to lewd to turn in.

It's then he clears his throat to answer Bill's call out, only noticing that his journal he's been distracting himself is also full of doodles of you. He'd been so zoned out he'd drawn you with elf ears, laid out wearing a fantastical silk robe, but no loincloth-

"Jerry!" Another screech from Bill. "Pay attention, you numbskull! You finally chew your tongue off being a pussy, answer me."

"Sorry, sorry, w-what was the question?" His voice cracks, making Pete and Josh chuckle at the scrawny boy. Bill rolls his eyes, adjusting his glasses as he slams his hand down on the table

"Obviously, you agree we don't need some skank in the club, we don't even know what she's after."

"She's not that bad, actually-" he mumbles, making Bill growls and Pete nod in agreement, snapping and pointing to Jerry. "Exactly, and again, that fuckin' rack-"

"NO GIRLS!" Slamming his fists onto the table, the cheap wood rattles, as does the nearby shelves, causing a picture frame and a few figures to clatter to the ground.

"Geordi!" Josh cries as he goes to nurse the action figure back to 'mint condition' who had lost its visors when it took the plunge onto the rough carpet below. "Bill, this was new-in-box with I got it, what the fuck!"

"Exactly! The femoid isn't here and she's already causing issues. Case closed." The acne-ridden president grins and intertwines his fingers on the table in satisfaction. "I'm glad to hear you agree, and are putting the good name of the Eltingville club over the wants of your shrimp dick, unlike some people-" He glares at Pete, who just flips him off and goes back to reading a 'Gore Four' comic.

"Onto actually important business-"

It isn't until a few days later that you run into Bill, he's looking through the window of the blockbuster in concentration way to deep for any normal person.

"Hey, Bill, right?" You chirp, causing him to jolt, his billfold falling from his yellow overcoat. "Sorry, didn't mean to spook you!" You reach for the leather, only to feel a harsh sting on your hand as he swats you away picks it up, grumbling to himself as he pockets it.

"Right. I guess we do." He looks you over. "Did you need something, or are you just here to bother me?" He sneers.

"Oh, uh, no, just going to rent a movie, wanted to see what you were looking at?"

"Ugh. Nothing you'd be interested in." He turns back, looking at two posters for films avaliable to rent. "If it'll make you fuck off, I'm deciding whether to spend my allowance money on 'Return of the King' or 'Alien'." He explains, waving his wallet in front of you before pocketing it. "Only the best for the club, Pete's been on my ass about Alien, but Jerry cries like a little bitch boy when we watch horror sci-fi."

"Sounds like a tough choice. Uh, I like return of the king though!" She says.

He looks you over, pausing before shaking his head. "Yeah, heh, right. Sure, you've seen any 'Lord of the Rings' film. Listen, you don't have to pretend you know what I'm talking about to continue whatever this is, I'm not buying it." Before you can respond, the sound of a ringtone catches your ear, and Bill reluctantly answers it.

"Hurry up, man, how long does it take to pick out a tape? Josh's lard ass is gonna starve before you get back here and we can eat-" Pete's Italian accent crackles through the speakers, followed by the sound of an open palm smacking the back of his head. "Fuck off, man, I'm messin' around-"

"Knock it off, don't get kicked outta my basement before I get there. I'm on my way." He clicks it shut. He spares you a glance as he walks into the store, anger and tension only fuels when he gets a glimpse of your cleavage. He just clears his throat and turns away.

He settles on 'Alien', because screw Jerry, he wants to end the night off with Sigourney Weaver's jugs still fresh in mind for jerk material. Smacking the tape down, he glares at the usual attendant, who just sighs and gives him a dead eyed stare. "5.72, be kind and rewind-"

"Yeah, yeah. Don't give the spiel, you corporate cronie." Bill hisses, before opening up his wallet and paling. There's nothing but a Star Trek fan club card inside, his money missing. He remembers the fight he'd gotten into with his mom a few nights ago over her throwing out his 'busty babes of Babylon' mag, and gulps. She'd taken back his allowance. "Uh- hold on, hang on-" he's frantic now. "Its gotta be in here somewhere-" the sound of coins and crinkling paper hitting the counter makes him look over.

"I got it!" You say with a smile, about six dollars in bills and loose change. "I mean, you seemed like you put a whole lot of thought into that-"

He's too stunlocked to even speak, both emasculated and embarrassed at his financial situation. The attendant looks you over, then back at Bill. "Are... are you sure?" He asks, snapping Bill out of it.

"Of course she's sure, check out the fucking tape." Bill practically shoves the money towards you. "Corporate cock-sucker can't even do his job." He shakes his head. "What are you getting at, huh? Trying to make me look like some broke scrub or something?!"

"N-no!" You exclaim. "I just wanted to help you out-"

"Yeah right." He snorts and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. "Listen up, I don't know what you're trying to do but it ends here. I don't do 'debt', so name your price. Settle it."

"Well..." You scuffing your shoe again the blue and yellow blockbuster tile, shrugging. "Maybe since I bought it, I could watch with you guys? Joining a club could be fun, and I've read a few comics and stuff. Plus, I like movies."

Bill goes pale, palms sweaty and eyes wide. "Shit..." he huffs. "No girls, no females in the club, that's our most consistent rule. I don't need you, i don't know, sissying up the place. Something else."

"Cmon, please, no, I won't be weird, just this once!"

"F-fine. But you're not a member!" He says, jabbing a finger against your chest before recoiling it like he was burned. That was about the closest he's ever gotten to a tit, his digital still tingling. It's humiliating. "Just be there, you know where I live." He rushes off, tape held suspiciously low by his crotch.

It's hell. Pure, frozen hell when you arrive. Josh is fidgeting with the deck of Magic he was sorting when you came in, not even making eye contact while he has a panicked, hushed conversation with Bill about how this even happened. He's both extremely suspicious and extremely giddy, whereas Pete is just giddy.

You were so enthralled in looking around the nerd cave, everything from 'Star-Trek Next Gen' posters to scantily clad 'Cat-Woman' figures line the walls and shelves. Good thing you were so focused on it all, it gave Jerry time to scurry over to the bean bag, unzipping it and shoving his journal into the Styrofoam beans in a state of pure panic.

"Hey, hot-stuff! Didn't expect to see you, lookin' fine tonight." Pete calls, hand to his mouth as if amplifying it. You've run into Pete a few times when you were dodging PE behind the bleachers, and he never fails to try and make a move. "Hey, couch is gonna be pretty full with Josh's fat ass, why don't you sit on my lap for the movie, huh? I'll protect you from the Alien, don't even worry bout' it." He winks.

"I'll find room, Pete, but thanks for the offer." You laugh. Plopping down, you set your bag aside and lean over the arm a bit. "Hey, Jerry." You say, before looking away after he refuses to respond, or even make eye contact. "Okay..."

"Why is she here? This has gotta be a prank?" Josh whispers, sweating as he rubs at his forehead. "Whyd you let her come, I-I thought the rule was no girls!"

"It was, i-it is! She's a normie femoid, but my bitch mom took my allowance, she covered so we could watch the movie tonight. Grin and bare it, yeah? I'm sure you can resist from popping a stiffy for at least two hours. And it's not you I'm worried about, it's these idiots." Bill nods over to the clubs resident fantasy nerd, whose taken to lying face, and crotch, down in the bean bag while Pete quizzes you on horror flicks.

It's uneventful, if not for the tension looming in the air between you and the guys. Throughout the evening, Bill tries his best to ignore you, or to shush Josh when he leans over to provide you an awkward fun fact about the films production. Jerry stays quiet, but appreciates how you seem to make him feel better about being scared by the film than dogging on him. "Huh? O-oh, yeah, no, I'm not great with movies like these, but uh-" He'd stammer. "I'm not like a pussy or anything, I've just had an offer day, I'm high stress."

Pete is relishing in it, constantly commenting on the 'alien-fighting hotties' in the film, before making sure you know he doesn't like them as much as you. "Nothing against these babes, you know, but they don't have an ass like yours-"

At the end of the night; when everyone has cleared out, you stop in the door frame, turning to smile. "Thanks a lot for letting me stay and watch, Bill." You say softly. "This was fun."

He's silent, hand gripping the door frame hard enough it might splinter. He'd done you the decency of walking you to the door, to your suprise. "Yeah. We'll, don't expect too much. You're still a normie. Get off my porch, I don't want people thinking we hang out." You just sighs and wave goodnight with a slight grin.

He's angry, he hasn't felt things like this in a long, long time. He shouldn't like you, you're nothing special, you're hot, but just some brainless poser girl from school, probably friends with jocks and cheer-whores. Still, why did his heart leap when you brushed his hand getting popcorn? Why did he want you sitting next to him and not that 'loudmouth perv whose ruining the tension of the scene'.

He finds himself laying on his bed, the squeaky, worn out mattress creaking. He'd lock up the basement and then his door, he's rock hard and is sure it's Ellen Ripley's sheer tank that was doing it for him. He pops the tape in again and puts it on mute to a shot of her running, popping the button on his jeans and sighing as he settles into bed. However, running his hand from base to tip once, then twice, he finds she's not doing it for him. 'Fine,' he thinks. 'Maybe I'm in the mood for blondes'. He grabs the nearest Tasha Yar picture he has, but that's not working either.

Working his fingers around his tip, letting the precum act as a proper lubricant, the image of you in her uniform almost makes him choke. He jolts so hard he almost rips his own dick off. 'Shit-' he thinks, first from shock, then from the implications of the though. "Shit, shit, shit!" He yells allowed, chucking the picture to the wall, erection twitching again at the thought the garnered such shame. It's not like this is anything more than a chubby from a semi-attractive girl! ...Right?

A similar scene is playing out in Josh's room, the meticuloius organizers room looks as though a hurricane has hit, digging through magazines, comics and VHS covers. He's sure he's gotta have an art piece that looks like you, maybe a 'Hottest women of sci-fi' tape, or some scantily clad magic card, shit, he'd settle for a grainy background character on one of his 'Star Trek: Original Series' tapes. Something, anything. "Cmon, cmon-" he's frantic. He's not as ashamed as Bill. Sure, he's ashamed to be jerking it to a girl he was feet away from less than an hour ago, but he isn't ashamed that the girl was you! He can admit you were hot, and pretty nice, even if he didn't fully trust you. I mean, it's not like you're joining the club! ...Right?

Jerry doesn't need to search for material. He's got enough paper with sketches of you to count as an act of deforestation. Its his reluctance to use them that's the issue. He goes home, a beacon of self control. He's only half-hard, and doing rhythmic, calming breaths. 'Gotta put your stuff away, then straight to bed Jerry, cmon.' He thinks to himself. 'No big deal, you got this.' He does get it all out away, his wallet, his new Magic cards he brought to show Josh, and his lucky dice, all accounted for. It's when he sees his journal, which he remembered to retrieve from the beanbag, sitting there. Calling to him like the one ring. Just a peek... He slams it shut and puts in onto his dresser, laying flat on his back and dullg clothed, to afraid to even undress for fear of brushing his cock by accident and blowing the whole facade of control he has. 'Just ignore it's siren song-' the image of you, perched on a rock with a tail and breasts out, calling to him. 'Shit, no sirens, not a siren-' He whimpers. He can't help it, you wouldn't ever find out, and it's just a one time thing! It's probably just a nervous boner anyways. Looking at half-nude art he made of you is just a one time thing. "Ah~ whoo, okay, gonna be quick, mmph, whatnwould you think of this?" He whines, rubbing against the mattress for a bit of hands-off reliefm somehow that made it less bad, right? He's not technically touching himself. Practicing gently kissing his pillow while he strokes it is just him, getting some sensory stimulation! It's normal. And it's not like he's gonna see you much after this! ...Right?

Pete isn't lacking for any material, and isn't held back by shame either. He made sure you were parked on the couch right by him allll night, and every time you got up to use the bathroom, his sticky, popcorn covered hand founds it's way into your purse. That's how he ended up with his yellowed pillow covered in some shitty PINK perfume and some sticky lip gloss smeared on his cheek like you'd kissed him there. He's absolutely wrecking the pillow, in his mind there is no seperation from the fleshlight he constructed out of fabric and stuffing and your smoking body. "You like that, baby?" He mutters lowly, bucking his hips into the pillow like a dog. "Shrimp dick my ass, you can feel that in there, huh? Yeah, I'll make sure hit all the right spots, shit. Get your fuckin' legs round my waist-" he groans.

Coincidentally, after the four have finished their separate sessions, they each receive a short, to the point call from Bill on their landlines, something about the 'financial benefit' of having more member in the club, even if he'd never, ever let a girl in under normal circumstances. But, there's a lot of good stuff coming out lately, and they need as much savings as they can get. He assures them all, "Its purely business, nimrods, I'm not exactly thrilled about it." All three are too worn out to even think about how odd it is to receive a call like that at 1 am...

[comatosebunny09]

and they were roommates | sylus

sum: sylus responds to an online ad for a roommate. you suddenly have this tall, well-spoken, handsome man living in the attic, playing classical music, tinkering with things he built, and humming off-key while he makes you pancakes in the morning before disappearing for weeks at a time. cw: modern au, roommate au, slice of life, mild language, mutual pining, romantic tension, innuendoes, smidge of angst, 1.3k of self-indulgence now playing: honey - raveena part 1 | part 2 | part 4 | part 5

The weather app forecasted rain all week.

You never truly relied on the damn thing, seeing as how there was always a high chance its predictions wouldn’t come to fruition. It’d been hot as Hell’s gates the past few days, pasting your clothes to you like snakeskin.

Well, now, as the evening sky pelts down in grey torrents beyond the awning of your porch, you feel silly for doubting it this time around. 

You love the rain—the scent of wet earth it ushers in with it, the ambient sound it carries. How, as cliché as it might sound, it washes away everything, starting the world anew. A second chance. A cover.  

What's most ironic is the rain didn’t start until your roomie disappeared once more, swept away for a “business trip,” leaving you to fend for yourself where you’d grown accustomed to having him around again. 

A quiet little tick to your lips, you gaze skyward, beholding the darkened clouds from your seat. A crisp breeze kisses your cheeks, water drip-dropping down the gutter, the symphony of the rainfall chasing away the sounds typical of your neighborhood.

Clad in your work attire, you rise from your chair and push into your home. You opt for a warm shower to chase away the cold. Ease into something comfortable, lounging on the sofa with a drama you’ve practically memorized queued up on the TV screen. 

It isn’t long before the stress of your day trickles in, and your vision fades, scorched around the edges like a vignette. You settle onto your side, feet kicked up on the couch’s armrest, drawing your blanket further up your body. 

Guided by the rain, the muted dance of light from the screen, and the exhaustion of socializing, you lapse into a heavy spell of sleep. 

—

You’re lucid. Carefully treading the line of consciousness and dreams, when the jiggling of the front door’s locks pulls you to the surface. 

You sit up with a yawn, joints crackling as you stretch, muscles stiff from your nap. The door creaks open, and warmth leaks through you at the familiar mop of white in the threshold.

He’s massive in the open door, stepping inside, quiet, careful, as if he’s up to no good. As if the darkness carried him in, snowy strands beaded with rain and a thin film of it lining the neck of his coat. You watch him slip off his boots and sling his jacket on the rack before you make your presence known with another yawn.

Brilliant, red eyes snap to you. Their intensity tempers, as does the rest of his face, and the pressure in your living room shifts when he steps towards the couch.

“Still awake?” he prompts, the low roll of his voice contending with that of the thunder brushing the horizon. 

You nod, trying to appear unfazed by his presence. Like you aren’t secretly vibrating, grateful to have him back.

He tugs off his gloves with practiced ease, dropping them onto the table behind the sofa. His eyes crease with a quiet mirth behind the backrest, and he studies you as he drops a hand to your shoulder. Squeezes, sending pins and needles through your chest.

Crossing the living room to the hallway, he disappears up the stretch of stairs leading to the upper floor. You’re straining your ears for every lick of sound, every creak in the floorboards, the slamming of a drawer, before it falls quiet. 

You take up the remote from the coffee table, scrolling through things to occupy the time. Your roommate reemerges after a minute or two, clad in a loose-fitting tee with a towel slung over his shoulders. 

He falls onto the cushion beside you, exhaling, towelling off his hair. He’s closer than what’s typical, thigh brushing yours, and your throat thickens. 

An amalgamation of scents coils around you like a breath out—petrichor, the faint trails of his cologne, undernotes of iron and smoke. You’ve stopped breathing as the cords in his bicep flex in the outskirts of your vision when he ruffles his hair, gaze trained on the television screen, unfocused,

Wanting to dispel the weighted atmosphere, you clear the phlegm from your throat. Sit up a little rigid, toying with the drawstrings of your hoodie.

“So…rough day?”

His jaw tenses in your periphery. He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lets the weight bear down. And for a moment, you think you’ve nicked skin. Agitated a nerve—he’s always hush-hush about what he does. The life of a real estate agent must be top secret. 

“It was…tedious,” he finally answers after murdering you with the suspense. 

The set of your shoulders uncoils. You exhale, feeling a little less like you pissed him off.

“That bad, huh?”

Fuck him for shifting like that. For getting a little more comfortable, draping an arm across the backrest, legs splaying open. The hairs littering the surface of your skin stand rigid, and again, you’ve forgotten what it means to breathe when he turns towards you, ingesting you with those cruelly beautiful eyes.

“I’ll spare you the details. I don’t lead an exciting life. Not like you do.”

You glower when he pokes your forehead. 

After chewing on your lip, you ask, “Well, you want me to distract you?”

A brow lifts with intrigue. Lips cant in one corner to match it. You roll your eyes, scoffing. You’d think by now you’d be better at catching your words before they leave your mouth.

“Is that an offer, sweetie?” 

“That’s not what I meant, you perv.”

The fight dies down inside you, and it’s like being struck by lightning when his gaze drops to your mouth. It lingers, scrutinizes, his pupils dilating before he takes you in once more. 

You’re mindlessly leaning closer as if gravity’s drawing you to him. Don’t realize you’re watching his lips, taking in their suppleness, wondering if they’re as soft as the flower petals they resemble, until his knuckle slips beneath your chin, tilting your head back.

His voice is scratchy, tempered low, and you feel it pulling in your stomach when he rasps, “You’re becoming more difficult to resist. Do you know that?”

You both stiffen as the air sparkles with something electric. 

He sifts through the drunken, confused haze of your stare, chewing on his lip as if he let something slip that he shouldn’t have. 

You work your mouth around a shaky, “What?” 

And there’s war in his eyes. A battle of self-control when his fingertips trace the slope of your jaw, drag along the swell of your cheek, brushing some hair from your face. He’s gentle as if he isn’t meant to touch. Careful like you’re glass and he’s a brute that could easily crush you in his fist.

With a resigned sigh, he draws back, lifting himself from the couch and from the dreamy film that had covered you, leaving you to blink at the space where he once resided, as your pulse thrums a battle cadence in your throat.

“Tea?” your roommate calls from the kitchen, the sound of cupboards shutting and porcelain dragging accompanying him.

You try not to let your disappointment show as you sit back. Try not to let your voice flicker, your hands fisted in your blanket, mouth open, mind utterly confused.

“Sure.”

You wonder what you might’ve done this time to scare him off. If it isn’t his phone ringing or another obligation keeping you apart, surely, it must be you. 

tags: @eialovescats, @animecrazy76, @souppooppie, @stxrrielle, @pemhpredo, @bluesidez, @thirstblogforaparchedgirl, @freeprincesslove, @raginginferno267, @dyeinsomniadontwake

[wheeloffortune-design]

what are some of your favorite "hacks" for working with an ADHD brain?

I love optimizing my house to make things easier. Stuff that works for me:

Phone chargers in every spot where I tend to hang out (bed, couch, desk, kitchen table). They need to be long chargers, so I can lie down however I want, not fold myself uncomfortably because it's too short.

Bins where I tend to hang out, always at arms reach. I need to be able to immediately throw the trash or it'll stay there forever.

I removed the doors to the pantry, from my closet, I took off the drawers of the fridge, so I can always see what's in there and reduce the lack of object permanence.

I have a ton of clothes, so I can do laundry like, once every two weeks, or sometimes in dire circumstances, once a month.

Dry shampoo and baby wipes for the times where even showering is too hard.

Snacks and granola bars when eating is too hard.

I fold my clothes vertically in the drawers so I can see them all and stop forgetting they exist.

My jewelery is in transparent plastic boxes with little divisions (they're craft boxes from the dollar store). I can see what's in there and again STOP FORGETTING THEY EXIST

The phone alarm is not enough to wake me up so I got an old fashioned radio alarm and placed it outside my room. It's hell, but whatever it takes.

Hooks over doors, in every room. In my bedroom, that's where I hang my jeans, hoodies, whatever I use often.

On the doors again, shoe organizers, the kinds you hang. That's where the hats, mittens, scarves, belts, end up.

Never closed storage, always open shelves. Closed storage is where things go die.

The hooks near the front door are for keys but also small earphones, since I only need them when I go out. (the earphones are the ones with cable because i lose the airbuds and never remember to charge them)

Cleaning wipes in every room.

Face cleaning wipes on every desk. Careful not to confuse them.

The mop is the kind with a water bottle attached where you just spray and clean. That's like a million steps removed and you can easily clean that tomato sauce stain.

So many shelves, guys, I added shelves on the top of dressers. Things I use rarely go in labeled transparent plastic bins. always transparent.

Actually everything needs its own spot. Mess comes from things that have no specific spot. I'm still figuring out how to optimise some stuff. This week I bought a modular shoe rack from the dollar store, assembled it vertically, and it fit in a corner of the bathroom. Now I know where towels can go.

The spots where I hang out need to be comfortable. My bed, the couch, the desk, there's always a blanket, a fan, a humidifier near. Discomfort is the concentration killer.

A huge pan. I need to be able to cook massive portions because I don't cook often. My go to recipe is tons of veggies in a spaghetti sauce.

Boxes to drop my hairties, earrings, etc, in every spot I hang out.

Seriously, shelves, bins, dividers, displays, presenters, the dollar store is a treasure trove of adhd tools. The best ailes are: home organisation, crafts, school supplies, and strangely, makeup organizers. The point is to find the way to organize your stuff so it pleases your brain, and make living and cleaning easier. You go with your brain, not against it.

.... that’s most of it, I think. also no amount of organization will beat medication and therapy, but it all comes together for an easier life.

(oh yeah, this might confuse you into thinking my house is clean. is it definitely not.)

[lxzy-bxby]

Like No Other

Babytrapping implied ♡ Unprotected p-in-v implied ♡ Tracking of menstrual cycle

~ ♡ ~ Caleb knows you like no other. Not only you—anything related to you. "That?" He chuckles, pointing to a photo in your yearbook. "That's Jake, honey. Your old classmate, remember? The one who got you roses on Valentine's back in freshman year. Three white, two red." At this point he could gaslight you to anything, and you would believe.

Your favourite color when you was eight? Yellow, because it reminded you of sunflowers—your favourite flowers back then, by the way. You used to be allergic to dust until you got in high school. Your favourite Disney princess was Snow White. When you was fourteen, you wanted to become a teacher. Who reminded you of all that? Right. Caleb. Every time Caleb takes your oldest to pediatrician, nurses stare at him like Second Coming is happening right in front of their eyes. Because in their perception of world there's no way in hell a father who knows his children as well as Caleb does actually exists. "He's allergic to peanuts, so no, not any medical allergies. Yeah, we got the whole family vaccinated last month. Were no side effects, right. He was running a fever, like 99,85. I gave him Tylenol, 7.5ml. Yeah, I know. Been there before." As he walks out of doctor's office, child in one hand, phone in other, "no worries, honey, we're headin' out" rolling off his tongue, every woman in the room is ready to worship him in more ways than one. Caleb couldn't care less. You've never seen a bill ever since you two got married. Nor took a mop in your hands. If you're home late from work, kids are in bed, their teeth brushed, bedsheets changed, yesterday's pajamas are probably in laundry basket—which is always empty by the time you want to get to washing. Your dinner is on the table, in your favourite plate, hot and fresh, but definitely not reheated in microwave. Just prepared on time. Because Caleb knows you like no other. You leave office at 7:30 post meridiem. Hop in the bus at 7:36. By the doorway at 7:49. 7:51—and you unlock the door, finally finding your keys that seem to always get lost in your bag. "There you are," He murmurs with a wide smile, getting up from the couch after spending thirty minutes just waiting for you mindlessly, not moving a muscle. "No, don't bother. I'll hang it for you. Go wash your hands." Before you can even step in the bathroom, your coat is already on the coat rack and Caleb is already by the table, pouring you freshly-squeezed homemade apple juice. "How was work? Ain't plannin' on taking furlough just yet? Just thought, we could go for a spin, yanno. I could tell you about eveeery cloud. Maybe we can find some that are heart-shaped to prove that love is indeed in the air." He grins, chin resting on his palm as he sits across you at the table. "Ah, don't you worry about kids, honey. They all tucked in. I dropped by their PTM today. Everyone doin' good. What to expect with a mother like that, right?" Caleb smiles at you with heart-shaped pupils. "Nah, no any missions in the near future. I'm all yours, honey. All yours." As soon as your plate is empty, to the dishwasher it goes. He quickly wipes the table so he has more time in the morning with you that he doesn't have to waste on cleaning, then nuzzles your shoulder. "I'll join you in bed soon." You nod, your tiredness suddenly disappearing with his subtle promise, quickly moving upstairs. And Caleb moves to the guest bathroom. Master one is your space, your haven, than he ought to provide. Definitely doesn't want to ruin the vibe of your perfectly arranged beautiful skincare bottles with his. Hops in the shower. Makes sure he's shaved perfectly smooth so any remains of stubble won't scratch you. Cuts and cleans his nails. Sprays deodorant and a generous amount of cologne. Brushes his teeth. Applies chapstick. Moisturizes his hands. Finally gets upstairs. Then fucks you into oblivion. Wets a towel. Cleans your thighs. Stomach. Chest. Forehead. Anything that's sweaty or sticky.

Puts a fresh cotton pair of underwear on you. Throws bed sheets to the laundry basket. Manages to change the bedding with just one hand while holding you with another. Takes a quick shower to make sure he looks presentable and smells nice for you come next morning. Turns A/C on. Draws blinds shut. Then finally gets to his side of the bed. Next morning greets you with a terrible cramp. Groaning you already feel the annoyance at staining the sheets, but surprisingly you did not.

Then you feel a pad at the gusset of your panties. As embarrassing as it is, you’re thankful.

“Morning, honey. Did your period come?” Caleb’s face, looking too good for someone awake at this ungodly hour, appears in the doorway.

Him tracking your period always felt kinda overboard.

“Painkillers, heating pad, chocolates. Anything else?”

…Actually not overboard at all.

Preparing a fruit bowl for you in the kitchen downstairs, Caleb carelessly hummed a song you two danced to at your wedding.

Just two more weeks until ovulation.

If he’s lucky, it’s gonna be his happy month.

Prenatals are gonna come in mail just in time.

Then he’ll finally get you all to himself. God bless maternity leaves.

He knows you wouldn’t mind.

He’ll make sure you won’t mind.

Because, after all, he’s the one who knows you like no other.

Even better than you know yourself.

~ ♡ ~

[ranikyani]

You Don’t Know My Name

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black Reader MDNI.

Summary: Terry comes into your diner every. single. day. He don't even know what he's doing to you. Or does he?

Word count: 6.4k. This is a one shot with no planned sequel.

A/N: Got this idea from that tiktok from the mufasa premiere... (yall know which one I'm talking about)

You enter the diner at 6 am sharp, the rising sun hasn’t even started lighting the morning sky just yet. As always, you start the coffee, unlock the back door for the delivery drivers, and set off to work. In the back of your mind you hear your best friend cussing you for having the doors unlocked knowing you’ll be alone for at least 20 minutes before your coworkers start showing up. But in a busy city like this, the yns are still sleep, and anyone awake at this hour is too focused on their own hustle to rob you. 

The night crew, per usual, has done a shitty job closing. You wipe down tables, and do another sweep of the floor, finding balled up napkins from last night’s patrons wedged along the floor where the metal trim of the booths meets the piano stick tile on the floor. Grabbing the mop, you make a mental note to ask your manager Natalie, Who closed last night?

One by one, your coworkers filter in as you continue to prep and refill the condiment stations. Marcus and Sydney stroll in exactly 5 minutes apart just as they did yesterday, and the day before that. They think no one else in the morning crew can tell they’re together, but you can, and they’re doing a terrible job hiding it. You just don’t care enough to say anything and blow their spot. Then comes Natalie, looking like she just rolled out of bed but still managing to somewhat look put together. You both exchange a quick hello and she starts wiping down the counters picking up where you left off. Alicia is the last to arrive, much later than the rest, breezing through the door with her signature braids underneath her hair net. 

“Hey, you’re early today,” she teases as if you aren’t always the first to arrive, tossing her jean jacket on the employee coat rack. 

“Had to get the place ready for all my customers,” you reply with a smirk, knowing full well it’s just you, her, and one other waiter for the early shift. Every time the other servers call themselves “helping” you set up booths before opening, your customers end up complaining about something missing or out of place, it’s just easier to do it yourself.  

You finish making sure the tables look good and walk the perimeter of the diner to ensure everything is set. At 7 o’clock on the dot, just as you’re putting the finishing touches on the napkin dispensers, you hear the soft jingle of the doorbell. 

It’s him. 

Terry Richmond. 

Alicia leans over the counter to you, her voice low and amused, “Here comes your man” 

A Man. In every sense of the word. 

As a regular, Terry knows the drill. The hostess doesn’t bother seating him or giving him the standard greeting of offering today’s specials, she just smiles as he heads straight for your section like he does every morning. The other waiters learned long ago, don’t even try it. He’s yours, unspoken amongst you but understood by all. 

The air thickens as soon as the door closes behind him, like everyone in the diner is holding their breath. You can hear the other women stifle their sighs, trying not to moan at the sight of him. Everyone in the room freezes for a moment, drawn to him without even meaning to. Even Marcus who doesn’t pay anything but his latest kitchen experiment any mind, glances up for a moment. You’ve seen Terry a hundred times at this point, but each time feels like the first. He moves through the dining area with the kind of confidence that just fills a space without trying. His eyes sweep over the room, scanning each face and offering a light smile and the occasional ‘hello’, but when they land on you. They stay there. 

You can feel the weight of his gaze as it meets yours and unlike every other woman in the diner gawking, frozen in place while admiring him, you try to keep busy offering a small smile in return. You try to focus on what you were doing, but you can’t help it. Terry Richmond has that effect. The man commands attention.  

He gives you a small nod and takes his usual spot in your section peeling his tan carhartt detroit jacket off of his broad shoulders before sitting down. He sits down, newspaper in hand, breaking eye contact and giving you just enough time to gather your composure. He doesn’t need to ask for a menu, he’s been here enough to know exactly what he wants. You approach his table, trying to keep your cool and softly smack down a stack of napkins you know he’ll need once his meal arrives.

“Good morning, the usual?” You ask while pouring hot black coffee from the steel carafe into a mug you’ve sat down for him as well.

“Yes Ma’am” he responds eagerly, looking up briefly from the morning paper to flash you that beautiful smile. It’s striking how his serious, focused expression as he reads today’s current events, contracts with the warm smile he gives when flashing every tooth in his mouth. It’s too captivating, that smile should come with a fucking warning label. 

You make your way back to the kitchen to give the staff Terry’s order ticket being mindful of each step you take in your chef crocs, just in case he’s watching. You don’t want him to catch you slipping, literally, the floor behind the counter gets dangerous. His order is simple, a classic diner breakfast, 2 scrambled eggs, no cheese, double turkey bacon instead of sausage, and a side of well-done breakfast potatoes with extra bell peppers and onions. You try not to think too much about the man in your booth, but he’s hard to ignore, the way he looks at you with that quiet intensity in his eyes, the way his muscles flex with a motion as simple as flipping to the next page of the paper, the way his thick thighs and ass fill out the cargo pants he always chooses to wear, the way he always sits with his legs wide open to accommodate the size of that dic-

No. 

Shaking it off, you turn your attention to the other customers, who’ve started tickling in to grab a little something before they head off to work as well. You check on them, make small talk, and go around to refill drinks well before they’re half way empty, anything to keep yourself distracted. The kitchen hums behind you, and the familiar buzz of the diner settles your nerves, for a moment. 

Ding. 

You jump slightly as the bell above the kitchen door rings, signaling Terry’s order is ready. You grab the plate quickly, making sure everything is just right before you head back to his booth carrying his plate and the coffee filled carafe with quick and practiced motion. You gently sit his plate down and refill his coffee silently, no need for small talk, just get it done and move on. 

As usual, his debit card is sitting face down on the table, the numbers hidden from other guests passing by, just waiting for you to slip it into your apron pocket. You’ll charge him and bring his receipt as soon as he’s done eating, making sure he’s out the door and on his way to work. It’s an effective system the two of you came up with to keep things moving, so he never ends up late, even if the register backs up. 

You walk back behind the counter, but your gaze lingers on Terry as he digs into his meal. There’s something almost mesmerizing about the way he eats, the way his jaw flexes with each chew. Jesus. Its too much and its too early. 

His strong hands grip the fork, it looks so tiny in comparison to his paws, and your mind wanders, imagining those hands on you. How he could hurt you but he’d never do that unless you said please.  

His lips part with each bite, just enough to make you wonder what those lips would feel like pressed against yours, or what they’d taste like covered in your essence if he’d just eat you out, ask you out. 

Then, as he’s taking a bite of his potatoes a small drop of ketchup builds on the corner of his mouth. Instinctually, his tongue flicks out swiftly to lick it clean. The motion is so smooth, so effortless, it takes everything in you not to gasp. He’s a serious eater, you can just tell you’ve always had a knack for being able to smell a munch from a mile away. 

As if he’s a mind reader, just as you take a step forward, tempted to let him know you’d like to find out what that mouth do, he looks up from his plate toward you forcing you to pull it together. Immediately losing the courage your trance bestowed that had you about to head his way, you leap forward in to pour more coffee from your carafe in Mr. Johnson’s cup in an attempt to look busy.

Does he even know my name? You wonder

He occasionally glances out the window, constantly assessing new customers entering the building through the side ramp. Every subtle shift of his muscles beneath the dark shirt he’s wearing is a reminder of just how well put together he is. 

Damn. 

The way he carries himself, the strength in every movement, he’s dangerous, and you want to be in danger. 

You can’t stop thinking about it, and you lick your lips imagining how he’d feel under your hands as you rode him until the cows came home, or until he came, at least twice.  

You can almost feel the heat of his skin, as if you’re sitting with him right now, the weight of him pressing you into the corner of the booth, his breath hot against your neck as he leans in… 

Your breath hitches, and you dart to the other end of the counter taking newfound interest in the salt shakers to break the spell before your thoughts get too filthy. You’re supposed to be working. 

Flustered, and seeing as though you just filled them this morning, you turn toward the kitchen, the heat in your cheeks evidence of the unholy fantasies you’re trying to suppress fighting to break free.  

As Terry’s plate nears empty you head to the machine and punch in the total with practiced ease. $15.87 same as always and swipe his card into the machine. You grab a tray and a pen, ready to return to the booth with his card and receipt, but your chest feels tight. The thoughts you’ve been thinking swirling around in your head.

Ask him out, your inner voice tells you. 

You make your way closer with your heart beating a little faster than usual. This isn’t the first time you’ve caught yourself fantasizing about him, but this time feels different. You’ve been making excuses every time he comes in to avoid this moment, but today? You can’t ignore the pull of your attraction to him any longer. You’ve had enough. 

“Uh… Mr. Richmond?” you say, your voice coming out softer than intended. 

You can’t stop your hands from nervously fiddling with the edge of his card, and you try your best to focus. You can do this. 

He looks up at you, those beautiful green eyes meeting yours, but he notices your hands fidgeting and assumes there’s a problem with his payment. He shifts his weight to his right hip and leans forward to reach into his back pocket and pull out his wallet. 

“I keep my card locked up,” he explains casually, his deep voice steady, “just to stay safe. Had someone try to run a $800 charge at a Home Depot in Texas last week. I ordered a new card but I’m still a little annoyed about it.” He chuckles, running a hand forward over his waves “I swore I unlocked it, though.”

You smile at his explanation, but you're distracted by the way his perfectly manicured and never dirty hands move with precision regardless of what he’s doing. And wonder how they would feel inside of you. 

He pulls a crispy $50 bill from his wallet, his fingers causing the paper to crumple under his touch, and hands it to you with a small smirk. 

“I’ve got money, I swear” he states with a playful glance. 

“Oh, it went through Mr. Richmond,” you say, placing his money back on the table. 

“Here’s your receipt, just sign at the bottom. The extra copy is for you, sir.”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than necessary, as if weighing something in his mind. 

"I would've stayed here with you and washed all the dishes, I could’ve taken out the trash too to work off my meal, but then I’d definitely be late for my first patrol. I’m working a double shift today."

You swallow hard, feeling heat creep up your neck as you think of this man carrying all the discarded boxes out back. Shirtless… Sweaty…

Focus! You tell yourself.  Don’t back out now. 

“Shame. I would have definitely found something for you to do” you blurt before you can stop yourself, the words just slipped out.

That is not what you were planning to say. 

His brow furrows slightly, a confused look flickering across his face. “What was that?” he asks

“Oh… Nothing…I just meant…” you pause to gather your thoughts but before you can find your words, the sound of raised voices outside rip through the calm atmosphere inside the diner.

You glance out the window to see two familiar regulars, both younger men, standing on the ramp outside of the window arguing. It’s hard to make out their muffled voices and determine what the fight is about but it’s clear they’re not backing down. 

“Excuse me,” he says, heading for the door.

Without a second thought, Terry stands up, his broad shoulders shifting under his shirt as he moves toward the door. His body seems to take up more space with each step, and the yelling outside grows louder once he cracks open the glass door to walk outside.

From where you're standing, you can see him step between the two men, his movements smooth, deliberate, like he’s done this a hundred times before. There’s a quiet authority in the way he stands, clasping his hands in front with his feet shoulder length apart, something you’ve only ever seen in action movies, where the hero arrives to save the day. His eyes narrow with a cold, unspoken warning, something raw and powerful that says, Fuck around and find out.

He mutters something to the men, just loud enough for them to hear. You can’t make out the words, but the effect is instant and they stumble back, silenced, cowed by the sheer force of his presence.

Still by the booth, you watch, captivated, as he commands the scene and sends them on their way with nothing more than a steady gaze and his natural poise. His stance is solid, unwavering. And you? You're breathless, caught in the magnetic pull of him, every inch of him exudes power and complete control. 

When Terry returns to the booth, the energy you had mustered to ask him out seems to dissipate in the air. Does he not realize what he’s doing to you? He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t mind as long as you keep making sure his order is always correct. With a softened expression he leans down on the table reaching for the pen you’d sat down in the tray earlier and pulls out a business card from his wallet. The name Terry Richmond is printed neatly in bold professional lettering but it’s the scribble he writes on the back that catches your breath. 

His hand moves fluidly as he writes, the thick veins that travel up his arm twitching as his finger flex and grip your pen. Oh, what you would do to be a pin right now. Terry writes his personal number on the card and then adds his signature to the restaurant receipt before placing your pen neatly back in the tray. 

“Just in case,” he says, his voice low and steady with a half smile that makes your pussy flutter; again. 

His hand brushes yours and the touch alone tightens every muscle in your core. You glance at the card and stand frozen for a moment just staring up at him towering over you, your heart skittering in your chest. You can barely breathe as you look into his eyes, those green depths making you feel like you’re drowning. 

“See you tomorrow” he says and then pulls his jacket on in a swift motion. You watch him walk toward the door, the familiar ding of the bell echoing in his wake. And just like that, he's gone.

For a second longer, you stand there, card still in hand, too stunned to move but the buzz of the kitchen quickly brings you back. Almost mechanically you go to clear his table. As you reach for his empty plate your eye catches the $50 bill folded neatly next to the receipt and the handwritten note he’s added to the bottom. 

Something extra. For always taking care of me :) 

“He obviously wants you. Just call him.” Alicia says later, breezing past you with an order of steak and eggs in hand.

“I am not calling him,” you hiss, dodging the swinging kitchen door before it smacks you.

“Well, that’s what I would do,” she shoots back, tucking a bottle of A1 steak sauce under her arm. 

“I wouldn’t even know what to say…” You trail off thinking of all the ways you could embarrass yourself if he did answer the phone. Or even worse if he didn’t and you left a cringy voicemail. Evidence of your lust and desire.

“Then text him!” she calls over her shoulder heading to her table.

You want to argue, but she has a point. Still, the thought of texting him sends a wave of anxiety through you. What do you even say? What if he doesn’t respond? 

The card burns a hole in your apron pocket, daring you to pull it out and make a move. 

Your finger hovers over the send button, and with a deep breath, you tap it before you can second-guess yourself.

You: 9:12 AM Hey this is y/n, the waiter from your favorite diner 😊

Delivered. 

Now all you can do is wait, you say to yourself, but your phone buzzes back as you go to slide it back into your apron.

Terry: 9:13 AM Is everything okay? You: 9:13 AM Yes! All good here. I just wanted to text you so you'd have my number Terry: 9:14 AM Received.

“Received!? That’s all he said?” you groan, dragging the word out as you swipe a hand across your forehead in a futile attempt to calm your nerves. 

“That’s it. Imma just leave it there and back out now so that way I don’t get my feelings hurt” you tell Alicia, reciting the exchange to her as she refills coffee at the counter. 

“No, y/n… This is when you lean in, full throttle!” she shouts causing a few patrons to look your way. 

Her sudden outburst scares one of your regulars, a janitor who works at the school across the street. 

“Sorry Mr. Johnson,” she mutters, grabbing a rag to wipe up the splash of coffee spilled on the counter when he jumped. 

You sigh, shaking your head at her antics, but her words echo in your mind. Lean in. Full throttle. 

You: 9:18 AM Hi Terry, I know girls don’t usually do this, but I wanted to take a chance anyway. You’ve been coming into the restaurant everyday, and I just had to let you know, I think you’re really handsome. I’d love to grab coffee or a drink with you sometime, away from the diner. I promise I look different outside of my uniform. I know you’re very busy but what do you say?

Terry: 9:19 AM What time do you get off? You: 9:20 AM 12 pm right before the lunch rush Terry: 9:20 AM Ok, You free tonight?

You hesitate for a second, caught off guard, but in a good way. 

You: 9:21 AM Yes. I thought you were working a double? Terry: 9:21 AM I’ll leave early. Be ready at 6. Can I pick you up from home, or do you want me to text you details where to meet? You: 9:22 AM I wasn’t expecting you to say yes so quickly... but I’m glad you did. I’ll be ready at 6. You can pick me up, here's my address: Terry: 9:22 AM Ok, It's a date. Terry: 9:23 AM I think you look beautiful in your uniform by the way.

After work, you stumble into your apartment, exhausted but jittery with anticipation. A date. With Terry Richmond. The thought makes your heart race. The clock reads 2:15.

Plenty of time.

You set an alarm for 4 and flop onto the couch, hoping a quick nap will energize you and calm your nerves.

When the alarm blares, you jolt awake, heart pounding with excitement and a new resolve. Tonight, you’re going for what you want.

You stretch, still groggy but fueled by anticipation, and drag yourself to the bathroom. The hot shower is a necessary reset, the steam curling around you as you let the water cascade over your skin. You take your time lathering your body with a vanilla-scented cleanser that leaves your skin soft and warm.

After toweling off, you reach for your favorite shea body butter, scooping a generous amount into your palms. The rich, creamy texture melts into your skin as you rub it in, taking extra time to smooth it over your arms, legs, and collarbone. You breathe it in, letting it ground you, remind you to enjoy every moment your afternoon.

You slip into a pair of fitted jeans that hug your ass just right, pairing them with your favorite oversized sweater. Comfortable, effortless, but still intentional. A swipe of gloss, a touch of mascara, and by the time you finish your makeup, the clock reads 5:45.

Outside, you hear the unmistakable rumble of Terry’s truck. Your pulse jumps. He’s early. Of course, he is. Everything about that man screams prompt. But instead of coming right up he waits outside and 10 minutes later, your phone buzzes.

Terry: 5:55 PM I'm outside. Coming up now.

At exactly 6:00 PM, you doorbell rings, the chime echoing through your quiet apartment. You take a deep breath, smoothing your hands over your outfit one last time before opening the door with a playful, sing song

"Hiiii, Terryyyyy."

He stands there, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and that easy, confident smile on his face that always makes your stomach flutter.

"Hey, baby," he says, his voice warm and smooth.

"Oh? I'm 'baby' already?" you tease, raising an eyebrow as you take the flowers from him, their sweet floral scent fills the air and you step aside to let him in.

"Good, because I actually have a confession to make," you say, your voice steady but your hands trembling slightly as you set the bouquet on the counter. The words feel heavy on your tongue, but you push through, determined to say what you've been holding back for weeks.

“Go on,” he replies, his voice low and steady, instantly grounding you as he takes a seat at one of your barstools. His eyes never leave yours, and you can feel the weight of his gaze, like he’s already reading between the lines.

“I don’t actually want to go out,” you state matter-of-factly, cool as a cucumber on the outside. But on the inside? Your heart feels as if it’s about to explode, each beat thundering in your ears. 

His brow quirks slightly, but his expression remains calm, unreadable. 

“What do you want to do then?” he asks, his tone innocent, but you know better. 

The way his eyes darken, the slight tilt of his head… he’s already figured it out. 

He’s just waiting for you to say it.

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I just... I really like you. I admire the way you carry yourself. Not a lot of guys move like they would actually even know what to do with a woman. I don’t even date because it just doesn’t seem worth the time, you know? But I don’t want you to think I’m…”

“You grown. We grown,” he says simply, his calm reassurance melting your nerves. His voice is like a balm, soothing the edges of your anxiety. 

“Say it,” he cuts in, his voice soft but firm, like he’s coaxing the truth out of you. “Tell me what you want.”

Your breath hitches, and for a moment, the room feels too small, the air too thick. But then you meet his gaze, and something in his eyes gives you the courage to speak.

“I want you to fuck me,” you say, your voice steady but soft, the words hanging in the air between you like a challenge.

Terry cocks his head slightly, a mischievous smile playing at his lips.

“Come on, baby. You can do better than that. Say it again.”

Your cheeks flush, but you don’t look away.

“I want you to fuck me,” you repeat, louder and more sure this time, your voice carrying a confidence you didn’t know you had.

“There she is,” he breathes out, his tone is warm and laced with immense pride. The way he says it sends a shiver down your spine, and you feel a rush of heat pooling low in your stomach. And the longer you hold his gaze without cowering away the more his grin widens. He breaks eye contact first, pulling out his phone and handing it to you.

“This is my MyChart,” he says, his voice casual, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

You blink in surprise but unlock your own phone, pulling up your most recent results as well. Terry glances up at you from behind your screen, a teasing glint in his eye.

“If this was your plan, why’d you even bother getting dressed, mama?”

You smirk, locking his phone and setting it on the counter.

“Just in case you said no.”

“I’d never say no to you, y/n,” he says, his voice low and certain. The space between you feels electric, charged with an energy that makes your skin tingle.

You grab his hand, lacing your fingers together “Come with me,” you say softly, tugging on his hand gently.

Terry doesn't need to be told twice. He stands and squeezes your hand, letting you take the lead as you guide him toward your bedroom. The air between you is heated with anticipation, every step heightening the tension. Once inside, you turn to face him, and before you can second guess yourself, you're pulled into the kiss you've been waiting on for weeks. A kiss that make your knees weak and as his hands slide down to your waist pulling you closer you wrap yours around his waist to hold him tightly.

As your lips part briefly, you tug at the hem of his shirt, your breath coming faster.

"Take this off," you say, your voice edged with urgency.

Terry grins, his green eyes smoldering as he yanks the shirt over his head and tosses it aside. Your gaze rakes over his chest and broad shoulders, and you can’t help but touch him, your palms trailing over the hard lines of his muscles. 

“You're unreal,” you murmur, almost to yourself.

"Is that right?” he teases, his voice rough with desire as his hands slide under your sweater.

“Don't get a big head now,” you quip, but the words dissolve into a sharp inhale as his hands move over your bare skin.

“Too late for that,” he says, lifting your sweater off in one swift motion. The way his eyes darken as they take you in sends a shiver down your spine.

He hovers over you, his lips trailing along your jaw and down your neck, each kiss igniting your skin. You arch into him, your fingers exploring the expanse of his back, pulling him closer, deeper.

When you tug at his belt, your fingers bold and eager, Terry lets out a deep, approving sound that vibrates against your lips.

“You’re not wasting any time, huh?” he murmurs, his eyes locking with yours.

“No. I should've told you how I felt the first day you came in,” you reply breathlessly, your confidence building with every touch.

He grins, his hands slipping under your thighs as he lifts you effortlessly. You wrap your legs around his waist, and he carries you to the bed, his lips never leaving yours. The way he lays you down, slow and deliberate, sends a thrill through you.

“Terry,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your skin, his words a promise.

He kisses his way down your body, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. When he reaches the waistband of your pants, he looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire. 

“You so pretty, baby,” he says, before hooking his fingers into the fabric and pulling them down slowly, savoring every inch of skin he reveals. Once you’re completely bare, he takes a moment to just look at you, his gaze roaming over your body like he’s memorizing every curve. 

“Perfect,” he murmurs, and the way he says it makes your heart skip a beat.

"I'm proud of you for speaking up," he says looking up at you from in between your legs with direct eye contact.

Then he lowers his head, his breath warm against your inner thigh as he places a soft kiss there. You shiver, your fingers tangling in the sheets as he moves closer, his lips brushing against your most sensitive spot.

“Terry,” you gasp, your back arching off the bed as he licks a slow, deliberate stripe up your center. He hums in approval, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure through you.

He takes his time, savoring you like you’re the most exquisite thing he’s ever tasted in his life. His tongue circles your clit, teasing and tormenting, before he sucks gently, drawing a moan from deep within you. His hands grip the back of your thighs, holding you open as he devours you, each lick and flick of his tongue driving you closer to the edge.

“You taste so good,” he murmurs against your lower lips, his voice rough with desire. “Hmmm, I could do this all night.”

You whimper, your hips lifting off the bed as he slides a finger inside you, curling it just right. 

“Terry, please,” you beg, your voice breaking as the pleasure builds, threatening to overwhelm you.

He adds another finger, and now you know exactly what his fingers feel like inside you. His pace is steady and relentless as he continues to lick and suck at your clit. The combination of his mouth and fingers is too much, your body arches off the bed and your thighs clamp around his head instinctively, as the sensation of cumming on Terry's lips leaves you trembling and breathless.

Terry doesn’t stop, drawing out your orgasm until you’re gasping for breath, your hands clutching at the sheets. Only then does he pull back, looking up at you with a satisfied smile. 

“You’re so beautiful when you cum for me,” he says, his voice filled with awe.

"This is better than I imagined," you whisper , staring at the ceiling, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath

"Been imagining me, huh?" he teases, his voice dripping with amusement.

You’re too spent to respond, your body still humming with the aftershocks of your orgasm. Terry kisses his way back up your body, his lips soft and gentle against your skin. When he reaches your lips, he kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“You ready for me?” he asks, his voice low and rough, and you nod, your body already craving more.

"Say it out loud y/n.. Say 'Yes'"

"Yes"

He positions himself between your legs, his eyes locked on yours as he pushes inside you slowly, giving you time to adjust. The stretch is delicious, and you moan while nails digging into his back as he fills you completely.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he groans, resting his forehead against yours as he starts to move, his thrusts slow and deep.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as you move together, your bodies perfectly in sync. The room fills with the sounds of your moans and his low steady groans, the air thick with the scent of sweat and desire.

“I wish you could see how pretty you look right now,” he says, his voice soft but filled with awe. 

Terry’s rhythm is relentless, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. His hands grip your hips firmly, guiding you as you move together, your bodies perfectly in sync. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mingling with your breathless moans and his deep voice. Reaching down, he uses his thumb to circle your clit, and you can’t help but tighten your walls around him.

"That's it, baby" he murmurs against your neck "Just like that. Let me hear you"

You moan, throwing your head back deeper into the pillows as your hands grip his shoulders. His muscles flex under your fingertips.

"Terry," you cry out, your voice breaking once again as pleasure surges through you. 

"I'm right here," he coos, coaching you on, "You're doing so good baby."

His words are meant to ground you and keep you present but your mind won't stop racing.

The quiet ones are always the freakiest, you think, biting your lip to stop yourself from laughing at your own thoughts. You’ve gotten everything you wanted, and it’s better than you ever imagined. Definitely didn’t see this on your bingo card when you opened the restaurant this morning. Terry is constantly talking in your ear as he thrust, but you’ve been paying him only half your attention. Everything feels too good… his voice, rich, velvety, and impossible deep. Wrapping around you like a magic spell pulling you deeper into the moment. Is he the voodoo man?

"Focus, baby" he says, slowing his movements and forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark with desire but there's something else there too, something soft 

"I need you here with me. Can you do that?"

You nod, then immediately correct yourself and respond "Yes," verbally before he can say anything else. 

If he keeps talking to me like this, you think to yourself, I’m getting pregnant. 

“Turn over,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire, and you don’t hesitate. You roll onto your stomach, your heart pounding as you feel him shift behind you. His hands slide up your back, tracing the curve of your spine before gripping your hips again. He pulls you up onto your knees, and you brace yourself wrapping your hands around the pillows at the head of your bed for support.

When he enters you again it’s from behind where the angle his tip can reach is deeper and more intense. You gasp, your head falling forward as pleasure ripples through you. 

“That’s it, baby,” he says, his voice a low growl in your ear. “Take it... You feel so good.”

“Yesssss,” you moan, matching his rhythm and rocking against him, the sensation overwhelming.

“Use me, baby. You’ve been working so hard, you deserve this,” he says, his voice a low rumble that sends a jolt of heat through you.

His hands roam all over your body, one hand glides up your side, before sliding around to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple in a way that makes you gasp. The other hand trails down your back, his touch firm yet reverent, before finally tangling in your hair. His fingers twist gently into your braids and he tugs just enough to guide you upright. Your back presses against his chest, his warmth enveloping you as his other hand slides around your waist, holding you steady. His fingers find your clit and circle it with just the right amount of pressure.

“Terry… I … Oh God,” you stammer, your words dissolving into a moan as he picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, faster.

“You close?” he asks, his voice strained but steady, and you nod frantically, unable to form any coherent words.

"I've got you," he murmurs. His voice is steady and grounding even as his thrust grow more urgent. His hand in your hair tightens slightly, his grip possessive yet tender.

“Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

His words push you over the edge, and you cum with a moan loud enough that you're certain to get you a noise complaint in the mail. Your body swivering as waves of pleasure crash over you. Terry groans, his rhythm faltering as his grip in your hair loosens, letting go to tighten his hold on your hips instead. His breath comes in ragged bursts, his body trembling with the effort to hold on just a little longer. Without his hold to keep you upright, you collapse forward onto the bed, your arms barely catching you as your face presses into the sheets. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your body still shaking from the aftershocks of your climax. But even as you try to catch your breath, you’re not done. You throw your ass back against him, meeting his thrusts with what little strength you have left, helping him chase his own release. You can tell he's moments away from spilling inside you.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Terry moans deeply, his breath warm against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine causing you to deepen your arch for him and lift your ass higher in the air. “Y/N…” “Y/NNNNN!” Alicia’s voice snaps through the fog of your daydream. She drags your name out, her tone harsh and sharp, clearly trying to catch your attention since you obviously didn’t hear her the first 5 times she called you. “Bitch! I know you hear me talking to you!” she whispers harshly, her words slicing through the fantasy. You blink rapidly, disoriented, heart still pounding from the scene you’d just imagined. The sound of Alicia’s voice has brought you crashing back to reality, and now you’re frantically scrambling.  “Hello! Your customer is asking for you! Stop daydreaming and go see what that fine ass man wants! What’s wrong with you?” “Shit,” you mutter under your breath, snapping into action. You race to the kitchen, heart still racing as you grab Terry’s to-go order, this morning he told you he was working a double and needed to order out. Your hands are a little shaky, but you focus on making his drink, piling on the extras, whipped cream, a generous drizzle of mocha on top of the foam, everything you know will make him smile. Usually, your boss would make you charge extra for the toppings, but today? It’s all on the house. He deserves it. You rush back to Terry’s table, fully aware that the man runs on a tight schedule. You can’t afford to keep him waiting. “Here you go, Mr. Richmond,” you say, your voice quick but sincere, your words stumbling over themselves with a hint of nervous energy. “Sorry about the wait. I threw in a hot chocolate for you, and your receipt is in the bag. Again, really sorry about that. Have a great day!” Terry looks up from the newspaper with that easy, effortless grin of his. He doesn’t seem phased by the wait at all. “Eh, no worries,” he responds coolly, waving off your apology with a smile  “You can call me Terry… What’s your name again?” Your heart skips a beat at the sound of his voice saying your name, and you quickly recover, offering a smile as you introduce yourself.

Extra A/N: Still recovering from the Flu so pls excuse any errors! This story takes place in a universe where niggas don't drink hot chocolate with catfish dinners at lunch time. Can you tell I was catching up on the bear and abbott today? I ended up inserting characters in here lol. On to the recruit & night agent season two ✌🏾. Now that I finally got this idea out of my head I can start my reading back up and try to finish SF Chapter III.

Ok bye 🏃🏾‍♀️💨

Tags: @ovohanna24 @skvrpion @thevelvetwhispers @persethegawd

[pucksandpower]

Burn, Baby! Burn!

Lando Norris x firefighter!Reader

Summary: Lando almost burns down his house (twice) and meets the throughly exasperated love of his life in the process

The shrill screech of the alarm pierces through the calm of the fire station. You jolt upright in your chair, coffee spilling across the table. Another firefighter bursts into the room.

“We’ve got a call! Some bloke has managed to set his kitchen on fire boiling pasta!”

You shake your head in disbelief as you follow your colleague out to the truck. Who in their right mind manages to burn water?

The sirens wail as you weave expertly through the London streets. You’ve lived here your whole life and know every nook and cranny. As you near the address, plumes of smoke curl up in the distance. Sure enough, you pull up to a posh townhouse billowing with black smoke.

You hurry to unravel the hose, pulling on your heavy fire gear with practiced ease. As you blast water at the licking flames, they hiss and retreat. Within minutes, the fire is out.

Your captain does a sweep of the place to check for any remaining embers. You start to inspect the damage. The kitchen is completely demolished — cabinets charred and counters blackened. And there, in the middle, stands a lanky man with a mop of brown hair. His eyes are wide as saucers as he takes in the ruin.

You stride over. “What in blazes happened here?”

“I, uh, was just trying to make some pasta,” he stammers.

You spot a scorched pot in the sink. “Pasta? All you need for that is water, salt, and noodles. How did you manage to incinerate the whole bloody kitchen?”

“Honestly, I’m not really sure,” he says, raking a hand through his hair. “I filled the pot with water, turned on the stove, went to get my phone and next thing I knew, the place was up in flames!”

You rub your temples, frustration simmering. This overgrown child clearly can’t be trusted alone.

“What’s your name?” You ask.

“Lando. Lando Norris.”

Lando Norris … why does that sound familiar? You rack your brain trying to place it.

“Well Lando, unless you fancy burning down the rest of London, I suggest you leave the cooking to the takeaway. Or hire a personal chef or something, sure looks like you can afford it.”

Lando chuckles at that. There’s a twinkle in his eye that irks you.

“Will do, firefighter ...”

“Y/N,” you supply.

“Beautiful name for a beautiful firefighter,” he says with a wink.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. The last thing you need right now is an incompetent flirt.

Your radio crackles to life. “Y/L/N, need you to hang back with the resident until a building inspector can come assess the safety.”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath before responding. “Copy that.”

You turn back to Lando. “Looks like you’re stuck with me till the inspector shows up.”

“Well I certainly won’t complain about that,” Lando says with a dimpled grin.

You plop down on his couch, which by some miracle remains unscathed. Lando sits down next to you, angling his body in your direction.

“So, do you rescue fiery damsels in distress often?”

You snort. “Wouldn’t exactly call you a damsel. But putting out idiots’ fires? More often than you’d think.”

Lando clutches his chest in faux offense. “Idiot? I’m wounded!”

Despite yourself, you feel your lips quirking upwards. There’s something endearing about him, even if he is concerningly incompetent.

“Gotta admit, this is a new one,” you gesture around. “Never been called for someone catching water on fire before.”

“Ah well, I like to keep things interesting,” Lando says with a wink.

You’re about to respond when your radio crackles again. “The inspector’s been held up across town. Gonna be another 30 minutes.”

You lean your head back and groan. Lando perks up beside you.

“Well, lucky me! More time with the lovely firefighter.”

You toss a decorative pillow at him. “You’re incorrigible.”

Lando just laughs, dodging the pillow with ease. “So tell me, Y/N, what made you become a firefighter?”

You debate shutting him down, but something about the open curiosity on his face makes you open up.

“My dad was a firefighter,” you explain. “Some of my earliest memories are of playing at the fire station with the other firefighters’ kids while our dads were on calls. I was maybe 5 or 6 when my dad let me slide down the fire pole for the first time.”

You smile at the memory. “I knew then that I wanted to be just like my dad. I thought firefighters were the coolest people in the world.”

Lando is watching you intently as you speak.

“What about you?” You ask. “What is it you do, besides wreak havoc in the kitchen?”

Lando smirks. “I’m a Formula 1 driver.”

Your eyes widen — no wonder his name is so familiar.

Lando looks pleased at your recognition. “So you’ve heard of me then?”

You nod. “Guess that explains how you can afford a posh place like this. Though I’d think a racing driver would have a bit more common sense in the kitchen.”

Lando shrugs sheepishly. “Never really had to fend for myself until now. I’m a bit hopeless at all things domestic.”

You shake your head in exasperation. “Been living off takeout, have you?”

“You know it,” Lando says with a wink.

You’re about to retort when the building inspector arrives. You greet him as Lando shows him around the thoroughly singed kitchen. After an extensive examination, the inspector deems the place safe, reminding Lando to get repairs done immediately.

With that settled, you make your way outside, Lando following at your heels.

“Don’t suppose I could get your number?” Lando asks as you reach the fire truck. “You know, in case I have any other domestic mishaps that require rescuing.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “How about I just pray we don’t meet again? Since that would likely mean you almost burned your place down … again.”

Lando clutches his chest in mock offence. “You wound me! And here I thought we were really hitting it off!”

Despite yourself, you let out a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.” You pause, considering him for a moment. “But seriously … try not to burn the place down again, yeah? I’d rather not have to peel you off the floor next time.”

Lando grins. “I’ll do my best to keep the place flame-free. Though I can’t promise I won’t still need rescuing from time to time.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Take care of yourself, Lando Norris.”

As you hop into the fire truck and speed away, sirens blaring, you catch Lando waving out of the corner of your eye. You let out a small laugh, shaking your head.

What an absolute disaster of a man.

***

It’s been nearly two weeks since the incident at Lando’s place. You’ve replayed that day in your mind more times than you’d care to admit. There was just something about that hapless yet charming Lando Norris.

Speak of the devil — the fire alarm at the station suddenly blares to life.

“Never a dull day, eh?” Your captain jokes.

You hustle to gear up, a sense of deja vu washing over you. As you near the now familiar posh townhouse, plumes of smoke once again curl into the sky. Your disbelief grows when you see a very sheepish looking Lando standing outside.

He grimaces as your truck pulls up. “Before you ask, yes, it was me again.”

You leap out of the truck, pulling the hose as your team gets to work quelling the flames.

“What the hell happened this time?” You shout over the roar of water.

“I, uh, may have tried to microwave some leftovers,” Lando says, rubbing the back of his neck.

It only takes a few minutes to extinguish the fire and assess the damage. Thankfully, it seems contained to mostly the microwave this time. Lando leads you inside, where smoke still lingers in the air. Your eyes immediately zone in on the microwave, or rather, what’s left of it. The interior is completely blackened and melted.

You whirl on Lando. “Please tell me you didn’t put something metal in there.”

Lando winces. “Right, so, funny story. I may have left a fork in the takeaway box.”

You drag a hand down your face in exasperation. “Lando, are you actually incapable of functioning like a normal adult?”

He has the decency to look ashamed. “I know, I’m a disaster, truly. But in my defense, the microwave came with the place already. I didn’t even think to check for a manual or proper usage instructions.”

You snort. “I’m pretty sure not putting metal in the microwave is common sense.”

Lando shoves his hands in his pockets. “Suppose I don’t have much of that.”

You sigh, suddenly feeling a bit bad for berating him. He really is just hopeless, not malicious.

“Look, maybe it’s best you just avoid the kitchen altogether,” you suggest gently. “At least until you get some proper instruction.”

Lando nods enthusiastically. “You’re absolutely right. In fact, why don’t I just take you out for dinner? Be a lot safer than me bumbling about the kitchen.”

You cross your arms, biting back a smile. “Are you asking me out while I’m on duty?”

Lando’s eyes widen. “No no, of course not! I would never compromise your professionalism.”

You can’t help but grin. “I’m just teasing you.”

Lando looks relieved. “Right, sorry. But truly, I’d love to take you to dinner, if you’re open to it.” He smiles sheepishly. “I could certainly use the company of someone responsible in the kitchen.”

You consider him for a moment. There are about a million reasons you shouldn’t agree to this. But despite the situation, you find yourself charmed by Lando.

“Tell you what, why don’t you swing by the station once my shift is over in ...” You check your watch. “Four hours. You can ask me again then.”

Lando’s face lights up. “It’s a date! Well, hopefully, if you say yes.”

You chuckle and turn to leave, but Lando calls out your name. You glance back and he smiles warmly.

“Thank you again for rescuing me … in more ways than one.”

Four hours later, you’re wiping down the fire truck when an expensive sports car pulls up outside the station. Lando hops out, beaming when he spots you.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he calls out cheekily.

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Don’t you know this is a strictly no-playboys zone?”

Lando clutches his heart. “You wound me, Y/N! I’m much more than just extraordinarily good looks.”

“What good looks?” You challenge.

Lando strolls over and holds open the passenger door. “Have dinner with me and see for yourself.”

You pretend to consider it, then shrug. “Eh, why not. Beats more takeout on my couch.”

You hop into Lando’s flashy car and he zooms off towards the restaurant. Lando insists on opening every door for you and pulling out your chair. You poke fun at his over-the-top chivalry, but find it endearing nonetheless.

Over dinner, you learn there’s much more to Lando than his hapless antics. He’s unexpectedly clever, with a sharp wit to match. He’s passionate about racing, his eyes lighting up as he tells you about life on the circuit. And despite his lavish lifestyle, he’s remained remarkably down-to-earth.

Conversation flows easily between you two. You’re amazed at how you manage to lose track of time, the restaurant emptying out around you.

When Lando finally drives you home, you linger in the parking lot, neither of you wanting the night to end.

“I had a really nice time tonight,” you say softly.

Lando smiles. “Me too. Think it’s safe to say there were definitely some sparks between us.”

You groan at the terrible fire pun, shoving Lando playfully. His eyes gleam with mirth.

“In all seriousness, I’d love to see you again,” Lando says. “If you’re willing to take another chance on this walking fire hazard.”

You pretend to consider it. “Well, seeing as I’m trained to deal with hazards ...”

Lando perks up hopefully. You grin and lean over to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

“I would love to see you again. And until then … just please stay away from anything flammable.”

***

A few months have passed since your unusual first encounters with Lando. To your surprise and delight, you’ve settled into an easy relationship that feels almost like second nature. Lando has been actively planning creative dates, seemingly determined to take you on adventures across London.

It’s been a whirlwind of posh restaurants, West End shows, helicopter rides, and more. Lando delights in lavishing you with exclusive experiences. While you appreciate the gestures, your favorite nights are spent cuddled on the couch playing video games.

You’ve helped Lando gain basic competency in the kitchen. He can now make scrambled eggs and pasta unsupervised. Progress.

In turn, Lando has taken an interest in your life as a firefighter, asking for crazy stories and even visiting you at the station with treats for those on shift. He greets you after work with hearty meals — takeaway warmed up in the oven without any explosions — a welcome respite from having to worry that you would come home to find his house burnt to a crisp.

You’re touched by how you’ve each become such a fixture in the other’s unusual life so quickly.

One morning, the two of you are lounging on Lando’s couch during a rare shared day off when he suddenly perks up.

“The British Grand Prix is in a few months! I know it might be tough for you to get the weekend off but I would love it if you could come,” Lando suggests excitedly.

Your eyes widen. “Seriously? I would love to see your world up close.”

Lando grins and pulls you in for a kiss. “It’s a date then! Fair warning though, the garage can get a bit chaotic. But I can’t wait to show you off to my team.”

You laugh. “Well in my line of work, chaotic is the norm. I think I can handle it.”

On race day, Lando picks you up in a sleek McLaren emblazoned with his number. You take in the organized chaos of the paddock, amazed by the scale of it all.

Lando guides you through the sea of team members prepping for the big day. He greets his mechanics warmly, introducing you with a hand on the small of your back.

“Lads, meet my girl Y/N,” Lando announces proudly.

The mechanics appraise you curiously. One whistles under his breath. “Nice catch, Lando. She’s clearly out of your league.”

You laugh as Lando flips him off good-naturedly.

Another mechanic, Dan, gestures to your athletic frame. “So what is it you do, Y/N? Personal trainer? Athlete? Fitness influencer?”

You smile wryly. “I’m a firefighter, actually.”

Dan gapes in disbelief. “A firefighter? No way! But you’re so ...” He vaguely gestures at you.

You quirk an eyebrow. “So what? Girls can’t be firefighters?”

Dan holds up his hands quickly. “No no, course not! Just didn’t expect it, is all.”

Lando grins and squeezes your shoulder. “She’s saved my arse more times than I can count.”

You laugh. “He’s not wrong. Man’s a walking fire hazard.”

Lando’s team ribs him fondly about his cooking mishaps. But you can tell they’re impressed, regarding you with newfound admiration.

“Go on then, show us what you can do!” Dan cajoles.

You grin mischievously. “If you insist.”

Before Dan can react, you swoop down and lift him effortlessly into a fireman’s carry. The other mechanics whoop and holler as Dan flails comically over your shoulder.

After a few seconds, you gently set a very flustered Dan back down.

Lando lets out a low whistle. “Have I mentioned how hot it is when you go all firefighter on me?”

You smirk. “Never gets old seeing you boys underestimate me.”

Dan rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, fair play. Reckon I earned that.”

You laugh good-naturedly and pat Dan on the back, assuring him no harm done. As you all chat, you notice Lando’s gaze lingering on you admiringly.

As race time nears, Lando has to start prepping with his team. But he keeps glancing over at you with a newfound awe. Your little display of strength clearly left an impression.

Soon it’s time for him to get in the car. You wish Lando luck with a quick kiss, giggling at the mechanics’ dramatic groans.

Once the race gets underway, you stand behind the monitors with Lando’s performance coach, cheering him on with every overtake. You join the crew in jumping to your feet when Lando crosses the chequered flag for an exhilarating podium finish. The garage explodes into celebration, and Lando sweeps you up into a spinning hug when he arrives.

“My good luck charm,” he proclaims, keeping you close as champagne sprays wildly.

Later at an afterparty for the drivers and teams, you sip cocktails under strings of lights. Lando proudly spins you around the dancefloor, making sure everyone can see you on his arm.

“Have I told you how amazing you are?” Lando murmurs into your hair.

You grin. “Might’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

“Well I’m saying it again. You’re incredible, Y/N. Today was so much better getting to share it with you.”

Your heart swells at the sincerity in Lando’s eyes. You cup his face gently.

“Couldn’t imagine a better first Grand Prix. Thank you for inviting me into this part of your world.”

Lando smiles softly. “You’re the best part of my world now.”

Over the following weeks, you start to notice Lando looking at you with a new hunger in his eyes. The easy affection between you has shifted into something more wanton and primal.

One night, as you’re cooking a simple pasta dish together, Lando comes up behind you, hands encircling your waist. He plants a trail of kisses down your neck as his grip tightens possessively.

You lean back into him with a pleased hum. “Well hello there.”

“Mmm, ever since I saw you lift that mechanic, I just keep thinking about all the ways you could put that sexy strength to use,” Lando murmurs against your skin.

You grin and turn in his arms. “Oh yeah? Why don’t you tell me more about that?” You purr teasingly.

Lando crashes his lips to yours, backing you against the counter hungrily. You just barely remember to turn off the burner before completely losing yourself in the feel of him around you — one burnt pot of boiling water is more than enough for your relationship, thank you very much.

Later, lying spent and sated in Lando’s bed, he nuzzles against you. “Have to say, your skills in the bedroom rival your skills as a firefighter,” he jokes.

You swat his chest playfully. “Careful or I may have to break out some new moves on you.”

Lando’s eyes gleam. “Promise?”

You grin and roll on top of him, ready to stoke the flames between you once more. Though your relationship started unconventionally, it seems things with Lando will never stop burning hot.

[evansbuckle]

Domestic Bucky Headcanons

Thinking about domestic Bucky who naturally wakes up really early and then lies in bed (because he sleeps in a bed now) for the next three hours, just watching you sleep and listening to the way you breathe, because this is hands down the best moment of his day.

Domestic Bucky who damn near had a physical battle with the new machine you guys got just so he could bring you coffee, so you could lay in bed for a few minutes more.

Domestic Bucky who oddly enjoys cleaning, specifically wiping down surfaces because the motion soothes him. He also loves mopping for this same reason. Not that you’re complaining.

Domestic Bucky who replaces the flowers on the kitchen island every Monday, because they ‘decide the vibe for the week’ not that he really knows what that means, he just enjoys your smile when you see them.

Domestic Bucky who never fails to touch you - wether it’s a hand on your knee when you’re sitting on the couch together, his hand in your back pocket when you’re on a walk, his arms around your waist while you’re standing doing whatever you’re doing - honourable mention: he likes to carry you as much as he can, just because he knows you like it, even if its from kitchen to living room, or couch to bed.

Domestic Bucky who’s shoulders physically sag in relief every time he comes home from literally wherever because he can smell your presence and hear your heartbeat and he knows he’s safe.

Domestic Bucky who prides himself in knowing how to cook. After his totally great, not traumatic at all past it took him a while to find joy in food, but once he did? oh man, he’s like a magician with a decked out spice rack. It’s his favourite pastime. Not to mention the reward he gets from the way you physically moan at the taste of whatever he’s cooked.

On a similar note, he for some reason really struggles to bake. Bucky doesn’t know what the problem is because he swears he uses the scales and follows the recipe and the oven works just fine, but it always ends up just tasting slightly … off. On an unrelated note, Domestic Bucky has made best friends with everyone who works in the bakery a couple blocks away. They all greet him by name.

Domestic Bucky who adores movies, fantasy is preferred but he wouldn’t turn down a rom-com (sometimes you think he secretly prefers them). You could honestly swear that every time there's a cute date in a romcom he makes a mental note of it, and takes you on the same date a few days later, blushing when you point out the similarities between date and movie.

Domestic Bucky who draws you baths, and lights you candles, and brings wine & chocolates to you while you’re in said bath when you have a bad day because you’re not staying sad, not on his watch. Honourable mention for the fact he’ll get in with you, but only if you ask.

Domestic Bucky who is happy, who (after who knows how many years of guilt) accepts that he can have peace, who looks over at you every single morning when he wakes up, and every single night before he falls asleep, and thanks God that he didn’t end everything when it got too loud.

likes & reblogs are always appreciated! <3

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter eleven

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: you're back on the day-shift , slowly but surely stitching normalcy back together. the hospital hums with quiet welcome, and even the rooftop feels like home again. but dusk brings more than cold air and habit. it brings the answer to every unspoken fear.

⤿ warning(s): stalking, obsessive behaviour, violence, non-consensual touching

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2.6k

Your first dawn back in your own apartment slips through the cream curtains like a shy hello. 

The hallway carries a faint lemon scent—Mr. Donnelly’s handiwork. While you were gone he swept the stairs, mopped the landing, and even fitted a raccoon-proof lid on your trash can, leaving a note: Still doing neighborhood rounds—call if the evil returns. The simple kindness steadies your pulse as you lock up and head for the hospital.

The east windows glow with weak November sun when you badge into Surgical at 06:42, one minute before the day crew hands things over. No applause, no sheet cake—just chlorhexidine in the air, fresh wax underfoot, the beep-tick of monitors, and the scratch of a marker on the whiteboard.

Exactly the scale of normal you prayed for.

Your shoes squeak once. Dr. Garcia doesn’t look up from the schedule until you’re in front of her; then she flicks her pen free of her teeth.

“Lap-chole at eight, bowel re-section at noon,” she says, pushing a chart your way. “If Dr. Miller steals my curved clamps, bite him.”

That’s Garcia’s version of a hug, sharp and warm all at once.

“Missed you too, Doc,” you say, flipping the chart open. Allergies, consent, nothing forgotten.

Down the hall, Dr. Miller leans from Pre-Op, mask hanging at his throat.

“Well, suture me to the deck and call me anchored,” he crows. “Senior nurse’s back; the sun must’ve signed a non-compete.” 

Two residents groan. You roll your eyes, but his pun lands like sunshine.

At the desk Margot waits, tea in one hand, clipboard in the other. No fuss—just a gentle shove of the cup toward your fingers.

“Lead aprons are in Room 3,” she murmurs. “And nobody touches your clipboard but ghosts and God. Clear?”

“Crystal,” you answer. Hot black tea—no decaf, bless her ruthless heart.

Jules meets you in Sterile Core, trays lined up with jeweler precision.

“Count’s perfect,” she says, eyebrow high. “Try to keep it that way, Steel-Spine.”

You tap the instrument key and grin, the nickname feels more like armor than mockery. Fin slips out from behind a supply rack, cheeks flushed. He hands over a badge reel shaped like a tiny scalpel, 3-D printed in gun-metal gray.

“For luck,” he mutters.

You clip it beside your ID and squeeze his shoulder. “Looks like it belongs here.”

No time for sentiment—Pre-Op is already paging. You swing into the corridor, shoes squeaking once, shoulders settling into the rhythm of morning prep.

Hours later, between the gallbladder you just dropped off in recovery and the bowel case rolling up next, you snatch ninety seconds in the locker room. Your name plate never came down; someone taped a cartoon scalpel under it that says CUT THE DRAMA, NOT THE PATIENT. You tie your scrub cap tighter, close your eyes, and listen—carts rattling, suction sighing, ventilators counting breaths. 

Life, loud and sure.

In OR 3 the lights blaze white as the patient arrives. Drape, prep, quick safety pause. Dr. Garcia stretches out her gloved hand; you land the instrument she wants before she speaks. Her eyes crinkle over the mask.

Time blurs: clicks of metal, the smell of cautery, the soft hiss of suction. Dr. Miller stays well clear of Dr. Garcia’s side. Fin calls the final count, Jules signs off with a flourish, and a wide-eyed resident whispers, “That was beautiful,” while you wheel the bed to recovery.

It’s 14:55 when the last chart closes and hot water finally scrubs the sting from your hands. You're ready for your lunch break.

In the lounge the fridge swings open—Margot added a padlock “for deterrence,” and past it, your lunch box sits untouched. In the group chat, Margot's message stands, Password still BENTO4LIFE. Fin remains unauthorized—hold the line.

You snap a photo of your rice, full black beans and chicken cutlet, and text: Day shift—still standing.

Jack’s reply pops up almost instantly: ❤️

Heat blooms in your ribs—ridiculous, giddy.

Phone pocketed, lunch done, you step into the hall just as afternoon rounds swell. No mystery texts, no shifting clipboards—only the pulse of daylight medicine and a wing that treats your return as routine. Your shoes squeak once—bright, confident—before you angle toward the next bay, steady, useful, home.

. . .

The ward shifts from afternoon buzz to evening exhale, that gentle slack in noise just before night crew takes the reins. You hand off your final patient note, re-dock your scanner, and accept a round of shoulder squeezes from Margot and Jules. Fin calls after you to guard the badge reel with your life; Dr. Garcia just points at tomorrow’s schedule and mouths, “On time.” You salute her with your thermos in lieu of a goodbye.

Inside the lift you can’t stop checking the lid—double tight on a brew of smoky oolong Jack once said tasted like autumn bonfires. Two paper sleeves of ginger cookies ride in your tote, still warm from the residents’ lounge microwave. The elevator climbs past six, seven, eight floors; your pulse climbs faster.

The stairwell to the roof smells of concrete dust and old rain. You take the steps two at a time—part nerves, part giddy anticipation—and push through the metal door, expecting the familiar silhouette leaning against the railing, that half-grin waiting just for you.

Wind flattens your scrub top to your spine as the door bangs shut behind you. At first glance the roof looks empty—until your eyes adjust. A single figure stands near the eastern rail, lean and wiry under a navy scrub jacket. A stethoscope is looped around his neck, badge clipped low on his pocket like any off-duty doctor catching air between cases. You don’t recognize the face—sharp jaw, unruly dark hair—but the uniformed familiarity tugs you a step forward instead of back. Maybe he’s new.

“Evening,” you call, curiosity edging out caution.

The man turns slowly. His smile is bright, almost boyish—until your gaze drops to his right hand. A scalpel glints there, pinched delicately between thumb and forefinger, blade catching the last streak of sunset like a sliver of cold fire.

Your pulse stops, slams, then races.

The thermos sweats against your palm; the paper sleeve of cookies crackles. He lifts the scalpel in an absent gesture, as if it were nothing more than a fountain pen, grin widening like you’ve shared a private joke.

Every instinct screams run, but your feet stay welded by a single stunned thought: Jack isn’t here, and this stranger, smiling so pleasantly, is holding a very real blade.

The stranger’s smile widens, teeth catching the weak rooftop light. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten our spot,” he says, voice light and breathy—like gossip shared over coffee instead of across forty feet of concrete. The scalpel twirls once between his fingers, sure and practiced. “But of course you wouldn’t. You love routines. I do, too.”

Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. You note the details automatically: the slight tremor in his free hand, the way his badge dangles backward so you can’t read the name, how his sneakers squeak just a hair when he shifts his weight—steps that could close the gap in seconds.

“I’ve been so patient,” he continues, nodding as if grading himself. “Waiting through extra cameras, new door codes, night shifts. I thought the fridge lock was clever—Margot's idea, right?—but it made things tricky. Made me improvise.” His eyes flick to the thermos in your grip. “You brought tea anyway. Loyal. I like that.”

Rain from yesterday’s storm drips off the drainage gutters, each plink absurdly loud.

“I missed your mornings,” he says, stepping toward the river view but angling his torso so he keeps you in sight. “The way you double-check the crash carts, straighten the clipboard—beautiful rituals. They’re why I chose you.” He inhales like savoring perfume. “You keep the chaos tidy. It’s… comforting.”

Your pulse pummels your throat. You slide one foot back, inching toward the door handle behind you; it feels miles away. He notices and laughs softly.

“Don’t,” he says almost kindly. “If you leave now, we’ll just start over tomorrow. And you’ve worked so hard today.” The scalpel tilts, catching orange from the west.

You steady the thermos, grip tightening until metal bites.

The man sighs, almost wistful. “I watched you all day. The way you glided through that bowel case—poetry. They don’t appreciate it the way I do. They never see you.” His gaze drags over you, hungry and reverent all at once. “But I do.”

Your mind races: shout for help? Rooftop door is heavy; sound might not carry. Stall him. Keep distance.

“Who are you?” you manage, voice hoarse.

“I’m the one who’s been writing you.” He taps his chest with the scalpel hilt and as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. “Trash-can raccoons? That was me testing your attention to detail. The intern’s muffin? A cute bonus. Clipboard tilt—my little signature.” He shrugs, grin stretching. “I thought the note on the Tupperware would make you smile, but you panicked. You weren’t ready yet.”

Every hair on your arms lifts. You want to throw up. He studies your reaction like data.

“But you’re ready now,” he whispers. “Back on days, back where you shine. I wanted our first real conversation to be here, where you and the sky meet. A clean view. A beginning.”

He steps closer—five paces left between you. You retreat one pace, the door’s push-bar now a cold echo against your spine. Old rainwater from the vent dribbles down your collar. He notices, frowns with genuine concern.

“You’re cold. Let me—” He extends the hand holding the scalpel, blade down as if to offer help.

The gesture jolts you back to yourself. You lift the thermos, thumb hooking beneath the lid—scalding liquid, a ready weapon. Your other hand edges toward your phone, pulse pounding so loud you taste metal.

His eyes flick to the movement, then back to your face, hurt flickering like a twitch. “Please don’t ruin this,” he murmurs. “I planned everything.”

Your breaths saw in and out. Behind him the last smear of sun bleeds into river-black. Somewhere far below, an ambulance siren wails, climbing.

You draw a deeper lungful, fix your gaze on the scalpel glittering between you, and summon the steady voice that calmed countless patients.

“Okay but you need to put the blade down,” you say, tone low but clear. “We can talk, but that comes first.”

He hesitates—brief, uncertain—and in that sliver of pause you feel the phone vibrate once in your pocket: a message you don’t dare check. Another siren peaks. Somewhere, maybe, help is already moving.

The stranger straightens, expression slipping from eager to something colder. “I didn’t come here for rules,” he whispers.

The metal mug feels slick in your sweating grip. Every instinct tells you to bolt, yet your feet stay rooted by the knowledge that a single wrong motion might sharpen the scalpel’s arc toward you.

“Let me pour you a cup,” you say, surprised you still have a voice. It’s the one you use on trembling post-ops—low, steady, hypnotic. Steam coils upward as you loosen the lid; your hand barely trembles, though your heart slams so hard you taste copper.

He discards his frustrations like nothing, and steps closer into the burnt-orange wash of the security light. Up close the details jolt into clarity: wiry build under the scrub jacket, glasses fogged at the edges. A thin line of acne scars dots his jaw. His smile widens as he cradles the cup you offer, scalp­el blade glinting just inches from your sleeve.

“That smell—oolong,” he breathes, as if inhaling you with the steam. “The morgue coffee is terrible. But this… This is how you start your mornings, isn’t it?”

Goose-flesh ripples up your arms. “I do like routines.”

“So do I,” he whispers. “I watched you relabel a gallbladder sample in July. So precise. Everyone else moved on, but you stayed, made sure the name matched the wristband. That’s when I knew.”

Your spine goes cold. Another cup poured buys seconds. You force your lips into something gentle as his closeness allows you to take a small peak at his badge. “You're from the frozen-section team?”

His eyes light up. “Yes! You remembered.”

But you don't. You don't know him, you don't remember anything. You must pretend like you do. Your literal survival depends on it. So, you nod, heartbeat thudding at your ears. The skyline wavers behind him, city lights doubled in the blur of your tears.

“Why the scalpel?” you ask, voice barely above wind.

He glances at it, almost sheepish. “Force of habit. A conductor needs a baton.”

My God.

You try again, hoping the tea has softened the edges of whatever violent delusion is clouding his senses. “Could you put it away? Tea first, then talk.”

A hesitation—then, worshipfully, he pockets it. Adrenaline floods your limbs.

You hand him a third cup. His fingers rhythmically tap the metal lid—one-two-three, one-two-three—like feeling out your pulse. In the glare you can see steam silvering the lenses of his glasses, moisture beading on his cheekbones.

Now!

You fling the cup on his hand. Boiling tea splashes across his face; the scream that rips out of him is half animal, half betrayed child. He claws at his eyes.

You drive your shoulder into his chest, bones jolting, but he pivots with unnerving speed. Your shove knocks him sideways only half a step; rubber soles squeak on wet concrete, and his free hand lashes out, fingers closing vise-tight around your upper arm.

“No—no—” Panic shreds the word as you twist for the door handle, but he yanks you back, slamming your spine against the metal. The latch rattles uselessly under your flailing grip.

Up close his face is a mask of cool fascination, not rage—eyes bright, tracking every tremor in your expression. Tea still steams off his cheek, reddening the skin, yet his voice stays almost gentle. It makes you sick.

“Easy,” he murmurs, tightening his hold until your fingers tingle. “We’ve come this far. Please, please don’t ruin it.”

You scream anyway—raw, desperate—but the rooftop swallows the sound, vast and indifferent. He clamps a hand over your mouth, breath steady against your ear. The scalpel is back and glints inches from your throat, a silent reminder that strength isn’t always measured in muscle.

Your pulse hammers so hard you taste blood. You kick, heel connecting with his shin; he grunts but doesn’t loosen his grip. “Shhh,” he soothes, chilling in its softness. “I know you’re frightened. First encounters are messy.”

Tears blur the skyline behind him—river lights smearing into streaks. You try to bite his palm; he shifts just enough to avoid teeth, fingers digging into your jaw. Controlled, practiced.

“Listen,” he whispers, almost tender. “All the safeguards, all the cameras, and still we’re here. That means something. You feel it, don’t you?”

Your lungs burn, screams muffled to whimpers. You shove at his chest—too lean to look strong, yet his grip is iron. The thermos tumbles from your hand, clanging into the darkness. Cookies scatter like brittle coins.

He leans closer—scalpel grazing your collar—voice dropping to a reverent hush. “I only needed you to stop running. Then we can begin.”

divider credit

[hischiershoe]

𝐀 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐰 | 𝐋𝐮𝐤𝐞 𝐇𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Everyone on the team seemed to like you, except for one person in particular and you didn’t know why. But by some Christmas miracle, everything finally falls in place.

Warnings: Luke’s a dummy, some misunderstandings, a tiny kiss at the end, Lazar!sister, not edited

Note: This is a part of my Ficmas event!

Soft music filled your small apartment as you pulled the last batch of cookies out of the oven to cool. A brief glance towards the small clock on the stove told you that you had roughly fifteen minutes until your brother would be there to pick you up and drag you to his work Christmas party. Once the cookies were laid out evenly on the drying rack, you hurried back to your bathroom to make some last minute touches to your makeup and to make sure you still liked the way your outfit looked. Just as you were shoveling the last bit of cookies into your Christmas themed container, the sound of someone knocking on your door broke your concentration.

 “You know,” Your brother's voice fills your ears as he pushes through the door, “You really should learn to lock your door.”

“You know,” You mimic him, rolling your eyes as you snap the lid on, “It’s somehow only a problem when you come over.”

“I don’t count,” Curtis waves his hand in the air, “It’s my job to make sure you’re being safe.”

“Well, you suck at your job then,” You snort, pulling the container close to your chest as you turn to face him, “Let’s go. I’m ready to see my nephews.”

The two of you walk down to the parking garage, bickering about something you had said in your family groupchat nearly a week ago and you didn’t stop until you were stuck between two car seats in the back of his SUV. The entire ride to the Haula household, you were being pulled from nephew to nephew as they both prodded for your attention, but you didn’t mind it too much. You soaked up as much family time as you could because you lived so far away from everyone else, and you never knew if Curtis would have to up and move like he’d had to before.

The longer the drive went, the more the feeling of anxiety blossomed in your stomach. No matter how many times Curtis or his teammates told you that you were always welcome in their circle, you still felt like you were overstepping. Realistically, you had no place in their group of hockey players and hockey wives. Their life was luxurious and full of excitement compared to your own that was full of studying for a degree you’re not sure you want anymore and working part-time at a job you didn’t necessarily like. Even then, when Curtis found out he was traded to a team only thirty minutes from his youngest sister, he made it clear you were always included and welcome wherever he went.

“Hey guys,” Haula greets with a smile as he pulls the door open, “Come on in! A few of the others are here already.”

With Owen’s hand tightly grasping your own and your cookies tucked against your side, you follow the others inside with a small smile on your face. Though the second you walk through the door, he runs off to join the other kids without so much as a glance in your direction. Your gaze darts around the house and you pass a smile to anyone you accidentally make eye contact with until your eyes find a familiar mop of messy curls. Of course you knew the likeness of Luke being here was high due to this also being his team event and all, but that never stopped slight annoyance from burning in your chest when you finally saw him.

To put it plainly, Luke pissed you off. He was standoffish, a little arrogant, and insanely annoying. At least to you he was. When you first met him, you did your best to appear friendly and make light hearted conversation with him. You wanted to befriend him given the fact that this was the first teammate Curtis had introduced you to that was the same age as you, but Luke was seemingly having none of it. He hardly made eye contact with you when you greeted him, only ever gave half-assed one word responses when you tried to talk to him, and he never came up to you first. At first, it upset you that he seemingly wanted nothing to do with you, especially because you found him to be quite cute. Now it just irritated you to no end, yet you still found him obnoxiously attractive. 

“Play nice,” Curtis elbows you in the side, “Or you’ll have to go on the naughty list and I’ll send the gifts mom sent for you back home.

A dramatic gasp fell from your lips as you moved your gaze to your brother, eyes wide and heart clutching your chest. “You wouldn’t,” You playfully narrow your eyes at him before you shake your head,  “I don’t plan on talking to him, and that’s as nice as I can get.” 

“Oh, come on,” He tries, “I think you two just got off on the wrong foot. He’s actually a really great kid.”

Your hand quickly flies to his forehead, making a show of feeling the temperature as your eyes are wide and swimming with feign concern, “Are you sick? You’re saying something nice about Luke.”

“Oh my god,” He rolls his eyes, slapping your hand away from his face, “Get outta here. Go play with the kids or something.”

You let a snicker as you walk towards the kitchen, shaking your head to yourself in amusement. A few of the girls were already in there talking amongst themselves, and you tried to keep to yourself in fear of intruding, but they quickly pulled you into their conversation. They made an effort to ask about how your classes were going, and when you told them your doubts, they were all quick to bring encouragement and wise words of advice. It wasn’t long until they brought up the topic they really wanted to. Boys.

As the night went on, you did exactly as you told your brother you would do and didn’t speak to Luke, which wasn’t exactly hard to do. It was almost like he avoided you on purpose, making sure he was never too close to you or ended up being alone in a room with you. You’re not particularly sure why, but tonight, Luke’s indifference toward you was getting to you in ways it hadn’t before. You were taking it to heart more than usual, slowly getting in your own head and wondering exactly what it was about you that he didn’t like.

When the others decided that they wanted to play some sort of group game while the kids all watched a movie in the other room, you decided to take the time to step outside by yourself. A few rounds of ‘are you okay’s went around the room when you stood up, but you brushed them off with your reassurance that you just needed some fresh air. However, as you trudged towards the back door, you missed the way Luke’s worried gaze followed you until you disappeared through the door, but Curtis didn’t.

You severely underestimated how cold it was going to be outside. Of course it was mid-December in North Jersey and you knew it wasn’t exactly going to be warm, but it felt like it had dropped nearly twenty degrees since you had been outside last. The thought of simply going back inside crossed your mind several times, but the idea of getting away from Luke just for a moment triumphed your need for warmth. Who knew silence from a guy you barely knew would have you braving the almost freezing temperatures rather than sitting in a heated house.

You pulled your jacket close to your chest as you sat on the small outdoor couch, tucking your legs underneath you as you let out a shaky breath. You tried to focus on calming your nerves, on taking deep breaths and grounding yourself with the sounds and smells of nature, but Luke still managed to occupy your mind. All you could think about was him. Why didn’t he like you? What you couldn’t done differently? Was it because of something you had said? Was it because the way you looked?

The sound of the backdoor opening tears through the maze of insecurities swirling in your head, forcing your eyes to the last person you expected to see. Luke. He stepped into the frigid air, a blanket neatly folded against his chest as he let the door close behind him. His soft yet anxious gaze found your own, and it felt like all of the air in your lungs had been sucked out of you. The shift of tension was so evident that you’re almost positive even the group inside could feel it, even if their prying eyes weren’t peeking through the window. 

“Uh, hey,” Luke meekly calls out, hovering near the door.

“Hi, Luke,” You flatly greet, untucking your feet from under your thighs as you straighten your back, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” He clears his throat, doing his best to ignore the dullness to your voice before he closes the large gap between you, “You looked cold so I brought this for you.”

He thrusts the blanket in your direction, his eyes bouncing around the backyard to avoid meeting your own as you peer up at him. You hesitantly reach out and take the soft material from his slightly shaky hands, mumbling a quiet ‘thank you’ before you cast your eyes down to the concrete under your feet. An uncomfortable and painfully awkward silence falls over the two of you, and you want nothing more than for a hole to open up in the ground so it can swallow you entirely.

“Can I– Uhm, can I sit,” He asks, bringing his hand up to nervously brush across his face. 

Your head snaps towards him, eyes wide and mouth dropped open in surprise as you manage only but a weak nod. Luke carefully takes the spot next to you, attempting to keep as much space between the two of you, but the couch wasn’t exactly large in size so his thighs inevitably brushed against your own. Despite the icy air biting at your skin, the slightest touch from him sent a wave of heat over you like a bucket of warm water. 

“I want to say that I’m sorry,” Luke nervously clears his throat, letting his gaze briefly flit to your face, “For being kind of a dick.”

“Kind of,” You repeated with a teasing chuckle, your brows raising in amusement.

“Okay, yeah,” He breaths out through a shaky laugh, “I’ve been a dick, but I am sorry. It’s just, um, you kind of intimated me.”

You watch as Luke uncomfortably shifts in his seat, his hands shoved in his pockets as his already red cheeks darken in color, and you can’t help but find it cute. His bashfulness was something that you always found endearing when you weren’t busy trying to convince yourself that you didn’t like him.

“I intimidated you,” You incredulously ask, shifting your body so your knee is slightly poking his thigh and you’re facing him, “How?”

“Um, it’s stupid honestly,” He shakes his head, slightly scoffing to himself, “You were just so friendly, and, um, everyone seemed to like you and I was nervous that you wouldn’t like me. You’re also– Um, you’re really pretty, too, and that definitely didn’t help.”

Luke’s words ring in your ears, your body stiffening as you try and convince yourself that you had heard him correctly and it wasn’t your mind playing tricks on you. Your heart was ramming into your ribs, your breathing becoming uneven as all of the words you wanted to say kept getting caught in your throat. However, you could see the panic forming on Luke’s face, and you knew you needed to say something before he freaked out. 

“I’m sorry,” You breathe out, “I just— So all this time, you didn’t talk to me because you thought I wouldn’t like you? Luke, I thought you didn’t like me. I thought you hated me, actually.”

Now, panic was really evident on Luke’s face as he rushes to say, “I don’t! I never hated you. Shit, I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this.”

You watch as he slightly tilts his head back and lets out a sigh of frustration, the hood from his jacket falling off to showcase the mussed up curls on his head. His hair had grown out quite a bit, the strands curling over his ears and brushing against the nape of his neck. You’d always liked his hair the most when it was a little longer, the occasional unholy thought crossing your mind before you brought yourself back to reality with warm cheeks and downcast eyes, but you’d never admit that out loud.

The incessant vibration of Luke’s phone breaks the pause between the two of you, your eyebrow quirking in curiosity as he straightens back up with a sheepish look on his face.

“I’m sorry, I’m just gonna check it real quick,” He mumbles, casting you an apologetic glance.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through what appeared to be dozens of text messages before he quickly glances to the roof of the pergola. You follow his line of sight and you find the neatly wrapped bundle of mistletoe that was hanging from the wooden frame, and the nerves you were feeling before were absolutely nothing compared to now. You were frozen in your spot, your neck craned to stare at the fake plant above you, your stomach twisting itself in knots.

“Is that…,” Luke’s voice trails off, moving his focus back towards you.

“It is,” You swallow before slowly letting your gaze fall on Luke’s face.

When your eyes meet his, your breathing hitches, and it feels like the world around you stops moving. The sounds of nature, of the cars driving by, of the laughter from inside the house– It all disappears until only the sounds of your heart drumming in your ears was all you can hear. All of the colors around Luke blur together, only him staying in focus as you wait for his next move in nauseating anticipation.

“Isn’t it like- a Christmas law or something,” Luke clears his throat, inching closer to you with each passing second.

“Christmas law? Seriously,” You snort, your eyes crinkling as you give him a goofy smile.

“I dunno,” He meekly mumbles, slightly shrugging as his cheeks tinge pink all over again.

“Yeah, Luke,” You quietly agree as the gap between the two of you becomes so minimal that you can feel his warm breath fanning across your face, “It is a Christmas law.”

Your eyes delicately flutter closed, your nose nudging against Luke’s before you press your lips against his own in a small and simple kiss. Your hand was firmly placed on his thigh to keep yourself steady, Luke’s finding purchase on your lower back as he brings you closer to his chest. Truthfully, it wasn’t anything life-changing or extraordinary, but it was still perfect.

“Hey,” Curtis yells out of the back door, forcing the two of you apart so quickly that you nearly topple off the couch, “Quit kissing my sister!”

“You said he was a good kid,” You quickly retort over the sounds of laughter from inside, throwing your brother a look that clearly says ‘GO AWAY’.

“I take it back! He’s the worst!”

You watch as Reanne tries to reel him back with a grin on her face, telling him to leave the two of you be until you were ready to come back inside. When he was successfully wrangled back in, you meet Luke’s stare again and he’s mimicking the same look of embarrassment that you had. You can’t stop yourself from bursting into a fit of awkward giggles, leaning forward so that your forehead is pressed against Luke’s shoulder as his body shakes with laughter of his own.

“I’m never living this down,” Luke quietly groaned, using the leverage he had to subtly shift you under his arm.

“Probably not,” You chuckle, craning your neck to look up at him, “Was it worth it?”

You can see a flicker of something in his gaze. Something unfamiliar. Something intense.

“More than worth it.”

[sierrale8ne]

AMERICAN WEDDING 002. HEADLINES you’ll probably leave later anyways, that’s love made in the usa. pairing paige bueckers x black!oc ( kayden kennedy ) warnings 3.6k words, flashback, pazzi moments/mentions (it’s fiction before y’all start), angst if you squint, most boring chap lena talks thank you guys sm for all the love so far and all the patience with me! i didn’t mean to leave you hanging for a over a month, but we back now 😇

present day april 2025

To say that Paige was living on a high for the last seven odd hours would be, well, a huge understatement. She was living on a fucking cloud, the air of the world just traveling in and out of her lungs as if to force her to breathe rather than tell her to. She fucking did. Everything she came to UConn for, everything she had ever dreamed of accomplishing— a natty, national player of the year, racking up all those points (even if she’d continue to act like it wasn’t that important), and all that experience— was tucked under her belt and hers. No one would ever be able to take that away from her.

Paige was hype; dazed. A feeling that rushed through her blood and made her dizzy. 

Or maybe it was the substances. The many shots of cheap vodka that she took like water and Shirley temples. Weed had found its way into her system too, she snuck off with Jana and 15 minutes later the daze was evident in the slow strut of her walk and slow blink of her eyes. The championship net stayed draped around Paige’s neck, in the same place that Coach Auriemma placed it in the locker room—swaying gently against her chest.

Tomorrow the world would come calling. The headache would come in strong, phone calls and interviews would await, the next chapter of Paige’s long running story would come in fast. But tonight, here in the hotel lobby with her team and her family and friends, Paige was untouchable. The world would just wait.

Because she worked long and hard for this. Hours in the gym, the hospital, trainers rooms. And she did this.

Celebrations of blue and white filled the streets immediately after the game—only growing into seas of fans young and old the closer the bus came to the hotel. Cars honked and people cheered. Paige ate it up of course, she’d pretend to be humble but as soon as those doors closed everyone knew how she felt. 

Paige sat on the couch. Eyes fluttering closed every now and again when the lights strained her crossed eyes. Her legs in that natural manspread of hers, Azzi nearby with her manicured fingers resting on the couch space between them. She herself is still riding that high, something about winning a ring with the person she came here to do it with and getting that MOP award.

It’s the first time the entire night that they’ve actually had a moment alone. If that’s what you could even consider it. There’s plenty of people in the room but the moment Azzi took that seat, it’s like the room was totally empty.

Paige looked over trailing her eyes over Azzi’s everything— but lingered on that Championship hat, and the piece of nylon tied around the snaps of the cap.

She takes a slow breath, one of those that lingers in the depths of her chest. “We fuckin’ did it, Az.” Paige hums, shaking her head in disbelief. The net around her neck still feels foreign, the sound of ‘national champions’ still feels foreign too. But this. The familiarity of the girl she once bothered like no tomorrow on a bus ride all those years ago, yeah, that shit feels real. Because they fucking did it. 

“Yeah, I know.” Azzi lets out a noise quite similar to Paige’s. “You got a ring, P.”

“We got rings.” Paige replies. She looks down at her hand, and she can imagine it. She can imagine the diamonds and the shimmer that would represent all the blood, sweat, tears, and hospital visits. Azzi does it too, almost subconsciously dragging her eyes from her manicured fingers over to the blonde’s. “I’m proud of you. This your team now, I just get to watch.” 

The dark haired girl smiled. A tight lipped smile that said everything. A smile that said that she did get to be a leader, and she was excited to take that next step. To defend this title. To run it back. But that would be touched on another time, right now it was just Azzi and Paige. Like it always had been. 

She laid her head on Paige’s shoulder, feeling the kick of alcohol rush through her blood. A feeling that normally Paige would be perfect for solving, up until they decided against it before the tourney.

“I’m gonna miss you.” Azzi murmurs.

“You’re gonna come out all summer, you know that right?” Paige laughs.

Azzi tilts her head up, meeting a set of blues so bright they almost blind her. “Yeah, but it’s different.” She sighs, but there’s nothing harsh behind it. Nothing too thought provoking or unusual, one that’s content. Content with how today went, with how the last four years went, with everything. “Just promise me, you’ll stick around.”

Paige’s face twists up in that kind of way that says she’s too confused. Because when her and Azzi called it quits, when they stopped and said maybe in a later time, she never once thought of disappearing or of losing her best friend. 

“I will. Promise.” She said lowly, snaking an arm around her shoulder and pulling her into a hug. 

The night went on after that. Never silent, never too laid back. Drinks were flowing from every corner, even the freshman getting in on the partying— and Paige felt beyond good.

Then everything died down. Her teammates ventured off into their rooms and both Coach and CD were so over them that they called it quits too. Suddenly there was something different settling in her chest that Paige couldn’t separate from the head buzz of all the alcohol.

She couldn’t help but think of sharing this— the joy and success and love— with someone else. Anyone else. The one person she knew she still thought about and yearned for even in her dreams. Paige rolled over on her side, Aubrey’s bedside lamp glaring right at her alongside the hat she wore since the win.

Kayden.

A stubborn memory.

She scoffed, almost pissed at herself for letting her mind trail off to a girl she hasn’t spoken to since senior summer. A girl who left her without a trace or even an explanation. Paige dragged herself back upright, the movement nearly making her nauseous, before reaching for her phone.

She scrolled through countless notifications. Instagram tags, tweet mentions, texts from relatives and old coaches. None from her of course. Not that she’d expected it.

Still, there was a time way back when— after the Team USA victories and state championships— where Kayden would tackle her in a hug so bone crushing and proud in public, and then kiss her stupid in private. 

A time where victories didn’t seem all that lonely.

And damn did it sound nice right about now.

flashback june 2020

It was cool in Minnesota this time of year, too early into the summer for the heat to be blazing and too late for the wind to make its appearance. The air was humid, the porch smelled like dust and honeysuckle. It was late— too late— the kind of night where the air clung to your skin and the world felt so still and calm that it could crack dead center at any sudden movement.

I’m still getting used to it, still wrapping my head around the move. The fact that Minnesota was becoming more and more of an afterthought. A pit stop in my journey. 

My dad’s new place in Virginia was nice, perfectly fitting for a new beginning for both him and Drew; and the perfect distance from Azzi. But I didn’t get the chance to think too hard about it, not with Storrs approaching and not with the end of high school sitting heavy in my chest.

It’s been nearly three months since the shut down and the season ended. I should’ve moved on ages ago, but still the thought of no longer wearing a Hopkins jersey, and just fitting into a UConn one felt strange. 

I sat on the top step of the porch. Knees bent and bouncing almost rhythmically, that feeling of loss gnawed at me in a kind of frustration I couldn’t shake. 

Tomorrow I’m leaving Minnesota. It sounds surreal.

I should be more emotional, more hurt by what I’m leaving behind. This is my home. I married the love of my life in the next town over, made my best friend here, and won a championship. And I’m leaving it all behind.

Instead I just felt hollow.

The screen door creaks behind me. Drew’s infectious laughter dies down and the thud of his footsteps running upstairs grows louder until it comes to a stop. Even then, I don’t have to turn around to know who it was. Her scent was too obvious— that tropical mango that was perfect for summer. The kind that made my eyes flutter and cheeks blush even when she wasn’t around. 

I forced a smile onto my face, pushing back whatever feeling that swelled in my chest to look over my shoulder at Kayden. I could feel a joke creeping up on my tongue, something about being long distance lesbians for the summer, something that I knew would bring the tiniest little grin to her face before she teased me about being ‘too corny.’ But the words shriveled up in my mouth the second I saw her.

Kayden looked like a ghost. Lively, tanned skin suddenly turned dull. A blue Hopkins hoodie swallowing her whole, her hair falling in bent and miss-shaped curls that would otherwise be perfect because that’s who she is. Her eyes were rimmed with red with those pretty manicured hands stuffed in her pockets. Kayden looked like she was holding herself together by force.

Suddenly I realise that I’m moving and leaving her behind. It’s nothing crazy, a few months apart for the summer before we’re meeting up again in Connecticut for school. But something about it feels heavier, like she’s holding onto something I can’t feel. 

I’m instantly reaching over, sticking my hand out for her with a tilt of my head. “Hey.” I say softly, like any other harsh movement could break her into a million pieces on my back porch. “C’mere.”

Kayden hesitates. She hesitates. Just a second, too small for anyone else but me. She takes my hand before taking a seat on the same step. Close enough for me to feel the heat off her body, but not enough to touch.

That should’ve been the first warning sign.

She’s always touching me. Always. I don’t think in the last few years I’ve known Kayden Kennedy, she’s ever gone more than a few seconds without some part of her touching me. Pinky’s brushing, knees knocking, her shoulder pressed against my own like she couldn’t stand the distance. Then the minute we started dating it ramped up. Her hands in my hair, fingers on my cheek, kisses everywhere. But tonight she sits stiff, folded in onto herself as if she was a danger to everyone in her path.

My throat felt tight as I swallowed. “You okay?”

Kayden’s mouth twists and she takes a nibble at her bottom lip. “Yeah. Fine. Just…” a shaky breath leaves her mouth and I know better to look her way before her tear rimmed eyes become my own.

“Just what, baby?” I ask, nudging her gently.

Kayden doesn’t move. She doesn’t look up at me, she doesn’t push my thigh away. She just sits there like a statue. Looking straight ahead while her fingers tug on the frayed edges of her jeans. Her voice was so small when she finally spoke that I barely even caught it.

“Do you ever think we rushed this?” 

But I do hear it. And it hits me like a punch straight to my stomach. I blinked once, twice, like I didn’t just hear my biggest fear become a reality. She was really questioning it—questioning us. 

Kayden was still staring into the dark, listening to the chirp of cicadas with her shoulders hunched like she was bracing herself for a hit. 

“No.” I said too fast, defensive. “Do you?”

She stayed silent. Didn’t answer with a no or of course not. Not an I love you. She just sat still and silent, while I felt my heart crack and shift along the edges and old fault lines that I didn’t even know were there.

I dig my fingers into the wood. “We made a promise.” I say with my voice as low as it could possibly get. “Maybe we rushed getting married but I knew what I was doing. We knew what we were doing, Kay’.”

I turned, angling my body enough to get a good look, a real look, at her face. Searching for something— a smile, a laugh, a real look— but nothing. Kayden just shook her head like she was living in a nightmare she wanted to wake up from. And it hurt, because it was all too telling, all too similar to what they tell you to look out for in the movies. The distance. Maybe she was upset about the summer, the fact that I was gonna spend the next two months living with my best friend— that I used to have a crush on— and her family. Maybe she was holding onto something else. Something she was yet to share.

After a minute she finally speaks, a small sniffle that she masks behind the song of a nearby bird. “I know.” She whispers. “It’s just—Ion think the future is that certain anymore, P.”

My chest caves in.

Because this was Kayden— the girl who overthought everything, who carried the weight of other people’s expectations like boulders. The girl who wanted to love fearlessly but had been taught all her life that love came with conditions. This Kayden that I’ve spent the last two and a half years loving and smoothing and supporting. The one who learned to let loose and not dwell on anything for too long. Now she’s here, regretting it all. And I for once don’t know what to say.

So instead I decided to reach out. I place my hand over her own on her knee, it’s then when I realize just how cold she is, almost like a block of frozen ice in the 70° heat. “We’ll figure it out tho’. We always do.” I mutter. My voice closing in on itself. There’s nothing much else I know how to say, I feel powerless. Almost like a shell of myself. 

I squeeze her hand before pulling back and Kayden almost flinches. Something still so small but ever so noticeable to me. And then she pulled her hand back into the sleeves of her hoodie like my touch burned.

This was the second warning sign. Almost blaring this time.

She stood up slowly, wiping cold sweat palms on the sides of her American Eagle jeans. “I should go.” She said, voice cracking and my heart nearly shatters. “Let you get some sleep before the big day tomorrow.”

“Already?”

“Yeah.” Kayden sighs. “I’m already on punishment, ma’s gonna freak.” She shrugs, digging into her pocket for her house keys.

My mouth opens to stop her, to keep her in my grasp before it really feels like I'm losing my girl forever. But the words get stuck again, so I just nod.

Kayden begins to walk down the driveway. And then she freezes, like suddenly something washed over her and she realized what she was really doing. She turns on her heels, speed walking back to where I sit on the porch. She drops to her knees one step below me, getting as close to eye level as possible before gripping my face in both hands. Her hands aren’t anywhere near as cold anymore, and her eyes look like all the pain has been blinked back by love.

She leans in, smushing her lips up against my own, and I don’t hesitate to kiss her back. To pull her in, and swallow all the pain and all the trauma that she carries for myself. I let her kiss me like it’s the last time, though I know I’ll steal a million more of these before I leave in the morning. My hands slip into her back pockets, grasping her as close as I can between the space of my legs. Her tongue roams my mouth, I don’t even think to stop her. She tastes like honey. 

Kayden pulls back just enough, I chase after her with a tug to her bottom lip. The kind I know drives her crazy.

“I love you okay? Always. That’s never gonna change, no matter what.” She breathes heavy, eyes lidded, lips still brushing over mine like she knew what was waiting for us in the future. “Paige, tell me you understand me.”

I nod. No questions asked because I love her more than I think I’ve ever loved anything else in my life. “I hear you. I love you, Kayden.”

And then she’s back kissing me. Like the outside world didn’t matter. Not my dad inside the house. Not her mom down the street. Not what everyone else thought. It was just me and her.

But deep down, I never really got over how much that felt like a goodbye.

present day april 2025

“With the first pick, in the 2025 WNBA Draft; the Dallas Wings select Paige Bueckers. From the University of Connecticut.”

Those words have stuck all night. 

Paige would say it was surreal; unbelievable that the dream she’s held onto since she was in elementary school was finally coming true. This was the reason for everything. This is why she kept fighting through the injuries and the narratives and the months of disrespect and stories that she couldn’t speak on. This was the proof that all of it was worth it.

She’d gathered all her loved ones in some kind of hall in Manhattan. Teammates, practice players, agents and brands. Everyone cheering and celebrating her, Kaitlyn, and Aubrey, and life outside of Storrs. 

Drinks had been flowing. That was really the only way that Paige Bueckers knew how to party, and somewhere along the line the alcohol and reality blended into some concoction that Paige had become too familiar with in the last week.

She was drunk. If you had pulled out a dictionary and looked up the word, the definition would read: Paige Bueckers after getting drafted. There was no hope, no amount of water or electrolytes could undo the mess she knew Brittany would have to fix in the morning before she went on Good Morning America.

Dijonai sat nearby, also inebriated off of one too many green tea shots. She had been around here and there all day, all weekend really. Something about being a part of the players association and on rookie welcoming duties. It had done wonders for their chemistry early. Somewhere between her third and fourth tequila shot, she leaned in and said, half-laughing, “Single and ready to get down huh? Lyss and I gotta show you all the spots down there.”

And Paige, plastered and slurring Paige, just shakes her head. Mumbling something that Dijonai takes a bit too long to process. She snorted and then before the rest of her brain could catch up with her mouth, she blurted, “I’m married, actually. But yeah, show me.”

Dijonai doesn’t know if she’s joking or not. “You and Azzi are serious serious then, huh?”

Paige downs the rest of her Shirley, placing the cup on the bar top with a bit too much force. She’ll blame it on the alcohol. “Me and her are not a thing, Nai. Like, for real.”

“Then what the fuck do you mean you’re married.”

“Never signed the papers. Aye man, can I get another shot of tequila?” Paige trailed off, leaving Dijonai slightly confused and herself bouncing off the walls. She didn’t need another shot, she knew that. But damn did celebrating feel that good.

The shot comes and it’s like the minute she takes it, her mind caught up to everything. Technically married. Still.

Paige had always had a habit for outing her business but she still couldn’t wrap her head around why she’d bring that up. Why out of anything she could’ve said, she chose to talk about the wife she’s separated from and hasn’t seen in five years.

Five long years.

But she does. Because even with all this success. With a team in Dallas already plastering her name and face and number on every single thing that they could, she’s still thinking about a woman that changed her life forever. And then somewhere, in some new town, Kayden Kennedy is living a life that has nothing to do with her. 

Nothing to do with the ring she probably tossed sometime during freshman year, or the mess they made, of the promises they made into each other’s skin on nights where it felt like it was just them.

She was just living. So Paige had to, too.

🔖 @thaatdigitaldiary @bueckersbitch @pboogerswbb @lilpaigeyherbo @ykylalex @ohmybueckers @avvwritesstufff @ohbueckers @cherryswisherz @lupinqs @vamptizm @bueckers555 @omg-imtumbling @courtsidewithlani @mariahthealchemist @authentic-girl03 @kissamiyahh @rebecca-woso @angryflowerwitch @rhianthebest @paigebaby5 @rishofkf @xoxosierralane @urantisocialgay @issilovesherself @your-local-bi-panic @nicebellee @elalfywhore @cowboybueckers @pb524830

[vorfreudevortex]

toji would put the empty milk carton back in the fridge.

toji would eat the last cosmic brownie and leave the box in your snack cabinet.

toji would spend the night and somehow you’d wake up with your pillows thrown across the room, the comforter halfway on the floor, and the fitted sheets only over 2 corners of the mattress.

toji would do such a half-ass job of cleaning up your sink after shaving over it.

toji would never push in his chair after eating at the dinner table.

toji would kick off his shoes haphazardly when he comes in but never lines them up on the shoe rack.

toji would sweep but never mop.

toji would be trained like a dog within 3 weeks of moving in with you. it only takes 21 days to form a new habit, you know.

toji would throw the milk carton away and double check that he wrote it on the grocery list that hung on the fridge.

toji would save the last cosmic brownie for you.

toji would make sure to help you make your bed in the morning, and if you’re not there when he wakes up, he’ll take the time to fluff up your pillows and make sure the corners are tucked tight.

toji would wipe down your sink after shaving, and probably get rid of any smears on the mirror.

toji would make sure the chairs are pushed in after dinner, and the table is wiped down of any crumbs.

toji would line his shoes up on the rack when he gets home, right next to yours.

toji would sweep and always mop right after.

toji would always be happy when you complimented and thanked his new habits, enjoying all too much this new stage of life with you in the apartment you now share, and the way you help him be a better man with every passing day.

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝓎𝓊𝓂𝓂𝓎 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝓉𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓍 𝒻𝑒𝓂! 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

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

Survive what, exactly? Her.

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

Sometimes both. And unfortunately?

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

You’d still call it yummy.

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

Art by [ @666hellgates ]

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

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

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

Ah. The mall.

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

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

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

A paradise. Sort of. 

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

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

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

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

Something was definitely up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brittney. Claire. Ugh.

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

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

The day your inner peace was shattered.

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

And then she came into you life.

Brittney. Fucking. Claire.

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

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

You were already over it.

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

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

An emergency. Of course it was.

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s the spirit,” he said.

And for a moment, you almost believed it.

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

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

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

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

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

You almost smiled. Almost.

And then she arrived. 

Like the final boss in a fighting game.

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

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

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

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

But it was too late.

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

Judgment: Delivered. Swift. Brutal. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

“…Charming,” she muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

That was the beginning of whatever the hell this was.

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

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

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

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

“Because of exams?”

“No.”

“Classes?”

“Nope.”

“…Geo again?”

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

Crowe blinked slowly. “Excuse me—?”

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Weird magazine’?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You paused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. It was worse.

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

And worst of all?

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

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

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

You groaned like a haunted house.

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

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

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

You blinked. “That was a safety precaution!”

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

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

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

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

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

“She took it back and kept drinking it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Admit what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then Crowe dropped the bomb. 

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

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

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

Your soul left your body for a moment. 

“You’re such a bitch,” you whispered.

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

You stared at him. “Why?”

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

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

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

You scowled. “You’re so dramatic.”

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

And that was that.

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

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

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

You hated that Brittney might see you and say nothing.

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

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

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

You were going.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe you should get drunk.

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

You didn’t even flinch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You read it again. And again.

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

You didn’t respond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scowled. “I hate you.”

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

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

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

“…That’s not a plan. That’s chaos.”

He shrugged. “Same thing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t even flinch.

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

That got his attention.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In walked Brittney Claire.

She didn’t just walk—she arrived.

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

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

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

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

And she knew it.

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

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

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

And then her eyes landed on you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Game. Fucking. On.

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

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

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

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

You sat up, slow. “Wait—what?”

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

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

“It means everything,” Crowe said.

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

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

The room collectively groaned.

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

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

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

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

Your soul left your body.

You turned to Geo. “I hate you.” 

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

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

Her eyes met yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then.

It was your turn.

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

You stood. So did she.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then chaos.

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

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

“I’m leading the first verse.”

“Since when? No one voted for that.”

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

“Oh, I’m the problem?”

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

“You’re literally trying to steal it!”

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

“Oh, bitch—”

“—I dare you—”

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

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

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

Everyone agreed a little too quickly. 

Within five minutes, they were gone. Gone gone.

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

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

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

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

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

Then another message.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine.”

A silence followed. Thick. Teetering.

Then you opened your mouth. “You know—”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t like you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s stupid,” she said flatly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the door creaked open.

You both turned. Slow. Dread-heavy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Red smirked. “We are alone.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m pulling the taser.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s give them a show.”

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

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

“L403,” you answered without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

You sang with a lazy, practiced pout:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take a hint, take a hint.”

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

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

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

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

“Take a hint, take a hint…”

“T-take a hint, take a hint!”

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

So you upped the ante.

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

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

“I guess you still don't get it…”

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

“So let's take it from the top.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smirked, turning your full attention to her now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me tell you what I think—”

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

“I think you could use a mint.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What about ‘no’ don’t you get?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Open my eyes and you’ll be gone.”

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

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

“Get your hands off my—”

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

She stepped forward, closing the distance to Blue.

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

“Three.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brittney pointed to her mouth again, slow and exaggerated.

“Let me tell you what I think.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it was working.

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

Seductive. Mocking. Untouchable.

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

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

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

The mic buzzed faintly in your hand.  

Your chest rose and fell, breath quick and electric.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re never telling Crowe.”

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

And something shifted.

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

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

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

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

You raised a brow. “Oh?”

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

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

“Okay… this still isn’t a date.”

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

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

Your hand brushed hers. Barely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was only her.

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

She singing only to you.

“You think you know me…” Her voice slipped out low, rich, wrapped in smoke and velvet. Each word a calculated caress. She stepped forward, slow and liquid, like her body had become part of the music.

“…but you don't know me.” Her heel clicked once on the tile, but it was the only sharp thing about her. The rest was smooth, sinuous. Her hips swayed with intention—not for show. For you. Like every note was a thread pulling her closer.

“You think you own me…”

She tilted her head just slightly, lips curling as she sang.

“…but you can't control me.”

Her eyes dropped, traced the lines of your collarbone with a slow blink. Her voice was fierce now—feminine power, unshaken and deeply personal. Then—“You look at me and there's just one thing that you see…”

Her gaze dragged up your frame, unabashed. From your knees, to your mouth, to your eyes. Her stare lingered there. Quiet. Knowing.

Your breath caught. 

“So listen to me…”

Her voice dipped into a sultry whisper.

“Just listen to me…”

She knelt in front of you, eyes never leaving yours. Her fingertips brushed your knees—delicate, almost reverent. Just enough pressure to remind you how close she was. Her nails grazed your skin in passing. Then she rose again—unfolding herself like the crescendo of a storm.

She began to circle you slowly, predator-smooth. One finger traced your shoulder as she passed. Another ghosted the line of your jaw, then pulled away—like she was thinking about touching your lips, but changed her mind at the last second.

You weren’t sure if it was mercy or cruelty.

“You push me back…”

Her tone darkened.

“I'll push you back—harder, harder…” 

Her fingers slipped behind your neck now, brief and warm, then vanished again like smoke.

The next line slithered against your skin:

“You scream at me…”

She was behind you. You felt her breath graze the edge of your ear.

“I’ll scream at you—louder…”

Her voice teased, rhythmic, and slow. “L-l-l-l-louder…”

You shivered. And then she was in front of you again. Closer now. Between your knees. She didn’t speak, didn’t look away—didn’t have to. Her eyes said it all: stay right there.

And you did. duh who wouldn't?

Then—slowly, deliberately, with the kind of hesitation that made it all the more intimate—Brittney climbed into your lap. Her thighs straddled yours like she’d done it before in a dream. Like this wasn’t new, just finally real.

Her body settled against you carefully, tentatively. Not to seduce—but to trust. Like she was giving you something fragile. Something she didn’t know how to hold herself. Her arms looped behind your neck, loose and almost lazy, but her body was trembling slightly against yours. You weren’t sure if it was the music or the meaning.

Her lips hovered above yours—achingly close, like a question she didn’t know how to ask. And yet, her expression had softened into something dangerous in a different way.

Not sharp. Not smug. Just bare.

“I’m dangerous…” Her voice wasn’t smooth anymore. It cracked in the center, but she didn’t try to fix it. “I’m warning you…” 

The smirk she always wore like armor wavered. Just a flicker. And then—just for a breath—she looked like she wanted to run. Or cry. Or both.

Her lips parted again like she was about to speak—but no words came. Instead, barely audible:

“But you're not afraid of me…” 

No. You weren’t. Not even a little. You saw her, the way no one else ever dared to. And she hated that. She needed that. 

You weren’t sure which one was worse.

“And I can't convince you…” Her voice broke entirely on that line. Not performance. Not art. Just pain. She reached for your hand then, almost shyly, and slid it against her waist—holding it there. Anchoring herself to you like you were the only solid thing left.

“You don’t know me…” Her eyes—those deep violet eyes—were wide now, raw, almost too much. Her pupils swallowed the color. And still, she looked at you. Only you. Like you were the one thing in this moment that made her feel like a person and not a performance. Like she was trying to confess something without ever saying it.

“…And the longer that you stay…” Her breath touched your cheek. Her lips barely moved. “The ice is melting…” Her fingers brushed your collarbone, so soft it made you ache.

“And the pain feels okay… it feels okay…” She didn’t sing it.

She let it fall from her mouth like a secret. Like the truth. 

Then her forehead touched yours. Gently. Like she was trying to breathe in time with you. Her fingers cradled your jaw, the pad of her thumb sweeping your lower lip with excruciating slowness. She didn’t kiss you. She just looked at you. And that was somehow worse. Her gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lifted. Still asking. Still not saying it.

“You push me back…” Her voice had returned, quieter now. Like it was hurting her to keep going. “I’ll push you back…”

“You scream at me…” She leaned in again, her nose brushing yours. “I’ll scream at you…”

Her voice shook, the tempo fraying, the melody unraveling. “Louder… louder… louder, louder, louder—”

You couldn’t take it anymore. You didn’t let her finish.

You kissed her.

Not like in stories. 

Not like fireworks and music and happily ever afters. You kissed her like something was cracking open inside you—slow, aching, inevitable.

Like if you didn’t, you’d both fall apart. Her breath caught between you. A soft, startled inhale. Her mouth froze, just for a second—like her brain hadn’t caught up to her heart. But she didn’t pull back.

She pressed in.

Her fingers slid into your hair, gently at first—then with sudden urgency, curling tight at the base of your skull like she needed something to hold on to. She kissed you back like it hurt. Like she had been starving for it and now didn’t know how to stop. Her mouth moved against yours with deliberate, trembling slowness—testing the edges, tasting what had been forbidden for too long.

She melted into you. 

And you let her.

Your hands found her waist—warm, tense, familiar—and pulled her in. Closer. Until there was no space left between your chests, your hips, your breathing. Your fingers gripped her ribs, thumbs brushing just under the edge of her shirt like you needed proof she was real. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t clean.

It was clumsy in all the right ways.

A collision of heat and heartbreak. Of longing and everything you hadn’t dared to say. Her breath hitched again against your mouth, just before she tilted her head, deepening the kiss. Her lips opened with a quiet, helpless sound. Not lust. Not power. Something softer. Sadder. Need. 

Her hands moved—traced your jaw, your throat, back into your hair—like she was trying to memorize you. Not with her eyes, but with touch. As if you’d disappear if she stopped. 

The mic hit the floor with a soft, muted thud. Neither of you flinched.

Your hands were still on her waist. Her fingers still tangled in your hair. And your lips—parted, trembling—had just left hers. You didn’t know what this meant. Not exactly. But you knew this:

Love her or hate her, you needed her.

Because the truth was… you’d been orbiting her for months. 

Eighty percent of your day was spent thinking about her—what she’d said, how she’d said it, what it meant beneath the words. And the other twenty? You spent it hoping someone else would mention her name just so you didn’t have to be the one to bring her up again. 

You were obsessed. 

Pathetically, unreasonably, helplessly obsessed with Brittney.

The lights overhead dimmed, letting violet and blue seep across the walls like bruises healing in real time. A low, humming quiet wrapped around the room—thick enough to drown in.

And in that quiet, there was only her.

Her breath brushed your cheek—warm, shaky, sweet with mint and something darker. Her scent clung to you now, faintly floral, faintly sharp. And her lip gloss… that glossy pink defiance now smudged against your mouth, like you’d been marked. Because Brittney was chaos in lipstick. Pink and blue violence. A siren in the platforms. A storm with eyeliner wings sharp enough to cut.

And right now, her storm wasn’t raging. It was quiet. Tired. Curled into you like she didn’t want to be a force of nature anymore—just a girl. Just this. Just yours, if only for a moment.

When she finally pulled back, it wasn’t with drama or flair. No sharp breath. No witty quip. Just a slow retreat, like her lips were reluctant to leave. Like she had to force them away. 

The kiss ended, but she didn’t let go.

And her eyes… Her eyes.

Those deep violet eyes—so striking they never felt real until you were close enough to fall into them. They didn’t just look at you. They studied you. Wide. Luminous. So open it almost hurt to look back. There was no armor in them now. No sarcasm. No perfectly timed cruelty. 

Just… her. Bare. Honest.

And shimmering like dusk after a fire.

She looked like she wanted to say something but couldn’t shape the words. Her lashes were damp at the tips. Her pupils—wide, devouring—pulled you in, and for once, she didn’t try to hide what she felt.

She was scared. Not of you. 

Of this. Of how much it meant. Of what it could break.

Her voice came out soft, frayed at the edges. “Looks like I can’t convince you…” She pressed her forehead gently to yours, eyes still open, watching you from up close like she was memorizing this exact version of you—breathless, stunned, shaken.

“…And I don’t have to.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. 

Your throat was tight, and your heart felt like it was trying to beat through your ribs. So you just stared. And she stared back. And for the first time—ever—Brittney didn’t look away.

“I think you know me…” she breathed.

Your lips parted. Then, finally, you nodded. “Not yet,” you whispered.

Her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite sadness. Half amusement, half ache. Like she'd just remembered something she wasn’t ready to forget. 

Then you asked quietly, “How much time do we have left in this room?”

Brittney blinked, her lashes fluttering. She looked down, slowly peeled her hand from your jaw, and turned her wrist to glance at her watch, still catching her breath. “It’s 12:30 PM,” she mumbled.

There was a flicker in the air.

Like the dream was cracking at the edges.

She lifted her gaze again, her expression shifting. The softness didn’t vanish—but something sharper slid in beside it.

“I think it’s time to go,” she said, head tilting, one brow raising ever so slightly. “What do you think, babe?”

You exhaled. Deep and long. Thought about the kiss. The chaos. The way her lips had felt on yours—like a secret kept too long. The things she hadn’t said, but poured into your mouth anyway. 

And then… You smiled. Not at her.

At yourself.

It felt like stepping onto a stage after a lifetime of rehearsing in the dark. Every movement, every breath, every stolen glance had led here—but now, there was no script. No audience. Just the two of you, tangled in something raw and reckless, something that had been building for longer than either of you would admit.

Because this—whatever this was—wasn’t over. 

STOP. A PAUSE, this is from your lovely author, Vivi, girl, let me say something real quick.

Please forgive me—truly—for what you’re about to read.

I was cleaning up my writing, trying to piece things together because, as previously mentioned... I was drunk. Not cute, giggly drunk. No. Gone. I barely remembered what I had written until I scrolled back, and when I did, I just sat there in stunned silence like, “Baby… who wrote this? This is… wow.”

So, consider this your formal warning, dearest readers. I’m horrified. Mortified. Somewhere between laughing at my own chaos and contemplating disappearing into the floor.

I feel an unspeakable level of secondhand shame from myself.

Read on... if you dare.

Not even close. Funny part that, you didn’t remember everything from that night. Not clearly. Not in order—well maybe you do…

The night bled at the edges, smudged like lipstick on a wineglass. Memories came in flashes—heat, hushed laughter, the dull thud of a door closing behind you. Brittney’s voice, thick with sleep or wine or something far more intoxicating, murmuring against your skin like a secret.

And then—her question, a challenge wrapped in velvet:

“So, are you going to eat or be eaten?”

Her fingers worked at the black dress of your dress, slow, deliberate, like she was savoring the reveal. Your smirk was instinct. “Mhm, eat.”

Her laugh was dark, pleased. “Good answer, baby.”

Then she was pushing you back onto the bed, her body bare in the moonlight, all golden skin and sharp edges. She spread her legs, and you didn’t hesitate—you dove in like a woman starved.

The taste of her was intoxicating, salt and sweetness, the kind of flavor that lingers in your dreams. Your tongue traced slow circles, then firmer strokes, teasing before fucking into her with a rhythm that had her gasping.

“Shit—you’re doing such a good job for me.” Her praise was a purr, fingers tangling in your hair, not guiding, just holding on. “Such a nasty little girl.”

You moaned against her, pressing your face deeper, lips and tongue working in tandem until her thighs trembled around your ears.

“Oh my god—you dirty bitch—” Her voice cracked, hips jerking. “Ahh, what the fuck—” Then her hands were on you, dragging you up by your hair, her mouth crashing into yours so she could taste herself on your lips.

“So fucking yummy,” you murmured, dizzy, drunk on her.

She smirked, nipping at your bottom lip. “Guess I’m the eater now.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You fell back onto the sheets, legs parting before she even touched you.

“Look how pretty that fucking pussy is,” she murmured, dragging a single fingertip down your slit, watching the way your body arched for her.

Then—her tongue. One slow, torturous lick.

“Yes—” you gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets.

She did it again, slower this time, tracing a path from your clit to your stomach, then higher, until her mouth closed around your nipple, sucking hard before soothing it with her tongue.

“So tasty,” she hummed, switching to the other breast, lavishing the same attention, her teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper. “All for me.”

Her hands roamed, squeezing, pinching, worshipping every inch of you. And when she finally kissed you again, deep and filthy, you could feel her smile against your lips.

“Such a good fucking girl.”

The air is thick with the scent of vanilla, sweat, and desperation as Britney hovers over you, her body glistening, her eyes dark with lust. She’s in control, and you’re nothing but her willing plaything—her filthy, eager little whore. "I bet you were like, totally obsessed with me, all those times I’ve been mean to you... Were you turned on?"

Her fingers twist your nipples, sharp and teasing, making you arch beneath her. You whimper, nodding like the desperate slut you are.

"Yes..." you moan, your voice trembling with need, your body already aching for her touch. The air between you is thick with desire, every movement charged with raw, filthy energy. Britney smirks down at you, her eyes gleaming with triumph—she knows exactly how badly you want her, how completely she owns you in this moment.

"You stay right fucking there," she commands, her voice dripping with dominance.

"Yes, ma’am," you whimper, surrendering to her completely. Your breath hitches as she crawls over you, her movements slow, deliberate, savoring the way you squirm beneath her. Then—oh fuck—her perfect ass hovers right above your face, her slick folds glistening, her thighs trembling with anticipation. The sight is intoxicating, overwhelming, and you can already taste her on your tongue before she even gives you permission.

"Is that right in your pretty face?" she taunts, grinding down just enough to let her heat brush against your lips.

You don’t even hesitate—your tongue is already out, hungry, desperate for her. "It’s right there," you pant, shameless, your voice wrecked with lust.

Britney lets out a filthy laugh, rolling her hips just enough to tease you. "Is that right there in your fucking face?" she goads, pressing down harder, forcing you to taste her. 

And god, you dive in like a starving animal—your tongue laps at her cunt, wet and sloppy, before sliding lower, deeper, until you’re fucking her asshole with your tongue, messy and obscene, the sounds lewd and undeniable.

"Are you tasting my asshole—you fucking whore?" she gasps, her voice shaking between pleasure and disbelief.

You answer by slapping her ass—hard—making her jolt, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. But Britney doesn’t let you have the upper hand for long. In an instant, she retaliates, her fingers plunging into your cunt, her mouth sealing over your clit, sucking hard, relentless. 

You writhe beneath her, but you’re not done—oh no. With a growl, you flip her over, pinning her down, your fingers working her pussy with the same filthy rhythm she just used on you.

"Oh my goodness, yes, yes, yes, bitch—you’re so fucking pretty!" Britney moans, her back arching, her body trembling under your touch.

"Lick your fucking hand and do that again," she orders, her dark, lust-drunk eyes locked on yours.

You obey, making a show of it—your tongue drags slowly over your palm, coating your fingers in spit before plunging them back inside her, fucking her with wet, filthy strokes.

"Yeah, make it nice and fucking wet—I wanna see it. Oh, that nasty bitch!" she cries, her hips bucking against your hand.

You fuck her harder, your mouth returning to her clit, sucking, licking, devouring her until she’s shaking, until she’s cumming all over your face, her thighs squeezing around your head like a vise.

"Okay, okay—calm down, I’m a little scared of you now," she pants, laughing breathlessly, her body still twitching from the aftershocks.

But you’re pussy-drunk, lost in her taste, in the way her heat clings to your tongue. You can’t stop—won’t stop.

"Damn it, bitch, I have to fuck you. I have to—you just nasty. One nasty whore. What are you so nasty?" she breathes, her voice a mix of awe and desperation.

You grin up at her, delirious, your lips glistening with hers. 

"Hm, all because of you!"

You and Britney laugh together, the sound light and carefree—until her gaze drops between your legs, where you’re still throbbing, untouched, desperate for relief. Her lips curl into a wicked smirk as she takes in the sight of your need.

"Aww, poor girl didn’t get to cum yet..." she coos, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Here, I’ll help you."

She doesn’t waste a second. In one smooth motion, she spreads your legs wider, kneeling above you, her perfect tits blocking your view—so fucking maddening, so goddamn perfect. You whine, squirming beneath her, and she just laughs, low and husky. "Let me get in between here," she murmurs, her voice thick with desire.

"Please," you beg, hips lifting off the bed, already chasing the friction you crave.

"Aww, I’ll get right here," she teases—and then she’s pressing her dripping cunt against yours, grinding slow and deliberate, her wetness mixing with yours in the most obscene, delicious way. "Oh my," she moans, her breath hot against your ear, "I’ll make you all wet... nice and wet." Her fingers circle your clit, teasing just enough to make you whimper, her hips rolling against yours in a rhythm that has you seeing stars. "Is that better?" she taunts, her voice a sinful whisper. 

"Sorry, I didn’t give you enough attention."

But she’s definitely making up for it now.

Her body moves against yours like she was born to fuck you, her slick heat grinding down as her fingers work your clit with relentless precision. "Your pussy is so fucking wet," she growls, lifting your leg to press even closer, your bodies sliding together, slick and desperate. "You just dripping against me so much... Ugh, I just wanna fuck you."

And she does—until your thighs are trembling, until your moans are ragged and broken, until you’re both shaking on the edge. She doesn’t let up, doesn’t stop, not until you’re cumming together, cunts pressed tight, her mouth crashing onto yours in a deep, filthy kiss that steals your breath.

"Oh, when I cum, I suck everything up... for you," she gasps against your lips before biting down, possessive, marking you as hers before collapsing against you—both of you ruined, both of you completely satisfied.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

"Here, I have a surprise for you."

Before you can even process her words, Britney pulls out a large twin violet dildo, glinting under the dim light. Your breath hitches as she grins, wicked and knowing. "I got somewhere I can put this," she purrs—and then she’s shoving it right into your mouth. "Put it in your fucking mouth. Your pretty fucking mouth."

She fists her hand in your hair, yanking your head back to get the perfect angle as you obediently drag your lips up and down the length, sucking it like your life depends on it. Britney watches with dark, hungry eyes, her free hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise. 

"Oh shit, how my fucking goddess," she moans, her voice rough with lust. "There you go, bitch. Look at these pretty fucking lips, getting it all nice and wet... This gonna go right into your greedy pussy."

Her fingers tighten in your hair as she drags the slick, spit-coated dildo from your mouth, a string of saliva still connecting it to your swollen lips. "That’s it, baby," she purrs, her voice dripping with filthy promise. 

"Get it nice and wet for me." Her other hand slides down your body, nails scraping lightly over your ribs before cupping your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until it’s hard and aching. 

You arch into her touch, gasping as she leans down to bite at your collarbone, her teeth marking you as hers.

She doesn’t wait—doesn’t give you time to think. With a rough push, she spreads your thighs wider, the cool air hitting your soaked folds before the blunt tip of the dildo presses against you. "You ready?" she breathes, her voice a dark, delicious threat.

And then she takes what she wants.

“Fuck, look at you,” Britney groaned, her hips rolling as if she could already feel it inside her too. “So fucking greedy, taking this whole thing like you were made for it.” She pushed in slowly, then pulled back, teasing, watching your face twist in pleasure. “You want it all, don’t you?” Her voice was a dark, sinful whisper. “Say it.”

You whimpered, hands clawing at the sheets as she finally sank the toy deep, filling you in one relentless thrust. “Yes—fuck, Brit, yes!” Your back arched off the bed, nails digging into her hips as she started to move, setting a brutal pace that had you seeing stars. She leaned over you, her wild hair curtaining your faces as she kissed you, messy and desperate, her tongue mimicking the filthy rhythm below.

“You feel so good,” she panted against your lips, her own hips grinding down on nothing, desperate for friction. “Wanna make you cum so hard you forget your fucking name.” Her free hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles as she fucked you harder with the dildo. 

The dual sensation was overwhelming—your thighs trembled, your moans pitched higher, and Britney’s breath hitched as she watched you unravel.

“That’s it, baby, come for me,” she demanded, her voice raw. 

And you did—your orgasm crashing through you like a wave, your walls clamping down around the toy as you cried out, her name a prayer on your lips. Britney didn’t stop, riding you through it, her own pleasure written across her face in bitten lips and fluttering lashes.

When she finally slowed, both of you were breathless, sweat-slicked, and utterly wrecked. She collapsed beside you, the dildo slipping free as she pulled you against her, your bodies still thrumming with aftershocks. Her fingers traced lazy patterns over your hip, her lips brushing your shoulder in a kiss that was unexpectedly tender.

There was hunger in it. Yes. 

Like that’s all you recall that night, so much… But there was softness too. A certain reverence, like the two of you were afraid to speak too loudly, in case the moment shattered.

And now… 

You woke in a bed that didn’t feel like yours—too soft, too warm, too sweet. Golden morning light spilled through sheer curtains, soft as satin, casting a hazy pink glow across the room. It painted everything in cotton-candy warmth, like you’d woken up inside a daydream dipped in perfume and gloss.

And maybe you had. 

Because this room?

It was a shrine to aesthetic rebellion. To glittering, hyperfeminine chaos.

Magazines lay fanned out across the floor like flower petals—Popteen, Ranzuki, Egg—the glossy kind that smelled like perfume inserts and unattainable cool. Their covers stared back at you: girls with overdrawn lips and candy-colored hair, all attitude and eyelash glue. The walls were papered in posters of J-pop idols and obscure Harajuku models, taped up with glitter washi. Stickers. Sparkles.

There were platform heels kicked lazily under a velvet bench. A vanity cluttered with open palettes, rhinestone compacts, tubes of lip gloss in too many shades of pink to count. Bottles of perfume—Dior, YSL, and something suspiciously shaped like a bunny—lined up like weapons on display. Glitter and chaos lived here.

It was pink. It was blue.

It was glossy and bratty and a little unhinged.

It was so Brittney.

And you were still wrapped up in her world. Your leg was tossed lazily over a crushed velvet heart-shaped pillow. The oversized baby blue T-shirt you were wearing (hers, clearly) had the words "baby girl” stretched across your chest in glittery font. Your breath came easy, steady, like your body hadn’t yet realized how much had changed.

“Hey, you awake now?”

A voice sliced through the haze like honey poured over a knife.

Your eyes cracked open fully, the room blooming slowly into focus like something underwater rising to the surface. Everything was softly lit in cotton-candy pinks and baby blues, as if Barbie had run off to Tokyo and decided maximalism was a lifestyle. The air smelled faintly of sweet perfume, old lip gloss, warm skin, and possibly fried bacon—if sinning had a scent, this was it.

And there she was.

Brittney stood at the vanity like some chaotic, sleep-deprived deity of bad decisions and incredible thighs. Her platinum hair gleamed under the overhead lights, the strands glossy and curled into two absurdly perfect high pigtails that bounced with every toss of her head. The kind of pigtails that dared you to look away and punished you for trying.

Her makeup was in that delicious state, even her lips were lined in a bold rose-pink, but the fill-in clearly got interrupted—probably by several very loud, very enthusiastic activities.

She wore micro booty shorts that barely existed, hemmed in white lace like an ironic afterthought. Above it, her ribbed crop top clung tight and bold across her chest, rhinestones glinting defiantly: “Angel Energy.” A lie. A warning. A brand.

“I feel so scrumptious!” she announced to no one in particular, admiring herself in the mirror with a proud little spin. She posed, pouted, adjusted her shorts like they hadn’t betrayed physics last night.

In one hand, she clutched a crinkled brown paper bag like it held all the answers—or at least greasy salvation. The scent wafting from it was divine. Breakfast sandwiches. Warm, possibly illegal, and smelling suspiciously like redemption wrapped in wax paper.

You groaned and rubbed your face like you were trying to wipe away your own sins. In the mirror, your eyes met hers—violet, sharp, gleaming with sleep and the kind of smugness only people who remember everything can wear.

And just like that, it hit you.

Not the full memory—no, that would’ve been generous. Just splinters. A smear of lipstick across someone’s thigh. The sound of moaning. Glitter everywhere. 

The kind of noise that made neighbors consider moving or joining in.

“Yeah…” you rasped, voice coated in regret and awe. “Shit. What happened?”

She smirked, watching herself in the mirror like she was the main course. And truly? She was. Brittney wasn’t just feeling herself—she was devouring herself, one glance at a time.

And you? You were already starving again.

Being around Brittney was like waking up still tasting the night before: sticky, sweet, and wickedly addictive. Like licking sugar from the rim of a cocktail you couldn’t handle but drank anyway. She was the dessert you shouldn’t have ordered, the one that ruined your appetite for anything else.

And damn, she knew it too.

Brittney turned. Sauntered over. Flopped onto the bed like a satisfied cat who’d just knocked over a glass of water out of spite. Her violet eyes were half-lidded, smug, still drunk on sleep and ego. She stared at you with the lazy amusement of someone who knew exactly what they did and had zero regrets.

“You,” she said, voice like velvet and villainy. “What happened is you. You’re a freak. Who would've thought Miss Sweetness could take it that hard?”

Your face ignited like a bonfire in a shame spiral.

She grinned wider—shark teeth in lip gloss—and took a huge bite of her sandwich like she hadn't just detonated your soul. And still… beneath it all… something lingered in her eyes.

Something soft. Something real. And then—buzz-buzz. 

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a notification:

FaceTime – Princess.

You groaned. Loudly. Of course he was up. The one morning you needed silence, sanctuary, and possibly an emotional exorcism, his name lit up like an omen. With a resigned sigh, you reached out, swiping the screen—and there he was.

Crowe. Grinning like he just discovered Red Bull. Shirtless, hair sticking up in every chaotic direction like he’d wrestled his sheets and lost. His eyes were puffy, his voice still scratchy, but the enthusiasm? Blinding.

“Heeeyyy,” he said so softly, his tone so chipper it made your soul ache. “Just checking in, you know, how did you and Brittney do last night? I see y’all made it through to the end, so spill me everything, please.”

You blinked at the screen.

Emotionally paralyzed. Spiritually concussed. Mentally buffering.

Before you could speak, Brittney snatched the phone out of your hands mid-sip of her iced coffee, the straw still hanging from her glossed lips like a dagger. She didn’t even pause. 

“She just got fucked,” she said smoothly, like she was offering both a customer service statement and a threat, “does that answer your question?”

Crowe’s face froze mid-grin. Eyes wide. Mouth parted. He looked like someone had just tossed a bucket of glitter and trauma directly into his synapses. He choked on air.

“GEOOOO!” he screamed, panicked.

You and Brittney both jerked back slightly at the volume.

“Geo?!” you echoed, scandalized. There was no way you heard that right.

No. Way. But there it was. Confirmation.

Another face slid into frame. Geo. Shirtless. Hair a wild halo of sleep. His eyes squinted, expression like someone had been summoned from purgatory without coffee. He blinked blearily into the camera, clearly regretting every decision that had led him to this exact moment.

“Why is Geo there?!” Brittney barked, suddenly way too awake.

Crowe just shrugged, casual as ever, tossing an arm around Geo’s bare shoulder like this was brunch and not a crime against personal boundaries.

“He slept over,” Crowe said simply. “What about it?”

Geo scowled at the camera like it had insulted his bloodline, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “fuck all of this”, then yanked the phone out of Crowe’s hand. With the precision of a man whose patience had been tried for the final time, he hung up.

The screen went dark.

For a long, suspended beat, silence settled over the room like fog—soft, hazy, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. You and Brittney just stared at the darkened phone screen, the final absurdity of that FaceTime still echoing like a fever dream.

Brittney blinked once. Then slowly turned her head toward you, her expression completely deadpan, unimpressed in the most hilarious way.

“…Okay,” she said dryly, voice still rough with sleep, “why does their ‘sleepover’ sound more dramatic than our night?”

You sighed—deep and gravelly, a sound dragged from the bottom of your ribs. Then you let the words slip out in a whisper, raspy and a little wry. “I don’t think so,” you said, leaning toward her. “I knew they were meant for each other.”

And then your voice dropped an octave, dark amusement bleeding into something deeper.

“Anyway,” you murmured, nudging her back against the mattress with a grin that was more instinct than thought, “it’s just you and me now.”

Brittney let herself be pinned, her body loose beneath yours, bones still syrupy from sleep. She looked up at you through heavy lashes, a satisfied gleam in her violet eyes that shimmered like mischief wrapped in velvet.

“…You tasted so yummy last night,” you added, unable to stop yourself.

Her eyes fluttered closed again, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Aww, did I?” she mumbled, voice soft, smug, utterly unbothered. “Thank you, love.” She nuzzled into your shoulder like a sleepy cat claiming its favorite spot, exhaling against your skin. Her smirk was shameless, her exhaustion real—but even now, she was basking in the glow of her own effect on you.

“You’re welcome,” she added lazily.

You let out a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Something in between. Half amusement, half “what the hell just happened.” Because honestly? You still didn’t know. The night was a blur of heat and softness, teasing and tension, sharp teeth and sweeter things. 

But it had been good.

Dangerously good.

It was the kind of night that didn’t just satisfy—it unmade you a little. Peeled you back like layers of fruit skin, too ripe and too ready. You were left somewhere between full and famished, body sated, soul restless. The ache of it still lingered in your limbs, in the places she had kissed like promises. 

You were reeling, and still—still—you wanted more.

The room was soft around you, thick with pink light filtering through gauzy curtains, the scent of perfume and sweat and yesterday’s thrill hanging in the air like expensive smoke. A messy comfort surrounded you: strewn pillows, the rustle of satin sheets, the muffled hum of the city just beyond the walls.

And then her hand moved—barely.

Fingertips brushed your jaw, featherlight but sure, like she was etching you into her memory by touch alone. Her thumb paused at your bottom lip, tracing the curve of it as if it belonged to her. As if it always had. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Something settled deep in your chest—slow and dangerous. Heavy and warm.

This wasn’t just about lust.

It wasn’t about the rush of conquest or the delicious heat you could still feel in your skin. It wasn’t even about Brittney’s sharp mouth and perfect chaos.

It was about need.

Yours. Hers.

Equal. Inevitable. Muddled. Unspoken. 

And terrifyingly, violently, real.

“…Don’t say anything stupid, please,” she mumbled, eyes still closed, voice barely more than a breath. She sounded tired and smug and like she already knew what you were going to say.

You smiled. Leaned in. Kissed her forehead gently, reverently, like it was holy.

“Too late,” you whispered into her hair. “I love you.”

She groaned, dramatic and theatrical, immediately curling in on herself like she was physically repulsed. But her head didn’t move from your shoulder.

“Ugh,” she grumbled. “Gross.”

But her mouth betrayed her—a small, sleepy smile tugging at her lips that didn’t fade, no matter how much she tried to hide it.

Last night had been chaos, yes. But also weirdly tender. A little sacred. A little profane. Like two choir girls got wine-drunk in the vestry and decided God could take a rain check.

Brittney handed you a breakfast sandwich with one hand—casually, like you hadn’t just confessed your soul to her—and let out a long, fake-suffering sigh as her head dropped onto your shoulder.

She smelled like strawberry lip balm, vanilla lotion, and something deeper. Something sharp and secret, like clove or ambition.

“We’re doing that again, okay?” she said, not even bothering to ask. It was a decree. The sky could fall. The world could burn. Didn’t matter. This was happening again.

You didn’t argue.

You were too busy remembering how to breathe.

Too busy marveling at the way she looked beside you in the morning light. Too busy thinking that loving Brittney felt like biting into the sweetest, most forbidden fruit—ripe, dripping, and just dangerous enough to ruin you.

And damn it, didn’t it taste divine. So fucking yummy.