#pining that is both mutually felt and mutually repressed

[abbotjack]

Booked for One

pairing : Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x fem!resident!reader

summary : A black-tie charity gala in Chicago. One bed. Months of tension. And a storm that forces both of you to stop pretending.

warnings/content : 18+ content, explicit sexual material (fingering, penetrative sex, condom use), strong language, emotionally repressed characters, unresolved sexual tension (resolved), jealousy, mutual pining, power dynamics (attending x resident), one bed trope, clothing sharing (his hoodie/boxers)

word count : 4,850

18+ ONLY MDNI, not beta read. Please read responsibly.

a/n : This is me projecting every inch of tension into one hotel room and letting it burn. Robby is so done pretending he doesn’t want her. She’s so done pretending it doesn’t wreck her. No further questions.

The Chicago skyline glittered beyond the ballroom windows like something out of a dream, but the room itself was thick with too much perfume and performative laughter to feel romantic. Somewhere between the crystal chandeliers and the overpriced floral centerpieces, you remembered: this was a charity gala, not a fairy tale. Not that you’d expected it to be one.

Your heels clicked confidently across the marble as you stepped into the crowd, the sound sharp and unapologetic. The red dress did exactly what it was meant to do—stop conversations mid-sentence. Backless, sculpted, slit high enough to make someone drop their champagne. Almost inappropriate. Almost. But cut with just enough class to keep mouths shut and eyes glued. You didn’t stumble into this look—you chose it. Every inch of it said exactly what you needed it to.

And beside you—silent, composed, unreadable—walked Dr. Michael Robinavitch.

Not behind. Not trailing. Beside. Step for step, shoulder to shoulder. Close enough that your perfume reached him, close enough that his silence pressed against your skin like static. The air between you practically hummed. No words were exchanged, but you felt his presence—intentional, sharp, heavy. Not accidental. Never accidental. He wore that tux like a threat and walked like he already regretted coming.

You didn’t blame him. He’d hated the idea of this from the moment the assignment hit both your inboxes. He spent most of the flight to Chicago muttering about schmoozing donors and dressing up for people who’d never seen what a ruptured spleen looked like in real life. Said if AGH wanted charm, they should’ve sent a PR team—not a trauma attending and a second-year resident.

But for all his complaining, he showed up anyway.

Beard neatly trimmed, jaw tight, suit tailored to the exact width of his frustration. He hadn’t bothered with a tie—left the top button undone and rolled his sleeves up in the car, like he couldn’t stand the performance of it all but still dared anyone to question whether he belonged.

Classic Robby.

All precision. All control. Except, maybe, for the way his eyes kept drifting back to you like he hadn’t meant to.

You’d felt it before you even got here.

The moment you stepped out of your hotel room earlier that evening, still adjusting the strap of your dress, you felt the air shift. His gaze had dragged down your spine like heat—slow, reluctant, and absolutely devastating. He hadn’t said a word. No compliment. Not even a grunt. Just stood there in the hallway, watching you like a problem he didn’t know how to solve.

Then you got into the car.

And now, here you were. Walking beside him like none of that tension had happened—like it wasn’t still buzzing under your skin.

He said nothing.

So, you flirted.

You’d barely handed off your coat when a man caught up to you. Mid-thirties, polished, expensive suit, and the kind of grin that usually came with a boarding group upgrade and a trust fund. His eyes dragged over you—slow, practiced—and landed on your badge.

“Emergency?” he asked, matching your stride.

You didn’t break pace. “That a problem?”

“No,” he said, trailing beside you now. “Just wasn’t expecting it. Not in that dress.”

“Guess I don’t dress for your expectations.”

He laughed under his breath, clearly intrigued. “Wasn’t trying to offend. You just... don’t look like you’ve pulled a chest tube.”

You glanced at him, expression unreadable. “You don’t look like someone who’s coded a patient without crying, but I’m not holding it against you.”

He blinked, thrown for half a second—then smiled, slower this time, like the game had just gotten interesting.

“Alright,” he said. “I deserved that.”

You gave a noncommittal shrug. “Probably.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Should I try again?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him—cool, steady, unreadable. Not interested, but not walking away either.

“If you want,” you said finally.

And then you turned, letting him follow you into the crowd. He kept close, too close, like he wasn’t used to being dismissed.

“I’m Lucas, by the way,” he said, offering it like a favor.

“Of course you are.”

He laughed under his breath, clearly not sure if it was a compliment. Robby was across the ballroom, watching it all.

You watched him back. The way his jaw clenched every time you touched Lucas’s arm, the way he barely blinked when Lucas leaned too close.

"You here alone?" Lucas asked.

"That depends," you said, voice light.

"On what?"

You looked past him. Past the buffet table. Past the sea of donors and old-money medicine. Straight into Robby’s eyes. And you smiled.

“On whether he comes over here or not.”

Lucas turned, confused. “Who?”

You just tipped your glass toward Robby.

Robby didn’t move. He just stared back—still, unreadable, drink untouched in his hand like he wanted to throw it at something.

You turned back to Lucas. “Nevermind.”

You ended up pressed against the gold-veined marble counter in the bathroom ten minutes later, Lucas’s mouth hot and insistent on yours, his hands already on your hips like he’d earned the right. The chill of the marble cut against the warmth pooling low in your body, but you didn’t stop him.

Outside, rain had started to streak across the windows—steady now, soft at first and building. You barely registered it. All you felt was Lucas’s palm dragging slowly up your thigh, slipping beneath the slit of your dress, fingers skimming skin like he expected you to beg for it.

He kissed like a man used to being told yes. Confident. Greedy. A little too practiced. His teeth grazed your lip, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a low hum as he pushed closer, like he couldn’t get enough of the way you tasted.

You let his hand slide higher. Let him mouth at your neck, at the soft line beneath your jaw. Let him tug the strap of your dress down far enough for the fabric to slide off your shoulder.

Your lipstick smeared between you. Your breath came faster than it should’ve. And all you could think about—even now—was how Robby hadn’t said a single goddamn thing about the dress.

Lucas tasted like champagne and ego. His hands were good. His mouth was eager. His knee pushed between yours and your back hit the mirror with a dull, aching thud.

“You’re unreal,” he muttered against your collarbone, breath hot, hand skimming the edge of your breast now. “Jesus.”

You tilted your head back and closed your eyes.

Pretending it was enough.

Pretending it didn’t burn.

Then, gently—too gently—you pressed your palm against his chest.

“I should go.”

Lucas blinked. “Seriously?”

You didn’t answer at first. You just looked at him, steady, breath catching, lips swollen from someone you didn’t want.

Then: “Yeah. Seriously.”

Not cold. Just done.

You slipped out before he could say anything else, smoothing your dress and swiping your thumb across your mouth.

Outside, rain ticked louder against the glass.

And just a few feet down the corridor, exactly where you didn’t want him to be—was Robby. Like he'd positioned himself there on purpose. Like he knew exactly where you’d be. His eyes tracked you the second you stepped back into the ballroom—sharp, steady, and unmistakably furious.

“Was that worth it?” Robby’s voice cut through the hum of the ballroom, low and sharp like a scalpel slipping beneath skin.

You froze mid-step, spine straightening. “What?”

He pushed off the column, slow and measured, like he’d been holding himself still for too long. “Lucas. From Hopkins, right? He’s been at a few of these things.” Robby’s voice was low, sharper than it had any right to be. “In the bathroom. That's how you planned to go about your night?”

You crossed your arms. “Careful. You’re starting to sound jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he said, stepping in closer. “I’m pissed.”

You lifted your chin. “Why? Because he touched me, or because I let him?”

His jaw flexed. “You really want me to answer that?”

“You’ve been watching me all night, Robby. If you had something to say, you could’ve said it before I walked away.”

“I didn’t think you’d let someone else touch you first.”

You laughed once, dry and humorless. “That’s on you.”

“Don’t twist this.”

You held his stare. “Don’t try to control something you keep pretending you don’t want.”

He stepped closer, voice rough. “You think I don’t want you?”

“I think you want me when it’s convenient. I think you want me more when someone else does.”

His eyes darkened. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it.”

He shook his head. “You walked out of that bathroom looking wrecked—and all I could think was, I should’ve been the one to ruin your lipstick.”

Your breath caught.

“I mean it,” he said, voice lower now, almost ragged. “I stood here like a fucking statue while he got to touch you. Got to taste you.”

“Then do something about it,” you snapped, the air between you flaring hot.

“I can’t,” he said, jaw tight. “Not here. Not when I’m still trying to be the version of me that’s good for you.”

Thunder rumbled outside, closer now. A gust of wind rattled the balcony doors, and someone across the room shut one with a sharp bang that turned a few heads. Staff began to move like shadows between tables, and the string quartet shifted into something slow.

“Why not?” you whispered.

“Because the second I touch you,” he said, “I won’t stop.”

A waiter brushed past with a tray, and the spell broke—the quiet clatter of silver on porcelain snapping the air between you.

You stepped back like it burned. “We should go.”

Neither of you said another word.

Minutes later, you sat stiff in the back seat of the Uber, arms crossed tight, trying not to look like your heart was still somewhere back in the ballroom. Robby stared straight ahead, one hand flexing on his knee, the other resting uselessly between you. The driver didn’t ask questions. Neither of you offered answers.

By the time you stepped back into the hotel, the lobby was chaos���umbrellas dripping onto the tile, soaked coats draped over chairs, luggage leaving wet trails across the marble.

You were halfway to the elevators when the concierge spotted you.

“Miss?” she called out gently. “Room 124?”

You turned, already bracing.

“There’s been a situation,” she said. “A pipe burst on the first floor. Maintenance was able to shut it off, but your room was affected.”

Your chest tightened. “Affected how?”

“Flooded,” she admitted. “We pulled what we could from your room and sent everything to the laundry department for evaluation.”

You blinked. “Evaluation?”

She hesitated. “Some items were soaked. Our team is assessing what’s salvageable.”

You didn’t need her to spell it out. You could picture it already.

Your suitcase—soaked through from the bottom up, clothes clinging to the lining like wet leaves. The silk sleep set you packed on a whim, twisted and ruined. Your toiletry bag overturned, mascara tubes and tampons and a busted travel-size mouthwash bobbing in shallow water. Your heels wrapped in white hotel towels like they’d been injured. Your charger? Fried. The paperback you'd half-finished on the plane? Warped and curling at the edges like a dried flower.

You didn’t want it assessed. You wanted it not to have happened.

“We’re also fully booked due to the weather,” she added, almost apologetic now. “We’ve had cancellations, stranded travelers, local walk-ins. There’s a waitlist, but we can’t guarantee anything for tonight.”

Of course not.

You stared past her, toward the barricaded hallway at the far end of the lobby. Caution tape. Industrial fans. A sign printed in sharpie: FLOOR CLOSED FOR CLEANUP—1st. You could hear the low, constant roar of air pushing moisture out of drywall.

“Fine,” you muttered, reaching for your phone. “I’ll find another hotel.”

You had barely tapped the screen when Robby spoke.

“She’s with me.”

You turned your head slowly. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“You don’t have a room,” he said, measured. “You don’t have clothes. You’re not getting another hotel this late.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“I’m not offering help.” He looked at you then—just once, jaw locked, eyes hard. “I’m not letting you walk around Chicago at midnight with a dead phone especially during a thunderstorm.”

That shut you up. Not because he was angry.

Because he was worried. And trying not to show it.

The concierge handed over a second keycard.

Robby took it before you could say anything.

Just like that.

Final. No discussion.

He didn’t even look at you as he turned toward the elevators.

You followed him.

The click of your heels echoed against the tile, sharp and precise. Rain streaked the windows behind the lobby seating area, lightning flashing faintly across the marble floor. Neither of you spoke.

“I don’t have anything to sleep in,” you said finally, your voice clipped.

“I’ve got boxers and a hoodie,” he answered without looking back.

You stopped. Right there in the middle of the lobby.

“Oh, perfect. I’ll just wear your hoodie like this is totally normal and not weird at all,” you said, tone sharp.

He turned—slow, deliberate. Shoulders tense, jaw tight.

“What’s your move, then? Wander around downtown at midnight in heels that are cutting off your circulation, soaked through, no phone, no plan?”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

His jaw ticked. “It’s a hoodie and boxers, not a wedding dress. Don’t flatter yourself.”

You blinked, slow. “Oh, I’m not. I just prefer not to sleep in something that smells like you’re still wearing it.”

He stepped in—closer than necessary. “You didn’t seem so bothered by that smell earlier. In the elevator. Or at the event.”

Your pulse jumped. You hated that it did.

You crossed your arms. “I’d rather not spend the night with someone who can’t stand to look at me.”

His eyes didn’t move from yours. “You’re not upset about me glaring.”

“Oh no?”

“No,” he said. “You’re upset because the wrong man undressed you with his eyes—and made a move before the one you wanted ever did.”

Your stomach dropped.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

He didn’t move. He didn’t smirk. He just let the words sit there between you, heavy and sharp and so goddamn true you wanted to slap him for it.

“Wow,” you breathed. “You’re a dick.”

“And you’re still standing here,” he said.

The elevator dinged.

You turned and walked in first.

He followed.

The doors slid shut behind you with a hush that felt like it should’ve echoed.

You stood a little too close to the mirrored wall. He stayed behind you, angled slightly off to the side. You watched him through the reflection. He wasn’t watching you, but he wasn’t relaxed either. His jaw was locked. His hands were in his pockets, knuckles tight enough to show through the fabric.

His chest rose slow. Measured. Controlled.

The air between you wasn’t just tense—it was alive. Like it had heard every word back in the lobby and didn’t believe either of you were done.

The elevator climbed.

At floor ten, your arms were crossed so tightly your shoulders ached.

At floor eleven, your pulse jumped just from the space between your hands and his body.

At floor twelve, he looked at you in the reflection—just a flick of his gaze—and your breath caught.

“We’re both adults,” he said.

Your voice barely made it out. “Barely.”

The elevator doors opened, and you stepped out before he could say anything.

His footsteps followed—steady, patient. The hall was quiet except for the distant hum of the rain hitting the windows at the end. The carpet muffled everything but your heartbeat.

He unlocked the door with one swipe of the keycard, then held it open. You didn’t look at him as you walked in.

You flicked the lights on.

And there it was.

One bed. Big. White. Obvious.

Robby walked in behind you, shutting the door with a soft click. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it neatly, like this was any other night.

You stared at the bed, then at him. Your voice was dry.

“Of course it’s one.”

He didn’t flinch. “Wasn’t expecting company when I booked it.”

You crossed your arms. “But when you offered to share—”

“I knew,” he cut in, voice smooth, unreadable. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t think to mention that part?”

He turned to face you fully, one brow lifting just slightly. “I had a single room. Why would it have two beds?”

You blinked at him, but he kept going, tone low and infuriatingly rational.

“Sorry, I forgot to ask the hotel for the ‘in case my coworker gets drenched and stranded’ package.”

You scoffed. “A heads-up would’ve been nice.”

He tilted his head, eyes skimming over you. “Right. And if I’d said, ‘It’s one bed,’ you’d have said what? ‘No thanks, I’ll sleep in a puddle’?”

You didn't answer.

He smirked. “Exactly.”

The silence stretched. Long enough to make the storm outside feel closer. You peeled your clutch from under your arm and set it on the dresser like it gave you something to do.

He crossed to his bag. Pulled out a hoodie and a pair of boxers, both folded with the kind of care you recognized in him—practical, precise. He set them down at the end of the bed.

“They’re clean,” he said. “Bathroom’s yours.”

You didn’t move yet. Just looked at the bed again. Then at him.

He hadn’t looked away once.

You took the clothes in one hand.

“So,” you said slowly. “We’re just gonna sleep next to each other like none of this ever happened?”

His voice didn’t waver. “Is that a problem?”

You raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. Can you keep your hands to yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Even if I wear this?” You lifted the hoodie an inch.

His gaze dropped for a single second. Just one. Then back up.

“Especially if you wear that.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t blink.

The moment hovered—thick and heavy with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then you turned toward the bathroom without responding.

The door clicked shut behind you, and you swore you could still hear the sound of him exhaling—low and rough, like he was trying not to want something he didn’t have permission to reach for.

The bathroom was quiet except for the faint hum of the fan and the thunder outside.

You reached behind you, fingers brushing the zipper. It slid down with a soft sigh, the dress loosening around your frame. The straps slipped off your shoulders, and the fabric followed, slow and heavy, like it didn’t want to let go.

It fell in a hush against the tile—crimson and careless at your feet.

You stepped out of it without hesitation.

His hoodie came next. It was oversized and warm. The sleeves hung past your hands, the hem grazing your thighs. You pulled on the boxers last. Loose, low, unfamiliar. You kept one hand on the waistband, like that might anchor you.

In the mirror, you didn’t look like the girl who’d worn that dress. You looked like someone else entirely—bare legs, messy mascara, lips still parted from things unsaid.

Like someone who’d made a choice.

Even if you hadn’t figured out what it meant yet.

When you opened the door, the lights in the room had dimmed. Only one lamp was still on, casting a warm glow over the bed and wall. The storm outside had deepened to a constant rhythm—rain tapping like fingers against glass, thunder slow and low in the distance.

Robby had moved. He was no longer standing.

Now he was sitting in the chair by the window, already in his pajamas. But the second you stepped out, he looked.

And stayed looking.

His gaze dragged from your legs to the oversized hoodie, to the hand resting at your hip like you didn’t quite trust the boxers not to fall. Then to your face.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

The air in the room changed. Tightened. Coiled.

You walked past him in silence, slid into the bed slowly—like you weren’t listening for the hitch in his breath, even though you were. The sheets were cold. Your skin prickled beneath the fabric, awareness spreading like a pulse.

You heard him stand.

Not right away. Not fast.

Just... eventually.

The creak of the chair. The soft thud of his steps against the carpet. The flicker of the switch. Then the dip of the mattress behind you.

He pulled the blanket up slowly. Settled on his back. Close, but not touching.

You stared at the ceiling. Felt the heat of him beside you—close, steady, impossible to ignore. Six inches of space. Maybe less.

And then you moved.

Not much. Just enough for the blanket to pull tighter across your hips, for the edge of your thigh to graze his under the sheets. It was barely contact.

But it felt like heat.

You knew he felt it too—because he stilled.

His breath caught, just slightly, like his lungs had registered something his mouth hadn’t been cleared to speak on. You could feel the way he was holding himself back. The way every inch of him had been still and disciplined until now, and now… now he wasn’t.

"Robby," you whispered.

He turned his head toward you.

Just a glance. But in it—everything. The tension. The ache. The silent plea for permission. Or for you to stop him before he crossed a line he couldn’t walk back from.

You didn’t.

Instead, you reached out—slow, careful—and let your hand find his forearm beneath the blanket. Warm skin. Solid muscle. He tensed at your touch, but didn’t move.

So you let your hand drift down, sliding along the inside of his wrist until your fingers brushed his.

He hesitated.

Then laced them through yours like he couldn’t help it.

That was all it took.

His fingers slipped free again, and his hand moved—up your arm, slow and deliberate. Not over the fabric. Under it. He pushed the hoodie up just enough to touch your bare skin, his palm dragging heat along the dip of your waist, the soft slope of your stomach. He moved closer, his leg brushing yours beneath the blanket, chest barely grazing your shoulder.

Your breath caught.

He heard it.

He hovered above you now, weight on one elbow, eyes locked on yours in the dark.

You reached up and found the side of his neck. Warm, tense, familiar.

That was enough.

He kissed you—deep, slow, but hungry. Not rushed. Just built-up control finally cracking. His hand slid higher beneath the hoodie, fingers spreading across your bare ribs, then rising to cup your breast—skin to skin. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and you gasped, the sound catching between your mouths.

He pulled back a breath’s distance, just enough to look down at you.

“You knew,” he said roughly.

Your lashes fluttered. “Knew what?”

His eyes dragged over your face. “That I wouldn’t stop if I touched you.”

You didn’t answer. You just arched into him, hips tilting, hand reaching for the hem of his shirt. Your fingers found the edge and pushed up, knuckles brushing his stomach.

He moved to help, lifting his arms, letting you tug the shirt over his head and toss it aside. Then he leaned back, one hand tugging the blanket down from both your bodies, eyes never leaving yours.

His chest rose and fell—slow, deliberate, barely in control. And he was still watching you like he hadn’t even started.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of the boxers.

You gasped—quiet, sharp—and he froze.

“Okay?” he asked, voice hoarse against your throat.

“Yes,” you said. “Don’t stop.”

He groaned—quiet, guttural—and kissed you again, his fingers sliding through you slowly, then sinking deep. One, then two.

The hoodie stayed on.

But everything underneath it was his now too.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“I think I do,” you said, breathless.

He kissed you again, but this time deeper—tongue sliding against yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like restraint finally breaking. His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, then your neck, slow and deliberate, as if he was testing how far you’d let him go.

You didn’t stop him.

You tipped your chin up and gave him more.

“You’re soaked,” he said, voice dark. “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I’ve been like that all night.”

His hand moved in slow circles over your clit. You arched into him.

“Robby—”

“Fuck, you feel—” He cut himself off with another kiss. His forehead rested against yours, breaths coming fast now. “Don’t rush me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re shaking.”

“You’re making me.”

He added another finger. Your hips jerked, and he caught them with his other hand, holding you still while he fucked you slow with his fingers—deep, steady, curling in all the right ways. You whimpered into his mouth.

“Look at me,” he said roughly.

You did.

His pupils were blown wide. His jaw tight. His fingers still moving, still coaxing, still building the ache that had started the second he offered you this bed.

“Tell me when.”

Your breath broke. “Almost—don’t stop.”

His thumb pressed against your clit, just enough pressure to push you over. You came with a gasp—hips trembling, body curling into his. He kissed you through it, slow and open-mouthed, like he was breathing you in.

When your body stopped trembling, you reached for his waistband and pulled it down. He was hard. Thick. Heavy in your hand.

You stroked him once, twice—slow, just to feel the way his body jerked under your touch. His eyes fluttered shut, jaw clenching hard as your thumb teased the underside of his cock.

“Condom?” you asked, voice low.

“Top drawer,” he said. “I checked earlier.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Hopeful?”

“Prepared.” he muttered.

You fished it out and handed it to him. He rolled it on with shaky hands, then settled between your legs again—his hips aligned with yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other curling under your thigh.

He paused. “Last chance.”

You locked your eyes on his. “Shut up and fuck me.”

He pushed in with one slow, smooth thrust—stretching you open inch by inch, until your back arched and your nails dug into his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he gritted out, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel like—”

“Move.”

He did.

Long, deep strokes that built slow—his body pressed against yours, breath hot against your cheek, the bed shifting beneath you. His hips rolled just right, his rhythm steady but desperate, each thrust dragging a sound out of your throat you couldn’t have silenced if you tried.

You wrapped your legs around him, ankles hooking behind his back, dragging him deeper. His hand slid under the hoodie, found your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until you cried out.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come again.”

He angled his hips and thrust again—harder now, rougher, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room. You moaned into his mouth, fingers clawing at his back as your body built again, tighter, hotter.

Then you broke.

Your climax hit fast—sharp, shattering. You buried your face in his neck and held on as he fucked you through it, thrusts stuttering, voice breaking on a groan.

“Fuck—I’m—”

He followed you over the edge with one last deep thrust, his body shaking above you, hips grinding into yours as he spilled into the condom with a low, guttural noise that sounded like surrender.

When it was over, he collapsed half on top of you, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat.

Neither of you spoke.

You lay there tangled in each other, his hoodie bunched around your waist, your breathing slowly syncing with his. His hand rested on your thigh—still, warm, unhurried. Gentle in a way that felt unfamiliar for both of you.

The storm outside had quieted to a hush, rain tapping a soft rhythm against the windows like it was trying not to interrupt.

Minutes passed.

Then, quietly—like it had been sitting on his tongue all night—he said, “You looked really beautiful in that dress.”

Your heart stuttered.

You turned your head just enough to look at him. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Didn’t think I should.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just watched him, his features softer now in the dim light, his usual armor cracked wide open.

After a moment, you whispered, “I waited for you to.”

His fingers flexed lightly on your thigh, like the weight of your words hit somewhere deep.

“I know,” he said again, barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t forgive him out loud. You didn’t need to.

You just shifted closer, let your leg hook over his, and finally let yourself exhale.

Not everything had to be said right now.

But for the first time in a long time, it felt like something had changed.

And neither of you reached to undo it.

[eggrollforyou]

okay but like could we get a sex pollen/power kinda thing but opposite?? like instead of y/n being the one getting hit with it, have law get hit with it. bonus points if he doesn’t want to ask y/n for help at first and he’s a bit submissive when she does help😄😄

Wanted This

Law x F!Reader

CW: NSFW, MDNI, sex pollen trope, unprotected sex, p in v, needy Law, rough sex, use of pet names, one bed trope, mutual pining but they don't know it, porn with plot if I forget anything, lemme know!

A/N: Thank you for this ‘Nonnie! This was a lot of fun. I really hope I did your request justice! Law’s  and readers' thoughts are in italics. Hopefully I separate them enough that it’s not confusing. I apparently felt the need to go into great detail to set up Law going to TOWN on reader 🤣

“W-what?!  Are you fucking serious, Shachi?” Law grumbles in frustration. “I-I’m sorry Captain, rules are rules,” Shachi chuckles nervously, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck.  

Of-fucking-course this shit HAS to happen. We’re grounded to weather this weird ass storm and this is the last inn with any vacancy and I draw HER name to share the room? Law thinks to himself. “Why can’t she and Ikkaku bunk up?” he pleads one last time.

“Well, they argued that to be fair, it should just be names from a hat…we’re all adults, etcetera, etcetera. I mean they made a strong point, we’re a crew. What does it matter?” Shachi replies. Law rubs his hand down his face in a hidden panic, expressed as faux annoyance. 

“Fucking FINE,” he chagrined as he swipes the room key from Shachi. “Hey, I mean, maybe you can have that talk with her now? You’ll certainly have the privacy to do it, Captain.” Shachi sheepishly replies, hoping to soothe Law’s foul mood at the current turn of events. “SHHH! Shut the fuck up Shachi. I’ll deal with it,” Law whispers, embarrassed that anyone might have heard. 

His feelings for you have grown the last few months but he hasn’t had the nerve to express to you what they are, being as emotionally repressed as he is. Finally needing to get it all out, he’s been talking to Shachi about it, hoping that maybe by getting it out in the open, he’ll realize that they’re nothing more than a simple crush that will fizzle away with time. 

But no, things can’t be that simple and they can’t go the way of just ignoring it until it goes away that he was hoping he could rely on. And now, since you’re all docked at this island to weather a storm for another couple days he has to spend them sharing the last remaining room at the inn with you?! He takes a deep breath to calm his nerves that are eliciting butterflies in his stomach and anxiety in his chest. He waits until he feels the blush on his cheeks and the tips of his ears that he feels burning hot at the idea of sharing a room with you, to dissipate before he goes to find you.

“Looks like we’re bunking together,” Law tries to sound as unbothered as possible as he approaches you, showing the key to your room. Bunking together!? What the fuck is this, camp?! He internally chastises himself. To his surprise, you giggle. “I guess so, Captain!” you reply enthusiastically. God, you’re adorable.

As you both walk toward your room,  you fight to keep your cool. I mean it was obvious to everyone- except apparently Law- that you harbored a crush for the broody man. You’re not sure why you were so excited about this, though. He never seemed to reciprocate your feelings towards him. Always giving you the same clipped responses he gave the rest of the crew. In fact, it seemed he might actually not enjoy your company all that much, the more you think about it. He's always distant. Sometimes if you're going to pass each other late at night on the ship, he flinches and just turns away abruptly. Like he actively avoids you.

Suddenly, you’re wracked with anxiety. This may actually be worse than I was thinking. He probably finds me annoying and this may be REALLY awkward. Suck it up, Y/N. You’re both adults. Just treat it as any other day on the Tang…you’ll be fine right? Ugh. How could I be so stupid. He clearly isn't interested in me. I guess I got so caught up in my feelings, I failed to see it for myself…

As you both approach your room, you shift to stand behind Law to avoid bothering him. Law unlocks the door and as you both step in, you see the bathroom to the right and walk further to see a table in a small sitting area with a vase of beautiful flowers next to the window and one bed. Both of you stop in your tracks. You, quietly giddy and your heart skipping happily, but Law’s face suddenly goes white. You feign shock when he turns to look at you. 

“T-this must be a mistake,” he says. “I’m going to go to the front desk and talk to them. We must have gotten the wrong room key, we’re supposed to have two beds,” he hurries as he rushes out of the room. Leaving you standing there, quietly trying to mend your breaking heart, hoping your face doesn't show the disappointment at your realization that Law just isn't that into you. Keep it together Y/N….it’s only unrequited love. You can deal with it, you sarcastically tell yourself. Leaving you to just nod in acceptance as he sees you before he shuts the door. 

“I’m sorry, Sir. But that is our last room available. We apologize for the inconvenience. It was also assumed that a couple would be staying in the room. We can certainly send up a second set of linens for you if that will help?” Law glared daggers at the clerk who didn’t seem to give two shits about the predicament their assumptions put him in. He sighed in defeat, “Fine. A second set of linens. We’ll make do,” he waves his hand as he walks away. 

When he returns, you're nowhere in sight but he hears the shower running, steam slowly trickling out from under the door. He breathes a sigh of momentary relief. Don't make this awkward, alright? We're adults. We can manage. I'll just tell her I have extra blankets and a pillow being delivered to sleep on the floor. No need to make this a thing.

A few moments later, someone knocks on the door. Must be the bedding. Law gets up from sitting at the table contemplating why life has planned out to land him in this exact moment as he answers, collecting the bedding from the housekeeper and promptly shutting the door behind him. 

The loud slam of the door closing broke you from your in-shower zone out, where little to Law's knowledge, you're also contemplating what karmic retribution landed you here in this exact situation. Your heartbeat in your ears from being suddenly startled, you take a deep breath. It can’t be THAT bad to share a room with me, can it? What the fuck, this seems really over the top for a minor inconvenience.

You hurry to finish showering, clearing your head as best you can, and try to face how you’re going to approach the next couple days. I can just grab my book and hang out in the lobby or at the tavern or something. I don’t have to stay in the room. Just use it purely as a space to sleep. You’ve resigned, you’re going to get dressed, grab your book and just go down to the tavern for a drink and to read. It’ll be some nice alone time anyway.

Law hears the water shut off in the bathroom and in a rush, he accidentally almost throws the spare blanket on the table and knocks over the vase of flowers, water spilling everywhere. “Shit!” Law leans over and rushes to right the vase, but the damage is done. There’s water everywhere as it trickles off the table onto the floor. He immediately coughs and sneezes, realizing in the fall, the pollen on some of the flowers is knocked loose. “What-” he coughs “-the fuck?” He has nothing left to do but wait for you to get out of the bathroom, to grab a towel to clean up the mess. 

In a couple minutes, you rush out of the bathroom, mumbling an apology for taking so long in the bathroom. You walk briskly to your bags and grab a book and turn to exit the room as quickly as you can, trying to make as little eye contact as possible to avoid showing Law the hurt and growing frustration in your eyes. “I’m, uh, gonna be down at the tavern,” as you wave your book in the air. Before Law has a chance to respond, you’re gone. The door quickly shutting behind you. 

He sighs a breath of something- Resignation? Relief? Wanting? He’s not sure. He wants to spend time with you but you have his brain so fucked up. He gets tongue tied and nervous around you. He finds himself wanting to impress you? He wants to get to know you better but you don’t need that. Don’t need what his baggage would mean for you. Suddenly, he’s thinking about your hair. How it always looks so soft. Soft like how soft your skin must feel. He walks to the bathroom to grab a towel to clean the mess from the flowers and he’s hit with the warm, humid air still lingering in the bathroom. The scent is tinged with your soap. The smell enveloping him like how you envelope his thoughts.

He closes his eyes and takes it in. The warmth of the humid, heavy air clings to his skin and he feels it spread across his chest and he suddenly gets pangs of pain in his gut. His eyes snap open. What the hell? His chest feels tight, his skin burns, his ears are buzzing and all he can think of is how soft your lips look. How he wants to kiss them….and your jaw…and your neck. His thoughts grow hazy and he imagines how he would press you against the bathroom counter, bend you over and fuck you into oblivion. WHAT THE FUCKi?!

He feels the familiar throbbing of his cock when he lets his thoughts wander about you, but this time, it feels like if he doesn’t have some contact, he’ll explode. He begins breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath that seems to evade him as his skin burns and tingles, focusing on his groin. What the hell is happening to me? Something’s wrong. He looks down and he sees the evidence of his arousal, feeling as if he doesn’t release his cock, his pants will rip. Without thinking, he hurriedly unzips his pants and frees himself with a sigh, but the aching pain continues. He leans on the bathroom wall and slowly slides down as he palms himself over his boxers trying to find some relief. It sends electric jolts down his spine. 

He pulls his boxers down slightly and grips his length at the base. It’s veiny, an angry red, and dripping precum. He hisses as his hand starts moving up and down, collecting the precum from the top and twisting his fist down his shaft. He begins to pump his fist hoping to find some release from this crazed feeling. When he thinks he might finally reach his peak, he finds himself unable to finish and find relief. He continues over and over and there seems to be no release in sight. “Fuuuhck,” he whispers to himself as he slams the back of his head on the bathroom wall in frustration, panting and sweating.

“Shit!” you mumble to yourself. “I grabbed the wrong fucking book,” as you bring your palm to your forehead. You made it to the tavern, decided to order your drink and a snack first before settling down to crack open your book. You were slightly distracted because Shachi and Penguin were sitting at another table and staring at you. You could swear they had a look of pity but thought it must be because you didn’t want to sit with them. Much preferring to deal with your current emotional state alone. 

When you opened your book, looking for your bookmark, you realized then that you grabbed the next book in the series you were reading. “Damn it….now I have to go back up there,” you whined. Do I really need to read right now?

Ugh. I can’t be a weirdo and just stare at the wall all night. I’ll just run in and grab it really quick. And you stand up to head back to the room.

Law didn’t hear your footsteps approaching in his attempt to deal with his current predicament. But as soon as you stopped at the door, he smelled you. His pupils suddenly dilated and his breathing labored. He stops and quickly covers his lap with the towel he couldn't remember the reason he needed as you open the door to the room. 

He grunts as you walk past him, but you don't realize where he is, nor the state he's in. He's trying not to let you find him like this- needy, desperate, bordering rabid for touch. You walk to your bag and swap out the correct book and make your way back to the door to nurse your drink. You hear a shuffle in the bathroom and take a passing peek. You see Law’s legs splayed out, his body propped on the wall. He's breathing heavily, his face and chest are flushed, he's practically dripping sweat.

You stop, “Law! C-captain! Are you ok?!” You immediately begin to check for a fever, search for his pulse on his wrist to check his heart rate. He hisses at the contact, ripping his wrist from your grasp, “G-get out,” he enunciates. “L-leave me alone, I'm f-fine, damn it.” Your hands recoil from him as you pull them back. What the hell is going on? “Captain, I just want to make sure you're-”

“I said I'm fine,” he pants, interrupting you. Grimacing in pain as waves of it return.

 I can't just leave him like this, but clearly he doesn't want my help. “I can get Shachi, or Penguin? I really don't think I should leave you like this, Law.” Your concern for his well being winning out over wanting to leave his grumpy ass alone. Something was clearly wrong, you wouldn't feel right storming off. 

“N-no! P-please,” he's begging. Beginning to lose his mind from his desire to have your skin on his. To kiss you, like he's always wanted to, to force your gaze in the mirror to make you watch him worship your body. He wanted nothing more than to explore every inch of you but not like this. He wanted to tell you that you consume his thoughts. He's wanted to ask you out ages ago but he was too much of a coward to do it. And where has that silence led him? 

He's now writhing on the bathroom floor of a room at an inn, with an erection that won't go away, a mind full of lustful thoughts that he cannot control and you worriedly and helplessly staring at him. 

You take a moment, seeing he's clearly in pain and instead try a different approach with him. “Law, I need you to tell me what's wrong. Where are you in pain? Can you tell me your symptoms? Is it ok for me to check your pulse?” You slowly reach out. He nods, his chest heaving. You look down and notice the towel over his lap and your eyes widen. He's very clearly trying to conceal his erection, but the towel does nothing to hide it. 

Suddenly, you realise what's going on. You've seen it before, prior to joining the crew. It's the effects of an aphrodisiac. You steel your nerves. You have no idea what's going to happen when you tell him this. “L-law,” your cheeks are hot, turning bright red, “I, uhm, I think I know what's going on. It looks like you may have been exposed to an aphrodisiac.” You awkwardly clear your throat. 

His wild eyes connect with yours, they're so dilated you can barely see the beautiful amber and gold that they usually glow. He gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down and you're trying to keep your cool, at least for his sake. “P-please, Y/N. I need your help, w-what do I need to fix….this?” He gestures his hands to his throbbing erection. “I-it hurts,” he mumbles through gritted teeth. 

Your eyes quickly snap from his groin to his eyes, your breath hitches, “I…think you know...how to fix it,” you whisper. He leans forward and presses his face into the crook of your neck and inhales a deep breath in your hair, “I'm- hng- I'm sorry,” he winces. “I wanted this to be different.” Your smell is driving him crazy, it's so enticing, it's like you're a siren calling out to him and he's losing whatever sliver of self control he has left. 

“What are you talking about, Law? Different-” Suddenly he reaches forward and he slips his hand behind your head, pulling you to him in a messy kiss. You pause for a moment, but soon get lost in his need. Returning his heated kisses as you lean into him. 

You yelp as he pulls you onto his lap, groaning as you grind your hips onto him. He's lost in the feeling of you. Your lips slotting into his feel like perfection and he never wants to leave. His tongue swipes your bottom lip and you part your lips for him. Your tongues dance together, exploring each other. “I need you Y/N,” he growls as he pulls the towel out from underneath you. 

While your hips are lifted, he pulls your skirt down and you shift to remove the item completely and he looks down. His cock throbbing harder at the sight of your lacy underwear. With a growl you hear a RIP as he tosses your underwear to the side. “P-please, I n-,” he groans in desperation, “I n-need to know you want this t-too.” 

Your heart is racing, you just want him to feel better, but you feel selfish. You wonder if this is just the pollen talking. Will he still want me when it's out of his system? Should I walk away? You decide now’s the time to just tell him. This situation is already about as messy as it can get, just get it out in the open. Treat it like a bandage, just rip it off. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, “Law, I’ve always wanted this.”

Law’s eyes go wide for a brief moment and in one swift motion, he pulls you down onto his length. He groans, a gritty sound, deep from within his chest. You gasp at the sudden stretch as and the delicious burn of your body stretching to accommodate him. He presses his forehead to yours, hot breaths fanning your face, “‘m’sorry. I wanted this to be d-different,” he pants. Despite his pain and desperation, he’s trying to hold back to avoid hurting you. But you take the lead, surprising him.

You capture his lips in a wet kiss, all tongue and teeth as you pull up on his cock and slam your hips down. His groans and praises spur you to keep a steady pace as you bounce up and down his length. “F-fuck, Law, hnng,” you cry out as you throw your head back in pleasure.

Law latches his lips to your neck, pressing hot open mouthed kisses and biting it between whispered thank yous. After a few moments, you begin to slow down to the delight of your legs and hips as the muscles burn and ache. Pulling up slowly to his tip, feeling every delicious inch and prominent vein in your clenching walls before pushing your hips back down. 

Rolling your hips causes Law to grip your hips tightly, his fingertips turning white, “S-shit, Y/N, slow down, m’gonna-,” he warns you of his impending orgasm. You lean down to his ear, biting his earlobe, “G-give it to me.” Your sultry command is his undoing. He pulls you down as he thrusts up into you, holding you tightly against him as he moans, spilling inside of you. As you both continue panting, you feel him twitch inside of you again. “M’not done with you yet, love” he growls. He wraps his arms around you, presses his back to the wall, and stands up without ever leaving your warmth.

He pulls out of you and you protest the sudden feeling of emptiness and he sets you to stand in front of him. Turning you around, he fixes his gaze on you in the mirror, you both lock eyes and hurriedly remove the remainder of your clothing.

Law takes in your naked form, his pupils so dilated you only see black, and his gaze darkens. He still has the painful urge deep in his gut telling him to continue. One orgasm was not enough to dull the effects of the pollen, as he’s still excruciatingly hard.

He pulls your back to his chest so you are flush with his body, reaching around to grab your breasts and knead and squish them, gently rolling your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. You moan, leaning your head back on him.

One of his hands snakes down and rubs circles on your clit, dipping down to press a finger into you, collecting his cum, swirling it and pressing it back in. He watches as you close your eyes, furrowing your brow, and biting your lip.

He leans back and lines back up to your entrance again and presses in, to the hilt, again. “Fuuhck, Law, fuck me, please,” you beg. Law immediately begins pounding into you at an inhuman pace, forcing your back into an arch as he watches how your body greedily takes him. “Mmmm, shit,” he whispers. He’s beginning to lose himself in you, blinded by lust induced by the pollen. The bathroom is filled with the sinful sounds of skin meeting skin when his hips slam into you and your labored breathing. 

Law presses down on your hips slightly so his cock continues to hit the spot in you that makes your knees weak, “Fuck, right there, don’t stop, pleeeeease,” you cry out as he brings you closer to your orgasm. The fire in your belly burns hotter and hotter with each pass of his cock. “Let go for me, sweetheart. Give it to me,” he whispers in your ear as he gently bites the juncture where your neck and shoulder meet. 

He forces your gaze to the mirror. As soon as you make eye contact with him, seeing the position he has you, the feral look in his eyes, you shatter. Your orgasm washing over you in waves as your cunt clenches and flutters on his length, gripping it so tightly his eyes roll back. He moans into your ear as he finishes inside of you again. Pulsing and throbbing as he fills you so full, you feel it beginning to run down the inside of your leg. He doesn’t stop fucking into you. Like a man possessed, he continues fucking into you.

He suddenly turns you around, picking you up and pulling you into another kiss. His tongue enters your mouth, taking you, overwhelming your senses. He sets you on the countertop in the bathroom and without skipping another beat, presses his still hard cock into you. You open your eyes in surprise and he begins pounding into you again as your legs are dangling over his elbows, his hands grabbing a firm grip of your ass. He wants to stay like this and claim you as his, forever. 

“Fu-uck, I can’t get enough of you, baby,” Law moans. His head thrown back, you watch his Adam’s apple bob with his swallow, watching the sweat that’s beading on his skin, drip down his sculpted chest and abs. You watch as his, somehow, still hard cock goes in and out of you. “Mmmn,” is all you can manage in your fucked out state. There are no words left, only him and how he has complete control over you as you quickly approach another orgasm. 

Law continues to fuck into you and rolls his hips, adjusting the angle his cock slams into you. Pressing that spot just right again and again. He presses two fingers on your clit and begins pressing in harsh sloppy circles as he gets close to cumming again.

The bathroom air is thick and heady with the sounds and smells of sex and lust. He feels you clenching again as you approach another orgasm, gasping and gripping his arms as you twitch under his ministrations. With one final, harsh thrust, Law groans as he cums again, pressing hard on your clit, you scream out. Your mouth falls open as you cum again on his cock, taking everything he’s giving you.

The effects of the pollen are finally waning. Law’s mind is growing clearer by the second as he rests his forehead on yours. Both of you panting, trying to come down from your highs as he continues to throb and slowly pump into you. You both wince from overstimulation as he pulls out of you. Your legs hang down over the edge of the counter, but your body is reduced to putty. Every part of you feels heavy. Law gently picks you up, bridal style, and walks you to the bed, laying you down. He walks back to the bathroom to grab a towel to clean you up.

As you slowly regain clarity after a few moments, you begin to grow nervous about what this all means now. Will this change your relationship negatively? Was he serious earlier when he said he wanted this? Or was that the pollen talking? You’re so lost in your anxious thoughts you didn’t register Law lying down in bed next to you. “Y/N,” he says again to get your attention, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Are you…are you ok?” he quietly questions. His face covered in a look of worry matching your own. “C-can I be honest with you, Law?” He nods.

“I-I….I’ve wanted you for a long time, Law. I know you were under the effects of the pollen, so uhm, if you don’t want to be-” he cuts you off with a kiss that you find all too easy to fall into. “I’ve liked you for a long time as well, Y/N. I….I really did want this, just….not this way. I wanted to get here eventually but I was too afraid to say anything to you,” he quietly admits.

You feel your face heating up in a blush, reaching your hand out to touch his cheek, “We’re both idiots, I guess, huh?” you chuckle. He nods in agreement, “Heh…yea, I guess so,” his thumb rubs soft circles on your shoulder. “W-will you be mine, Y/N?” he sheepishly asks. 

Your heart jumps and you giggle at his bashfulness after what just transpired between you two. You press a soft kiss to his cheek, “You always had me, Law.”

PHEW! This fic practically wrote itself, though it ended up WAAAY longer than I expected😅. I really hope you enjoyed it! Thanks again for the request! As a reminder, I work full time, am a part time graduate student, and I have a family. My life can get pretty chaotic, quickly. I will work on requests when I have the free time! ily all  ❤️💕

Taglist: @shy-writer-999 @dreamcastgirl99

Dividers by @cafekitsune

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[fgojous]

love wins all | chapter one ( satoru g. )

from childhood summers and petty high school banters, to the endless college lectures—med school and the chaos of residency, you've been through it all. you've built everything together. you're each other's home—everything. but what if your relationship breaks beyond repair? what if the one thing you couldn't save was each other? can your love still win it all?

neurosurgeon!gojo x trauma surgeon!reader

warnings. romance, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, hurt no comfort, fluff, medical au, established relationships, high school sweethearts, unresolved feelings, unresolved issues, grief, emotional repression, mutual pining, emotional trauma, childhood trauma, explicit sexual content | eighteen plus only!

word count. 5.5k

masterlist.

note. hi, here's chapter one. please ignore the errors (or some inaccuracies lol). i hope you enjoy! reblogs are appreciated <3

CHAPTER ONE: MEET THE GOJOS!

You stare at the mug in front of you. Carefully watching the steam curl up lazily, blending in the atmosphere along with the sterile smell of the hospital lounge. You have been awake for what—eighteen hours? Maybe nineteen or twenty. You’ve lost count somewhere between stitching a ruptured artery and watching one of your patients almost code in front of you.  

You could feel everything. Your eyes burn, the ache just below your brows, the tightness of your back but despite it all, one thing was running through your mind—your husband, or soon-to-be ex-husband, if he could just sign the papers. But he wouldn’t give you that satisfaction, right? He just couldn’t let you go.

But why? Why is he dragging this out when he knows this is far that you can go. This relationship is already flatlined. He knows it, you know it. You both know it.

The door opens, and without even looking at it you recognize the person who just came in. You know it by his scent, the way he moved, the way he could just take over a room,  you know it all too well.

“You did good today.” he says gently, too familiar, too comfortable. “My shift just ended. We should go—”

“Sign the papers.”

He stops, and you look his way. He’s staring at you with that face again—like he couldn’t believe that you were saying it that easily when you’ve been with him for what—nineteen years? You stare at him, his hands stopping midway from unbuttoning his coat. 

“You need to sleep.”

“Did you hear me?” you say once again, too brave to stare right in his eyes, but too cowardly to acknowledge the ache growing inside your chest.

“I did.” he looked away, opening his locker, methodically shoving his white coat inside. His hand lingers on the edge, “We should go home.”

Ah. Home. Home where all the floors are neatly polished, where dishes are barely used anymore.

Home where you sit across each other in complete silence, barely looking at each other. Home where you sleep in the same bed but your backs facing each other, like there’s a cliff in between your bodies.

Where you pretend that this is something that you could fix. Believing that this was just a phase in your marriage even though you filed for divorce three weeks ago.

You don’t even know if you could call that home anymore when you have been sleeping in the on-call room for God knows how long.

You push the chair back, the wood screeching on the tiled floor, “I’m going to sleep in the on-call room. I need to monitor my patient anyway.”

You almost sprinted out of the break room, your freshly made coffee discarded on the table. You couldn’t get out of there fast enough. 

Not because you’re angry. But because you couldn’t fathom this feeling where he doesn’t try enough but doesn’t want to let you go. And you hate it, you hate all of it.

You were tired of arguing. 

The door clicked behind you. 

It hit that you were alone, that no matter what you did, you still felt alone. No matter how he says that he was there, you still felt alone. You gripped your coat, letting your tears silently fall down your cheeks as you toss your coat on the chair. 

You kick your shoes off, letting them land wherever, you let your body fall on the cot. You stare at the ceiling and you just breathe.

You press your face to your hands, letting your feelings catch up to you. Maybe he’s right, you were just tired. Maybe you just needed sleep because when was the last time you slept? You don’t even know. You don’t remember. 

When was the last time you let yourself feel something? When was the last time you didn’t push something down? You wanted to scream, you wanted to throw things.

But instead, you bury your face on the worn out cotton of the pillow. Nothing like the one you have at home. Nothing like you have with him.

You reach for your phone, the screen is bright, no new messages. 

Your patient is stable, post-op vitals are holding and you aren’t on-call. You could message him. You could go home with him.

Maybe he’s still here, still waiting. But you stop yourself because once you do—once you let yourself give in, you might take it all back and you can’t afford to do that.

Not when you’re the one who wanted to end it. Not when you’re the one who messed it up. 

You hear the door open and you immediately turn to the other side, you tuck your arms under your chest. 

You could feel the cot sink. Confusion washes over you when he nudged you to move but you did anyway. He lays beside you, hands gripping your waist gently to pull you close to him. 

The contact made you shudder. It has been months— three months, since you’ve been this close.

“What are you doing?”

“If you want to sleep here, then we’ll sleep here.” he says, his voice steady.  His hand slides under your scrubs—to hold you, to feel you. His palms press against the skin of your stomach, the contact making your spine shiver.

“Satoru.” you breathe, gripping his wrist as a warning. 

You have no idea what’s running on your husband’s mind. Why? Why is he doing this now?

“I just want to hold you.” he murmurs against your shoulder, his lips brushing on the soft of your skin, “Please, just let me hold you.”

His thumb strokes the curve of your waist and you almost break, you almost falter. Everything he does, everything he does could break you in a way that nothing else could. 

You missed this. You missed him more than you could admit. 

You could push him when he pressed a soft kiss on your neck. You could pull away when he turns you around to face him. You could look away when he stares into your eyes.

But you don’t. You just let him. You just let him take the gap between the two of you, until your lips are inches away from each other—then none at all. 

You gasp, like he’s taking your breath from you. He looks at you with worry, he always does. Like you’re going to break if he utters just one word. 

You didn’t know who moved first, but all you knew at this moment was to cling to him, press your lips against him like your life depended on it. 

“We shouldn’t.” you whisper in between.

“Then tell me to go. Tell me, and I’ll leave.” he says softly, leaning his forehead against yours.

But you don’t answer, you kiss him again, slowly—hesitantly. Your lips quiver as you did, your body was tearing down the part of you that still wanted to be strong. His white strands slipping in between your fingers as you pull him in, he bites your lip tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do so. 

But you deepen the kiss, pulling him a little bit more closely as if there’s still space left in between, and suddenly, he wasn’t hesitating anymore. He was kissing you with certainty—earnestly, you could feel the ache with every move his lips make.

You clutched onto him desperately, like you’ve been deprived of touch for so long. And you… have. For too long.

Your trembling hands reach for the hem of his shirt and he helps you, pulling it up until it’s teared away from him, his hands lifting your shirt over your head in return. 

He pulls your pants down along with your underwear, allowing him to see the skin that he has touched for years, the skin that he has adored and worshipped.

His lips find their way to yours again, his hands slid on your back unclasping your bra. Your hands travelling down to the waistband of his pants, pushing it down eminently, more than you intend to.

His kisses went to your face, to your jaw, down to your collarbone. You’re becoming too sensible in the way your bodies are close. You could feel his weight pinning down on you and all you could think about was how you love him. How you’d give him everything without a second thought.

Even if he didn’t ask you to. 

All you could think about is how he’s touching you, how he’s making you feel like you’re his whole universe. 

His breath hitches. All that’s running through his mind was he’s touching you again—like he has been starved, like feeling you against his skin would make him whole again.

He kisses your skin like he has never seen it before. His hands palms your waist, his thumbs pressing gently on your skin. “You’re so beautiful. You’re so… fuck. I..” he murmurs against your skin.

His hands slide in between your legs, coaxing it open. You gasp, arching your body into him as he slid his fingers inside you—curling up, just enough to make your hips jerk. You felt your thighs twitch, you grasp on his wrist, letting yourself unravel in the safest place you knew. He watches your face, how your eyes flutter. How your lips tremble, he listens to you breathe.

“Satoru.” you gripped his hair, “I need you. Please.”

He almost loses his mind when you beg him. It has been months since you’ve been like this to him, it’s driving him crazy. It’s so infuriating how much he wants you—how much he loves you.

How much he’d give you all of him. 

He kisses you again like it’d kill him if he doesn’t, he groans into your mouth when you pull him, your hands gripping his waist as you push him closer. You’re so desperate, hopelessly desperate.

“Please,” you gasp, almost whispering, out of breath, “Please.”

Without saying anything, he positioned himself into you, both gasping as he pushed inside, you bit your lip as you felt the abrupt stretch—neither of you moved for a bit, savoring every second he filled you in. 

You gripped his shoulder, your nails digging a bit on his skin. You should stop him, you shouldn’t let him. But, it felt like home. Yes, fuck, it felt like home.

Because he is your home. What were you thinking? What are you doing?

“God.” he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours, “I miss you.”

Tears prick from the corner of your eyes because of this overwhelming ache of needing him, of him needing you—and how it terrified you.

You wanted to say it back. 

You really did.

Instead, you reeled him in. You kiss him, and he sinks into you more. Slowly moving his hips, driving himself deeper—harder. All your sane thoughts vanished into thin air as he abandoned all his restraint, slamming you into oblivion. 

You wanted to curse him, for making your chest ache, for making you feel good. For fucking you too good. 

The cot creaks, and you were biting down your lip to keep yourself quiet—but all that went out the window when he was hitting all the right spots in you because he knows it all. He knows your body like no one else.

He knew every inch of you, he knew how to make you fall apart. He knew where to touch you like he owns all of you.

His fingers find yours again, intertwining them as he buries them on the cushion atop your head. Then you feel it, that familiar sensation building up on your stomach, fast. 

“Satoru.” you heave, your legs losing all its strength, you tighten around him. “I’m going to…”

You were breathless, uncontrolled—like a string waiting to snap. Your whole body tightens. Your mind was spiraling—you didn’t deserve him, you didn’t deserve to experience his love like this but your body didn’t care, because you craved him. You needed him. 

It was—is, selfish but you’re letting him down with you again.

“Fuuuck.” You heard him groan, his face burying on your neck as his breath ghosts over your ears. “You feel so good.”

He doesn’t stop, his pace quickens—your breathing was sharp, stuttered. You close your eyes. “No, baby. Look at me.”

His voice was ragged, “Look at me, please. I need to see your face.”

And it hits you hard, you grasp his arm as you hold onto the piece of sanity that’s left of you. Pleasure coursing through your whole body, you gripped him as if he’s the only one anchoring you to the surface. 

Then you felt the tremble in his arms, the way his hips slowed down, his voice shattering as he let himself go. 

His body collapsed on top of yours. You didn’t speak, you didn’t move. You just listened to him trying to catch air, you felt the warmth of his breath on your neck—your fingers gently stroking his hair. 

You didn’t know if this is something you’d regret. You didn’t know if this would fix things or become another wound that you would carelessly patch up.

But you didn’t let go.

—

The shrill sound of the alarm woke you up, you tapped the side of the cot where your phone is, desperately trying to turn it off. Then you see his message, 

Satoru | 8:56 AM

I got pulled into a surgery. Didn’t wake you up. I’ll see you later.

Then you see the second message.

Satoru | 8:58 AM

I love you.

Your chest aches.

Then you look down, you see a blanket carefully wrapped around you. You pulled it up to your face, his perfume still etched on the cotton, remembering the thing that happened this morning.

The one where you shouldn’t have let happen. Because, you’re divorcing him—no, you’re saving him. 

Right? From you?

You pushed the blanket hastily and  looked at the time, it’s already 1 pm. No one has paged you or anything. And you really need to take a bath. You sat up, rubbing your eyes, tossing your phone onto the side to pick your clothes up from the floor, clutching the blanket close to your chest. Hoping that no one came in while you were sleeping in here—naked.

You got dressed and looked at your reflection in the mirror. What have you done?

You sighed, picking up your white coat along with your hospital badge from the chair.

Dr. YN Gojo, RPT, MD, FACS | Chief of Trauma Surgery | Cardiothoracic Surgery Fellow

You went out of the on-call room, some of the nurses greeted you and you greeted them back with a smile. But of course, one of them looked at you knowingly—like she’s not buying that crap you call a smile, she knows you too well.

“Go home.” she walks with you, you looked at her and chuckled. “Don’t you laugh at me, young lady. You need some rest.”

“I will.” you say, “In fact, I’m going now.”

Nurse Tanaka pats your back, “Good. How’s things?”

You paused for a while, inserting your hands into your pocket. “Things are okay.”

“And you?”

“Fine.” you simply answered, trying to avoid the upcoming question. You pretend to  look at the time, clearly avoiding whatever it is that she wanted to ask you. “I’ll get going, I’ll see you later.”

She just nodded, the frown on her forehead visible because the way you dodge her question is as if you’re dodging a bullet. You weren’t ready to talk about whatever it is she wanted to talk about. And you don’t know if you’ll ever be ready.

You should be going home now, maybe take a shower, or eat—then sleep a little bit more, but your feet have carried you somewhere else. 

There in the gallery of OR 3. Where your husband stood—calm, precise. 

You watch him in silence, sitting at the back in the hopes that he wouldn’t notice that you’re there. You watch his every move, every flick of his finger, every tilt of his head.

He is in his element—he’s living up to his name, he’s continuing his father’s legacy. He’s right there, where he should be. Brilliant. Shining.

He looked like nothing had happened. Like you haven’t given him another piece of hope that you’re not sure if you’d shot down again.

You lean on the wall, just for a second and you’ll leave. Just for a second before you take back everything that you’ve said—before you regret everything that you have decided. 

But you stay. You always stay.

—

Your keys clattered on the side table, your bag discarded on the couch. You looked around, the apartment was too clean. No dishes in the sink, no pillows scattered—like there’s no one living here.

Well, between your shifts and your preference to sleep in the on-call room instead of your own bed, nobody really has been living here. You know Satoru isn’t coming home either. 

Because there’s no half-drunk coffee cups randomly placed here on the counter or on the table in the balcony. 

Because his scent is nowhere to be found. You forced yourself to move, walking through the hallway when you passed by the shelf where that photograph is seated.

You stop. Your hands tremble as you pick up the frame. You stare at the picture, your eyes slowly burning.

Satoru’s arm draped around your shoulders, his lips pressed against your temple—you, smiling, your cheekbones almost taking over your eyes—your friends, pointing their fingers in your direction with smiles on their faces, like you’re the star of the show. 

You hated this picture right now because you looked so happy, so genuinely, stupidly happy. 

You couldn’t believe that this was taken just three months ago. It’s funny—how things could change in a glimpse. 

Your fingers ghost over the glass, over his image. Over your figure. You could back away, you could throw it in the trash, smash it. But instead you put it back, facing it down.

Instead, you stepped back—strip off all your clothes and let the steam consume you. You let the water hit your body, chest heaving, tears falling silently.

You sobbed quietly until your body decided to betray you, until your body decided to stop protecting you against yourself. 

You just let yourself falter because here—you weren’t Dr. YN Gojo, you were just a woman who’s grieving, who’s mourning the version of herself who wasn’t here anymore.

—

You were drying your hair the moment your phone buzzed. You looked at it, even though you didn’t want to—it’s your job, it’s not like you have a choice, right?

The moment you read the page you were already heading out the door—slipping on your shoes like you have got no time to lose, well you really don’t.

The moment you stepped into the hospital, you weren’t the woman who cried in the shower like her life was hanging on a balance. No, you were Dr. Gojo again, Chief of Trauma. 

“Okay, what do we got?” you asked while tying your wet hair up, you grabbed the chart from the nurse without stopping. 

“Male, 33. MVC, multiple left-sided rib fractures. Suspected flail chest. Sats dropped to 89% en route. His chest x-ray confirmed hemothorax.” 

You scanned the image quickly, “Prep an OR for a left thoracotomy. Start large-bore IVs and have two units of O-neg on standby. Page anaesthesia, now.”

Your voice was dominating—sharp but calm. You’ve done this a thousand times before. Even though the whole room buzzed with chaos, you remained focused.  

You tied your cap, walking towards the scrub room when he walked out of OR 3. And for a minute, you stopped, locking eyes with him.

He looked so tired. His white strands falling carelessly on his forehead. You know he wanted to say something to you by the way his mouth slightly opened, you know him.

He’d want you to talk about what happened this morning. He’d want you to open up again. 

But you won’t. You couldn’t.

You didn’t give him a chance when you pushed towards the scrub room. 

You have no time to lose, you can’t think of anything else besides your patient. 

The surgery had gone well. All of it was textbook save.  But you didn’t escape the way your back aches, how your arm was sore from holding all those surgical tools for hours. 

You just wanted to collapse on the floor and stay there if it’s possible. 

Everyone was doing their part and you’d done yours, so you took your mask off, slipped off your cap and gown. You walked towards the nurses lounge, typing something on the tablet when a cup of coffee was placed in front of you.

“Dr. Gojo—I mean, the other Dr. Gojo left this for you.” you almost smiled, because how many times have Satoru been referred to as the ‘other’ Dr. Gojo? Barely. 

You look at the cup for a second too long—he left you coffee, just the way you like it.

You snapped back, your hands moving as your fingers hesitantly wrapped around it. “Thanks.”

You were about to walk away when you remembered something, you turned to the new nurse, “By the way, don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t call him, the ‘other’ Dr. Gojo. He’ll wreak havoc.” you said jokingly, giving her a faint smile before walking away while sipping on your coffee.

—

“Listen up!” Maki—the Chief Resident—started, the chatter died down, a smile almost slipping past her lips as she watched her intern’s faces.

She cleared her throat and looked around the shiny new interns, fresh scrubs, new badges—it’s a good day for her, and for the attendings too. “You’ve all made it through med school, big deal. Welcome to the real world. Where you’ll learn and fail and hopefully, not kill anyone.”

The door creaked open as she orientated the interns, the attendings going in one by one to observe the fresh batch of interns. And silently hoping that the ones assigned to them aren't a dud. 

And then he came in, Dr. Satoru Gojo, the whispers started again. There he was effortlessly tall—they never thought that a white coat would look that good on someone. It just… fits. His hair was slightly disheveled, his face looked so pretty even though it was obvious that he hadn't had any decent sleep in years. 

“That’s him, right?”

“Fuck, this is getting real. I heard he made a resident cry once.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he just said ‘try again’ and she cried.”

“We’re so fucked.”

Satoru almost laughs when he sees the interns sitting in a row with eyes wide open. He knows that some are looking his way—maybe some of them even applied to this hospital’s program just because of him, and he’s not surprised, not everyday you get to see and work with a brilliant neurosurgeon such as himself. 

He leaned on the wall, sipping on his coffee while scrolling on his phone—looking bored already.  Suguru leans, “That one looks like he might faint.”

“God, I hope he’s mine.” he mumbles with sarcasm.

He looked around, searching for you, and you weren’t here. Probably caught up again in some emergency. Or a consult? He doesn’t know. How would he when you barely talk to him?

“Now, you’d be assigned under the supervision of an attending. You’ll follow them, do what they want. You will breathe if they say so and hope to God that they don’t hate you. Each of your performances are evaluated, so don’t mess up.” Maki says and starts calling the interns one by one. 

“Itadori.” Maki looks up, she sees the young intern with his hands up, nervously and enthusiastically. “And… Fushiguro.”

“You’re with Dr. Gojo.” and just by saying that, Itadori got pale in the face. Some of the interns are already consoling the two of them in their minds. 

“Miwa and Kugisaki. You’re with Dr. Gojo.”

Nobara  blinks, almost stutters. She subtly points at Satoru at the back, who raises his eyebrows in amusement without saying something.  “Also? Him?”

“No. Dr. YN Gojo.” and as if on cue, you enter. The interns exchanged glances. There you were with a soft look on your face, the one where the interns gave hope that not all attendings are you know… evil.

Their eyes followed you as you sat beside Ieiri. “There she is.”

You smiled and gave them a wave, a bit confused as to why they were looking at you. Maki pointed at the girls, “They’re yours.”

“Wait, she’s also a Gojo?” Nobara whispers to Miwa, glancing a bit in your direction. “Is she like his sister?”

Miwa shrugs, “Maybe just a coincidence? Or maybe it’s a common last name?”

“I don’t think so.” Nobara says.

“She’s his wife. They’re married.” Megumi says, and their eyes widen.

“He’s married?!” she says a little bit loud, but covers her mouth when she realizes how loud she was. She turned to Megumi, “How did you know?”

And the young man just shrugged his shoulders, Nobara pouts, dissatisfied with his answer. Maki finishes assigning and the interns go with their attendings. 

“She looks nice. Thank God we weren’t assigned to him.” Miwa whispers to Nobara, and she excitedly nods. They watched as you walked towards the door, frowning when you realized they weren’t following you.

The look on your face says they celebrated too early.

“Are you going to follow me or are you going to waste my time?” you say, that angelic smile adorned on your face earlier was now gone. “Let’s go. First round starts in ten minutes. I hope you had your breakfast. Walk fast, don’t expect me to slow down for you.”

Nobara stops, her face turns white and Miwa scrambles to walk towards you. 

“Now!”

And you were gone before they could answer you. Satoru finally speaks in soft sing-song voice with a big smile plastered on his face as he walks past Nobara, “Good luck~”

He walks out with his interns following him, but before Megumi could walk out the door he says something to her. “By the way, she’s the Dr. Gojo who made the resident cry. Not him. If I were you, I’d be running by now.”

“Wait… what?!”

—

“Dilated cardiomyopathy.” you murmured, tapping your foot on the carpeted floor as you stare at the tablet in your hand.

She has a history of repaired congenital heart defect. Your eyes stroll down through the numbers, the chart, her whole history.

And… you stopped. Your hands stiffen, gripping on the tablet too hard. You read it, once—twice, maybe even a hundred times.

You blinked, staring at that one line like it is going to change anything. “No.”

“No?” the Chief of Surgery repeated—a little shocked, because how could you say no to him? 

“Are you saying ‘no’ to me, Dr. Gojo? Do you know how much time we have? You’ve seen her chart. I think you’re in no position to say no.”

“I am.” you slammed the tablet on his table, not too hard, but enough to tell him that you aren’t doing this one. No, not this one. It hits too close. “Not me. I won’t touch this. Not this.”

You’ve tried hard enough not to react. Not let your emotions get the best of you, but that isn’t easy in this situation.  “YN.”

“What?!”

“You’re the only one I trust.” his voice was calm, and it unnerves you. “You’re the only one who could do this.”

He stands up and goes in your direction, you take a step back. “You’ve seen her numbers. She’s unstable, her oxygen is dropping.”

You were frustrated. Because it’s true. 

All of it was true, her condition is worsening but you’re not the only one who could do it. You’re a cardiothoracic fellow for pete’s sake—granted you’re already in the final year of your fellowship but still.

“That’s why we need to max everything, her medications—”

“We already have. She’s not responding.” he pauses, “You know Dr. Yamada is not here right now. This is an urgent case, you’ve worked under her. I’m sure you’ve learned a lot from her.”

But that’s not the point. That’s not why you would do it. And it baffled you—you could feel it, the breath you unraveled. Your vision blurs and everything feels like it’s closing in on you. 

“Dad—” it had slipped before you could stop it. The vulnerability you’ve tried so hard to conceal.

Tears fall from your eyes, and he sees it. “Please. What if she coded into the table? What if I can’t save t—”

You’re frustrated. Because you’re not just his surgeon now. You’re his daughter.

And hurt, because never did your father put your feelings into consideration. You’re a doctor, you’re not supposed to let your feelings take over you. 

But one thing just ran through your mind repeatedly, you’re his daughter. 

For once, just this once, you hoped he’d think about what you feel. You’d just wish he’d think about what this means to you.

“You can!” he pushed, “You’re my daughter. You’re your mother’s daughter, if anyone could, it’s you! Do not give me this crap.” you flinched, tears falling endlessly but he doesn’t stop there. “She’s young, she has no prior comorbidities. You’ve seen it, she already has decompensated heart failure, she won’t make it another 24 hours without intervention.”

You bite your lip, harshly wiping your cheeks but the tears come anyway, “She may not make it in surgery either.” you say, voice quiet, defeated. 

“I know, but you’re the only surgeon I trust to try.”

—

Your breathing was heavy—sharp, you could barely hear your footsteps as you descended the emergency stairwell. You couldn’t hear anything beside the storm roaring in your head.

The papers clutched in your hand, your knuckles had gone white along with the shaking of your arms. 

“Fuck!” Without any second thoughts, you slam the papers on the floor, it had scattered like leaves falling down. The sound of your voice bounces through the walls, but there wasn’t any care in your body right now.

You stopped, your world spinning as your back slides on the cold wall, your body hitting the concrete on your feet. You pressed your palms on your face, trying to calm yourself down. 

Breathe. Just… breathe.

You can do this, right? You’ve done this countless times before. You are Dr. YN Gojo, you were trained for this, you are the best. If anyone could do it, it would be you. 

You’ve put yourself together a thousand times, like you’ve never been hurt, been broken apart. But why can’t you do it now? Why can’t you pull yourself together?

A sob escaped you, like a traitor. Too loud, too painful. You’ve opened a can of worms that you couldn’t contain. It all came bursting out. You had no control. 

It all hit too close because you’ve been here before. You’ve watched life slip from you. You know what it’s like to gamble, and they’re asking you to do it again.

Your sobs echoed, it was raw. Helpless. Your shoulders shake with every breath you take. 

You don’t even notice the door slip open, you don’t even hear the hurry behind his steps—he moved fast, just to get to you.

“Hey,” and just like that, he cuts through the noise in your head.

He kneels almost immediately, arms wrapping around your shoulder, pulling you into his chest. “I’m here, baby. It’s okay. I’m here.”

You clutched on his shirt, like he’s the only thing keeping you afloat. Small whimpers escaping your lips,  “Satoru.”

“I’m here.” he pressed his lips on your head, “I won’t leave.”

“I can’t.” you were choking on your words, you bury your face on his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat in contrast to yours. “I can’t do this. She’s going to lose it too, Satoru. She’s…”

You feel his body stiff, but his hold tightens and he presses a gentle kiss on the side of your head once again. You know this was affecting him too. This is why you couldn’t do it. This is why you’d rather feel this alone.

“She’s… I’m going to lose her. I’m going to lose them.” 

Because you’ll pull him down with you and you would never forgive yourself for that.

“I’m going to…” you were spiraling—right in front of him and you know it will break him. All these walls that you’ve spent a long time building just to protect him came crumbling down and you hate it. 

You hate yourself for this. You hated everything. But never him. God, no, never him. 

There’s a throe in his chest but he held you, keeping you close as if he’s putting you back together. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” he whispers, it’s as if he knew what you were thinking, “Even if it breaks me—I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in a long time. You let him in. You didn’t want him to see you like this but you needed him.

You know you need him.

“I’ll stay, YN. I’ll always stay.”

[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.

[zaynessbeloved]

A Duke's Silence

Co-author: @astarry-moon

Synopsis: They called him cold. Distant. Impossibly composed. The kind of man you should never try to love because he would never love you back.

You believed that, too. Until you didn’t.

You weren’t the type to be tamed. You were too bold, too curious, too free-spirited for the quiet fate society carved for you. But when your path crossed with the enigmatic Duke of Ashbourne, everything began to unravel—your expectations, your composure, and eventually, your heart.

He was a man no one understood—not even you, not at first. But behind the silence was something raw and aching, something that burned just for you. And once you saw it, once you touched it, there was no turning back.

Together, you didn’t just defy society and its expectations—you rewrote them. One stolen glance at a time.

Content warnings: Regency Era AU, Slow Burn, Emotional Repression, Misunderstood Male Lead, Strong-Willed MC, Tender Domestic Moments, Protective Family Bonds, Healing from Generational Judgment, Mutual Pining, Late Realizations of Love, Deep Yearning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Courting to Marriage Progression, First Time in a Semi-Public Setting, Love Confessions, Fingering (implied), Oral (female receiving), Wedding Night, Honeymoon Seclusion, Established Relationship Intimacy, Tender & Rough Sex, Spicy Domesticity, Semi-Public Intimacy, Marking, Praise Kink, Possessive Touches, Desperate Kissing, Soft Dom Energy, Manhandling, Obsessive Affection, Gentle Restraint, Insatiable Zayne Energy, Bath Sex, Mirror Sex, Against a Piano Sex, Aftercare, Soft Epilogue, Pregnancy Reveal, Happy Ending.

Pairings: Zayne x reader

Word count: 7k words

Chapter 2

It had been a couple of weeks since the races. Two weeks of whispered conversations at evening gatherings, of eyes that lingered too long—some out of curiosity, others out of calculation. Two weeks of dances you forgot as soon as they ended, of receiving letters with fine penmanship and hollow words. Two weeks of noticing, more than once, that he was always somewhere just behind your shoulder. Silent. Present. Unmoving.

The Duke had not spoken to you again. But he didn’t need to. You felt it—in glances, in gaps, in the way Lord Berkeley’s voice would tighten ever so slightly when the Duke was near. And now, as the summer wore on, you found yourself seated beneath the gauzy shade of embroidered tents in one of the capital’s finer gardens—the kind of place reserved for glassware, lace gloves, and opinions softened by sugar cubes. 

Today’s event was an old tradition, a garden tea party specifically designed to foster bonding among ladies of the Season. The debutantes—both junior and senior—were encouraged to mingle. Older girls at fixed tables. Younger ones free to rotate, to join whichever group they admired, or at least felt they could survive. In theory, it was meant to create friendships. In reality, it was a study in hierarchy. 

You and Isabella had been seated at your assigned table without fuss. Gilded name cards, a full arrangement of white lilies and blush peonies at the center. The china was etched with gold, the teacakes impossibly delicate, and your skirts spread like weaponized silk over the carefully tended grass. You sipped your tea slowly. Crossed your ankles just so. And waited. 

The younger girls hovered. Not one sat. They glanced at you from beneath wide-brimmed hats and curls too tightly pinned, whispering behind fans, nudging one another with hopeful eyes—but no one moved.

“They’re frightened,” Isabella said, not unkindly.

You smiled faintly. “They should be.” 

She raised her cup. “To our charming reputations.”

You clinked her porcelain. And somewhere across the garden, another table burst into nervous laughter. You leaned back, letting your gaze drift over the rows of ladies. And waited for something interesting to happen.

The sun had shifted above the garden, angling just enough to paint golden lines through the tent canopy, lighting the edge of your porcelain cup. Across the green, laughter and chatter drifted like perfume. But none of the junior debutantes had dared approach your table—not in the last twenty minutes.

Not until Miss Charlotte Wessex. She approached with the delicate confidence of someone not trying to prove anything. Blonde curls bouncing, cheeks slightly flushed, she looked like she’d stepped straight from a portrait—but there was something in her eyes. Not sharpness. Not calculation. Just sincerity. 

She curtsied low and smiled. “May I join you?” 

Isabella blinked once. You tilted your head. “Of course.”

She sat with the kind of poise taught in drawing rooms and dance halls, but the first thing she did was sigh—sigh, of all things—and set her gloves beside her tea saucer.

“I do apologize,” she said breathlessly. “I’ve circled the garden three times and I thought, well—if I’m to be overwhelmed, I may as well do it somewhere beautiful.”

Isabella smirked into her cup. You smiled. “And we’re the chosen battleground?”

Charlotte’s cheeks pinkened. “You’re not frightening. You’re just... very composed.”

“That’s a delicate way of saying terrifying,” Isabella noted.

“Oh, the others are terrifying,” Charlotte said cheerfully. “Especially the Ladies my age. They’ve been at each other’s throats since breakfast.” 

You arched a brow. “Bit early for bloodshed, isn’t it?” 

Charlotte’s eyes sparkled. “You’d think. But no—apparently, the first ball sealed three vendettas, two marriage pacts, and one eyebrow-related insult.”

You laughed—a soft, real sound—and poured her tea. She settled in, letting the tension roll off her shoulders.

“I suppose I just don’t understand it,” she said after a moment. “This idea that you must compete to be chosen. If it’s meant to be—if it’s love—shouldn’t it come without all the...clawing?”

Isabella tilted her head. “You believe love is simple?”

Charlotte flushed again, but her smile remained. “Not simple. Just... natural. My parents always said that when something is right, it doesn’t have to hurt.” 

You stirred your tea once, slowly. The Wessexes. Of course. Lord and Lady Wessex had one of the more storied love matches in society—not born of alliances or dowries, but of old friendship and the quiet, stubborn refusal to marry anyone else. They were known for attending nearly every event together, always walking arm in arm, always speaking in that soft, intimate shorthand only long-married lovers could afford.

Your aunt once rolled her eyes and said, “It’s sweet if you like the idea of marrying your pen-pal and wearing matching gloves.”

But even she had never found a true scandal to attach to them. They were the exception. The fantasy. You looked at Charlotte with something like admiration and something else—something quieter. You had once wanted to believe that, too.

Charlotte’s words hung in the air like a string of pearls—delicate, idealistic, but strangely sturdy. You and Isabella exchanged a glance over your teacups. She raised a brow. You fought back a grin.

“You’re right, of course,” Isabella said, setting her cup down. “Don’t settle.”

“Not for a title,” you added. “Not for a fortune.”

“Certainly not for a chinless baron who talks through his nose.”

Charlotte laughed—bright and clear—as you both nodded solemnly.

“But,” Isabella added with a smirk, “we should also acknowledge that we are perhaps the last people qualified to give you advice on romance.”

You gave her a look. “Speak for yourself. I am a picture of feminine allure and marriageability.”

“You threw a man’s calling card into the fireplace in front of him,” Isabella reminded you. 

“He deserved it.”

Charlotte blinked, still laughing. “Why?”

“He spelled my name wrong.”

Seraphina would’ve choked on her tea if she’d been there. You waved it off with a flick of your wrist.

“We’re simply not fond of playing the game the way they expect,” you said with a shrug. “And so far, no one’s made it worth the effort.”

Isabella leaned forward, grinning. “We haven’t been caught, is all.”

Charlotte tilted her head, still smiling. “That may be, but… you do know they’re watching you, don’t you?”

You blinked. “Who?”

She gestured vaguely toward the open lawn beyond the tent. “Lord Berkeley. He’s always nearby when you are, Miss Everthorne. And Lord Greystone — he laughs more with you than anyone else, Miss Fitzroy.”

You raised your brow.

“And then,” Charlotte added, voice dropping just slightly, “there’s the Duke of Ashbourne.”

That made Isabella stop stirring her tea. You gave Charlotte a look—careful, unreadable. She lifted her chin, the barest glimmer of mischief beneath her composure.

“I may be younger,” she said softly, “but I’m not blind.”

You opened your mouth to deflect. Isabella beat you to it. “We’ll have to keep an eye on you, Miss Wessex.”

Charlotte sipped her tea, perfectly innocent. “I should hope so.”

————

The morning air was crisp and honeyed with early sun as you and Isabella stepped out of the modiste’s shop, the scent of fabric and perfume still clinging faintly to your sleeves. Boxes trailed behind you—silks, gloves, lace for a gown you weren’t sure you’d even wear.

“I do believe,” Isabella said, fanning herself theatrically, “I have spent enough coin to ransom a small Duke.”

“You might attract one instead,” you offered. “If the neckline is cut low enough.”

She gasped, delighted, and bumped your shoulder with hers. You were still laughing when the voice called out behind you.

“Miss Fitzroy!”

You both turned. Lord Greystone was crossing the square with his usual controlled exuberance—that rare breed of man who could both command attention and pretend he hadn’t noticed it.

“Ladies,” he said with a sweeping bow. “What a marvelously fortunate coincidence.”

“Is it?” you said, dryly. “You do seem to frequent places filled with women, My Lord.”

His eyes danced. “It’s a gift.” 

But then his gaze settled on Isabella, and everything softened. “I had hoped to see you again, My Lady.” he said to her, voice dropping just enough to make you glance away and pretend to examine a hat in the nearby window.

“I must admit,” he continued, “I would love to accompany you both. Not, of course, because I think you require chaperoning—”

He looked at you deliberately. You lifted a brow. “Perish the thought.” 

“—but only,” he said, turning back to Isabella, “because I find your company very hard to resist.”

You didn't even try to hide the smirk this time. The moment he looked away to flag a passing vendor, you caught Isabella’s eye, and gave her the smallest, most obvious thumbs up. She covered her mouth, laughing.

He returned, completely unaware. “I know a charming tea shop just around the corner,” he said. “Shall we?”

You shook your head lightly. “I’ll leave the two of you to it, then.”

Isabella blinked. “Oh?”

You smiled. “I have a book to return to the library.” It was true. But it was also convenient. And she knew it.

Lord Greystone gave you a small, respectful bow. “A woman of literature. We are always in need of more of those.”

You curtsied just enough to be polite. “And some of us are in need of peace and quiet.”

You watched them walk off, her parasol tilted slightly toward him, his voice already lowering into something intimate. Then you turned, stepping off the street and away from the clatter of the crowd—toward the quiet sanctuary of tall shelves and whispered pages. You had chosen solitude. And in doing so, you knew exactly what you were not choosing, too.

The library welcomed you like an old friend—quiet, dust-scented, and endless. The clamor of the modiste, the flirtations of the street, the low hum of tea shop windows faded behind you the moment you stepped beneath the carved archway and into the cool stillness of worn oak and parchment. You returned your book to the desk with a quiet nod to the older gentleman behind it, who seemed pleased to see a familiar face.

Then you wandered. No aim, no plan. Just you and the books. Your fingers drifted along spines like they might speak to you. History. Mythology. Astronomy. You paused before a shelf marked Natural Philosophy.

The book that caught your eye wasn’t grand at first glance. Leather-bound with golden etching. A blue marbled cloth cover, slightly frayed at the corners. But it was exactly the one you were looking for.

You pulled it gently from the shelf, flipping through the weight of its pages. It smelled like candle wax and time. You turned to the inside cover and found the reading log tucked neatly into its pocket. A small card with neat handwriting marking names, dates, initials.

You scanned the list casually. And then paused. There, two lines above the last entry, were the initials: Z.E.  

You blinked. You'd seen those before—once in the back of The Structure of Desire in Early Myths, another in The Architecture of the Mind: Observations on Thought, Instinct, and Reason. And again, subtly marked at the end of A History of Equine Intelligence—a book you had only borrowed because you didn’t think anyone else had.

Someone else had read what you had read. Not once. Not twice. But three times now. Someone who shared your subjects. Your favorites. Your narrow categories. A man? A woman? It didn’t say. Just neat, almost too-precise letters. 

You stared at them for a moment longer than necessary. Strange. Then you shook your head, slipping the card back inside. Coincidence. Or shared curiosity. Nothing more. Still, as you made your way to the counter and signed the lending slip, your fingers hesitated slightly when you wrote your name. Miss Everthorne. Just beneath it, the letters Z.E. remained, pressed into old paper. You brushed your thumb over them once before turning away.

You were just stepping through the library’s tall oak doorway—book in hand, mind still lingering somewhere between the spine and the scent of parchment—when a shoulder clipped yours. Not hard. Not careless. But unexpected. 

“Do watch your step, sir,” you said sharply, instinctively—the polite version of ‘Mind where you’re going, if you please.’ 

Then you looked up. The Duke. Tall. Composed. The faintest trace of winter clinging to his posture. No apology in his expression, save for the smallest dip of his head.

“Miss Everthorne,” he said evenly. “My apologies.”

Your brow arched. “Your Grace. What brings someone so—” you smiled, sweet and venomous, “important to this side of town?”

“I am simply looking for my cousin,” he replied, unamused.

You tilted your head. “I’m afraid Lord Greystone has evaded you and found better company in Miss Fitzroy.”

“I see.” His gaze flicked to the book in your hand. Held, not hidden. He said nothing.

You raised your chin. “I would think you’d have more important matters to attend to than to keep account of your cousin’s whereabouts.”

“I do,” he said, cool as ever. “It involves him.” A pause. “But do tell me, Miss Everthorne,” he added, voice just a shade deeper, “are your assumptions of a man always based on ignorance and prejudice?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve found that most men tend not to disappoint in that regard, Your Grace.”

For the briefest of moments, the corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile. But close. “No,” he murmured. “I suppose they do not.”

You stepped back slightly, adjusting the book in your hand. “Well, I must be off. Good luck on your unsuccessful endeavor.”

He glanced again at the cover—gold-lettered title glinting in the light. “A Vindication of the Rights of Woman” by Mary Wollstonecraft. His eyes narrowed with something that looked like amusement laced in warning. 

“I would offer you the same,” he said, “but it might be wiser to wish luck upon whoever’s soul you shall torment next.”  

You offered him a half-curtsey—one foot slightly off center, a curl of insolence in your smirk. “Your Grace.” 

And then you turned and walked away, book in hand, back straight, chin high—the shadow of his gaze like a chill brushing your spine. You didn’t look back. But you knew. He was still standing there, watching. 

By the time you returned to the townhouse, the air had grown heavier with late afternoon warmth, and the shadows stretched long across the drawing room walls. You found Seraphina curled in a sun-drenched corner with her slippers off and a stack of silk swatches piled in her lap like a conquered kingdom.

She didn’t even look up when she said, “If I have to choose one more pastel shade that promises to make me look dreamy, I may set fire to the modiste’s entire inventory.”

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You’ll never guess who I ran into.”

Seraphina froze, just for a second. “Lord Berkeley?”

You made a face. “Worse.”

She raised an elegant brow. “Lord Greystone?”

“Worse still.”

Now she looked up. “No.”

You nodded solemnly. “The Duke.”

Seraphina’s face lit up like the beginning of a storm. “You did not.” 

“He had bumped right into me. Literally.” 

Her laugh rang out, warm and bright. “And did he perish on the spot? I imagine physical contact must be fatal for him.” 

“He apologized,” you said, voice laced with mock gravity.

Seraphina gasped. “No.”

You held up your hand. “Swear it on my own honor.” 

She leaned forward, grinning. “And what, pray tell, did you do?” 

You shrugged. “I might have called him a filled urn of disappointment. But it’s all a bit hazy.” 

She beamed like a woman who had just been handed gossip as a gift from heaven. “You are my favorite creature.”

You collapsed beside her, laughter slipping between you both like warm wind. But later, when the room quieted and she went back to her swatches, your fingers traced the cover of the book still clutched in your lap. A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. And your mind—without permission—flickered back to the way his eyes had narrowed as he read the title. The way he’d said nothing. But not from ignorance. He had seen it. And he knew exactly what it meant.

————

The next ball came quickly—too quickly—all marble floors and opal chandeliers, candlelight clinging to everything it touched. You arrived fashionably late, wrapped in black silk edged with silver thread—because pastels were a prison you had no desire to live in. But when your name was called at the entrance, no dark gaze followed you in from the shadows. No chill crept along your spine. Because he wasn’t there. The Duke of Ashbourne had not attended.

By the second hour, the whispers had reached every corner of the ballroom. He’s returned to Ashbourne Hall. Business, they say—something important. Lord Greystone left with him. You sipped your champagne and pretended not to care. But your thoughts pulled, unbidden, to the stone steps of the library. His voice, cold and even, “It involves him.”

A business matter. Something pressing. Something serious. You never imagined you’d miss a man’s silence. Even so—there it was. You weren’t sure what to make of that.

You found Isabella near the refreshment table, swirling champagne in her glass with the elegance of someone barely restraining herself from fleeing the building entirely. Her expression lit up when she spotted you. “Finally. I was beginning to consider jumping into the punch bowl for amusement.”

You arched a brow. “Tempting. But this gown is worth more than your family’s summer estate.” 

She sighed, linking her arm through yours. “How you manage to insult me and compliment yourself in the same breath is an art form.” 

“You should try it. It’s therapeutic.”

The ballroom was a sea of color and carefully measured chaos. The music was bright, the dancers brighter, and the expressions on the faces of debutantes being twirled by men twice their age—dim. You and Isabella stood off to the side, radiant and completely uninterested in pretending to be demure. Still, you were not without offers.

Over the next half-hour, both of you were approached more than once—polite gentlemen with cautious smiles and hands ready to extend. And neither of you refused. It wasn’t about the men. It was about the game.

As you returned from your second waltz of the evening, cheeks flushed with exertion rather than affection, Isabella leaned close.

“Let’s make it interesting,” she said under her breath. 

You raised a brow. “Do tell.” 

“A bet. Whoever ends up with the worst dancing partner before the night ends... loses.”

“Loses what?”

She smiled like a cat in silk gloves. “Her pride.”

You considered this, then held out your hand. “You’re on.”

“Excellent.” She glanced around the room, eyes scanning. “Though you may already be at a disadvantage. Lord Wrentham is headed this way.”

You turned casually to see him—all teeth and too much cologne—and whispered, “If I disappear behind the curtain, tell my aunt I died of boredom.”

“I’ll send flowers.”

You both dissolved into laughter just as he arrived. Throughout the night, the game lived. You and Isabella exchanged subtle hand signals across the ballroom floor—a slight raise of brows, a flick of a fan—all part of the wager. 

Every spin and dip carried more tension than the actual music. The stakes were ridiculous. The stakes were yours. Some men were tolerable. Some... were not. One tried to explain the steps to you mid-dance. Another stepped on Isabella’s hem twice and called her the wrong name.

“I nearly pity you,” you murmured when she returned, expression murderous.

“I am winning,” she hissed. “That Lord chews like a goat.” 

“But did he sweat upon your gloves?”

Her eyes widened. “No.” You smiled triumphantly.

“I hate you.”

You curtsied deeply. “A smart choice.”

 The Lord you were currently dancing with—bless him—was trying very hard. Unfortunately, effort alone does not make a waltz. He had already stepped on your slipper three times, once hard enough to make you wince, and was now sweating so profusely that you feared for the seams of his collar.

He hadn't looked you in the eyes once. And as the second verse began, he stumbled again, nearly sending you off rhythm. You pasted on a smile, but internally began scanning the crowd for the nearest escape. And then— “Mind if I steal your lovely dancing partner?”

The voice was smooth. Familiar. Lord Berkeley. Relief washed over you so quickly you didn’t bother hiding it. You turned to him like a lifeline and didn’t even wait for your partner’s nervous sputter before taking Lord Berkeley’s offered hand.

“You are cruelly late, My Lord.” you murmured as he guided you into the next spin.

“Fashionably late,” he corrected. “Also, tactically timed.”

You exhaled a laugh, light and real. “How dreadful did it look?”  

He leaned in just enough to let his breath warm your temple. “Very much so, I’m afraid.” 

You winced, laughing again despite yourself. He twirled you easily, confidently—his rhythm smooth, his touch light, his presence… comforting. Effortless. “And do you still have full use of your feet?” he teased.

“Debatable.” 

“You may need a physician. Or new shoes.”   

“Or a new partner,” you replied, raising your brow.

He chuckled, and it rippled down your spine like a warm current. But then something shifted. You glanced up at him again, and he was watching you. Not playfully. Not like a man caught in a flirt. Like a man who had noticed something. 

You looked down instinctively—and felt it. The faintest heat, blooming across your cheeks. Rare. Unwelcome. 

His voice dropped, softer now. Not teasing. “I hadn’t realized how lovely you are when you laugh, My Lady.” he said. 

You stilled—just a moment—before spinning again. He held you carefully. “And when you’re flustered,” he added, barely above a whisper, “you glow.”

You swallowed. Eyes still down. “Careful, My Lord,” you said, tone cool. “If you continue saying things like that, I may begin to expect it.”

His smile curved, slow and sure. “Then I shall have to make a habit of it.”

You found Isabella near the refreshment table again, sipping champagne with a grin already curling her lips like she’d been waiting for you. As you approached, she raised a brow. “Still walking, I see.”

“Barely,” you muttered, fanning yourself as you reached her. “I’d like it noted for the record that I won the bet. My feet have been officially massacred.”

She smirked. “Mm. Does not count.”

You gave her a look. “Excuse me?”

Isabella leaned in, eyes dancing. “You had Prince Charming come and rescue you mid-waltz. Like a perfect damsel in distress. The wager was worst dancing partner—not dramatic narrative climax.”

You scoffed. “I’ll have you know there was nothing dramatic about it. It was a tactical retreat.”

“From a man who was about to weep on your bodice.”

“I don’t have the heart to disagree.”

Isabella grinned. “You’re glowing.”

You paused, lips twitching. “It’s the wine.” 

“Is it?” 

You didn’t answer. Just sipped your champagne, gaze drifting across the ballroom. The music carried on. The dancers twirled. And still—no black coat, no gloved hands folded behind his back, no presence cold enough to slow the air around him. No Duke. No Lord Greystone, either.

“Strange,” you murmured, half to yourself.

Isabella glanced over. “What is?”

“Nothing,” you said lightly. “Just... I thought they might be here.”

She shrugged. “Maybe they heard about your last partner and wisely stayed home.”

You smirked. “Cowards.”

————

The townhouse was quiet when you returned. Your slippers were off before the footman even shut the door, and your gown was dropped in a heap of silk and revenge by your bedside. You climbed into bed with damp hair and a clear mind—mostly. 

You thought of Lord Berkeley—of the way he moved so easily, of his smile when you laughed, of the way his voice softened when he called you lovely.It was nice. Nice was rare. But still, as your eyes drifted closed, another thought pulled at you. Something quieter. Unsettled. The Duke. He hadn’t been there. Nor had Lord Greystone.

You remembered his words outside the library, “I have important matters. They involve him.” 

You frowned at the ceiling. It was curiosity. Not concern. Still, when you finally drifted to sleep, it wasn’t Lord Berkeley’s voice you remembered. 

It was the Duke’s, low and clipped. “But do tell me, Miss Everthorne. Are your assumptions of a man always based on ignorance and prejudice?” Perhaps they were. Perhaps they still are. 

————

More days had passed, and more balls had been endured—with the grace of queens and the boredom of prisoners. You and Isabella had danced, smiled, and parried your way through layers of silk and conversation, but the absence of the Duke of Ashbourne and Lord Greystone remained… unexplained. No new rumors worth listening to. Just the usual murmurs—warbled, shallow, and conveniently overheard beside the lemonade table. So, naturally, you reached a breaking point.

You and Isabella conspired, plotted, and declared in hushed voices over too-tight corsets, a sleepover was the only acceptable rebellion. Seraphina didn’t need convincing. If anything, she clutched your hands like she’d been waiting her whole life for the invitation. Which meant the only obstacle left...was Jace.

“You’ll survive one evening without your wife, Lord Everthorne.” Isabella told him.

“Barely,” he said, deadpan. “She’s the only reason I sleep at all.” 

“Well then,” you added, voice full of false solemnity, “I suppose we shall take excellent care of her. Paint her nails, braid her hair, remind her what life looks like without your dreary speeches on land reform.”

Seraphina bit her lip, failing not to laugh. But Jace just narrowed his eyes at you. “Keep talking and tomorrow you’ll wake up already engaged to the oldest baron I can find.”

You gave him a wide, wicked grin and stuck your tongue out. He, of course, returned the favor—completely undignified.

Seraphina stepped between you both, linking her arm through his with dramatic elegance. “Alright, you two. It’s hard to believe that I’m the youngest here, and yet somehow the most mature.”

You scoffed instantly. “Mature? You two were bickering this morning about whether that one Lord’s sideburns look like burnt bread or overcooked fish.” 

Jace chimed in with a smirk. “For the record, they’re clearly fish.”

Seraphina groaned and hid her face in her hands. “And somehow I am the one with the reputation of marrying up.”

You patted her arm. “Don’t worry, darling. You’re stuck with us now.”

And with that, she surrendered, dragging Jace back into the house as he muttered, “Enjoy your hair-braiding coven, witches.” 

You and Isabella exchanged victorious glances. The sun dipped lower, the first stars glinting above the rooftops. And for the first time in weeks, no one cared about titles, rumors, or what anyone might say come morning. Tonight, you would laugh. And tomorrow, you might even breathe.

The carriage pulled up to the Fitzroy Estate just after sunset—quiet, warm, and already promising mischief. No one else would be joining. No chaperones. No cousins. No husbands. No maids with suspiciously sharp hearing. Just the three of you. And freedom.

By the time you’d all changed into dressing gowns and tied your hair back with ribbons, the drawing room was rearranged into your own personal sanctuary. Cushions on the floor. Blankets piled over the divan. A modest spread of pastries and finger sandwiches that none of you had touched yet. Because the moment Seraphina reached into her reticule and pulled out a half-bottle of elderberry liqueur, Isabella let out an actual scream.

“You dared not!”

“I did,” Seraphina beamed, like the devil dressed in lavender. 

You pulled a second bottle from your satchel. “And so did I.” 

Isabella doubled over laughing, nearly tripping over a throw pillow. “Are we trying to scandalize my entire lineage?”

You handed her a glass. “Only the ones who deserve it.”

The liqueur made everything warmer—the room, your limbs, your voices. And it didn’t take long before the gossip began. “Did you hear about Lady Elowen?” Seraphina said, licking sugar from her thumb.

“Which scandal are we discussing?” you asked. “There are at least three this week.”

“The one where she was caught in the conservatory with Lord Huntley.”

Isabella gasped. “Not that potato of a man.”

“He’s shaped like a carriage pumpkin,” you muttered. 

“And twice as orange,” Isabella added. Seraphina nearly choked on her drink.

“What about Lord Dalloway?” Isabella asked. 

“Still calling every woman ‘enchanting.’” you said. “At this point, he might as well address the tablecloth.”

“He asked me to dance and told me my laugh sounded like a harp.”

“And how did you respond?” Seraphina asked, wide-eyed. 

“I said, ‘Thank you. Yours does not sound quite as fortunate, My Lord.’” 

All three of you collapsed into laughter. It went on like that—stories spun, names dropped, voices rising. You leaned back against the cushions, bare feet tucked beneath you, warmth buzzing through your chest. For a moment, it felt like nothing could reach you here. Not courtship. Not duty. Not the ache of someone not being where you expected them to be.

The bottle of elderberry liqueur had been passed around at least three times now, and the air in Isabella’s drawing room had turned warm with flushed cheeks and breathless laughter. The three of you were tangled in cushions and blankets, gowns loosened, slippers discarded, hair slipping free in soft waves across shoulders and cheeks now.

One of you had just made a comment about Lord Dalloway’s hands being “too soft to trust,” and it had dissolved into wheezing laughter, half-muffled in cushions.

“I’m just saying,” Isabella gasped, “if a man’s hands are that well-manicured, he’s probably never held anything more dangerous than a letter opener.”

Seraphina was curled on the settee, legs tucked beneath her, lips pink from liqueur and wicked amusement. “Jace’s hands are awful,” she offered. “Callused. Broad. Honestly, I think one of them is permanently stained with ink.” 

You lifted your brows. “And you don’t mind?” 

Her smile curled, slow and secret. “Quite the opposite.”

Silence. Then—Isabella sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. “Oh no. No. We’re doing this.”

Seraphina blinked. “Doing what?”

“This,” Isabella said, waving her hand. “You’re married. You’re our window into the forbidden.”

Seraphina groaned and buried her face in a pillow. “You are horrible people.”

You laughed. “Absolutely. Now answer the question.”

“I haven’t heard a question yet!”

Isabella grinned. “Do you enjoy it?”

“Isabella!”

She clutched her side, giggling uncontrollably. “Apologies. But also not.”

You leaned forward, voice soft with amusement. “Come on, Seraphina. You’re among sinners.”

Seraphina peeked out from behind the pillow, cheeks blooming pink. “…yes.” That stopped you both.

“…You do?” Isabella gasped.

“I didn’t marry a poet,” she muttered. “But I did marry a man who knows how to listen.”

You blinked. “…God, I hope that wasn’t in one of the sermons we slept through.”

They both burst out laughing again. “And you, Miss Everthorne?” Seraphina turned to you, eyes sharp with mischief. “Surely you, of all people, wouldn’t come to the battlefield unarmed.” 

You tried very hard not to smirk. 

“Oh no,” Isabella said slowly. “You have read things, haven’t you?”

You took another sip, voice light. “A few.”

“Define few.”

You grinned. “Enough to know what goes where.”

Seraphina covered her mouth. “You liar.”

“I might even have a few favorite passages.”

“Do you annotate them?” Isabella gasped.

“I’m not mad,” you replied, laughing. “Just curious.”

The room dissolved again—laughter and secrets and warmth folding around you like a well-worn quilt. The air in the sitting room had thickened into something syrupy and golden, scented with sugar, berries, and candle wax. You were all tangled in blankets now, sprawled across the divan and floor like Roman goddesses in a tapestry—tipsy and completely without shame. Or at least, Isabella wasn’t.

“Alright,” she said, licking liquor from her thumb. “We’re past the ‘do you like it’ stage. Let’s discuss positions.”

“Isabella!” you groaned, throwing a pillow at her head.

She caught it, grinning wickedly. “What? It’s not like we know anything. I want information. Details. Notes.”

Seraphina snorted into her drink. “You are deranged.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

You rolled onto your stomach, burying your face in the throw blanket. “I don’t want to know what my cousin does with his limbs in bed, thank you.” 

Seraphina, ever composed even while tipsy, sipped primly from her glass. “He uses them quite well, if that helps.” 

You made a dramatic gagging sound while Isabella howled. “I hate both of you,” you muttered, cheeks already warming.

Isabella wiped her tears. “Okay, but really—Seraphina. Is it actually... good? Or is that just a myth men tell us to keep us compliant and curious?”

Seraphina tilted her head, thoughtful now, her tone a little softer beneath the liqueur and mischief. “It depends. On the man. On trust. On your body.” She swirled the liquid in her glass and smiled faintly. 

“But when it is right? It’s not just good. It’s... consuming. You forget yourself, sometimes.” Her voice dropped. “You beg for things you never thought you’d want.”

Silence fell for half a second too long. You laughed it off, too loud, trying to chase the heat out of your face. “God, I really didn’t need that image with Jace attached to it.”

“Not my fault your cousin’s good with his hands,” Seraphina said sweetly.

Isabella screamed into her pillow. You laughed with them—but a strange warmth coiled low in your belly. Not from the alcohol. Something else. You weren’t imagining Jace. Or Seraphina. Your mind—uninvited, unwelcome—offered up the image of black gloves peeled off with slow precision. A deep voice, too composed. A mouth you’d only ever seen frown.

Your cheeks flushed hot. You shook your head subtly, as if trying to throw the thought off like a shawl too heavy for summer. Absolutely not. Why would you think of him? He was insufferable. Cold. Impossible.

You reached for your glass and downed the rest of it. Isabella was still asking something about whether being on top gave more control. You laughed. Loud enough to chase away whatever had just curled its fingers around your thoughts. But it lingered, just a moment longer, under your skin.

The hour was late—far too late for propriety, and much too early for regret. The bottle of elderberry liqueur sat empty on the rug. A half-eaten pastry had been repurposed as a crown on Isabella’s head. You were crying from laughter. Seraphina was positively flushed—not from embarrassment, but from the kind of pure mischief only a married woman could summon in a room full of unmarried curiosity.

And then someone—probably Isabella—said the words that would unhinge the rest of the evening. “Let’s play charades.”

That began innocently enough. A lady with a fan. A horse. A carriage ride gone terribly wrong. But it took precisely four turns before Seraphina stood up, eyes gleaming with tipsy devilment, and said—“Alright. Next one. This may be... a bit unorthodox.”

You should have known. What followed could only be described as a highly questionable interpretation of someone lifting and twisting and doing something that looked half like ballet and half like a fencing lesson gone scandalous.

You blinked. “...Seraphina.”

“Yes?”

“Is that—?” 

She nodded, grinning wickedly. “Reverse coital elevation.” 

You choked on your drink. Isabella was on the floor. “I thought we were playing ladylike charades,” you gasped.

“I never said that,” Seraphina said sweetly. “You both just assumed.”

The game devolved quickly. Seraphina kept acting them out—not graphically, but suggestively enough that Isabella had to throw a blanket over her head to recover. You tried to remain aloof. You really did. But then Seraphina mimed one where she dropped to her knees, angled one hand up, and wiggled her hips suggestively.

You covered your mouth. “That’s—oh my God.”

“Indeed,” she said, smug. “You’ve read about that one.” 

You flushed. “No, I have not.”

“You liar,” Isabella howled.

You tried to deny it, but your face gave you away. And then—without invitation, without mercy—your mind painted the image in full. But not with just anyone. With him. His hands on your waist. His eyes dark and unblinking. The feel of his breath, his mouth—your face ignited.

Seraphina was still mid-pose. Isabella was wheezing. You cleared your throat, loudly.

“It’s the alcohol,” you muttered, mostly to yourself. “It’s absolutely the alcohol.”

They didn’t hear you. Thank God. You shook your head—physically—trying to erase the treacherous thought from your mind. It meant nothing. Just drunken nonsense. Nothing more. Even if your skin still prickled with heat, and the thought of hands on bare skin didn’t leave quite as easily as you wanted.

At some point between the fourth scandalous charade and the collapse of any sense of structure, Seraphina pulled out her embroidery kit with all the solemnity of a priest producing scripture.

“I declare,” she said, slurring only slightly, “we are women of refinement and taste, and as such, we shall embroider.”

You blinked. “Are we allowed sharp objects in this state?”

Isabella already had a needle in her hand. “We’re already a danger to society. May as well look the part.”

The silk threads came out. The hoops. The crisp linen squares. And that’s when it got worse. Isabella decided to stitch a teacup with the phrase “Chaste and Bored” beneath it.

Seraphina was giggling into her wine, her hands carefully outlining what she claimed was a cherub—though it looked suspiciously like a very naked man reclining suggestively with a strategically placed rose.

You started with a rose. Innocent enough. Then you added a pair of hands. Elegant, gloved hands. Then a throat. Then you very accidentally stitched the barest hint of parted lips beneath it. 

Seraphina leaned over. “Is that a neck?” 

You coughed. “It’s artistic.”

“Is it biting something?”

“It’s... evocative.”

Isabella peered over your shoulder and screamed. “That’s a man kissing a woman’s neck! You heathen!”

You tried to cover it with your sleeve. “It’s a shadow.”

“It’s a sin,” Seraphina declared, breathless with laughter. “You’re going to be sent to a convent.”

“I’m the Viscount’s niece,” you shot back. “I’ll be sent to Bath.” 

Seraphina smacked the floor with her palm. “You’ll be sent to get married immediately to hide the shame!” 

Isabella wheezed. “She stitched lust. Into a sampler.”

You were flushed—from drink, from embarrassment, from the fact that you’d imagined it again. Those hands. That mouth. The Duke, damn him. You glared at your own stitching.

“I’m burning this,” you muttered.

Seraphina clutched it to her chest. “No, we must preserve it. This is a historic moment in feminine liberation.”

“It’s a moment in my downfall.”

The three of you were screaming. Pillows thrown. Threads tangled. All of you red-faced and teary-eyed with joy and scandal. It was the freest you had felt in months. And you didn’t care, in that moment, what the world would think. Because tonight, no one was watching. Except maybe, in your mind, a certain brooding Duke. But you blamed the wine. Again.

The embroidery hoops had been abandoned somewhere under a pile of blankets and shame. The second bottle of wine was nearly gone. Isabella had curled up on the chaise like a cat in silk, cheeks flushed and eyes unfocused with too much laughter and too much honesty.

“I think he’s going to make a move soon,” she mumbled dreamily, twirling a curl around her finger.

Seraphina blinked at her over the rim of her glass. “Lord Greystone?”

“Mm. I hope it’s him. If it’s not, I’ve been entertaining someone’s footman this entire time.”

You snorted, lounging beside them, legs tangled in a throw. “I don’t know if I should be impressed or concerned.”

“Impressed,” Isabella said, then sighed. “He makes me laugh. And he doesn’t talk to me like I’m an ornament.”

Seraphina hummed. “You deserve that. Someone who lets you be a person.”

There was a pause, a warm silence. Then Isabella looked at you. “And what about you and Lord Berkeley?”

You opened your mouth immediately. “He’s charming.”

“Mm.”

“He listens.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“He’s... consistent.”

Both of them stared at you. You stared at your drink. “He’s a good match,” you said, quieter.

Seraphina’s voice was gentle. “But?”

You shook your head. “No ‘but’. He’s everything one is supposed to want.”

“Mm,” Isabella said, sipping. “You don’t sound convinced.”

You didn’t answer. Because what was there to say? Lord Berkeley smiled at you like you were a secret he’d already solved. He touched your arm like a man who wanted the privilege of more. He said lovely things, true things. But sometimes—in the space after he left, or in the moments when he stood beside you at a ball and someone else wasn’t there—your mind would drift. To quiet. To tension. To him.

Isabella flopped backward dramatically. “You know who I don’t want pursuing me?”

You and Seraphina in unison, “The Duke.” You all howled.

“God,” Isabella wheezed, “do you think he’s ever pursued anyone? Or do they just disintegrate under the pressure of his judgment?” 

“Do you think he removes his gloves first?” Seraphina asked, deadly serious. 

You choked. “Absolutely not. He probably just... glares at you until you combust.”

“I think his idea of foreplay is asking if your estate is well-managed,” Isabella added. 

You laughed—really laughed. But even as you joined them, cheeks pink from liqueur and delight, a flicker of something twisted low in your stomach. You remembered the way he looked at you—truly looked—outside the library. The way he said, “Are your assumptions of a man always based on ignorance and prejudice?” 

The way your skin had prickled under his gaze. The way you couldn’t forget it. You took another drink and said nothing. If they noticed your silence, they didn’t press. But when you finally lay down for the night, curled into warm blankets and soft breathing around you...you didn’t dream of Lord Berkeley. You dreamed of hands that never touched you. And eyes that always saw too much. 

© zaynessbeloved 2025

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next part

[bxtchycaprisun]

let it be me | a. anderson ONE-SHOT

summary: you’d been avoiding your best friend for weeks, and she was determined to figure out what was wrong. she never would have guessed your absence was due to your repressed romantic feelings, which she also happened to share.

notes: fem!reader, bsf!abby, softdom!abby, porn w/ a plot, mutual pining, friends to lovers, angst but in a fluffy way, SMUT, fingering (both receiving), pussy eating (r!receiving), thigh riding, dirty talk, lots of pet names, i think that’s it? 

a/n: i know this isn’t obstinate, but it’s wlw season and i’m WOMANLESS, so i needed to write some smut.

MDNI!!! sexual content. comment if you want to be added to my tag list

(named after the ray lamontagne song)

you and abby never fought.

attached at the hip from the start of elementary school, the two of you were never seen without each other. and as new friend groups came and left, you and abby always stayed inseparable.

you were so close that she’d even followed you out of state to your dream university after you’d graduated high school.

despite the feelings that emerged in your early teen years when abby had grown taller, and the impact of her various high school sports was clear on her toned arms, you never dared to express your changing perspective of her.

other than some consistent cuddling most friends would consider crossing a boundary, the lines of your friendship never thought to cross between platonic and romantic. you figured that if she were to ever return your feelings, she would have by now.

and even though you two were only friends, in a way, she was yours, and you were hers.

or at least, that’s how you saw it.

that was until you saw her out with angela, her chem partner who you’d heard her complain about dozens of times, a girl you thought she hated. and they were drinking coffee and eating pastries at the east campus cafe, you and abby’s cafe.

and though you knew your perception of your relationship was nothing but a fantasy, it almost felt like a betrayal to see her like that with someone else. but of course, you couldn’t actually be mad at her for it, nor would you explain what was making you so upset.

so you did the one thing you thought was logical, you avoided her.

knowing that she would see right through you from the beginning, and demand that you tell her what was wrong, you tried to be strategic about it.

but you couldn’t a thing past your best friend, the girl who knew you like the back to your hand.

and you had no idea what you were in for if you continued your fit.

…

it had been two weeks since you sent abby the text, and now, as she laid belly down on her crammed dorm bed, she was rereading it.

y/n: oh my god abs, i’ve got the worst week coming up everrr. hannah scheduled me like double the hours i’ve asked for and i’ve got two exams! fmlllll

abby: damn, i’m sorry bun. still room for me in that schedule of yours?

y/n: you know it abby. text you later, off to work

the conversation didn’t worry abby much initially. but looking back on it, she saw it in a different light.

you didn’t make time for her. and she was determined to know why.

abby sat up in her bed, furrowing her brows as she remembered the date. it was a wednesday.

she opened back up her texts, quickly typing out her message.

abby: what time you coming over tonight? it’s october, so we can officially make our movie nights halloween dedicated :)

she pursed her lips worriedly as she awaited your response. she had been shot down daily over the last couple of weeks, always given the same excuse. work, exams, stomach flu, etc.

abby knew something was up, she just needed one final confirmation.

y/n: shit, i totally forgot! i promised i’d take my coworkers closing shift since she opened for me. next wednesday i promise!

abby felt her heart sink, the situation becoming all too real and unavoidable. you were angry at her, and she didn’t have a clue why.

she scrambled out a message, quickly pressing send and biting the inside of her cheek as she watched the unchanging screen.

abby: are you mad at me? please tell me what i did, and i’ll fix it

she watches with a tight chest as the bubble of your response appears and disappears. and as ten minutes pass with no text back, she throws her phone down on the bed, groaning into her hands.

if it had been anyone else, she’d assume you were just busy at work. but this was you.

abby sprung up from the bed, throwing on a jacket and slipping her feet swiftly into her beat up sneakers. the sneakers you’d bought her for her 16th birthday.

she swung open the door, grabbing her things and moving swiftly down the stairs and out her dorm hall. she tucked her hands under her arms, pulling her hoodie over her head as she walked through the breezy fall air.

she rounded the familiar block and pushed into the entrance of your dorms.

and before she could think twice, she brought her fist up to your door, banging loudly with her other hand stuffed in her pocket.

“open the door!” she says sternly, already hearing your movement in the dorm.

you pull the door open with a displeased grunt, but as you recognize the rosy cheeked girl in front of you, your eyes widen.

“a-abby?” you stutter, staring up at her with a guilty expression.

she stares at you, taking in your loose sweats and braless tank. you weren’t at work, and you certainly weren’t getting ready.

after a long pause, the reality of the situation setting in, abby speaks up.

“you lied.” she murmurs, her voice low.

you cast your gaze down, stepping back to let her in silently. you knew you weren’t gonna get out of this one.

she shoves her way into your room, shutting the door loudly and pulling her hood off to look down at you disapprovingly.

“so,” she huffs, throwing her arms up and crossing them against her chest. “are you gonna tell me what’s going on with you?”

you sigh, pinching your temples. “nothings… nothings going on i just-” you begin before being cut off abruptly.

“nothings going on?” she repeats desperately, “y/n, you’ve avoided me for weeks!”

“i- i haven’t avoided you,” you reply breathlessly, stepping forward. “i’ve been really busy.”

“oh right, busy,” she scoffs, “just like how you’re so busy right now?”

you bow your head silently, avoiding her burning gaze. “i- i can explain..” you say slowly, although you sure as hell didn’t want to.

“great!” she snaps, “good, let’s hear it.” she shifts her weight back and forth on her legs, her figure now trembling with anger and desperation.

you look up at her with pleading eyes, trying to find away to avoid this conversation if you had any hope of keeping your friendship the same.

you were so disappointed with yourself you felt like you could cry. for years you’d stuffed your feelings down, terrified not just of rejection but of your own selfishness.

abby was the perfect friend, she was everything you could ask for and more, and yet your inconsiderate mind desired more. and when she didn’t give that to you, you pushed her away.

abby watched your expressions alter, staring at you with her mouth agape. “well?” she asks in a final, breathless plea.

when she doesn’t get a response, her mind jumps to the only conclusion she could think of.

“you’re… you’re seeing someone?” she whispers, her face falling.

your expression twists in confusion and frustration at her accusation, shaking your head fervently. “what? what are you talking about?”

“you are, aren’t you?” she presses on, taking a step forward.

you roll your eyes at the irony of her words. “no okay, i’m not seeing anyone,” you huff, the attitude clear in your voice. “you’re the one that’s seeing someone,” you murmur, back turned to your best friend. your eyes widen at your own words, cursing yourself for letting that slip.

you hear abby’s breath falter behind you. “what?” she asks, voice somewhat amused which annoyed the hell out of you. “did you say i’m seeing someone?”

despite knowing how childish you were being, you narrow your eyes, continuing on with your antics.

“well you are, aren’t you?” you say with a pout, tilting you chin up at her.

at this, abby laughs at you. “y/n… are you talking about angela?” she says with a smirk. “i’ve been trying to tell you about that, so much happened!” she exclaims and you nearly feel like breaking down then and there.

your expression drops, lips curling into a proper frown as you turn away from her once again. she stutters as she sees your change in demeanor.

“yeah right, i’d just love to hear all about angela,” you mutter, unable to meet her piercing blue eyes.

“no no.. it was bad, okay, it was really bad,” she chuckles, rushing over to grab your arms and turn you to face her. but as she takes in your distressed expression, abby’s mouth hangs open, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place in her mind.

“hey, hey, what is it?” she cooes, her voice softened as she brings her hand to cup the side of your face, stroking your cheek.

when you don’t respond once again, her back straightens, and she drops her hands from your skin, staring down at you in contemplation.

“you’re… you’re jealous,” she says quietly, her words laced with certainty.

you shake your head, stepping back from her with worry as she figured it out. “no, why the hell would i be jealous?” you heave, but abby doesn’t let you get away.

“because you like me,” she asserts once again, hands going for your wrists as she reaches out to you.

“hey, look at me, hey..” she brings her face close to yours, lowering to your height. your arms go limp in defeat as she holds you still, grabbing your chin gently to make you look at her.

as she studies your face, the way your eyes crease with uncertainty, she knows.

“you do..” she whispers.

the only thing you can do is drop your head in shame, praying silently that she would agree to just forget this conversation completely and return to your blissful friendship.

your murmur is nearly inaudible as a small “i’m sorry,” passes through your lips.

abby inhales sharply, taking your cheeks into your hands and lifting your head to face hers in a quick motion.

“oh sweet girl… don’t be sorry..” she breathes, brushing her thumb over your bottom lip.

she stares at you for a moment, chest heaving with her uneven breathes, contemplating the same action she’d been dreaming of for years. the action she never thought she’d get the opportunity of doing.

and just as your eyes meet hers, they flutter shut to the feeling of her lips pressing against yours.

you sigh against her, the tension easing from your muscles as she guides you gently against the door, running her hands desperately, yet hesitantly over your arms and shoulders.

the touch, the way her lips gently parted yours, her tongue rolling into your mouth with a soft hum, it was foreign, yet so painfully familiar.

this was abby. your abby. the girl who had been attached to your hip for a decade. the girl you had convinced yourself never to kiss and never confess to out of fear of ruining your perfect friendship.

and you couldn’t be happier as she did it for you.

you bring your arms around her broad shoulders, pulling her against you as your noses clashed together in a desperate kiss, her hands getting rougher and more curious, and so do yours. you tug her hoodie up over her head, touching her chilled skin from the cool fall air outside.

you feel her calloused palm reach below your shirt, grazing the soft skin on your belly, inching upward to your unclothed breast. you feel her hand suddenly stop, her mouth pulling away from yours.

“abby-” you call out her name in a slight moan, digging your fingers into her hair and tugging on her braid. you knew what she was thinking. you knew she thought she was rushing things, but you didn’t care. you’d waited so long.

“i know.. i know..” she nods, eyes nearly shut as she peers down at you, leaning in again to kiss you, slowing her rhythm and taking her time with you.

you whine into her mouth, brows furrowing as you grabbed her hand, trying to pull it towards your chest once again, and she chuckles against your lips.

“so needy,” she smiles, but with how shaky her voice is, she sounds almost hypocritical.

“neglected you for so long, huh?” she grins, kissing the corner of your mouth gently.

even though abby hadn’t had many relationships or sexual partners, mostly thanks to her hopeless pining towards you, she was undeniably more experienced than you.

you could feel the hesitance in her fingertips, the uncertainty in her eyes. knowing she didn’t want to rush you, you grab her cheek, pulling her lips away to speak.

“then don’t make me wait any longer,” you whisper, eyes looking up at her pleadingly as your thighs squeezed together, desperately trying to relieve the ache between your legs.

abby smiles, not missing a beat to crash her lips to yours once again, and this time her hand travels up your chest without hesitation. you whine as you feel her thumb brush over your nipple, and arch your back against the wall.

she dips her head down to your neck, peppering kisses along your throat, and sucking soft marks onto your skin. she groans as she hears your quiet moans, feeling like she could cum on the spot. she’d envisioned how you would sound so many times, but to actually hear it was so much better.

“you’re so fucking pretty, you know that?” she hums, large palms needing your tits as she pushes your legs apart with her knee, and slots her thigh in between them. “sound so fucking pretty”

your face is red and hot as you let out a quiet whimper in response, grabbing on to her toned stomach to pull her closer. as you feel the friction of her muscular thigh against your clothed cunt, you absentmindedly grind yourself against her.

“there you go, sweetheart,” abby praises you, hands leaving your tits to hold onto your hips. she gently guides you against her propped leg, and leaves small love bites below your ear as she whispers to you. “tell me if we’re going too fast, okay? you tell me.”

you shake your head, hips picking up their rhythm as you try to chase that sensation that slowly builds in your cunt. “not too fast, abs. i want more, please?”

normally, you would care about sounding too desperate, but since this was abby, you couldn’t hold back. even in this unfamiliar situation, you were comfortable with her. and even more importantly, you needed her so bad.

“you want more, huh baby?” she cooes, smiling ear to ear as she helps you keep up your pace. suddenly, her hands push your hips back off of her, and you whine in disappointment. before you can protest the loss of contact, she brings her hands to the hem of your tank top, pulling it off your chest in a swift motion.

her palms return to your waist, guiding you quickly against your small bed, her lips instantly connected with yours once again. she pushes you gently down, situating herself between your legs, and hooking a finger at the hem of your sweatpants.

the fabric is tugged down to your ankles in seconds, and she tosses the pants across the room with a shit eating grin. you can’t help but look up and giggle at her as she crawls on the bed to meet you, kissing up your stomach and on the fat of your chest.

“whatcha laughing about, pretty girl?” abby smirks as she sucks hickeys onto your skin. she tried her best to sound stern, but she couldn’t help but melt as she heard your laugh.

“nothing, this is just weird,” you can’t help but admit with blushed cheeks. “i just… never imagined we would be doing this..”

“oh?” abby says with faux surprise, “so you’re telling me… you didn’t imagine me doing this?” she asks mischievously as she takes on of your nipples into her mouth, sucking gently.

you’re breathing falters and you let out a small gasp, handing falling the the back of her head as she runs her tongue over your hardening nipple. “n-no i mean… i imagined it… just didn’t think we actually ever would.”

abby smiles against your skin, kissing her way down your stomach and settling between your thighs. “what would you imagine, bun?” she asks teasingly as she kisses just above your underwear. “would you picture me doing this to you? dream about my mouth on your cunt?”

with that statement, abby drops in between your legs, pressing her face against your panties and inhaling dirtily. she shakes her nose against your clothed pussy, nudging your clit deliciously. you cry out into your hand, instantly squirming from her touch.

you felt her start to kitten lick your clint through the fabric, causing you to let out an deep whine. you lift your head with hazy eyes, listening to her soft growls against you, which only made your stomach whir.

“abby pl-ease,” you say brokenly, desperately bucking your hips upward to chase the friction you needed, “stop teasing me…”

“m’not teasing…” she mumbles, her voice low as she runs her tongue flat against your underwear, applying pressure to your folds.

“a-ah, please!” you moan, feeling your cunt gush with more arousal.

“you are teasing me, you are-” you begin your protest when she suddenly yanks your panties down from your hips, and before you can process it, her hot mouth is licking a stripe from your hole to your clit.

you release a borderline pornographic moan at the sensation, eyes rolling to the back of your head. she doesn’t waist any time to start sucking at your clit with vigor, and alternating to lap up your juices.

you’re nearly shaking at this point, your chest heaving with every breath and hips twitching from every touch she gives you.

“fuck- i love the way you taste bun…” abby moans into your pussy, her hands keeping a bruising grip on your waist. “knew you’d taste good.. so fucking good…”

she already sounds pussy drunk as she flattens her tongue against your clit, helping you grind your hips against her mouth however you wanted. you continuously tried to close your legs around her head, completely overwhelmed by how good she was fucking you, but each time her palm would catch your leg, only pulling you further apart.

“gotta stop squirming, baby,” abby would growl as your thighs continued to tremble and your arms would thrash around aimlessly. you respond with an apologetic whine, already too cloudy minded to form words.

when you continue to move in her grip, she finally pushes your knees against your chest, keeping you firmly pinned with your cunt fully exposed for her.

“look at that…” abby cooes as she gives your pussy a small slap before dipping her mouth back down to your hole, lapping you up quickly.

“how many fingers you want, sweet girl?” she breaks away from your cunt to ask you breathlessly, before returning to suck at your clit.

you whimper from the added pressure of the position, head falling weakly against the pillow as you tried to clear your thoughts.

“ngh.. don’t know… o-one..?” you manage to muster, but you can’t already feel yourself tipping over the edge. anything abby gave you, you would take.

“hmm…” abby smiles against your pussy, keeping your legs pushed up with one hand while bringing the other down to slide through your folds.

you groan as you feel the tips of her fingers prodding at your hole, unconsciously pushing yourself against them. “we can do two…” she whisper as she slowly inserts her middle and ring finger into your pussy, hissing through her teeth as she feels you clench around her.

“relax baby… it’s only me,” she comforts you as she curls her fingers experimentally inside of you. you let out a soft cry, back arching against your mattress as she explores your insides.

abby watches your expression carefully, her tongue giving your clit small, stimulating licks as she searched for the spot that made you scream.

when she felt the spongy area deep in your core, and watched as you jolted against her fingers, panting out a moan, she knew she found it. she gave you one last lick, collecting the juices that leaked around her fingers on her tongue, she crawled up to your face with her fingers still deep inside of you.

her strokes were slow and gentle at first, teasing that spot with an almost unbearable pace. her eyes met yours and she positioned herself above you, but her pupils were darkened.

“i want to go harder,” she whispers, her voice low and full of lust. “can i do that, bun, can i go harder?”

you nod and quickly, grabbing onto her neck and pulling her lips against yours, moaning at the taste of yourself on her tongue. “please… so close..”

she didn’t need to hear another word before her pace turned from gentle to hammering. the air is punched out of you as she drills her fingers into your pussy, curling upward and hitting that spot with every thrust.

you were crying and moaning out her name, grabbing onto anything you could as she continued her rough assault on your hole. obscene squelches from your pussy fill the room, and your face blooms from embarrassment.

abby kisses you sweetly, in sharp contrast to the brutal pace of her fingers. you wrap your arms around her, hoping for a bit of her comfort to ground you in this moment. she immediately recognizes your need, bringing her forehead against yours as she fingered you.

“that feel good baby? yeah?” she whispers, her voice sultry as her palm rubs perfectly against your clit.

“m’gonna cum.. abby.. oh my god,” you cry out, fingernails digging into her back without even realizing. she clenched her teeth, the stinging pain only enhancing her desperation.

“that’s it sweet girl..” she mumbles, her pace unbreaking. “cum on my fucking fingers- let it out.”

without missing a beat, you feel your hearing practically go out, white hot pleasure coursing through your body as your orgasm crashes down on you. you shake, mouth open in a silent moan as you ride out your high, abby’s fingers never ceasing. your final sound comes out in a shattered moan, your eyes rolled back as you grind your hips into her fingers, feeling the best high of your life.

“good girl…” abby praises, her fingers slowing down even so slightly as she watches your expression.

“good. fucking. girl.” she finishes, her pace coming to a stop as she feels you tense up from the overstimulation.

you fall against the mattress, your face completely red from your post-orgasm, and your chest heaving with every breath. abby takes her fingers out of you, shoving them into her mouth and licking them clean.

you watch her in amazement as she lowers down to your face, pressing her lips against yours gingerly. you smile against her, pulling her closer by your shoulders until she practically falling on top of you.

“y/n,” abby giggles, trying to remain propped up from her elbows. “i’m gonna crush you!”

“don’t care,” you shake your head with a wide grin.

she smiles, kissing you again, but this time with a little bit more desperation. her tongue slips past your lips, massaging the inside of your mouth.

you tug on the waist band of her sweats, looking up at her with a pout. “take ‘em off,” you whine.

abby smirks at your plea, shaking her head. “so bossy,” she mumbles, pulling down her pants and tossing them aside. you instantly spring up on your knees, smashing your lips against hers.

abby flinches a bit, startled by how quickly your fingers find their way to the waistband of her boxers. you yank them down her muscular thighs, diving your much smaller fingers between her folds as you kiss her sweetly.

“woah- baby,” abby breathes, her voice almost failing her as she grabs onto your wrist. “what’re you doing?”

“returning the favor, silly,” you grumble against her lips, smiling as you feel just how wet she is. “i think i got you a little excited,” you giggle.

“no.” abby shakes her head firmly, “you’re not the one that gets to tease me.” she tries to sound stern, but the shake in her voice didn’t go unnoticed.

it wasn’t often that abby was on the receiving side. but staring down at you, with your eyes blown wide staring at her dripping cunt, she couldn’t help but grow just as desperate. she needed this too.

you palm her aching pussy, watching in awe as she bucked her hips against you, bringing her hands up to clutch the headboard. you hold your breath to surpress your own moans at the sight, wanting to only hear her soft sighs and the dirty sounds of her wetness.

“fuck… yeah like that,” abby groans, head falling back, and her knees trembling as she stays upright for you, not even realizing how she’s furthering spreading her thighs, and grinding into your palm.

she felt herself getting red the moment she realized she was already about to cum. but the pleasure was too consuming, and she was too pent up to feel any embarrassment.

the second you slipped your middle finger into her folds, your thumb instantly finding her clit, she toppled over the edge. she released a strained moan, instantly falling against you. she props herself up on the headboard to keep up her weight, and lets her head fall into your neck. she brings one hand down to cover yours, keeping your palm in place as she practically humps your fingers. she rides out her orgasm in shuddering breathes.

you watch her in shock and awe, remaining silent as she started to come down. she pulls your hand away, burying her face further into your neck with a deep sigh.

“did you just..” you begin, and she could practically hear your smile.

“yes..” she groans, rolling her face towards yours and pressing her lips at the base of your throat.

your grin widens as you stare up at the ceiling, stroking her back carefully. abby lifts her head, and secures her arms around your waist.

in a quick movement, you are rolled on top of her, your legs intertwined. she holds you tight to her chest, kissing the top of your head affectionately. you blush as you feel the stickiness between both your legs.

“we’re a mess,” you say softly, smiling up at her.

“leave it for now,” she whispers, fingers tracing shapes on your bare back. “wanna stay like this for a minute.”

you lay there in silence, listening to each others slowing breaths. and in that moment, you knew this was what it was supposed to be all along.

abby’s words come out in a content hum, her fingers affectionately pinching at the soft fat below your ass.

“sorry for making you wait so long, sweet girl.”

“you’re forgiven.”

[multifamdomfan]

Someone Safe to Love

Boq x Fiyero (mutual pining) | Fiyero x Glinda | Boq x Nessarose (one-sided) | Angst, repression, slow burn

---

Boq first noticed Fiyero on the day he moved into their shared dorm.

Tall, golden, effortless—like someone plucked from a painting and dropped into real life. His smile was too easy, his laugh too loud, his gaze too guarded.

“Roomie,” Fiyero had said, tossing a duffel bag onto the nearest bed. “You must be Boq.”

And Boq—small, anxious, sweater-wearing Boq—nodded mutely and hoped his ears weren’t turning red.

It didn’t take long for Boq to realize Fiyero didn’t just wear confidence like a cloak; he hid behind it. Jokes instead of sincerity. Parties instead of presence. Boq watched him carefully, quietly, the way you’d watch a wounded animal pretending it wasn’t limping.

And maybe that’s what first hooked him.

Boq didn’t fall fast. He just felt fast.

He could never not feel things. That was the problem. He loved too easily, hoped too often, forgave too quickly. His mother used to say he was born with his heart already outside his chest, and sometimes it felt like it.

Fiyero, though, he didn’t know how to feel without flinching. He recoiled from anything that risked exposing him. Vulnerability was a language he never bothered to learn. But Boq… Boq made it look easy. And that scared him more than anything.

So they didn’t talk about it. Not the lingering looks. Not the late-night conversations that danced too close to honest. Not the way Boq’s voice softened around Fiyero, or how Fiyero’s smile lingered just a little longer when Boq laughed.

It was easier not to.

Instead, they both chose Glinda.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t spiteful. She just made sense.

Glinda was beautiful and bright and never asked too many questions. She liked things tidy, predictable, performative. She didn’t see the mess under the surface—probably because she didn’t want to. And Fiyero, who had been raised to perform, felt safe with someone just as practiced in pretending.

Boq didn’t blame her. And he didn’t blame Fiyero, either.

He just watched from the sidelines, rehearsing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

And then there was Nessarose.

Sweet, intense Nessa, with her sad eyes and quiet desperation. She loved Boq with a kind of certainty he envied. But it wasn’t love he could return—not the way she wanted. Still, he stayed.

Because her father, Governor Thropp, had a sharp tongue and sharper power. One word from him could reduce Boq’s family farm to ashes, bankrupt them, disgrace them. Munchkinland wasn’t kind to those who crossed the Thropps.

So Boq smiled for Nessa. Walked beside her. Let her believe.

He did care about her. He just wished that was enough.

---

“You’re quiet tonight,” Fiyero said once, slumped across the window seat in their dorm, Glinda’s perfume still clinging to his collar. “You alright?”

Boq shrugged from where he sat at his desk, trying to finish an essay he couldn’t remember starting.

“You ever feel like we’re all just… playing roles?” he asked. “Like we picked the person we’re supposed to want and now we’re stuck pretending it’s love?”

Fiyero didn’t respond right away.

Then, “I don’t pretend.”

Boq looked up. Fiyero was staring out the window, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.

“Glinda’s easy,” Fiyero said, voice flat. “She likes who I pretend to be. That’s enough.”

“And is it enough for you?” Boq asked quietly.

A beat.

“No,” Fiyero admitted. “But it’s safer than trying for something that might not work.”

Boq nodded, heart twisting. “Yeah.”

---

He didn’t cry until later, curled under his blanket while Fiyero slept across the room, the soft sound of his breathing filling the space between them.

He cried because love was never the problem.

It was fear.

Fear of being known. Fear of hurting others. Fear of not being enough.

And Boq—Boq had never been afraid of love. Just afraid of being alone in it.

---

The next day, Nessa surprised him with a picnic basket and plans for a quiet lunch in the garden. She’d packed his favorite bread. She’d worn her nicest dress.

Boq smiled and took her hand.

He ignored the way Fiyero watched them go.

He ignored the way it felt like losing something he never had.

Because Boq was always the one who stayed. Who bent. Who broke quietly so others wouldn’t have to.

And maybe that was his role, in the end.

To be the boy who loved too much, in a world that never made room for it.

---

Would you guys like me to continue this fic into a second part—maybe where things begin to unravel? Where someone finally speaks up?

[kivino]

EVERY TIME, I FALL FOR YOU || KYLE ‘GAZ’ GARRICK X GN!READER

Word count - ~1,1k

Tags/Warnings - Gn!Reader, suggestive, fluff, Kyle is pining for you HARD, idiots in love :)))

Summary - Kyle fell for you hard, but he doesn’t know if it’s mutual.

A/n - just wanted to write something cute as a formal apology to gaz nation for my last fic, there can be no happy ending for that one, but here’s a little treat! i love you, i promise!!! c:

ao3 link for this fic

Kyle knew it from the moment he saw you - you were trouble. And he liked that, really. Sometimes too much, even, judging by how hard his heart fluttered in his chest when he felt your eyes catching his and giving him a passing, mischievous wink, reserved only for the two of you. Kyle is stunned stupid each time you pull something like this, cheeks burning, pupils dilating, and hands digging into the muscle of his thigh inside of the pocket of his jeans. He is fighting demons so he doesn’t grab you right then and there and pull into a warm, tight embrace just to hide his expression in your shoulder.

He wished he was as nonchalant as Ghost is, or as experienced as Price, or as approachable as Soap, but he was just…himself. With all his unresolved feelings and unreciprocated affection bubbling inside of him, only for this piping hot mixture to pour over the edge more often than not.

Kyle didn’t know how you still hadn’t noticed just how much he was falling for you, each second more and more. It felt more like tumbling down flights upon flights of concrete stairs, than gradually descending the pipeline of pure adoration towards you. God, you were so stupid. Both of you were, actually. But at least Kyle was self-aware about it.

He doesn't want to talk about it. Not about the way you make his day better by just existing in the same space as him. Not about the way you’re so stupidly fucking beautiful. Not about your shitty movie taste. And definitely not about the way he wants to pull you into a passionate kiss each time you start ranting about whatever thing you like at the moment.

Kyle didn’t catch the moment when the childish, a bit boyish, and bashful “I like you”s his thoughts would regurgitate when he saw you turned into “I love you”s. And if you were not there to see it, his head would drop right into his hands each time. He wasn’t sure if it was frustration or knowledge that it was just fucking stupid.

He tried his best to repress those things he felt for you. For the sake of you and him both. Oh, how miserably Kyle failed to keep his promises to stop pining for you.

Kyle loved you at your best and your worst, it didn’t matter to him, really. As painful as it was for him to feel you crying into his shoulder at two in the morning, trembling and clinging onto him, swiping hot tears and snot all over his jumper, it was still you. And how can he not love you like this as well? Just like he loves you when he sees your eyes crinkle as you smile at him, sunshine playing in your irises through the dark lenses of your tac eyewear.

When your head inevitably falls on Kyle’s shoulder while you’re coming back from a tiring mission he can feel your soft breathing on his neck. His fingers immediately reach towards your hair, swiping it off your forehead and running his fingers over the shorter parts. If you had been in the field for several days and hadn't had the chance to take a proper shower and wash your hair, he would mutter some snide remarks about Price letting you run wild through rows of chicken coups, barnes and haylofts, while his fingers picked out some debris from your hair. Kyle relishes in your warmth that he can feel even through several layers of clothes separating you. That’s one of the rare times he can enjoy your physical affection without having to explain himself. He’d trade his soul to stay like this with you forever. Kyle can feel his heart jumping out of his chest, head growing woozy with exhaustion and your overwhelming presence. The best type of daze.

This kind of relationship between the two of you was certainly…something. Kyle enjoyed it though. To him it was more than friendship. But god forbid he ever told you that.

Or so he thought.

Kyle decided to invite you to his place for your leave. He was living alone, in a good enough apartment, but it always felt a bit too empty and hollow. Like nobody lived there and no one was there to stay. Lack of any personal items or wall decorations, it only now started to sink in how unappealing it looked, after he briefly saw your place. It gave an impression of being looked after, well-loved even, with all the…stuff you had. When did you have the time to decorate your apartment anyway?..

It didn’t matter though, Kyle was just excited to spend time with you, ignoring the insistent jumps of his heart while he was waiting for you to finally arrive. Obviously you have visited him before, but not for such long periods of time, so naturally, he was nervous. But you were only friends, so why was he even getting so worked up over, essentially, nothing? He knew why. But thinking about it would only make all of it worse, so he preferred to pretend like those feelings were never there.

Kyle contained himself when he saw your beaming smile while he greeted you near the door. He kept it to himself when he observed you throwing together a quick snack for him, motions so fluid and relaxed. And god knows he tried keeping it together when he saw you walk out from the shower, hands ruffling some stray drops of water out of your hair. Of course he looks at you longer than usual. But he hopes you don’t notice.

He doesn’t initiate any physical affection in fear that this particular time it’ll tip him off. Kyle knows he won’t be able to stop himself if it ever comes to it. He doesn’t trust himself to. So when your hand gently cradles his cheek, fingers brushing over slight stubble and lips finally connecting with his, Kyle doesn’t tell you to stop. He only lets out a choked breath, along with a soft “please”.

He doesn’t tell you to stop when your fingers lace with his own. He stays silent and his eyes flutter closed when your lips trail over his jaw, peppering soft kisses over his heated skin. Instead of begging you to stop he only pleads for more, words stinging his throat.

And when Kyle comes to his senses it’s already too late, you’re curled into him on the bed, and exhaustion, as sweet as honey, spreads through his body in pleasant waves. He can feel lovebites stinging the skin of his neck and he shudders when you swipe your hand over fresh scratches on his back.

It’s already too late. But he just might be fine with it. He’s willing to give it a try. Maybe you’ll fall for him as hard as he did for you.

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[cecilysass]

I always think the question with MSR isn’t so much who fell first or fell harder—mainly because I personally think it was pretty simultaneous / parallel—but rather who became self-aware about their feelings first.

In my take on this ship, they may well have gone years without fully admitting to themselves how they felt, or fully addressing the feelings head on. They were so distracted by the work and the Truth and the heady emotional power of Partnership and Trust. It was just really possible for them to stay in denial, these two characters in particular.

I tend to think Mulder faced the music first—that he was the first to accept the feelings weren’t platonic. Maybe I think that because he’s the believer, or he’s a doomed Romantic in a big R sense. I could see this realization coming as early as Scully’s abduction, but it could have been as late as Never Again or the cancer arc, too.

But I think @randomfoggytiger might argue it was Scully who understood her feelings first and waited for him to get his act together. I can be convinced of this, too, especially in fanfic. In The End, Scully has to have some awareness when she is stewing over Diana in that car. That could be her first realization, although it could have been earlier, too.

I listened to the XF Diaries podcast’s recent interview with Frank Spotnitz, and he talked about how he viewed Mulder and Scully in season 6 and the FTF near-kiss. He said they didn’t talk about it because they both thought it was something they shouldn’t have been doing. He said the show couldn’t spell it out for the audience because the characters didn’t have their own feelings figured out.

I thought that was striking, thinking about how all the way as late as season 6 the 1013 writers imagined them in this state of not fully realized feelings. I do get frustrated with this kind of talk because it seems so disembodied and unrealistic. I mean, six years, and they haven’t thought seriously about this?

But … also I admit to kind of liking this really repressed version of MSR. This version of MSR that just can’t get its shit together to admit what is happening. In other words, they aren’t exactly pining. They are more just in massive mutual denial. Fingers in ear, nah, nah, nah, I can’t hear you, no feelings here. That does make dialogue in season 6 episodes like Rain King and HTGSC and Milagro seem especially tense and loaded and fun.

And I do like fanfic that depicts them being forced to come out of denial; it’s much rarer than fanfic with one or both of them consciously pining. I mean, please. Do not mistake me. I like the pining fanfic very much, too, and I write it more. It’s just interesting to think about.

[wolverinesbuttcheeks]

Unspoken.📀🪩🪽⭐️

a Sam Winchester oneshot fanfic😛

rating: 14+ guys- idk there is a very short steamy scene guys, but this is mostly fluff😛

tags: fluff, heartwarming, mutual pining, venting, friends to lovers, my Bbg’s.

Sam X f!reader

Word count: 18k

Summary – “Unspoken”

You and Sam Winchester are best friends secretly in love with each other, too scared to admit it. You both vent to Dean and Cas, unaware the feelings are mutual. After a tense hunt and a vulnerable night under the stars, Sam finally confesses—and you do too. A steamy moment follows, only to be hilariously interrupted by Dean. Despite the chaos, you fall asleep in Sam’s arms, finally together

⭐️🪩📀⭐️🪩📀⭐️🪩📀⭐️🪩📀⭐️🪩📀⭐️ The bunker was quiet in the way that only ancient walls and familiar routines could make it. You padded barefoot into the kitchen, the scent of old books still clinging to your sweatshirt, a mug dangling from your fingers.

You found Sam there already, hunched over a thick volume, brows furrowed, shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms like some kind of sin. His hair was a mess from where he'd raked his fingers through it too many times.

You’d never admit it, but mornings like this made it worse. The crush. The feelings. The maybe-someday that never came.

“Morning,” you said, voice too casual.

Sam looked up, and the way his face lit up for just a second was almost enough to send you right back to your room.

“Hey,” he said. “I made coffee.”

“You’re a saint.” You poured a cup and slid into the seat across from him. “Still working on the Akradian demon case?”

He nodded, tapping the book’s yellowed page. “There’s a mention of them disguising themselves as people’s fears, not desires. That might be why the salt rounds didn’t work.”

You blinked at him. “How do you keep all that in your head?”

He gave a breathy chuckle. “You underestimate how often I don’t sleep.”

The moment stretched. You sipped. He looked back at his book. You watched him from over the rim of your mug. The corner of his mouth twitched like he could feel your eyes.

Damn it.

•••

Later, you found Cas in the war room, quietly flipping through a lore book upside down. You didn’t even question it anymore.

He looked up. “You seem troubled.”

You sank into a chair. “I think I’m in love with Sam.”

Cas tilted his head in that angelic, robotic way. “And this is troubling because...?”

You groaned, rubbing your face. “Because he’s my best friend. Because I don’t want to ruin what we have. What if I tell him and he doesn’t feel the same?”

Cas blinked slowly. “He does.”

You froze. “What?”

“He feels the same,” he said again, turning another page. “He told Dean. Frequently.”

You stared at him.

Cas looked up. “Dean says he wants to throw both of you into a closet until you work it out.”

•••

Meanwhile, in the garage, Sam leaned against Baby’s hood, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at Dean.

“I just don’t want to lose her,” he muttered. “If I tell her and she doesn’t… you know.”

Dean snorted. “Sammy, she does. She’s in there right now telling Cas she’s in love with you.”

Sam’s head shot up. “What?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, tossing a wrench into the box with a clatter. “You two are the most annoyingly repressed people I’ve ever met. And I’m friends with Cas.”

Sam blinked. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Tell her. Or I swear, I’m faking a salt-and-burn just to trap you two together for six hours.”

Sam smirked, just a little.

But that night at dinner, you and Sam sat across from each other again—talking, laughing, pretending. Still too careful.

Still burning.

•••

It had been three days since your conversation with Cas.

Three days of pretending not to notice how Sam’s gaze lingered a second too long when you walked into the room. Three days of pretending your chest didn’t ache when you caught him laughing with someone else, too far from you. Three days of unbearable, buzzing silence between what was said and what was felt.

You were unraveling.

Tonight, you and Sam had taken watch together—just the two of you, sitting on the hood of the Impala, waiting for a revenant to claw out of a grave that still looked too fresh.

“Cold?” Sam asked quietly.

You shook your head, lying. The night air was biting, and the hoodie you wore wasn’t enough.

Without another word, he shrugged out of his flannel and draped it over your shoulders.

You tried not to inhale too deeply, tried not to notice the way your body warmed at the scent. Comfort. Cinnamon. Sam.

“You ever think about quitting?” you asked, voice soft in the dark.

He looked over. “The hunting?”

You nodded.

“Yeah. Sometimes.” He glanced back at the grave. “Then I think about all the people we’ve saved. And I think about you. I wouldn’t want to do this without you.”

Your breath caught.

You stared straight ahead, jaw clenched. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

His brow furrowed. “I did mean it.”

You turned to him, suddenly frustrated. “You can’t keep looking at me like I’m something fragile you’re afraid to touch, Sam. You either feel something or you don’t.”

He blinked, startled. “Y/N, I—"

But the revenant burst through the dirt then, interrupting him like the universe itself was too afraid to let this conversation happen.

You fought it side-by-side. The usual rhythm. Shotgun. Machete. Salt. Burn.

But afterward, when the grave smoked and the forest fell still, the quiet wasn’t comforting anymore. It was full of everything you couldn’t say.

•••

The next morning, Dean found you pacing the war room.

“Okay,” he said, sipping coffee. “You look like you either haven’t slept or you’re plotting a murder. Or both.”

“I can’t take it anymore,” you muttered. “One second Sam’s looking at me like I hung the moon and the next, it’s like he’s a million miles away.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “So tell him.”

You gave him a look. “Yeah, sure. While I’m at it, why don’t I just paint it on the bunker walls?”

Dean snorted. “Please don’t. Cas says paint fumes make him see the future or something.”

You laughed weakly, the sound brittle.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

Dean’s face softened. “Yeah. So is he.”

You looked up.

“I’ve known that kid my whole life,” he said. “He’s not afraid of monsters. He’s afraid of losing you.”

•••

That night, you sat outside alone, curled up on the steps with a beer. The stars were out, clear and sharp.

Then you heard footsteps.

Sam.

He sat down beside you without a word.

For a long time, you both stared at the sky, the silence settling between you like fog.

“I wanted to say something,” he said finally. “Back at the grave.”

You didn’t look at him. “Then say it now.”

He took a breath.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

Your heart stopped.

“I’ve been in love with you for longer than I want to admit. And I’ve been too much of a coward to say anything because I didn’t want to risk losing you.”

You turned to him slowly, eyes wide and glassy.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that for months,” you whispered.

Sam blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I love you too, dumbass.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound caught between relief and disbelief. And then, carefully, like he wasn’t sure if the moment was real, he cupped your face in his hands.

You leaned in first.

The kiss was soft, aching, full of everything you'd held back. When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his, and he was smiling—really smiling, like he’d been waiting to exhale for years.

•••

The kiss had changed everything—and yet, in the quiet comfort of the bunker halls, it somehow changed nothing. You and Sam still moved in sync, still passed each other notes during research, still shared your favorite mugs like always. The only difference now was the way his hand found yours beneath the table, fingers gently laced between pages of lore.

But there were nights where something simmered under the surface.

Tonight was one of them.

The hunt was done. Dean was passed out on the couch with an empty whiskey glass still in hand, and Cas had wandered off somewhere in search of “existential clarity.” Which left you and Sam alone again, back in the library.

You sat beside him on the couch, your legs barely brushing. It wasn’t even midnight, but your heart beat like you’d run five miles.

Sam looked over at you, his hair a little mussed, shirt sleeves rolled up, and that soft, tired look in his eyes that made your throat tighten.

He studied you for a long moment before speaking. “Can I kiss you again?”

You smiled. “Why are you still asking?”

And this time, when he leaned in, the kiss wasn’t shy or sweet—it was hungry.

His mouth was warm and soft, but the grip he had on your waist told another story. You barely noticed the book slipping from your lap before you found yourself straddling him, your hands sliding up under the hem of his shirt, greedy for the skin you’d only imagined until now.

“God, you’re so—” he breathed against your neck, trailing kisses down your throat. You arched into him with a quiet gasp, his hands exploring like he’d memorized every curve before ever touching them.

You tugged his shirt off over his head, heat blazing between your bodies, your hips grinding slowly against his. His hands found your thighs, then your waist, then under your shirt as he whispered your name like a prayer.

The soft sound that escaped your lips when he kissed along your collarbone nearly made him lose it.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he groaned. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

You reached between you to undo the button of his jeans when—

“OH, COME ON.”

You froze.

Your head whipped toward the doorway, and there stood Dean with a sandwich in one hand and Cas behind him blinking, very unbothered.

Dean raised his arms dramatically. “This is a common space, people!”

Cas tilted his head. “Is this foreplay or some form of combat?”

You buried your face in Sam’s shoulder with a mortified groan as Sam muttered, “Dean. Seriously?”

Dean took a bite of his sandwich. “Just letting you know you finally did it. About damn time.”

Then he turned, muttering something about "buying air fresheners for the couch" while Cas followed, adding thoughtfully, “Humans are very loud when emotionally vulnerable.”

You and Sam just sat there in stunned silence before dissolving into breathless laughter, still tangled up together, flushed and glowing.

“I guess we’re not exactly subtle,” you mumbled against his skin.

Sam laughed, kissing your temple. “Guess not.”

You looked up at him, cupping his jaw. “So… we’re really doing this?”

He nodded, hand finding yours again. “Yeah. I’m all in.”

And that night, when you finally curled up in his bed—warm, safe, with his arms wrapped tightly around you—you fell asleep with a soft smile, knowing you’d waited just long enough to make it feel like fate.

⭐️📀🪩⭐️📀🪩⭐️📀🪩⭐️📀🪩⭐️📀🪩⭐️

THE END

[musical-shit-show]

“i fucking love you.” “hang up, and tell me this when you’re sober.” Dewey Finn x reader angst? Can go either way. I love ur work so much onh my goodness I can’t get enough

modern idiots

Pairing: Dewey Finn x Reader

Inspiration: Prompt #3 (“i fucking love you.” “hang up, and tell me this when you’re sober.”) from Prompt List 1

Warnings: Cursing, drinking, suggestive dialogue, mutual pining, angst, fluff at the end

Word Count: 2,200

Author’s Note: So, I’m actually embarrassed at how long this took. I think I just hit a wall at soooo many points, but I’m hoping the end result is what the original requester had in mind. Thanks everyone for their patience. I know I’m not the most consistent poster, but I hope to take the next few months to write more and redo my layout to make my masterlist a bit more streamlined. As always, check out my about me page and prompt lists if you’d like to submit an ask. I’d love to get a BJ ask out before the end of spooky season, but unfortunately, I’m drowning in Halloween activities. But definitely stay tuned and enjoy!

“So,” you heard a flirty drawl come from your phone speaker, “Got any fun plans tonight? Maybe…a hot date?”

You snorted a laugh as you surveyed the scene in front of you: a large bowl of popcorn, fluffy blanket draped across your lap, Sex and the City playing on the TV at low volume.

“Oh yeah,” you replied sarcastically, “I actually have a line of suitors out the door just waiting to ask for my hand. It’s all very Regency era.”

“I’ll just pretend I know what ‘Regency era’ means and say…good for you, babe,” Dewey said, making another giggle escape from your throat.

Nobody made you laugh like Dewey Finn. He was your best friend and more recently, your best fuck buddy. You swore you’d never get yourself into a situation like this, but with Dewey it just felt so…easy. Natural.

And if you were spending your time fucking him, you’d have less time to stop and think about how hopelessly in love you were with him. Definitely not the easiest predicament to get yourself out of, but at least it involved good sex.

“Remind me to force you to watch Pride and Prejudice sometime,” you mused, popping a few kernels of popcorn into your mouth, “We need to get you educated, Finn.” Now it was his time to laugh, and you felt your heart flutter as his rich chuckle filled your ears.

“Well, maybe I could come over tonight to get some…tutoring…” he probed. You could practically hear his smirk from the other side of the phone line.

You quickly remembered how disheveled you looked. Even though he was your best friend, Dewey was still a man; And you knew all too well how superficial men could be, no matter how well they thought they knew you.

“Eh, I don’t know,” you said, running your fingers through your hair that definitely should’ve been washed the day prior, “Maybe sometime later this week? I haven’t showered today and—”

“Perfect, I haven’t either,” he cut you off, “We can shower together.”

This motherfucker.

“Very smooth,” you considered. But you couldn’t give in so easily. You knew every time you slept with him, the harder it would be to repress your feelings.

Dewey waited on bated breath. He wanted, no, needed to see you. Not because he had grown accustomed to a consistent booty call, as nice as the arrangement had been.

No, he was finally going to tell you how he really felt.

That he loved you. And way before you had ever shared a bed; he thought maybe he had loved you from the first moment you met. Which sounded unbelievably cheesy every time Dewey thought about it.

But it was true. He was sure of it.

He just felt like the biggest idiot in the world for not telling you before landing in this mess. The no strings attached, friends with benefits kind that you had both agreed on.

It’s what you wanted. And for a while, he tried to convince himself that it’s what he wanted too. That it would just be enough just to hold you, touch you, kiss you.

But Dewey, despite his best efforts, was a romantic. Even if you rejected him, at least he’d put himself out there. The thought was terrifying, but he couldn’t stand the torture anymore. All he needed was for you to actually agree to see him.

“I just don’t think tonight is a good night, Dew,” you said finally. He furrowed his brow. You had never passed on a hangout, not even before you two had started hooking up. He tried to ignore the knot forming in his stomach.

The line was silent for a noticeably long beat. “You still there?” you squeaked, wondering what was up with him. Surely, he could wait a couple days? Maybe that would be enough time for you to get your shit together and act normal.

He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, yep. Still here, sorry,” he muttered, “It’s fine, I’ve actually been meaning to go out with Ned anyways so…I’ll text ya.” The disappointment laced in his voice made your heart hurt.

“Dew, I’m so—”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” he cut in before you could properly apologize, “I, uh, gotta go.” And then the line went dead.

You felt your guilt wrap around your heart and constrict it like a python. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to see Dewey per se, but you didn’t know how to be around him any more without spilling your guts and confessing.

And the thought of being rejected and losing his friendship was too much to bear. If suffering in silence was the way to keep him in your life, you’d happily take that torment.

Getting up from the couch, you swung open your fridge and eyed the two unopened bottles of wine you had bought weeks earlier. You quirked an eyebrow to your empty apartment, Carrie Bradshaw still monologuing from your living room.

Maybe you wouldn’t be as tormented after a few glasses.

~oOo~

Dewey didn’t feel like drinking. The bar was too loud, the patrons were too preppy, and the beer he was nursing was too expensive.

He made a mental note to never let Ned pick the going out spot ever again.

It had only been a few hour since he last spoke to you, but he had been absentmindedly checking your contact in his messages the whole night. He wanted to text you and apologize for acting weird, but he couldn’t find the words.

He couldn’t escape the sinking feeling that you had lost interest in him; It tore him up inside to think that you didn’t want to see him anymore, or worse, had found someone else.

He could’ve kicked himself for letting your friendship become anything more without him telling you how he really felt. He was a coward, and now the thought of losing his best friend made his stomach turn.

Dewey’s shame spiral was interrupted by his phone buzzing incessantly.

It was you.

And his heart nearly jumped out of his chest.

“Hello?” he answered tentatively, rising from his barstool to find a quieter place to talk to you. He found himself running outside, the late summer air still percolating with humidity.

He heard you giggle on the other end, followed by a snort. A snort.

You never snorted. Unless you were drunk.

“Heyyy Dewey,” you drawled. You had already finished your first bottle of wine and had just opened the second. Which meant you were feeling very bold and very honest. “How’s your night going?”

Dewey couldn’t help but let a small smile flit across his face. Even when you were very clearly smashed, you still managed to be polite.

“Uh, it’s going okay,” he said, glancing back towards the door to the bar, “Definitely not as good as yours sounds.”

“Andwhat’sthatsupposedtomean?” you slurred, eliciting a laugh from Dewey. You could feel the confession rising in your throat, burning like bile.

“All I’m saying…” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “is that you seem like you’re really enjoying your night in.” He couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt; Maybe if he hadn’t been so short with you, you wouldn’t have been self-medicating alone in your apartment.

You groaned into your throw pillow, unable to fight the urge any longer. “I’m sad.”

“Why are you sad?”

“Because, I fucked it up. I fucked us up,” You felt salty tears sting in your eyes. It wasn’t like you to be the drama queen, but wine always made you a bit weepy.

He sighed. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Dewey said gently, feeling even guiltier for being so pissy earlier, “I’m sorry. I just…really wanted to see you tonight. But there’s always other nights.”

A small sob caught in your throat at the statement. Though you were happy to know he wasn’t going to kick you to the curb, the weight on your chest wouldn’t let up until you told the truth.

“I-I know,” you sounded so pathetic, but there was nothing you could do to stop yourself. “You’re just…Dewey, you’re my best friend. And I-I was scared, but I’m not scared anymore.”

Dewey shook his head. He really shouldn’t be taking you at your word when you were plastered like this. “Look…you don’t have to do this.”

“But I do, Dewey. I fucking love you.”

He didn’t know what to say. He just knew he couldn’t hear that from you right now, not when you might not actually mean it.

He took deep breath and hoped he was making the right choice. “Hang up, and tell me this when you’re sober.”

Your stomach sank as you heard the piercing beep beep beep that indicated the end of the call.

~oOo~

Dewey shuffled into his apartment hours later, leaving Ned behind at the bar with the rest of his friends. At least one of them was having a good night.

After hanging up with you, he tried, really tried to take his mind off of what you had said. But he couldn’t. Every time his thoughts lingered, your words played on a loop over and over.

I fucking love you.

It didn’t seem real. It almost felt like a prank, though he knew you could never be that cruel. But that nagging feeling told him that it was just the alcohol talking, and that you’d call him up tomorrow for a very awkward conversation.

He sighed heavily, switching the TV on to distract himself. His calloused fingers drummed on his knee rhythmically, a nervous tick he had picked up after years of band practices and rock concerts.

He contemplated grabbing another beer from the fridge; he wasn’t even a little buzzed, but maybe taking a page out of your playbook would act as a temporary cure to the unease he was feeling.

His thoughts were again interrupted by his phone buzzing.

You again.

Only this time, he contemplated letting the call go to voicemail. He wasn’t sure how drunk you’d sound on the other end, especially after he ended your last call so abruptly.

With a deep sigh, he picked up. “Hello?” he answered hesitantly.

“Hey,” you replied. To Dewey’s surprise, you sounded stone cold sober. “Can we talk?”

He felt his entire body tense.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, we can. You sound…better?”

You couldn’t help but snort a laugh. Your head was pounding, your stomach was churning, and your eyes were watering from embarrassment. “Yeah, never better,” you deadpanned.

You couldn’t help but gulp, swallowing your shame. “I’m uh, actually here,” you stumbled awkwardly, “Like, at your place.”

Before you could even think of what you’d say next, Dewey’s door swung open and he stood in front of you, wide-eyed and clearly shocked at your presence.

You both stood in a rigid silence for a moment, unsure of what to say given what had transpired earlier that evening.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” you squeaked.

He couldn’t help but give you a once over, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Running his fingers through his dark brown hair, he blurted the first thing that came to mind.

“Did you mean it?”

You blinked stupidly. “Did I mean it?” you had to repeat his question just to let it sink in.

“Yeah,” he doubled down, “Did you actually mean it when you said you loved me? Or was it the booze talking? Because honestly if it was the booze talking, I’d completely understand, I mean shit, I say things I don’t mean all the time when I’m hammered, just ask Ned—”

“Dewey—”

“—I mean seriously, I was being such a fucking jackass earlier, but it’s only because I’d never thought you’d be into me the way that I’m into you, and—”

“Dewey!” you said again, finally cutting off his rambling, “Breathe.”

He took a shallow breath.

“I meant it,” the words tumbled from your mouth, “I love you. And I’m sorry that it took me getting completely shitfaced after our fight for me to finally tell you. I really was scared of losing whatever we had, and I totally get it if you don’t feel the same way and—”

“Now I gotta shut you up, babe,” Dewey said, his voice smooth despite his cheeks being flush.

He grabbed your waist and pulled you towards him, placing a surprisingly gentle kiss on your mouth. You had kissed Dewey hundreds of times since you began hooking up, but there was something different about this one.

It felt like he wasn’t holding back anymore, and neither were you.

Just as you started to deepen the kiss, he pulled away. “And if it wasn’t obvious, I love you, too. And I really am sorry for tonight.”

Your heart swelled at hearing him reciprocate, and you threw your arms around his neck. “I’m sorry, too. I guess we were both being idiots, huh?”

He nodded, and you giggled. “Maybe…we could make it up to each other? Say, right now?”

You smirked, and kissed him one more time for good measure. “That’s the best idea you’ve had in months, Finn.”

------------------------------------------------------------------

thanks for reading! as always, like/comment/reblog if you enjoyed!

:)

[cerezzzita]

★. Milli's lab — vol. 1 ⌕ feat. Ezio Auditore & Diana Salvatore

notes: ... WHY HELLO THERE! Welcome to "Milli's lab", a lil thing of mine to experiment some of my creative liberty towards my own writing, may it become actual fanfics or nah. Um, so... I didn't expect to post anything related to Assassin's Creed here, but the fucking hyperfixation is hyperfixating! Ugh! And so, after an span of one-year-and so-on-months away from the fandom, I came back and finally created an OC to pair up with Ezio because he's my shayla among all the hooded gang 💔 I do not know how receptive the fandom are with OCs, though... I hope it comes out good! Diana is my baby and I love them two together 🫶🏽

By the way, this is 600 words long (I believe), it's settled somewhere in AC2 because my memory sucks and because these two, in my head, had such a freaking long slow burn, but they're already in love! Ah, the old and good mutual pining!

Enjoy the reading! <3

With the harmonious orchestra of tiny crickets scattered throughout the always silent night of Monteriggioni, Diana reveled in her own stillness as she slowly completed her umpteenth re-reading of The Iliad, snuggled in the sheets of her bed and in the warm breeze provided by Zephyrus’ waltzes. Her slender fingers slid page by page until the triple tinkling on the surface of the bedroom window filled her hearing and expelled her from the midst of gods and heroes. A messy crease forms in her eyebrows.

“Ma che cazzo…?”

Another clink. A voice came whispering like this:

“Diana! Diana!”

Upon recognizing the whisperer, she let out a short smile. Now having her curiosity piqued, she got up from the bed and through the crack in the door that led to the balcony of the Villa Auditore, she could see a hooded head emerging from the marble railing. Diana swallowed a lump of saliva that appeared in the back of her throat as she felt her heart begin to hammer in the forges inside her, embers erupting and strangely sprouting flowers on her skin even though it was covered by the nightgown she was wearing.

She shook her head. Don’t fool yourself, Diana. Focus and control!

When she opened the door and positioned herself half out, she fronted-up with Ezio, his feet already firmly planted, robes that were once white dotted with blood red and a scathing smile that tugged at that scar that Diana harbored a certain desire for — repressed in the box that was secreted in the corner of some room in her mind — to trace with her fingers. She clears her throat, sewing a similar smile on her own lips.

“Ezio? What are you doing here at this time of night? Do you want to wake up the whole city?” She asked jokingly.

“I’m the one who should ask you that question, signorina,” he began, pretentiously cordial. Diana watched with her large, cerulean eyes as the gloved hand deftly removed the hood, a tingle in her stomach given her privileged view of Ezio's Apollonian face. “You seem awake for this time of night…”

“Birbante! Don’t mock me!” Despite the reprisal, her tone was light and relaxed. “What do you want, anyway?”

“Ah, yes”, Like someone waking up from a trance, he blinks his amber eyes twice and rummages through his pockets until he directs his cupped hand towards Diana. She looked through it, noticing a small package. Clearing his throat, the words came out in a shy sequence: “I... I saw that and thought of you…”

If it weren't for the darkness of the night veil that enveloped all of Italy, Diana could have captured the simple rosy bloom on Ezio's cheeks. Two steps forward and before him she stood; for a tiny second, a glance, a flash pumped directly from the heart to thought, she swore she saw the orbs opposite her own on a fleeting journey through her ebony hair that fell free down her back. Diana gasped, desperate lips trembling with gratitude.

Something momentarily in both of them made their flesh pulse as their fingers touched the moment she picked up the package. As Diana undid it, the still-covered sparkle made her frown. With her fingers in pincers, she picked up the object and the sigh she let out was more descriptive than any other expression steeped in surprise could describe.

It was a beautiful pair of earrings, drop-shaped pearls inlaid with sapphires. She felt her own face bubbling, a glowing sensation coursing through every fiber of her being. That same heart forge resounding like the shrillest of thunder clogging her ears.

“Dio mio…” Finally, her voice lines up, although small. “Ezio, you-”

“Did you like it?” he panted, flustered. “I thought of you when I saw them in the store. The sapphires reminded me of your eyes."

And with those same sapphire irises that surrounded his thoughts graced by Eros, Diana faced him, her chest heaving and her eyelids teary.

“Oh, Ezio. You did not have to... Oh, Ezio!”

Ezio barely had time to say anything as she rushed to his chest, hugging him fervently. Soon he reciprocated, welcoming her with all his affection.

“They are so beautiful that words fail to leave me! Grazie! Grazie mille!”

“Di niente, cara mia.”

[veratrance]

in your opinion, who do you think is pining for the other, Levi or reader?

Definitely both, but in a different way. I’d say Levi is actually pining the most but in a more repressed angsty way, so although it’s less overt and obvious, he’s suffering more in silence. It’s a turbulent “what the fuck is happening to me send help” kind of pining lol. The “I’ve never felt this before and idk wtf to do” typa dynamic

Reader pines a lot too but I’d say it’s slightly less angsty and all-consuming. A bit more balanced, you know? Though still very intense

So in conclusion: it’s mutual pining but Levi is the biggest simp, though he represses the feeling and has a hard time coming to terms with it lol

[mcrololo]

tell me about her

this was so wonderfully threatening to receive unprompted sgfjsj but i'm assuming you mean beca desjardins?? I'll try not to ramble but this character is so precious to me so I'm sorry in advance (no I'm not)

So Beca's full name is Isabel Desjardins, she's french, and grew up in an incredibly abusive household. I wanted to challenge myself to create a character who felt so, SO much but had to repress everything, and part of that was figuring out what made her love as deeply as she does despite the way she grew up (homophobic mother inflicting both mental and physical abuse, an alcoholic father who was never really there). It's been about 8 years since Beca first knocked on my door, so to speak, and I learned so much about myself because of her.

Anyway, I'm not going to inflict 8 years of info on anyone right now bc that's insane. But I loved exploring her teens when she develops a crush on her best friend (and learns she's really really gay), loved exploring what abuse does to someone in both learning to love others as well as loving yourself, her not-so-healthy friendships (who push her to do things that she doesn't want to) combined with the healthy ones (who help her finding the things she does want to do) - I absolutely adore experiencing her growth along with her. And I cannot begin to describe the joy I feel for writing Beca and her love interest Emily mutually pining, it's been 8 years but we're finally there.

I could say so much more about her relationship with her father, her siblings, and even her mother (the latter of which I finally felt comfortable diving deeper into a few weeks ago). But like I said, I don't want to ramble on and on about a character that's not even on here lmao. However, I do have a (VERY long) playlist for her if you're interested!!

[scribblyshipping]

🏁 and 💓 with Chimbly!!

Thank you for the ask bestie Gary :]]]]

🏁 if not at the same time, who started pining first? how long until it became mutual (if ever)?

PIM. It's always Pim. For both of them.

Obviously its been festering for much longer for Charlie, however by present day they're practically together without really admitting it. Charlie kissed him on the forehead bro that's personal.

Scribbly was second towards both of them, for Pim it came a lot faster, but honestly for both of them it was quick. She's always been a romantic at heart and catches feelings fast.

Charlie was last but it was mainly due to repressing it.

💓 (if applicable) what moment made you realize you were in love with them?

Dude that's so hard to say. Like, irl? I realized it quickly because I wanted to see more of them and got giggly whenever they'd be on screen or talking. And I started getting really bad cuteness aggression over them LMAO

In-universe? I think Scribbly realized she was in love with Pim during the time he and Charlie were trying to make her smile. I need to rewrite the fic I started about that, but Scribbly sees Pim's persistence to want to see her smile, how he's genuine and determined to try... and it makes her feel loved. Even if it was just apart of his job, he never acted like he'd rather be doing something else, (unlike Charlie, but we all know he's always like that) or like she was a burden. She hasn't felt truly cared for in a long time, and it hits her hard. It takes a little bit longer for her to admit her feelings, though.

For Charlie...? It was a bit harder, it took a lot longer. She was attracted to him first, but didn't particularly develop feelings in a romantic sense for a while. I need to work out the details of it, but she falls in love when they're talking about something and he remembers a small detail about her. Up until that point she didn't think he cared about her, so knowing that he did on some deeper level made her fall for him.

Sorry for the huge rambling blocks of text, hopefully this makes sense haha.

Original ask game

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[cagethemunson]

when Taylor sang “I'll get your longing glances, but she'll get your ring” in Foolish One I went insane.

I mean, imagine Steve Harrington x Reader. She is Eddie’s neighbor and that’s how they met for the first time. He’s instantly whipped and they have that cute idiots to lovers dynamic where they’re both in love with each other but don’t say anything about it because they feel like the feeling isn't mutual.

But one day the gang decides to do something about it because they're tired of the longing glances and pining, and they finally confess their love.

It's summer, so they spend all of their free time hanging out together swmming with everyone, and at night they go to Steve's place to spend some quality time alone (if you know what I mean). Everything is amazing, it feels like it's straight out of a movie and Steve's never felt that way before, not even with Nancy.

The thing is, on a random day, Steve's parents arrive unannounced at the house and see Reader with Steve. He's nervous because he know his parents, but he can finally introduce her to them, however they act all weird about it and Reader decides to leave. Then his parents decide to tell him that she's "not good enough for him" because "she's trailer trash". Steve gets angry and all of that, but for some reason that I'm still trying to think of, his relationship with Reader ends up becoming a secret, even for the gang. Everyone thinks they've broken up, but they're still together and seeing each other in secret.

After summer ends, Steve's parents start trying to set him up with this girl from a family that is friends with the Harringtons because she's "the right one for him". Reader's heart breaks.

Steve now has to bring the Girl to the gang's meetings as a façade for his parents, and they're always sitting together during movie nights, she holds his hand, they share secrets at laugh at things they whisper for the other... And Reader is always on the corner looking at them and longing, waiting for those bittersweet hidden moments with Steve, since it's the only thing that she gets.

But, you know, things start to get more serious, Reader gets sadder and sadder every day and Steve doesn't really get why she's feeling that way because they're still together and that's enough for him, but not for her. She wishes for more and at first she felt like it was a selfish thing to want, but she can't do it anymore. They have this huge fight one night and break up.

Steve feels like trash and starts fighting this battle inside of him that's basically "stop to endlessly trying to reach the impossible title of 'The Perfect Son' or lose forever the girl he loves?". He ends up reaching his limit one day after seeing something related to Reader or his parents (again, I still have to think more about it) and there's this whole scene of him confronting his parents and then leaving without waiting for an answer. He goes to Reader's home and they have this whole conversation full of repressed feelings and anger, but also full of love.

And I want them to get back together, but how's everything going to work? How are Steve's parents going to react? And how's Steve and Reader's relationship going to be now that they are aware of the Harringtons feelings towards it? I DON'T KNOW THE ENDING TO MY OWN WIP. BUT IT'S FULL OF ANGST AND PINING AND HEARTACHE AND WHISPERS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT AND DOUBT. And a happy ending because I'm that weak.