#something I wrote back in 2012

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Noam Kaniel - The Mysterious Cities of Gold 1982

Esteban: Child of the Sun, known outside of Japan as The Mysterious Cities of Gold (French: Les Mystérieuses Cités d'Or), is a French-Japanese anime series, animated by Studio Pierrot. Mitsuro Kaneko (MK Productions) wanted to make an animated series based on the young adult fiction novel The King's Fifth by Scott O'Dell; a book that detailed how the Spanish stripped the New World of all its riches. The story was adapted by Jean Chalopin and Bernard Deyriès, and is very loosely based on the novel; in 1532, a Spanish orphan named Esteban joins Mendoza, a navigator, in his search for one of the Seven Cities of Gold in the New World. They are joined on their quest by Zia, an Incan girl, and Tao, the last descendant of the sunken empire of Mu (Hiva in the English version). The series is a mix of ancient South American history, archaeology, and science fiction. During their journey, the travellers encounter the Mayas, Incas, and Olmecs. They discover many lost technological solar-powered wonders of the Mu Empire, while they're constantly pursued by the antagonists who are also in search of the Cities of Gold.

Jean Chalopin founded the production company DiC Entertainment in 1971, which specialized in children-oriented television and film productions. Through the company, he co-created, co-wrote, and/or produced successful television series, including Ulysses 31 (poll #541), Inspector Gadget (poll # ? :) ), The Real Ghostbusters, Sonic Underground, Dennis the Menace, Rainbow Brite, Care Bears, and Heathcliff.

The Mysterious Cities of Gold was directed by Bernard Deyriès, Edouard David, Kenichi Murakami and Kenichi Maruyama. Shingo Araki was involved with the series as an animator and some episodes were directed by Toyoo Ashida and Tatsunoko Production veteran Mizuho Nishikubo. Nobuyoshi Koshibe composed the original Japanese score, while the Western version is credited to Shuki Levy. Originally, Koshibe's score was to be used for the French version as well. However, Bernard Deyriès recalled his reaction to the proposed music he heard from Ulysses 31 in that he felt that the score was rather understated as he was expecting a more adventurous feel, something akin to films like the Indiana Jones movies. At that point Shuki Levy had met up with Bernard Deyriès, in which he became involved with the soundtracks of Ulysses 31 and The Mysterious Cities of Gold. Levy has been credited to the music of a huge amount of shows such as Inspector Gadget, He-Man and the Masters of the Universe, She-Ra: Princess of Power, Digimon: Digital Monsters, Sylvanian Families, Heathcliff, The Super Mario Bros. Super Show! (poll #543), and Lucky Luke.

When The Mysterious Cities of Gold was rebroadcast in Japan on NHK BS2 from 1998 to 1999, the animation was imported back from France and the audio was redubbed. NHK had erased the original VTR when their contract expired, and the rights holder had lost the master copy. The voice actress for the main character, Esteban, was the only one to reprise her role. The second season of the series, serving as a continuation of the original 1982 series, premiered on La Trois in Belgium on November 17, 2012; 30 years after the original first season was aired.

"The Mysterious Cities of Gold" received a total of 57,7% yes votes.

[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.

[cautious-soup]

Just watched Thunderbolts like 2 hours ago, here are some headcanons because 2012 avengers core is the only good recession indicator we've had so far.

John and Bob both cook, but John cooks like an almond mom whereas Bob cooks like he's making a last meal every single time. John nags at Bob for making the team unhealthy things like triple smash burgers or loaded tater tots. He preps the team acai bowls, detox smoothies, poke, or something of the like--everyone else is just happy to be fed.

Ava loves pink, but feels she doesn't look very good wearing it--too scared to indulge herself. Yelena takes her out shopping and helps her work through her style, reassures her that she looks beautiful no matter what she has on.

Bucky and Alexei are the oldest, but Bucky is the most responsible. Still, they both take on caretaking roles for the others, and each other. Bucky will open the dishwasher to find his arm missing, only to find it propped up and holding granola bars or a bottle of water with notes like "Good super soldiers need energy to stay alert." or "Is no good to neglect your hydration." Bucky will remind Alexei that eating vegetables every once and a while is a good thing. (And John will really drive the point home)

Yelena, John, and Ava are combat weapon nerds, get in a debate about weapons at least once a week. They all geek out when they find an old dent in the tower lounge supposedly left by a dropped Mjolnir.

Bob's hair changes color depending on who's close to fronting. Void's black hair spreads from the tips, Sentry's blond hair spreads from the roots.

Ava phases when she sneezes--has fallen through the back of the couch multiple times because of this.

Yelena is always the one to take care of bugs. Despite the tower's world class security they always manage to find a way inside, much to John's chagrin (he has a phobia of most bugs.)

Bucky prioritizes one on one time with everyone, because everyone on the team tends to isolate themselves whenever something is wrong, or if their moods fluctuate. Talks Void back from shadowing NYC again, reasons with Sentry when his delusions get too steep, reminds Bob to take things one step at a time, tells John he still has plenty to live for, helps Ava remember she's more than her pain, reassures Yelena about her place in the world, indulges Alexie when he talks about his happier days.

Alexei is always making sure nobody is too hard on themselves both physically and mentally. Always makes sure Yelena, John and Ava aren't over-training, and that Bucky isn't burning himself out with PR work. Tells Bob every day that he is doing an astounding job.

Hi I wrote a fic based on the first headcanon

(Polybolts Fluff Fic)

(Polybolts NSFW Fic)

[allfortheslay25]

Sorry to that one person who asked about more Milo in my inbox. The ask disappeared and has yet to come back after the draft refused to post so I’ll be posting it just like this.

Hopefully you see it🙏

I should probably mention I wrote this chapter years ago but only adjusted some things at the beginning of the year before January

Milo Future Spoilers

There was nothing like the humidity of South Carolina; damp, sweltering, and mouth drying.

Neil smacked his lips and wiped sweat off the back of his neck. No, nothing like it.

The press of something freezing was soothing for a split second before it was alerting. Neil flinched away from the cold glass bottle Andrew pushed against his neck before taking it.

"Thanks."

Andrew squatted next to him, picking under his armbands to collect the sweat building up under them. Neil stared because Neil liked this pair. A shade of white with the thinnest pair of double orange stripes down the inner forearm. Andrew didn't wear them for much. It didn't go with the silver and gold tone of his uniform nor the black of his wardrobe. He hadn't really put them on since Allison gifted them to him back in 2012.

Andrew took Neil's soda from him after watching the man do little to open the damn thing. He popped off the cap, licking the back before pressing it to Neil's forehead.

Neil quirked up a smile. "It's fresh."

Andrew just turned away with his own drink half done.

"Where the fuck is Nicky? It's boiling out here!" Allison shouted from where she was handing out drinks.

Aaron flicked cooler water at Matt when the man attempted to steal the last lemonade. "Probably got sidetracked talking about Germany again. He acts as if we haven't been caught up with him in the last week."

Kevin rattled the doors like a madman. "Let me in.

We're right here, let me in!"

It would have been hilarious, enough to bring smiles and teasing from the old Foxes. But recently, with Kevin's publicized relapse and his alleged divorce from Thea, well, no one was laughing at Kevin these days.

The outer court walls had seen better days too.

The orange paint had faded to a yellow hue, chipped and dusty with tagging unwashed at the corners. Neil knew the Palmetto Foxes had been on a fortunate rise and he knew sometime after his leave did it begin to fall apart. Wymack bit off more than he could chew, they said. Too many scandals, too many suicides and murders, too many delinquents being allowed on a court. But Neil supposes they did well enough to keep those doors open another year.

Neil's drink was promptly swiped from his hands, the culprit? His son, Milo.

"If you're not gonna drink it at least don't let it go hot."

Neil squinted up at the boy. He did that standing too. Milo had hit puberty and outgrew Neil sometime between 12 and 13, but then the growing never stopped. He stood now, at an even 6ft with no chance of finishing his growth spurt.

Lanky and awkward teenage limbs, freckled and messy haired, Milo somehow stopped looking like Neil. Everyone always says his baby face is nostalgic to first year Neil Josten, but if you put the pictures side by side, Milo always had something Neil didn't. There was a sharpness to him, something he couldn't hide better than Neil.

"Kevin, stop playing with the doors, you'll break them." Renee chastised. It was a miracle to have her here with them in the flesh at all. She spent most of their reunions on video chat with low internet. "I'm sure Coach will be here soon with the keys."

Milo, soda long finished, turned to Kevin with an otter pop between his teeth. "Does it bother you that much?" He mumbled.

Kevin let go of the doors with reluctance. "No... I just... I want to see it already."

Milo hummed around his treat before standing and marching over to the doors. He hip checked Kevin—an eerie sight as they stood head to head in height—and pulled something from his pocket.

Milo fiddled with the fence and it sprung open.

The Old Foxes stared in disbelief.

"You had the keys the whole time? Milo!" Dan said.

Milo shrugged, displaying a paperclip and a hairpin. He shoved the fence out the way and marched on to the doors he'd need a code for. As Milo fooled around with it, the Foxes all turned to Neil with faces of amusement and exasperation.

"He's your son alright." They said.

"Little Josten."

"Little Monster." They all cooed.

"That's 'Little Minyard-Josten' to you." Milo announced before punching a button on the door.

It beeped and clicked and Milo turned the handle to allow everyone inside.

"How did you know the code!?" Kevin wondered.

"They just had a baby, no?" Milo pointed out. "It's always been someone's birthday."

The foyer was almost the same as they'd all last seen it. Orange benches were set here and there, and the floor was white tile with orange paw prints. Orange cones were stacked in a corner, three deep and six high. A white door was on the wall to their right, and an orange door was opposite them. Only difference was there was a crack in the wall no one patched up, and the white tiles had muddled down to a moppy grey.

Milo moved past it to the gear closet. As the Old Foxes looked around and chatted about memories a decade old, Milo had suited up and stolen a racquet.

"Should we let him keep doing that?" Allison muttered to the rest.

"Leave him be, this is the most excited we've seen him since before the B R E A K U P call." Dan whispered.

"You know he can spell faster than us, right?"

Aaron whispered back.

"And you know you're a bad whisperer, right?"

Matt countered.

"Cousins!" Anything Aaron was about to say was cut off by Nicky's loud arrival. He raced towards Aaron and Andrew, bringing them into tight squeezes despite the twos wriggling.

Neil smiled because it'd been three years since Andrew had told Nicky he could hug him without asking. Andrew sometimes snapped that he was sick of it, but Andrew had also told Neil years ago that he didn't do regret.

Nicky let out a sharp gasp from his position in hugging Neil. He all but shoved the man into Matt before springing himself onto Milo. "My baby nephew! You've gotten so big! Last time I saw you you were definitely a head shorter! What are they feeding you? Is it Kevin's diet?"

Milo smiled and hugged Nicky as hard as he could despite the pads. "A mix of junk food and Kevin's dietary plan I only follow when I'm bored."

Kevin sent him a glare for that but went back to finding proper gear without a word.

"How did any of you get inside?" Wymack wondered gruffly. Standing in the flesh, was their beloved coach who hadn't seemed to age a day in their eyes. The only thing new was the baby attached to his chest.

Everyone flooded his space in an instant, cooing and awing at the little infant with orange bows in her curly hair. It was a shame Kevin had to be the one to tell them Wymack and Abby were having a baby. He was too excited to remember they wanted to surprise everyone. Sarah was adopted by them as soon as she'd been born, the baby of a previous Fox who didn't want children. None of them knew her from anything other than the tabloids that printed her face everywhere on Exy news the week after her discharge from the hospital. She dropped out of Palmetto soon after and was in the wind before Wymack and Abby could say goodbye.

"Okay you animals, get your diseased faces out of my baby's face. And Kevin, get your face out that closet and hug me dammit."

Kevin paused from where he was pulling a pair of gloves out of the gear closet to sheepishly shuffle over to his father.

"Where's Abby?" Kevin asked as he smiled at

Sarah's squinty face.

"Napping. She wanted to come by but I told her we'd be here all day and she can stop by when she's had at least an hour of sleep." Wymack said.

He tossed the court keys at Neil who used them to unlock all of the doors inside.

Before anyone finished dressing, Jeremy Knox and Jean Moreau knocked on the locker room doors. This reunion was special, a chance for Jean to see Renee, and Jeremy to see Kevin in an act of support in these dire times.

Having so many professional exy stars in one room felt charged in a way. Kevin seemed ready to cream his pants, or so Andrew commented.

Jeremy looked good in orange and Jean looked like he'd rather do the scrimmage naked. But Neil only had eyes for Andrew whose old uniform stretched on him like a wet dream.

"Can you even play like that?" Aaron smirked, silently laughing at Andrew's predicament. Aaron hadn't been on his college grind in so long, he'd lost muscle mass but gained a healthy weight that his uniform fit almost perfectly.

Andrew silently knocked Aaron on the shoulder with his racquet and clicked his tongue at the weight of it. Neil understood the feeling. Their old racquets were like feathers, Neil wasn't sure he could play with something so lightweight.

Milo was setting up cones and baskets of exy balls with cheerfulness. He was running around the court with a giddiness that rubbed off onto everyone else.

"Don't forget to stretch," Kevin reminded him.

Milo turned and threw his body into a bridge position before resting into a handstand.

"Show off." Kevin grumbled as Jeremy laughed.

Milo properly stretched afterward, first to finish as he picked up the basket of exy balls.

"I wanna show you something. Miss Renee, may you take the goal for me?" Milo asked.

“My pleasure,” Renee said with a smile. She gave Andrew a friendly pat on the shoulder and took her place in the goal.

“We don’t have all day, Milo.” Kevin complained.

“Let him do what he wants, it’s his first game playing with us.” Dan said.

“My first game playing with you guys was actually in the morning of July 14th, 2006. It was my ‘Unbirthday’ as uncle Nicky put it and Matt knocked me onto my back.” Milo said as he got into position.

“You can’t count that as a real game.” Kevin said.

Milo smiled over his shoulder, one of the ones that made the Foxes refer to him as ‘Little Monster’ at times. “Shut up, Day, and watch this.”

He looked back at Renee who nodded at him and got into position. The stance was loose but almost as sturdy as it’d been all those years ago. Milo took up a ball and tossed it to her lightly, allowing her to hit it back far enough he’d have to chase it down the court. And Milo did. He didn’t want to see where it was headed. With bullet-like speed he took off, throwing himself from the wall, flying down the court before anyone could do much as turn their heads. The ball hit a far wall and came back. Milo jumped, snatching it from the air and landing on his left foot before propelling himself forward. He made light work of the cones and within 10 steps, scored on Renee. Neil didn’t know why but when Milo had taken the ball, he waited for a pass to someone who wasn’t there. It itched at his brain in a familiarity he couldn’t place.

Andrew narrowed his eyes before his mouth quirked into one of his amused expressions.

“What?” Neil wondered a little too loud.

“He’s just doing the most for no reason.” Kevin interrupted.

“He just mimicked Neil’s exact play his first time at a Fox match.” Andrew corrected.

Everyone turned to him in confusion.

Neil looked back, running it through his head but that game had been so long ago he didn’t remember.

Dan's eyes lit up, though. “He passed to me. Neil, you did that same jump thing your first game—back when Seth was taken off and you made your debut. You passed to me because someone was on your ass.”

“There’s no way. We can’t even remember it clearly. No one can say for sure.” Allison said.

Andrew tapped his temple. “I can. Memory like a steel trap, I never took my eyes off him. I’m the one who passed the ball to Neil.”

“It’s a fluke.” Kevin said.

Milo whistled at them to get everyone’s attention. “I’m not finished.” He tossed another ball to Renee. “I’ll call it for you this time; Seth Gordon 2006.” Milo changed the grip on his racquet, hands lower as his fingers gesture higher. He straightened his back and ran a few seconds after the ball flew, watching it with his eyes and racing at a slower yet more desperate pace. Once he’d caught it, he whipped it over his shoulder with such speed and strength, it nearly clipped Renee on the shoulder.

“There’s no way to guarantee that.” Kevin hissed.

Milo tossed another ball and cocked his head at Kevin. “Really? Let’s get more famous. Let’s see…” Milo tapped the button of his racquet against the floor and passed his stick to his left hand and the movement was so specific, Jean and the Foxes straightened in disbelief. “Kevin Day, 2007.” Milo called, once again changing his posture. The ball went and Milo moved, catching it and weaving around cones with such single mindedness it was breathtaking. Renee was serious now as she waited, eager to stop Milo but incapable of accomplishing it. The ball whistled past her ear and the Foxes roared in incredulous excitement.

“Join me, will you, Mister Knox?” Milo asked.

Jeremy smirked and followed onto the court. He attempted to take up a backliner position but Milo moved him into the striker mark. He passed a ball to Jeremy and motioned for him to continue. The Foxes readied for whatever trick Milo held up his sleeve next. He moved his racquet back to his right and hunched his shoulders a bit in a way that left him open for injury. Jeremy moved to get past him and Milo hooked his foot around his and sent him stumbling. Milo then yanked his stick out of his unassuming hands with a simple twist, stealing the ball and sending it across the court to be slammed into the goal wall.

“Jean Moreau, 2005.” Milo said. Jeremy was on his ass behind him, clutching his wrist in surprise.

“That was a dirty move. I had so much faith in you.”

Milo gave him his racquet, using it to pull Jeremy to his feet. “You were expecting Jean-Yvves Moreau, 2009. But I like surprises.”

Jean frowned from his place by the Foxes. “That move is long dead. You can hurt someone with it.”

Milo held up Jeremy’s arm by the elbow, waving it at Jean. “He’s all in one piece. Now I’ve got something special for you all. Get on the court, Miss Renee, Drew, you may wait for my last demonstration off to the side.

As they all took their marks, not for a scrimmage but for shooting on the goal, Milo sauntered onto Renee’s place, tossing his racquet for hers. He spun it around and moved his hands before crouching and staring them down the court. Even with the helmet over his eyes, there was an intensity that boiled the cool air into something claustrophobic to the group. No one had to guess who Milo was mimicking now, but he still called out to them.

“Andrew Minyard, 2016.”

Neil got first dibs as he was the first to line up. He moved past Nicky and shot at the goal with a ferocity he saved for real matches. The deafening crack that boomed through the space as Milo’s racquet connected with the ball made everyone flinch in their spots. The ball sailed through the air like a jet before smacking into the other goal.

“There’s no way you did that!” Nicky screamed.

“That’s Andrew’s move. Do you know how many goalies have attempted to replicate that and succeeded?” Kevin shouted. “Eight! Only six have accomplished it in all exy history!”

“Seven, counting me.” Milo said, tossing the racquet over his shoulder. “But if I’m truly honest, I wouldn’t be able to do it again as accurately. Especially during an intense game. I’ve practiced your moves since I could hold a racquet and I've mastered your techniques in less years than you’ve all been playing. But Drew’s moves are special.”

Kevin was still staring at the ball across the court. “We need that tape. Get us that tape. You’ll need to show it to recruiters—”

“Slow down, Kevin.” Jeremy said.

“You’re turning red.” Jean said.

Kevin seemed close to fainting. When he’d had some water and Wymack promised to send him the security tape, they all got their chance to shoot on Milo who didn’t allow a single one through. After the showboating, they played a real scrimmage. Whoever won got to play with Milo next and even as Kevin lost thrice in a row, he never stopped his giddy chatter about the places Milo would go and the changes he’d bring to the sport.

[tammyu-2]

tmnt 2012! donnie, mikey and raph (seperately) x gn! reader headcanons pretty pls! the reader is super smart which led them to skip a couple grades and is in college (still the turtles' ages tho) and is in a band where they play electric guitar (and secretly write songs about their boyfriend)!! 🎀

This sounds very cute!!

2012 TMNT DONNIE, MIKEY, AND RAPH WITH A SMART BAND GEEK S/O

Swearing, I wrote this half asleep, quick drabble,not proofread read, Usage of They/them pronouns, half rushed.

We are clocking in and we are locking in

DONNIE

You were busy studying in your dorm when you decided to go for a 3am coffee run at the near by Cafe that was next to Campus. It would make sure you finished your assignment with the little power you were working on. So when you walked over to the cafe you saw it was closed due to maintenance with made you groan.

On your way back to your dorm you can't wind of someone staring at you. You reached for your pepper spray in your bag to only realize you had forgotten it on your desk. So when you were caught helpless in an alleyway with a clearly drunk man threatening you, you had been trying to calculate the perfect way out. However your tain of though was cut short by a humanoid turtle swooping in and kicking his ass.

Eventually you and Donnie got quite acquainted with as friends (although Donnie did have a massive crush on you). He would on and on about the smart chick he met that was studying in a real collage that he could only dream of doing. Donnie knew you were smart but not exactly better than Donnie smart.

"I can't seem to figure out what's wrong with my formula! The equation looks alright but the answer is all wrong and is making my gadget bug!"

"I can help..?"

"Oh no. I don't think this level of...engineering is something you'd um...fully understand."

This boy did not- oh my days he did.

"Let me look at your formula anyway."

You said looking at the whiteboard infront of his and examining the equation. Before taking his marker and correcting it.

"You see here you forgot to divide with the 0.42 because in this side equation you square rooted it to 2 but didn't put it under the 5 that you left alone. So that should be correct"

I don't do math so apologies if this makes no sense

Donnie boy was speechless and he tried to stutter out a sentence but kept failing leading him to give up on words completely. He fixed his machine using the method you corrected and you actually fixed it! He turned to you with flustered expression. No one has ever actually understood him but you did in more ways than one. Including when it came to having smarts.

Ever since then you guys have little study dates where you show him human studies that he oh-so wants to be apart of. And in return he gives you free range of his lab whenever you need to make something. He trusts you enough because he knows now your far from being stupid enough to mess it up.

He started respecting you much more and that was the thing that pushed him to confess to you and you two were a genius power couple. You guys were finishing each other's sandwiches (or sentences or whatever)

"WOW your so cool. What else have you been hiding from me? I'm sure there's nothing h-hotter- or um c-cuter than you being as smart as me."

"So about that..."

You explain that you recently started a band and it was making it to bigger and bigger gigs than before.

"YOUR IN A BAND!? MY GOSH HOW COOLER CAN YOU GET!?"

"I play the electric guitar...?"

Donnie.exe has stopped working.

When you get more comfortable with each other you sometimes have dates where you two are alone cuddling up on Donnie's bed as you strum your guitar testing the notes out lazily. You two being full of pizza and slowly drifting off in each other's side....with an electric guitar inbetween.

Whenever you have a concert he always comes to watch you in the shadows or disguised just to support you by showing interest in your growing career. Cause he really adored you.

MIKEY

He had met you at a abandoned skate park. You two immediately hit it off and He was ofcourse extremely clingy to you. He bragged on and on about you to the ninjas. You were a cute duo

"Is butter a carb?"

"Yes it technically is."

"Whats a carb?"

"So basically a carb stands for carbohydrates and what it is is a-"

You always explain things to him that he never remembers. It didn't matter you liked explaing stuff to him and he liked the way your energy spiked whenever explaining something.

He doesn't really think about you being smart that much when in comes to your relationship. Cause he litrally has a brother that is as smart but more rude and sassy about it.

On the day Mikey confessed to you, you were about to go out and get snacks for a movie night for your new boyfriend. However you phone rand interrupting your planning of your date. It had been one of your band members- wait shit! You were late to practice.

"I'm so sorry! But I'm running late for band practice.."

"YOUR IN A BAND-"

The next time you two met up you explained your band to him and Mikey had stars in his eyes. He kept on loudly saying how sick it is to be in a band! Not to mention a guitar. A ELECTRIC GUITAR

If you allow him to hold you guitar he will be jumping up and down excitedly. Like man is not sitting still at all! If you even teach him how to play he is basically on cloud nine. Oh my gosh how did he meet you!?

He takes every chance he gets to brag about you to not only the ninjas but also the bad guys. Like he's over here swooning of the thought of you while a kraang is being beat up by him.

"UGH I miss my s/o they are so amazing. Do you know they guitar AAANDDD THE GUITAR! Which is extremely dope in my opinion. "

He sighs softly, kicking another kraang that was charging at them. Knocking it over.

"The one that is known as s/o is not in the database that the ones known as kraang had mad."

"*sigh* they also had a name..."

"MIKEY OH MY GOD HELP US!?"

RAPH

He met you only after he had a mental break down and needed to release his tension by beating up things. Preferably bad guys but Raph wasn't picky. So when he found you in an allway he took the chance not caring about his looks.

You were a bit freaked out when a giant turtle appeared out of no where and started flirting with you. And after you got to know him and his brothers you two started dating.

I won't lie I think he likes that your smart and everything but if go full on Donnie mode and explain stuff to him as if he didn't know how to walk on his own two feet– then he will be pissed at you. He is the type to roll his eyes and look away bit the minute you stop rambling he will ask you why you stopped.

So now the elctric guitar situation. The one day you were watching Raph train you got sent a picture from your drummer of your band. They had gone away for the weekend and was returning him. You smiled at you phone and told Raph wich made him pause.

"YOU PLAY THE ELECTRIC GUITAR!?"

"Yes I do!"

"...holy shit your so hot.."

He wants to be serenaded but her will never tell you that. He knows about the songs you wrote for him because he found on of them when he visited you at your dorm. He thought it was cute and left it alone in hopes that you would sing it to him one day.

But I swear if any found out about his mushyness, especially you, then his reputation with be damaged for the rest of his life and he will have to runaway and change his name.

I HOPE YOU ENJOYED ITTTTTTT

I will get t you request tomorrow I am planning on posting three things tomorrow!!

But yeah hope you enjoyed- I'm falling asleep as I'm typing this so sorry for the spelling mistakes.

~Tammy<3

[saymonsays]

Unreleased track and Secret Sessions

pairing: idol!jiyong x idol!reader

wordcount: 9k

‎2012

‎

‎Before the world knew your name, the industry already did.

‎

‎You were twenty-three and blazing through the charts with haunting vocals and visuals that made headlines every other day. A soloist without a company-crafted scandal or dating rumor, your mystique only made you more addictive to the public. You were the type to keep your head down and let the music speak, but even that couldn’t quiet the buzz. Every award stage you graced, every OST you lent your voice to—it was all becoming iconic. Quiet, elegant, untouchable.

‎

‎That’s what they thought, anyway.

‎

‎But somewhere across Seoul, in the smoke-filled dorm of BIGBANG, someone finally said your name out loud.

‎

‎“Yo, have you heard that girl’s vocals?” Daesung said, waving his phone in Jiyong’s face. “You know—what’s her name again?”

‎

‎“Y/N-ssi?” Youngbae offered, leaning back on the couch.

‎

‎“That’s the one! She's everywhere lately. It’s insane. Her visuals are next level too, like—damn.” Daesung swiped through a gallery of screenshots from your recent music show performance, pausing on a still of you with your eyes closed mid-note.

‎

‎Jiyong barely looked up from his notebook, pen scratching lyrics across the page. “Heard the name. Not the music.”

‎

‎“You’re missing out,” Daesung chimed in, half-laughing. “She’s got this song—what’s it called? ‘Only If’ or something. Gave me chills. You’d like her stuff. Real emotional.”

‎

‎That made Jiyong pause.

‎

‎Chills?

‎

‎He reached over and took Daesung’s phone, putting in one earbud. The moment your voice came through—soft, raw, heartbreak slipping into every line—he froze. His brows furrowed. The melody, the vocal control, the emotion—it was everything he admired in an artist.

‎

‎“…She wrote this?” he asked, voice low.

‎

‎Youngbae smirked. “Yeah. All of it. She’s legit.”

‎

‎Jiyong didn’t answer. He just played the song again.

‎

‎Then, later that night—alone in his room, still hearing your voice in his head—he opened his notes app and started typing:

‎

‎to: Y/N

‎from: G-DRAGON

‎subject: collab?

‎

‎A week later — YG Studio A, 2012

‎

‎“Don’t freak out,” you told yourself, glancing at your reflection in the tinted glass door before pushing it open.

‎

‎You weren’t the type to get starstruck. You had worked with legends, trained under pressure, performed on stages that demanded perfection. But this was different. This was G-Dragon. The same one who had texted your manager directly after hearing your song, requesting a meeting. The same one whose name was practically carved into the walls of Korean music history.

‎

‎And now he was sitting across the studio—black beanie low on his head, legs crossed like he had all the time in the world.

‎

‎He looked up as you stepped in.

‎

‎And smiled.

‎

‎"You're even quieter than I imagined," he said, standing.

‎

‎You blinked. “And you’re less intimidating than I thought.”

‎

‎That made him laugh. It was a soft sound, surprised—like he hadn’t expected you to say that.

‎

‎“I mean that in a good way,” you added quickly, setting your lyric notebook down on the table between you.

‎

‎He tilted his head. “That’s fair. People usually expect leather jackets and sunglasses.”

‎

‎You smiled. “But you’re wearing both.”

‎

‎He glanced at his outfit, then back at you. “Touché.”

‎

‎The meeting was casual at first—small talk, compliments, the usual back-and-forth. But when the producer came in and asked about concept direction, everything shifted. You became serious. Jiyong noticed. You weren’t just a voice— you were a storyteller. You talked about wanting the album to explore duality. Beauty and bitterness. Love and loneliness. And he listened. Closely.

‎

‎Halfway through the meeting, you offered a melody idea you’d written last night at 2 a.m., and Jiyong stopped scrolling his phone. He leaned in, asking to hear it again. Then again. Then he pulled his pen out and started writing beside you.

‎

‎That was the beginning.

‎

‎Not of the album.

‎

‎Of the collaboration.

‎

‎Of the story that would span four years and seventeen unreleased tracks.

‎

‎Of the thing no one else knew.

‎

‎Of the thing that would one day haunt Track Seventeen.

‎

‎Flashback: Late 2012 — YG Studio Rooftop, 1:43 AM

‎

��"You didn’t have to stay,” you told him, the cold air biting your cheeks as you sipped your convenience store coffee. “You could’ve gone home.”

‎

‎Jiyong shrugged beside you, hoodie pulled up, eyes squinting out at the dark city skyline. “Could say the same to you.”

‎

‎Silence settled—comfortable, stretched between the buzz of caffeine and the high from a night of recording. You didn’t look at him, but you felt him watching you.

‎

‎He said it so casually, like it wasn’t going to change everything.

‎

‎“I think I like you.”

‎

‎You turned your head, blinked. “You think?”

‎

‎He smiled, lazy and slow. “Fine. I know.”

‎

‎Flashback: Early 2013 — Jiyong’s Car, Late Night Drive

‎

‎No cameras. No stylists. No producers.

‎

‎Just you, him, and the quiet sound of your unreleased demo playing through his speakers. Your hand was in his lap, fingers interlocked, like it had always been that way.

‎

‎“We’ll keep it between us, yeah?” he said softly, almost like he was asking for permission.

‎

‎You nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. Not because you were ashamed—never that. But the world wasn’t kind to private things. Especially not when they bloomed between two public people.

‎

‎Flashback: Summer 2014 — Somewhere in Europe

‎

‎A getaway between tour dates. You two tucked away in a barely-used cabin in the south of France, rented under fake names.

‎

‎There were no reporters. No staff. Just wine, sunburned shoulders, your laughter echoing off stone walls, and the sound of Jiyong humming in the shower.

‎

‎That night, he wrote a song called “Sunlight Thief” after watching you dance barefoot across the wooden floor in nothing but one of his shirts.

‎

‎You kissed him before he could finish the chorus.

‎

‎Flashback: 2016 — Right Before the Breakup

‎

‎A hotel room in Tokyo. The air smelled like room service and exhaustion.

‎

‎He stood by the window, hands on his hips, head bowed.

‎

‎“You’re leaving for the US tour,” he said. “And I’ve got comeback prep.”

‎

‎“Yeah.”

‎

‎“And after that…?” he asked, voice a little too soft.

‎

‎You didn’t answer. You both knew the truth.

‎

‎It wasn’t love that was the problem.

‎

‎It was time. The lack of it. The demands that came from being artists first and lovers second.

‎

‎So you hugged him that night like it was a goodbye.

‎

‎Because it was.

‎

‎Back to Present — 2025

‎

‎Nobody ever knew.

‎

‎There were no scandals. No blurry airport photos. No soft dispatch reveals.

‎

‎Just seventeen tracks no one had ever heard.

‎

‎Until now.

‎

‎Until Track Seventeen dropped, and the world heard Kwon Jiyong moan your name like it was still stuck in his throat.

‎

‎And maybe… it was.

‎

‎The Internet Explodes

‎

‎The album drops at midnight.

‎

‎By 12:03 AM, “Track Seventeen” is trending in four countries.

‎

‎By 12:07, fans are already uploading their reactions:

‎

‎“EXCUSE ME DID HE JUST MOAN A NAME IN TRACK SEVENTEEN??”

‎“IS THAT A GIRL’S NAME OR AM I DELULU??”

‎“Bro this song is literally audio porn—what is happening???”

‎“Why is this sex song lowkey romantic? I’m gonna scream.”

‎“WAIT—IS THAT [Y/N’S STAGE NAME]??? 👀👀👀”

‎

‎And then... someone posts a side-by-side audio clip.

‎

‎Your voice in a 2014 demo run—breathy, soft, unmistakable.

‎

‎And Jiyong’s moan at the bridge of Track Seventeen.

‎

‎The tone. The syllables. The way his voice cracks just slightly.

‎

‎It matches.

‎

‎You’re trending before sunrise. Tagged in every post. Your latest Instagram photo flooded with comments like:

‎

‎“TELL US YOU WERE THE MUSE WITHOUT TELLING US 😭🔥”

‎“How do you FEEL about being immortalized in track seventeen?? 👀”

‎“Did y’all hear the lyrics? The way he said ‘lace on your spine’ and ‘arched like my prayers were answered’—ma’am.”

‎“It was NOT just a collab back in the day I fear.”

‎

‎Some fans are joking. Some are practically FBI agents. And some—some are simply streaming the song on repeat, hopelessly obsessed with the smutty, almost too intimate detail in every line.

‎

‎You — 7:22 AM

‎

‎You’re sitting in bed. Phone in your lap. Head spinning.

‎

‎You didn’t sleep. How could you?

‎

‎The moment you saw the title on the tracklist, your heart dropped. You knew.

‎

‎And when you heard it—really heard it—when his voice dropped into that soft, sultry rasp and you heard your name whispered like a secret between teeth…

‎

‎You almost dropped your phone.

‎

‎Your body remembered things your heart tried to forget.

‎

‎The lyrics?

‎

‎They weren’t metaphor. They were memory.

‎

‎The lace? That black backless dress you wore in Paris.

‎The moans? That one night in Jeju.

‎The last chorus? “Even now, I write you into every rhythm I ruin.”

‎

‎God. You were ruined.

‎

‎And now the world knew—maybe not everything. But enough.

‎

‎Enough to make you want to text him.

‎

‎Enough to make you scared that maybe… he left that track open for you.

‎

‎And worst of all—enough to make you want to reply.

‎

‎To: Kwon Jiyong

‎[Sent at 7:43 AM]

‎

‎I listened to the album.

‎I wasn’t going to say anything, honestly. I figured we were past this—past us. But then Track Seventeen played. And Jiyong… you know what you did.

‎You moaned my name.

‎You didn’t even try to hide it.

‎I know that song. Not just the lyrics. I remember it—the breathless laughter, the lace on the hotel floor, the way your voice sounded right against my ear when you said you’d write a song about that night. I thought you were joking.

‎I don’t know if I should be mad or… touched. Probably both.

‎‎But if this is your way of reaching out—if this was for me—then you should’ve just called.

‎‎Or maybe you knew I’d hear it.

‎‎You always did know how to get my attention.

‎‎– You know who

‎

‎From: Kwon Jiyong

‎[Sent at 8:11 AM]

‎

‎I wasn’t sure you’d listen.

‎‎I wasn’t sure you’d recognize it.

‎But I guess I was wrong on both.

‎‎I didn’t write Track Seventeen for the charts, or for the label. Hell, I didn’t even write it for the fans.

‎I wrote it because I couldn’t keep it in anymore. You’ve been stuck in every chord, every half-finished lyric, every rough cut I’ve made since 2016.

‎‎I didn’t say your name to start drama. I said your name because no other one fit. No other name could’ve pulled that sound out of me, or that memory out of the dark. That night—it’s ours. And the track had to be ours, too.

‎‎I wanted you to hear it and know.

‎That I still remember.

‎That I’m still haunted.

‎If you’re willing, I’d like to see you. Just talk. No pressure, no expectations. Just… two artists who know each other too well, sitting in a studio again.

‎‎But if you say no, I’ll understand.

‎‎I just needed you to know—I meant every second of that song.

‎

‎The Award Show – Present Day

‎The lights are blinding, the crowd is roaring, and your heart pounds like it’s trying to escape your chest. You’re standing in the green room after your stage performance, still glowing from the adrenaline—and from the fact that he’s here tonight. Kwon Jiyong.

‎

‎You haven’t seen him in years. Not since you slipped out of his apartment in 2016 with his kiss still drying on your skin.

‎

‎You’d seen the announcement earlier—he’d be performing. You hadn’t expected him to perform that song.

‎

‎And yet, when the beat of Track Seventeen dropped halfway through his set, the entire arena stopped breathing. The sensual beat. The heavy, hungry lyrics. The way he moaned your name—drawn out and unapologetic. You felt like the whole industry just turned to you.

‎

‎Now, as you try to slip out of the venue unnoticed, a hand catches your wrist.

‎

‎You freeze.

‎

‎You already know who it is.

‎

‎“Running again?” His voice is soft, teasing—but there's a heat simmering just below it.

‎

‎You turn slowly. He looks unfairly good in his tailored black suit, shirt undone just enough to reveal the tattoo that peaks beneath his collarbone.

‎

‎You force a breath. “Didn’t think you’d catch me this time.”

‎

‎He smiles—that smile. The one that used to pull the air right out of your lungs. “You dropped a whole album and disappeared. You really thought a moaned name wouldn’t get your attention?”

‎

‎You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. “Subtlety was never your strong suit.”

‎

‎“I wasn’t trying to be subtle,” he says, stepping closer. His fingers graze your hip, light but claiming. “I wanted you to feel it.”

‎

‎“And I did,” you whisper. “I felt everything.”

—

Author's note: so yea this fic is just basically jiyong moaning your name in an unreleased track

‎

‎

‎

[happy-lemon]

There's just somethin' 'bout you I know, started centuries ago, though, you see, your kiss is like a lost ghost, only I would know. ~ Ke$ha, 2012

Nine was skeptical. I mean, the whole story strains credulity, but Etta believed, and that bore weight.

"Tell me something only my wife would know about me," he said. "Something not even the kids would know."

"The first song you wrote was called 9 Train to San Myshuno, and it was deeply terrible," I said. "You were going for an improvisational jazz vibe and it was just a cacophonous mess. I was the only person, thank the gods, who ever heard it."

"Okay, now I want to hear that song," Etta said, but Nine ignored her as he closed the gap between us.

He took my hands in his and touched his forehead to mine. "I'm afraid to believe it's really you. I don't think I can survive another heartbreak."

"I defied the will of the universe to come back to you," I said. "In any lifetime—in every lifetime—I will always find you."

As he took me in his arms and kissed me in a way that was both deeply familiar and infinitely thrilling, there were still questions without answers. And I'd lived two lives that needed to be distilled into one. But all of that could wait because my soul was reunited with its mate. I was home.

[seilnakyle]

if you know any, could you give us some fun facts about selina's character?

Yes always always! I’ll try to give some that most people wouldn’t know;

“Catwoman”, created in 1940, would be a recurring Batman and Detective Comics character for 10 whole years before we would learn her name was Selina Kyle! We first see her name put to ink in the year 1950 in Batman #62 where Bill Finger gives her the first Catwoman origin,

THEN five years later, we find out this is actually a lie in Brave and The Bold #197, the issue where Golden Age Batcat get married

A couple more fun facts abt Golden age Selina, her parents were never named, but we know her father ran a pet shop, (something golden age Selina would also do)

She had two siblings and neither of them were Maggie, the first is her brother Karl Kyle “Cat King” whom we meet in Batman #69

And the second is her sister Felicia Kyle who we see very briefly in Brave and the Bold #176

Selina once wrote a book that apparently did pretty well! Batman #197

Selina uses a whip as her main weapon for a few reasons, one of them is because you have to be trained to use it effectively, and so it can’t be turned against her. Another more dark reason, is because she used to get regular belt whippings from the teachers at Seagate

Catwoman (1993) #0

Otto is one of Selina’s most curious cats, he appears in Batman Year one, climbing all over Selina for attention, and then going to check out the explosions across the street! He gets himself in a situation as cats are known to do, and is almost shot, but Bruce protects him and punishes the one who tried hurt him. Otto runs back to mama afterwards, and I can imagine Batman’s kindness towards the kitty peaked Selina’s interest….

The fun fact part? Years later in Legends of the Dark Knight (2012) #48, Damian Wayne saves the same cat! 🖤

One of Selina’s alter egos or aliases is “Elva Barr” which she first uses in Batman #15

And post crisis in Batman Incorporated (2011) #1 she uses it as an alias for public dates with Bruce, which I soo think should get brought back!!

Selina (and Bruce) like Jazz 🎷

Catwoman (2002) #32

[littlefanficprincess]

Below The Surface

Tmnt 2012 x (Fem) reader

2k

Synopsis: The turtles reunite with a childhood friend.

(A/n): The timeline is changed a bit, they are let out to the surface for the first time but before April was kidnapped.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Moving to a new place is not something you can used to easily, especially a big city like New York. It wouldn't be surprising that parents would lose their child on the first day.

"Ow..." A small voice mumbles as a girl falls on her arms and legs, her shoes, socks and (skirt/shorts) were soaked by the sewer water.

The four years old had tripped into an uncovered manhole and fell in. Who would even leave open a manhole like that?

"You shouldn't have gone up there, what if master Splinter finds out?"

"It was only a peek, he won't know a thing"

"Wait, what was that noise?"

"It was coming from over there"

(Y/n) pushes herself off the ground, trying to shake the water out of her shoes. She squints her big (e/c) eyes when she sees four sillouettes heading her way. They were a bit shorter than her.

When they get close enough, the light escaping through the manhole illuminate their forms. Short humanoid green creatures black eyes, slight differences between them. They looked like they were straight out of an alien movie, but just with shells instead.

"What is that thing?" One with a bandaid on its cheek asks, disgust on its face."It looks like us, is that fur coming out of its head?" The tallest one observes.

"We shouldn't go near, it could be dangerous" The plain looking one warns the others.

"So cool!" The one with freckles smiles, didn't seem to be listening. He approaches the girl with curiosity "What are you?"

(Y/n) tilts her head as he leaned in closer. "I am a human, nice to meet you...turtles?"

"It can talk!" The bandaged turtle yells, pointing at her. They haven't seen any other species beside the rat that had cared for them since before they could even remember.

Then it was the tall turtle that began walking up to her. He stands behind her, pulling on her hair. He watches as her head would slightly tilt back as he pulled.

"Ow, that hurts" (Y/n) complains, pulling away from his grip. "It's not fur, it's hair"

"Hair...interesting" The tall turtle mumbles in amazement.Hesitation leaves the bandaged one's mind, deciding to join his brothers.

"Wait, Raph–" The plaine turtle calls out, but was ignored. First they break the 'no going to the surface' rule and now they are interacting with a 'you-man'.

'Raph' scowls, eyeing the human child. "Are all of you 'you-mans' this ugly?" He questions, poking at her cheek. "Why is it so squishy?"

The remaining turtle sighs as he realised he failed to get his brothers to listen to him. He follows after, standing next to the others. He judges aside Raph, looking straight into the girl's eyes. "Your eyes" he mentions.

His words catches the attention of the turtle with freckles. He leans over, looking at her eyes aswell. (Y/n) just saw two pair of black beady ones. "They're pretty! Like that big shiny rock master Splinter has"

"It's called a gemstone, Mikey" The turtle next to him corrects him.

"Gemstones, I like it!" Freckle throws his arms around (Y/n)'s shoulder, rubbing his cheek against hers. "Can we keep it, I will care for it real good!"

"I'm not a pet, you know" (Y/n) pouts, crossing her arms.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes"

"We can't, we have already been away for too long" Plaine argues.

"Leonardo, Donatello, Raphael, Michelangelo?" They hear someone calls out.

In a flash, the turtles had dissapeared. (Y/n) looks around confused, wondering where they went. She looks back up the manhole opening, seeing a ladder on the wall below.

Not having much choice, she climbed up it. She snuck out of the alleyway, being met with the sunlight. She was soon found by her parents, her dads didn't believe her story about talking turtles. They wrote it off as it being her imagination.

┏━°⌜ 赤い糸 ⌟°━┓

Timeskip

┗━°⌜ 赤い糸 ⌟°━┛

Then twelve years later, (Y/n) lays awake in her bed. Everytime she closed her eyes, she finds them open again. She gives up trying to sleep and gets out of bed.

She opens the door to her balcony and takes a seat on her balcony. She looks up at the sky, she would see stars if the air wasn't so polluted. She squints her eyes when she sees something on the roof of the building that was in the other side of the street.

(Y/n) gets up and leans on the railing, trying to get a good look. Were those...turtles? Each wearing a different colored badana, blue, purple, red and finally orange.

The shortest turtle stops in place, turning towards her. The two make eye contact, both not moving an inch. She hears one of the other turtles call out to him, so he runs off.

'Those guys were real this whole time. I'm not hallucinating, right? Are they ninja now? Would they remember me? Probably not'

┏━°⌜ 赤い糸 ⌟°━┓

Timeskip

┗━°⌜ 赤い糸 ⌟°━┛

(Y/n)'s eyes snap open when she hears knocking on her window. She pushes aside the curtain to see the shortest turtle hanging upside infront of her window.

She gets up from her bed and opens the door to her balcony. She watches as he lands on the balcony, a big smile on his face. She barely gets time to react as he pulls her into a tight hug.

"Gemstone! I thought I'd never see you again" He says, excitedly. Then letting go of her, bouncing up and down.

"You still remember me?" (Y/n) says surprised. She regonised as the turtle with freckles, his skin was more on the lime side compared to his brothers.

The turtles grabs her face, squishing her cheeks. "How could I forgot this cute face. Also I remember you by your eyes, so shiny like gemstones" He cooes.

(Y/n) graps his three fingered hands, pulling them down, but not letting go. "You have a great memory. My name is (Y/n), nice to meet you"

"The name is Michelangelo" He steps back, pulling out a pair of nunchucks and spinning it around. "But most people call me Mikey" His eyes suddenly light up, getting an idea. "What if I bring you to lair, I can't wait to see their reactions"

Looking back into her room, the girl thinks. "My dads aren't home, so they won't notice... It couldn't hurt, right" She slightly shrugs her shoulders.

She watches as he turns around and hunges over. "Get on!" Hesitantly, (Y/n) does as he says and climbs onto his back. She grips tightly his shoulders as he holds her legs. She tries her best to not scream her head off as Mikey jumps off the balcony and onto the next roof.

┏━°⌜ 赤い糸 ⌟°━┓

Timeskip

┗━°⌜ 赤い糸 ⌟°━┛

Quietly, Mikey leads (Y/n) into lair. She hides behind his shell as he shuffle towards his room. His brothers didn't pay too much attention to him. Leo was watching a tv show, Donnie was in his lab and Raph was reading something.

The turtles and his human friend sneak into the bedroom. (Y/n) tenses up when the foul smell of dirty clothes and moldy food hit her nose, it was definitely worse than the smell of the sewers.

"I'll be right back, gotta do something real quick. stay here" Mikey says, as if he was he talking to a dog. He slowly walks out and closes the door behind.

(Y/n) looks at the mess covering the bedroom. She folded the dirty underwear, questioning why he would even wear them.

Raphael eyes his brother as Mikey walks out of his room. He hears something coming from the room, sounding like things being moved. It couldn't be any of his brothers, meaning there was an intruder.

He gets up from the couch, pulling out one of his sai. He strolls over to Mikey's room, slowly opening the door. There he finds a girl, folding clothing. She didn't seem to have heard him. He puts the sai towards her. "What do you think you're doing here?" He questions her.

Flinching at the unfamiliar voice, (Y/n) realises she had been caught. She slightly turns her, looking who was standing behind her.

A turtle, a bit taller than Mikey. He wore a dark red bandana, which was a bit tattered. There was a small crack in the front of his shell, makes (Y/n) connect him with the turtle who had a bandaid on their cheek. Then she notices the weapon he had pointed her. "Um...I come on peace" She akwardly smiles.

-

Walking out of Mikey's room was Raph, pointing his weapon at a girl who was walking infront of him. "Look at what I found doing laundry in Mikey's garbage dump".

Leo looks away from the Tv, wondering what his brother was talking about. His face turn to surprise and then to fear "A human!?".

"Apparently Mikey got followed back here, not sure why you would good his underwear" Raph mutters, poking the girl's back with his sai.

The door lab opens, revealing Donnie. He pulls his goggles from his eyes, putting it on his forhead. "What is going on, I heard yelling" He looks at Lei, than Raph and then... "A human!?" He puts his hands over his mouth, realising that he could've alerted master Splinter.

"That's what I'm asking"

(Y/n) holds up her hands, trying to not get stabbed. "Listen, there is a good explanation for this"

A door slams open and Mikey comes running in. He stand between (Y/n) and his brothers, waving his arms. "Guys, guys, it's chill. It's just gemstone"

"Gemstone?" Donatello repeats, confused. He cautiously approaches.

"You mean the one we found in the sewers when we were little?" Leo asks, getting up himself. (Y/n) suspected him being the plain one and the tall one, being the tall one obviously.

Mikey crosses his arm, with a proud expression on his face. "The one and only" He brags, smiling.

Now being surrounded by the four turtles, (Y/n) realises how much they have grown. When she first met them, they were a bit smaller. But now they were almost towering over her.

Suddenly she feels a tug at her head, making her head tilt back. She realises it was one with the purple bandana, just like when they were little. "Ow, it's not fur..."

Donnie's eyes widen at her words. "...it's hair" He finishes the sentence. "Yeah, alright. It's her" He admits, feeling the texture of her hair.

"Anyways, my name is (Y/n). It's nice to meet you all again" (Y/n) introduces herself, fiddling with her sleeves.

The turtle with blue bandana places his hand on his chest. "I'm Leonardo, the one pulling your hair right now is Donatello and the angry looking one is Raphael, you already seem pretty familiar with Mikey"

"What is going on here?" Everyone seem to freeze when they hear master Splinter's voice. They turn to see him, looking stern at them.

"Sensei, I–" Leo tries to explain, but his defenses seem to melt away when he sees his father's gaze. Him and Raph step aside to reveal (Y/n).

"I let you go to the surface and you being back a human?" Master Splinter says, infuriated by his sons' decision.

Before any of the turtles could speak, (Y/n) steps forward. "Please, don't get angry at them, sir. It's not their fault. I had accidentally fallen into a manhole and wandered my way here, they were trying to get me out". The four brothers look surprised at her, not expecting her to lie for them.

The humanoid rat looks down at her, stroking his thin beard. "I must admit, taking the blame for them is quite honorable. But falling into the sewers is something you usually don't do twice".

"Twice? Wait, you knew?" Leonardo asks him.

"I have keen sense of smell and hearing, also you are pretty loud" Master Splinter explains, looking at (Y/n) once again. "Do you promise to keep our existence a secret from the rest of the world".

(Y/n) nods, looking up at him with a determined expression on her face"I won't tell a soul".

Master Splinter smiles, knowing that he could trust the girl. "Then you are welcome to reside here when you see as needed"

"Oh yeah!" Mikey cheer, pumping his fist. The other three couldn't help, but also be happy she gets to stay.

Their first human friend, reunited with them once again.

[meropeeonmee]

CHAPTER 1: THE LEAK

Description: A leaked demo reignites the internet’s obsession with a pop star’s rumored romance with an NFL quarterback—and exposes the heartbreak they both tried to bury.

Authors note: I definitely see Fernanda’s teenage phase being filled with Olivia Rodrigo-type songs, which is why I chose one of those as one of the first songs she “wrote.” She would get messier as she grows up—pop culture back then was messy AF, and we all know it.

Ps: The guy she is dating recently in this chapter is not joe 👀

Have any thoughts you’d like to share? Just head to my account and click ‘Share Your Thoughts’, I’d love to hear your insights and suggestions!”

PREVIOUS CHAPTER !

MASTERLIST

2012 - 2014 | Her journey entering the music industry

Fernanda Letrán was seventeen now. A name just starting to echo in the right rooms. A voice that was becoming less of a local secret and more of an online fascination. She was writing full songs. Spending weekends in a real studio. Trying not to lose her head over the word “debut.”

But if you told her fifteen-year-old self—hell, even her nine-year-old self stomping through the living room in rhinestone boots—that she’d be making an actual album? She’d laugh. And then believe you.

Because even back then, the dream wasn’t just a dream. It was hers. Messy, impossible, delusional—but fully, stubbornly hers.

She never saw herself becoming famous. She didn’t grow up obsessed with the spotlight, didn’t dream of red carpets or magazine covers. She just wanted to be heard. Maybe get a degree, teach music, sing at open mics on Friday nights. Quiet, happy. Uncomplicated.

She wasn’t supposed to be known. She just wanted to exist—loudly, maybe. But nothing more.

Until Talent Night.

It was 2012, and she was fifteen. Sophomore year. The school was hosting its annual fundraising show—Class Acts: A Christmas Night Special, or something equally tacky—and it had the same predictable chaos every year.

Girls in glittery reindeer antlers dancing to “Jingle Bell Rock.” Boys in varsity jackets performing ironic rap sets about how school was killing their creativity. A magician with nerves and a lopsided hat.

Fernanda didn’t plan to join. Not until Ava dared her to. “Come on, sing Beyoncé. Shut the whole place down.”

So she did.

She walked onto that creaky auditorium stage in a borrowed dress and trembling flats, clutching the mic like it might electrocute her.

And then she started singing.

Love On Top.

Not the easy version. The full vocal marathon—modulations and all. She cracked on the third key change, but no one cared. She was beaming. Beaming like it was the most alive she’d ever felt. Like her voice was pulling light out of the room.

By the final note, her classmates were on their feet. Phones in the air. The kind of reaction that sticks in your ribs forever.

Someone posted the video on YouTube that night. Just shaky footage from a Nokia. It got 90,000 views in less than a month.

She ignored the first email that came in—a scout from L.A. saying he “saw something in her.” Weird. Probably fake. Delete.

But then came a second one. This time from a small-but-legit record label just ten minutes from her town. No promises. Just: We’d love to hear more from you.

That was the shift. The click.

She showed the email to her mom, who read it twice and whispered, “But you��re still finishing school.” Classic.

But Fernanda knew something had changed. She started writing after classes. Recording on weekends. Doing homework on the studio floor.

She was fifteen, and her world suddenly felt way too small.

Two years later—July 7, 2014—she’d release Burnbook Baby, an album made of teenage chaos and glittery spite.

But here, in this flashback moment, she’s just a girl in a quiet bedroom.

Staring at an email.

Wearing headphones.

Rewinding that Beyoncé bridge for the third time.

And letting herself believe—for the first time ever—

Maybe I’m actually good at this.

—

December 2012 | Morning after the talent night

The hallway buzzed the way it always did on Monday mornings—half-asleep sneakers scuffing tile, locker doors slamming, gum smacking louder than it needed to. But something about this Monday was different.

Fernanda felt it before she heard it. That slow, shifting energy. The way people turned to look twice. Not in a mean way. Just… curious. Like they were noticing her for the first time.

She was halfway to her locker when someone called out—

“Yo, Fernanda!”

She turned. It was Jason Meyer from 10th grade. She barely knew him, but there he was, grinning and holding up his iPod Touch like it was evidence.

“You snapped on that Beyoncé cover,” he said. “Saw it on YouTube last night. My sister sent it to me—she thought you were, like, on The X Factor or something.”

Fern blinked. “Wait, what?”

Jason nodded. “You’re at, like, thirty thousand views. Probably more now.”

Before she could even respond, two other students passed her and whispered, not exactly quietly—

“That’s the girl from the video.”

“She did Love On Top, right?”

Another girl—Claire something, one of the juniors who wore winged eyeliner like armor—actually stopped her near the stairwell.

“Hey,” Claire said. “That was insane. You seriously sounded better than half the girls on the radio.”

Fern fumbled for something to say. “Thanks… I guess?”

“You should, like, get signed or something.”

The words landed heavy. They echoed longer than they should’ve.

By the time she made it to her locker, her palms were sweaty and her brain was buzzing like she just drank three Red Bulls.

And then—

“You’re walking like you’ve been nominated for a Grammy,” came a voice behind her.

Fernanda turned to find Ava, holding a too-sweet iced coffee and wearing that I-know-everything-about-you smirk she always had.

“Not funny,” Fern muttered, fumbling with her locker combo.

“You’re basically famous.”

“I have thirty thousand views. That’s not famous.”

“In this school it is.” Ava leaned against the locker beside hers. “I mean, you’re already a hallway legend. People are saying you might, like, go somewhere with this.”

“‘Go somewhere’ is so vague it hurts.”

“I’m serious!” Ava said. “This could be it. The beginning. The movie montage moment. Fame. Fortune. Breakdown. Comeback. Oscars.”

Fern shot her a look. “I’m not even wearing mascara.”

“Exactly. You’re raw. Authentic. You’re in your Lana Del Rey Tumblr era and it hasn’t even started yet.”

Fern laughed, but quietly. It was all too much. Too weird. She didn’t hate it. But she didn’t quite know what to do with it, either.

—

December 2012 | Kitchen table, late evening

The email sat open on the cracked screen of Fernanda’s phone. Subject line: We’d love to meet you.

She stared at it for a long time, her heart doing that thing it did when she performed—loud and hard and fast. She hadn’t told anyone yet. Not even Ava. Not even her little brother, who liked to stand outside her door and listen to her sing like it was a podcast.

She picked up the phone and quietly slid it across the kitchen table.

Her mom was wiping down the counter in her robe, humming something low under her breath. She glanced over, then dried her hands and picked up the phone.

“What’s this?”

“Just read it.”

She did. Her eyes moved slowly, carefully, like she didn’t want to misread something important.

When she finished, she set the phone down.

“They saw your performance?”

Fernanda nodded. “Someone posted the video, and it just… kind of blew up. I didn’t think anything would come out of it, but… this is the second email I’ve gotten. This one’s real. They’re local. They want to meet.”

Her mom stayed quiet for a beat.

“Do you want to go?”

“I think I do.” She bit her lip. “I really, really do.”

Her mom pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.

“You know we believe in you, right? Always have. Your dad and I, we’ve seen it. The way you light up when you sing. The way you shut your door and stay up writing songs until midnight when you think no one hears. We hear you, Fern.”

Fernanda blinked fast. She didn’t expect that part to sting.

“But you also have to understand,” her mom said gently, “this kind of opportunity—it’s not a guarantee. There are a million talented girls out there chasing the same thing. Some of them have been chasing it for years. And even with the talent, and the voice, and the heart… most don’t make it.”

Fernanda looked down at her chipped nail polish.

“I know.”

“I’m not saying you won’t,” her mom continued. “I’m saying… dream big. But don’t lose the rest of your life in the process. You still have school. You still have your future. You don’t have to give everything up for this. If it’s meant for you, it’ll make space.”

Fernanda’s throat tightened.

“I’m not trying to get famous,” she whispered. “I just… want to try.”

Her mom reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“Then try. We’ll figure it out. But I’m serious—straight A’s don’t disappear just because a studio noticed you. You still need to be able to stand on your own, with or without a mic.”

Fernanda smiled, finally. A little teary, but lit up from the inside.

“Deal,” she said.

Her mom smiled back. “Good. Now go finish your math homework. You’re not going to that meeting looking dumb.”

Fernanda was curled up in bed, hugging her pillow like it might keep her grounded. Her room was dark, lit only by the soft blue glow of her fairy lights and the bright screen of her phone. Ava’s face appeared, grainy and too close to the camera.

“What’s the emergency?” Ava asked. “I was halfway through my geometry breakdown.”

“I got another email.”

Ava blinked. “From who? The weird scam guy again?”

“No. A real studio,” Fern said, holding her phone up like it was radioactive. “Here. In town. They saw my Talent Night video. They want to meet.”

There was a beat of silence. Then—

Ava screamed. Loud. Piercing. “FERNANDA.”

“Shhh!” Fern hissed, glancing at her bedroom door. “My mom just went to sleep!”

“I don’t care, you’re gonna be famous,” Ava whisper-screamed. “Oh my God. This is it. This is how it starts. This is the opening scene of your documentary!”

Fern buried her face in the pillow. “Don’t say that. I’m already spiraling.”

“Spiral upward, babe.”

“I’m serious. What if I go and they hate me? What if I open my mouth and sound like a goat?”

“You don’t sound like a goat. You sound like Beyoncé’s rebellious niece.”

Fern snorted. “Stop.”

“Start packing your bags for the Grammys. I’ll come as your plus-one and cry dramatically in the crowd when you win Best Breakup Anthem.”

Fern went quiet for a second, her voice softer now. “I’m scared, Ava. What if I’m not ready?”

“Okay,” Ava said gently, “but what if you are?”

Fern swallowed.

“Besides,” Ava added, “you’ve been doing this forever. Since third grade talent shows. Since you made me harmonize with you at recess when I couldn’t even sing.”

“You still can’t,” Fern mumbled.

“Rude. But true.”

Fern smiled, biting the edge of her thumb.

“I’m gonna do it,” she said suddenly. “I’m actually gonna go.”

Ava’s eyes widened. “Okay. Okay! Fernanda, this is insane.”

Fern laughed. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“When I get famous… like, real famous… don’t let me turn into one of those stuck-up girls who only drinks coconut water and forgets who her best friend is.”

Ava grinned. “Please. I’m gonna be the one blackmailing you with cringey screenshots and old photos.”

Then softer:

“Just… don’t forget me when you get famous, okay?”

Fern’s chest ached in the best way. “Never. You’re coming with me.”

“Good. Because I already picked my red carpet dress.”

They both dissolved into laughter. And under it all, Fern felt it — that strange, electric hum in her bones that whispered:

This is where everything starts.

—

December 2012 | A week after receiving the email

The office looked like it used to be a dentist’s clinic. There were scuff marks on the walls, a dying plant in the corner, and a couch that squeaked every time she shifted. Still, Fernanda sat with her back straight and her best jeans on — the ones with the rhinestones on the back pockets. Her mom sat beside her, purse clutched in her lap like they were waiting for test results.

The door opened with a ding, and in walked Greg.

Button-down, untucked. Coffee in hand. Slightly frazzled, in that too-many-open-tabs kind of way.

“You must be Fernanda,” he said, grinning wide, eyes kind.

She nodded, stood, shook his hand like she’d Googled how to do it. Firm. One pump. Smile, don’t stare.

“I’ve been watching that video of you singing Beyoncé all week,” he said, guiding them into the conference room. “My wife said she cried. She never cries.”

Fern flushed. “Thank you. That night was… kinda crazy.”

“It went viral on someone’s mom’s Facebook,” he laughed. “We had it sent to us by three separate interns. That’s not nothing.”

Inside, the conference room was cramped, walls lined with faded vinyls and one framed Paramore poster. On the table sat a blue folder. She eyed it.

The contract.

Her stomach flipped.

Greg sat down across from her and opened his laptop. “Okay, so here’s what I see: You’ve got tone. You’ve got phrasing. You’ve got eyes that look like you mean what you sing. You’re young, which means you’ve got time to evolve. But you’ve also got urgency — like if you don’t sing this stuff, your head might explode.”

He looked at her directly.

“That’s rare. And I want it on this label.”

Her mom cleared her throat. “We’re… obviously new to all this.”

Greg nodded, patient. “Of course. We’re a small label. No promises of superstardom here. But we do development. Voice training. Cowriting. You’ll learn. And if you’re serious, I want to start you now.”

He slid the folder across the table. Her name was typed across the front.

FERNANDA LETRÁN — DEVELOPMENT CONTRACT.

She stared at it.

This wasn’t a dream anymore.

She reached out, hand trembling slightly, and flipped the cover open.

Greg grinned. “It’s the smallest big decision of your life.”

—

February 2013 | Bedroom, late evening

She wasn’t planning on writing a song that night.

She just couldn’t sleep. Her head was still replaying the afternoon in his car — feet on the dashboard, his hand lazily brushing her thigh as he hummed some country song she didn’t know the words to. He said she looked cute in his hoodie. She nearly ascended.

Now here she was: 15, sprawled on her bedroom floor in that same hoodie, knees bent, ponytail messy, heart full. Her notebook was open on her lap, lined paper already full of scribbles, Sharpie hearts, and doodled “F + ??” in the corner.

She was supposed to be writing a verse for vocal coaching.

Instead, she whispered into her phone mic:

“Drivin’ on the right-side road… he says I’m pretty wearin’ his clothes…”

She paused. Grinned.

God, that was good.

She wrote like she was high on sugar and butterflies. Like her chest was full of helium. Every word came faster than the last — no overthinking, just feeling. Giggling every time she got too honest.

“And he laughs at all my jokes…”

“Says I’m so American…”

“Oh God, I’m gonna marry him if he keeps this shit up…”

She clapped a hand over her mouth. Too much. Way too much.

But she didn’t stop.

Because it was real. She’d never felt like this before — this giddy, this soft, this bold. The way he looked at her when she corrected his grammar. The way he kissed her shoulder at red lights. The way he texted her “you make me nervous” and she thought she might explode.

This wasn’t a breakup song.

It was a pre-wedding fantasy. It was dumb. It was messy. It was hers.

By 1:17 a.m., she had a full demo.

She recorded it under a blanket in her closet, whisper-singing into her earbuds, blushing at her own lyrics like a character in a coming-of-age movie.

She titled the voice memo:

so american demo lol dont listen

And immediately sent it to Ava.

Fern: wdyt???

ava: wait are you IN LOVE??

fern: maybe. shut up.

ava: drop it rn before someone else writes it first.

—

March 2013 | Record label studio meeting

The office smelled like burnt coffee and printer paper. Fernanda sat on the couch with her knees pulled up, laptop open on her lap, fingers hovering over the trackpad like it might explode. Her heart thudded.

Greg — her A&R — sat behind the desk in a hoodie and headphones around his neck, checking email with one hand and balancing a Red Bull in the other. Chill. Too chill.

“You look like you’re about to confess to a murder,” he said without looking up.

“I kind of am.”

He raised an eyebrow.

Fern shifted. “I made a song. Like, on my own. In my closet. Don’t judge the audio—like, seriously, I sang it into my old Apple headphones and the fan was on and it’s not EQ’d or anything—”

“Fern.”

“What.”

“Just play the damn thing.”

She swallowed and hit the spacebar.

The room filled with the muffled heartbeat of the demo. The guitar was looped from GarageBand. The vocals were slightly too loud. There was a pause after the second chorus where she forgot the lyrics and whispered “shit” under her breath before going on.

But still—

And he says I’m so American / Oh God, I’m gonna marry him…

Greg didn’t move.

Not when the song stuttered. Not when her voice cracked. He just leaned back slowly in his chair, one hand over his mouth, watching her like he was seeing her for the first time.

When it ended, Fern quickly said, “It’s dumb, I know, it’s just a teenage thing—”

“Shut up.”

“…what?”

Greg pointed at her. “You’re fifteen and you wrote that by yourself?”

Fern nodded, blinking.

“Jesus Christ.”

He stood up, pacing once behind the desk. “Okay. Okay. So it’s rough. But it’s real. It’s got that ‘she’s-about-to-blow-up’ energy. That unfiltered bedroom pop angst. You’re singing like you’re in love and you’re gonna die if he doesn’t text you back. It’s perfect.”

Fern stared at him. “So… you like it?”

Greg turned to her with a grin.

“We’re recording this properly.”

Inbox: Fernanda Letrán

Subject: So American – Official Recording Session

From: Greg.MusicDept@WildHollowRecords.com

To: FernandaLetran.Official@gmail.com

Let’s cut “So American” this Friday at 4pm. Bring your notebook. Bring your chaos. If this hits right, we’re dropping it by Valentine’s Day. Let’s make your first real heartbreak anthem.

[gloromeien]

Snow Patrol

Chapters: 1/7 Fandom: Captain America (Chris Evans Movies), Captain America - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson (Marvel), Matt Murdock, Franklin "Foggy" Nelson, Frank Castle, Riley (Captain America movies) Additional Tags: Shrunkyclunks | Modern Bucky Barnes/Captain America Steve Rogers, Stucky - Freeform, Modern Bucky Barnes, Canon Divergence - Movie: The Avengers (2012), Captain America Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Protective Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Found Family, Brooklyn as a character - Freeform, Punks and jerks being punks and jerks, Fluff and Angst, Domestic Fluff, Steve being the most stubborn stubborn to ever stubborn, Touch-Starved Bucky Barnes, HEA, Happy Ending, winter vibes, Some fluff and humor too, The requisite food porn because it's me, Let me know if there's something missing and I'll add it

Summary: Brooklyn in winter is no one's favorite season. Especially for someone like the recently thawed Steve Rogers, adrift in the twenty-first century after decades on ice, searching for some people to call his own. A chance encounter on a snow-blanketed street one frosty winter night could change all that... if Steve can find a way to ingratiate himself with the gang of colossal fucking assholes who give him no end of grief while serving their community.

Notes: Beautiful friends! <3 I'm back sooner than anticipated because... drumroll, please... I wrote something short! Yes, *me*! Well, short-ish. It's 70 pages in my Word doc, and that is some kind of record. As you can see, there is a total chapter count on this post. Old dogs can learn new tricks, I tell you. ;)

Welcome, welcome to this very wintery fic that I'm now posting in springtime. Mostly so that the winter aspects will go down more smoothly than if I'd posted it in February. I cannot wait for you to meet this Steve (with extra stubborn on top), this Bucky (so freaking brave), and the crew of cranky assholes that become their family. This one is for those of you, like me, who've been out there late at night shoveling several feet of snow, wishing you had someone to help lighten the load (and make you cocoa.) So very excited for you all to read it! Seven chapters, posting once a week. <3 <3 <3

Read Chapter 1

[stevetonydatingsim]

Steve/Tony dating sim announcement & writer casting call!

The best part about a multiverse is all the different Steves and Tonys we get—and imagining them meeting. And kissing. And flirting. And maybe doing something a little spicier.

But why stick with imagining that when we can make it a reality? When we can make a Steve/Tony multiverse dating game? 

That’s right, we’re making a game and it'll be free to play! What exactly does that entail? The Steve/Tony dating sim (name TBD. We’re all ears for any ideas you have) will be a visual novel-style game that’s mostly dialogue with some simple minigames thrown in. You get to play as a Steve or Tony from one of the many universes that exist who’s thrown into a rift in reality with a bunch of other Steves and Tonys. You’ll get to decide whom to work with to invent, fight, flirt, and date your way back home. 

We’ll be sharing updates on the game development and launch on this Tumblr so make sure to follow us!

Who we are

The Steve/Tony dating sim team is made up of passionate Steve/Tony fans who have come together to write and illustrate the dating game of our dreams, coded by the wonderfully talented @v-thinks-on. You can read more about us here.

How this works

In order to make the game, we need writers for the player and love interest characters, artists for the visuals, and more. At this point, we’re looking specifically for love interest writers, but make sure to follow us as we’ll be looking for volunteers for other roles in the coming months!

Love interest writers can either work on their own or with a partner(s) to plot out and write a simple narrative arc and series of dates for a potential love interest character (a character that the player can choose to interact with and date). They construct the foundational beats for the story and dialogue for the love interest character, and they provide choices for player responses (you can indicate that the player can respond angrily, morosely, or happily to a certain line, but you’re not writing the player dialogue yourself). Later, player writers will insert responses to the existing love interest’s dialogue you wrote. It’s kind of like roleplay! 

For example, your script may look something like this:

Tony616 “So, you’re a Steve, huh” If <angry response>: Tony616 “Sorry I asked” If <happy response>: Tony616 “You’re a cheerful one, eh?” [the player gets closer to Tony616]

To get a more detailed understanding of how this works, see this guide here. We’re also happy to answer any questions, and we have a Discord server where we brainstorm and talk as a group.

Existing love interest storylines (more to come later!)

The following characters have arcs that are outlined already, and their writers are looking for a partner to collaborate with. Here are short pitches to give you a sense of each character’s emotional journey through the game.

616 Tony 

Iron Man V.1 128 Tony is newly sober for the first time and still hiding that he’s Iron Man. The player can either help Tony open up or drive him to drinking again. 

1872 Tony

Pre-canon Tony has lost faith in humanity and himself. Will the player convince him to get back on his feet? Or will he think everyone's better off with him at the bottom of a bottle?

616 Steve 

Avengers V4 Steve has just returned from the dead after his fight with his Tony about the Superhero Registration Act. He wants to trust Player, but can he?

MCU Steve

Post-2012 Avengers Steve is lost and doesn't know his place in the new century. Through his interactions with the player, he finds his home and purpose.

Don’t see a character you want to write for on this list? 

You can volunteer to write any Steve or Tony you want! In fact, we actively want more Steves and Tonys. This is a multiverse dating sim, after all, so the more the merrier. To help you choose, here is a list of universes we have writers for and available universes (if you want a universe not on this list, that means it's available)! Just contact us with the canon character you’re interested in writing for and whether you’d like to work solo or with a partner(s).

The only exceptions we have are a Steve or Tony who doesn't exist in the universe you picked (e.g., we won't accept Noir Steve as he doesn't exist in Noir) as well as Hydra Cap and Steves and Tonys who are canonically under 18 due to the nature of the game, the type of game people want to make/play, and how the game-making process works.

We don't foresee issues with other universes, particularly as we're in the "you do you"/"YKINMKATO" (your kink is not my kink and that's okay) camp when it comes to fandom. However, we'll be considering other universes on a case-by-case basis as we may not know or remember all the universes that exist. Because of this, we recommend giving more than one character option in your application if possible!

How to apply

Please email stevetonydatingsim@gmail.com with the following information:

Confirmation that you’re over 18 (just let us know you’re 18+; we’re not asking you to share personal info)

The best way(s) to contact you

What character you’d like to write for (universe and name). If you have multiple, please order by preference

Do you want to write alone or with a partner(s)?

A writing sample focusing on Steve and Tony (link or attachment), ideally with a good amount of dialogue. This doesn’t have to be a complete piece with a beginning, middle, and end; it's more to get a sense of your style and understanding of characterization, so all we ask is that it’s easy to follow. This can be something you’ve already written or you can write something new for this application. We don't have a minimum word requirement; if we need more from you, we'll let you know.

Contact us

Please don’t hesitate to contact us if you have any questions. You can reach us by email, Tumblr Messenger, askbox, Twitter DM, or Bluesky DM. Thank you!

[theyhavetakenovermylife]

Hi I love your stuff - its literally amazing

I was wondering if you could write 2012 mikey who has been sneaking out alot and his brother notice that, so they follow him and find out that he's seeing a girl (reader) and are in utter disbelief. Maybe have mikey introduce reader to them or something

Mikey’s Night Secret (Fluff)

2012!Michelangelo x reader

A/N: Thank you💚 I feel like it has been a long time since I last wrote some Mikey stuff, so here you go. Hope you’ll enjoy🧡

Warnings: None🧡

It had been happening for a few months now, that Mikey’s brothers had noticed their little brother’s strange behavior. And as time passed, it only seemed to get more and more strange.

Raph was the first to notice. Mikey was… quieter than usual. At first he thought that something was wrong, that Mikey might had been hiding something. Either something he did wrong and didn’t want anybody to know about, or something that made him sad. He just couldn’t tell. So for the first time ever, he decided it was best to ask Leo for help.

Leo and Donnie however was just as stumped as Raph, not sure what was going on with Mikey. He didn’t seem any less happier than usually, just different, and well, not fully present. He often sat with his phone, either checking it or using it. At any sound or vibration he was on it, smiling as he checked whatever had just gotten in on it. But whenever someone asked him about it, Mikey claimed that he had no idea what they were talking about, holding his phone screen close to his chest. No one believed him on that.

But it wasn’t until a few weeks ago, that they learned Mikey had started to sneak out during the night. Donnie caught him on his way from the garage lab to the kitchen, in order to make himself another cup of coffee, finding Mikey on his way out of the entrance, making cartoonish sneaking steps.

“What are you doing?”, Donnie asked, causing his little brother to jump with a small sound of surprise, staring at him in panic, sweat already pooling from his forehead, his fingers nervously tapping together.

“Nothing! Nothing”, Mikey said with a nervous laugh, his eyes jumping from one point to another. “I was just, uh… Sleepinwalk! Yeah, sleepwalking!” And just like clockwork he closed his eyes, holding his arms out in front of him, before slowly making his way to his room, mumbling the word “sleepwalking” over and over again.

Of course Donnie went straight to Leo and Raph and told him what had happened. And of course that started sending alarm bells through all of their heads.

They started to stay up for longer, seeing if they could catch Mikey trying to sneak out. Mikey, in turn, would start sneaking out at a later time. They also soon found that if Mikey wanted to sneak out, he would find a way to sneak out. If only he was as focused and determined during training or missions…

Finally, after several weeks, Leo had had enough. He was tired of Mikey avoiding questions and disappearing without any notice. It truly made him worried for his little brother’s safety. Therefore he decided it was time to follow his brother, and figure out what he was hiding from them.

All three waited in the shadows, listening and watching, waiting for Mikey to make an exit. And just like they had expected, he came out of his room when he thought that the coast was clear. They followed Mikey as he made his way out of the sewers and up over the roofs, staying just far enough back so that he wouldn’t notice them, yet close enough so they wouldn’t lose him out of sight.

They found Mikey jumping down onto a fire escape for an apartment building, where he took a look around, seeing if anybody was watching him. Leo signed for the other two to duck down, so that they were hiding behind the edge of the opposite roof, just out of his sight. Once Mikey was satisfied, believing that he was alone, he turned towards the window that led onto the fire escape, knocking softly on the glass with his knuckles. The window was quickly opened by a girl, smiling brightly when she saw Mikey.

Raph sat up straight away when he saw you, his mouth open in disbelief. There was no way. Absolutely no way. Mikey!? Mikey is seeing a girl? No, he was playing tricks on them. It couldn’t be true. But then, right in front of them, you pulled Mikey in for a close hug, before placing a sweet peck on his lips with a happy smile. This was enough to cause a reaction from all three boys.

“Mikey?!”, they yelled, causing the two young lovers to jump in surprise and stare up towards the opposite roof, seeing all of Mikey’s brothers in all different phases of disbelief. You, however, didn’t seem too shocked by this, smiling still with your arms wrapped around Mikey.

“I guess those are your brothers”, you smiled, nodding towards the three shocked turtles, staring like she just grew an extra head right in front of them.

“I knew this day would come sooner or later”, Mikey sighed, trying to suppress a small smile. He had actually been excited for the day he would be able to show you off to his family. “Guys”, Mikey called out, making sure his brothers were listening. “This is (Y/N), my girlfriend. (Y/N), these are my brothers”.

It took Mikey’s brothers a few days to get over that one.

[haza1ll]

animation for THE NEON VOIDD BABYYYY

this post is for @sugarpasteltmnt

‼️‼️MEGA YAPPING AHEAD PLEASE BEWARE‼️‼️

this might end up being really long and rambly and sappy but maybe not who knows.( it was) (and also featuring numerous spelling errors i am way too tired to fix and i am not re reading what i just wrote) SO. yknow how when chap idek..25(?) came out and i was all like “yeah so i made this animation for TNV and ill drop it when the fic ends” in your ask box? so. I FINISHED IT RAHHH. technically it has been finished since i sent that ask but ohhh my goodness did it need polishing. i haven’t animated in 4 years before that and omg it felt so good getting back into it but IDFK SOMETHING IS STILL NOT UP TO MY STANDARDS. i feel like i could have done so much more with it and i deffo wanted to but as soon as i told myself “oh yeah this is basically done” art block literally sucker punched me in the gut out of NOWHERE. I COULD NOT PICK UP MY I PAD. I COULD NOT DRAW. I WOULD STARE AT THE WIP ANIMATION AND BE UPSET BC I DDINT WANNA WORK ON IT AHH. that goes with saying. i kept having this thought in the back of my head “you need to finish it. you have a wip sitting. finish it. go do it. what are you doing are you STARTING ANOTHER PROJECT??? anddd yeah i got super distracted with other stuff and other projects and then i started spending my free time rewatching 2012 turtles and omg this summer has been a mess. i have all the free time in the world and i choose to be the least productive as possible with it even though i have a job that lets me literally sit on my phone and do whatever i want if no one is there. (i’ve brought my switch to work numerous times ☠️) what i was trying to get at is the fact that TNV has inspired a lot of the old me to come back and i lowk missed her. i really missed the point in all those words up there but im here now so whatever. BUT. TNV made me make a tumblr account, i got back in to animation AND digital art in general, got back into longfics that are ongoing, AND it also helped kickstart ideas for writing. i’ve got so many stories now!! you are such an inspirational person pastels i just- every time i read a new chapter of yours it made me wanna go get up and do something. i wanted to create something. because at the end of each chapter, i would think- “woah. a person out there just wrote this. they just sat down one day and committed. i wanna do that” so i did that. just huge thank you and shoutout to you pastel. like damn. idk no words from me here. just a bunch of platonic hugs and kisses and thankyouthankyouthsnkuou for this lovely heart wrenching but also sweet story. i love this fandom (tmnt) so SO much and i think it’s so awesome how interactive you are with your own personal NV fans. crazy how we’re all here because of a bunch of turtles. 

STUFF ABOUT THE ANIMATION:

okay i really like to talk and if you let me, i will run my mouth. this is the internet so im gonna do just that. so more words for you to read 😁. AHEM. so like i stated before in the genuinely scary mess of words up there, i haven’t touched animation in a while, like, 4 years a while. yes i’ve done digital art here and there along the years, i haven’t been doing it nearly as much as i need to to use some programs to their full potential. layers are still confusing, and don’t even get me started on multiply and all that jazz. shading never comes out right on digital for me, i gotta work that one out. so, for this animation, i decided to go with a very rough style. nothing needed to be perfect, i just wanted to live my little life of trying to experiment with a bunch of different things all at once in one short animatic. I wanted to do that little ball bounce thing all animation artists start with (i kinda included that with the key). i also wanted to have a go at lip sync (no hate it was my first time) and also timing the animation with the music. i wanted to see how smoothly i could move a figure in and out of and out of the screen as well, which honestly, i think that part might be my favorite. i think i did a good job, and thats what matters. the animation itself lost a bunch of quality on importing it- no clue how it happened but now the ending is grainy af. ignore that pls lol- but it was sitting in my flipaclip for god, i dont even know, 3 months now? i kept going back and forth on if i wanted to share it or not, so im throwing it to the wolves and i guess whatrver happrns happens and im good with that. yay. im actually rrwlly tired now sooo *leaves this absolute pile of words with a video attached at your feet and stumbles away quickly*

also i’ve genuinely never posted anything so i’m learning how to use tumblr too ☠️

[hazzabeeforlou]

i had a question and i hope that it doesn’t sound rude. do you feel ashamed being in the fandom and being a shipper at 32? i ask because i am 27, and have been in the fandom since 2012, off and on. i haven’t rly been in it actively for the last two years or so, but when i want to come back, i feel embarrassed. i also don’t think i could handle the stress of it tbh! lol. i hope you are well <3

I was going to answer this yesterday but then remembered I had a 7 hour drive today and didn’t want to stay up later than I already was. Because I’m an adult, with (now one) previous multiple jobs, a pet, rent, vehicle, three post high school diplomas, and student loans, and there are many things in my life I get ashamed of, like when I answer “you too” when a cashier tells me thanks for shopping or when I let a whole bag of celery go bad in my fridge without ever cleaning or eating it. Shame? At my tax dollars funding death weapons and family members voting for strong men? Sure. Latent homophobic internalized shame from my upbringing? Yeah, sometimes.

But life is too fucking short to be embarrassed or hold shame about a FANDOM. Listen, I “ship” Johnlock, or Merthur, but Larry wasn’t a ship for me it was a discovery of queer joy. Like I’m so sorry but baby Larry was real. 100%, actually, seriously legit, like how else do you fucking explain any or all of that. We watched two boys fall in love with each other and okay we don’t know the devil or the details but we have how many albums and interviews, jokes made by media personalities etc, plus the fact that now, this many years later, their solo stuff is still haunted by a nauseating back and forth, these odd lyrical choices that are echoed in the other?

Yeah it’s not a ship. It’s a thing that happened, that we witnessed, and by virtue of it happening and us witnessing it something about gay love became dreamable, reachable, attainable, soft and puppy and exciting and wild. Their secret sign language and mimed blow jobs and jealous looks and touches when they thought there were no cameras, all those things made queerness not just something you saw on Glee. Not just something your parents talked about while wrinkling their nose up about ‘those people.’ It’s a generational thing, the world has moved on, we don’t NEED Larry anymore. And that’s okay. But we don’t need it because it happened. Not to be a brat but you exist in the context of all in which you live and what came before you.

And yeah, we wrote fics about highly characterized and publicized versions of Larry, often inserting our own traumas or fantasies, creating a kind of gay mythos around this witnessed event from the periphery, from the lens of the consumer, the only lens we have. But I’m not ashamed of that. You think stories are only ever written about people that don’t exist? At some point you have to acknowledge that in our world, celebrities are the deities of our popular imagination. I could write a thesis, but before I get into the weeds, suffice to say Harry and Louis have created a world of what can be, unburdened by what has been.

Yk? Anyways. Hope this made you feel better. And hope you come back to visit from time to time. I’ll be here.

[electricneonbat]

I just want to share something that's been banging around in my head for a while

So I noticed a long time ago that people liked writing stories about Marceline shapeshifting a penis for sex. This has been a thing since at least 2012 because I was there reading those fics back then and I remember it.

So of course I wrote my own fics like that too because I enjoyed them, other people enjoyed them, there were no issues.

Until about the time my wife and I sat down to watch the whole series before Fionna and Cake season 1 came out, my wife turns to me and casually says that she thinks Marceline is a trans woman. And I thought about it and agreed because to me it seemed like people were generally agreeable to the concept and it's a harmless headcanon.

But it changed the way I wrote her in my fics, to not just be someone who shapeshifts to please her partner but to be someone who is just ambiently transgender and the backlash I got in response amazed me. I still get anonymous hatred spewed at me for daring to write her trans. There wasn't such hatred for her being cis and shapeshifting as there is for my writing her trans.

The difference of course is transphobia. Because when she's just a shapeshifter her penis is like a strap-on; you use it for sex and then you throw it to the side and go back to "normal" but if she's trans they have to contend with the fact that she just is a woman with a penis all of the time, even non-sexually and they don't like that being "normal" for anyone let alone a fictional character.

I 100% admit to partially basing my interpretation of Marceline as a trans woman on my wife, who is a trans woman who enjoys her penis and likes to use it for sex, and I write Marceline like that too. I think that's what people hate to see is trans representation of a trans woman who enjoys sex as is.

(as an aside, yes, I write a lot of pornographic content about Bubbline and I still use trans Marceline in those stories too. This is because I have a very high libido and so does my wife, and my writing is an expression of my own experiences with love and sexuality, and I do not think it's wrong for me to express myself that way, especially in this current world that chooses to willfully repress sexuality and the people who express their love for each other in that way. Sex is fun, actually.)

I think what they're not understanding also is that I have written Bonnibel to be trans as well, but they don't go after that interpretation of her character as evil because I have given her a vagina and have her express herself differently. In this case she's trans species because she was born a sexless slime/dragon creature that willfully took on the form of a human woman. ie, she is also a trans woman. Despite this, all of the hatred I get is directed at Marceline.

I even somehow got someone telling me that Bonnibel is too much of a lesbian to touch a penis, and I find it strange how that argument never came up when Marceline's penis was equivalent to a strap-on. So let me be clear about something else; I am a lesbian and I find joy in my trans wife. I'm not going to get into the stuff where my identity as a butch is intrinsically linked to a trans masculine experience (I use they/them primarily! But you can call me whatever you want as long as you do it with respect!) because the world today hates to think of a butch experiencing joyful gender nonconformity and still considering themselves a lesbian for some damn reason (when I was in my 20s no one batted an eye when a butch decided to go on testosterone, now people want to label me wrong because I have a fucking beard, so my response to that is for you to go fuck yourself and to knock the goddamn identity policing off)

So my conclusion is to say that the reason the hatred exists for trans Marceline and not shapeshifting Marceline is that when she's a shapeshifter the penis is allowed to remain a fetish to be shamefully enjoyed and then you can delete your browser history afterwards. When she is written as trans, the penis still exists in a non-sexual way and reminds them that this is true in the real world - that we trans people may find joy and love in each other and that when we exist in a way that refuses to be put away where it can ignored after the sex has finished and it fills people with hatred for us.

To conclude this rant: Marceline Abadeer is a transgender woman. Bonnibel Bubblegum is a trans species woman. No ifs and or buts and if you can't stand seeing them expressing joy and love and sexuality in an unambiguous, unashamed trans way, then why the hell do you keep looking at my fics?