couchlovers

[couchlovers]

Since The Beginning

hp masterlist masterlist

YN -> your name 3,7k of words!!!

Year 1

Y/N Potter stepped onto the platform at King’s Cross with a mix of excitement and the familiar weight of expectation. Being the Boy Who Lived meant everyone was already watching, but Y/N had little interest in notoriety. He had magic to learn—and a reputation to manage carefully.

Hermione Granger, clutching an oversized stack of books, practically collided with him as they approached the barrier to Platform 9¾.

“Excuse me!” Hermione barked, steadying herself.

Y/N smirked. “No harm done, though I might have been struck by destiny itself.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

Y/N shrugged, amused by her intensity. “I said… no harm done.”

Little did they know, this minor collision would be the beginning of a long, complicated relationship.

---

Professor Flitwick’s lecture on Wingardium Leviosa was simple, but Y/N quickly realized Hermione had a natural flair for precision. When the first-year feather levitated and danced perfectly in her hands, Y/N tried to mimic the movement—but his own feather veered sideways and hit the back wall with a soft thud.

“Not bad… for a beginner,” he muttered under his breath.

Hermione whipped around, eyes blazing. “I don’t need your commentary, Potter.”

The class stifled giggles. Y/N grinned, unbothered. Hermione’s glare only made him more interested. He noticed the way her hair fell over her face when she concentrated and the slight twitch of her lips when she suppressed a smirk.

By the end of first year, the rivalry had shifted subtly. They still argued, teased, and competed fiercely, but there was mutual respect underneath the bickering. Y/N began helping Hermione with charms she struggled with under pressure, while Hermione gave tips to Y/N when he struggled with potion theory.

The first year ended with the Sorting Hat in their minds, the first feisty arguments, and a lingering curiosity about each other. By the time they returned to the train for summer break, both were quietly aware that this rivalry might last a lot longer—and perhaps, develop into something unexpected.

Year 2

Seated side by side for a potion on antidotes to simple poisons, Y/N couldn’t resist commenting:

“Are you really following the instructions exactly as written, Granger? Or do you have some secret shortcut?”

Hermione’s nose twitched, and she glanced at him with a mix of exasperation and amusement.

“Of course I follow the instructions. Unlike some people who think improvising is a substitute for study,” she replied sharply, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at her lips.

Y/N grinned. “Well, let me know how that works out for you when the potion blows up.”

By the end of class, both potions were perfect. Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Not bad for someone who’s obsessed with perfection.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I could say the same for you.”

That exchange, playful and teasing, marked the first real shift from rivalry to mutual respect.

Homework this year required more collaboration. Y/N and Hermione often found themselves in the library, elbows brushing over parchment, arguing about the proper incantation or potion ingredient.

“You’re still using too much powdered root of asphodel,” Hermione said softly, leaning closer than necessary.

Y/N’s hand accidentally touched hers as he reached for a book. Both froze for a heartbeat. Hermione’s cheeks flamed, though she quickly looked away.

“Careful, Potter,” she whispered, her voice tight with barely-contained laughter.

“Noted,” Y/N replied, grinning. “Though I think you secretly enjoy these accidental touches.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, but she couldn’t deny the spark that ran through her.

---

Hogwarts required them to help first-years adjust to castle life. Initially, it was awkward. Y/N teased Hermione about taking the role too seriously, while Hermione corrected his handling of nervous first-years.

But over time, the forced collaboration brought them closer. They discovered complementary strengths: Hermione’s methodical planning balanced Y/N’s quick thinking and courage.

During one incident with a misbehaving first-year attempting to sneak into the Forbidden Forest, Y/N grabbed Hermione’s hand instinctively to pull her out of harm’s way. Both froze, adrenaline pumping. Neither spoke, but when they finally let go, they shared a small, secret smile.

---

Some evenings, after the castle had quieted, Y/N and Hermione would walk the corridors, discussing lessons and occasional personal thoughts.

“You’re surprisingly good at defending your points,” Y/N said one night, walking beside her. “I expected you to just memorize everything.”

Hermione’s lips twitched. “And you’re surprisingly clever for someone who relies on instinct so much.”

For the first time, they laughed together without rivalry—just genuine amusement. That trust, built over shared experiences, formed the foundation of a deep friendship.

---

By summer, the dynamics between them had shifted. They still bickered occasionally, still teased, but there was an underlying warmth, a closeness that neither could ignore.

Y/N found himself thinking about Hermione when he shouldn’t. Hermione found herself anticipating his next sarcastic remark. Both were aware, in quiet moments, of the subtle electricity that lingered whenever they were near.

The first hints of flirtation were in the air, though neither dared act on them yet. For now, they were friends—trusted, teased, and inexplicably connected.

Year 3

One crisp autumn morning, Professor Hagrid introduced the class to Hippogriffs. Hermione’s meticulous notes and careful approach were a sharp contrast to Y/N’s casual bravado.

“Remember, always bow first, then approach slowly,” Hagrid instructed.

Y/N stepped forward, confident, but Hermione reached out just as he misjudged the creature’s mood. Their hands brushed as she steadied his shoulder.

“Careful, Potter,” she murmured, eyes meeting his for a brief, electric moment.

“Noted,” Y/N replied, his voice low and teasing. “Though I think you’re enjoying this… more than you’re letting on.”

Hermione flushed, looking away, but her heartbeat betrayed her. Y/N smirked, clearly pleased at the reaction he’d provoked.

---

Late-night library sessions became a pattern. They sat side by side, shoulders touching slightly, trading notes and whispering spells.

“You really don’t need to correct every little thing I do,” Y/N said one evening, leaning closer than necessary.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, but her lips quirked. “And you really don’t need to annoy me constantly.”

Y/N’s fingers brushed hers “accidentally” as they reached for the same book. Hermione froze, a jolt of awareness running through her.

“You’re impossible,” she whispered, though a small smile betrayed her amusement.

“And yet… you like it,” Y/N replied, eyes glinting.

Hermione’s cheeks flamed, and she quickly returned to her notes, but the tension lingered.

During a particularly intense Potions lesson, Y/N’s cauldron erupted in a small puff of green smoke. Hermione reached over instinctively to steady him, and their faces ended up inches apart.

“Potter,” she whispered, heart racing, “focus!”

“Always, Granger,” he murmured, voice low, letting his gaze linger on hers.

That day, the playful teasing became charged. Every touch, glance, and whispered word carried unspoken meaning. Both realized the friendship was evolving, and neither could ignore the pull between them.

By summer, the flirtation had become undeniable, though unspoken. Y/N found himself thinking of Hermione when she wasn’t around, imagining her smile, her laugh, the way her fingers brushed his arm. Hermione did the same, noting how his eyes held mischief and warmth, how his smirk could make her heart race.

The third year ended with a shared look in the Great Hall, neither speaking, but both understanding: something had shifted, and the next year would be even more complicated.

Year 4

The year began with rumors of champions and foreign students, including Viktor Krum from Durmstrang, Fleur Delacourt from Beauxbatons. Hermione, always the scholar, poured over texts on magical creatures and tournament rules. Y/N, meanwhile, found himself unusually restless, aware of his growing feelings for Hermione but unsure how to navigate them amidst the chaos.

“Do you think the champions will be… competent?” Y/N asked one night as they walked back from the library, shoulders brushing lightly.

“Competent? They have to be. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be chosen,” Hermione replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She glanced at him, noting his slightly distracted expression.

Y/N caught her gaze, and for a heartbeat, neither spoke. The unspoken tension was palpable.

---

They quickly fell into their old rhythm: arguing over assignments, competing for top marks, and stealing glances during classes.

“Honestly, Potter,” Hermione said during a History of Magic lecture, her brow furrowed, “if you wrote down the date correctly once, you might actually pass this test.”

Y/N grinned. “And if you laughed at least once a day, you might enjoy Hogwarts more.”

Hermione blinked, flustered, before huffing and turning back to the parchment.

Even small touches—hands brushing as they reached for the same textbook—elicited a shiver neither could ignore.

---

When the Goblet of Fire was finally revealed, Harry’s name was drawn, shocking the school. Y/N felt a mix of relief and concern—relief that he wasn’t chosen and concern for his brother, who now faced life-threatening tasks. Hermione’s attention was almost entirely on Harry’s safety, leaving Y/N slightly frustrated by the distance but also aware of her loyalty and caring nature.

During the weeks leading up to the first task, Y/N found himself more protective than ever. He stayed close to Hermione during late-night library sessions, often brushing hands deliberately as they pored over research.

“You’re distracting me,” Hermione murmured one night as he leaned over her shoulder, fingers grazing hers while reading about dragons.

“Maybe I like distracting you,” Y/N whispered, and Hermione’s cheeks flamed, though she didn’t move away.

---

The announcement of the Yule Ball ignited excitement—and nerves. Y/N had finally decided to ask Hermione, rehearsing words and imagining the perfect moment. But just as he worked up the courage, he spotted her chatting with Viktor Krum, who had already asked her.

Hermione’s polite acceptance hit Y/N like a punch to the chest. His green eyes darkened with frustration.

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath, “of course she’d say yes to him.”

On the night of the ball, Y/N struggled to keep his composure, trying to focus on his robes and entrance, but his attention was fixed on Hermione. She looked breathtaking in her gown, hair pinned elegantly, and Krum’s arm around her only fueled his jealousy.

Midway through the evening, disaster struck. Krum, distracted by the tournament and other obligations, disappeared without explanation, leaving Hermione alone on the dance floor.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, offering his hand with a confident grin.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, voice low and teasing.

Hermione blinked, startled, then smiled, relief and warmth spreading across her face. “Of course, Y/N.”

They moved together gracefully, lost in their own bubble. Y/N leaned close enough that she could feel his heartbeat, whispering jokes that made her laugh. For the first time, Hermione saw the depth of his affection, and Y/N realized just how much he wanted to protect and care for her.

Later, Ron found Hermione alone again and approached angrily.

“Why are you even here with him? With Krum? He's the enemy” Ron snapped, voice tight.

Y/N stepped in immediately, placing himself slightly in front of Hermione. “She’s here because she wants to be, not to answer to you, Weasley.”

Ron glared, but Harry quickly intervened. “Let it go, Ron. She can make her own choices.”

Hermione grabbed Y/N’s hand, squeezing it lightly. “Thank you,” she whispered, her eyes filled with gratitude and something more—a hint of trust and intimacy she hadn’t shown before.

Y/N’s jaw softened. “Always,” he murmured, brushing a stray hair from her cheek.

The dance ended with whispered laughter, stolen glances, and a subtle promise: the Yule Ball had shifted their dynamic from flirtation to something dangerously close to romance.

By the end of fourth year, Y/N and Hermione had crossed new boundaries: flirtation was now tinged with jealousy, protective instincts, and desire.

The Yule Ball and the Triwizard Tournament had revealed how much they cared for each other, though neither had fully admitted it. Their friendship remained the foundation, but the romantic tension had shifted: it was no longer subtle—it was urgent, powerful, and impossible to ignore.

As summer approached, Y/N found himself replaying Hermione’s laughter during their dance, the brush of her hand in his, and the warmth of her gratitude after defending her from Ron. For the first time, he knew that next year, he couldn’t just flirt with her anymore.

Year 5

The arrival of Professor Umbridge and her strict rules created the perfect excuse for Y/N and Hermione to team up in subtle acts of defiance. During a particularly frustrating class, Hermione whispered,

“Potter, we need to find a way to get around this rule. Any ideas?”

Y/N grinned. “Leave it to me. But you have to trust me.”

They passed notes in class, sneaked out to practice spells, and traded tips in secret. Every whispered conversation, every brush of hands in a dark corridor, added fuel to their simmering attraction.

---

In the Room of Requirement, the DA practiced defensive spells late into the evening. Y/N and Hermione often found themselves paired for dueling exercises.

“Focus, Potter!” Hermione snapped, her wand aimed at him.

“Always, Granger,” he replied with a teasing smirk.

During a particularly close spar, their wands collided, sending sparks flying. Y/N instinctively caught Hermione’s wrist, their hands lingering far too long.

Her cheeks flamed. “Potter…” she whispered, breathless.

“Just making sure you’re safe,” he murmured, fingers brushing hers.

It was electric. Neither moved away immediately, and in that suspended moment, something shifted.

After practice, they often retreated to the library. They’d find quiet corners, pretending to study, but their conversation inevitably drifted to personal matters, jokes, and subtle teasing.

“You’re impossible, you know,” Hermione said softly one evening, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Am I?” Y/N leaned just slightly closer, enough that she could feel the warmth of his presence. “Or am I exactly what you need?”

Hermione froze, her book trembling in her hands. “Potter…”

Before either could retreat, Y/N gently leaned in. Their lips met, brief and tentative at first, then lingering with growing certainty. Hermione’s eyes fluttered closed, and for the first time, she didn’t pull away.

When they finally separated, breathless, Y/N whispered, “I’ve wanted that for a long time.”

Hermione’s cheeks burned. “Me too… but… we have to be careful.”

Walking between classes became a new kind of thrill. Hands brushing, elbows nudging, subtle touches on the stair rail—every action carried meaning. They communicated through glances and small gestures: a playful push here, a shared smirk there.

“You’re teasing me again,” Hermione whispered one day, her fingers barely touching his as they passed in the hallway.

“Maybe,” Y/N murmured, eyes sparkling. “Or maybe I’m just trying to see if you notice.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but the smile on her lips betrayed her. The thrill of secrecy made every moment more intense.

---

One night, they stole away to the Astronomy Tower. The castle was silent, the stars bright overhead.

“I’ve never… felt like this before,” Y/N admitted quietly, fingers brushing hers.

“Neither have I,” Hermione whispered, leaning close. “It’s… scary, in a way.”

“Scary, or exciting?” he asked, teasing gently.

“Both,” she admitted.

They kissed again, longer this time, hands tangling in hair and robes. For a brief moment, the rest of the world disappeared—their classes, exams, and even Umbridge’s tyranny faded. It was just them, hearts beating in tandem, connected in a way that neither had expected.

By the end of fifth year, Y/N and Hermione were a secret couple. Publicly, they remained friends and occasional rivals. Privately, they shared stolen kisses, handholds, and whispered conversations in the library, empty classrooms, and quiet corridors.

Every glance, every touch, every playful tease carried layers of affection and desire. They learned to communicate silently, reading each other’s body language, tone, and subtle cues.

Y/N often joked, “Our secret’s safe… for now,” while Hermione would roll her eyes, smiling, secretly thrilled by the thrill of secrecy.

For both, fifth year was a turning point: flirtation had grown into love, hidden in plain sight, intense and impossible to ignore.

Year 6

Professor Slughorn was notoriously fond of talented students, favoring those with connections or skill. Both Y/N and Hermione often caught his attention, leading to subtle competition—and opportunities to steal private moments together.

“Potter,” Slughorn drawled one afternoon, “excellent work. And Miss Granger, simply exquisite as always.”

Y/N smirked at Hermione as she accepted the praise. “See? You’ve got competition, Granger,” he whispered, leaning slightly closer.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Competition? With you?”

“Yes,” he replied, brushing against her hand “accidentally,” lingering just long enough to make her pulse quicken.

Even in class, the subtle touches, brushes of fingers over shared ingredients, and whispered comments kept the tension high. Their secret romance thrived on risk and proximity.

---

When Slughorn invited select students to his parties and dinners, Y/N and Hermione found themselves navigating social obligations with a private thrill. At one dinner, Y/N noticed how the candlelight reflected in Hermione’s hair, how her eyes sparkled when she laughed at someone else’s joke.

He leaned in as they passed each other by the table. “You’re distracting everyone, Granger,” he whispered.

Hermione smirked, brushing his hand lightly with hers. “And you’re staring again.”

The subtle tension was nearly unbearable. Every glance, every touch, every whispered joke carried layers of unspoken desire.

Their secret moments grew more daring. Hidden in the library corners, Y/N would brush hair from Hermione’s face, fingertips lingering over her cheek. In empty corridors, their hands would find each other under the cover of robes and shadows.

“You’re impossible,” Hermione breathed one night, pressed against the wall as Y/N leaned close.

“Am I?” he teased, lips dangerously near hers. “Or am I exactly what you need?”

Hermione’s breath hitched. She leaned in, just enough to feel the warmth of his lips, then pulled back, flushed. The tension was electric, always on the edge of something more.

Y/N sometimes felt pangs of jealousy during Slughorn’s social gatherings, seeing other students fawn over Hermione. He learned to mask it with teasing remarks, playful nudges, and whispered jokes, but Hermione could see the green flash in his eyes.

“Jealous?” she asked softly one evening, fingers twining with his as they walked the halls.

“Maybe a little,” he admitted, voice low. “But only because I care… more than I should probably show.”

Hermione pressed her forehead to his. “I only want you, Y/N,” she whispered, a promise that made his pulse race.

---

Amid their personal drama, Hogwarts was growing darker and Voldemort’s shadow began stretching further.

“Y/N,” Hermione whispered one night in the Gryffindor common room, “we have to be careful. People are watching… more than we know.”

He brushed her hair back, lips hovering near hers. “I don’t care. I only want you.”

Their kisses became longer, more intense, stolen in shadows, corners, and deserted classrooms. The danger of being caught, the thrill of secrecy, made every touch and glance sharper, more urgent.

By summer, Y/N and Hermione’s bond was undeniable. Their love was secret but solid, marked by daring touches, lingering looks, and whispered promises in the dark. Slughorn’s parties, classes, and castle dynamics provided both risk and opportunity for intimacy.

The tension between them had reached a fever pitch: every encounter was a battle of restraint and desire, teasing and longing, both knowing that next year would push them even further.

Year 7

From the first day, Y/N and Hermione found ways to be close without drawing attention. Hands brushed under tables, notes passed in lessons, whispered jokes in the corridors. Every moment was charged with desire and affection.

“Are you sure we’re being careful enough?” Hermione whispered one morning, fingers intertwining with his beneath her robes as they walked to Charms.

“Careful enough for who?” Y/N teased, pressing a brief kiss to the back of her hand.

“Everyone,” she murmured, cheeks pink. “You know how much people watch us.”

“Then we’ll just have to make it worth it,” he replied, leaning close enough that her hair brushed his shoulder.

During the year, they stole countless private moments:

-In the Astronomy Tower, tracing constellations with fingers brushing, lips barely touching.

-In empty classrooms, leaning against desks, exchanging heated whispers and stolen kisses.

-In library corners, pretending to study while hands found each other’s under books and parchment.

Every encounter was charged with tension—excitement mixed with danger. The war in the background made each private touch feel like a rebellious claim of life and love.

---

Even as the castle braced for attack, they found ways to steal intimacy:

-Y/N brushing a stray lock of hair from Hermione’s face in the Gryffindor common room, fingers lingering as if refusing to let go.

-Kisses in hidden stairwells, hearts pounding not just from desire but the constant threat of being caught.

-Whispered promises in the Room of Requirement, where they practiced spells and occasionally allowed themselves a moment of peace.

The secrecy made their love feel sacred and urgent. Each day could be the last, making every shared smile, every touch, every whispered “I love you” infinitely precious.

---

One rainy afternoon, in the library, Y/N and Hermione found themselves alone. Books and parchment scattered around them, hands brushing while discussing strategy for Dumbledore’s task of locating Horcruxes.

One thing led to another. Lips met in a heated, desperate kiss. Fingers tangled in hair and robes, hearts racing.

The door creaked.

Harry froze, eyes wide. “Uh… guys?”

Y/N and Hermione jumped apart, cheeks burning, panting slightly.

“Yes,” Hermione admitted, straightening her robes. “We’re together.”

Harry blinked, then grinned. “I should’ve guessed. The glances, the hand-holding, the way you disappear together all the time… Honestly, you two are perfect.”

Y/N smirked, relieved. “Well, at least one person knows now.”

Hermione pressed a hand to his chest. “It’s been… complicated, but yes. Secret, until now.”

Harry nodded, understanding the intensity of the year, the chaos of the war, and how their love had been a refuge amid darkness.

---

As the year progressed, the war against Voldemort escalated. Hogwarts became a battleground of fear and vigilance. Y/N and Hermione clung to each other, offering comfort amid terror.

“Stay close to me,” Y/N murmured during a particularly tense day, wands at the ready.

Hermione’s hand found his, fingers tight around his. “Always,” she whispered.

Their relationship became more than romance—it was a source of strength and grounding amid chaos. Every kiss, every touch was a reminder of what they were fighting for: each other, their friends, and a future beyond the darkness.

The war ended, Hogwarts scarred but victorious. Y/N and Hermione emerged stronger, their relationship no longer hidden, a solid, passionate, and deeply supportive partnership.

Through seven years, they had:

Started as rivals, teasing and challenging each other

Built friendship on trust, intellect, and respect

Flirted and tested boundaries

Secretly loved, hiding it in the midst of chaos

Supported each other through fear, danger, and heartbreak

Finally revealed their love openly

By the end, Y/N and Hermione were inseparable—war-hardened, wise, and deeply in love, ready to face whatever life beyond Hogwarts held together.

[couchlovers]

A Parisian Interlude

tbc masterlist masterlist

reader name is Eloise De Villeneuve

1,9k of words!!

The soft murmur of London society barely reached Francesca as she wandered through the sunlit gardens of the Bridgerton estate, her sketchbook clasped loosely in her hands. Unlike her siblings, Francesca preferred the quiet corners, the whispered conversations, the unobserved smiles. And yet, even her calm world was about to be unsettled.

News arrived one morning: the Queen’s niece, Mademoiselle Éloise de Villeneuve, was coming to London for the season. Rumor had it she was enchanting, witty, and… dangerously charming. A Parisian lady with a taste for adventure, and perhaps, mischief.

Francesca felt a flicker of anticipation. She had learned long ago that society often rewarded the bold, but it was in the quiet, the unnoticed moments, that one discovered true hearts.

Their meeting was almost accidental. Francesca had slipped out of the drawing room to sketch the bloom of early roses when a delicate laugh reached her ears—light, musical, utterly unfamiliar. She turned, and there Éloise stood, draped in silk the color of soft dawn, a mischievous spark in her eyes.

“Francesca Bridgerton, I presume?” the visitor asked, her accent a tantalizing mixture of French refinement and playful warmth. “I am Éloise. I’ve heard so much of your… discretion.”

Francesca blinked, caught off guard by the directness, but something in Éloise’s gaze made her heart beat a little faster.

“And I, of course, have heard of the Queen’s niece arriving in London,” Francesca replied, inclining her head politely, though the faintest smile tugged at her lips. “Though I confess, I was not expecting such… exuberance.”

Éloise’s laughter tinkled again, like wind chimes stirred by a gentle breeze. “Oh, my dear Francesca, London has been far too proper for far too long. I intend to correct that.”

And in that moment, Francesca sensed that her quiet season was about to become anything but ordinary.

The first society event where Éloise truly made her presence known was a small luncheon at Lady Danbury’s. Francesca had been sketching the arrangements when a shadow fell across her page.

“You always carry that book?” Éloise asked, peering at the delicate sketches with genuine interest. “Do you capture the world as it is… or as you wish it could be?”

Francesca felt a strange warmth at the question, something more intimate than mere curiosity. “Perhaps a bit of both,” she said softly, closing the sketchbook. “And you? Are you here to charm the ton… or to provoke it?”

Éloise’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “A little of each. London is far too polite. I find it far more amusing to stir the calm waters.”

Francesca laughed quietly, a sound reserved for only the closest of companions, and Éloise seemed to notice, leaning slightly closer. There was a thrill in the subtle defiance of her gaze, a promise of adventures Francesca had only dared dream of.

By the evening, the two found themselves at a grand ball hosted by the Duke of Hastings. Francesca lingered near the walls, watching the dancers, when Éloise appeared, radiant in a gown of pale lavender, hand extended.

“May I have this dance?” Éloise asked, a playful bow accompanying her words.

Francesca hesitated, her usual reserve warring with a longing she could not name. But the moment her hand touched Éloise’s, a spark of warmth traveled through her, gentle but undeniable.

As they moved across the dance floor, Éloise whispered, “You see, Francesca, London’s rules are quite pliable if you know how to bend them.”

Francesca felt her cheeks warm, not from the heat of the ballroom, but from the thrill of Éloise’s proximity, the soft press of her hand, the lightness in her tone that dared Francesca to be less cautious.

The season continued, and so did their quiet adventures: stolen walks through moonlit gardens, whispered confidences in secluded corridors, the subtle brush of fingers that lingered longer than propriety allowed. Each encounter left Francesca both exhilarated and unsettled, her heart stretching beyond the walls of decorum she had always clung to.

It was during a late afternoon ride in Hyde Park that Francesca first admitted to herself the depth of her feelings. Éloise, laughing freely as her horse danced along the path, turned to Francesca.

“Do you always keep your heart so guarded?” Éloise asked, a teasing lilt in her voice.

Francesca hesitated, the soft wind tangling her hair. “I… I have always observed more than acted.”

Éloise’s gaze softened, yet still held that spark of mischief. “Then perhaps it is time you acted, Francesca. The world will not wait for you to catch up.”

And in that moment, as the golden sun dipped below the horizon, Francesca realized she was ready to follow the stirrings of her heart—wherever Éloise might lead.

The Bridgerton household quickly noticed a change in Francesca. Her mother, Violet, remarked at dinner one evening, “Francesca, my dear, you seem… distracted. Have you made a new friend in London?”

Francesca, cheeks faintly flushed, murmured, “Just… a visitor from France, Mother. Nothing more.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow. “Distracted, you say? Hm. I shall keep an eye on this French influence.”

Francesca bit back a smile. Her siblings, of course, would tease her mercilessly if they suspected anything. Yet, the secret thrill of Éloise’s presence made every whispered conversation, every fleeting touch, feel like an intimate rebellion.

At the next family gathering, Francesca tried to remain composed as Éloise was introduced. Éloise curtsied elegantly, and even Anthony—usually all sharp glances and careful observation—was struck by her charm.

“Charming, isn’t she?” whispered Daphne to Francesca, her eyes twinkling knowingly.

Francesca’s heart thumped. “Yes… very.”

Even Benedict, always quick with humor, murmured something about “a dangerous combination of wit and beauty,” making Francesca blush despite herself.

Éloise quickly made an impression on London’s ton—not merely for her beauty, but for her daring wit. During a particularly elegant ball, she approached Francesca mid-dance and whispered, “Shall we create a little mischief?”

Francesca, ever cautious, hesitated. Yet when Éloise guided her to a balcony overlooking the gardens, Francesca laughed—a soft, sincere sound that drew curious glances from other guests. For the first time, she felt truly seen, not as a quiet observer, but as someone alive with secret joy.

The whispers started almost immediately. Lady Danbury raised a sharp eyebrow when she noticed Francesca sneaking glances toward Éloise. “Ah, young ladies and their games,” she mused, smiling knowingly.

It didn’t take long for the Bridgertons to notice the subtle signs: lingering looks, cheeks that flushed too easily, the way Francesca’s calm demeanor faltered when Éloise was near.

Benedict cornered her one afternoon in the library. “Francesca, you are smitten. Admit it!”

Francesca’s eyes widened. “Benedict! That is not—”

“Oh, hush. I see it in every glance,” he teased. “But tell me… is she kind to you, really?”

Francesca hesitated, then nodded. “She… understands me. She sees me, Benedict. Truly.”

Daphne, ever perceptive, pulled Francesca aside later. “You are happier than I’ve ever seen you, Francesca. Perhaps it’s time you let yourself… feel.”

Even Anthony, despite his usual seriousness, seemed to respect the connection. Yet he warned quietly, “London will not be as forgiving if hearts are exposed too openly.”

At a grand evening at the Duke of Hastings’ residence, the subtle flirtations between Francesca and Éloise nearly became a matter of gossip. A dropped glove, a hand brushing against Francesca’s arm, a shared laugh too private for public scrutiny—yet someone noticed.

Whispers swirled. Violet’s keen eye noticed Francesca’s flushed expression and the way she kept glancing toward a corner where Éloise lingered.

Later that night, in the privacy of her chamber, Francesca admitted aloud, “I cannot hide it anymore… I care for her, deeply.”

Éloise appeared at her window, moonlight casting her in soft silver. “And I for you. London may be proper, but our hearts… need not be.”

A stolen kiss under the moonlight sealed their secret pact, one of love both thrilling and delicate, hidden yet fiercely real.

Eventually, the family discovered the depth of Francesca’s attachment. Anthony confronted her gently, not with anger but with an expectant sigh. “I suppose I should congratulate you… and remind you that discretion will keep you both safe in London.”

Daphne and Benedict teased her relentlessly, of course, but Violet surprised Francesca by embracing her warmly. “Love knows no bounds, my dear. I trust your heart, always.”

Even Penelope, observing quietly from the sidelines, whispered encouragement: “You deserve happiness, Francesca. Don’t hide it.”

With her family’s quiet blessing, Francesca allowed herself more freedom. Walks through the gardens, private dances at balls, and soft, whispered conversations became their shared world. Each glance, each touch, carried a joy that London’s propriety could not diminish.

By the season’s end, Francesca had changed in subtle but undeniable ways. Her sketches now brimmed with life and emotion; her laughter, once rare, was a common sound in the Bridgerton home.

Éloise, ever radiant, leaned on Francesca’s shoulder one evening. “We have stirred the waters indeed, my dear. But it seems we’ve done so wisely.”

Francesca smiled, her heart full. “Yes. And I have never felt more… myself.”

In the quiet corners of London society, where whispers and glances told tales louder than words, Francesca Bridgerton and Éloise de Villeneuve found a love that was daring, tender, and entirely their own.

The library was silent, except for the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional rustle of paper. Francesca had been sitting on the edge of the chaise, sketchbook forgotten, when Éloise leaned over her, lips brushing her temple as she whispered something too private to repeat aloud.

The world had shrunk to that single, suspended moment: Éloise’s hands tracing the line of Francesca’s collarbone, the warmth of her body pressing insistently against hers. Francesca’s breath hitched, her heart pounding with a delicious mixture of fear and longing.

Éloise’s eyes met hers, dark and mischievous. “Do you wish to stop, or… shall we forget the world for a little while?”

Francesca’s answer was caught between a gasp and a whisper, lost entirely when Éloise shifted slightly—closer, pressing her more firmly, a cheek brushing Francesca’s as their hands intertwined.

And then—a sharp, crisp voice cut through the charged air.

“Éloise? My dear, may I have a word?”

The moment shattered like glass. Francesca froze, cheeks aflame, while Éloise scrambled, still perched awkwardly on top of her, a flustered flush spreading across her own face. The Queen stood in the doorway, eyebrows raised in that perfect mixture of authority and curiosity, the heavy perfume of Versailles trailing behind her.

“Your… Majesty,” Francesca managed, stammering, “we—”

Éloise jumped to her feet, smoothing her gown and bowing with exaggerated politeness. “Your Majesty, I—”

The Queen’s sharp gaze softened only slightly as she took in the scene: Francesca’s flushed face, the disheveled sketchbook, Éloise’s hair escaping in wild strands. She cleared her throat delicately.

“I only wished to speak to Éloise about her upcoming visit to court,” the Queen said. Her eyes flicked once at Francesca, lingering just long enough for Francesca’s heart to skip again, “though it seems… matters of more… personal nature are occupying your attention.”

Francesca wished the floor would swallow her whole. Éloise, ever audacious even in embarrassment, offered a small, cheeky smile. “Forgive us, Your Majesty. It seems we were… discussing something of great importance.”

The Queen, perfectly composed, inclined her head. “Indeed. I trust you will resume your… discussion later, in privacy.” She paused, then added with a glint of humor: “London will not be forgiving if rumors spread before discretion is observed.”

With that, she swept from the room, leaving behind the faint trace of perfume—and a lingering sense of scandal that had Francesca’s pulse racing all over again.

Éloise collapsed back onto the chaise, laughter trembling with residual tension. “Well… that was… unexpectedly exciting.”

Francesca groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I nearly died of shame. And yet…” She peeked up at Éloise, eyes dark with desire. “…I would not trade it for anything.”

Éloise leaned down to capture her lips in a quick, scorching kiss. “Discretion is temporary, Francesca. Pleasure… is eternal.”

And as the fire crackled, Francesca realized that London, the Queen, and even society itself could wait—at least, for a little while.

[couchlovers]

Hey, can I request a max Mayfield one? The reader is a flirt and max gets confused whether the r actually likes her or it's just her personality. There can be some kissing confessing or whatever you like. It's upto you! Btw love your character choices!!

Mixed Signals

st masterlist masterlist

YN -> your name! 1,2k of words!!!

You were always a firecracker. Steve Harrington’s little sister — fierce, funny, and definitely not shy. Your flirting was legendary, a natural extension of your bold personality. You had no problem charming just about everyone, and sure, that sometimes drove Max a little crazy.

Especially when Billy was around.

Billy Hargrove, Max’s older stepbrother, hated Steve with a burning passion. And since you were Steve’s sister, Billy hated you too. Every time he caught you laughing with Steve or teasing some girl nearby, his glare would cut sharper than a knife. Max hated it too — not Billy’s hatred exactly, but the way you seemed so carefree and flirty with others, making Max question if you were ever really serious about her.

Tonight was no different.

The group had gathered at the local arcade, the hum of neon and the jingle of tokens filling the air. You leaned against the claw machine, flashing a grin at a couple of girls playing a rhythm game nearby. Your laugh was light, magnetic, but Max watched from the other side of the room, arms crossed, brows furrowed.

Billy was lurking nearby, arms folded, his scowl deepening as he watched you work your charm.

After a while, you noticed Max’s gaze and decided to test the waters. You sauntered over, flicking your hair and giving her your most dazzling smile.

“Hey, Max,” you said, voice playful but sincere, “why so serious? You look like you’re plotting to murder someone.”

Max flushed but didn’t look away. “I’m not serious. Just… wondering if you even like me or if you’re just like this with everyone.”

You blinked, genuinely surprised. “Like this? Flirty? Yeah. But not with everyone. Definitely not with you.”

Max looked skeptical, biting her lip.

“Come on, Max,” you said, stepping closer, voice dropping to a softer tone. “You’re special. I’m not just playing around.”

She glanced at you, eyes searching. Then, taking a shaky breath, she stepped forward and kissed you — tentative, unsure.

You smiled, brushing her hair back. “See? I’m serious.”

Max smiled back, warmth blooming in her chest. “I like you too.”

From the corner, Billy’s scowl didn’t soften, but Steve nudged him. “Get used to it, man. She’s not going anywhere.”

The evening had been tense from the start. Billy’s glare had been burning holes into you since you walked into the arcade, and it was only a matter of time before he made his move.

You tried to ignore him, joking and flirting with the others, but when your laughter reached his ears again, something snapped.

He stepped in front of you suddenly, his shadow looming large and threatening.

“This isn’t your place, Harrington,” Billy spat, his voice low and dangerous.

You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down. “I’m Steve’s sister. I belong wherever he does.”

Billy’s eyes darkened with fury. “You don’t belong here. And neither does she,” he growled, jerking his head toward Max.

Max’s face went pale, but she didn’t hesitate.

“Back off, Billy,” Max said, stepping between you and him, voice steady but urgent.

Billy sneered. “Or what, Max? You gonna stop me?”

Before anyone could react, Billy’s fist slammed into your side with brutal force. The air whooshed out of your lungs as you stumbled backward, pain radiating through your ribs.

Max screamed, rushing to your side.

“Billy! What the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled, eyes blazing.

But Billy just shoved her away, his rage unchecked.

Steve and others quickly moved in, pulling Billy back before things got worse.

You gasped for breath, clutching your side, but your eyes found Max’s immediately—her worry, her fear, her fierce protectiveness.

“I’m okay,” you managed, voice shaking but defiant.

Max grabbed your hand, squeezing it tightly.

“We’re going to get through this,” she promised.

And in that moment, despite the pain and chaos, you knew you weren’t alone.

Later that night, the world outside was silent, but inside your shared space, there was warmth.

You sat on the worn couch, one hand pressed gently to your side where the bruises were already blooming beneath your skin. Max knelt beside you, her fingers tracing soothing circles on your arm.

“Hey,” she murmured softly, eyes full of worry and something softer—something like awe. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve stopped him.”

You shook your head, forcing a small smile. “It’s not your fault. You did everything you could.”

Max’s thumb brushed over your cheek, and you leaned into her touch, the ache from earlier dulled by her presence.

“I hate that he hurt you,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I hate that I couldn’t protect you.”

You cupped her face, your fingers warm against her skin. “You protect me every day just by being here.”

She smiled through tears, and you pulled her into a gentle kiss—soft, reassuring, a promise.

“In here,” you whispered against her lips, “we’re safe.”

Max nodded, pressing her forehead to yours. “Always.”

And for the first time in a long time, you believed it.

Days had passed since that painful night, but something had shifted between you and Max—something quiet but undeniable.

At school, Max noticed the way you didn’t flash your usual flirty smiles at every passing glance. The teasing banter that used to come so easily felt different now—more guarded, more real when it involved her.

One afternoon, you found Max waiting for you by your locker, her arms crossed but eyes soft.

“You’re different,” she said, voice low.

You met her gaze, heart pounding. “I guess I’m done pretending.”

Max smiled, stepping closer. “Pretending what?”

“Pretending that my attention was up for grabs,” you said. “I’m… all in. For you.”

Her face lit up with something that made your chest tighten—a mixture of relief and happiness.

Max reached out, fingers intertwining with yours. “I’ve been hoping for that.”

The noise of the hallway faded as you leaned into her, a promise in your touch.

No more mixed signals. No more doubts.

Just you and Max—finally, truly together.

The bruises from Billy’s punch had faded, but something else lingered — something Max couldn’t quite name at first.

It was the way you looked at her now. Not in that cocky, teasing “I’m just playing” way you used with half the school. No — with her, your gaze lingered, warm and almost shy, like you were still trying to memorize her face every time she was near.

One Saturday, you were sitting with her on the curb outside the arcade, sharing a bag of M&Ms. The air smelled faintly of rain, and Max was telling you about some ridiculous thing Dustin had done. Normally you’d have cut in with a joke, maybe bumped her shoulder just to see her roll her eyes.

But you didn’t. You just… listened.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she said, popping a red candy in her mouth.

You grinned a little. “I just like hearing you talk.”

Max blinked. “Since when? You used to interrupt me all the time.”

“Yeah, well,” you said, shrugging, “I guess I realized I’d rather hear you than hear myself.”

She tilted her head, studying you like she was piecing something together. “You’re not flirting with everyone anymore.”

“Because I’m not interested in everyone anymore.” Your voice was soft, almost tentative. “Just you.”

Max’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look away. “You’re serious?”

“Max,” you said, leaning in just a little, “I’ve been gone for you since the day you called me out for being a cocky idiot. And I think I’ve been trying to make you see it ever since.”

Her smirk was small but real, and when she leaned closer to press her lips to yours, it was slow — certain. When she pulled back, her voice was almost a whisper. “Guess I finally believe you.”

[couchlovers]

can you write a abby (Ginny and Georgia) x fem reader

R is ginnys older step sister (so basically Austin’s older biological sister)

Basement Vibes

g&g masterlist masterlist

YN -> your name! 1,7k of words!!!

The night was cool and quiet, the crackle of a small campfire the only sound at the edge of the woods behind Georgia’s house. Most of the crew had drifted off or scattered—Max was nowhere to be found, still ignoring Ginny after all the drama with Marcus and Hunter. Nora had made it clear she was siding with Max, keeping her distance from Ginny.

You sat close to Abby, the firelight casting flickering shadows over her face. It was just the two of you, the awkwardness between your friends fading into something different—something electric.

“Not like Max to stay silent for long,” Abby muttered, poking at the flames.

You nodded, tracing lazy patterns on your knee. “Yeah. And Nora? Well, she’s made her choice.”

Abby sighed. “Feels like Ginny’s been cut out of everything lately.”

You glanced at her, the weight of your own complicated family troubles heavy in your chest. “She’s been through a lot. You know how it is.”

Abby’s eyes softened. “Yeah. I do.”

For a moment, the fire’s warmth seemed to fill the space between you.

You shifted, heart hammering. “I’m glad you’re still around.”

Abby’s lips twitched into a small, genuine smile. “Me too.”

The tension between you wasn’t just about friendship anymore—something deeper, charged with the unspoken.

“Look,” you said quietly, “this whole mess with Max and Nora... don’t let it mess us up.”

Abby met your gaze, serious. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You reached out, your fingers brushing hers just so—deliberate, electric.

“Good,” you whispered.

The crackling fire and the dark woods faded away, leaving just the two of you—the promise of something new in the silence.

The bass thumped low in Brody’s basement, muffled laughter and music swirling around you. The crowd pressed close, half dancing, half just trying to find a spot away from the chaos.

You leaned against the worn couch, a plastic cup half-full in your hand, feeling the warm buzz of the alcohol settling in your chest. Abby was nearby, leaning into you slightly, her usual sharp edges softened by the night and the drinks.

“You feeling this?” she slurred slightly, grinning.

You laughed, voice a little louder than usual. “Yeah… definitely.”

Her eyes sparkled as she nudged your shoulder. “We should do this more often.”

You smiled, heart warming from her easy charm. “You mean get drunk in a basement?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Or just be around you.”

The world tilted a little as she reached for your hand, fingers lacing with yours with surprising certainty.

You caught her gaze, breath catching. “Abby…”

She grinned, leaning closer. “What?”

Before you could say more, the music shifted—a slow song sneaking in, wrapping around you both like a secret.

Without thinking, Abby pulled you closer, her lips brushing yours in a kiss sweet and tentative, but full of promise.

The noise of the party faded, and all you could feel was the warmth between you—both from the drinks and from the undeniable connection growing stronger every second.

The bass was pounding harder now, a relentless pulse beneath the strobe lights that flashed across Brody’s basement walls. The heat of the crowd pressed in from all sides, but it felt like the world had shrunk down to just you and Abby.

Her hands slid from yours up your arm, fingers tracing light, teasing lines that sent shivers in spite of the warmth from the drinks. Her eyes, dark and shining, locked with yours, challenging and vulnerable all at once.

“Are you sure about this?” she breathed, voice low, almost lost beneath the music.

You nodded, heart racing. “More than anything.”

She smiled, wild and real, before pulling you into a deeper kiss—hungry, demanding, the kind that made your knees weak. Your hands tangled in her hair, clutching her like you were afraid she’d disappear.

The heat between you ignited, breath mingling as the world faded again—the thumping bass, the flashing lights, all irrelevant.

For a moment, it was just the two of you, caught in the rush of something reckless and right.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, Abby’s grin was wicked.

“Looks like we’re definitely doing this more often.”

You laughed, breathless, and pulled her close again.

The night was far from over.

You and Abby stumbled up from the worn couch, laughter bubbling up between you as the alcohol and adrenaline mixed into a heady buzz. The music pulsed through the walls, but the two of you moved through the crowd with a shared purpose—like the whole party had faded away.

“I need to… uh, check something,” Abby said, her grin mischievous as she looped her arm through yours.

You caught her glance, the sparkle in her eyes daring you to keep up. “Bathroom?”

She nodded, tugging you along.

The hallway to the bathroom was quieter, the pounding bass muted. You both leaned against the cool tiled walls once inside, the dim light casting soft shadows over Abby’s flushed face.

Her hand found yours again, fingers entwining as she stepped closer.

“You’re really something,” she murmured, voice thick with warmth.

You smiled, heart pounding. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

The tension between you snapped again, and before you could stop yourself, Abby pulled you into another kiss—slow, lingering, full of promise.

The bathroom mirror caught your reflection, two silhouettes tangled in a moment that felt both wild and inevitable.

Outside, the party raged on, but here, it was just you and Abby—lost in the heat of the night.

The world narrowed to just you and Abby—warm breath mingling, fingers tangled, hearts pounding in sync. The soft hum of the running faucet was the only sound besides your shared breaths as you pressed closer, lips tracing fiery paths over skin.

Just as Abby’s hands slipped beneath your shirt, the bathroom door swung open—slamming against the wall with a loud bang.

“Hey! Are you guys in here?” Ginny’s voice rang out, loud and clueless.

You both froze, eyes wide.

Abby scrambled back, cheeks flaming. You tugged your shirt down, heart thundering with embarrassment.

Ginny stepped inside, phone in hand, scrolling like she hadn’t just walked in on the most awkward moment of your lives.

“Uh… I was just—” she started, then glanced between you two.

You gave each other a helpless glance.

“Well,” Ginny said, smirking despite herself, “I’ll just… leave you to it.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and the silence that followed was thick with flushed faces and racing hearts.

Abby let out a breathy laugh. “Smooth.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling.

“Next time,” you said, “we lock the door.”

Abby grinned, pulling you in for a much less interrupted kiss.

The party was still raging outside, but now, you had a secret—one that Ginny would never let you forget.

The party was winding down, but the buzz from the night still hummed in your veins. You and Abby had slipped back into the crowd, trying to act casual—though your flushed cheeks and shy smiles made it obvious something had shifted.

Just as you grabbed a drink, Ginny appeared beside you, arms crossed and that familiar mischievous glint in her eye.

“So,” she began, voice dripping with mock innocence, “I heard a little bathroom rendezvous earlier.”

You choked on your drink, eyes darting to Abby, who was biting her lip, trying not to laugh.

Ginny smirked. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me… for now.”

You shot her a warning look. “You’re gonna regret that.”

“Sure, sure,” Ginny said, clearly enjoying herself. “But seriously, you two make a cute pair.”

Abby nudged you, whispering, “Guess you’re not the only one who’s smitten.”

You groaned, but the warmth in your chest was undeniable.

Later, as you and Abby slipped away from the crowd, hand in hand, you heard Ginny’s voice behind you.

“Next time, lock the door… or at least invite me in!”

You both laughed, the night stretching ahead—messy, unpredictable, but full of promise.

The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and coffee as everyone gathered around the table. Austin, your nine-year-old brother, was busy poking at his cereal, oblivious to most adult conversations — but you couldn’t resist messing with him a little.

“So, Austin,” you teased, flashing a sly grin, “you know that when you put your spoon in the milk, you shouldn’t dunk it like it’s a swimming pool, right?”

Austin scrunched his nose. “It’s not a swimming pool!”

You laughed, watching as he tried to focus on his cereal.

Just then, Ginny breezed into the kitchen, a cheeky smile plastered on her face. She slid into the seat across from you and grinned.

“So,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear, “how was last night? I heard some very interesting things going on.”

You felt your cheeks flush instantly. “Ginny!”

Mom glanced up from her coffee, raising an eyebrow but smiling knowingly. Austin, meanwhile, looked completely confused.

Without missing a beat, Austin piped up, loud and clear:

“Why were you talking about interesting things? Is that like when Dad says ‘adult stuff’ and I don’t get it?”

The table went silent for a beat before everyone burst into laughter — including your mom, who shook her head.

You shot Ginny a mock glare, while Ginny just winked.

“Looks like we’re gonna have to be more careful with our ‘interesting things,’” you muttered.

Austin grinned, happily unaware of the full meaning, and dug back into his cereal.

The morning light filtered softly through the kitchen window as you cleaned up the breakfast dishes. Georgia was at the counter, slicing fruit with her usual steady grace, but today, there was something different in her eyes—softer, more thoughtful.

“Hey,” she said gently, breaking the comfortable silence. “About what happened this morning… with Austin.”

You nodded, drying your hands. “Yeah, that was… something.”

Georgia smiled, a little wistful. “Kids catch on, even when you don’t want them to. They’re smarter than we give them credit for.”

You sighed. “I don’t even know how to start explaining all that ‘adult stuff’ to a nine-year-old.”

She looked at you with a knowing glance. “You don’t have to have all the answers. Just be honest, keep it simple, and make sure he knows he can ask you anything. That’s what matters.”

You thought about that, feeling the weight of it but also a strange comfort.

“Georgia, thanks,” you said quietly. “For stepping in for me... for all of this.”

Her smile deepened, warm and real. “We’re family. We look out for each other.”

You shared a moment of understanding—complicated, messy, but real.

“Next time Austin asks,” Georgia added with a wink, “just maybe not at breakfast.”

You laughed, the tension easing.

“Deal.”

[couchlovers]

Can you do a cindy berman x fem!reader where the reader is from sunnyvale?

Burning Bright

fear street's masterlist masterlist

YN -> your name! 1,7k of words!!

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the dusty campgrounds. The air was thick with the mingling scents of pine and woodsmoke from the fire pits, but the calm was deceptive—there was tension under the surface.

You sat cross-legged near the edge of the field, arms folded tight, glaring at the group of campers scattering around. As someone from Sunnyvale, you’d learned early on how to hold your ground, how to make sure no one could push you around—even here, at Camp Nightwing, a place far from home.

Your reputation for being sharp and unyielding had made you both feared and resented. But the person who seemed most determined to keep you in line was Cindy Berman—the camp’s most meticulous counselor.

Cindy was the kind of leader who could silence a rowdy cabin with a raised eyebrow. She wore her hair perfectly tied back, clipboard in hand, eyes always scanning, always calculating. You hated how she made it look so effortless.

“Alright, campers!” Cindy called, her voice crisp and commanding. “Pair up for the scavenger hunt. And yes, YN, you’re with me.”

You groaned inwardly but forced yourself to stand, pushing your rebellious streak aside for now. “Great. Just me and the perfect counselor. This’ll be fun.”

Cindy offered a thin smile, unamused. “Try to keep up.”

The two of you set off, Cindy leading with her clipboard, ticking off items on the list while you trailed, arms crossed, shooting occasional sarcastic comments her way.

“You really don’t have to act like the camp sheriff all the time,” you muttered, dodging a low-hanging branch.

“I’m here to make sure no one gets hurt,” Cindy replied evenly. “Including you.”

You paused, startled by the genuine concern beneath her tone, but you quickly masked it with a smirk. “Sure, sure. Like I need babysitting.”

For a moment, there was silence, just the crunch of leaves beneath your boots.

“You’re tougher than you let on,” Cindy finally said, glancing at you sidelong.

“Not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult,” you said with a half-smile.

She chuckled softly. “I mean it.”

That was the first crack in the wall between you.

Later, when the sun dipped low and campers gathered around the fire, Cindy found you sitting alone, the flickering flames reflecting in your eyes.

“You know,” she said quietly, sitting beside you, “Sunnyvale has a reputation for producing some of the toughest kids.”

You glanced at her, curiosity piqued. “And you’re one of the strictest counselors I’ve ever met.”

Her laugh was soft, almost shy. “Maybe we’re not so different.”

The firelight danced across her face, softening the usual sharpness in her eyes.

Before you could reply, a chill swept through the camp—a silent warning of the dark times ahead.

But in that moment, surrounded by the crackle of flames and whispered confessions, the distance between you and Cindy felt smaller than ever.

The late afternoon sun was beginning to fade, casting a golden haze over the campgrounds. You sat just outside the cabin, arms wrapped around your knees, watching the other campers laugh and joke by the fire. You felt like an outsider—always had. Sunnyvale’s reputation followed you like a shadow, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Cindy Berman saw right through your walls.

Cindy’s footsteps approached, soft but deliberate. She stopped beside you, clipboard tucked under one arm, her usual polished composure replaced by something more raw—a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

“You’re quiet today,” she said, voice low, almost hesitant.

You didn’t look at her. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

You hesitated. Usually, you’d deflect, defy, push her away. But something about her presence made you want to answer honestly.

“About this place,” you said finally. “About why I’m here. About what’s coming.”

Her brow furrowed. “You sound like you’re expecting trouble.”

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat. “I am.”

For a long moment, she said nothing, just sat beside you on the rough wooden bench. The space between you crackled—not with comfort, but with unspoken truths and the dangerous pull of something neither of you wanted to admit.

“I know you don’t like me,” she said quietly.

You met her gaze then—sharp, intense, and surprisingly vulnerable.

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But maybe it’s because I’m scared. Scared that if I let anyone get close, they’ll see what I really am. Scared that if I trust, I’ll lose.”

Her hand brushed against yours—a fleeting, tentative touch that sent a jolt through you.

“Trust isn’t easy,” Cindy said, voice barely above a whisper. “But sometimes it’s the only way to survive what’s coming.”

You looked away, heart pounding. The campfire’s flickering light cast shadows over her face, making her look like she was holding her own secrets close, just like you.

“I don’t want to lose this,” she confessed. “Whatever this is.”

You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat.

Neither of you said more, but in that charged silence, the distance between enemy and something more seemed to crumble—fragile and dangerous, like the calm before the storm.

The camp was quiet now, the noisy chatter of earlier replaced by the soft rustle of night settling over the woods. You were still wrapped in the lingering tension from your conversation with Cindy, her words echoing in your mind. The way her hand had brushed yours—it was a small thing, but it sent heat rushing through your veins.

Unbeknownst to both of you, Ziggy, Cindy’s little sister and resident mischief-maker, had been watching from the shadows. She’d noticed the way Cindy looked at you—the quick glances, the soft smiles she tried to hide. And Ziggy was not about to let this chance slip away.

With a sly grin, Ziggy slipped into the nearby cabin where you and Cindy had just been helping to organize supplies. Quiet as a cat, she locked the door behind her.

Minutes later, Cindy and you realized you were trapped inside.

“Ziggy!” Cindy hissed, rattling the door handle. “Open this, now!”

You leaned against the door, laughing softly. “Looks like someone wants us to talk.”

Cindy shot you a glance—equal parts exasperated and amused.

“Well,” she said, her voice dropping low, “since we’re stuck here… might as well make the most of it.”

You felt your heart skip as she stepped closer, her breath warm against your skin.

The air between you was electric—heavy with everything you hadn’t said, everything you’d been holding back.

Cindy reached up, her fingers trembling slightly as they traced your jawline. “You’re not just from Sunnyvale, are you?”

“No,” you admitted, voice barely a whisper. “And you’re not just a perfect counselor.”

Her lips curled into a soft, knowing smile. “Good.”

Then, without another word, she closed the small distance between you, pressing her lips to yours in a kiss that was at once tentative and urgent.

Your hands found her waist, pulling her closer, feeling the heat radiate from her body.

The world outside the locked cabin disappeared—the looming darkness, the threats, the camp itself. There was only this moment, and the slow, delicious unfolding of something new and undeniable.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless, Cindy rested her forehead against yours.

“Guess Ziggy’s plan worked,” she murmured.

You laughed, fingers tangling in her hair. “Yeah. She might be a genius.”

And as you both sank back against the worn wooden wall, the night stretched out before you—uncertain, dangerous, but for the first time, full of hope.

The dim glow of the single lantern cast flickering shadows on the cabin’s rough wooden walls. Outside, the quiet of the night pressed in, but inside, the air between you and Cindy was thick—heavy with everything you’d held back for too long.

Her hands were gentle but purposeful, tracing the line of your jaw, sliding down your neck. You leaned into her touch, breath hitching as her lips found yours again—this time slower, deeper, filled with a hunger that had been simmering beneath the surface.

Your fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer as the world outside faded into nothingness.

Cindy’s eyes darkened with need, her fingertips slipping beneath the edge of your shirt, grazing bare skin. You shivered, the warmth of her touch igniting a fire you hadn’t expected.

She paused, searching your eyes for any hesitation. Finding none, she smiled—soft, reassuring.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” she whispered. “Unless you want it to.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding. “I want it to mean everything.”

Her lips met yours again, pressing harder, as hands roamed freely, exploring, memorizing.

Clothes became a forgotten barrier, discarded with careless urgency. Every touch, every kiss, was a wordless confession—of fears faced, walls broken, and something fiercely alive between you.

The cabin was small, but in that cramped space, your world expanded—filled with the heat of skin against skin, the rapid rhythm of shared breath, and the raw vulnerability of two souls finally finding each other.

Hours later, tangled and spent, you rested your head against Cindy’s shoulder, fingers laced.

Outside, the world might be dark and uncertain, but here—in this locked cabin, in this stolen moment—you had found something real.

The mornings at Camp Nightwing were usually crisp and filled with chatter, but between you and Cindy, the atmosphere had shifted—charged with something unspoken yet impossible to ignore.

You caught her watching you across the dining hall more than once, her usual composed expression softened by something more vulnerable, almost shy. You’d flash a quick glance back, and her cheeks would tint pink before she looked away.

During activities, Cindy’s professional distance flickered. Her hand would brush yours accidentally—then linger just a heartbeat longer. Words stumbled where once there had been sharp remarks. The easy antagonism was gone, replaced by a tender tension neither of you dared name aloud.

One afternoon, as the sun dipped low and the campers scattered for free time, Cindy found you sitting alone by the lake, skipping stones.

She sat down beside you quietly.

“We can’t keep pretending this didn’t happen,” she said softly.

You smiled, heart pounding. “Pretending what?”

“That moment. Us.”

You let the silence stretch, then reached out, fingers intertwining with hers.

“No more pretending,” you whispered.

Her smile was radiant, full of hope and relief.

For the first time, the counselor and the camper were something else entirely.

[couchlovers]

heyy, could you please do a rachel green x reader where they just cuddle and kiss each other constantly? fluff please

Always You

friend's masterlist masterlist

YN -> your name! 1,1k of words!

another short one sorry! but I may be doing a part 2 for this one!

The afternoon sun filtered through the sheer curtains of Rachel’s apartment, casting warm golden patches across the living room floor. You were both nestled on the couch, a thick knitted blanket draped over your legs like a shared little cocoon.

Rachel’s head was tucked under your chin, her hair soft and silky against your skin. You absentmindedly traced gentle circles on the bare skin of her arm, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing.

“You know,” Rachel murmured, looking up at you with those bright green eyes full of affection, “I don’t think I ever realized how nice it is just… being still with someone.”

You smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “It’s nice because it’s with you.”

Her lips quirked up into that trademark Rachel grin. “Smooth. Too smooth.”

You laughed, and she poked your side playfully. “Hey! You started it.”

She wiggled closer, and you caught her lips with yours, soft and lingering. The kiss was full of warmth and the kind of comfort that only came from truly feeling at home.

After a beat, Rachel pulled back slightly, resting her forehead against yours. “I swear, I could just stay like this all day.”

“Me too,” you agreed. “Nothing else matters.”

The sound of her laughter—light and carefree—filled the room as she snuggled closer, hands threading through your hair. You ran your fingers down her back, feeling her relax under your touch.

A sudden thought made Rachel sit up just enough to look at you with a mock-serious expression. “Okay, important question. If we get a dog, what do we name it?”

You smiled, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “Hmm. Something cool. Like ‘Rocket’ or ‘Mochi.’”

Rachel’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, Mochi! That’s adorable.”

You grinned and leaned in to kiss her nose. “Mochi it is.”

She laughed and snuggled back into your side, sighing contentedly. “You’re my favorite person to do nothing with.”

“Right back at you.”

The afternoon drifted lazily by with more kisses, whispered secrets, and little touches—fingers entwined, cheeks brushed, and the endless comfort of just being close.

As the sky outside deepened into twilight, Rachel rested her head on your chest, sighing softly. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“That no matter what, we keep this. Us. All the cuddles, the kisses, the quiet moments.”

You tightened your arms around her and kissed the crown of her head. “I promise. Always you.”

And in that simple, perfect moment, nothing else existed but the two of you—wrapped up in warmth, love, and a lifetime of quiet happiness.

The evening buzzed with the usual chaos of Monica’s apartment. Monica, Phoebe, and Rachel were huddled in the kitchen, whispering and giggling like teenage girls. Meanwhile, you, Ross, Chandler, and Joey were lounging in the living room, trying (and mostly failing) to ignore the unmistakable hum of gossip coming from the kitchen.

Rachel’s laugh floated through the door, bright and mischievous. Monica’s voice, sharper and more animated than usual, was clearly dissecting some “hot details.”

You shot a glance at Chandler and Joey, who were both pretending to be engrossed in the game on TV but stealing smirks at the kitchen.

Joey elbowed Chandler. “Dude, what do you think they’re talking about? Something crazy about Rachel and you?”

Chandler rolled his eyes. “I wish. No, it’s probably about her latest… fashion disaster or something.”

Ross, ever the scientist, leaned forward. “Actually, given Monica’s attention to detail, it might be something more… intimate. Those two always manage to find the juiciest topics.”

You smirked, pulling your phone out and glancing at Rachel through the slightly open kitchen door. She caught your eye and gave a tiny wink, then mouthed, Later.

Joey grinned. “Oh, man, I wanna know! Hey, you think they talk like that about us? ‘Joey and Chandler’s secret pizza rituals’?”

Chandler snorted. “Yeah, and how you sleep with a slice under your pillow.”

You chuckled, leaning closer to Chandler and Joey. “Okay, serious question,” you said quietly, “If I asked Rachel to marry me, do you think they’d freak out?”

Chandler blinked, trying to keep a straight face. “Uh… you’re serious?”

You nodded, keeping your voice low. “Yeah. I want it to be special. But, you know… discreet.”

Joey’s eyes lit up. “Dude, that’s awesome! Rachel’s gonna say yes. She’s crazy about you.”

Ross gave you an encouraging nod. “She is. And if Monica and Phoebe start gossiping like that, you’ll have the whole apartment rooting for you.”

Just then, Monica’s voice rang out, loud and proud: “Okay, ladies! Enough about Rachel’s ‘hot details’—let’s not embarrass her in front of the boys!”

Rachel peeked out, cheeks flushed but smiling. “Yeah, you guys don’t wanna know. Trust me.”

You grinned, squeezing Rachel’s hand under the table. “Oh, we definitely want to know. But maybe later.”

Rachel leaned in, whispering just loud enough for you and the boys: “Marry me already, or I’m telling them everything.”

Joey laughed. “Best proposal line ever.”

Chandler smirked. “I’m just waiting for the wedding crashers.”

You pulled Rachel close, planting a quick kiss on her forehead. “Soon. Very soon.”

The familiar hum of chatter and the rich aroma of coffee filled Central Perk as the whole group settled into their usual spots. Monica was fussing over a tray of muffins, Phoebe was strumming her guitar softly in the corner, and Ross and Joey were deep in a discussion about dinosaurs—or more likely, something totally unrelated.

You sat close to Chandler on the worn leather couch, your hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee. The topic from last night’s gossip session was still fresh in your mind—Rachel, wedding, forever.

Chandler glanced at you, a curious smile tugging at his lips. “So… about last night. You seemed pretty serious when you mentioned marrying Rachel.”

You looked down at your cup, cheeks warming just a bit. “Yeah. I mean, it’s not just talk. I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Chandler’s grin widened, eyes shining with genuine happiness. “That’s… really great. I mean, Rachel’s amazing, but knowing you want to make it official? That’s next level.”

You nudged him playfully. “Don’t make it sound like I’m some romantic sap.”

He laughed. “Hey, even I can tell you’re all in. And honestly? I’m happy for you guys. You deserve all the happiness.”

Rachel caught your eye from across the room and gave you a little thumbs up. Monica, overhearing, whispered to Phoebe, “I knew it. They’re totally perfect.”

Joey leaned over and whispered loudly, “So when’s the party? I call dibs on the best man speech.”

Ross rolled his eyes, but you caught his smile.

Chandler squeezed your hand gently. “Whatever happens next, I’m here. And I promise no embarrassing stories at the wedding… well, maybe just one or two.”

You laughed, feeling the warmth of friends and love all around.

“Thanks, Chandler. That means everything.”

He smirked. “Don’t mention it. Now, let’s go tell Rachel you’re gonna make her the happiest woman alive.”

You glanced at Rachel, who was already watching you with that radiant smile that made your heart beat faster.

Yeah. Forever felt just right.

[couchlovers]

Hey-yo again, I'd like to order a Jinx (Arcane) x reader where the reader's just generally a "professional" field medic. Just taking care of anyone's wounds on the field because it's their job for undisclosed/ulterior motives (and might leave someone to die at times even if it causes complications later when they survive (which may or may not have happened before)).

Platonic, not friends just more like close co-workers and puts more effort on Jinx (cough cough, Silco being the fear) than others. A serious mood that's light. Oneshot length.

Have fun somehow, and thanks in advance if you consider this because I am second guessing my actions here.

Field Medic (platonic!)

arcane's masterlist masterlist

sorry its a short one!

1k of words!

The street was a mess. Explosions echoing off the jagged walls of Zaun’s underground warrens, smoke curling thick and bitter, the wails of the wounded cutting through the chaos. But you moved with precision, a ghost in the maelstrom—field medic, job first, questions later.

Your boots crunched over shattered glass and twisted metal as you knelt by a slumped figure, grimacing. Blood was everywhere, sticky and dark, but this was routine. You tore open a sleeve and pressed a tourniquet, muttering clinical commands under your breath. The victim blinked up at you, terrified, but you didn’t have time for sympathy. Not today.

Until you spotted her—Jinx.

She was perched on the edge of the rubble like a caged animal, one leg bouncing nervously, fingers twitching over the familiar cluster of makeshift bombs strapped to her belt. Her wild eyes locked onto you, relief flickering behind the madness.

“Hey,” you said softly, crouching beside her. “You alright?”

Her grin was manic, but her voice wavered. “If I’m not, I’ll blow us all to hell. But I’m here. You’re here.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart wasn’t in it. Jinx was trouble, more than anyone else in this blasted city, and you were the only one who cared enough to make sure she didn’t die on your watch.

“Let me see you,” you said, scanning her for injuries. Nothing serious, just bruises and scratches. You gently wiped a smear of grime from her cheek, careful not to startle her.

“You always look out for me,” she muttered. “Why? Doesn’t make sense.”

You paused, then shrugged. “Because someone has to. Fear’s got a way of breaking people. Silco’s not just scary—he’s dangerous. You’re reckless enough without him breathing down your neck.”

Jinx’s eyes darkened, and she chewed her lip. “You’re not like the others. You patch them up, but you don’t care if they live or die.”

A hint of a smirk tugged at your lips. “That’s the job. If I saved everyone, we’d never get anywhere. But you—you're different.”

She shifted closer, voice dropping. “Different how?”

You glanced around, voice low. “I’m the one who makes sure you come back from the edge. Even when I want to leave you to your chaos. You’re a wildcard, and Silco’s watching. I don’t want to be the one who wasn’t careful enough.”

Jinx looked away, fiddling with a loose thread on her jacket. “Thanks, I guess.”

You stood, offering a hand. “Come on. We’ve got work to do, and I’m not letting you be the one to blow us all up today.”

She took your hand, and for a moment, the madness didn’t seem so close.

You led Jinx through the winding corridors of the underground tunnels, the faint hum of distant gunfire and shouts trailing behind you. Despite the chaos outside, your steps were steady, practiced—your job never changed, even when the stakes got personal.

Jinx trailed just behind, shifting her weight nervously. She never liked being treated like she was fragile, but you’d seen what happened when she wasn’t watched closely. You weren’t about to let that happen again.

“You know,” she said, voice quieter now, “I don’t think anyone else even notices when I get hurt.”

You glanced back at her, eyebrow raised.

“Like, they just expect me to keep breaking and breaking until there’s nothing left.” She gave a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But you? You’re always there. Like you actually care.”

You sighed, opening your medical kit with a practiced flick. “I don’t do ‘care’,” you said, pulling out a clean cloth and some antiseptic. “I do results. You’re valuable to more than just Silco’s plans. You’ve got fire—don’t screw that up because you think you’re untouchable.”

She snorted, plopping down on a crate. “Untouchable? Hardly.”

You crouched beside her, gently dabbing at a fresh scrape on her arm. She flinched but didn’t pull away.

“I see the way you hold yourself together,” you said quietly. “And the way it’s all just barely hanging on by a thread. You’re scared. You think if you show it, everything falls apart.”

Jinx’s eyes flickered away, the familiar manic energy dimming for a moment. “Maybe. But you? You’re… different. You don’t act like you’re scared of the mess, even when it’s right in front of your face.”

You shook your head, smoothing the cloth down. “I’m scared all the time. But if I let that show, this whole place might crumble faster. Fear doesn’t help anyone out here.”

Jinx looked at you for a long second, like she was trying to read something beneath your calm exterior. Then she smiled—just a little, but genuine this time.

“Maybe that’s why I stick around. You don’t run. You don’t break. And hell, maybe you even see something worth fixing.”

You packed up your kit and stood, offering your hand again.

“Come on. There’s more chaos to fix.”

She grabbed your hand, steady this time.

“Always chasing the chaos,” she muttered. “But with you around, maybe it’s not so bad.”

You led her back into the storm, a silent pact hanging between you: no promises, no fluff—just survival. Because in Zaun, that was all that really mattered.

The tunnel opened up to the battlefield again, rubble and smoke swirling under flickering lantern light. You paused, scanning the area, tension humming in the air like electricity.

Jinx stood beside you, calm now, but you knew better. Beneath that calm was a storm she barely kept in check. Silco’s shadow stretched long over her, but you were the one she let close—because you saw her, really saw her, beyond the chaos.

A sudden cry split the air. Without hesitation, you both moved, instinct kicking in. You reached the wounded first, pulling a young fighter out of the way just before a stray bolt tore through the wall behind.

Jinx was right there, eyes sharp, keeping watch.

You worked fast, pressing bandages, checking vitals. The kid’s eyes fluttered open, and you caught Jinx watching you—her wildness momentarily softened by something like respect.

“See?” you said, voice low. “This is what matters. Not who scares who, not the games we play. It’s this.”

Jinx nodded, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “Yeah. You’re the reason I’m still here.”

You looked at her, steady. “I’m the reason you don’t have to be.”

For a long moment, there was silence—broken only by distant gunfire and the slow settling of dust.

Then Jinx smirked, loud and wild again. “Alright, Doc. Let’s go blow up some more trouble.”

You shook your head, but the faintest smile cracked through your usual calm.

“Lead the way, troublemaker.”

Together, you vanished back into the chaos, two forces bound by duty and a silent understanding: some bonds don’t need words. They just need someone who refuses to let go.

[couchlovers]

hey guys, so June and July was rough for me. But I will be back in August maybe for the 3rd.

xoxo !

[couchlovers]

Naruto’s masterlist

masterlist

These are the character that I will write for:

◈⋅ ── ⋅◈

Sakura Haruno

Hinata Hyuga

Temari

Tenten

Kurenai

[couchlovers]

Kuroko No Basket’s masterlist

masterlist

These are the character that I will write for:

◈��� ── ⋅◈

Satsuki Momoi

Riko Aida

[couchlovers]

Haikyuu’s masterlist

masterlist

These are the character that I will write for:

◈⋅ ── ⋅◈

Kiyoko Shimizu

Yachi Hitoka

Alisa Haiba

[couchlovers]

Attack On Titan’s masterlist

masterlist

These are the character that I will write for:

◈⋅ ── ⋅◈

Mikasa Ackerman

Historia Reiss

Annie Leonhart

Sasha Braus

Pieck Finger

[couchlovers]

One piece’s masterlist

masterlist

These are the character that I will write for:

◈⋅ ── ⋅◈

Nami

Nico Robin

Nefartari Vivi

Boa Hancock

Nojiko

[couchlovers]

Fairy Tail’s masterlist

masterlist

These are the character that I will write for:

◈⋅ ── ⋅◈

Lucy Heartfilia

Mirajane Strauss

Yukino Agria

Minerva Orland

Meredy

Ultear Milkovich

[couchlovers]

Sword Art Online’s masterlist

masterlist

These are the character that I will write for:

◈⋅ ── ⋅◈

Asuna Yuuki

Lisbeth (Rika Shinozaki)

[couchlovers]

I will add them then. But tomorrow! So everyone be ready because it’s my comeback tomorrow!!

Not me coming back after 1 month and a half and popping 2 one shot and 2 headcanons 😎

I wanted to ask should I add anime character to my Masterlist ?

[couchlovers]

The Lady's Companion's masterlist

masterlist

These are the characters that I will write for:

◈⋅ ── ⋅◈

Cristina Mencia

Sara Mencia

Esther Zapico de Orbe