flutterlesbian

[flutterlesbian]

cuties

I was posting this on all my other socials, so I guess I’ll put it here too.

You can use this if u want, credits aren’t needed but adding them would be rlly nice :]

[flutterlesbian]

WOAHH

THE BEST WAY TO GET OVER (IS TO GET UNDER) | or, maddie is a lot like if the concept of yearning made a wish to become an evil girl. then, she gets what she wants.

pairing: vi/maddie

contents: friends to lovers, maddie centric, (not actually) unrequited feelings, dom!maddie, sub!vi biting and marking, fingering, pussy eating, choking (vi receiving), ab-riding, maddie is a freak who is a little evil, very much toxic yuri vibes

word count: 6, 995

Maddie knows she’s not a good person. Not in any sense that matters. Not by the kinds of moral compasses people like Vi seem to carry, all shiny and north-pointing. She is spiteful in the private dark of her mind, petty in her calculations, selfish in the marrow of her being. There’s a constant hunger gnawing in her gut, a need to own every beautiful thing that stumbles into her orbit. She wants to press them into amber, keep them, hoard them. And Vi—Vi is beautiful in a way that demands to be kept.

Vi is a bright spot in Maddie’s life. Maybe the brightest. Like a spark that keeps catching and catching, no matter how hard Maddie tries to pretend she isn’t chasing it with every breath. She watches Vi the way a starving girl watches a locked bakery—eager, angry, reverent.

And still, Vi is not hers. Not even close. So Maddie does what desperate, possessive people do: she compromises. She carves herself into the shape of someone Vi might love. She becomes soft where she would be sharp, patient where she would be demanding, kind in all the ways she has learned from observing Vi like scripture. It works, sort of. It buys her a seat at the table. Friendship.

Friendship is fine. Maddie has a few friends—people she laughs with, eats with, occasionally confesses to when her mask slips sideways. She doesn’t need more of them. She didn’t want more. She wanted Vi. But instead she plays the long game, all smiles and silent sacrifice.

She listens through girlfriend after girlfriend like sitting through sermons she doesn’t believe in, nodding, smiling, dying. She pretends not to care, even when it’s Caitlyn—especially when it’s Caitlyn. Because Caitlyn feels like a threat in a way the others never did. Polished, good on paper, the kind of woman who might actually manage to tie Vi down with nothing but a soft hand and some stability. Vi seems to like that. Stability. God, it makes Maddie sick.

Suddenly, all of Maddie’s sacred places are stolen from her. Their cafe—where Vi used to sit across from her in worn flannel, stealing sips of her drink, smirking over battered textbooks. Gone. Their trail, where Vi used to nudge her shoulder on every uphill climb. Gone. The lake where Maddie once thought maybe, maybe—gone. Desecrated. Occupied. Caitlyn’s name begins to taste like copper on Maddie’s tongue. It becomes the pulse in her jaw when she clenches her teeth at night.

But the worst are the stories. Vi, sitting on Maddie’s bed like she owns the air, like her joy doesn’t shred Maddie from the inside out, talking about Caitlyn with that look. That soft, dreamy glaze to her eyes. That unconscious smile, like Caitlyn is some kind of balm to a wound Maddie never got to see. It makes Maddie want to scream. To shake her. To demand don’t you see what you’re doing to me?

And Vi—perceptive, tender, careful Vi—she always notices when Maddie’s mood changes. Always touches her arm, or tilts her head in that way that says I’m here. I see you. But she never sees enough. Never guesses that Maddie’s silence is a scream. Never imagines that Maddie is rotting with jealousy, barely holding herself together with trembling fingers and practiced smiles.

"Hey," Vi says one night, her voice all softness and pity, as if Maddie is breakable in a sweet way and not in a jagged, dangerous one. She catches Maddie’s hands and folds them into her own. "You'll find your person someday. And I'll be right there to say I told you so."

Then she kisses the back of Maddie’s hand—soft, thoughtless, a mercy. And something in Maddie breaks.

Later, when Vi gets a text and bolts from the room like she’s been summoned by something holy, Maddie just sits. Completely still. The air feels vacuumed out, the room dimmed. She looks down at her hand like it’s something fragile and foreign. Reverently, almost absently, she brings her hand to her mouth and kisses the exact spot where Vi’s lips had been.

Her breath trembles against her skin. And then the heat starts to build—behind her eyes, in her chest, in that tight burning place just under her ribs. She closes her eyes and lets the tears come. Slow and hot, not from heartbreak, not exactly. No, this is a more familiar grief. A greedy, feral ache for something that never belonged to her in the first place.

Maddie knows something has to give. Something needs to break, or else she will. She tells herself she could be the bigger person—could put distance between them, cut the cord, bleed the ache out slowly like poison. She could be responsible, adult, kind. She could sort through her feelings like laundry, fold them up, put them away. It’s what any reasonable person would do. A good person.

But Maddie has never been good, and reason has never tasted as sweet as the idea of having.

The plan arrives the way most of her best ideas do: half-formed, half-destined. Like the universe saw fit to bestow upon her a gift. Vi storms into her room one evening, radiating fury, chewing on the bones of some off-screen argument, and pacing like a dog too smart for its leash. Her shoulders are rigid, her fists curled at her sides. She flits between shouting and muttering, her anger too big to be confined to a single volume.

Maddie watches from her bed, cross-legged and docile, chin resting on her palm. Wide, soft eyes hiding the fireworks under her skin. She feels the satisfaction like a wave rolling up her throat. A guilty, greedy kind of glee. Finally, she thinks, finally something’s cracking.

But Maddie knows Vi. Knows her too well. Knows how much slack she gives people, how her heart is like a scratched-up loyalty card, still swiping even when it shouldn’t work anymore. Vi forgives—easily, maybe too easily—and Maddie understands that a single bad night won’t undo what’s been built between her and Caitlyn. No, if Maddie wants to burn this bridge, she has to light it from the center. She needs Caitlyn to do the work for her. She needs Caitlyn to prove she's not the shiny, infallible girlfriend Vi keeps imagining her to be.

And for that, Maddie needs leverage.

She'd already been on a campaign to know all there was to know about the weak spots of Caitlyn Kiramman. Maddie keeps things subtle. Accompanies them on outings and turns herself into a caricature—bubbly, affectionate, just a little clueless. Caitlyn sees the game and doesn’t bite. She’s polite, if stiff. Sometimes she even laughs, but there’s always a flicker of something behind her eyes.

Something wary. Something that tells Maddie she knows. Vi, on the other hand, practically glows with joy watching the two of them interact. Oblivious. Maddie plays her part beautifully, sugary-sweet and golden around the edges, all while filing away every sharp thing she learns.

Because what Maddie does know about Caitlyn, she’s learned from the little cracks. The flinches. The passive-aggressive digs she thinks Vi doesn’t notice. She knows Caitlyn runs hot beneath all that control, that her temper simmers just under her skin, a thing disguised as dignity. Maddie has seen it once or twice—moments where Caitlyn’s lips go tight, where her voice goes flat. She's seen the flares of resentment, the bitterness that bubbles when Vi gets the last word. She knows Caitlyn can’t stand to lose, and more importantly, she can't stand to look like she's lost.

It’s only a matter of time. Maddie just has to fan the flame.

A few days pass. Vi says she’s taking a break from Caitlyn—“Just to give her space,” she insists, the lie unconvincing even in her own mouth. “Let her see what it’s like without me for a while.” Maddie hums sympathetically, fights back a smile, and bites her tongue hard enough to taste copper. She wants to believe this is the start of the end. Wants to hold Vi’s hand and say, She doesn't deserve you. But no, patience. Patience is part of the performance.

Then it happens—casual, perfect. Maddie’s phone buzzes with a video reposted to someone’s story. It’s Caitlyn. At a bar Maddie recognizes. One Vi would never set foot in. The caption is vague, just a drink emoji and a song lyric, but the camera pans just enough for Maddie to see Caitlyn's glass clink against another’s, her smile slanted and easy. Vi’s not in town. Maddie knows this. Drove home for the weekend to see her mom. Which means Caitlyn is out, alone, not mourning. Not pining.

She's trying to win.

Maddie gets dressed like she’s going to war. Her room is dim and quiet, the air thick with intent. She picks a top that clings and dips in all the right places, runs her fingers over the fabric like a promise. She paints her face with practiced precision.

By the time she grabs her keys, her pulse is steady, her mind sharp. She isn’t doing anything wrong, she tells herself. She’s just giving fate a little nudge. Reclaiming what’s been hers from the beginning.

-

The bar is noisy, alive in the way Maddie likes to play in. She spots Caitlyn easily, perched at the far end of the room, dressed in a dress that's a touch too classy, rings catching light like teeth, eyes scanning like she's looking for trouble to get into. Maddie can’t help but smile.

She approaches slow, deliberate. Caitlyn notices her immediately and stiffens, a sharp flicker of surprise quickly buried under suspicion. Her eyes narrow, the slope of her mouth curling down.

“Vi send you?” she says, voice cool, cutting. “Or are you just playing her little lapdog on your own time?”

Maddie feels the insult land, but lets it slide right off her. She tucks some of her hair behind her ear, lets her gaze soften just enough. “I didn’t know you’d be here,” she lies, voice pitched somewhere between innocence and olive branch. “But I saw you so I figured I'd come and hello! May as well, right?”

Caitlyn snorts, eyes glinting. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Maddie shrugs and flashes a sheepish smile. “Maybe. But I’m a generous one. What are you drinking?”

Caitlyn eyes her, still suspicious, but Maddie can see the cracks. She’s not in the mood to keep fighting the world. Not tonight. Finally, she relents with a tired gesture at her mostly-empty glass. Maddie flags the bartender and orders two of whatever Caitlyn’s having, settling into the stool beside her like it’s always been hers.

It doesn’t take long. The alcohol smooths Caitlyn’s posture, softens her clipped words into a low-spoken rant. She starts complaining in that way people do when they know they’ve fucked up but need someone else to say they didn’t.

“She’s just so—so much,” Caitlyn says, rubbing a thumb along the rim of her glass. “Every disagreement simply must be an argument. It's a lot, sometimes.”

Maddie listens, tilting her head like she’s trying not to judge. Inside, she’s seething. A lot? Too much? Vi, who gives and gives and keeps giving until her hands are raw and empty, is too much? Maddie wants to laugh. Wants to lean across the table and say, Giver her to me, then.

But outwardly, she’s perfect. She nods sympathetically and lays a gentle hand over Caitlyn’s, her touch feather-light. “She can be…intense,” Maddie says, voice syrup-sweet, “but it’s only because she cares. Too much, maybe.”

Caitlyn lets out a bitter laugh. “You’re not exactly unbiased.”

“No,” Maddie admits, eyes wide, imploring. “But I know what it’s like to feel overwhelmed. To say something you didn’t mean just to—push someone back.” She lets her thumb brush along Caitlyn’s knuckles. “It doesn’t make you a bad person.”

Caitlyn studies her, eyes darting between Maddie’s face and her hand. She doesn’t pull away. She leans in, just a fraction, but it’s enough. Maddie knows the signs. The tension between them shifts, flips over like a coin landing face-up.

“You’re doing something,” Caitlyn says, low and amused. “You’re…being nice. It’s creepy.”

Maddie laughs, lets it sound nervous. “I’m just trying to make peace.”

Caitlyn’s gaze dips to Maddie’s mouth. “Feels like you’re trying to kiss me.”

A beat. Maddie doesn’t flinch, just tilts her head, lashes sweeping down as if caught. She doesn’t answer.

Caitlyn smiles, but there’s no joy in it. “Is that what you want?” she asks, too quickly. “It’d really piss Vi off.”

And there it is. The rot under all of Caitlyn’s polish. She’s hurting, and she wants Vi to hurt with her. Wants to win by taking something Vi loves, or maybe just wants. Maddie sees it all laid bare. The wounded pride, the bitterness, the need to get even.

She doesn’t say yes. She doesn’t need to. She just looks up through her lashes with those soft, open eyes like she’s begging to be ruined. And Caitlyn leans in, slow and hesitant, testing the boundary.

When their mouths meet, Maddie lets herself melt into it for half a second—just enough to sell it. Just enough to be believable. Caitlyn tastes like gin and something fruity, her kiss searching and mean. Maddie kisses back like someone giving in to a mistake she wanted to make.

And then she pulls away.

She shoves at Caitlyn’s shoulder, not hard, but enough to create space. Her breath comes fast, her hand rising to her lips in faux-shock. “I—I can’t,” she says, voice trembling. “We can’t do that to Vi. She—she doesn’t deserve that. You don’t.”

Caitlyn blinks, caught off guard. “Maddie—”

“No,” Maddie says, slipping off the stool, shaking her head like she’s trying to make herself believe the lie. “I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry. I thought we could just talk. I didn’t mean—”

She’s halfway to the door before Caitlyn can say another word, heart hammering in her chest, stomach coiled tight with satisfaction.

Outside, the night air hits her like absolution. She smiles, slow and wicked, like someone finally winning the game she was never supposed to play.

-

Maddie calls her before she can think better of it. The moment her door shuts behind her, she’s thumbing through her favorites like she’s innocent, like she didn’t spend the whole night building a perfect little crime and committing it.

Vi picks up on the third ring, voice thick with something—maybe sleep. It is pretty late, after all. “Hey, shortcake. What's up?”

“Hi,” Maddie says, small. Breathless. Like she’s not entirely sure she should be calling. “I…I just—something happened, and I don’t know what to do.”

That gets Vi’s attention. Her tone shifts, sharpens. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I saw Caitlyn tonight,” Maddie says, just the right amount of hesitation laced in, like it’s painful to admit. “At a bar. I didn’t know she’d be there, I swear. I was just trying to be nice. She looked upset, and I thought maybe I could—I don’t know—help.”

“Mads,” Vi says, low and already wary. “What happened.”

“She kissed me,” Maddie breathes, the words tumbling out soft and shaky. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I wasn’t—I was just trying to talk to her. I thought we were making progress, and then…I don’t know. I think she wanted to piss you off. I swear, I pushed her away.”

There’s silence on the line for a few long, heavy seconds. Then Vi curses under her breath, and Maddie winces.

“Are you mad at me?” she asks, and god, she lays it on so sweetly. Her voice trembles just enough to sound like it might crack. “I didn’t...I would never hurt you, Vi. You know that, right?”

Vi exhales, long and exhausted. “No, Maddie. I’m not mad at you. It’s not your fault. Cait’s just—fuck, I don’t know. I’ll deal with this shit when I get back, okay?”

Maddie nods, even though Vi can’t see it. “Okay. I just…I didn’t want to keep it from you.”

“You did the right thing,” Vi says, and she sounds so tired. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

But Vi doesn’t call the next day. Not until the doorbell rings at 11 p.m., and Maddie finds her standing there like something broken open. Her eyes are puffy, rimmed red, and she’s clutching a half-empty bottle of whiskey like it’s a weapon or a shield. Maybe both.

Maddie’s in a little nightgown—soft and pale and barely holding on to decency—and she doesn’t let herself show any reaction except concern. She opens the door wider, reaches out, and gently takes the bottle from Vi’s hand.

“I don’t think you need more of this,” she says softly, shaking her head. “You need water. Maybe food.”

Vi doesn’t argue. Just sighs and lets herself be steered inside. Maddie sits her at the kitchen island, places a glass of water in her hand like it’s medicine.

“Thank you,” Vi mumbles, gulping it down. Her voice is hoarse. Frayed.

Maddie smiles faintly and begins pulling out leftovers, setting them in the microwave with quiet precision. She’s facing the microwave when Vi comes up behind her, slow and silent. Arms wrap around her waist. A head presses to her shoulder.

“You’re such a good friend,” Vi whispers, voice thick. “Fuck. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Maddie closes her eyes. Her hand stills on the microwave door. Friend. That word again, used like a balm and a blade all at once.

“You and me,” Vi murmurs, lips brushing her shoulder. “We could just grow old together. Two lonely assholes. Excuse, me I'm the lonely asshole. You're too sweet for that.”

It breaks something in Maddie, splits her wide open. She wants that. She wants it all. A Vi that is hers and hers alone for the foreseeable future.

She turns.

And she kisses her.

It’s not tentative. It’s not sweet. It’s consuming. Maddie kisses her like she’s starving and Vi is the only thing left in the world with heat. Vi returns it, mouth hungry, hands already moving—one at Maddie’s waist, the other creeping up to cup her jaw. Maddie’s hands go to Vi’s hair, tangling, pulling, angling her head just right.

The microwave beeps, forgotten.

Vi groans into Maddie’s mouth, presses her harder against the counter. Her hands are everywhere, desperate and unsure all at once, fingers curling under the hem of Maddie’s nightgown. Maddie gasps, breath stuttering against Vi’s lips.

Then, Vi stops.

Pulls back, breathing hard. Her forehead rests against Maddie’s. “Fuck,” she whispers. “I—fuck. I can’t.”

Maddie doesn’t move. Doesn’t cry or beg or push. She just looks up at her, eyes wide and shining. “It’s okay,” she says, soft. “It’s okay, Vi.”

But her chest aches, and her hands are still trembling from the feel of Vi's body pressed against hers. Maddie watches as Vi takes a shaky step back, rubbing her face with both hands like she’s trying to wipe the moment away.

"I can't do that to you, Mads," Vi murmurs, her voice low and raw. “You’re my friend. You deserve so much better.”

Maddie doesn’t respond at first. She watches Vi with a careful kind of stillness, weighing her words. Her chest is tight and her throat is dry, but her brain—her brain is clear. Cold, even. This is the moment she’s been inching toward for months. Maybe years.

She steps forward, slow and deliberate, and lifts Vi’s hands from where they’ve buried themselves in her face. Maddie cradles them in her own, grounding her, softening her. “I want it,” she says, and it’s not desperate. It’s decisive. “If it’s you, I want it.”

Vi’s eyes search hers like she’s looking for a lie, some tiny crack to confirm that this isn’t real. But Maddie’s gaze doesn’t falter. And that’s when it happens. Maddie watches it click into place behind her eyes. Like a puzzle snapping shut. Every moment, every lingering touch, every too-long look, every “friendly” favor Maddie’s ever offered is rewound and reexamined in Vi’s head all at once.

"You’re in love with me, aren’t you?" she asks, a little stunned. Her voice drops even lower, like speaking it aloud might shatter something between them. "How long...?"

“Long enough,” Maddie answers, quiet and stripped down. There's no mask left, no performance. Her voice is small and almost reverent. Her heart hammers so violently it feels like her ribcage might crack, but she doesn’t move. She holds her ground like she’s bracing for a hit.

“Fuck,” Vi breathes. Her arms drop, her hands bracing against the counter like her legs might give out. The motion cages Maddie in, traps her between the cool metal edge and Vi’s shaking limbs. Her breath is hot and shallow. Maddie stays still, trembling slightly under the weight of it.

Vi looks down like she can’t meet Maddie’s eyes just yet. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I spent so much time talking about other girls, and I made you hang out with Caitlyn—I didn’t think... That must’ve sucked.”

“Only a little,” Maddie says, and she means it. But also: it nearly killed her. The way Vi looked at those other girls, like Maddie didn’t exist. The way she smiled after Caitlyn kissed her forehead. The intimacy of it, the casual cruelty of unknowingness.

But Maddie doesn’t say that. She just lets her leg shift slightly until it brushes up against Vi’s, a gentle touch disguised as nothing. She tilts her head, watching Vi’s reaction like a hawk.

Vi stares at her for a long time. The kind of silence that folds in on itself, stretching longer than it should. Maddie’s patience, already so thin, begins to fray.

“Usually,” she says, soft and sardonic, “this is the part where you say something. I see that might be a bit difficult for you, so how about I give you some options, hm?”

Vi huffs a breath, her expression tight but not angry. Not closed off. She nods, once.

Maddie hums, thoughtful. Her fingers toy lightly with the edge of Vi’s shirt, almost absentminded. “Okay. You could tell me you don’t feel the same way, and I could go to my room. I’ll go to bed, you take the couch, and we pretend like we never had this conversation.”

Vi’s eyes flick up, sharp and immediate. “Don’t like that one.”

Maddie raises a brow. “Interesting. Okay. You can have the bed?”

“You can’t be serious,” Vi says, and there’s something fragile in her voice, like a smile just barely waiting for permission.

But Maddie grins, pleased with herself, leaning in just a touch. “I'm making sure I cover every option, Violet.”

Vi exhales through her nose, eyes dropping to Maddie’s lips for half a second, just long enough to feel it. That heat. That possibility.

“So,” Maddie says lightly, brushing her fingers against Vi’s forearm now, “option three. We could...share the bed?”

Vi’s mouth twitches, conflicted. “And what about that conversation?”

Maddie’s hand slips down, fingers barely grazing the inside of Vi’s wrist. “Save it for the morning?”

Vi doesn’t answer at first. Her eyes search Maddie’s face again, slower this time. Maddie holds her gaze, tilts her head just slightly to the side, eyes soft and impossibly open.

“Okay,” Vi says, voice barely above a whisper. “Okay. Morning.”

It’s different, having Vi step into her room like this, quiet, uncertain, and just a little wrecked. Maddie feels it down to her bones. The atmosphere has shifted entirely, charged like a storm hanging overhead, humming with unsaid things. Vi lingers just inside the doorway, her eyes scanning the familiar space like it’s suddenly foreign. Like it might bite.

And Maddie is radiant. A sun in her own sky. For once, she doesn’t have to mask her hunger. She doesn’t have to pretend to be okay with crumbs. Her body buzzes with a dangerous kind of glee.

"Take your shoes off," she says gently, but there's an edge to it. A command tucked inside sugar.

Vi blinks, then lets out a nervous little laugh as she picks at the laces. She fumbles—of course she does. Her fingers are clumsy with drink and nerves, and Maddie lets herself grin, just a little mean. "You're hopeless," she says, and drops to her knees with the kind of grace she hopes burns itself into Vi's mind.

Her breath catches.

Maddie undoes the laces slowly, fingers deft and patient. She doesn’t say anything at first, just tugs the shoes free one by one, then sets them aside like they’re precious. Vi’s eyes are fixed on her the entire time, wide and unblinking, her lips parted slightly in the soft shape of awe.

Maddie glances up, tilting her head, deliberately letting her hair fall across her face. “Do you like the sight of me on my knees, Vi?”

The sound Vi makes is barely audible. A soft, involuntary whimper that seems to surprise her as much as it thrills Maddie.

"Yeah?" Maddie says with a smile that’s all bite. She stands in one fluid motion, slow and unhurried, then places both hands on Vi’s shoulders and pushes.

Not rough, not forceful—just decisive. Vi folds beneath her like paper, landing on the bed with a soft grunt, eyes locked on Maddie like she’s trying to memorize every second.

Maddie climbs into her lap without hesitation, knees bracketing Vi’s thighs. The thin cotton of her nightgown rides up with the movement, and she doesn’t bother adjusting it. She places Vi’s hands on her ass like it’s nothing—like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"Hold me here," she murmurs. "Just like that."

And Vi does, hands curling instinctively, eyes gone wide and wild with want. Maddie rolls her hips forward in a lazy grind, and Vi exhales sharp through her teeth, her head falling back with a quiet groan.

The kiss that follows is filthy, open-mouthed, messy, needy. Maddie leads it all: sets the pace, nips at Vi’s bottom lip, licks into her mouth like she owns it. Vi moans into her, hips twitching upward, helpless under her. Maddie loves it—loves every whimper, every twitch, every greedy grasp.

Vi breaks the kiss with a gasp, eyes darting down between them. “Your panties are soaked,” she mumbles, voice half-strangled with lust and disbelief.

Maddie smirks, breath ghosting across Vi’s flushed cheek as she leans in close, her voice velvet and smoke. “Yeah? You wanna take them off for me?”

Vi just nods, eyes blown wide and starry with awe.

Maddie laughs sharp and gleaming, a blade honed on mischief and arrogance. It slices clean through the heat between them, the kind of sound that makes skin prickle and blood rush downward. She rolls off Vi with languid, feline ease, landing on her back like she’s been waiting to sprawl there all night.

Her legs fall open in a slow, deliberate invitation, the picture of studied decadence. She doesn’t beckon—she doesn’t have to. Vi is already there, sliding between her thighs with a hunger that borders on worship. Her hands glide upward, palms grazing freckled skin underneath, her fingers pressing just hard enough to bruise, just enough to pull a sound from Maddie’s throat that’s half-laugh, half-moan, and utterly filthy.

She barely brushes her fingertips against the slick heat behind Maddie’s panties when the command cuts through the haze—soft, unwavering, devastating.

“Use your teeth.”

Vi freezes. There’s a beat, just a beat, where her breath hitches. Then a short, shaky laugh escapes her, a crooked little sound that betrays how badly she wants to obey.

“Yes, ma’am,” she mutters, meant to be sarcastic, but the tremor ruins her. Maddie hears it, feels it—how Vi's voice quivers, not with nerves, but with the kind of need that begs to be told what to do.

Maddie’s smile is slow and dangerous, all teeth and promise.

The panties are barely fabric, more suggestion than garment, but Vi treats them with care anyway. Her lips close over the waistband, dragging them down inch by agonizing inch, and her nose bumps against Maddie’s clit on the way—accidental, deliberate, who knows—but it makes Maddie shudder, her hips lifting involuntarily. The panties slither past her knees, her ankles, before slipping from Vi’s mouth like a trophy, like a gift.

Wordlessly, Maddie sits up. The nightgown comes off with a shrug and a toss, hitting the floor in a flutter. She crooks a finger. “Come here.”

Vi does, crawling closer, eyes locked on Maddie like she’s gravity. Maddie slides her hands beneath Vi’s shirt, fingertips ghosting over taut, trembling muscle, slow enough to draw it out, to savor the tension. She peels the shirt off and Vi helps without thinking, lifting her arms with a breathless little sigh. Maddie taps gently at her binder.

“On or off?”

Vi bites her lip. “On, if that’s cool.”

Maddie doesn’t hesitate. She leans in and kisses her—slow and reassuring, deep enough to drown in. “Of course it is,” she murmurs against her lips. Then she pulls back just enough to flash that same wicked grin. “Now lie down. I’ve got plans for you.”

Vi flops back, head hitting the pillow with theatrical ease, but there’s nothing casual about the way her eyes stay locked on Maddie, heavy-lidded and burning. “You know,” she murmurs, voice thick with want, “I never had you pegged for the bossy type.”

Maddie grins, crooked and dangerous. “You’re so damn good at being told what to do. Wouldn’t it be cruel to waste it?”

She hooks her fingers in the waistband of Vi’s jeans, dragging them down in a slow, torturous strip, her eyes never leaving Vi’s face. Her briefs come with them, and Maddie presses a kiss just below her navel—a promise, a tease—and then another, lower, following the trail of dark hair with lips and tongue. Each motion is indulgent, worshipful. Possessive.

She shifts down, mouth settling at the tender curve of Vi’s inner thigh. Her teeth graze the skin before she bites, sucks, leaves a blooming bruise that feels like a brand. Then another, and another until she has a whole host of those pretty marks.

Vi jerks above her, fingers latching into Maddie’s hair, not pulling but something near it every time she clenches her fist. She gasps, whines, every breath a helpless offering.

Maddie listens. She feels the rhythm of Vi’s need in the way her hips roll, in the trembling restraint of the fingers in her hair, in the subtle, almost shy grind forward like she’s begging without words. But the second Vi starts to guide—starts to push—Maddie pulls back, sharp and clean.

“You’re being impatient,” she says, voice thick with reprimand, as if she hasn’t been dying to taste her for the last ten minutes. She presses a kiss where she just marked, soft and soothing. “Be good. Take what I give you. You want me to be sweet, don’t you?”

“Y-yeah,” Vi stammers, voice breaking. “Fuck, you’re kinda hot when you’re mean.”

Maddie’s heart does something traitorous, twists and clenches like a fist around something soft. It doesn’t hurt. It glows. This moment—Vi laid out and gasping, pliant and wanting—it’s everything she’s ever wanted to deserve. Every ache, every fantasy, curled up beneath her, waiting.

So she leans in. Finally. Mouth to slick heat, tongue parting her like a prayer. And the taste—god, the taste—hits her like a fever. Maddie moans into her, slow and greedy, savoring every twitch, every gasp, forcing herself not to rush. She licks like it’s art, like Vi’s body is the canvas and her mouth the brush. Every stroke deliberate. Every flick of her tongue a promise: I know what you need. I’m not done yet.

Maddie licks into her with slow, deliberate devotion, every movement of her mouth practiced and hungry, like she’s trying to memorize the way Vi tastes, the way she trembles, the exact pitch of every gasp. Her tongue strokes over her with an unbearable patience, flattening, curling, teasing—and then retreating just before Vi’s thighs go rigid, just before her breath catches in that telltale way that says she’s right there.

And then Maddie stops.

Pulls back, just enough to let the air kiss where her mouth had been.

Vi lets out a sound that’s half sob, half curse—hips bucking, trying to chase what she just lost. “Maddie—fuck, why’d you stop—”

Maddie hums, smug and unhurried, planting a slow kiss on the inside of Vi’s thigh, right over the darkening bruises she left earlier. “Because I felt you about to come,” she murmurs, voice low and soaked in heat. “And I didn’t say you could yet.”

Vi makes another needy, frustrated sound, her hands clenching in the sheets now, too wrecked to keep her fingers in Maddie’s hair. She’s breathing like she’s been running. Her eyes glassy, mouth open, chest rising and falling in these helpless little jerks.

Maddie takes her time dragging her tongue up again, spreading her open, letting the slick heat coat her mouth. And again, right when Vi’s thighs start to tremble, when her whole body tightens in that desperate, perfect way, Maddie pulls away.

Vi keens. It’s a sound, not even a word, broken and raw. “Please, please—fuck, Maddie, please. I need it, I need—”

Maddie stills. Lifts her head just enough for their eyes to meet, lips glistening, flushed and focused. “No,” she says, voice amused and mean. “You want it because you're greedy. Be honest.”

Vi whimpers, her thighs trembling now with tension she can’t release. Her voice is nearly gone, but she forces the words out like a confession. “I—I want it. I want it so fucking bad.”

Maddie smiles, slow and satisfied, like a predator that’s finally caught its prey. “There we go,” she croons, crawling up Vi’s body to kiss her, hot and deep and messy, letting her taste herself on Maddie’s tongue. “So good, baby. So obedient. Tell me something else.”

She trails her mouth down again, leaving kisses across Vi’s torso, over her binder, her ribs, the sharp line of her hip. “Tell me I’m the only one who gets to see you like this.”

Vi’s eyes flutter, her breath catching on every word Maddie breathes against her skin.

“Tell me you belong to me.”

Vi gasps, her voice breaking apart like glass under pressure. “You are. I do. I'm all yours, Mads. Just you. Only you ever.”

Maddie lets out a low, trembling sigh because it's everything she's ever wanted. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Her hand slides down between Vi’s legs, fingers slipping into soaked heat with ease. Two, deep and slow, curling up, pressing in. Her mouth follows, tongue working in tandem, deliberate and devastating.

Vi breaks.

She arches off the bed like she’s been struck by lightning, a long, shuddering cry ripping from her throat as Maddie drags her over the edge, not with mercy but with intention. Maddie keeps going, pushing her through it, past it, until Vi’s legs are shaking, until her fingers have gone slack and her voice is a wrecked litany of Maddie’s name.

When Vi finally collapses back into the sheets, boneless and heaving, Maddie stays right where she is—lips and fingers slow now, coaxing every last aftershock, every final tremble of overstimulated pleasure.

And above it all, the words still ring clear in Maddie’s ears:

I'm all yours.

Maddie drags herself up Vi’s body slow, deliberate, savoring every inch of sweat-damp skin like it’s a reward. Her hands trail up along Vi’s sides as she moves, fingers dancing over every twitching muscle, every place she made Vi come undone. She climbs her like a throne, and settles like she's something meant to be worshipped from below. When she finally settles across Vi’s lap, her hands instinctively come to rest on her thighs, like gravity pulled them there.

There are tears, just a few, glittering at the corners of Vi’s eyes. Maddie leans down and kisses them away, soft and slow, her lips brushing beneath Vi’s eyes, along her cheekbones.

“God, look at you,” Maddie whispers, eyes shining with affection so deep it almost hurts. “So beautiful. So good for me.”

Maddie rubs her thumb along the high point of Vi's cheek, coos a little at the little noise she lets out. Maddie's half-convinced she doesn't even know she's doing it. "My turn now, hm? You wanna make me come?"

Vi nods frantically, her mouth falling open. It sends Maddie on a power trip immediately, her head swimming with the idea that Vi's this needy just for her.

“Desperate,” she purrs, watching Vi’s throat bob with the swallow she doesn’t even try to hide. “You hear the word come and your brain just stops, huh?”

Vi flushes dark, helpless under the attention, but she doesn’t look away. If anything, she leans into it.

Maddie shifts forward, sliding up until her pussy is pressed flush against Vi’s abs. She gasps softly at the contact, her hands bracing on Vi’s chest, her thighs trembling. “Mmm. Yeah. That’s it.”

She begins to move—slow at first, grinding down with a roll of her hips, coating Vi’s skin in her arousal. It’s filthy and intimate and Maddie doesn’t care about anything except the drag, the friction, the feeling of Vi’s abs under her, flexing with every pass of her slick pussy over them.

She rides her like she owns her, and she does. Maddie’s head tips back, a moan catching in her throat as she starts to pick up speed, her body singing with it.

Vi’s hands twitch, then grab at her hips—tight, almost bruising—as if grounding herself is the only thing keeping her from coming just from watching. Her mouth is open, panting, eyes dark and heavy.

Maddie leans down again, just far enough to slide her hand up along Vi’s jaw, thumb stroking her chin before wrapping gently then firmly around her throat.

Vi's breath catches instantly. She doesn’t even have to speak. Maddie knows exactly what this does to her.

“Oh, I know you like this,” Maddie says, her voice all sugar-laced poison. “You think I haven’t been listening? All those stories you made me sit through?” She squeezes, just enough to make Vi’s eyes flutter. “I know exactly how to make you feel good.”

Vi’s mouth works uselessly. Her chest is heaving now, both from the loss of breath and the overwhelming heat of watching Maddie lose control on top of her.

“Here’s the deal,” Maddie breathes, grinding harder now, chasing her climax with abandon. “You get to breathe when you make me come.”

Vi whines, deep in her throat, but doesn’t dare disobey. Her hands snap back into action, clutching Maddie’s hips, dragging her down against the taut line of her abs. There’s nothing graceful in it anymore—just pure, unfiltered desperation. She helps Maddie fuck herself against her body with single-minded purpose, her own lungs burning with effort, with restraint.

Maddie’s eyes flutter shut, her moans climbing, her grip on Vi’s throat tightening just a little, enough to make Vi’s pulse stutter. “Fuck. Fuck, Vi. Vi. Don't stop. Don't you dare fucking stop—”

The climax crashes through her like a thunderclap—her body going rigid, back arching, thighs clenching around Vi’s waist as she cries out, riding out every last wave with a ferocity that makes Vi’s hips buck upward instinctively. Maddie’s hand slips from Vi’s throat just as she collapses forward, panting, legs trembling.

Vi’s lungs suck in air with a gasping sound, her entire body twitching like she’s just been shocked, but before she can speak—before she can even fully recover—Maddie’s already pulling her into a kiss. Hot. Open-mouthed. Tongue and teeth and gratitude. It's messy and perfect, Maddie still shivering through the aftershocks, her whole body glowing with what Vi gave her. What she took.

Vi moans into her mouth, hands still clenched on her thighs, and Maddie doesn’t stop kissing her. She’s not done yet.

Maddie doesn’t move right away. She stays slumped over Vi, breath coming in shallow gasps, sweat beading at her temples, her whole body still humming from the afterglow. But then her lashes lift, and that wicked gleam returns to her eyes.

She shifts forward again, slow and deliberate, dragging herself higher up Vi’s body until her thighs frame Vi’s flushed face. She barely has time to register it before Maddie’s hovering just above her mouth, voice thick with command and affection both.

“Clean me up.”

Vi doesn’t hesitate.

Her hands settle on Maddie’s hips, reverent and eager, and her mouth opens to receive. Her tongue licks a broad, slow stripe through the slick mess Maddie’s left behind, groaning low in her throat. She laps her clean with slow, wet drags. Entirely thorough. Maddie lets out a low, trembling sigh, bracing herself with one hand on the headboard and the other curling into Vi’s hair.

And then Vi pushes deeper. Tongue fucking into her with purpose, with hunger. She tilts her head just so, lips sealing around her with messy, obscene need—and Maddie feels it, all over again. Her thighs quake, her hips rocking without rhythm now, just chasing friction, chasing relief.

Maddie’s moans come quicker this time, thinner, unraveling fast. “Fuck, Vi—yes, yes—” she gasps, her control slipping fast beneath the intensity of it. “Right there—god, you’re gonna—”

And then she’s coming again.

Softer this time, but no less real—her thighs clenching around Vi’s head, her whole body trembling as she rides it out, mouth falling open in a voiceless cry. Vi holds her through it, keeps licking her until Maddie twitches and pulls away with a shaky, breathless laugh, too sensitive, too spent.

She collapses with no ceremony at all—just folds down over Vi like a warm, limp blanket, giggling into her neck.

They tumble together into a pile of sweat-slick limbs and tangled sheets, breathing the same heavy air, hearts still racing. Maddie’s cheek rests against Vi’s chest, and Vi wraps her arms around her without a word.

Now, who ever said bad guys don't win?

[flutterlesbian]

“i-is this wuh luh wuh 🥺🥺” no bitch this is DYKE posting. this is a L-L-L-LESBIAN POST *air horn noises*

[flutterlesbian]

IKTRRRRR

what do you think about people writing jinx as abusive towards the reader emotionally and physically?

i think it’s really mischaracterized tbh. i get that people write characters acting OOC sometimes for the sake of a certain narrative, but when it’s not tagged properly (especially with serious stuff like abuse), it’s jarring and upsetting to stumble into. it’s your responsibility as a writer to tag accordingly.

with Jinx specifically, i think a lot of that portrayal stems from people not really understanding BPD or complex trauma, and instead leaning into this almost vilified/warped version of it. making her erratic or clingy is one thing—that’s part of her canon character and can be explored with care. she’s someone who loves so hard it breaks her. she’s obsessive, loyal, terrified of being left behind.

yes, she has done abusive things and can be described as toxic at times (worth noting that it’s not a repetitive pattern either). the tea party scene in the s1 finale? that was emotionally manipulative and violent, but i think people miss why it happened. it’s not because she’s inherently malicious—that moment came from a full-blown breakdown, triggered by years of compounded trauma, mental illness, and isolation. it doesn’t excuse her behavior, but it explains it. and imo, the physical violence? that’s just as much a product of growing up in Zaun as it is her mental state. in her world, violence is survival. it’s normal, and it’s learned. you see that same mindset with Vi or Ekko. but even in that scene, you can feel that she’s spiraling. she doesn’t know how to process her pain, or how to love without destroying herself in the process. she’s never taught healthy emotional regulation. she lashes out, but it comes from fear, not power. and that’s a really important distinction.

side note: compare s1 Jinx to s2 (with Isha). “they made her easy to digest! they’re afraid of complex female characters!” no, you are. we saw that a healthy environment does wonders to her mental health, and all the writers did is show that, just like they did with her trauma back in s1. it’s okay to let characters heal (which she hasn’t done fully yet btw). “if you write Jinx with a loving partner there is no valid reason to assume she'd be abusive as long as she's treated right and not pushed too far like she was during the tea party scene.” — @sketch303 <3

so yeah, you can portray her doing harmful things—but if you’re gonna write her as emotionally or physically abusive toward the reader, especially in a romantic context, then that needs care, nuance, and proper tagging. otherwise it just reads like you saw “mentally ill woman” and decided she must be cruel. it flattens her character and vilifies a disorder already heavily stigmatized. just be honest in your tags, i CANNOT stress this enough. writing her as cruel just for shock value completely misses the point of who she is and why she hurts the way she does.

[flutterlesbian]

THE CHARCOAL HANDS R PERFECT OMGG

art classes w jinx headcannons ✒︎

synopsis: continuation of highschoolAU!jinx, art classes w jinxy pie before & while dating

cw: vague mental health mention, x reader at the end

wc: ~500 + proofread

a/n: inspired by middle pic and middle pic alone

✒︎ artstudent!jinx stuffs expensive art supplies in her hair to look more artsy, but really it’s to make it easier to steal later— get the teacher’s guard down and ‘accidentally’ leave the class with fineliners and acrylic paint tubes in the part of her braids against her neck you can’t see

✒︎ artstudent!jinx brings giant tubs of white acrylic paint (you know those run out so fast in art classes), and gets incredibly irritable if anyone tries to use it. like fake going-in to bite your arm if you reach for it. or, second defence: hissing at you

✒︎ artstudent!jinx, who, at some point gave up on washing her hair the day before her scheduled art classes, because some amount of acrylic paint WILL get stuck in it

✒︎ artstudent!jinx who paints straight on her hands (guilty). claims it makes it easier to mix and reach for paints instead of using a palette.

will chase people with blue hands if they make fun of her

✒︎ one of her favourite mediums is oil pastels, super vibrant colours, smooth on paper, no having to get it wet, or in her hair.

✒︎ artstudent!jinx, who has attempted to eat an oil pastel one time, and was immediately sent out of the room because she was distracting half the class (you saw this all go down from the table over)

✒︎ some weeks artstudent!jinx is being praised for being several art pieces ahead of the class; other times, she feels like she’s forgotten how to draw & feels overwhelmed with any attention from teachers or other students

✒︎ she usually HAS to listen that reflects the emotion she’s trying to convey through the art. but if it’s a little piece or simple art piece, trust a female rap artist is BLARING in the earphones she’s technically not allowed to wear.

a still life drawing of apples warrants peggy by ceechynaa, or discounts by cupcakke

✒︎ but a self portrait depicting her ‘after the accident’ needs rock, or songs like these, or my personal fave

✒︎ 100% steals unused sketchbooks from school. especially the ones with the glossy covers, but not the ones with spiral binders because it’d be too obvious.

✒︎ if she’s painting or drawing alone at home, she is probably doing some form of weed too, idc, cbd or thc. the former being more likely if it’s a school night

✒︎ she thinks painting with fillable water pens instead of paintbrushes isn’t as dignified, and turns her nose up at anybody who uses them

✒︎ random but she hates gouache paints, they’re not waterproof so she can’t paint her clothes, books, or bags with it.

once used it on a jacket that silco told her not to paint because it was a hand-me-down, and was sooo sad when the paint dissolved off in the rain

(this happened once when she was 13)

✒︎ she was so distraught and embarrassed she walked the whole way home from the function with her head held down (kiss it better for her, she still mourns that jacket)

✒︎ silco insists on buying new blazers each time a noticeable splotch of paint gets on it, despite the fact she refuses to wear it & he knows that

while dating:

✒︎ since she paints straight on her hands, they are permanently dry from being washed n scrubbed off 24/7. any time she leans in to hold your hand, you thinks it’s sand paper. also the funniest thing to tease her about.

✒︎ she owns those little wooden dolls that you pose for body references, and they’re all painted to look like the people she cares about the most— one had red marker all over the scalp, another has a drawn-on blazer, another has a weirdly detailed face that looks exactly like yours

✒︎ one of very few people to actually decorate the covers, and there is a doodle of you dead centre in her signature scratchy scrawl, like she put no effort into it, but spoiler, she did

✒︎ she once kissed you with paint on her lips to give you a ‘permanent kiss’ while in the paint wash-room (you unfortunately had to wipe it off before you left the room)

✒︎ artstudent!jinx who chose her sketchbook topic to be portraits so that she’d always had an excuse to sketch you in some capacity. she’d have you posing for her during and after classes

✒︎ when the teacher finally noticed, she was forced to do other students because you’re really meant to do a new subject in every piece

however, she still has managed to sneak in lino & mono prints, paintings, and charcoal pieces of your face across the sketchbook

✒︎ ask her to delete any of the photos and she’s ignoring you for the rest of the class 🤧

✒︎ artstudent!jinx who over-apologises when she gets any paint on your jewellery, you have to assure her a thousand times it’s fine.

✒︎ if she’s still going, you grab her paintbrush, and swipe more powder grey paint on your rings

— ‘see? it’s fine, we can wash it off.’ —

✒︎ the moment your grabbing her wrists and guiding her to the wash-room, she’s swooning, maybe it’s your composure, or ability to be stern and nice, but her lips are all over yours as soon as you’re alone in that room

you try to keep your ring under the tap, but your full attention is directed at jinx, and the faint taste of gum as kisses into you

a/n: babes how do I finish this off 🧍‍♀️

[flutterlesbian]

I just saw the most genuinely phobia inducing spider

[flutterlesbian]

the promised frankie reveal

big ass cranium woah n e ways, until i get a cleo doll, custom jinx is their stand-in girlfriend

Dinos & Dolls: ellie williams w dollcollector!reader headcannons

❦

cw: highschool!au, fluff/ sfw !, is this the loser!ellie the people wish for idk?, prolly a lil cringe but it’s cute!!, 4th wall breaks, technically a fic in bullet point format

wc: ~650

a/n: REPOST idk why this didn’t come up under the tags last time I posted it but I was so upset it felt like a pregnancy scare, y’all I even emailed tumblr so now I feel silly 🤕🤕 (and still upset) ESP bc I was posting this right after reaching 100 followers 💔. expect an influx in posts 😛

✂︎ you and Ellie went to high school together, sharing a geography class ⇀

✂︎ sitting next to each other have Ellie the perfect opportunity to yap about dinosaurs and space to you

✂︎ she told you about choosing geography in hopes of becoming an archaeologist in the future (you chose out for your interest in biology)

✂︎ you’re one of the only people who listens to her yap about these topics without ever getting annoyed or tired, and she loves this about you (Jesse n Dina are sick and tired 💔)

✂︎ as a way of ‘returning the favour’, she lets you yap back at her about your interest in dolls entire class periods— the western history of fashion dolls, your favourite brands like licca, barbie and bratz

✂︎ your two interests (info-dumping at each other) makes y’all close friends. and after school ends for the summer holidays you and Ellie are out on the town, you jokingly drag her to a toy store

✂︎ funnily enough, you find a mid-size dinosaur toy figurine for Ellie, and a new doll for yourself (a renamed ‘our generation’ doll like this)

✂︎ Ellie was worried for the impeding cringe of being almost 18 year olds buying toys at, like, Smyths Toys Superstore

✂︎ but really, she was down for this (and for you) so you end up walking out with both items

✂︎ you end the day with a picnic in the local park, deciding on names of the toys, you suggest Francis for the doll and Pete for the dinosaur

✂︎ Ellie complains the entire time, that the dinosaur is ‘historically inaccurate’, (something about the shape of the spine?) and dubs him Ugly Pete

✂︎ over the course of the summer holidays, you meet up with Ellie with said toys, usually at your house or various skateparks

𓀤

✂︎ going thrifting also becomes pretty common between the two of you, looking for vintage dolls to add to the collection. both of you acting like you’re not flustered when your shoulders brush each others in the small aisles

✂︎ at skate parks, you’re tightly holding on to a flushed Ellie as she tries to explain the basics of skating; Pete and Francis, peeking out the top of your bags offside

✂︎ when Ellie want to come over, she uses the toy as the stupidest reason to see you, poorly disguising her growing crush on you

— ‘Ugly Pete misses you.. meet up tomorrow?’

‘You know, it’s been a while since they’ve been on a playdate- you know what that means right?’

‘I think it’s time for Pete— Ugly— Pete to meet the rest of the dolls.. invite me over?’ —

𓀤

✂︎ at some point it becomes blatantly obvious what she’s trying to do, calling you out of the blue (Ugly Pete does not wanna meet the rest of the crew. stingy.). but of course you’re playing along because you’re into her too

✂︎ one time you meet up is at an arcade, neither of you label it a date, but neither of you want to label it a simple hangout either.

✂︎ when she confesses that day, it’s with a gift basket, including a (inexpensive, we’re teens 🙄) doll you wanted to get, and fashion packs to go with dollls you already have

✂︎ she quite chivalrously holds the gift the entire date even though the bag isn’t that heavy

she’s winning all the stuffed toys at the arcade, to look pretty by your doll display!

— ‘he’s a two-foot bear, he’d be perfect to protect Frankie- or Francis- from intruders!’

‘…Wouldn’t I need the protecting if that happens?’

‘Huh..’ She looks up at the bright arcade lights as she thinks, ‘I’ll be there for you!’

‘.. You live half an hour away.‘ you deadpan.

‘We’ll have to Chucky-fy Francis then.’

‘We are not Chucky-fying any of my dolls??’ —

✂︎… it is 100% a date at this point

✉︎ you also got her a gift you don’t reveal before it’s time to part. a gift bag with dino shaped sweets, a space encyclopaedia she’s been asking Joel to get her since Christmas and a letter you make her swear she won’t read until she gets home

✉︎ hours later, you get a message saying Pete and Francis are becoming siblings then, I guess?

✉︎ You reply with a simply yes 🤭↕️, and so marks the day you start dating. as endorsed by Pete & Francis

a/n: ugly pete and creepy francis, number 1 wingmans

also frankie g3 doll i was gifted for my 18th reveal coming soon 🙂↕️

[flutterlesbian]

too many habibis in dubai

[flutterlesbian]

Sneak peek of part three of my church is love—only seeing god when I come. In a weird mood where it feels like ppl aren’t liking what I’m posting lately so writing is bittersweet (it’s just the numbers fucking with me and bc they’ve been sfw, I’ll be alrighty). Anyways, Abby takes you out for dinner and dancing to have a fresh start and make things up to you.

“Will you dance with me?”

You froze, mouth slightly parted. The dance floor was near empty, songs slowing as evening turned to night. The beat was slow and the melody saccharine sweet. The last kind touch she had ever given you was a dance. Back when she held your hands in hers in the church hall, swaying to an old hymn—room for the holy spirit forced between you by the Sunday school teacher.

You gave Abby a nod and let her guide you toward the music. She closed the distance between you, chest to chest and heart to heart—hardly enough room to fit a slip of paper between you. A warm, heavy hand rested on the small of your back to pull you close. One hand held delicately in hers, you rested the other on one of her broad shoulders.

Just like that, you were brought back to that gray afternoon in April when you were eighteen. Like that day, your love for Abby burned hot and bright, threatening to consume you both. At eighteen, you fought against love like hell until it broke you. At twenty-five, you laid down your weapon and surrendered.

More to come, much love, thank you for being interested <3

[flutterlesbian]

The One That You Love

Religious comphet Abby x Fem Reader - part two to My Church is Love

Part two to this fic. Sfw hurt comfort, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, religious trauma, homophobia and gender roles characteristic of some religions and sects, Mormon coded as the themes are based on growing up in the church and leaving, plus the experiences of the women in my family. An LP song because the first part had one from the same album so I felt obligated.

Through a drunken haze, you could swear you saw Abby Anderson before you. She was blurred around the edges, almost glowing in the dim lights of the bar. It was like seeing a ghost, one that had haunted your dreams night after night. Your nightmare had found you all the way in Seattle, miles and miles from the outskirts of Salt Lake City where Abby Anderson broke your heart. You thought you made progress, letting the wounds heal and memories fade. As she stood in front of you and said your name, it felt like you had taken three steps back. The wound you thought had healed was aching again, pulling tight at the stitches.

The tension broke with her familiar voice, “do you mind if I sit?” Abby gestured to the barstool beside you. You gestured for her to go ahead, words failing you for a moment.

Abby leaned her elbows on the bar counter, watching as you twirled your straw around your empty glass. You could feel her eyes on you. “You doing okay?” she asked.

“I’ve… been better,” you mumbled, despondent. You wanted to tell her that you were lonely, moving from person to person incapable of settling down. Skin-to-skin contact never felt right, their arms around your shoulders feeling like bindings and their touch always too soft or too rough. Guilt would win every time as you realized that you were using these women. Even if they were doing the same to you, it was a cycle of hope and hurt that had worn you down. She would always lurk in the back of your mind as you scrolled through tinder, pausing at blondes with broad shoulders looking for casual hookups. You didn’t have to ask. It was clear as day that she had left the church, too. Otherwise, you’d never see her in a bar, let alone a gay bar. You could only hope Abby had been better off than you had. Despite the painful memories, you hoped that she and healed easier. “How’s life been treating you?”

You could tell that she was at least a little broader, and it felt like she was taller, too. “Pretty good,” Abby said, “moved out here for school, found a few friends in the city and we’re out for drinks.” She gestured behind her to a four-top table of drunks, one seat conspicuously empty with a jacket draped over the back. “I’m driving tonight so I got up to pay the tab.”

After a glance backward to the table, your attention was brought to Abby. She looked almost shy as she asked, “are you here with anyone?”

You huffed a laugh, gaze back on the empty glass as you couldn’t stand to see her pity “got stood up.”

“Oh… I’m so sorry, you don’t deserve that.”

Your grip tightened on the glass, “‘s’alright, I done it a few times so it was coming to me. Ain’t the first and it won’t be the last.”

Neither of you mentioned the church, but it loomed over your heads, ever present in your thoughts. Would you have to be the one to mention it? Mother always swept conflict under the rug, ignoring the problem and pretending it never happened rather than finding closure.

The silence was heavy as Abby contemplated your words’ impact. You were alone, drunk, and on the verge of tears. “Do you have a ride home?”

You looked up, surprised at her caring tone. “Took the bus, an’ I was gonna call an uber home.”

She looked disappointed, brows furrowed as she practically ordered “let me drive you home. It’s not safe for you to be alone this late.”

You were surprised by her statement, glancing back over to the table of drunks “what about your friends over there? Weren’t you gonna drive them home?”

Abby grinned, “I’ll call dumb, dumber, and dumbest over there an uber. They’ve got the buddy system but I don’t want you alone in a car with a stranger.”

You chuckled at her insistence, “no, thank you. That’s very chivalrous of you but I’ll do just fine.”

Abby made herself a stranger to you, so what gave her the right? You moved to climb down from the barstool, the point of one stiletto catching on its leg and tipping you off balance. If Abby weren’t there to catch you, you’d be flat on your face. She seemed to find it amusing, “Jesus, you’re drunk.” Her hands were wrapped warmly around the curve of your hips.

You couldn’t help but laugh, bitterly echoing the old Bishop’s words from years ago “don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”

Lips pressed tightly together, Abby’s mind was quickly made up. “C’mon, I’m taking you home. You shouldn’t be going anywhere alone like this.”

You didn’t know why she suddenly acted like she cared. You wanted to be cold and distant like she had been all those years ago, but you felt powerless in her presence. It seemed you didn’t have a choice in the matter as Abby told you to stay put and wait for her.

Abby returned to the table to get her friends a ride home and retrieve her jacket. As she typed on her phone, a man at the table with tanned skin and dark hair seemed to make a joke at Abby’s expense, the three bursting into laughter as she remained silent. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, the apples of her cheeks reddening.

Abby ushered you into the car with care, pulling a water bottle from the cupholder and holding it out for you to take. The ride home was silent, broken only by your curiosity.

“When did you end up leavin’ the church?” You prodded.

”Around the time I turned 19.”

You gave her a short “hm” in response. You counted the months—not even a year after you left. Less than a year after you fled from the church’s loving attempts at ”healing.”

“Did you end up going to BYU like Jeff wanted? Get your nursing degree?” Your head lolled to the side to watch the city lights blur as they pass.

You could hear the smile in her voice despite her saddened tone, “no, neither. Working on my doctorate, actually. I’m not continuing his legacy like he wanted but dad is coming around.”

Your smile was lazy but genuine, “that's amazing, Abby. God, you’ve always been so smart.” You couldn’t help but feel proud of her achievement.

She laughed, “nah, I’ve done some really stupid shit…”

She didn’t finish the thought, putting the car in park and getting out to open your door before you could question her further. Your attention was focused on fishing your keys out of your purse and unlocking the door, so you were both quiet for a moment.

You were in the doorway of your home, about to wish Abby goodbye, but she stopped you. “Can I come inside for a minute?”

You paused for a moment, unsure of her intentions, and she was insistent “I just want to talk. I don’t want to leave without you hearing me out, or I might regret it for the rest of my life… Please.”

The ride home had sobered you up slightly, so you began to remember what you were drinking to forget. Memories of Abby lingered in the back of your mind, her stone-faced expression through the blur of your tears as it felt like your world came to an end.

You could see the conviction in her stare. She was determined, holding out hope that you’d grant her mercy. That pout had always made you weak. You stepped back from the door frame, holding it just wide enough to step through, “fine, okay… but just for a minute.”

Abby exhaled, relieved, and walked into your home. She followed you through the entry way and into a seating area. You settled into an armchair, legs and arms crossed. Abby took a seat on the sofa in front of you, leaning forward and fidgeting with the rings on her fingers as she eyed you.

You broke the silence “you wanna talk, right? So talk.”

“I miss you,” Abby blurts suddenly, as though she only had a minute to plead her case, “I think about you all the time, more than I should. Seeing you again tonight I knew it could be the last time, and I couldn’t stand that. If it were my last chance to make things right, then I couldn’t risk missing it. And I was the one who pushed you away, so it’s my own fault but I was just…” she looked away from you, the gravity of her past weighing on her as she rushed to explain “-scared. I wasn’t ready to face the congregation, especially my father—“

“I wasn’t ready to face them, either, Abby,” you interrupted, forcing Abby to pause. “For a long while I blamed myself. I thought if I could trust anyone to keep a secret, it’d be you, Abby, but you proved me wrong.”

Frustrated tears lined your eyes, struggling to hold your composure as you recalled the pain she caused. “I tried so hard to forgive you, Abby. I wanted to forget all about you and go about my life, but they put me through hell because of you, and that’s tough to forget.”

Abby’s eyebrows were pinched, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking when I-“

“No, you were thinking about yourself, Abby.”

“That’s not true-“

“Then why did you do it?”

Abby fumbled for an answer, so you pressed her further, “why couldn’t you just keep it to yourself? I thought it was your devotion to the church that made you tell, because you knew that Maryanne could never keep a secret and it’d get back to the Bishop. But maybe if they thought that I was preying on poor, innocent Abigail, then they wouldn’t notice that you were just as guilty? Right?” Your face felt hot, and tears fell down your cheeks in steady streams.

Abby used you as a stepping stone to pursue freedom. She stole away any time that you could have used to prepare, moving in silence as the congregation focused their efforts to “save” you. When she heard the news that you disappeared late at night, it felt like a stab in the back. She had no right to, but Abby felt abandoned.

“It wasn’t like that, I promise you. I don’t go a single day without regretting what I’d done or wishing that I could go back and fix it. I didn’t know how to process or show it, but I loved you back then and I still do.”

You were confused, “well, you had a real fucked-up way of showing it, Abby. ”

“I know... I thought distance would make it go away, but it just got worse. It was so painful watching you smile like that at someone else.” She was ashamed, unable to look you in the eye as she confessed her sins, “I knew that if I didn’t love you, then you would find love with someone else. I was being selfish, I know that now, and I should have known better than to force you out of the closet.”

Abby looked repentant, so it was hard to look at her and remain headstrong. “

“You don’t need to forgive me—hell, I wouldn’t—but please just give me one chance to show you that I’m serious.”

The part of you that felt hurt from Abby’s actions wanted to keep attacking her. You wanted her to feel all the pain you’d endured. You fought against the urge to reach out and comfort her—to coddle her in all the ways you wished she had done for you.

“I feel like I can’t trust you, Abby.” Your voice wavered, “you used me once, how do I know you won’t do it again?”

“All I can do is give you a promise.” Abby stood from her seat on the couch, approaching you carefully. She bent to kneel on the floor before you, pulling your hands from picking at your cuticles to hold them gently. Your once downcast eyes looked up to hers as she went on, “I love you, and I always have. The biggest mistake I’ve ever made was making you think otherwise.”

Emotionally, you felt exhausted. For what felt like your whole life, you had hoped that somehow Abby could love you too. ”I was starting to think the Bishop was right, you know. He said that our kind of love isn’t real, that I wouldn’t be fulfilled in a marriage that was forbidden by the church.” Your eyes were red-rimmed and glassy as you wept, “and you know what, Abby, I haven’t truly loved or been loved since I last saw you. God knows I’ve tried, but tonight when you came up to me in the bar—and a fucking gay bar of all places—I felt a spark for the first time in what felt like forever.”

You looked down at your lap, to Abby’s hands clutching yours. You gave her a reassuring squeeze, “I love you too, so much it hurts… but it’ll take me a while before I feel like I can trust you again, Abs.”

She smiled, weary but victorious “I’d spend a lifetime if it means I can be with you.”

Thank you to any and all of you who read this one and the first one. It was fun to write something emotionally charged and something I personally connected to. I understand that it’s not very “x reader” oriented in terms of like, there’s a lot of very specific experiences and such, but remember we’re just here to have fun and make our dolls kiss 💕

[flutterlesbian]

🤧🤧.

‘A young woman was reduced to a crying child as you pleaded for answers, for meaning, for how this was meant to fit into God’s plan.’

‘She dropped you like a hot coal and mourned the heat.’

‘An unusual sort of resentment festered in Abby’s heart and crawled through her veins. ‘

My Church is Love

Religious comphet Abby x Fem Reader - part one (two here)

Sfw, childhood friends to enemies to lovers. Religious trauma based so there is a lot of internalized homophobia, compulsive heterosexuality, and gender roles typical of some religions and specific sects. Inspired by my upbringing in the Mormon church, leaving, and what the women in my family have gone through. No catholic school girls here lmao.

To be assigned female at birth is to be trained up as a caregiver. Mere babies themselves are given baby dolls and mini kitchens with plastic food. As soon as a girl could reach the kitchen counter, she would be parentified. If you could take care of yourself, then you could take care of your younger sibling. Everything in the name of training up good mothers; in the name of pleasing the heavenly father and making your ancestors proud.

At seven years old, you found out what a gay person was.

Mother was gossiping on the phone in the kitchen. Her tone was hushed, as though He couldn’t hear her if she were quiet enough, but you could pick up bits and pieces over the sound of the Saturday morning cartoons. “Immoral… homosexual… conversion… excommunicated.” Mother was on the phone for a long time, her volume rising and falling with intense emotion.

When you heard the “click” of the phone being hung up, childlike curiosity pushed you to ask what she was talking about on the phone. Mother knew that if she didn’t explain, then you would ask your father. She was already caught off guard, unprepared for a lesson she wasn’t qualified to teach.

Mother never mentioned having an older brother. In fact, she’d always claimed to be the eldest child. It made sense in hindsight. At grandmother’s house it was most telling. Each annual family photo was hung in the main hallway, a sequence of pictures that gave a superficial glimpse into Mother’s upbringing. There were so many faces on the wall that you hadn’t taken the time to consider each in detail. More faces than you could count, so you’d never noticed one’s sudden absence. A smile as bright as the sun dulling through adolescence and then disappearing altogether.

Mother said he confided in the bishop when he had his first “crush” on the youth pastor, and it all went downhill from there. She was sure that if he had suppressed his perversions, prayed longer and harder, or sought out even more professional help, then he could have stayed with the church. If he hadn’t gone against the word of god, then she would still have a brother. Mother had been on the phone with grandmother. Her brother had shown up at the house, and grandfather didn’t let him in.

Meeting Abby Anderson tested your faith and weakened your resolve. The church folk were tightly knit, wary of outsiders and slow to warm up to transfers. For you, an unfamiliar face was a rare but welcome sight. Father called her a “tomboy,” skin freckled from days in the sun, knees skinned and palms calloused from sports and roughhousing. She was kind, helpful, and intelligent. God, she was intelligent. Father always said that girls shouldn’t be doctors, but you swore to Abby that she was smart enough to be one.

The girls would fawn over the greasy-haired, pimple-faced boy scouts, but the butterflies in your stomach fluttered only for Abby. Like bees to honey, you needed the sweetness of her company in your dull world.

At twelve years old, you prayed for strength.

She would sit beside you in the church pew, hand inches from yours. Close enough to feel her body heat, you wished to grasp her hand. You wanted to trace each finger and memorize the map of lines on her palm, to pull her hand close so Abby could feel your heart beating out of your chest. You could hardly listen to the sermon with the blood rushing in your ears.

Sunday school was a bittersweet affair. From 1pm to 3pm every Sunday, you would attend “young women’s” classes. At the direction of the old Sunday school teacher, you would learn how to be a good wife and mother. The monotony of “women’s work” was made brighter by Abby’s smile and laughter. She wasn’t hopeless, but the classes clearly weren’t in her interest. She would often lean in, shoulder brushing yours, and complement your work or ask for help. Your cheeks were heated with every praise for your sewing, needlework, or food.

You nearly burst into flames one afternoon as you and Abby shared a fresh slice of cherry pie. She’d been overeager, sneaking a bite right out of the oven and burning her tongue with an uncharacteristically girlish squeal. She was scraping the plate clean, making sure not to miss a crumb as she mused, “you’ll make a great wife someday, you know.” She licked a crumb from her finger and turned to you with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Your future husband is a lucky man.”

It was like a kiss with the force of a punch. One moment you were on top of the world and then sent crashing into reality. The truth of the matter was that you wanted to be a good wife for her, for Abby, not for one of the whitebread boy scouts who couldn’t wipe their ass without a woman’s help.

At eighteen years old, you begged God for forgiveness. It was a Sunday in spring, April showers tip-tapping on the church windows. The room was washed in shades of blue and gray.

It was an atypical day as the “young women’s” and “young men’s” classes were paired together to learn a box-step. There was a church social the following weekend, and everyone was expected to know how to waltz, or at least keep a beat.

Half the class had two left feet that stumbled off tempo. At first you were paired with a boy whose clammy hand held yours too tightly, and his hand on your waist wouldn’t keep still. He had an unfortunate habit of stepping on your feet, so by the fourth time he’d crushed your toes and made you yelp, the Sunday school teacher determined he was a lost cause.

He was sent to lean against the wall and watch, trading places with the one woman too tall and broad to be led by a man.

“I wouldn’t usually do this” the Sunday school teacher warned, “but you can’t waltz with a broken toe next Sunday.” She nudged the two of you closer, your chest inches from Abby’s. “And remember to leave enough room for the holy spirit,” the teacher chimed.

Abby’s large hand slipped into yours to weave your fingers together. Your reach was hesitant, almost afraid to feel what you had craved for so long. Abby grasped your other hand gently to settle it on her shoulder. Her voice was soft as she soothed “hey, it’s just me. It’s alright. Don’t be nervous.” To the tune of an old hymn, Abby led you in a slow box-step. She held you delicately, thumb rubbing back and forth on your waist to calm you.

Mother’s narrow and sheltered view of love wasn’t like the storybooks. She always said that love was a gift from God. Love binds a woman to a man, sealed in the temple for life and eternity in the celestial kingdom. To love was to be a caregiver to man and child, expecting nothing in return. She said that love could be painful, it can leave bruises and aches because “men express their love and caring in their own kind of way.” Love had taken Grandmother out of school at 16 and gave her 3 children by her 20th birthday. Love held Mother captive in the house, kept her emotionally and financially dependent on Father. Mother had been all wrong, except that love was painful.

Held tightly in Abby’s embrace, lips mere inches from her own, it all seemed to click into place. A hot wash of mortification and shame overtook you. Under the authority of the prophet, it was God’s word that love is to be between a man and a woman. The writing was on the wall all this time—lingering gazes and touches; constantly seeking her company; and the way your heart nearly beat out of your chest in her presence.

You had a faraway look in your eyes as you drowned in deep thought. Abby could see them glaze over and felt your grip weakening in hers. You held the facade as best you could through the remainder of the song. You made for the exit at the conclusion of the song, claiming you were “just tired.” Abby could tell that you were anything but tired. In fact, you were restless, fidgety.

That night, you cried into Mother’s skirts. You were afraid to look her in the eyes, a strange mix of concern and pity in her gaze as she stroked the top of your head. A young woman was reduced to a crying child as you pleaded for answers, for meaning, for how this was meant to fit into God’s plan. Mother claimed God had given you a trial to overcome. You were meant to fight against the kind of impure thoughts that had already torn her family apart. Cheeks chafed from wiping tears and head aching from all the sobbing, you were sent to bed with a promise to pray for forgiveness, to stay away from Abby, and to not tell your father.

You avoided her for all of three weeks before Abby hit her limit. On Sunday mornings, you would sit in a different church pew with your eyes trained forward. You stood with the rest of the congregation and turned the book of hymns to the right page, but you never parted your lips to sing. You would disappear after the sermon, nowhere to be found in the church. Abby always saved you a seat beside her for Sunday school, but it remained empty. She didn’t realize how boring the class could be without you by her side. You always seemed to have a talent for the fine details, gently guiding Abby’s larger hands through meticulous work. She admired you and was subconsciously trying to impress you. Time spent in young women’s classes without you felt like time wasted.

When it came down to it, Abby was bored. The classes were understimulating, being trained up as a mother first, and an individual second. She felt held back by the lack of knowledge in her reach. She knew there was a world of information out there being kept from her. Abby knew that her classmates had twice the time to study and do homework, and twice the secular resources at their disposal. She wasn’t being primed for her own success. Rather, Abby was being primed for informal servitude. Asleep at night, she was trapped in dreams of life in a cage. She could only watch as her husband and children wrung her dry for their own success.

On the third Sunday, Abby chased you out the church doors after morning service. She shouted your name across the parking lot, your shoulders tensing. Despite your fears, you turned to face the inevitable. She looked like a kicked puppy. “Where have you been? Did something happen?”

“I just… haven’t felt like coming I guess,” you muttered, eyes trained down.

“Oh…” Abby could sense your anxiety, a tentative smile on her face as she prodded, “we did another baking class last week and I really could have used your help.” Her chuckle was weak, a poor attempt at lightening the mood as you stayed silent.

Abby’s tone was saddened, “c’mon, please talk to me. It feels like you woke up one day and decided you don’t like me anymore.”

You bit your lip to hold back a whimper, tears welling up. “It’s not that,” warbled, “I like you too much, Abby, and I’m not supposed to.” The dam broke, tears running in rivers down your cheeks.

Abby looked uncomfortable, “What do you mean ‘too much’?” she asked, unsure of herself as she recoiled slightly from comforting you.

Through sobs and tears, you managed to tell her the truth you had been choking down all this time. “I think I love you, Abby, and not like I should.” She remained silent, the distance between you seeming to grow as you rambled nervously “I know it’s wrong and goes against God’s plan, but I don’t want to be married and have children like my mother and grandmother did. That isn’t love, but I think what I feel for you is.” You should have put your foot in your mouth, but would it be an even greater sin to lie?

Your sweet Abby had seemed to turn to stone, putting up her defenses against your impurity as though it were contagious. Arms that were once poised to hold and comfort you were crossed protectively over her chest. She hated to see you cry, but you had just admitted to desiring a life of sin. The bishop said that homosexual “love” was only lust, passing fancies that would never be truly fulfilling. The church elders often framed them as perverts who would lie and cheat to lure in innocent victims. “You know what the prophet and the bishop says about homosexuals—”

“Of course I do!” you cried out, wiping away tears with the back of your hand, “but that doesn’t change the way I feel, Abby. You can’t tell me that you haven’t felt anything all this time”

She clenched her fists, “I’m not depraved like you.”

That stung, “Abs, you don’t mean that.”

“Don’t call me that.” Abby grumbled.

“What?” you whispered, disbelief clear in your expression.

“Please… don’t call me ‘Abs.” Her muscles were tense, resisting the physical urge to pull you into her chest and wipe your tears, but she had to take the moral high ground if she wanted to keep the rest of her community. “I think you should take some time and pray on this. Get it out of your system.”

She didn’t know the half of it. Night after night you had kneeled at your bedside, palms pressed tightly together in prayer. You prayed to God to cleanse your thoughts or change your mind, but the so-called “sinful” desires remained.

“You don’t think I’ve tried that? God, Abby, I thought you were different.”

“I’m not like you…”

“I wasn’t saying you were! But you aren’t meant for this. You’re not meant to play Holly Homemaker all your life for one of them.” You gestured to the church building, obviously referring to the young men inside. “I hate imagining you waste your potential on what you think you’re obligated to do.”

It was an obligation you were both born and raised for.

“Wasting my potential? Don’t pretend to know what’s best for me. You’re going to throw away all you’ve learned in young women’s class to choose a life of sin!”

“At least I’m making my own choice, Abby!” You nearly screamed. You stared each other down for a moment, trying to recover from the emotional outburst. You had hoped for a better outcome, but it was worse than you could have imagined.

“You should go before the whole congregation hears and sees you like this,” Abby stated stiffly, turning her back to you and returning to the church.

What had once been affection for Abby had soured to resentment. It would have been better to continue ignoring her, as your encounter had turned her to a different person. You tried to hang onto your reputation through the remainder of school, masking your anxiety with a placid smile. The first three weeks without you made it clear to Abby that something was missing. It was like going through withdrawal, the way she longed for you and felt so lost in your absence. She thought for now it would be best to keep her distance and monitor the situation.

Watching you smile at another girl felt wrong. The others were confused by the sudden distance between you two and sometimes tried to offer comfort. It warmed her heart to see you smile, a feeling Abby hadn’t realized she missed until you gave it to someone else. She envied the girl for basking in the sun that was your smile. She dropped you like a hot coal and mourned the heat.

An unusual sort of resentment festered in Abby’s heart and crawled through her veins. She wanted to go back to the old days, where everything was the same but it wasn’t said out loud. You were once inseparable, practically courting one another as you shared affectionate words and caresses. You shared a bond stronger and sweeter than any other that had come out of those church doors. Practically romantic partners in all but name.

Her resolve broke when your laughter rung like silver bells, and so she found an outlet for her anger. “Confessing your undying love to her too, now?”

The undeserving source of her ire, Maryanne, looked back and forth between you with confusion. Her once bright expression dimmed to one of uncertainty.

“Quit it, Abby. You’re not being funny.”

“So you’re not denying it?” she sneered.

“I’m not- I’m not gay. You know that’s not what’s going on here.”

Maryanne shifted uncomfortably in her seat, widening the distance between you unconsciously. Abby couldn’t keep her big mouth shut, looking straight at her, “I’m not a liar, you know that. She told me she loved me and everything.” Abby was telling the truth, but it would have been better for you all if she lied. “Told me she wanted to be my wife, can you believe that?”

Maryanne looked at you with widened eyes, and you could only hope she believed your wavering voice denying Abby’s claims. It was clear she didn’t believe your lies as she excused herself from the table and fled the room.

Frustrated tears lined your eyes as you looked from the empty door to Abby, “why would you do that?”. You hoped that if she didn’t love you—or even like you anymore—that she would have still cared for you enough to keep it a secret.

Abby had been squarely focused on Maryanne and scaring her away from you. When she caught sight of your tears, she seemed to grasp for an answer. “I just, um, wanted her to know what kind of person she was talking to.”

“And what kind of person is that?” you questioned, angry tears running down your cheeks.

Abby couldn’t look you in the eye as she said, “you’re… sick and you need help.” You could hardly believe what you were hearing. “I think the other girls should know, for their own good and yours.”

Mormon girls were terrible gossips, so it didn’t take long for news to reach the bishop. He had always been clear about the divide between us and them. The pursuit of a perfect Mormon family was most important above all.

There were three picture frames on the wall. One of Christ, the second of Joseph Smith, and the third the Proclamation to the World:

“We, the First Presidency and the Council of the Twelve Apostles of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, solemnly proclaim that marriage between a man and a woman is ordained of God and that the family is central to the Creator’s plan for the eternal destiny of His children.

All human beings—male and female—are created in the image of God. Each is a beloved spirit son or daughter of heavenly parents, and, as such, each has a divine nature and destiny. Gender is an essential characteristic of individual premortal, mortal, and eternal identity and purpose…”

The bishop was solemn as he laid out your path to redemption. Serious as a heart attack because “we love the sinner and hate the sin.” With every detail it felt like a rope tightening around your neck. You couldn’t do this. You’d seen the hollow shells that came back from “church camp,” and you couldn’t let yourself fall victim. You had tried praying the feelings away for years. How much more of it could you take?

You tried to do as instructed. You wrote out the Proclamation to the World fifteen times before your mind was made up. It didn’t matter if you were excommunicated or if Mother would never speak to you again. She would lose a daughter either way.

Abby lingered in the back of your mind less and less as the years went by. Sometimes, though, when you were a little too lonely and a little too drunk, you would think of her. You’d be brought back to your eighteen-year-old self on that rainy afternoon in April. Like a well-loved video tape, you would replay the scene as you and Abby stood chest to chest and heart to heart as you swayed to a lover’s melody. And as the years went by, with each rewind the memory faded.

You hoped Abby was happy, or at least content. Even if it hurt to imagine, you hoped she had that perfect Mormon family she claimed to want.

It was one of those lonely nights. You’d been at the bar maybe an hour and a half, so your tinder date was at least an hour late. You had only swiped on the woman for her broad shoulders, golden hair, and what looked like strong hands. She didn’t seem to have much personality over the phone, so it probably wouldn’t have lasted long, but rejection stung regardless. So instead, you found company with your several empty glasses.

Night thoroughly wasted, you pay your tab and get your things together. You pull out your phone, ‘shit, the buses don’t run this late’ you think as you check the time. Sighing, you prepare to pay far too much for an uber home. As you type in the address, heavy steps come to a stop beside you at the bar and a familiar voice calls for the bartender.

You must have been mistaken, the alcohol playing tricks on you. She sounded just like her, and looked just like her too. But when she caught sight of you and said your name in that hopeful voice, it was unmistakable.

What the fuck was Abby Anderson doing in a dyke bar?

Part two is in progress 🩷 I know it’s not very “reader insert” but we’re here to have fun and make our dolls kiss :) this has been something I’ve felt enthusiastic about writing which I haven’t felt in a minute which is nice. I’m a working gal so I appreciate your patience as I work on part two 💕

Update 7/13: part two is up!

[flutterlesbian]

PAIRING: abby anderson x afab reader GENRE: smut (彡) SYNOPSIS: abby gets hot and bothered seeing you so serious when studying for mid-terms WARNINGS: modern au, fingering, grinding, tribbing, sub abby, soft dom reader, intimacy, reader wears glasses, reader is implied to be black, tweensy bit of plot, mention of percocet WC: 1.4k

a soft knock to the door brings you out of your haze. youd been sitting at your desk for about 2 hours now, entirely focused on the school material scattered across the tables surface.

the door creaks open and in comes your stunning girlfriend, abby, with a bowl of pasta for you. "hey, thought you might be hungry?"

she pushes the door closed behind her with the heel of her foot and dimly crosses the room. placing the bowl infront of you, she kisses the top of your head and strokes your hair, a warm smile gracing her face.

"youre such an angel," cupping her face, you give her a proper kiss and run your thumbs across her blossoming pink cheeks. "how on earth did i ever get you to like me back?"

"by being yourself, like you are now" she presses her forehead to yours, the freckles that adorn her nosebridge becoming more prominent.

"pretty girl," you absentmindedly run a thumb across the freckles, making her scrunch her nose slightly. a soft laugh escapes your mouth and she sits beside you, leaning her head onto your shoulder.

"missed me?" your hand crowns her cheek and she hums, snuggling into your more. "i must warn you, itll be boring to just sit here the entire time, want me to go get your phone?"

"nah, dont wanna distract you.." she murmurs, body relaxing by your side.

"you wont, promise." you reassure, tilting your head to better see her face.

"im fine, baby" she covers the back of your hand with her palm, squeezing lightly in pulses.

"if you insist," you sigh and shake your head, amused.

"i do."

and with that, you slowly started eating the food she brought, though most of your attention was on your study material. abbys eyes remain on you, her lips slightly parting.

she was entranced with the flat of your nose, the shine of your lipgloss, your neatly manicured fingers tapping rhythmically against her shoulder like they belong, your glasses sitting finely atop your nosebridge, and the slight narrowing of your eyes when you focused.

it makes her wetter than she'd like to admit.

her breaths come out a little quicker now, but not enough for you to notice. "..how much longer are you going to be here?"

"bored?" your eyes flick

"no, just.. curious."

"about an hour, if things go well"

"mkay.." she hums, faintly pressing her thighs together in an attempt to quell her growing arousal. that, you notice, but choose to keep silent until she took action herself.

30 minutes pass like that, her trying to be subtle about pressing her thighs together, her breathing gets audibly louder, eyes squeezed shut now.

"you okay?" you whisper, intentionally startling her with the proximity to her ear. "im just fine. great even!"

she stammers, gripping the edge of the desk and tilting her head down to hide her blooming red cheeks.

"'sure?"

"..very," she breathes out, moving to sit on your lap, her head falling into the crook of your neck.

"right." you were skeptical she could hold herself together, but if she wanted to play the long game you were willing. your hand snakes around her waist and you return back to studying, only this time keeping more of an eye on her.

with a bit of time, she wrapped her arms around your neck and started grinding onto your thigh, faintly letting out soft whimpers.

"babe.." she huffs into your shoulder, "yes, dear?"

"how much longer?" she practically whines.

"i told you it would get boring.."

"not that! im.."

"youre..?"

"i need you.." she murmurs under her breath, embarrassment forming as arousal between her legs, soaking her underwear.

"need me to...?"

"dont play dumb asshat." she flippantly punches your shoulder, making you laugh.

"alright alright.." the hand previously loose around her waist started toying with the waistband of her underwear. thank god that abby doesnt feel the need to wear shorts at home, you dont think she couldve waited a second longer.

your fingers slip beneath the waistband and ghost at her clit, making her shiver in your lap. "fuck.. i need this, please."

"dont you, pretty girl.." you begin to rub slow circles onto her clit, kissing along her jaw as you do.

"youre so good to me.." she breathes out, closing her eyes. "because i love you."

lifting her face with your other hand, you pull her into a tender kiss and finally slip your middle finger into her. she jolts and moans into the kiss, body shaking pitifully as her face melts.

you steadily thrust the finger in and out of her, pressing the pad against her prostate and rendering her ability to reciprocate your kiss sloppy.

"fuckfuckfuck!" she moans into your mouth, thighs twitching. "yeah? feels good?' you panted, breaking the kiss and sucking a hickey into her neck

"fuck- im gonna cum-" cutting her own sentence off, she squirts all over your wrist, her body shaking from the effort. her eyelashes flutter closed as shes on her own little cloud 9.

she rests her head on your shoulder, catching her breath. "i love you, so much."

"i love you too." you pull your fingers from her pussy and tap at her mouth with them. she sneers at first but complies, licking her own release off of your hand.

"youre such a pretty girl," you abruptly pull her in for a kiss, the taste of her from both sides almost as addictive as a perc.

she pulls away and laughs, "youre so nasty."

"only for my beautiful girlfriend." you retort, making her snort. "got another in you?"

"more than." she smiles and slides off of your lap on shaky legs, pulling you on top of her onto the bed behind the table.

with practiced ease, you pull off her bra. her pink nipples perking up at the change in temperature. her face flushes again and she tugs off your t-shirt.

"still okay?" you kiss along her sternum, fingers rolling one of her nipples. "mhm.."

"good," you breathe out, sitting up on your knees and sliding off her underwear. hastily removing your own clothes afterwards, you slot yourself together, the touch of your clits making you both let out a soft groan.

"youre so good.." you slowly begin to rock your hips, biting down on your lip as the pleasure intensifies.

she reaches out and intertwines hands with you, moans filling the room as a familiar knot makes itself known. your head falls back and you increase the pace.

her hand squeezes yours as she grinds up against you slovenly, whines breaking through her moans and her other hand entangles into the sheet. "shiiit.. you do me so good.." she gasps

"mh," you could only hum as a response when you felt your own release approaching.

"fuckshitohmygod-" she pants out, her body beginning to shake once again.

"fuck- hold it for a little," she barely manages to nod, using all her strength to stop the impeding orgasm. the speedily rubbing of your clit against hers wasnt doing her any justice either.

"im cant- im gonna-"

"fucking do it."

she cums just like that, in unison with you. her eyes roll into the back of her head, high pitched whimpers cutting loose from her mouth as tremors run through her body.

you could only watch as loose strands stick to her hair, your own body tensing and slightly curling when you came with her. finally, you shut your eyes and gently ride out your high, careful not to overstimulate your poor girl.

after five minutes of you watching her body twitch, you realize that shes completely passed out. your eyebrows quirk in disbelief before you burst out into soft giggles, disentangling yourself from her and standing on unstable legs yourself.

you to wet a rag with warm water and grab a cup of lukewarm water on your way back, placing the cup on the table and wiping the liquid from her inner thighs. the sheets were going to need changing too but they could wait.

after cleaning her up and taking a shower yourself, you climbed into bed with her and covered her with the blanket, drifting off into a peaceful slumber.

a/n : my first time writing for abby dont slice me up, this took me like five days because my friends are unemployed and kept forcing me to play ftf. anywho no i havent forgotten about the hyunju fic but i really cannot tell yall when i will find the motivation to finish that.

[flutterlesbian]

to that one anon who sent a request, know that I am working on it 🫶🫶

[flutterlesbian]

jinx and isha in that one mv

This reminds me of Jinx ngl

(No, I will not elaborate)

[flutterlesbian]

YA GIRL GOT OFFERED AN INTERNSHIP 😛😛

I wanna chicken out of this interview so bad 🥲🥲

[flutterlesbian]

I wanna chicken out of this interview so bad 🥲🥲

[flutterlesbian]

art classes w jinx headcannons ✒︎

synopsis: continuation of highschoolAU!jinx, art classes w jinxy pie before & while dating

cw: vague mental health mention, x reader at the end

wc: ~500 + proofread

a/n: inspired by middle pic and middle pic alone

✒︎ artstudent!jinx stuffs expensive art supplies in her hair to look more artsy, but really it’s to make it easier to steal later— get the teacher’s guard down and ‘accidentally’ leave the class with fineliners and acrylic paint tubes in the part of her braids against her neck you can’t see

✒︎ artstudent!jinx brings giant tubs of white acrylic paint (you know those run out so fast in art classes), and gets incredibly irritable if anyone tries to use it. like fake going-in to bite your arm if you reach for it. or, second defence: hissing at you

✒︎ artstudent!jinx, who, at some point gave up on washing her hair the day before her scheduled art classes, because some amount of acrylic paint WILL get stuck in it

✒︎ artstudent!jinx who paints straight on her hands (guilty). claims it makes it easier to mix and reach for paints instead of using a palette.

will chase people with blue hands if they make fun of her

✒︎ one of her favourite mediums is oil pastels, super vibrant colours, smooth on paper, no having to get it wet, or in her hair.

✒︎ artstudent!jinx, who has attempted to eat an oil pastel one time, and was immediately sent out of the room because she was distracting half the class (you saw this all go down from the table over)

✒︎ some weeks artstudent!jinx is being praised for being several art pieces ahead of the class; other times, she feels like she’s forgotten how to draw & feels overwhelmed with any attention from teachers or other students

✒︎ she usually HAS to listen that reflects the emotion she’s trying to convey through the art. but if it’s a little piece or simple art piece, trust a female rap artist is BLARING in the earphones she’s technically not allowed to wear.

a still life drawing of apples warrants peggy by ceechynaa, or discounts by cupcakke

✒︎ but a self portrait depicting her ‘after the accident’ needs rock, or songs like these, or my personal fave

✒︎ 100% steals unused sketchbooks from school. especially the ones with the glossy covers, but not the ones with spiral binders because it’d be too obvious.

✒︎ if she’s painting or drawing alone at home, she is probably doing some form of weed too, idc, cbd or thc. the former being more likely if it’s a school night

✒︎ she thinks painting with fillable water pens instead of paintbrushes isn’t as dignified, and turns her nose up at anybody who uses them

✒︎ random but she hates gouache paints, they’re not waterproof so she can’t paint her clothes, books, or bags with it.

once used it on a jacket that silco told her not to paint because it was a hand-me-down, and was sooo sad when the paint dissolved off in the rain

(this happened once when she was 13)

✒︎ she was so distraught and embarrassed she walked the whole way home from the function with her head held down (kiss it better for her, she still mourns that jacket)

✒︎ silco insists on buying new blazers each time a noticeable splotch of paint gets on it, despite the fact she refuses to wear it & he knows that

while dating:

✒︎ since she paints straight on her hands, they are permanently dry from being washed n scrubbed off 24/7. any time she leans in to hold your hand, you thinks it’s sand paper. also the funniest thing to tease her about.

✒︎ she owns those little wooden dolls that you pose for body references, and they’re all painted to look like the people she cares about the most— one had red marker all over the scalp, another has a drawn-on blazer, another has a weirdly detailed face that looks exactly like yours

✒︎ one of very few people to actually decorate the covers, and there is a doodle of you dead centre in her signature scratchy scrawl, like she put no effort into it, but spoiler, she did

✒︎ she once kissed you with paint on her lips to give you a ‘permanent kiss’ while in the paint wash-room (you unfortunately had to wipe it off before you left the room)

✒︎ artstudent!jinx who chose her sketchbook topic to be portraits so that she’d always had an excuse to sketch you in some capacity. she’d have you posing for her during and after classes

✒︎ when the teacher finally noticed, she was forced to do other students because you’re really meant to do a new subject in every piece

however, she still has managed to sneak in lino & mono prints, paintings, and charcoal pieces of your face across the sketchbook

✒︎ ask her to delete any of the photos and she’s ignoring you for the rest of the class 🤧

✒︎ artstudent!jinx who over-apologises when she gets any paint on your jewellery, you have to assure her a thousand times it’s fine.

✒︎ if she’s still going, you grab her paintbrush, and swipe more powder grey paint on your rings

— ‘see? it’s fine, we can wash it off.’ —

✒︎ the moment your grabbing her wrists and guiding her to the wash-room, she’s swooning, maybe it’s your composure, or ability to be stern and nice, but her lips are all over yours as soon as you’re alone in that room

you try to keep your ring under the tap, but your full attention is directed at jinx, and the faint taste of gum as she kisses into you

a/n: babes how do I finish this off 🧍‍♀️