#my lesbianism for her is endless

[cherrisherry]

was scanning the funger subreddit for smth (a fools errand, truly) and yknow ngl I'm kinda tired of people looking at character designs that aren't conventionally attractive and calling them ugly

Samarie is pretty in the way that a tree stretching away from a powerline is. That an orange that has thicker flesh is. She may never be on the cover of vogue but god damn if she wouldn't make me stop and look twice in a grocery store to admire her. She's natures imperfections and I wouldn't have her any other way ngl. She's pretty don't try to change my mind u can't

[darlingcloudie-9]

drewposting. part two!!!!!!! (ft. Diana Cavendish)

[zsanuu]

[ano-po]

The creepy thing about instagram and God is that I would think of an idea, just inside my mind, and then later I would see a reel telling me why it's a bad idea.

[vulpixelates]

the monday blues are getting me especially hard after a four day weekend of being curled up in bed and playing pretend with my wife 😔😔

daydreaming about the lesbians in our heads SAVE ME

[romantically-yours]

I desire romantically doing makeup with somebody

[venomvalley]

PILLOW PRINCESS

sevika x fem!reader // 9.7k words

SUMMARY: A woman from one of Piltover's most prestigious houses bites off more than she can chew when she steps into a bar in Zaun looking for a bit of excitement. Unfortunately for her, she entered the wrong kind of establishment.

TAGS: 18+ only! corruption kink, brat taming, biting, oral (r!receiving), shimmer strap, size kink, choking, reader is a closeted lesbian and in her mid-20s, dom!sevika. poorly discussed societal issues (for obvious reasons)

NOTES: my first foray into the arcane fandom and its a fucking novel length shimmer strap fanfic. anyway i wrote this entirely for me but yall can read it too

-> READ IT ON AO3 | PILLOW PRINCESS MASTERLIST

There are two universal truths to the city of Piltover: its citizens are rich, and the social game is deathly boring. After endless years of networking and grandiose dinners and ballroom dancing, you've dealt with the weight of propriety for long enough.

The Undercity seems the only remedy to free you from your gilded cage.

The idea comes to you one morning in the library of your family home, perched atop a velveteen chair with a thick, dusty tome opened before you on the desk. Some boring old thing about the history of pottery and dishware to prepare you for yet another meeting with a potential suitor and his family.

You still aren’t sure how to tell your sickly, neurotic mother that you prefer the company of other women, and that it's been this way for a long time. She insists on grandchildren to perpetuate the family legacy, and you’ve resigned yourself to your duty as an affluent family's eldest daughter.

But you've put off the inevitable for as long as you can. Sabotaged all potential marriage up to this point by way of faking illness and poor attitude and un-ladylike habits that your mother should have beat you for doing.

And yet—

“Did ya hear about that orgy the Enforcers crashed?”

Guardsmen making their usual rounds, passing through the library. Unaware of your presence behind a particularly imposing bookshelf (though you curl in on yourself anyway) as you watch them between a crack in the books.

The taller man laughs. “Yeah, my buddy was there. Had thirty people crammed inside the backroom of a tea shop.”

“You couldn't pay me to live in the Undercity.”

“Well, it's good for one thing, at least.”

“The whores?”

“The whores.”

You turn back to your tome as the men pass by your field of view, joking amongst themselves.

Your mother forbade you from engaging in certain… activities until you married, solely in fear of a scandal tarnishing the family name. You shared your first kiss at the age of eighteen with the daughter of a merchant family inside the pitch-black closet of her bedroom, so nervous that you soaked through the back of your nightgown with sweat. A few months later, you began stealing from your mother's collection of erotica hidden in the library, and thought about the merchant's daughter while you touched yourself shamefully in the privacy of your bedroom.

And thus ends the extent of your sexual experience. A facet of your lifestyle that you’re neither proud of nor satisfied with.

But whores. You know what whores do. By their very nature, people talk, and Piltover is no exception. Perhaps the people of the Undercity are more welcoming than your family leads you to believe, and you could find a pretty woman with kind eyes who finds joy in the inexperienced.

Or perhaps they laugh you out of the building.

A bar, then. A more natural, relaxed setting, if the stories from your peers hold any ounce of truth to them. Grab a bitter-tasting drink, sit in some dark corner of the room, and watch for the woman of your wildest dreams to walk through the door.

But you need a plan. Venturing across that blasted bridge (an added layer of your gilded cage) will be daunting due to your mother’s incessant hovering, but you have a scapegoat in mind: your aunt, currently stationed at a research outpost across the bridge. The perfect excuse.

You have a cloak somewhere in your closet to wear over your clothes, a safety measure to hide your status. Gods know that gold-hemmed dresses and silk shirts and velvet pants would not fit well with the simple outfits of the Undercity (of which you have nothing in your closet to mimic).

For the first time in a very long time, with a plan set in stone, you're excited.

You lay low for the rest of the week in preparation for The Question. You appease your mother with her odd requests, help your father in his workshop, and even smile at the man from the artisan house that your family invites over for dinner.

You play your role perfectly, and when the time comes, stood at your mother’s bedroom door as she reads a book beneath the covers, you pray the gods smile upon you.

“Mother?” you ask, stepping into the grand room. The four-poster bed is a symbol of excess, as is the lush carpet and the hand-stitched curtains and the jewels she wears to bed.

She hums, glancing up from the page she's skimming.

“I was wondering if I could take a trip to see Aunt Elise?”

With a heavy sigh, she sets her spectacles aside and fixes you with a disapproving look. “Must you go now, child? Tristan is a highly suitable candidate for your hand.”

“It'll only be for the weekend. Please?”

“In this family, a weekend is a lifetime for the unwed.”

For a moment, you consider bashing your skull against the wall. You still might, given the trajectory of your life. Tristan is sweet, skilled in his profession, but he’s painfully boring. Enjoys his pottery and discussing the weather and making tea, and not much else of substance.

No excitement for you, which is perfect for your family. They can't have their little bird growing wings.

You plaster on your sweetest smile and take a seat beside your mother, the silken sheets smooth and cool against the back of your thighs. “But Mother, does absence not make the heart grow fonder?”

She gives you a poisonous glare then scoffs, waving you away with a glittering hand. “Leave me be. I'll tell your father to inform the guards of your trip.”

You gush your thanks then leave in a rush, only celebrating once the door to your room has been shut and securely locked, dancing a circle about your room and screaming into your pillows.

Over a quarter of a century on this planet, and you've never freely roamed past the bridge, always flanked by undercover guards or the overreaching eye of your father. But the underground is fair game. Nobody would expect you to venture so far away from your house’s influence and protection, and your mother trusts you to go straight to Aunt Elise's, so she won’t assign a group to accompany you.

An entire weekend of freedom.

You aren’t sure what to do with yourself the rest of the night, too filled with energy to sleep, so you pack a bag with your least gaudy clothes, a healthy amount of gold, and toiletries for your journey.

Then there's the matter of what clothing to wear. Given the manner of your visit, you want to dress a bit… sexy, but not opulent. Flaunt your assets, but don’t expose them. A corset and tight-fitting trousers it is. Boots to match. Pretty makeup to entice the pretty girls.

The following morning, your mother frets over you as soon as you step downstairs. Don't go out after dark. Walk straight to Aunt Elise's. Under no circumstances should you make a single detour. Advice you’ve heard again and again in a thousand different ways.

A guard escorts you to the bridge, exchanging words with the patrolmen. He gives them the note stamped with your house's symbol, bids you well, and sends you off.

Your first step off the bridge thumps your heart against the wall of your ribcage. A small, defining act of rebellion that signals the tone of this entire weekend. It feels wrong, like your mother might croak in direct consequence of your disobedience, but you take another step. And then another. And another. And the guilt gets easier to cope with.

Do you not deserve this? The right to move freely like all others in the cities?

You lift your hood and tighten the lapels of your cloak as you pass through the busy streets. A group of small children kick a ball back and forth in the square. Two men stand outside a shop, covered head-to-toe in soot, smoking cigarettes. A woman kisses her lover, bidding him a good day at work.

The lives of the people across the bridge have always fascinated you. So simplistic and happy, if a lot less fortunate. You know little about them—their schedules, their hobbies, their culture. All wrapped up in a neat little bow of dangerous.

The further down you go, the more the sunlight blots out and the air thickens, settling in your lungs like bitter-tasting smoke. Neon signs top the buildings, bathing the streets in bright, beautiful lights. But there's a wrongness to the place that you can't put your finger on. Something lurks in the shadows. Eyes pierce your back.

Despite your hesitation, you keep walking, mind set on completing your mission. You think to ask for directions to the nearest bar until a man you pass says you look like you suck a mean cock, and you abandon that plan in its early stages of development.

The streets continue to wind in a dizzying maze of lights, but the flurry of laughter and noise grows closer with each step you take. You need a bar. A nice drink, a pretty girl to talk to, and a place to recline for the mercy of your aching feet.

After rounding one final corner, the crowd thickens, and you know you've reached the lifeblood of the city. Nobody pays your blob of a form much attention, too busy arguing and smoking and dragging their peers along to their next destination.

You're enraptured. The street is so much livelier than Piltover, the people more outgoing and rowdy. Loud and animated, smiling and laughing, cursing freely.

But you haven't missed the dark corners where people weep, and cry out for food, and beg for money. You see the emaciation and the sickness and the violence on the outskirts of the crowd. Two dichotomies of the same city, wrapped up in a neon package.

You never could have expected this. So different from the stories that were fed to you by your elders, and you aren't sure how to process it. What to do about it.

Your mother would kill you if she knew you were here. Would lock you in your room and throw away the key until the time comes for the inevitable wedding, and then she would order your husband to do the same.

But for now, in this moment, you have none of that to worry about. None of the people you pass recognize the infiltrator in their midst.

A sign overhead catches your attention as a group of men stumble out the front door, hollering in celebration. You wait for them to pass before glancing inside, and spot a bar with alcohol lining the shelves of the wall.

Good enough for you after all this travel.

You step inside and stare at the room for a too-long moment, a scowling-faced woman shouldering you out of the way. The interior implies grandness. Velvet couches and tiled flooring, ceilings much too tall for the assumed outside. A golden light halos the room, smoke from the customers thickening the air. You aim a dry cough into your sleeve when the smell hits your lungs.

Women of all shapes, shades, and sizes, in various states of nudity pepper the furniture. You’ve never been granted the pleasure of openly ogling the feminine form, but in this place, they welcome it. Those seated on the couches spread their legs as you pass by, curling a finger to beckon you closer; one woman leans forward to display her sizable cleavage, brushing slender fingers down your arm; against the wall, a couple kiss like only they belong to the world, a thick, pale leg thrown over the man’s hip.

Your breathing quickens in your chest, heat boiling just beneath the skin of your face as you flee to an empty corner of the room.

This is not a bar.

On the back of your neck, a sweat breaks out, and you consider your options. For a too-long moment, you curse yourself for being so foolish as to think that the Undercity didn’t hold such open debauchery, and even more that you, sheltered as you are, could navigate it successfully. But if you could pull this off, what a way to prove yourself wrong. The unbelievable story you could tell your friends. A little rabbit wandering into the wolves’ den and making it out alive.

No running. You have to stay, to finish what you started.

The room falls quiet just as you ground yourself, and you glance about the room to spot the disturbance.

You find it—her—at the entrance. A presence larger than life, such gravitational pull in the sharpness of her eyes that you dare a step forward. Thick thighs, a trimmed waist, one muscled arm freed from her cloak. Dark skin and darker hair. Mouth-wateringly tall.

A squirrely man cowers as she passes, boots heavy on the floor, before the room fills with conversation and laughter yet again.

Dangerous. The antithesis of your family’s future for you, and you find yourself enraptured. A perfect revolt against the box you’ve been locked within.

She walks up to a richly-dressed woman standing at the bar, and they talk animatedly amongst themselves for a few long minutes. Long enough that your staring crosses into the territory of unsettling (you feel the strike of your mother’s palm on the back of your skull, and hear her remark of staring is rude, child).

Before you can look away, the richly-dressed woman waves a hand in your direction, and you tug the hood of your cloak further down your face in hopes that your presence continues ignored.

Fate does not smile on you tonight.

The woman that first mesmerized you strolls—no, not strolls, saunters up to you with a gait that screams ‘top of the food chain’. Anxiety flutters in your chest when she brazenly lifts your hood just enough for the light to hit your eyes.

Worse yet, she bends at the waist to lock gazes with you, as if flaunting the intimidation her height brings.

“I think you’re lost, princess,” she says, voice low and even, and a familiar heat licks up the back of your neck.

Humiliation.

Anger rears its ugly head, a response to her flippant tone. If she knew who you truly were, she wouldn’t dare address you in such a way.

You plant your hands on your hips, mouth curling into a disapproving frown. “I most certainly am not lost. I'm free to come and go as I please, same as you.”

Just like that, the tall woman grins, gaze sharpening as she takes you by the chin with large, warm fingers.

“You have any idea where you are?” The tips of those fingers dig into your cheeks, forcing a purse to your lips. “This isn't a place for girls like you.”

You freeze beneath her touch, a familiar warmth stoking in your belly, draining the anger from your bones. A sensation once relegated to explicit books and the caress of your own hand, a shameful thing that stamps you down to smallness.

“Girls like me?” The question comes out timid, garbled from the position of your mouth.

She drags her gaze up and down the length of your body, tilts her head at the salacious sight of your cleavage beneath the knot of your cloak. “Girls who have no idea what mess they're getting themselves into.”

Beneath the shroud of moonlight, you've touched yourself in bed to the exact type of woman that stands in front of you: rough around the edges, built like she could snap you in half (with a scowl to match), an aura that reeks of experience. Gods, her hands—large and warm with long, thick fingers that would feel much better in places designed for… stretching. Places that aren't the tender fat of your cheeks.

And then she releases you, rising to her full height. Looks down her strong nose at the surprise on your face. “Go home. Before you get yourself in trouble.”

You should heed her warning. She clearly knows more than you about many things, but therein lies the problem—your want to stay. A great reminder of why the risks you’ve taken must reap reward lest you trudge across that cursed bridge with your virginity still intact.

You'll most likely be engaged before the end of the month, and then you'll be tied forever to a man that your heart could never want. You need to know the touch of a woman before your fate is forever sealed.

Once upon a time, your mother said that your stubbornness would be your downfall.

“No. I came here for a reason, and I'm not leaving until I get what I want.”

“And what could a spoiled brat like you want with a whorehouse?”

“I don't think that's any of your business.”

“I'm making it my business.”

She takes three large steps forward, and you scramble back until the cold, hard wall halts you, the contents of your bag digging into your spine. Close enough to the woman to lean forward and kiss the swell of her chest (and what a lovely, large swell it is, tantalizing beneath the fabric of her cloak).

You understand now why the man cowered in her proximity. She commands the room, sucks the oxygen from your lungs with a simple glare.

Dangerous. Enchanting.

“No, I—I didn’t know this was a brothel.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you wish you could unspeak them, and by the smug look on her face, you’ve just proven her hypothesis correct.

“Oh, you’re a treat. My lucky day.”

“I don’t—“

She turns on her heel, heading toward the bar. “I’ll get you a drink.”

“I don't drink.”

A pause in her step to call out, “You do now.”

To be fair, you do drink, but you highly doubt that this place stocks anything more than swill, especially given the refined preference of your palette.

The woman from before steps up beside her as she waves the bartender over, and you watch, enraptured, as they lean in close and talk amongst themselves. Every few moments, they turn back to glance at you, and you shift your weight from foot to foot. You're no stranger to attention, but this is a strange place. The implication sends a chill down your spine. If anybody found out the true nature of your identity, you couldn't imagine what they might do.

The woman of your dreams holds out a glass to you, half-filled with amber liquid, and you glance around the room before creeping toward the bar. She bows upon your approach in a mockery of your status, and you yank the drink from her hand with a dismissing scoff. A bit of alcohol sloshes to the floor.

You can't stand her.

She traps you between herself and the well-dressed woman, long fingers curling around her own glass to lift it to her full lips. She tosses it back, the long line of her neck on display as—

You want her so badly your knees threaten to buckle.

Your drink goes down much less smoothly. Swill, just as you predicted. It burns your mouth, coats your tongue with the taste of antiseptic. A war of expression wages within you as your teeth grit on instinct to keep a grimace at bay.

“It’s so nice of you to join us, dear. Quite rare, but we’ve had a few Pilties work here in the past.” The well-dressed woman presses a hand to her chest. “You may call me Mistress Mave, and this here is Sevika.”

Your eyes squint as you stare at her, the bitter alcohol churning fierce in your belly. When you look over your shoulder, Sevika raises her empty glass in greeting.

And then you register Mave's previous comment.

Your head snaps around to regard her. “Wait, no! No. I didn’t come here to… work.” You wince at your choice of words, once again wishing you could take them back. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but I would do a very bad job.”

Mistress Mave’s gaze quickly cuts to Sevika before settling back on you. “So you’re a patron of this fine establishment?”

Beside you, Sevika takes a large gulp of her refilled drink, and you wince at the phantom burn in your own throat. “Girl didn’t even know this was a brothel.”

“Well, there must be some reason you’re still here.”

To ogle at a room full of under-dressed women. “Curiosity, I suppose.”

Mave shrugs. “As good a reason as any. Can’t be much excitement in that ivory tower of yours.”

“I liken it more to a gilded cage.”

She giggles, resting a warm hand on your shoulder, and you think for a moment that your insides might burn to a crisp. A wildfire of want rages within you, and the freedom of choice for the first time in your life dizzies you beyond belief.

You could buy a night with anyone in this room.

Unfortunately for you, the only person you truly crave cannot be bought, and she stares a hole through the bottom of her empty glass, lips twisted up in thought.

As if your gaze holds a tangible weight, she looks up at you. Leers at the expanse of your body like she can see through your clothes.

“So. You want some excitement.”

You swallow thick when she leans in close. Smells of leather and bourbon and something sickly-sweet that itches at the back of your throat. You wonder about her taste. The warmth of the space between her legs. What her expressive mouth might feel like on the more delicate parts of your body.

Now is the time. “Yes.”

A glint of metal slides across the bar top from Mave’s direction, only for Sevika to stop it with a palm (without taking her eyes off you, and that shouldn't be as arousing as it is). She picks it up with thumb and forefinger and presents it to you: a simple metal ring with a dangling key attached.

“Offer's open, princess, but I'll only ask once.”

You know what the key means. A private room. Alone with the most attractive woman you've ever seen. There's only one way this can end, and you're almost at the finish line.

So why do you hesitate?

Sevika pins you with a stare, commanding the attention of your gaze, and she must see the war that wages within you. She clenches the key in her fist and turns to walk away.

Your chest pangs from the sharp spike of your heart rate, and you clamp both hands around her thick wrist to halt her. “Wait, wait. I want to, I just… I've never done this.”

Yes. It's fear that leaves you wary. Fear of under-performing, of disappointing your family, of never coming back from this.

But the fear of never having Sevika triumphs all others.

Her lips stretch into a smile, eyes darkening to something predatory and heated. “That's all you had to say, princess.”

When she holds out the key again, you don't hesitate to take it.

Mistress Mave wishes you well as Sevika leads you toward a stretch of low-lit hallway at the back of the room. She walks you past door after door, muffled sounds of pleasure breaching the privacy of each room, and glances back to gauge your reaction. Raises her brows at the sight of your wide-eyed expression, but says nothing. You've already cemented your place in the realm of naivety. No need to rub salt in the bleeding wound.

She stops at the last door on the right. Unassuming, same as the others, and you aren't sure what you expected. You shift your weight as she takes the key from you and slots it into the lock, wary of what manner of debauchery might lay on the other side.

People enjoy all manner of odd things. Whips and braided rope and dripping candle wax. Orgies and audiences. Biting and bruises and blood.

Gods, you hope there isn't an audience.

She opens the door and ushers you in.

“Here’s your mansion for the night,” she says with a sweep of her arm.

You choose to ignore her comment, instead glancing around the quaint room bathed in golden lamplight. A full-sized bed sits in the center with two worn end tables on each side. A chair in the opposite corner, covered in dingy fabric. A suspicious red stain on the wall above it catches your attention, and nausea broils in your belly when you think too hard about how it got there.

You resist the urge to curl your lip.

Sevika steps up beside you with a wry smile, and your eyes lock on to the adorable gap between her front teeth. The only thing adorable about her. “What, not good enough for you?”

“It’s… fine.” At her amused exhale, you take a step back. “Isn't there a… a time limit on how long we can stay?”

“This room is mine. Nobody will bother us.”

Your eyes widen. “You have your own room here?”

“So you are judging.”

“I'm not. I just don't understand why anybody would want sex so often. I've heard it's more of a chore than anything.”

And yet, look where you are.

“What kinda shit do they teach you up there?”

You drop your bag by the door then step over to the bed and remove your cloak, spreading it out over the dirty sheets so you can sit comfortably. Who knows what manner of bodily fluids have befriended the fabric.

“No sex before marriage, sexual urges are a distraction, make babies until you either die or get too old.” You roll your eyes, reclining back on your hands as she steps over to you with a scowl. “My family is more… conservative than most other houses.”

“I can't believe I actually feel sorry for you.”

“How sweet.”

With a flourish, she removes her own cloak, tossing it behind her to land perfectly in the chair.

Truly, you try not to stare, but the woman is a masterpiece. Strong arms and legs, a trim waist, deliciously broad shoulders. For reasons unbeknownst to you, your interest most lies in the expanse of bare skin between her tight shirt and pants. The shadow of her hipbones, the dip of her bellybutton, muscles carved from stone.

Then there’s her arm. Metallic in make with a design so intricate you wouldn't dare try to map all the parts out, faintly whirring from the fan on the shoulder. A pretty gold that contrasts well with the shade of her skin. A glow of muted pink liquid settles in vein-like structures. You want to reach out and trace each little design with your fingertips.

Fever overtakes you, sends heat down your chest and spine to settle in the pit of your belly. You've never felt unadulterated want like this before.

She takes a seat beside you to remove her boots, spreading her legs to fit a warm one against yours. It's wholly unnecessary, and yet you squirm regardless, leaning into and away from the touch. The tilt of her mouth from your view of her profile—gods, what a lovely nose—proves that your reaction was her intention all along. You eat right from her palm again and again, and you love it (though you would rather die than admit such a thing).

In a rush, you're tugged to your feet and planted between her spread thighs, and she fusses with the hidden toggles on the back of your corset. She faces your body away from her, fingers hot and teasing against your spine.

You listen to her struggle for a long few moments, biting your lips to hide your laugh.

Who knew that a simple clothing item could best such a woman?

She growls, passing fruitlessly over each clip yet again. “How do you even—get this fucking thing—”

At the sound of a popping stitch, your smile sharply fades, and you twist away from her with a scowl. “Don’t rip it, you brute. This corset is worth more than your life.” A gift from your aunt for your twenty-third birthday. Your mother would surely kill you.

Her brow furrows, a shadow hiding away the pretty grey of her eyes.

Then the world flips on its side. One moment you're standing before her, and the next, you lay on your back, cushioned by a lumpy mattress, staring up at the ceiling.

The bed dips between your spread legs, and you lift your head to find her crawling over you. The sight is dizzying, a scene straight from one of your mother's novels—the heroine at the mercy of a dangerous warrior, much like a rabbit caught between the metal teeth of a trap. What always follows is a ravishing (you pray to any being listening that the pattern continues).

You swallow down the lump in your throat when she sits back on her haunches, your thighs framing the taper of her waist. Her touch sears you, alights your nerves with such sensation that your hips roll against hers on instinct.

In three quick tugs of her metal hand, the toggles on your corset snap from end to end, seams popping in the process. The clothing item falls away, revealing your breasts to her low-lidded gaze.

She tilts her head, eyes flickering over your midsection. “Cute,” she says, splaying a large hand over the expanse of your belly, callouses rasping against your skin. The tip of her middle finger brushes the underside of your breast, and something fierce and chaotic hammers away within your ribs.

You can't even be angry. Too aroused to conjure a complete thought. Already, the place between your legs thumps rhythmically, begging for her touch. For her mouth. For those long fingers you've admired since she took you by the face.

She quirks a brow. “Nothing to say?”

You shake your head in response, breath stuttering on each inhale. The position is overwhelming, your center trapped against her pelvis, and you wish so badly that you could feel her without all the clothing between you.

“You’ve really never done this before.” More statement than question, as if the realization suddenly befalls her. And once it settles in her mind, she leans forward, sucking a rough, toe-curling kiss into the pulse of your neck. “Innocent little Piltie. Never thought I'd see the day.”

Inhaling a breath through your teeth, you reach up to comb a hand through her loose hair. If you were a bit more brave, you would take hold of that blasted hair tie and rip it out, but you resign yourself to the soft, thick strands that frame her neck.

Her treatment of you is rough, but never unpleasant. Relieving, in fact, given your perceived fragility by those around you. She sharpens her teeth on your most vulnerable spots: the curve of your neck, the line of your collarbone, the swell of your chest. Suckles at your skin like you’re her own personal canvas. Pulls you close with a muscled forearm beneath the curve of your back.

And although you wriggle beneath her, unsure of how to cope with so much sensation, you refuse to let her have all the fun. You shove at her shoulders with a low whine, and she separates from you with a sharp exhale.

“What?”

You tug at the hem of her shirt with shaking fingers, thighs tightening around her waist. “Take this off.”

She rolls her eyes, grumbles spoiled brat under her breath, but obeys anyway. Under no circumstances do you stare at the flex of her arms as she stretches them out then tosses her shirt aside.

At the sight of her wrapped chest, your excitement wilts, mouth twisting into a pout. Your fingers fit beneath the material. “This, too.”

Once the tie is undone, the wrap falls over your thighs, and suddenly, she sits before you bare from the waist up.

Your first pair of breasts, here to touch and kiss and lick, to indulge in, and though you've lived a life of excess, you know that no food or extravagant purchase or amount of gold will ever fulfill you like the sight of her. The curve of them bottom-heavy, nipples a few shades darker than the color of her skin. A puckered scar slices between her lower ribs, the perfect size for a knife, and you want to kiss it.

You want to—you—

Gods, you can't even think.

She exhales a laugh, removing the wrap from around her waist. “You've never seen tits before?”

She seeks to rankle you, but your brain locks onto the shape of her areolas. The perfect shape for your mouth.

“None but mine.” You extend your arms, desperate for the taste of her skin, its warmth. The weight of her against you. Your mouth waters. “Come here.”

“Mind your manners. Say ‘please’.”

You don't hesitate, hindbrain need driving your actions. “Please?”

Humming, she leans over you on her forearms, chest hovering directly above your face, each breath ghosting her soft skin against your bottom lip.

By the end of the night, you're sure to die of a self-induced heart attack.

In a surprising stroke of tenderness, she cradles your head in hand as you suck a nipple into your mouth. You attempt to recall the scenes from your favorite books, how the women in them enjoy their pleasure, and draw upon your lonely nights in bed for inspiration.

“Harder, princess. You won't break me.”

At her request, you suck her breast deeper into your mouth, fitting your tongue against her pebbled nipple. She exhales a sigh against the crown of your head, canting her hips against yours, and you moan around her flesh, meeting her arousal with your own.

She pulls away with a wet pop from your lips, hands darting to the buttons on your pants. Makes quick work, tugging both them and your underwear down your legs before meeting the leather of your boots. You sit up to help her, unclipping the straps down the sides.

Your need is palpable, same as hers. The anticipation makes you clumsy and off-balance, a flutter of giddiness sending you into a fit of giggles.

She rips your boots off by the soles, stepping back to let you finish as she works to remove the rest of her own clothes.

Everything happens fast. Your trousers land in a heap on the floor at the bottom of the bed, and two different hands, one organic and one metal, grab you by the legs to seat you at the edge of the mattress. You blink and her mouth is on you, teeth latching onto the seam of your inner thigh. So close to where you need it, and you reach down to guide her with a hand in her hair. In a striking display of speed, she catches you by the wrist with her metal hand and pins it down to the bed.

As punishment, she moves her lips further up your thigh, marking her trail with sharp nips of her teeth. Pain melds into a pleasure that leaves your jaw slackening, your hips twitching toward the wet heat of her mouth, begging of their own accord.

You never thought you would enjoy being pinned down and marked up and thrown about like you weigh nothing, but Sevika has opened up a deeply-buried box of desires that can never be closed again. You want more this, of her, of whatever she chooses to give you.

You can dissect the why later.

“Please, Sevika. Please.”

The sight of her between your legs, furrow-browed and glaring, mean in the best possible way, sends another wave of heat to the pit of your belly. “Why should I?”

She rests her thumb on the root of your clit, trailing along its hood. Waiting for you to respond, to give her an adequate reason behind your selfish indulgence.

You don't have one.

“Because I need it.”

She clicks her tongue, moving her thumb to tease over your labia, dipping just enough into your entrance to coat her skin with your slick.

“Brat like you gets everything she wants. About time you had to wait for something.”

When your hips begin a desperate grind to chase the sensation, she pins you to the bed with her metal arm, your wrist still gripped in hand.

Only when you stop your struggle, when you submit beneath her does she give you what you've been begging for. You clench around nothing, muscles of your thighs tensing as she finally, finally presses her tongue against you. Long, languid strokes of soft wet heat that steal your breath each time she reaches your clit. She kisses your—your pussy like she might kiss your mouth (gods, how vulgar), rolling her tongue over your clit, sucking your labia into her mouth, licking into you so deep that your back arches off the bed.

The silly books hidden beneath your mattress could never do this justice. The pathetic feeling of your own hand could never compare. How foolish of you to believe otherwise.

You feel flayed alive when she pulls away with a wet squelch, a large finger pressing into you. “Cute down here, too,” she says quietly, as if musing to herself. Your thighs shake when she begins a steady rhythm, the schlick of your insides loud in the small room. “Sensitive.”

You've never been this wet before. She's carved out your innards and replaced the empty cavern with need and heat and instinct. You thrash against her hold, desperate for stimulation, and she presses her arm harder across your hips to keep you still.

This is what you've been looking for, craving for so long. To be trapped and vulnerable and at the mercy of a pretty, intimidating woman.

You can't do much to guide her besides whimper and moan and beg and plead, the only free part of your body—your hand—fisted in the sheets beside your head. She feasts on you like it's an act of worship, messy and wet, mechanical fingers curling around your own.

Once she latches her mouth around your clit and slides another finger into you, it takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for you to reach your peak. Your subdued hand tightens into a fist, metallic edges digging into your skin, but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when every muscle in your body tightens in preparation for an atom-rending orgasm.

Time suspends just before the coil in your belly snaps, and your chest burns from the rib-stretching breath you hold, and your knees curl toward your chest to fully expose yourself to her mouth.

She suckles hard enough that the pleasure sharpens into a knife, thick fingers still stretching you open, forcing through the first milking clench of your insides, and you break.

For a moment, you believe your soul separates from your body as every nerve alights with sensation. Fractals appear in the blackhole darkness of clenched-shut eyes. You curl in on yourself, muscles aching from how tightly they wind. Her muffled groan vibrates against you, and some shoved away part of your brain purrs at the thought of her getting off to this—to pleasuring you.

As quickly as your peak came, it leaves, and you sag against the sheets, extremities gooey and useless, gasping for breath. Utterly spent, wrung out, at her mercy.

She no doubt prefers you like this. Perhaps that's why she approached you in the first place: one of Piltover's finest standing in the corner of some seedy brothel, doe-eyed and scared, ripe for the picking. Perfectly corruptible.

Fortunately for you, this is what you came for.

A wet hand pats your cheek, hard enough to jostle your head. “Hey. You alive?”

Untrusting of your vocal chords, you release a throaty whine, blinking open tired eyes.

“Good. Now scoot.” She smacks at your flank as the bed slowly dips beside you, and your body jolts into action. “Top of the bed.”

If you had an ounce of thought to your brain or the energy to move your mouth, you would snap at her for being so demanding, for ordering you around like a dog. But your face burns when your pussy clenches around nothing, drooling onto the sheets.

You actually like this.

What is wrong with you? Your fantasies never ventured into pain-filled territory, and now you silently wish for her to spank you again like a misbehaving child. You should feel shame, but you don't, and you can’t help but wonder how that could be.

She is a witch, and you’ve fallen under her spell. The only theory that makes sense inside your orgasm-addled brain.

“Can I… return the favor?”

She stands before the end table, rifling through the contents of the drawer. Long, sinewy legs on display, the curve of her bottom perfect for grabbing. “No.”

“What? Why?”

“Because. I don't teach.”

“I’m a very fast learner.”

She turns toward you with a glare, hand holding two objects you can’t yet identify. “No.”

You pout, eyebrows canting upward in your best pleading expression, and you want to taste her so badly that you consider throwing a tantrum, but decide against it once she rejoins you on the bed. As if she would budge anyway.

Your eyes are drawn to the movements of her hands and the leather straps that she buckles around her hips and thighs. High quality and sturdy with a piece of thick fabric beneath a metal ring covering her pelvis.

“What is that?”

“You’ll see.”

She picks up a phallus-shaped object from between her thighs, and your eyes widen at the sight of her slotting it into the metal ring.

A fake… cock (gods, what's gotten into you?), of thick girth and average length. An inset of flowing pink veins. It's daunting, a bit scary to look at.

She expects you to take that?

You fiddle with your fingers as she coats the thing in lubrication, and although you don’t have second thoughts, per se, you need to know that she’ll take things slow.

“It looks like it’ll hurt.”

She smooths a rough palm over the skin of your thigh, squeezing the fat beneath her fingers. “Won't hurt you unless you want me to.”

You believe this utter stranger for some odd reason, and that eases the ache in your chest.

“Can we go slow?”

She scoots in close, to the same position as before—on her haunches, your thighs around her waist. Thumbs at the fat on your hips, looking down at you with a wrinkled brow.

“I’m not a monster.”

Your face softens at her hushed tone, shoulders relaxing from around your ears. “I know you aren't.” You brush a stray hair from her brow, palm cradling the blue-hued scars on her face for half a second before she pins your wrist to the sheets beside your head.

“I'm going to fuck you now.”

You flatten your lips into a line and nod, the grim expression on her face clearly wishing for you to shut your mouth.

You can do that, as long as she makes good on her promise.

The first brush of the fake cock over your clit is warm. Warm and giving and soft as a human body, which strikes you as peculiar. Because it isn't, and it shouldn't feel like an extension of her, but it does.

You tense up in anticipation, thigh muscles flexing, tugging her closer, and she squeezes at the flesh beneath her fingers. Says, “Don't. Relax.” She thumbs over your wet clit, a sudden rush of sensation that coils around the knots of your spine, and you bloom for her, sinking into the sheets. “There you go.”

She doesn't stop until your breathing deepens and the pit of your belly starts boiling with heat, and you shudder at the press of her cock against your entrance.

“Please. Please, just—”

“I know.” Her voice softens into an almost-coo, the closest thing to tenderness you'll most likely get from her, but it's enough.

Something sweet and warm swells in your chest as she presses into you, achingly slow—an inch forward, an inch back, again and again until her pelvis meets yours, your insides stretched deliciously, full up to your ribs.

And just like that, your mission is complete. Not only have you lost your virginity, but the most beautiful woman you've ever laid eyes on is the one impaling you. And as she promised, it doesn't hurt. She sees to your pleasure like she’s paid for it, still circling your clit, metal fingers carefully plucking a nipple. Plays your body expertly, makes you melt beneath her, morphs you into something pliant and needy—sexual being first, human second.

When she begins moving, she doesn’t stop, hips rocking in a long, languid rhythm that steals the breath from your lungs. The best thing you’ve ever felt, perfection, more you need more you need—

“Harder.”

A simple request, a two syllable word that defies the impossible weight of your tongue. It comes out garbled and strained, embarrassingly weak, yet the concentrated wrinkle of her brow throws you off.

No more teasing. This is serious.

“There’s a word you’re supposed to say,” she says, voice even-toned and normal, a sharp contrast to the way she’s ripped you apart, to how you gasp and whimper.

“Please?”

Begging comes easy as the rational faculties of your brain shut down one right after the other, and she leans forward, prosthetic fingers encircling your throat.

“Again.”

A light squeeze against the thump of your pulse leaves you moaning, the chill of the metal a perfect contrast to the flushing heat of your skin.

“Please?”

This time she grins, lips stretching wide, eyelids lowering to cast her gaze in muted shadow.

“Good girl.”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as her thrusts pick up speed, her hips slapping against the back of your thighs, each bottom-out slick and noisy. With your free arm, you cling to her, the bend of your elbow fitting over the nape of her neck. She lets you pull her close, the muscled expanse of her stomach flattening against yours (impossibly warm, the skin soft, fuzzy below her navel), her teeth biting hard at the curve of your shoulder.

You clench around her as the sharp pleasure-pain darts down your spine, tilting your head back to expose more of your neck to the roughness of her touch—the fingers still heavy against your pulse, the mouth hell-bent on marking you for her own satisfaction (and, to a lesser extent, yours).

A burning sun builds at the base of your spine, the sensation deeper set than your previous climax, heavy between your hips, unraveling you down to your bone marrow. You relax into it, spreading your thighs in invitation. A silent begging.

Her lips latch onto the underside of your jaw, and you finally steel your resolve and rip the tie from her hair. Fist a hand in the thick strands, tug hard enough that she pulls away with a groan, thrusts pausing, almost nose-to-nose with you.

And she smiles, an excited, almost vulgar curl to her lips. “Bunny’s got teeth, huh?”

You want to kiss her. She even teases the idea, taking your lower lip between her teeth, and all the heat in your body rushes to your face. Your breathing quickens, every nerve in your body bending to her will.

Her mouth brushes against your ear, breath fanning over your skin. “Roll over.”

You open your mouth to complain, and she slides two slick fingers over your tongue, deep enough to gag you before pulling back.

She tilts her head, nose brushing against the heat of your cheek. “Are simple instructions too hard for you now?”

You hum your dissent around the intrusion in your mouth, tasting yourself on her skin.

She pulls out, leaning back far enough to loop her metal arm beneath your hips and flips you over. A rough smack to your bottom (”Up,” she grouses) has you rising to your knees, face buried in the sheets. The mattress dips on either side of your legs, and she wastes no time sliding back into you, the slick sound of your pussy bringing heat to your cheeks.

In this position, her cock feels impossibly deep, heavier and thicker inside you. The hands that grip your waist keep you still as she rocks her hips, building up to the rough pace she set before as you mewl and cry and drool into the corner of the pillow between your teeth.

Your brain whites out as climax overtakes you, fizzling all the tension from your bones, her hands the only thing keeping you upright as pleasure unfurls from the deep pit within your very soul. More full-bodied and languid than any others that came before, as if she's unlocked some pleasure center you never knew you possessed.

You'll think about this night for the rest of your life.

Her thrusts slow to a crawl to give you a chance to recover, palm soothing the sweaty skin over your spine. The perfect touch to center you back inside your body.

You're exhausted. Wrung out. Satiated and purring.

You reach a hand back to press against her lower belly, a silent signal that you're done for the moment. She pulls out of you with a chuffing laugh, massaging the fat of your thigh one final time before rolling off the bed and unbuckling the straps of her harness.

“Still alive?”

At the sound of her smugness, you open a bleary eye to glare at her, though you might get a bit distracted at the tufts of dark hair between her thighs and the sheen of sweat on her skin in the glow of lamplight. You consider biting her just as she's done to you, carving your signature into the thin flesh of her wrist, though your reasoning lies more in the realm of dog that's had their tail yanked one too many times.

She joins you in bed. Sinks into the sheets with a heavy sigh through her nose, beads of sweat drying on the bridge. Picks up a metal case from the bedside table and opens it to reveal a row of thin cigars, like the ones your father smokes.

When she lights it, the smell reminds you of home, and you swallow down the guilt that rises like bile in your throat.

Then silence.

You drift for a while, basking in the afterglow, before an emptiness opens up between your ribs. A strange loneliness that can only be filled by skinship. You edge toward her, bridging the gap between your bodies, and upon your first touch against her arm, her head snaps to look at you, eyes wary, brow pinched.

“I don't cuddle.”

You blink. “Oh.”

That stings. It shouldn’t, given the nature of everything that came before, her averseness to non-sexual touch, but you need… something. A hug, perhaps.

You scoot away from her and wince at the soreness of your muscles, curling up on your side.

Definitely a long, hot bath, with the floral smelling soaps and oil infused salts you keep stocked in the cabinet beneath your bathroom sink.

Surprisingly, she doesn’t leave. She stays next to you in bed, still puffing away on her strangely small cigar, and the bitter smell settles a comforting warmth in your lungs. Like a mug of tea on a cold night, or dinner by the fire, or the smell of clean sheets.

Briefly, you wonder what memories bring her peace. If she even possesses such things.

“You really should go home,” she says, smoke curling from her nostrils. “There’s nothing else for you here.”

You pick at a cigarette burn in the comforter, unable to meet her eyes. “You’re probably right.”

“I am right. You’ll be chewed up and spit out before sunrise.” She leans in close, eyes lidded, the smell of tobacco soaking into her skin. “You’re lucky I found you first.”

You want to kiss her, to smudge your lipstick against the curve of her mouth, but you can’t find the bravery to follow through. No doubt, she would grab you by the face and say, ‘I don’t kiss.’

Instead, you smile. “I agree.”

She huffs out a breath through her teeth, settling back against the headboard.

And then she rests a large, warm hand on your head, thumb smoothing over the curve of your cheek. Tender and intimate—much too sweet for the tone she's set thus far.

“This is all I can give you.”

You lean into her touch like a dog begging for a scratch, uncaring of how pathetic it makes you seem. “I understand.”

You lay like that for a while. Soak up her warmth and attention as the air thickens with the smoke from her strange cigar.

A piece of you mourns for the future, for the inevitable truth that you'll never see this woman again. You'll leave to Aunt Elise's in the morning to heed Sevika's words, and you'll go home to your mother's cage and Tristan's proposal, and you'll accept your fate with a smile.

“My family doesn't know I prefer the company of women,” you whisper, and you aren't sure why you chose her, but you have to get your secret out before the noose tightens around your neck. “I know you don't care, and I'm not asking you to. I just needed to say it out loud for the first time.”

She sighs. Quietly says, “Well, you did.”

Her comment is not angry, or snarky, or bitter, but pitying. Sympathetic.

You don't really deserve it.

“Thank you. For everything.”

She scrunches her nose in discomfort, but says nothing. Pulls away from you to stamp out the fire of her strange cigar.

You wonder what she’s thinking. What she’s been thinking this entire time. More of a mystery than you could have ever predicted.

Why did she choose you? Was it because of your perceived status, or in spite of it? Did she enjoy what happened? Was it like scratching an itch, or will she think about you from time to time?

Perhaps you’re the one thinking too much, but your mother once told you that your first time would be remembered for the rest of your life. (Another reason why your husband should take your “purity”.) You’re an hour out from the experience, but you already know she’s right.

As the night continues, you have each other again and again and again, trying all manner of things. She lets you suck on her—“they’re called tits around here, princess”—as she stretches you with two fingers. Lets you ride her thigh for twenty minutes while she leaves kisses on the column of your throat (a particularly erogenous area for you, you discovered). Even lets you take a hit of her small cigar in between rounds, and you cough so hard you almost throw up.

During each downtime, you talk. About Piltover, and your trip through the Undercity, and your hobbies back home, and your family, and your suitor. She says little each time, simply dozing on her side of the bed as you babble away, and you aren't sure why she lets you talk her ear off. She's a puzzle you lack all the pieces to.

By morning, you’re covered in hickeys and bite marks and deliciously sore between the legs. Sevika snores next to you in bed, on her stomach, head half-buried by her pillow. Hair blanketing her face.

You take stock of yourself as you stretch out your legs. Achey but relaxed, foggy-brained by the throes of sleep. You don't regret last night. There's no guilt or shame rustling around inside your head. You accomplished your mission with outstanding success, and your heart feels lighter as a result.

But something nags at you: the prospect of going home to your gilded cage.

And after seeing the streets of the Undercity, the circumstances of the people who live here, your dread does inspire guilt. Your parents never told you about it, forbade you from ever seeing the heart of the destruction, and you feasted on the lies because you didn't know any better.

Well. Now you do.

And still, you aren't sure how to help. If you would even make a difference.

You never expected this outcome from what was supposed to be an exciting journey to sleep with a pretty woman.

For now, you'll go to your aunt's then you'll return home and play your role well and forget that this night ever happened for the sake of your sanity.

Tradition never changes. Suffering is an unfortunate facet of life. Destiny is set in stone. What's the point of trying?

All you can do is make this moment last.

You roll onto your side and roam your eyes over her face, the features you still see beneath her curtain of hair. She grumbles in her sleep, nose scrunching as she dreams.

Maybe it would be better if you left now. To rip the bandage off. There’s nothing more to say, nowhere to go from here in regards to your severely short relationship with Sevika.

You creep out of bed and collect your clothes from the floor. Choose a new outfit from your bag and quietly slip it on. Behind you, the bed creaks, and you freeze in place, turning your head to look at her.

Still asleep, stretched out on her back.

You wish you had some paper to write a note with, to share some last minute words. But you don’t, and your chest aches at the thought of leaving her without saying goodbye.

It’s better this way.

On your way out of town, you drop your entire bag of gold next to a sickly woman and her child. The same duo you saw last night, cuddled beneath a shared blanket.

She smiles at you, grabs you by the hand and squeezes as tight as she can manage.

A drop in the water to solving the issues that plague these people, but it’s a start. Not like you need the money anyway.

When you finally venture into the research outpost after a while of travel, Aunt Elise greets you with a twinkle in her eye and a crinkled nose and says, “You need a bath, girl.”

[valeisaslut]

⭒࿐COLLIDE - c. six

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗

𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐒 & 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐃

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑣𝑒 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 →

⚢ pairing: Rockstar!Ellie Williams x Popstar!Reader 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ synopsis: After months of blurred lines and staged headlines, the truth finally breaks through—there’s no pretending anymore. You’re with Ellie now, for real. Wrapped up in tour dates, secret kisses behind curtains, and a love that’s grown too wild to hide. The concert is electric, the afterparty dizzy with heat, and through it all, you and Ellie can’t keep your hands—or hearts—off each other. 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 12,3k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: smut, fluff, top/possesive!ellie, sub! reader, strap-on sex (r!receiving), oral sex (r!receiving), chocking, slapping, hair pulling, pet names, modern au, mention of cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, cursing, violence, afab!reader, multiple part series, MEN AND MINORS DNI likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

Disclaimer: This chapter contains references to drug use. If you're sensitive to this topic, please read with caution or consider skipping. I aim to handle it with thoughtfulness and respect.

BREAKING: ELLIE WILLIAMS & Y/N MAKE HISTORY WITH THE FIRST QUEER KISS IN GRAMMY HISTORY!!! 🔥👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩🚨

(Full emotional damage, A-list reactions, meme chaos, and internet meltdowns below. Proceed with caution.)

LOS ANGELES, CA — We tuned in for the music. We stayed for the drama. But what we got? A history-making, earth-shattering, culture-resetting moment so powerful it will be analyzed in LGBTQ+ archives, dissected in media studies courses, and quite possibly investigated by NASA—because the sheer gravity of this event sent us all into another orbit.

The 67th Annual Grammy Awards didn’t just give us winners, electrifying performances, and overpriced celebrity reactions—it delivered a full-blown revolution. The first QUEER KISS IN GRAMMY HISTORY unfolded before our very eyes, and the world has simply not been the same since.

Let’s break it down—frame by frame, reaction by reaction—because let’s be real: we are NEVER recovering from this.

THE PERFORMANCE THAT LEFT THE INTERNET IN RUINS.

🎥 [Video link attached. Side effects may include: heart palpitations, spontaneous screaming, and an urgent need to be laid to rest IMMEDIATELY.]

Our favorite agents of chaos took the stage for their highly anticipated duet of She, and within 0.2 seconds, we were all in grave, irreversible danger.

We’re talking eye contact and fleeting touches so intense they should be classified as a controlled substance. So charged they are now banned in 47 countries and counting.

At the end of the song, no warning, no buildup, not even a dramatic orchestral swell, just pure, undiluted lesbian cinema. Ellie turned to Y/N, locked eyes with her, and then—

💥 KISSED HER LIKE THEY WERE ABOUT TO BE TORN APART BY THE FORCES OF FATE. 💥

The audience? Absolutely feral. The cameras? MALFUNCTIONED. They couldn’t even keep up. Jesse and Dina, still on stage? Looking like they just witnessed a divine event.

And the celebrities?? Pure CINEMA.

Beyoncé – Shaking her head, slow clapping like she just witnessed the most powerful love story of our time. Taylor Swift – Allegedly whispering oh my god on an endless loop. Billie Eilish – Straight-up dropping her drink, mouth frozen in pure, unfiltered gay panic. Lady Gaga – Visibly screaming “MOTHERS.” Harry Styles – Nodding like a proud gay uncle.

No thoughts. No survival.

Just two sapphics rewriting history on live television.

THE ACCEPTANCE SPEECH THAT DESTROYED HUMANITY.

📸 [Clip attached. Send thoughts, prayers, and therapy bills.]

Y/N didn’t just win the Grammys—she owned them. FOUR AWARDS. A clean sweep. And as if that weren’t enough, The Fireflies won SIX. GRAMMYS. SIX. Sold-out arenas, chart-topping records, and now? A total obliteration of the competition.

But nothing—and I mean NOTHING—could have prepared us for the Category 5 emotional devastation that was Williams’ words at The Fireflies Album of the Year speech.

She stepped up to the mic, hands shaking, took one deep breath, and turned to look at Y/N with that look. The one we’ve seen a thousand times, but never like this—not this raw, not this real.

And then she said, voice steady but somehow still knocking the air out of everyone in that room:

"There are people who change you. Who tear you apart and put you back together in ways you never saw coming. And even when they annoy the shit out of you, you know—deep down—you’d be lost without them. And you are that person for me."

💀💀💀 WE WERE ALL DUG INTO GRAVES. 💀💀💀

The pause. The pause that shaved years off our collective lifespans. The pause that stretched out like the universe itself was holding its breath.

And then—

"And I just wanted to say that… that I love you."

👀👀👀 EXCUSE ME?????????? 👀👀👀

The crowd erupted. Jesse and Dina screaming in the background. A-listers clutching their chests like they had just been stabbed through the heart. The camera panning to Y/N—eyes wide, lips parted, staring into the distance like those words had just rewired her entire brain chemistry.

THE AFTERMATH: INTERNET MELTDOWN OF THE CENTURY.

✅ Twitter: Unrecoverable. Users filing for emotional compensation and group therapy. ✅ TikTok: Gone. Servers overheated on impact. Fandom historians drafting deep dives as we speak. ✅ TMZ (literally us): sprinting through the streets like it’s the Olympics of gay panic. ✅ Rolling Stone: Already calling it "the most iconic queer moment in music history." And you know what? YES.

And let’s take a moment for THE CONSERVATIVES. Fox News? Fuming. Boomers on Facebook? Typing in all caps about the ‘downfall of society.’ Every homophobe within a 50-mile radius? Visibly sweating and shaking.

Lesbians winning. History being made. Society upgraded.

AND WE. LOVE. TO. SEE. IT.

🔗NEW TMZ UPDATE: THE HAND-HOLDING, JACKET STEALING, AND CAFÉ DATE THAT FINISHED US OFF 🔥🚨

📸 [MORE Paparazzi shots and attached. If you thought you were safe, you were DEAD WRONG.]

Just when we thought we had barely survived the Grammys' emotional onslaught, Ellie and Y/N said, "Nah, stay in your casket."

Because the morning-after pap shots just dropped, and the afterglow is BLINDING.

And let’s talk TIMELINE. Not only did they spend the night together, but the afterparty photos have surfaced—whispered conversations, lingering touches, and Ellie looking at Y/N like she personally strung up the stars.

But those photos? Just the warm-up. Because the morning after, they were spotted strolling into a café, looking slow, soft, and disgustingly in love. Not their usual teasing, no performance—this was different.

This was "We-just-rewrote-history-then-I-rocked-your-world-and-now-we're-getting-coffee-like-a-married-couple" kind of energy.

🎥 THE EVIDENCE:

• Ellie leaning in too close, whispering something that had Y/N turning BRIGHT red.

• Y/N sipping coffee, still looking wrecked, while Ellie shamelessly stole bites of her croissant.

• Ellie’s oversized jacket swallowing Y/N whole. Ellie sitting across from her, smirking like she just won a championship.

Even innocent bystanders were left SHOOK. One café worker we interviewed allegedly had to take a deep breath before serving them, muttering, “the energy they have is actually too much to handle.”

And those final paparazzi shots? Our favorite rockstar holding our favorite popstar’s hand even tighter as they walked back onto the street, smiling like they just lived through the softest, most cinematic rom-com of all time.

TMZ is now officially in FULL surveillance mode. Every glance, every touch, every silent confirmation of what we already KNOW is happening—we’re tracking it ALL.

But what do YOU think? Drop your most unhinged comments below! ⬇️🔥

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❤️ 20.3M — 💬 698.7K

📌 TOP COMMENTS:

@: We need a full forensic analysis of Y/N’s post-Grammys glow because sis walked out of that hotel looking RENEWED, REVIVED, AND REBORN

@: Ellie was gripping that mic like a stress ball when she said “I love you” 😭 girly was SO STRESSED SHES SUCH A LIL CUTIE

@: the way they walked into that café like they weren’t publicly obliterating us 8 hours ago 😂 

@: incredible day to be gay, my folks. my skin has just cleared.

@: WHY IS NOBODY TALKING AB THE AFTERPARTY PHOTOS OMG MY PHONE IS GONNA COMBUST FROM HOW HOT THEY ARE😩😩😩😩

@: I don’t know if I wanna study this moment in an LGBTQ+ history class or frame it and hang it above my bed like a religious shrine

@: y/n wearing her jacket like a trophy while Ellie sat there looking like the cat that ate the canary??? WHEN IT'S GONNA BE MY TURN😭

@: so much stuff happened in only one day omg that’s it I’m booking therapy and a heart transplant for all of us

@: Ellie just confirmed that she can pull both Grammys and souls straight out of bodies in one night. MY ICON.

@: it’s so crazy how they went from sneaky links to BUILDING A LITERAL LEGACY IN A FEW MONTHS.

@: that afterglow was so blinding I had to turn my brightness down just to process those café pics in peace

@: Ellie looked at Y/N on that stage like she was about to risk it all, and then she DIDDDD

@: The way the cameraman ZOOMED IN SO FAST like even he knew this was about to be a HISTORICAL LESBIAN EVENT™

@: honestly, someone get these women a throne already because they’ve earned it👑

@: they look so IN LOVE MY POOR GAY HEART CANT HANDLE IT 😭😭😭

@: I just KNOW the hotel walls were whispering the AFTERMATH of that speech I fear for the structural integrity of that building

The world had shifted.

Tilted into something softer, more tangible than either of you had ever expected.

What once had been an act, a perfectly curated illusion of stolen glances and well-timed touches for the cameras, had unraveled into something neither of you could fake. Not even if you tried.

At first, it had been easy to pretend. To play the part, to let the world believe in the effortless chemistry between you—because wasn’t that what they wanted? A fantasy to buy into, a love story they could project their own desires onto. And yet, now, the line between performance and reality had blurred.

No, blurred isn’t the right word. That suggests hesitation, uncertainty.

And there was none of that anymore.

Three months had passed since the Grammys. Since that night, that breathless moment when it all came crashing down and the truth between you was undeniable. Since the weight of what you felt had finally shattered through the surface, too big, too consuming to be ignored.

And now, there was no hesitation. No careful distance or unspoken boundaries.

Now, there were real dates—ones without touches already planned or pre-approved locations for paparazzi to conveniently “stumble” upon. There were late-night drives through LA with the windows down and her hand gripping your thigh, not for show, but because she simply wanted to touch you.

There were nights—late, hazy, endless—where conversation poured like wine, deep and heady. You talked about everything: life, death, music, the past, the kind of love that makes you reckless. Words slurred by exhaustion or laughter or both, but still honest, still yours.

There were lazy mornings tangled in bed sheets, her sleepy murmurs against your shoulder, the warmth of her breath fanning over your skin as she whispered things that weren’t meant for anyone but you.

For the first time in years, she was truly living—and so were you.

And the world was still watching, unaware of that shift.

The Fireflies’ world tour had shattered expectations, selling out in record time, each venue packed with thousands of voices screaming her name before she even stepped on stage. Articles hailed it as the tour of the decade. Fans camped outside arenas for days just for the chance to be there, to witness them in real-time. Every performance was electric, every setlist a journey, every night another testament to the fact that they weren’t just musicians anymore—they were a phenomenon.

You hadn’t planned on joining the tour—not at first. Your schedules rarely aligned, and even when they did, there was always another interview, another appearance, another commitment pulling you in opposite directions.

But then, against all odds, there was an opening.

A few weeks of unclaimed time—no press circuits, no obligations, just freedom.

And when she asked you to come with her, voice soft, fingers brushing against your wrist like she wasn’t sure if she had the right to ask, you didn’t hesitate.

"Just a little longer?" she had murmured, hopeful and hesitant, eyes flickering up to yours in the dim glow of her hotel room. "I just... I want you here. Pretty please?"

And how could you have possibly said no?

It was supposed to be one show. Maybe two. A brief escape, a chance to be with her without the constant press of cameras and expectations.

But then one show turned into another. And another. And suddenly, a week had passed, then two, and you had fallen into a rhythm that felt impossible to leave behind.

Cities changed, hotel rooms blurred together, flights stretched on endlessly—but none of it mattered. Because every night, the lights dimmed, the crowd roared, and she was there, bathed in neon glow, fingers weaving magic into guitar strings. And every time she turned her head mid-song, her eyes searched for you, always, always finding yours.

Backstage, she found you first. Always.

Her hands were on you before the door even clicked shut, dragging you into dressing rooms littered with half-empty water bottles, the scent of weed and sweat still lingering in the air. Her lips ghosted over yours in stolen moments between encore and afterparty, between exhaustion and adrenaline.

"Mine," she would murmur against your lips, against your pulse, against the curve of your shoulder as she pressed impossibly close. “You’re all mine.”

And for the first time, she wasn’t saying it for anyone but you.

Now, The remnants of last night’s party still lingered in your bones—loud music, flashing lights, the lingering taste of tequila and Ellie’s lips on yours in the middle of a crowded club.

The Fireflies had played to a sold-out arena in Seattle, the kind of show that left the whole city buzzing, and the celebration that followed had been nothing short of legendary. Shots had been poured without pause, bodies had swayed in the dim glow of neon, and Ellie had kept you close the entire night.

And now, neither of you really knew what time it is. The heavy hotel curtains swallowed the daylight whole, and your phones were lost somewhere in the mess of sheets and discarded clothes. It could’ve been minutes, or hours, or forever.

The room still smelled like the food you’d ordered earlier—warm, salty, comforting. You couldn’t even remember what it was now. The half-finished plates were still sitting on the room service tray by the door, forgotten the second Ellie had pulled you back into bed.

“Mm.” She hummed against your shoulder, voice thick with sleep. “This is so nice.”

You let out a breathy laugh, fingers combing idly through her messy hair. “Yeah, it really is.”

"Kinda wish the concert wasn’t happening so I could stay in bed with you."

She propped herself up on one elbow, tracing the curve of your jaw with her knuckles before leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss to your lips.

“You should stay longer.”

You sighed, heart sinking a little. “Ellie…”

She groaned, dramatically flopping onto her back like you’d just told her the worst news imaginable. “Don’t ‘Ellie’ me. You can stay a few more days. A week, even. No one’s gonna miss you THAT much.”

You shot her a look. “If I stay longer, Rachel will actually lose her mind.”

As if on cue, your phone buzzed against the nightstand. You barely had to glance at the screen before groaning.

"Speak of the devil."

Ellie, ever the menace, snatched the phone from your hands before you could stop her. "Oh my God, let me answer it."

"Ellie, no—"

Too late. She swiped to answer and put it on speaker.

"Rachiee! Sweetheart! Light of my life! How are you?" Ellie crooned, voice dripping with mock sweetness. "We miss you sooo much!"

Rachel’s voice came through the receiver, flat and entirely unimpressed. "Put her on the phone before I destroy both of your careers."

Ellie grinned, completely unbothered. "Wow. Not even a hello? Ruuude."

She finally handed you the phone, stretching lazily like she had all the time in the world.

You sighed, bringing the phone closer to your lips as you slipped into your best fake sweet voice. “Heyyyy, Rach!”

“Finally,” Rachel huffed. “Please tell me you haven’t gone completely feral and run off with your little guitarist girlfriend permanently.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s been, like, two weeks.”

"Exactly! Two weeks! That’s forever in popstar time! Do you even remember what a red carpet looks like? What a concert is? Or have you fully transitioned into rockstar mode? Should I start booking tattoo and piercing appointments for you?"

Ellie, listening in, perked up and wiggled her eyebrows. "Ooh, now that’s an idea."

Rachel ignored her entirely. “When are you coming back? Be honest. I need to mentally prepare myself.”

You hesitated, glancing at Ellie, who was watching you with a small, hopeful smile. "I don’t know. A few more days? I still have some time before—"

"You said that last week," Rachel cut in. "I swear to God, if you ghost me again—"

"I wouldn’t ghost you," you protested. "I’d just… delay."

Rachel groaned, audibly restraining herself. "Okay, look. I’ll give you five more days. Five. That’s almost another week. Then I’m calling in reinforcements."

You narrowed your eyes. “What does that mean?”

"It means that if you’re not on a flight back by Sunday, I’m personally calling your publicist and scheduling you for back-to-back interviews until your vocal cords give out."

You gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.”

Ellie, who had been listening with great amusement, turned to you with a smirk. "Damn. Blackmail? That’s cold. Even for you, 'Chel."

Rachel sighed, clearly so done with both of you. "I’m hanging up now. Enjoy your little love tour. Don’t forget you have an actual career. Oh, and send kisses to Dina and Jesse! Bye-bye."

The call ended with a beep. You tossed your phone onto the bed with a groan, burying your face in a pillow. 

"Ughhh, she’s the worst."

“She’s the best,” Ellie corrected. “But also, screw her. Stay longer.”

You rolled onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow. “You know I can’t. I’ve got promo, interviews, studio time—”

Ellie made an exaggerated gagging noise. “Ugh. Responsibility.”

“Yes, responsibility,” you teased, poking her side. “Not all of us get to run around the world playing shows and partying every night.”

Ellie scoffed. “Excuse you, we do very important work. Rock is a cultural movement.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Dina literally got so drunk two nights ago that she thought the hotel hallway was the stage and started doing an impromptu performance for the vending machine.”

Ellie snorted, fingers absentmindedly tracing lazy patterns on your bare back. “Okay, fair. But my point still stands.”

You sighed dramatically, dragging your fingers through her messy hair. “I wish I could stay forever, Els, but I can’t. Real life calls.”

Ellie made a low, disapproving noise and tightened her arms around you, pressing you flush against her. “Fine. But I’m gonna sulk about it.”

“You always sulk,” you pointed out, lips curving as you kissed her collarbone softly.

“Yeah, but now I have a reason.” Her voice dropped, husky and teasing, as she reached up and tilted your chin with two fingers. 

Her thumb dragged lazily over your lower lip, eyes flicking between your mouth and your gaze before she kissed you—slow, deep, like she was trying to rewrite your entire schedule with just her lips.

And honestly? It was almost working.

A soft, pleased sound slipped from your throat as she deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against yours in a way that made warmth pool low in your stomach. Your hands smoothed over her shoulders, nails grazing her skin just to hear the way her breath hitched against your lips.

You grinned and, without breaking the kiss, shifted to straddle her waist, rolling her onto her back in one smooth movement. Ellie let out a small, surprised noise but didn’t hesitate to settle beneath you, her hands sliding down your back, lingering before gripping your ass in a way that made you shiver.

“You’re trying to distract me.” she murmured, voice low, teasing. But you could feel how her fingers flexed against you, betraying the nonchalance in her tone.

You hummed, dragging your lips along the sharp line of her jaw, letting your teeth scrape just enough to make her exhale sharply through her nose. Then you kissed down the column of her throat, warm and wet and slow, biting down lightly at the spot just beneath her pulse point.

"Is it working?" you whispered sultrily against her skin before rolling your hips down against hers—slow and completely on purpose.

A sharp inhale. A low groan. Ellie’s hands gripped your ass tighter, fingers flexing like she was debating whether to pull you closer or pin you in place.

“Fucking hell,” she muttered, voice rough, head tilting back slightly as your mouth dragged even lower. “If this is your idea of distraction, then—”

And then.

It happened.

The door. The godforsaken door.

It slammed open so hard it bounced off the wall, and before you could even process what was happening—

“WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FU—”

Ellie jolted so violently she nearly kneed you in the stomach, hands gripping your waist like she was about to physically take you down with her in some tragic last-ditch effort to escape. Unfortunately, gravity had other plans.

In her desperate attempt to react—poorly, at that—she twisted awkwardly, sending both of you toppling off the bed in a tangle of limbs, sheets, and very bad decision-making skills.

You hit the floor with a thud, sprawled half on top of Ellie, dazed and breathless.

Not your most dignified moment.

Jesse stood in the doorway, made a strangled choking noise, and immediately shielded his eyes like he had witnessed a murder. Dina was right behind him, one foot in the room before she sensed the absolute depravity she had just walked into—and immediately spun to face the wall like she was repenting for her sins.

“Oh my fucking GOD.” Dina gasped so dramatically she sounded like she was about to faint.

“ARE YOU BOTH SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!” Jesse practically howled, clutching his head like he had just suffered irreversible psychic damage. “DO YOU KNOW HOW TRAUMATIZING THIS IS FOR ME? I CAN NEVER UNSEE THIS. EVER.”

Ellie, still flat on her back beneath you, scrambled for the sheets like a soldier diving for cover, yanking them over both of you in a half-assed attempt at modesty. You, frozen in pure horror, tried to adjust the fabric but quickly realized Ellie had essentially burritoed you into it in her blind panic.

“Ellie, let GO!” you hissed, fumbling for a better grip.

“I AM covering you!” she shot back, hands tightening protectively around the fabric. “Mostly!”

Dina, still very much facing the wall like she was in a confessional booth, smacked Jesse’s arm violently. “I told you to knock! But noooo, you just had to be all bro-y about it—”

Meanwhile, you and Ellie were still locked in a silent but intense tug-of-war with the sheets

"I DIDN’T THINK I’D HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT NUDITY AT NOON ON A WEDNESDAY!" Jesse shrieked. "I THOUGHT WE WERE GETTING READY FOR SOUND CHECK."

Ellie, wild-eyed and defensive, shot back, “WELL, WE HAD OTHER PLANS, JESSE.”

“YEAH, NO SHIT.”

Jesse, still covering his face, took a cautious step backward. “I swear to God, if I ever—EVER—walk into something like this again, I’m deleting both of your numbers. I’ll pretend I never met you. I’ll move to another state.”

“You literally didn’t even see anything!” Ellie argued, still clutching the poor, wrinkled sheets against her chest like a scandalized Victorian widow.

“I SAW ENOUGH.” Jesse wheezed, voice cracking under the weight of his trauma.

Dina, still facing the wall, inhaled sharply through her nose. “Both of you. Clothes. Now.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow, stubbornly holding onto the sheets. “You’re both still in the room.”

“BECAUSE YOU HAVEN’T LET US LEAVE.”

“No one’s stopping you!” you pointed out, voice still slightly breathless from the absolute whirlwind of events.

Dina turned, grabbed Jesse by the sleeve like an annoyed babysitter, and yanked him toward the door. “We’re leaving. Right now.”

“Gladly.”

With one last, suffering groan, Jesse practically launched himself out of the room. Dina followed, but not before pausing in the doorway to shoot you both one last, deeply exasperated glare—like she was seriously reconsidering all of her life choices up until this exact moment.

Then, just as the door was swinging shut behind them—

THUD.

A loud, resounding bang as Jesse, in his blind panic to escape, ran face-first into the hallway wall.

A muffled curse. A few seconds of silence. Then hurried footsteps as they both disappeared down the hall.

The room was finally, blessedly quiet.

Ellie exhaled slowly, running a hand down her face before turning to you with an infuriating smirk.

“So, uh…” She nudged your thigh under the sheets, eyes glinting with amusement. "Guess we should… actually get dressed before the show."

Backstage hums like it’s wired to a live wire—techs zigzagging across the floor, lights blinking, last-minute mic checks echoing off the walls. Someone’s blasting the opener’s tracklist through a crackling monitor, but it’s all background noise. Your eyes are locked on Ellie.

She’s perched on a flight case, guitar slung across her chest, head down as she tunes with the kind of focus that could bend time. Calm. Steady. Jesse lounges nearby, casually spinning a drumstick between his fingers while Dina's aggressively fiddling with his in-ear like it personally betrayed her.

When you walk in, all three of them look up like they just saw a ghost—and unfortunately, they have receipts.

“Well, well,” Jesse says, eyes narrowing. “Survivor number two has entered the building.”

Dina doesn’t even blink. “Jesus. I thought I was past it. But nope. Flashbacks."

“You barged in!” you protest, cheeks already on fire.

“You didn’t lock the door!” Jesse counters.

“We did!”

“It clicked. That’s not locked.”

“Also, we thought you were sleeping,” Dina adds. “We didn’t expect National Geographic: Homoerotic Edition.”

Ellie groans, dropping her pick and muttering, “Y'all are insufferable.”

You cover your face. “I hate you both of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Jesse says. “You love us. Just maybe not as much as you love straddling our frontwoman while the blinds are open.”

“Yep. Blinds OPEN. Some poor guy on the third floor probably thought HBO was filming a new season of Euphoria.”

Ellie laughs under her breath, shaking her head as you shuffle towards her, mortified. She meets you halfway, her fingers brushing yours for just a second—quiet, grounding.

“They’ll get bored eventually,” she murmurs.

“Will we?” Jesse calls.

“Absolutely not,” Dina answers instantly. “I’ve already started the group chat. Title: Naked & Afraid: Ellie and Y/N Edition. First meme drops at midnight.”

You groan. “I’m leaving.”

“No, you’re not,” Ellie says, bumping her hip against yours. “You like it too much.”

Someone yells five minutes from down the hall, and just like that, the air shifts. The jokes fade into muscle memory.

Jesse rises, spinning his sticks once before tucking them into his waistband. Dina slings her bass over his shoulder, jaw tightening as she gets in the zone. Ellie adjusts her strap and rolls her shoulders back, her whole body going still in that focused, ready way she always does before a show.

You step in front of her, ignoring the flutter in your chest. There’s a stray curl falling over her forehead, and you push it back gently, letting your fingers linger. She leans into the touch like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered.

“Kill it out there, love” you whisper.

She gives you that and stupidly hot half-smile that does unspeakable things to your heart. “For you? Always.”

Then she turns—and walks straight into the flood of stage lights, swallowed by the roar of thousands screaming her name.

The concert unfolds in a blur of sound and color, but Ellie... Ellie is impossible to blur.

She commands the stage like she was born beneath those lights—like the spotlight is her natural habitat, and the rest of the world just orbits her. The crowd knows it. Feeds off it. They scream for her until their vocal chords give out, hands lifted like reaching for something divine, faces lit up with the kind of awe you don’t fake.

Gold and crimson lights pour down from above, painting her in fire as her voice cuts through the air—sharp, aching, alive.

You’ve seen her play before. From the front row, from the wings, from the back of dim green rooms watching through grainy monitors. But somehow, it always feels like the first time. Like something’s knocking the wind out of you and you can’t stop chasing the feeling.

Because watching Ellie on stage is like falling in love in real time. Over and over again. Like your heart’s being rewritten to the rhythm of her guitar.

Behind her, Jesse is all swagger and muscle memory, pounding rhythm into the floor with a grin like he knows he’s killing it. Dina moves with that quiet, lethal grace—cool, controlled, grounding them all like gravity in a black tank top and boots. They’re tight, messy, magnetic. They’ve done this a thousand times, but tonight, they’re alive in a different way. Lit up from the inside.

And Ellie—she’s the center of it all. The fuse. The flame.

And even with thousands of voices calling for her, she still finds you.

Over and over, her gaze drifts sideways—to the shadows where you stand. A glance. A smirk. A lyric delivered softer than the rest, like a note passed under the table. Like a secret. Like a dare.

Then, between songs, just as the crowd’s scream builds like thunder, she edges closer to your side of the stage. Not enough to draw attention—just enough that only you can see the mischief in her eyes. That familiar, infuriating, heart-shattering little grin.

She leans in slightly, eyes locked on yours, and mouths it like a sin:

“You’re the only one I’m singing to.”

And you feel it—low in your stomach, high in your throat, blooming warm across your chest. Like she’s kissing you without ever touching you. Like she’s pulling you under with a single look.

She holds your gaze a second longer—just long enough to ruin you—then turns back to the mic, her voice crashing into the next lyric like she never stopped.

But you’re still standing there, heart pounding like a kick drum, skin buzzing with everything unsaid.

And you'd fall for her a thousand more times just to feel this again.

The moment your car pulls up to the club, you feel it—that wild, charged buzz in the air. It’s the afterparty, pulsing with leftover adrenaline from the show, and the second you step out, it’s like a spotlight snaps on. The crowd turns, eyes finding you instantly, tracking you like heat-seeking missiles.

Seattle’s nightlife is alive around you, neon lights cutting through the misty darkness, reflecting off the slick pavement like broken glass. The city hums, thick with movement, sound, heat. The bass from inside the club thrums through the walls, a deep, pounding heartbeat that seeps into your skin. 

But it’s nothing compared to the frenzy waiting outside.

Jesse steps out first, rolling his shoulders before throwing an arm around Dina’s shoulders. The second they hit the pavement, the flashes start. A rapid-fire onslaught of white light, camera shutters clicking in sync with the shouts already building.

Ellie exhales sharply, jaw tight, fingers twitching at her side. She’s used to this—so are you—but that doesn’t mean you like it.

“Y/N! Over here!” ““Ellie, is it hard performing love songs with your girlfriend in the front row?” “Y/N did she sing every song just for you or what?” “Huge night for both of you—what’s next for music’s golden couple?”

Her hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight, grounding herself in you.

And then—

“Ellie! You cool with dating someone who buys their awards?”

The words slice through the chaos like a blade.

The crowd keeps moving, the cameras keep flashing, but to you, everything goes still.

Ellie falters mid-step.

It’s small—so small that no one else would notice—but you feel it. The way her grip tightens. The way her muscles go rigid beside you.

She turns her head slowly, a deliberate, calculated motion. The kind of slow that sets alarms ringing in your head. The kind that means whoever just spoke? They just fucked up.

Ellie’s voice is low, but somehow still cuts clean through the noise. “The fuck did you just say?”

The paparazzi doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t back down. If anything, his smirk widens, like he’s enjoying this. Like this is sport. He shifts his camera, leveling his gaze at you like you’re an exhibit on display.

“Just saying, must be nice, huh? All that talent in the world, and yet—" He tilts his head, voice dripping with false sympathy. "Guess it helps when the game’s already rigged in your favor.”

Your stomach knots, but you don’t flinch. You’ve been in this industry long enough to give him what he wants—too good at swallowing the burn and keeping a straight face through it.

Ellie, though?

Ellie doesn’t give a fuck about playing nice.

“You wanna say that again?” Her voice is louder now, razor-sharp, dangerous.

Jesse mutters, “Oh, fuck,” and shifts closer. Dina watches, eyes flicking between you and Ellie, lips pressed into a tight line.

But the guy isn’t done. He shrugs, feigning innocence. 

“No disrespect, I just call it like I see it. Cute little popstar, riding high on all those industry favors. And hey, gotta give her credit—" his smirk deepens, cruel and cutting, "—she knows how to sell it. Flash a little skin, make the right people happy, and suddenly, she’s the biggest thing in the world.”

That’s when Ellie moves.

One second, she’s beside you. The next, she’s lunging.

Jesse barely catches her in time, his hands locking around her shoulders, yanking her back as she strains against him.

"You motherfucker!—" Ellie’s voice is a snarl, raw, venomous.

The pap flinches, just slightly, but he covers it with another smirk. “Damn, protective, huh?” He raises his camera. “Let’s get a shot of this. ‘Ellie Williams Loses It Over Question About Y/N’s Career’—catchy, huh?”

Ellie lunges again, this time so violently that Jesse stumbles back.

“You better shut the fuck up before I smash that camera over your fucking head.”

You grab her arm, your voice urgent. “Ellie, he’s trying to get a rise out of you. Don't listen.”

But she doesn’t budge. Her chest rises and falls in harsh, uneven breaths, shoulders squared, body thrumming with tension.

“Jesus, relax. No need to get your panties in a twist, sweetheart.”

His voice drips with mock sympathy as his gaze drags disgustingly slow down your body.

“I get it, though. She’s got the look, right? That pretty little face, those tight outfits—” He whistles, low and slow. “No wonder she’s everybody’s favorite.”

The he sneers, eyes flicking over you with open malice.

“What a shame. All that effort to make you every guy’s wet dream, and you’d rather be some dyke’s lapdog.”

And that’s the last fucking straw.

“ELLIE!” your voice rips out of you, but it’s too late.

Ellie doesn’t pause. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t think.

Her fist connects with his face so fast, so clean, it barely looks real—until the sound hits. A brutal crack that slices through the chaos like a lightning strike.

The pap stumbles back with a choked grunt, hands flying to his face just as blood gushes between his fingers. He screams something garbled—half words, all rage—but Ellie’s already stepping forward, eyes blazing.

Jesse lunges forward, shoving Ellie back as the guy staggers, his fury bleeding through his shock. “You crazy fucking bitch!”

“You talk like anyone gives a fuck what you think,” she growls, her voice low and ragged, somehow cutting clean through the shouting, the flashes, the chaos. “You’re just a fucking pussy with a camera and a hard-on for women way out of your league.”

Security’s shouting now. Dina’s beside you, tense, pulling at your arm. Jesse’s got both hands on Ellie, holding her back as she surges forward again.

“Go write your shitty headline,” she growls. “And make sure you put in big bold letters that a dyke broke your fucking nose for talking shit about her girl.”

The pap takes a staggering step back, visibly shaken now—rage giving way to fear.

Dina grips your arm tighter, pulling you. “We need to go. Now.”

More cameras are snapping, more voices yelling. Security starts moving in, the club’s bouncers stepping forward to break things up.

You reach out, grabbing Ellie’s hand. Her skin is hot, trembling. You squeeze. “Ellie,” you whisper, urgent, steady. “Come on. Let's go.”

For a second, she doesn’t move.

And then her eyes meet yours—something in her expression cracking, softening just enough—and she exhales like it’s the first breath she’s taken since she swung.

She nods, lets you pull her away.

Inside, the club is dark and loud, bass shaking the walls, lights slicing through bodies in flashes of color. It should feel overwhelming—but next to the chaos outside, it feels like sanctuary.

Ellie doesn’t let go of your hand.

Not for a second.

Dina exhales, shaking off the tension. “Jesus, Williams. You wanna take it down a notch?”

“Take it down a notch?” she huffs, still flexing her fingers like she’s trying to shake out the ghost of impact. “He’s lucky I didn’t fucking kill him.”

Your grip tightens around her hand, tugging her close as you move through the crowd. She’s still wound tight, shoulders stiff, adrenaline thrumming through her.

You lean in, voice low against her ear. "Ellie, what the hell was that?"

She snorts, but the tension in her jaw doesn’t ease. "What? He was a piece of shit."

"Yeah, he was. And that last thing? He fucking had it coming." You exhale, shaking your head. "But you punched a pap, Els. This is gonna be everywhere by morning.”

Ellie tilts her head, lips curling at the edges. "You think I care?"

You glance at her knuckles, still faintly red, and sigh. "I think you’re impossible."

Ellie grins, sharp, wicked. "Nah, if I was really trying, I’d be in cuffs right now." Then, after a beat, she smirks. "And not the fun kind."

Despite yourself, you huff a laugh.

Ellie watches you for a moment, something shifting in her expression. Then, quieter, she mutters, “You know all he said was bullshit, right?”

Your breath catches.

Because, of course, you know that. You’ve heard worse. You’ve been in this game long enough to have every insult thrown at you from every angle. 

But hearing Ellie say it—hearing the fire still lingering in her voice, the protectiveness laced beneath her irritation—makes something warm curl in your chest.

You nod. “I know.”

She watches you closely, eyes scanning your face like she’s searching for something—any flicker of doubt, any sign that the words got to you. And if she finds even a hint of it, you know she’ll march right back out there and finish what she started.

So you reach up, fingers grazing her jaw, tracing along the sharp line of it, your touch gentle enough to soften the tension still coiled in her muscles. 

“Still, you didn’t have to do all that.”

Ellie exhales sharply, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Are you serious right now?” Her voice is low, incredulous. “You think I was just gonna stand there and let that piece of shit talk about you like that?”

You sigh, dragging a hand through your hair. “No, but Ellie—now the headlines are gonna be all about this. Not about the concert, not about us. Just about you throwing a punch.”

Ellie scoffs, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, still crackling with leftover adrenaline. “Good. Let ‘em talk. Maybe next time they’ll think twice before running their fucking mouths.”

You groan, rubbing your temple. “You are actually insane.”

She shrugs, entirely unbothered. “Takes one to love one.”

You shoot her a look, but there’s no real bite behind it. Just exasperation… and something else. Something warmer. Deeper.

“Yeah. You’re lucky I love you.”

Her grin softens, just slightly. That fire in her eyes doesn’t go anywhere, but there’s something gentler flickering underneath now—something only you get to see. Her hands slide down to your waist, fingertips pressing into your sides just tight enough to make your breath catch.

Her voice dips to a low, dangerous murmur, her lips brushing your ear like a secret she only wants you to hear.

“No one gets to talk about you like that. Not to your face, and sure as hell not behind it. Not while i'm breathing.”

You swallow, the words sending a bolt of heat straight to your core.

You should probably be embarrassed by how instantly and shamelessly turned on that made you.

Instead, you blink up at her, pulse rabbiting. “Is that so?”

She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and there’s something in her expression—protective, defiant, maybe even a little wild.

“I don’t care who’s watching. I don’t care what they write. You’re mine. That’s the only headline I give a shit about.”

Your stomach flips, heat curling deep and low. Your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “You got a problem with being this obsessed?”

She tilts her head, smirking. “Not if you don’t.”

You pretend to think, tapping a finger against your chin. “Mmm… no, actually, I think I love it.”

Ellie huffs a laugh, brushing her nose against yours, eyes bright with something fierce. “Good. Because if something like that happens again?” Her grip tightens, her voice dropping to a gravelly promise. “I won’t stop at just one punch.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “You’re gonna get us both banned from every club in the country.”

Ellie grins wider, leans in like she’s about to kiss you, then whispers, “Worth it.”

And somehow, despite the chaos, the cameras, and the aching pull of everything else—you believe her.

The bass is still pulsing through the floor by the time you, Ellie, Dina, and Jesse regroup at the back of the club, far from the neon-lit drama near the entrance. Whatever happened with that asshole earlier is already fading into something distant, something half-laughed about under the thrum of low lighting and too many drinks.

You sink into the cracked leather booth, a drink in your hand that you definitely didn’t order, but Jesse shoved it toward you with a knowing smirk, so you drink it anyway. The ice clinks as you lean back, legs draped over Ellie’s lap. She doesn’t complain—just slides her hand over your thigh, casual, possessive, warm.

Dina’s laughing at something Jesse said, her curls wild under the strobe lights, eyes glassy from champagne and whatever she bummed off a stranger in the VIP section. “I swear to God, one of those paparazzi looked like he was about to cry when Ellie went full rage-mode.”

“His lens was shaking,” Jesse adds, holding his hands up like he’s gripping a camera. He mimics the tremble dramatically, then makes a wet, exaggerated sob. “She’s so scary.”

Ellie takes a slow drag from the blunt, eyes half-lidded, then exhales a thin stream of smoke towards the ceiling, like she’s bored with the entire planet. “Good. Maybe next time they’ll think twice before running their mouths for clicks like the desperate little bitches they are.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. There’s a glow in her, something loose and dangerous, but it’s not sharp like it sometimes is—it’s smooth, easy, like a song settling into the perfect rhythm. Her thumb moves in slow, lazy circles against your thigh, almost absentminded, like you’re her anchor. Like she needs the contact.

She’s watching you again.

She does that a lot. You’d noticed it before, but lately, it’s been different. Less teasing, more intent.

Like she’s trying to hold on to something that might slip through her fingers if she blinks.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you say, trying to keep your tone dry.

“Like what?” she murmurs, head tilting, that smirk already tugging at her mouth.

“Like you’re trying to decide if you want to kiss me or eat me alive.”

Ellie grins, leaning in, her breath warm against your skin. “Why choose?”

Jesse snorts beside you, slinging an arm over your shoulders, shaking you playfully. “Oh my God, you two are giving me PTSD about today’s incident. Can we please do something else before someone starts dry-humping on the furniture?”

You roll your eyes, a smile pulling at your lips, and reach for your drink. The last sip burns as you swallow it down, warmth spreading through your chest.

And that’s when you see it.

The small, discreet bag between Ellie’s fingers.

It’s quick. Effortless. No theatrics, no hesitation—just an easy flick of her wrist, tapping a neat, familiar line onto the back of her hand before lifting it to her nose. A sharp, practiced inhale. Blink, exhale. Done.

Dina follows suit, just as fluid. Jesse, already smirking, dips his pinky into the powder, rubbing it against his gums before tipping his head back with a satisfied hum.

It happens in seconds. Like breathing.

Ellie barely reacts, barely changes—just lets it settle into her system with an easy stretch of her neck, fingers drumming lazily on the table. Then she turns to you, smirking like nothing happened.

“You want some?”

You freeze for half a second.

It’s so casual. So normal. They’re not sneaking around, not whispering about it in some dimly lit back room. They’re doing it here, in the open, in a VIP booth where anyone with eyes could see.

And no one cares.

You glance between them, heartbeat ticking up. Jesse and Dina are already moving on, Jesse stretching like he just cracked his back, Dina stirring her drink. Ellie just watches you, waiting, tapping the blunt against the edge of the ashtray.

The whole thing is so… easy.

Your stomach tugs.

You shake your head. “I’m good.”

Dina grins, bumping her knee against yours. “You sure? Might take the edge off.”

You scoff, shifting back against the booth. “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

They laugh like it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard all night, like you just made a joke.

Maybe, to them, you did.

Jesse raises a brow, looking you over. “Wait, hold on.” He squints. “You really don’t do anything?”

You frown. “I drink. I smoke."

“Barely.”

Ellie tilts her head, amusement tugging at her mouth. “Love.” She gestures vaguely between them, between Jesse rubbing his gums and Dina fixing her lip gloss. “You really never noticed?”

You blink. “Noticed?”

Ellie exhales a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You never even thought about it?”

Jesse huffs. “Come on. Like we’re that subtle.”

Dina hums, sipping her drink. “I mean, think about it. Late nights, early flights, rehearsals, shows, interviews, afterparties—it’s a lot. You kinda have to even the playing field, y’know?”

Jesse gestures between the three of them. “It’s not even a thing. It’s just… part of it.”

Ellie shrugs, flicking ash from her blunt. “Part of the job.”

You stare at them.

You know this kind of thing happens. You’ve heard the stories, seen the headlines.

But it’s different when it’s right in front of you.

When it’s Ellie.

She’s watching you now, eyes a little sharper, movements a little looser. Reading you.

And you’re trying to read her back.

You let out a slow breath. “I just never... thought about it, I guess.”

Ellie leans forward, chin resting on her hand, smirking. “You’ve been in this industry for how long, and you never noticed?”

Jesse snorts, shaking his head. “Better question—how the hell have you never tried it?”

You blink. “I just… haven’t.”

Dina gives you a look like you just told her you’ve never had coffee before. “Not even once?”

Jesse whistles low, shaking his head. “That’s crazy.”

Ellie raises a brow. “Babe. Every celebrity does it.”

You roll your eyes. “Not every celebrity.”

Jesse holds up his hands, ticking off on his fingers. “Actors, musicians, models, producers—every single one.”

Dina leans in. “You’d be surprised. The clean-cut ones? The ones with all the brand deals and wholesome PR campaigns? Yeah. Especially them.”

Ellie smirks, exhaling smoke. “You think the people pulling sixteen-hour shoots and touring for months straight are just running on coffee and vibes?”

Dina swirls the ice in her glass. “Not saying you have to, but… if you’re really gonna be in this world, you should probably at least not be surprised about it.”

You exhale, pressing your tongue against the inside of your cheek.

They’re not pressuring you.

But they’re looking at you like you’re the weird one here. Like you’re missing something.

You let out a slow breath. “I guess I just figured…” You trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence.

Ellie tilts her head. “Figured what?”

You swallow. “That you guys didn’t—” You shake your head. “I don’t know. That you didn’t need to.”

Dina gives a soft, almost pitying smile. “It’s not about need.”

Jesse gestures vaguely. “It’s just what it is.”

Ellie watches you for a second longer, then reaches for your hand. Her fingers trace slow, lazy circles against your thigh.

"Look," she says, voice quieter now, just for you. "If this bothers you, I—"

"I didn’t say that." You squeeze her fingers before she can finish, grounding her right back. "I just… wanted to know."

Ellie tilts her head, searching your expression, reading you the way she always does. You can see the wheels turning in her head, trying to figure out where you're going with this.

After a moment, she exhales through her nose and smirks, though there’s something softer underneath it. "Babe, it’s not a big deal. I promise."

You hesitate, glancing between her and the others. Jesse and Dina are talking between themselves now, already moving on like this is the most normal thing in the world. And maybe, to them, it is.

Ellie squeezes your hand, bringing you back to her. "It’s just casual. I mean, fuck, it’s not like we’re doing lines off the bathroom floor or some shit." She grins, trying to ease the moment, but there’s a carefulness to the way she’s looking at you.

You exhale through your nose, tilting your head. "So, what? You just do it… sometimes?"

Ellie shrugs, leaning back against the booth. "Yeah. When it fits. Long nights, afterparties, when there’s, like, a million things happening and I don’t wanna feel like a corpse the next morning."

You press your lips together. "And it never…" You trail off, not really sure how to finish that.

Ellie’s smile falters slightly, just for a second, before she shakes her head. "It never what?"

You hesitate, but then—fuck it. "...Gets out of hand?"

Ellie’s brows lift slightly, like she wasn’t expecting you to go there. Then she snorts, shaking her head. "Jesus, babe. No."

"You sure?"

Ellie leans in, eyes flicking between yours. "I swear." She taps her fingers against your thigh, deliberate, measured. "This isn’t some cautionary tale. I’m not about to spiral and throw my career away."

She smirks, but it’s small, almost like she’s testing to see if you’ll smile back. "I know what I’m doing."

You watch her for a second, taking in the way she holds herself—calm, easy, unbothered.

It’s not like she’s high out of her mind.

She’s still Ellie.

The same one you love.

But still…

"I just never thought you…" You shake your head. "I don’t know. Needed it."

Ellie tugs at your fingers. "I don’t need it. It’s not like that."

"But you do it."

Ellie lifts a brow, a teasing lilt creeping into her voice. "And you drink. Same shit, different form."

You roll your eyes. "Not the same."

Ellie shrugs, smirking. "Depends who you ask."

Before you can argue, Jesse leans in, elbows on the table, like he’s just caught the tail end of something interesting. "What, is she giving you the responsible popstar speech?"

Ellie grins, nudging your knee. "Trying to."

Dina hums, sipping her drink. "Classic. Like when someone tries to pretend they’re above caffeine until they pull their third all-nighter and suddenly they’re double-fisting espresso shots."

Jesse snickers. "Or like when someone says they’re not a smoker, but you catch them bumming cigarettes when they’re drunk."

Dina points at him. "Exactly."

Ellie turns back to you, smirk still in place. "It’s not some dramatic, life-ruining thing, love. It’s just a thing."

You hold her gaze, searching for something—some flicker of doubt, some hesitation.

There isn’t any.

She believes what she’s saying.

And maybe she’s right.

Maybe you’re just making this into something it isn’t.

Maybe it really is just part of the world you’re both in.

A part you never noticed before.

A part you’ll have to get used to.

You exhale, slow, measured, and give Ellie’s fingers one last squeeze before pulling back.

"Alright."

Ellie watches you for a second longer, then nods, satisfied. "Alright."

And just like that, it’s done. No tension, no fight. Just a question asked and an answer given. A conversation tucked away, filed under things that don’t need to be thought about too hard.

Just another unspoken rule of the world you’ve found yourself in—the world of flashing cameras and private booths, of long nights and endless afterparties, of things done in the quiet corners where no one is really looking. It’s not a scandal, not a secret, not something to sound the alarms over. It’s just a thing. A thing that happens, a thing that exists. A thing you tell yourself doesn’t change anything.

Because Ellie is still Ellie. And you are still you.

And yet—something lingers. A feeling you can’t quite shake, something threading itself between the words left unsaid. Like a song playing in the background, too quiet to fully catch, but impossible to ignore.

Because if it were really nothing, if it were really just a thing, then why does the room feel different now? Why does the space between you seem stretched just a little thinner, pulled a little tighter? Like a thread has been tugged loose, unraveling something neither of you are ready to acknowledge.

This world is big. Bigger than you ever imagined.

And maybe, just maybe, some things are easier to pretend not to see.

And for a second—just a second—you forget.

The flashing cameras. The too-loud whispers. The weight of something unsaid curling at the back of your mind, asking questions you don’t want to answer.

And the other thing—the thing that made your stomach flip earlier—

That?

You push it under the surface.

Bury it beneath the music, beneath the flashing lights, beneath the warmth of Ellie’s hands on your waist.

Because what’s the point in thinking about it?

They’re used to this. They’ve got it controlled. It’s not a big deal.

So you don’t think about it.

You don’t let it pull at the edges of your mind.

You just dance, you just drink, you just laugh, and you tell yourself that's enough.

The music pulses through your body, a bone-deep rhythm that makes it impossible to focus on anything except the moment. Or maybe that’s just the liquor. The shots Jesse kept handing you. The heat of the dance floor, the press of bodies, the slick feeling of how Ellie keeps you close, always touching: a hand ghosting your hip, her fingers brushing the nape of your neck, her mouth near your ear, murmuring things too filthy or too sweet to repeat.

There’s a hum in your veins—not quite sobriety, not quite drunk. Just a loose, liquid feeling, like you could float if you let yourself.

She spins you lazily at one point, grinning like a hopelessly in love idiot, and you crash back into her chest with a laugh, breathless and dizzy. You don’t even notice the phones pointed your way anymore.

Ellie’s mouth brushes against your ear. “You’re killing me in that dress,” she murmurs, voice just barely audible over the music.

You smirk, tilting your head back to expose your neck, teasing. “Good. I want it to be slow and dramatic. Maybe in the middle of one of your solos.”

Ellie laughs, warm and real, pressing a lingering kiss to the curve of your jaw. You feel her smirk against your skin.

Nearby, Jesse and Dina reappear, looking equally buzzed and glowing under the club lights. Jesse immediately slings an arm over your shoulders, shaking you slightly. “Alright, pop princess, you’ve been hogging our frontwoman all night. Let’s make some bad decisions.”

Ellie scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, like the ones you made on stage tonight?”

Jesse places a dramatic hand over his chest. “I was in the moment.”

“You almost fell off the drum riser,” Dina deadpans, sipping her drink.

“Almost,” Jesse corrects, pointing at her.

Dina just grins and flicks his ear.

The four of you dissolve into laughter—the kind that bubbles out of you too fast, too loud, soaked in tequila and something looser, softer. The kind that only happens after too much truth has already slipped out between kisses and choruses.

And then it hits you.

You grab Dina’s hand. “Come with me.”

She stumbles a little as you yank her through the crowd, weaving past bodies lit in flickers of purple and gold, right up to the DJ booth.

The DJ is tall, lanky, with bright blue hair that glows under the LEDs and round sunglasses that haven’t left his face all night, despite being, very obviously, inside.

“You got a request?” he asks, smirking.

You lean against the booth, grin lazy. “Play something off Louder Than Fate.”

He turns his head to eye you with practiced disinterest—until he really sees you. He freezes. His fingers go still on the mixer, eyes narrowing slightly. Then his jaw drops.

“No. Fucking. Way.”

You tilt your head, amused.

He points like he’s just put something together. “You’re Y/N.”

“In the flesh,” you say, leaning into the booth, smug and a little buzzed.

“And you came with The Fireflies?” His gaze darts past you, searching the crowd until he locks onto Ellie, who’s standing with a drink in hand, shirt sticking to her back, lip caught between her teeth like she already knows you’re up to something. Neon halos her hair. She looks like trouble in the kind of way that writes its own songs.

“Holy shit,” he mutters. Then, quickly, “Yo, I need a picture.”

You laugh. “Sure. You play my songs.”

His grin is instant. “That’s how it is?”

“Celebrity tax.”

He groans dramatically, already queuing up a track. “Y’all are savages.”

He leans in, voice conspiratorial. “Think she’d let me grab a photo too?”

You glance back at Ellie. Smirk.

“Keep the setlist good, and we’ll think about it.”

The DJ groans like he’s being tortured. “Y’all celebrities are ruthless.”

But the grin never leaves his face as the opening riff of I Bet That You Look Good on the Dancefloor (click to hear) slams through the speakers.

The reaction is nuclear.

The club erupts.

The energy flips like a switch—higher, wilder, like everyone in the room has been waiting all night for this exact song. Bodies surge toward the center, arms shoot up, and the lyrics are shouted before the first verse even hits.

Back in the crowd, Ellie’s head snaps up. She sees you at the booth and just grins, shaking her head like: You little shit.

Jesse lets out a roar, throwing both arms in the air like he’s in a mosh pit. Dina yanks you into a triumphant hug, both of you practically vibrating with joy, and then you’re sprinting back into the thick of it—into the chaos you caused.

“Wait!” the DJ calls after you. “Do I still get my picture?”

“Keep playing bangers and we’ll talk!” you shout, already disappearing into the storm of bodies.

The moment stretches, long and bright and loud.

You sprint back to the floor, twisting through the chaos until you find Ellie.

She’s already reaching for you.

Already pulling you in like gravity.

“Hijacking the DJ?” Ellie says as she pulls you into her chest, her voice low, a little slurred from the tequila, vibrating straight through your ribs.

You laugh, looping your arms around her neck, flushed and breathless from the rush of dancing and impulse and her. “Just wanted to hear something good.”

Ellie leans in, her breath hot against your ear, her words dipped in amusement. “You know I wrote this song about you, right?”

You blink, confused, and then let out a scoff of disbelief. “You did not.”

“I did. Swear on my favorite guitar.”

You pull back just enough to see her face. “You’re kidding.”

She raises an eyebrow, amused. “Come on. Think about it. ‘Stop making the eyes at me and I’ll stop making the eyes at you’? You don’t remember the night we met?”

Your stomach does a slow, stunned flip.

“You were at the bar, trying so hard not to look at me. Kept turning away like I wouldn’t notice you watching. And I remember just... freezing. You looked unreal. Like—fuck.” She exhales a laugh. “You were the hottest girl I’d ever seen in my life.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“You were drinking some radioactive shit—bright green, probably illegal in five countries.”

“Tequila with lime,” you say automatically, almost dazed.

“Right. And before I knew it—”

“We were outside,” you finish for her, voice soft.

Ellie nods. “Heading to my hotel.”

Outside the bar. On the sidewalk. Where she’d stopped you halfway through a flirty, messy laugh and kissed you so hard it rewired something in your brain.

“You were freezing in that little red dress,” she says, her voice dipping a little, remembering. “Arms all tight across your chest, shoulders hunched like you were trying to hold yourself together.”

You blink. “Wait—that’s why you gave me your jacket? I thought you were trying to be cool.”

“I was trying to be cool. But I was also trying to keep you from turning into a popsicle before we got to the room.” Ellie nods, smug. “That line? ‘Your shoulders are frozen’? It’s not metaphor. It’s literally what I said while trying not to stare at your tits.”

You laugh, hiding your face against her shoulder. “That was so long ago.”

“And I still think about it,” she murmurs, her voice quieter now, fingers trailing lazily along your spine.

You glance up at her, heart thudding a little too hard against your ribs. “You didn’t even like me back then.”

Ellie gives you a look. One that’s sharp and tender and a little too honest.

“Didn’t I?”

You open your mouth—but nothing comes out. Because you know better now. You know what was tucked into all those half-finished demos and unsent voice memos. You know what she never said out loud but always let slip in the bridge.

You remember the nights you’d crawl into each other’s hotel rooms, hearts too full, too afraid, too something—and the mornings after, where you both pretended it didn’t mean anything. Pretended it was casual. Temporary. Disposable. Fake.

And then you’d each go write another verse you’d never show the other.

“How many songs did you write about me?” you ask, softer now. Your voice is low, nearly drowned by the music and the crowd. “I only guessed For Your Love.”

Ellie smiles, slow and a little dangerous. “Half the album.”

You freeze.

“What?”

She shrugs, like it’s nothing. “R U Mine? was about you. Fell In love with a girl? So obviously about you. So was See You Soon. I wrote that after you ghosted me for a week and I convinced myself you didn’t feel the same. And I could go on and on”

You’re staring at her like she’s just confessed to a crime. “You never said anything.”

“You never asked.” She shrugs, but her voice is gentler now. “Besides, Jesse kept calling me pathetic. He made me write My Own Summer just to get it out of my system.”

“Did it work?”

Ellie snorts. “No. I literally started the song with "Hey you, big star".”

Before you can even think of something to say—something clever or biting or half-sarcastic like you used to—the beat drops out. The energy shifts.

The lights dim to a sultry haze of violet and gold. And then—

That synth. Your synth.

Smooth and slow, thick as honey, spilling through the room with the kind of deliberate seduction only a song that means something real can pull off.

You’re singing the lyrics under your breath before you can stop.

“I'm so into you... I can barely breathe…”

Into you.

The opening lines melt through the room like syrup, and the crowd responds instantly. Bodies turn. Sway. The mood shifts—less chaotic, more sensual. The lights dim down to a violet haze, and the bass settles into something you can feel in your ribs.

Ellie looks at you like she’s time-traveling. Like she’s hearing the lyrics for the first time and understanding what they meant all along. In the way someone does when they remember something visceral.

“And all I wanna do… is to fall in deep…”

She keeps watching you with that half-lidded stare—the one that used to drive you insane when you were pretending you didn’t want her. When she’d sit on your hotel bed, tuning her guitar in nothing but a sports bra and boxers, and ask you for feedback on a verse that was clearly about the way you moaned.

She leans in close, her mouth grazing the shell of your ear.

“You really let them play this one?”

You shake your head, voice tight. “I didn’t. DJ picked it. Guess he knew exactly what he was doing.”

Ellie scoffs softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Or maybe,” she murmurs, “you just get everything you want.”

Her hand slides down your spine, a warm line anchoring you to her in the middle of all the noise.

You take a breath. It doesn’t help.

You exhale. “You knew it was about you, right?”

She doesn’t even blink. “I knew before you finished writing it.”

“You wanna know the worst part?” you murmur, quieter now. “That wasn’t the first one.”

“I know.”

You blink at her. “You do?”

“Yeah.” Ellie’s fingers drag slowly up your bare arm, warm and deliberate.

“Shameless was the first one that tipped me off. Then Touch it. Don’t Blame Me wrecked me a little. But Southbound?” She gives you a pointed look. “That’s when I knew for sure. And that’s when I texted you.”

You groan instantly, burying your face in your hands. “Oh my god. Please don’t bring up Southbound—”

She laughs, eyes gleaming. “You wrote a song about going southbound on someone, and then included that track—our track—like it accidentally fell into the folder during mixing.”

You peek through your fingers. “It fit the concept…”

“It absolutely did not. Your whole album is pop ballads and moody synths, and then suddenly we get this dark, throbbing, sex-drenched detour with breathy vocals and moaning layered under the chorus.”

“I edited it—”

“You didn’t,” she cuts in. “That pitch analysis on TikTok? Mortifying. You even left in the part where you gasped my name and laughed after.”

“I thought it sounded natural!”

“It sounded like porn, babe.”

You groan again, louder this time. “I hate everything.”

“No you don’t.” She moves in closer, her voice dropping, teasing. “You love that it went viral. You love that people know how you sound when you—”

“Ellie.”

She smirks. “—sing, obviously. What else would I mean?”

You glare at her through the haze of embarrassment, but your heart is thudding too hard for it to land. Because underneath the jokes, the heat, the teasing… you know what she’s saying. You know what she heard in those lyrics, in that bridge, in the vocal layering you obsessed over at 3am because it needed to feel exactly like her hands on your skin.

You wanted her to notice. You always did.

Ellie tilts her head, studying you like she’s still discovering you, even after all this time.

“You wrote about me,” she says quietly. “Again and again.”

You nod. “Every time I saw you, I wrote another verse.”

She doesn’t speak for a moment. Just brushes her thumb over the inside of your wrist, like she’s reading you in braille.

Then, softly: “God, we're pathetic”

“No,” you say. “We’re artists.”

She snorts. “That’s even worse.”

You laugh, but it’s shaky. “Yeah. But at least the music’s good.”

She pulls you closer, presses her forehead to yours. You close your eyes.

And then she kisses you.

Right there in the middle of the dance floor, while your song plays in the background like a confession you’ve already made. Her lips are soft, sure, and full of every verse you didn’t dare share until now. And when you finally pull back, she’s smiling in that slow, crooked way that means she’s already plotting something.

“I’m gonna write another one about you,” she says, breath warm against your cheek.

You smirk. “Make it the horny kind. Those go platinum.”

Ellie laughs, rough and gorgeous. “Fine. But the bridge is gonna be disgusting.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

Then she kisses you again—harder this time—and the lights flicker violet across her skin, and this time you don’t think about the people watching.

You just think about her hands on your waist, your voice in the speakers, and the sound of your own heartbeat finally, finally syncing with hers.

The night is a blur of neon lights and bad decisions, smeared like lipstick across the face of the city. It stretches out in front of you like a fever dream—loud, sweaty, glitter-soaked chaos that you somehow keep surviving. The four of you are well past tipsy, teetering on the edge of blackout like it’s a competitive sport, and you're definitely winning.

Ellie hasn’t let go of you all night. She’s glued to your side like she’s afraid someone’s going to walk off with you. Hands constantly touching—your hip, your thigh, the inside of your wrist. Brushing your collarbone like it’s a secret. And her eyes? Locked on you like she’s trying to memorize your face for later, just in case the tequila wipes everything else clean.

Jesse is conducting what he refers to as a "scientific study," stacking coasters on Dina’s head while she argues with the bartender about whether or not he looks like Pedro Pascal. It gets to six before she slaps them all off with a growl and tries to shove one directly into Jesse’s mouth.

“You’re so fucking ANNOYING,” she huffs, palm in his face, shoving him back into the booth.

Jesse just grins, pleased with himself. “You love me.”

“You’re on thin fucking ice.”

At some point, the club starts closing down around you. Lights go up, music down, and suddenly everything looks a lot more chaotic under full illumination. You're all blinking into the brightness like newborns.

And then—because you're either brave or just phenomenally stupid—someone suggests walking back to the hotel. Probably you.

So you do.

Jesse insists on leading the way like he's your drunk, wobbly tour guide. “To our left,” he slurs, gesturing at a dented trash can, “A beautiful relic of modern civilization. Observe its curves. Its majesty.”

“Shut up,” Dina wheezes, clutching your arm, nearly bent over in laughter. “My stomach hurts.”

Ellie snickers beside you, steady despite the way she keeps tugging you closer, like you’re the thing keeping her upright. “Jesse, if you fall into that thing, I’m leaving you there.”

“You’re such a bad friend,” Jesse grumbles, immediately tripping over the curb like it heard him talking shit.

You nearly faceplant too, but Ellie’s there before you even tilt forward, wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you close with a smirk. “Careful, rockstar.”

You lean into her, cheek against her shoulder, grinning. “M’not a rockstar.”

She tilts her head like she’s genuinely thinking it over. “Right. Just the biggest popstar on the planet.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you mutter, rolling your eyes—but you’re smiling like a fool.

By the time you crash through the hotel lobby doors, you’re a full-blown public safety hazard. Dina’s ping-ponging between furniture like a malfunctioning Roomba, pausing only to yell, “I’m fine!” every time she careens off a decorative pillar.

Jesse’s found a captive audience in the night desk clerk and is passionately explaining how, if he “just had the right mentor,” he could absolutely become a professional stuntman—like, today. He even does a high kick for emphasis, nearly pulling something in the process.

Meanwhile, Ellie has given up entirely on decorum. The you both step in the elevator, she pins you to the mirrored wall with all the subtlety of a horny teenager in a bad coming-of-age film. Her hands sliding under your dress with the kind of urgency that suggests she’s forgotten other people exist entirely.

“You,” she breathes, voice rough and drunk and worshipful, “are so fucking pretty.”

"And you," You let out a soft laugh, tipping your head back. “are so fucking drunk.”

Ellie grins, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

You don’t even remember who kissed who—it’s just tequila and heat and breathless laughter, her lips tasting like whatever cocktail you last shared and her fingers curling into the fabric at your hips like she’ll die if she lets go.

Somewhere behind you, as the elevator doors start to close—

“DON’T FORGET TO HYDRATE AFTER ALL THE RAW, ANIMALISTIC SEX!” Jesse hollers, practically singing it like a PSA.

Dina nearly doubles over beside him, wheezing. “DESTROY HER, ELLIE! I WANNA HEAR THAT HEADBOARD FROM THE LOBBY!”

Ellie chokes on a laugh, flips them off with both hands this time, and buries her face in your neck. “I hate them,” she mutters, giggling uncontrollably. “I actually hate them.”

But her hands are sliding under your dress again.

“I think they’re rooting for us,” you breathe, grinning.

“Yeah, well…” she nips your jaw gently. “They’re not the ones about to get lucky.”

The elevator dings, and the two of you spill out into the hallway like a disaster in motion—tipsy, breathless, half-sober and wholly tangled. You’re giggling too hard to walk in a straight line, stumbling into the wall, then into Ellie, who nearly takes you both down with her.

“Key,” she mutters, smacking at the pockets of her leather jacket with the urgency of someone searching for buried treasure.

“You’re making this impossible,” she grumbles, squinting down at the card in her hand like it personally wronged her—because you’re behind her now, arms looped snug around her waist, lips brushing over the side of her neck in a slow tease.

“I believe in you,” you murmur solemnly, the kind of mock-serious declaration only achievable at this level of inebriation.

“That’s not helping!”

She finally gets the card to register on the third try—barely. The lock beeps with mercy, and Ellie stumbles into the room backwards, yanking you in with her by the lapels of your coat. You trip over each other’s feet in the dark, colliding into the bed in a clumsy sprawl of limbs and laughter.

You land in a heap—half on the mattress, half on each other—laughing so hard you can barely breathe, tangled up like it’s instinct, like the world has always ended this way: with Ellie’s arms around you, her face buried in your neck, and both of you drunk off more than just alcohol.

Ellie doesn’t bother sitting up—just pulls you down into her like gravity, lips already finding yours with a hunger that hits you like a wave. It’s messy and hot, teeth clashing, laughter spilling into breathless moans.

It tastes like tequila, your lip gloss and the kind of recklessness that only happens when you’re too far gone to pretend you’re not completely obsessed with each other.

The alcohol makes everything heavier—your limbs, your breath, the way her hands roam like they’ve been dying to for hours. She’s everywhere at once: sliding under your dress, up your back, into your hair.

“Fuck,” she mutters into your mouth, her voice low and rough. Her head tips back against the pillows, eyes flicking over you like she can’t believe you’re real. “Look at you.”

You laugh softly, pressing kisses to her neck, her jaw, the edge of her smile. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“I can’t,” she breathes, catching your face between her hands. “You’re drive me insane.”

You kiss her deeper this time—less playful, more desperate. You shift in her lap, your dress riding high on your thighs, and her hands slide up under the fabric like she owns you.

“Take this off,” she mutters, tugging clumsily at the hem.

“You first,” you whisper, tugging her shirt over her head. It sticks a little, and you both laugh trying to get it off, her hair a mess and her eyes glazed over with want. You reach for the zipper of your dress next, dragging it down slow, teasing.

Ellie groans when it slips off your shoulders, her gaze dark and locked on your chest like she’s never seen anything better. “Fuck me,” she says, almost reverent.

She pulls you close again and kisses down your throat, over your collarbone, her lips trailing fire in their wake. Then her mouth closes over your breast and you gasp, hips stuttering against her thigh, as she sucks—slow and filthy—teeth grazing just enough to make your breath hitch before her tongue soothes the mark.

But she doesn’t stop there.

Her mouth roams, leaving kiss after kiss, then deeper, darker sucks—her signature stamped into your skin. She bites, just hard enough to make you gasp, then kisses the spot better, her hands roaming freely over your body like she’s trying to memorize every inch. Hickeys bloom across your collarbones, your neck, the softest parts of your chest—every mark a reminder that she was there, that this happened.

One hand stays gripped tight on your ass, the other tangled in your hair, guiding you, holding you still like she doesn’t want to miss a second of watching you fall apart.

You curse under your breath, head falling back as her mouth drags lower again, her teeth grazing another spot just above your heart.

You gasp, clutching at her shoulders, her hair, anything you can reach. “Ellie—fuck, you’re gonna leave marks.”

“Good,” she growls against your skin. “Wanna see them tomorrow. Wanna know I did this.”

You grind down without meaning to, and she groans, mouth hot and possessive as it finds the other breast with the same hungry focus.

“You're so fucking hot,” she mumbles, lips brushing the edge of another bruise she just left. “I could do this all night.”

You're not even sure what you say in response—it's just a noise, half-whimper, half-laugh, your fingers threading through her hair, your body buzzing under every kiss, every bite, every mark she paints into your skin.

When she finally looks up at you again, her lips are wet, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes blown wide with nothing but want. “C'mere,” she says, voice wrecked.

Ellie shifts lower on the bed, settling between your thighs like she’s been there a hundred times and never got tired of it. Her palms press against the inside of your legs, coaxing them open with slow, steady pressure. She looks up at you from under her lashes—flushed, breathless, reverent.

Her voice is soft but rough with heat. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

You can’t answer. Your throat’s too tight, your heart’s pounding too hard. All you can do is nod, your fingers curled in the sheets, already trembling with anticipation.

She kisses the inside of your thigh first. Then again, a little higher. And again. Her mouth trails up until she’s exhaling warm against you, her breath ghosting over where you’re aching for her most. You twitch, and she smiles.

“Relax,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

And maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s her voice, but you melt into the mattress, pliant and aching, thighs trembling with anticipation.

When she finally leans in, her breath is warm against your skin, and you shudder. Then her tongue flicks out, just barely, a teasing stroke that makes your hips twitch. She hums at the reaction, hands tightening on your thighs.

She starts slow. Long, deliberate licks that make your head spin. Her tongue traces every inch of you like she’s mapping it to memory—each movement unhurried, deliberate. It’s not just about getting you off. It’s about making you feel every second of it.

It's the kind of touch that says I know you. The kind of touch that makes you feel known.

And then she does something that makes your breath catch completely.

You feel her tongue shift—patterned, careful—and realize she’s spelling something.

E. A slow upward curve, then back down and across.

L. Two smooth strokes, top to bottom, then across.

You gasp, hips bucking slightly, but she doesn’t let up. Doesn’t even flinch.

L. Slower this time, as if she’s enjoying the way your thighs tense around her shoulders, the way your hands fist in the sheets.

I. A single confident stroke. Clean. Sharp. Precise.

E. Again. A bit sloppier now, a little rushed, like even she’s getting impatient.

“Jesus,” you breathe, fingers threading into her hair like you’re trying to anchor yourself. “Did you just spell your fucking name?”

She pulls back for half a second—just enough to flash you a crooked grin, lips glistening, eyes dark. “Damn right I did.”

You let out a breathless laugh, somewhere between disbelief and arousal. “You’re such a showoff.”

“Yeah. Gotta make sure you remember it.”

You grip the sheets tighter. “Like I'll ever forget.”

Ellie just smirks and dives back in—deeper now, hungrier. She wraps her arms around your thighs and locks you in place like she has no intention of letting you go until you’ve completely unraveled.

Her mouth works you open with maddening precision—tongue circling, flicking, pressing in slow waves. She licks into you like she’s starving, like there’s nothing else in the world worth tasting. And when her lips wrap around you and she sucks, slow and deep, you swear you see stars.

You moan her name, not caring how loud it is. She groans in response, the vibration shooting through your whole body, making your back arch off the bed. You’re panting now, thighs trembling around her, heartbeat wild in your chest.

She hums again, smug and wrecked and totally in control. You feel her shift. One hand leaves your thigh and slides down, slow and steady. Her fingers trail through the mess she’s already made of you, slick and hot and ready.

Then one finger slips inside—deep, confident, curling just right.

You cry out, back arching, your whole body jolting with the shock of it. She doesn’t let up—her mouth still moving against you, tongue stroking in time with the rhythm of her fingers. It’s like she’s everywhere at once—her mouth, her hands, the weight of her body pinning you in place.

“Ellie,” you gasp, and it sounds wrecked, wild. “Fuck—”

“I’ve got you,” she says again, but this time it’s lower, darker, like a promise. “Let go, baby. Let me.”

She pushes in deeper, adds a second finger, the stretch making your eyes roll back. Her tongue never stops, her mouth working you with maddening, perfect precision. She moves slow and steady, curling her fingers just right, dragging them over that spot that makes your whole body lock up.

You’re shaking now, gasping, barely tethered to the world.

“You feel so fucking good,” Ellie breathes against you, voice reverent, ruined. “So wet f'me.”

She starts moving faster—mouth and fingers in perfect rhythm—sucking, licking, curling inside you like she knows exactly what you need before you can even ask for it.

The pressure builds and builds and then suddenly crests—hot, explosive, overwhelming. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, tearing the air from your lungs. You cry out her name, fingers clawing at her shoulders, your whole body locked in ecstasy.

She doesn’t stop right away—keeps helping you through it, slow and soothing now, like she’s savoring the way you fall apart for her. Like she’s proud of it. When she finally pulls back, her mouth is slick, her chin glistening as she cleans her fingers with her mouth, expression dazed and hungry and smug as hell.

She crawls back up over you and kisses your neck, your collarbone, your jaw.

You’re wrecked—body humming, chest rising and falling like you’ve run a marathon—but she still climbs up the bed like a woman on a mission, pulling you close, cradling your face in her hands like you’re the most precious thing she’s ever touched.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe, voice hoarse, your fingers tangled in her hair. “You’re...”

Ellie kisses you—deep and slow, tongue sliding against yours, letting you taste yourself on her mouth.

“I know,” she says smugly when she pulls back, brushing her thumb over your cheekbone. “I’m incredible.”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re so full of me.” She smirks, eyes gleaming with heat and mischief. “We’re both winning.”

You groan and drag her in for another kiss, already aching again and not even remotely ready for it to be over.

Ellie seems to feel the same way.

Because her hand’s already sliding back between your legs—gentler this time, just a soft, teasing brush of her fingers—and her voice drops to a whisper against your lips.

“Think you’ve got one more in you?”

You don’t even hesitate.

“For you?” You kiss her again, biting her lip just hard enough to make her growl. “Always.”

Ellie’s mouth is still hot on your skin when she pulls back, eyes burning as she looks down at you.

“Turn over,” she says, voice low and wrecked. Commanding.

You don’t hesitate. You roll onto your forearms and knees, heart pounding, skin flushed. The sheets are cool beneath you, but every inch of you feels overheated from the inside out.

You hear her moving behind you, the soft rustle of straps and leather and breath. When she runs a hand up your back—slow and firm—you arch instinctively, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

Ellie moves with purpose—hands rough as they roam over your ass, up your back, into your hair. Then her hands are back, gripping your waist so tight it borders on bruising.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. “Fucking perfect like this.”

You try to turn your head to look at her, but her hand slides up and wraps around your throat—firm, commanding, never cruel. She doesn’t squeeze, just holds you there, grounding you, controlling the space between anticipation and impact.

Your breath catches, a broken little sound tearing from your throat.

"Fuck," she groans, and you feel her lean in, her mouth dragging hot and slow along the back of your neck. "You make me lose my mind."

She snaps her hips forward, and even though you were bracing for it, the stretch still punches a sound out of you—deep and surprised and wild. Her free hand spreads over your lower back, keeping you steady, keeping you hers.

“Atta girl,” she breathes, voice frayed and thick with want. “Take it.”

You do. You take every inch, the air knocked from your lungs with every sharp thrust. It’s rough, almost feral, but there’s something reverent behind it—like she’s worshiping you with every motion, even if her grip is bruising and her rhythm relentless.

Your hands claw at the sheets, legs trembling, moaning into the mattress with every snap of her hips.

Then her hand tightens at your throat, just slightly, and your world narrows to her body, her heat, her voice in your ear—low and filthy and full of awe.

“Been wanting you to be mine for so long,” she pants. “Thinking about it every time you smiled at me like I didn’t wreck you the night before. Every time you said it was fake.”

You whimper, the words hitting harder than anything else. Your whole body tenses, overwhelmed, your head falling forward.

Ellie leans down, lips dragging along your shoulder as she slows just enough to make you feel it. “But you’re mine now. You know that, right?”

You nod, the motion barely there, desperate and delirious. “Yes.”

She groans—guttural and raw—and slaps your ass hard enough to make you jolt.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you cry out, wrecked and breathless. “I’m yours, Ellie.”

And then she thrusts deeper, slower, like the words wrecked her a little, like she’s not just fucking you now—she’s feeling you. Claiming you, not just with her body but with every part of her that’s ever been yours.

Her grip on your throat tightens just a little—not enough to scare, just enough to make you feel it. Her hips drive into you harder now, the bed rocking with the force of it, every thrust a sharp reminder of how much you want her, how much you need her.

The rhythm grows more frantic—sharp, breathless, urgent. Each thrust sends the headboard thudding against the wall in time with your gasps, a steady, relentless beat that fills the room along with the wet sound of skin against skin and the guttural way Ellie moans your name.

Your hands grip the sheets, the mattress, anything you can reach, but nothing grounds you like her. Nothing anchors you the way she does when one hand slips into your hair, tangling tight, and yanks you back with just enough force to make your breath catch.

She pulls you upright, flush against her chest, her mouth hot and open at your shoulder, your neck. The strap presses deeper inside you at the new angle, and your entire body shudders.

“Look at me,” she pants, voice ragged, forehead pressed to your temple. Her grip stays firm in your hair, holding you steady as her other hand slides possessively up your stomach, over your ribs, to cup your breast. “I want you to know exactly who’s fucking you.”

You can barely breathe, barely speak—but you nod, gasping as your body rocks against hers, every thrust dragging a helpless sound from your throat.

The headboard bangs louder now, the whole bed creaking beneath the force of it. But neither of you care. Ellie’s everywhere—her scent, her voice, the heat of her skin against your back, the way she’s buried so deep inside you it feels like she’s burned into your bones.

And even in all the chaos, the sweat and the noise and the wild, reckless pleasure of it, there’s something underneath it all—something tender. The way her lips find your shoulder in between every gasp. The way her voice breaks when she says your name like it’s the only word she knows.

Like loving you is the most dangerous, beautiful thing she’s ever done.

You’re falling apart—moaning, gasping, trying to stay upright as pleasure surges hot and overwhelming through your veins. Ellie’s cursing behind you, rhythm breaking, voice rough and wrecked and beautiful.

When it happens—when the second orgasm crashes over you like a wave—you scream her name, body convulsing, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs. And she keeps going through it, fucking you through every aftershock, like she can’t bear to let the moment go.

Eventually, you both collapse—your body limp and trembling, hers heavy against your back, breath ragged against your shoulder.

For a while, it’s just the sound of your breathing, tangled limbs, sweat-slick skin.

Then she turns your face gently to hers and kisses you—slow and deep and tender, like a promise. Like a confession.

“I love you,” she whispers, quiet and raw.

And you don't hesitate.

Not even a second.

“I love you too.”

Ellie is dead asleep beside you, her body heavy with exhaustion, arm still draped over your waist like she fell asleep mid-claim. Her breath is slow and steady against your shoulder, hair a tousled mess over the pillow, lips parted just slightly. She looks peaceful—blissfully unaware of the storm still quietly buzzing beneath your skin.

You lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, blankets tangled around your legs, your heart still not entirely calmed. The room smells like sex and sweat and her perfume, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you in the moment. But the silence starts to stretch. And somewhere between the warmth of her skin and the cooling air on yours, your mind slips.

You think of the club. The lights. The music. The drinks. The way she kissed you like you were everything she has ever wanted. The way her hand had slid into yours. The way her eyes had sparkled when she made you laugh.

And then—brief and sharp like a static jolt—you remember the booth. That little baggie. That casual, practiced motion. A snort. A wipe of her nose. The way she’d looked at you right after—like it was nothing.

Because to her, it was nothing.

You swallow hard and turn onto your side, facing away from her. The sheets feel too heavy suddenly, like they’re pressing into your chest. But you force your breath to slow, your eyes to close. You remind yourself that she’s here, asleep next to you. That tonight was good. That everything feels okay right now.

It’s not a big deal.

Just a moment. Just something that happened.

You tell yourself again, and again, and again, until the lie starts to sound almost true.

And eventually—maybe out of exhaustion, maybe out of denial—you let yourself drift off, wrapped in the illusion of safety, in the warmth of her body curled unconsciously into yours.

Because loving her feels so easy.

And forgetting?

Even easier.

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑣𝑒 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 → taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <333): @st0nerlesb0 @willurms @vahnilla @mancyw1214 @rxreaqia @laceyxrenee @antobooh @annoyingpersonxoxo @haithone @lofied @sunflowerwinds @xojunebugxo @reidairie @piscesthepoet @elliewilliamskisser2000 @pariiissssssss @mxquelo @elliesbabygirl @xx2849 @kiiramiz @mikellie @brooks-lin @lovely-wisteria @marscardigan @elliesanqel @lovelaymedown @gold-dustwomxn @ilovewomenfr @seraphicsentences @mascspleasegetmepregnant @raindroprose23 @creepyswag  @jujueilish @elliesgffrfr @kirammanss @liztreez @catrapplesauces @livvietalks @furtherrawayy @thatchosen1 @kanadadryer @littlerosiesthings @eriiwaiii2 @firefly-ace @redlightellie @elliepoems @sabrinathewitchh982 @shady-lemur @jubileexoxo @l0velylace @look-me @adoringanakin @daughterofthemoons-stuff @st4r-b3rries @liasxeatt @desiretolive @rios-st4rs @miajooz @hotpinkskitties

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ I did like 30 proofreads, but there might still be a few grammar mistakes here and there—sorry in advance, english isn't my first language and I will be happy to receive constructive criticism!.

Please leave a comment if you’re interested in being on the permanent taglist for this series!

see ya'll soon, stay tuned ;)

[hcneymooners]

౨ৎ thinking of summer slasher!pazzi...

best friends to lovers!pazzi. men & minors dni.

cw: slight gore, sexual tension, light sexual content, manipulation, morally ambiguous!p, morally ambiguous!a, the power of lesbians vs murder, unhealthy relationships bc y'all...p is killing people. but she loves her girl.

notes: i did not intend for this be 10.2k when i started. so, there's that. as always, feel free to give me all of your thoughts in my inbox. let me know who you think the other killer is. i try my best to respond to it all.

p.s. please don't date your best friend who's obsessed with you if she's murdering people, no matter how beautiful and charismatic she is.

okay, love you.

𓇼 it’s one of those summers marked by memories smeared with heat and a lazy humidity that fills you with a sun-soaked exhaustion. the girls are taking part in a training camp for the season. they flush with warmth and glitter with sweat, muscles flexing under tanned skin as they stumble in and out of cool gyms and concrete courts. the best parts come after when they lay alongside one another, tan lines left behind by the tightly tied straps of their bikini bottoms, slices of sunburned skin coming up rosy despite the efforts to slather on sunscreen. 

𓇼 the world is safe here. they are safe here. they know one another, can recognize one another by laugh—morgan’s is sweeter, clear like a bell. kk’s is child-like, loose giggles with a rise in the middle. they know who is standing above them by the slant of a shadow. this perfect space, the smell of it will haunt them forever: something deep blue, sticky with coconut, cream, and vanilla. a memory of artificial fruit smoke and the moon shape of golden thighs atop golden thighs.

𓇼 at the center of it all lies paige with her river of blonde hair only growing blonder in the sun, her violet swimsuit revealing perfect scoops of sun-darkened skin. she keeps her sunglasses tucked right on top of her head, her toned stomach flexing in and out as she rotates on the soft blanket they have spread out on the grass (there are no more chairs). 

𓇼 her shadow, azzi, has her head right on her thigh. she feels bleary and disoriented, the sun shining down with a strength that feels personal. her swimsuit is sugary baby pink, a sweet match to the girl lying underneath her. her curls have been dragged into a high bun in frustration, baby hairs slick against her neck as she sweats. her belly piercing sparkles, calls the eye to the soft dip of her hips and the thin strip of her bikini bottom.

𓇼 paige is terribly hot below her but she wouldn’t move azzi for anything, instead pressing loose strands out of the other girl’s eyes as azzi tries to sleep. 

𓇼 eventually azzi rolls over, patting a hand loosely on paige’s stomach as a thank you for being her human pillow. paige grins, gives in to her boyish nature and pinches the curve where azzi’s thigh meets her ass. 

𓇼 “you’re such a fucking teenage boy,” azzi murmurs. paige laughs, reties the strings of her swimsuit top. “you love me.”

𓇼 azzi does. it makes her stomach roll. 

𓇼 the world is safe here. they are safe here. and then they hear the news.

azzi can’t hear anything past the buzzing in her ears.

three female students found dead. 

the newscaster's voice snakes around her, and drags her to the pool’s tiled floor. her chest burns as she holds her breath, her heart close to bursting.  the world is watery and filtered bright blue through the pool water; the sky is an endless slur of pinks, oranges, and purples. 

the sun is setting, the world going dark, and there are three students—three girls—dead by knife at a camp nearby. three girls she knew in passing, had watched stretch and laugh together on the sands just before a friendly game of beach volleyball. 

the police had said they might’ve been dead for days, up to two weeks. aubrey had switched off the broadcast, visibly shaken and trying to spare the rest of them. jana had sat silent and still, frozen as the older girl pried the remote free from her grip.

she might be crying. with all of this water, it’s so hard to tell. azzi closes her eyes right as the pool lights come on and more water surges in from the jets, the chlorine smell made almost unbearable by the onslaught of the propellers. she has at most fifteen minutes before someone notices she’s gone—five max before paige realizes she’s slipped out from beside her. 

azzi stays under until her lungs scream, until she can’t.

until the burn in her lungs forces her up, air slicing hot into her chest as she breaks the surface. the sky is darker now, the last streaks of sunlight bleeding out into deep navy. the lampposts lining the pool deck have flickered on, turning the concrete a smokier grey and the water a deeper, artificial blue, shimmering against the tile.

azzi drags a hand down her face, slicking back her hair with wrinkled fingertips, and that’s when she sees her—paige, sitting at the water’s edge, feet dipped in, watching. azzi exhales, slow, tries to settle the way her body still hums with nerves.

“you good?” paige asks, voice easy, head tilting just slightly.

azzi doesn’t answer right away. she pushes forward, the water parting around her as she swims to where paige sits. she stops between her legs, lets her head tip forward, forehead resting against paige’s thigh.

paige doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift away. just smooths a hand over the crown of her curls, fingers lingering at the nape of her neck.

“i’m really scared,” azzi says quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “i knew those girls.”

paige hums, a soft, knowing sound. “i know. jesus. i hope they catch those fucking freaks.”

azzi shifts closer, pressing her face into paige’s stomach. she clutches at paige’s back, now covered by an oversized camp shirt, fingers twisting in the cotton fabric. it’s a hold that feels instinctive, that’s symptomatic of the heavy intimacy of their friendship—something azzi’s done before, maybe a thousand times, but never quite like this. paige lets her, like she always does, one hand still at the nape of azzi’s neck, the other resting easy on her shoulder. 

she’s warm and solid. the kind of presence that makes azzi feel safer.

for a moment, they just stay like that, the quiet settling thick between them. the distant hum of crickets, the low lap of water against the mouth of the pool. paige is the first to break it.

“what, you think you’re in a horror movie or something?” she teases, but there’s something serious about her tone, too.

azzi huffs a quiet laugh, but it barely reaches her eyes. “maybe,” she mutters. “i mean the situation matches up.”

paige tilts her head, studies her. “you’d make a shitty final girl, you know.”

azzi scoffs, pulling back just enough to glance up at her. “excuse me?”

paige grins, slow, shifting the hand on her shoulder to tap a finger against azzi’s chin. “you’d be too nice about it. you’d try to help, and then—” she makes a little slicing motion across her throat. “lights out.”

azzi rolls her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitch, betraying her.

“lucky for me,” she says, resting her chin against paige’s thigh now, eyes flickering up, “i have a history of surviving things.”

paige hums, gaze first flicking behind azzi as if she can see the puckered scar over her knee from here, and then back to her face like she’s turning something over in her mind. then, with a quiet finality, she says, “hey. you’re okay.”

it should be comforting. it almost is. but it lingers, just a little too long.

and for some reason, it doesn’t feel like reassurance. it feels like a promise. azzi squeezes the sides of paige stomach and pushes past the unease in her own. 

“we both are,” she says.

𓇼 so, then it changes. no one goes anywhere alone, day or night. it takes some getting used to, the constant partnership. it’s more than they are used to, even as teammates. the extra measures come with their own irritations. 

𓇼 jana grumbles as she’s basically kicked awake by sarah to go to the bathroom with her at three in the morning. morgan’s nose twitches anxiously like a rabbit as she asks aubrey to come to get food with her at the mess hall, and the others try not to laugh when aubrey makes an off-hand remark about how she never realized just how much morgan snacks in a day.

𓇼 but azzi…azzi feels a little like the chosen one. because god, paige never complains. 

𓇼 if azzi wakes in the early morning with an urge to pee, paige is already unlinking their legs in their shared bed and sliding out to go with her. when azzi can’t sleep and sneaks to the living room of their cabin, just to read on her own, paige follows blinking weakly like a child with her bedding over her shoulder. she shoves azzi to the side, sinking down into the ancient cushions and bringing the blankets to her chin as she easily falls back asleep. azzi will go to say thank you, to tell her she’s sorry, but paige will only reach out a large hand and squeeze azzi’s sweaty one as if to tell her knock it off. it’s what i’m here for. and it's vice versa. 

𓇼 things seem to calm down. maybe it really was just a freak occurrence. camp comes to a close and the girls move on to another one, this time a larger one interspersed with girls from other college basketball teams. no one talks about the volleyball girls. it’s the one silent rule: don’t ruin a good time with the ghost of the girls you once knew, please! and lock the doors behind you when you leave the gym late!

𓇼 but azzi doesn’t forget, and it turns out she’s right not to—because it happens again. 

𓇼 the morning it happens, the air tastes wrong as if the trees have stopped producing oxygen entirely. the counselors try to shield them from it, but there's no hiding this—another girl, another athlete, this time from duke, found behind the equipment shed. the world slows down, gets sticky and hot, and impossible. azzi is struggling to breathe, a hand over her mouth as she tries not to throw up. her other hand is occupied by ice’s tight hold.

𓇼 there are whispers of coincidence, of copycat killers, of something worse. the camp directors hold an emergency meeting. no one is to leave their cabins after dark. no one is to be alone, not even for a minute.

the shower runs too hot against azzi's skin, but she doesn't adjust it. her muscles ache from today's drills, the coaches pushing them harder than usual, as if physical exhaustion might distract them from the horror unfolding around them. steam fills the small bathroom, fogging the mirror until she can barely see her own reflection.

she hears the bathroom door creak open.

"just me, princess," comes paige's voice, casual and easy. "kk and ice went to dinner early."

azzi relaxes her shoulders, not realizing she'd tensed them in the first place. "be out in five," she calls, rinsing conditioner from her curls.

when she steps out wrapped in a towel, paige is perched on the closed toilet lid, scrolling through her phone. her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands falling loose around her face. she doesn't look up.

"they found her shoes in the lake," paige says, voice flat. "emma's. the duke girl."

azzi's stomach drops. "jesus."

"yeah." paige tucks her phone away, finally looking up. there's something unreadable in her expression. "you know what's weird? i had a conversation with her yesterday. about three-point shooting form."

azzi turns away, pulling a clean t-shirt over her head. when she looks back, paige is staring at her hands.

"you okay?" azzi asks.

paige nods, but doesn't speak. azzi runs a hand down her back as she passes her, at a loss for words.

later, as they walk to dinner, azzi can't shake the feeling that something is off. they pass the equipment shed, now cordoned off with yellow police tape that flutters in the evening breeze. she looks away, sickened by the sight of blood in broad daylight.

morgan jogs up behind them, slinging her arms around both their shoulders. "hey," she says, voice strained and far too bright. "you guys hear they're thinking about ending camp early?"

"no way," paige says immediately. "they can't."

there's an edge to her voice that makes azzi glance over. paige's jaw is tight, a muscle jumping in her cheek.

"i mean, someone's literally killing people, paige," morgan says with a nervous laugh. "seems like a good reason to shut things down."

"that’s not—" paige starts, then stops herself. "whatever."

she pulls away from morgan's arm, walking ahead faster. morgan gives azzi a puzzled look.

"she's just scared," azzi says automatically, defending paige like she always does. but the words feel hollow in her mouth. “she’s probably worried this will follow us home, you know?” 

they're almost to the mess hall when azzi realizes she left her inhaler back at the cabin. the thought of going back alone makes her throat tighten.

"i forgot something," she tells morgan. "can you—"

"i'll go with you, ma," paige says, appearing suddenly beside them. her eyes look different in the fading light—sharper, focused, a darker blue than azzi has ever seen them. "save us seats?"

morgan nods and continues on without them. as they turn back toward the cabin, azzi feels paige's hand slip into hers, their fingers linking with ease. paige squeezes it once.

"you good?" paige asks, the same question azzi had asked her earlier.

"yeah," azzi says, but her heart hammers in her chest. "just freaked out about all this."

paige's thumb rubs circles against azzi's palm. "don't worry," she says, voice soft. "i've got you. nothing's gonna happen to you. swear"

with a nod, azzi breathes out and flashes paige a soft smile. as they walk, she stumbles over a stick and looks down her eyes catching on paige’s feet. her eyes narrow slightly, focusing on the dark stain on the cuff of the left sneaker—something that looks disturbingly like blood.

“az?”

azzi looks up, and suddenly she can't quite remember if it was there before.

𓇼 as expected, camp is shut down. the girls are silent on the bus ride back to their university, terrified in their own way. it’s mid-july so the school lets them move in early, assuaging their parents’s questions surrounding safety with vague answers that do nothing to assure them. 

𓇼 the school is eerily empty on their side of campus; the off-campus athletic apartments even eerier. they stick to their buddy system. jana & sarah. morgan & aubrey. ice & kk. they’re sectioned off. every girl has their other half.  without question, they pair paige and azzi. 

𓇼 it should be relieving, but it only brings more observations to the surface. paige is evasive, leaving their apartment at odd hours and coming back even later. she tells azzi not to worry, that she’s just putting the work in to start the season right. she flashes that hollywood smile, her teeth bleach white, and blows her off with a quip: “maybe if you answered my texts before the week passes, ma…”

𓇼 and azzi, to her detriment, always laughs—so easily pulled into paige’s warmth, into the intoxicating orbit of being paige buecker’s favorite.

𓇼 they settle back into routine. the fear fades. well all fear except the massive amount belonging to one azzi fudd. azzi feels gaslit by everyone’s desperation to get back to normal. do they not see the pattern? the killers allow them to relax and then slice someone else up. 

𓇼 “you have got to chill,” sarah says one night, the girls getting ready for a night out. it’s somewhere different than their usual haunt. “i need to see the world outside of ted’s or i might just die,” jana had grumbled, grinning when yanna let out a laugh. azzi’s gut had clenched at the mention of death. 

𓇼 azzi presses her lips together, tries to focus on the strawberry sweetness of her lip gloss and the vanilla vodka taste of her breath. still, they slip out, saccharine and sarcastic. “sorry, it’s a little hard to chill when there are killers roaming and they haven’t been caught yet. but sure, i’ll try my hardest to be cool for you.”

𓇼 jana’s eyebrow raises and its at that second when azzi looks up to see paige leaning against the wall, her own blonde brow raised in agreement. azzi closes her eyes and huffs, scrambling up to storm into the kitchen and get another drink. 

𓇼 sometimes the girls forget just how mean and snappish she can be, especially when she feels overlooked. but paige knows, which is why she follows her. “az—” she starts, and azzi is already filled with irritation because paige had disappeared around two am last night and this time she was the one not answering her messages. when she came back she’d offered no explanation, rolling her eyes when azzi asked after her. so azzi ignores her.

𓇼 “az, i know you can hear me.” at this point, all bets are off. she’s either murdering to her heart’s desire or sleeping with someone azzi knows nothing about. she doesn’t know which one makes her more ill. she ignores her best friend with fervor, reaching up to grab the 818 tequila placed dangerously at the edge of the highest cabinet shelf.

𓇼 her dress is deliciously mini, sequined, and a buttery yellow that paints a stunning contrast to azzi’s bronze skin. as she reaches higher, one leg leveraged on the counter to better push herself up, she hears paige let out a curt breath. she’s either getting annoyed or she’s seen the edge of azzi’s cream-colored, lace panties. 

𓇼 (it’s both.)

𓇼 they leave the house like that.

azzi’s pressed into the corner of the backseat, her cheek against the window, feeling the slow drag of streetlights flicker over her skin. the night is thick, humid, sticking to her bare arms, her exposed throat. up front, someone—maybe nika, maybe ashlyn—is laughing too loud at something on the aux, the bassline thumping low in azzi’s chest.

paige is next to her, legs sprawled, taking up space like she owns it. she’s been quiet most of the ride, one arm draped over the back of the seat, the other resting on her thigh, fingers drumming against ripped denim. azzi’s felt her watching, though—casual, weighty, something unreadable sitting low in paige’s gaze.

azzi shifts, her own patience thinning. “can you stop staring, please? thank you.”

paige doesn’t even blink. “then stop being so twitchy.”

azzi rolls her eyes, exhales sharply through her nose. “you’re so fucking annoying.”

paige’s fingers twitch, then move—quick, sure, catching azzi’s chin between them. not hard, but firm, the kind of touch that says pay attention.

the car isn’t moving fast, but everything inside it tilts.

paige leans in, close enough that azzi can smell her—the faded trace of her cologne, something clean, warm, uniquely her. their friends are right there, blessedly oblivious, but it suddenly doesn’t matter. the space between them is tight, electric, stretched thin like the air before a summer storm.

"azzi," paige murmurs, low, almost thoughtful. her grip tightens, just a little. "don’t piss me off right now."

azzi stills. it’s nothing, just paige being paige—too confident, too rough, all bark with a bite she only ever shows on the court. but something in the way she’s looking at her now—head tilted, eyes dark, mouth set like she’s waiting for something—makes azzi’s stomach flip, cold and hot all at once.

for a second, just a second, she’s scared.

and paige sees it.

the shift happens so fast it barely feels real. paige lets go, leans back, scoffs like azzi’s being ridiculous. the corner of her mouth lifts, teasing, but her eyes are still watching, still waiting.

"damn, princess," she says, voice easy, lazy, as she settles back into her seat. "you dramatic."

azzi forces a breath past her lips, unclenches her jaw. she looks away, out the window, at the blur of streetlights sliding past.

she doesn’t say anything.

but she knows paige felt it.

and worse—paige knows she did, too.

𓇼 they make up within the week. it’s not really the plan, but things change when another girl is found dead and gone. this time it’s a neighboring university’s tennis prodigy, her dark hair gleaming wetly across the pavement as she presses a hand to the neat crescent across her neck.

𓇼 she wants to go home. she wants paige. azzi ignores the guilty looks the other girls send her as she’s proven right. instead, her mind is whirling. there’s no connection between the victims, at least none that she can see. the killer (killers?) are doing this for fun, for sport. for sport. wait. 

𓇼 the campus becomes a ghost town as news spreads. three more volleyball players from neighboring schools are found dead within days of one another. the pattern is undeniable now—athletes being targeted, sliced up with precision. azzi's phone chimes constantly with texts from her parents begging her to come home. she doesn't tell them that she's secretly packed a bag, ready to run at a moment's notice.

𓇼 security increases on campus. guards patrol the athletic buildings, checking IDs at every entrance. the team is assigned a personal security detail that follows them to and from practice. it should make them feel safer, but the constant scrutiny just reminds them of the danger. morgan complains about it the loudest, says it's making her play worse. paige stays suspiciously quiet during these conversations.

𓇼 azzi starts noticing things. small things at first—paige's late night disappearances becoming more frequent, the way morgan tenses whenever the murders are mentioned on the news, how the two of them exchange glances when they think no one's watching. one night, azzi wakes to find paige's bed empty, and when she checks her phone, there's a text from morgan: roof in 10. it wasn't meant for her.

𓇼 a memorial is held. everyone wears black, everyone cries. morgan the hardest, paige the least. her face is almost carefully blank. when jana breaks down during her speech, azzi watches paige's expression—there's no sadness there, only impatience. that night, azzi googles "sociopath traits" and then immediately deletes her browser history.

𓇼 geno cancels practice after another body is found—this time it's someone from their own school, a soccer player azzi shared an english class with last year. the girls gather in kk and ice's apartment, seeking safety in numbers. "we need to stick together," paige says, her hand finding azzi's under the table, squeezing once. azzi notices how paige's eyes never leave her face, watching her reactions with an intensity that makes her skin prickle.

𓇼 azzi can't shake the feeling she's being watched. not just by paige, but by someone else—someone in the shadows. she starts looking over her shoulder in the hallways, jumping at every sound. "you're being paranoid, princess" paige tells her, but her eyes are watchful, protective. that night, azzi finds a note slipped under their apartment door: hope you had a great day, a! it might just be your last.

𓇼 she shows it to paige, who crumples it in her fist, jaw set in a way azzi has never seen before. "no one's going to touch you," paige promises, voice low and dangerous. "not while i'm here."

𓇼 they decide to go out again one night, all of them, a desperate attempt at normalcy. the bar is crowded, loud, and for a moment, azzi can almost forget. until she sees nika and paige in the corner, heads bent close together, nika's hand on paige's arm like she's stopping her from something. azzi watches them argue, watches paige's face harden before she stalks off to the bathroom.

𓇼 when azzi follows, she finds paige gripping the sink, knuckles white. "i can't keep doing this," paige says, not looking up. she stops when she sees azzi in the mirror. "can't keep doing what?" azzi asks. paige's smile is strained. "can't watch you keep torturing yourself," she says. "you're safe with me, ma. you know that, right?"

𓇼 azzi doesn’t answer her, because paige is so obviously lying to her. so, she only extends her hand. “c’mon. let’s go back.”

the bar is loud, too loud, the low hum of conversation mixing with the clinking of glasses and the occasional laugh. paige is over-compensating, those oceanic eyes flickering over the crowd with that signature cocky smirk, and azzi can’t help but notice the way her attention seems to settle on the girl at the bar, the one who’s been giving paige lingering glances all night.

azzi's irritation bubbles up in a slow burn. it’s not jealousy, of course. no, she’s just—well, it's not like that. she crosses her arms tightly over her chest, trying to hide the way her jaw clenches. she’s tired of watching paige flirt with random girls like it doesn’t mean anything. it doesn’t mean anything, she knows that. oh my god, there’s a killer on the loose. this is not the time. 

but something about the way paige does it, so casually, so effortlessly… it’s like she’s throwing it in azzi’s face, just because she can.

"hey, you’re gonna let that one get away?” the girl at the bar smiles at paige, leaning forward just a little too much. azzi rolls her eyes at the way it pushes her cleavage up. what a slut. 

she feels terrible as soon as she thinks it.

paige laughs, clearly enjoying the attention. "maybe, maybe not. who’s to say?"

azzi feels a knot tighten in her stomach, the familiar burn of irritation seeping deeper, until she can’t take it anymore. she storms out of the bar, muttering something under her breath about goddamn bullshit.

𓇼

the cool night air hits her as she steps outside, the weight of the world following her like the world’s most suffocating blanket. she walks fast, not caring if the killer is nearby. let them come. she’s tired. she’s tired of pretending like she doesn’t care, tired of watching paige flirt—no. she’s just tired of this. of living her life in fear, of housing a deep paranoia inside of her, and being unable to trust the people she previously loved without question. 

behind her, paige’s voice breaks through the quiet night. “azzi.”

azzi doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t even turn around. “i’m surprised you even noticed i left. what, got bored of flirting with your latest victim?” the choice of words is intentional, and azzi takes great satisfaction in the silence that follows.

paige’s footsteps speed up, and she’s beside her now, matching her pace. “what the hell is your problem?”

azzi rolls her eyes. “i told you, nothing. it’s whatever.”

“don’t give me that,” paige snaps, stepping in front of azzi, her arms crossed. “you can’t just walk off like that, azzi. you gonna walk around alone at night with a maniac on the loose?”

azzi bites her lip, prays for patience. “oh my god, paige. what-the-fuck-ever. go back to her. she’s waiting.”

and there it is—the envy slips out, biting and sharp. azzi curses herself immediately, but paige catches the hint, that flicker of something in her voice. she raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“oh. oh, that’s not fair.” paige leans in a little closer, her gaze dropping to azzi’s pursed lips, making azzi wish she could not feel the way her chest tightens. “you want me to go back, huh? c’mon. use your words, mama.”

azzi seethes, but she won’t admit it. “it’s not like that, paige.”

“sure, it’s not.” paige grins, leaning back casually against the nearby streetlamp, clearly not ready to let it go. “so you’re mad because…i’m just having a little fun. that it?”

azzi turns away from her, irritation boiling over. “you know what? i don’t need this,” she huffs. “i’m going home.”

paige lets out a soft laugh, but there’s something different about it. she’s amused, but there’s an edge to it now, like she’s not ready to back off.

“azzi, stop this shit. you’re not walking home alone, alright?” paige grabs her by the arm, pulling her back gently when azzi tries to shake her off.

“actually, i think i am. i don’t need you, paige.”

“mm, yeah, you do.”

paige steps in front of her, blocking her way again. azzi’s about to argue when she realizes—paige’s not going anywhere.

“get in the car, az.”

“no.” azzi stands her ground, but she’s not fooling anyone, least of all paige.

“fine,” paige shrugs, and before azzi can react, she pulls her over her shoulder with one swift motion. azzi squeals, kicking her legs, the sound of her protests echoing in the night.

“hello! put me down, paige! i’m wearing a mini skirt!”

paige doesn’t even flinch, holding azzi firmly with one arm. “ain’t nobody looking.”

azzi’s face flushes a soft, dusky red as paige strides to the car, not letting azzi squirm free. “stop it! paige madison, you better put me down right now.” she slaps paige’s back, half laughing, half annoyed.

paige doesn’t answer, just opens the car door and tosses her inside as if she weighs nothing, sliding into the driver’s seat in a matter of minutes. “there. isn’t that better?”

azzi’s breathing hard, a mix of frustration and something else. paige catches her eye, and for a moment, the world feels oddly still between them.

“whatever,” azzi mutters, but it’s a little softer this time, the tension in her voice barely there. 

paige’s smirk never falters. “you’re welcome, princess. feel free to use the drive home as a chance to fix that attitude.”

azzi grumbles, sinking back in her seat, but she doesn’t argue anymore. she just watches paige drive, the weight of everything pressing feeling a little lighter now that they’re together.

𓇼 the campus goes on lockdown when another victim is found alive but badly injured. she describes her attacker as tall, athletic, wearing a mask. "there were two of them," she says. "one did the cutting. the other held me down." azzi is in the library when the alert comes through. she tries to call paige but gets no answer. when she finally reaches her, paige sounds panicked. "where are you?" azzi asks. "on my way to you," paige says. "don't move. please, az, don't fucking move."

𓇼 but this is a slasher, so of course, azzi moves. she wants to get to her best friend who sounded terrified out of her mind. but when azzi steps out of the library, someone grabs her from behind. she feels the cold press of a blade against her side, hears a voice—distorted, but somehow familiar—whisper in her ear. 

𓇼 azzi’s chest heaves in shallow, terrified gasps, her fingers slipping against the cool steel of the knife handle as she grapples with her assailant. the force of the attack knocks her into the corner of the hallway, and she barely catches herself before she’s on the floor, hands shaking, blood trailing from a shallow cut on her arm.

𓇼 the world is spinning, the air thick with the acrid scent of fear and sweat. azzi is crying—really crying, the kind of sobs that break you down from the inside. it’s not supposed to be like this. she’s not supposed to be here, in this hell, with a blade pressed dangerously into her ribs.

𓇼 “please—please stop,” azzi wheezes, her voice breaking in ways it’s never broken before, raw and desperate. tears spill down her cheeks, streaking through her makeup, and she’s shaking—shaking so hard she can’t breathe, her lungs fighting the air like they’re full of water.

𓇼 “azzi!” paige’s voice cuts through the haze of panic, thick with rage. it’s a sound Azzi hasn’t heard in a while—feral, protective. it’s all the warning azzi gets before paige is there, hauling the killer off her. she’s never been more grateful for location sharing. 

𓇼 “get the fuck off of her!” paige screams, her grip vicious as she tosses the killer aside, sending the ghostly figure sprawling into the wall. her anger is palpable, her voice high with fear, her stress pushing her past the normal calm. azzi’s reminded that they’re both just young women, college students trying to stay alive in a way they didn’t have to before, and she feels so ashamed that she ever suspected her. 

𓇼 azzi, gasping for air, curls into herself, her hands trembling as she presses them to her stomach. she can’t stop the sobs. Every breath feels too hard, too sharp. the pain from the cut doesn’t matter. it’s the terror that makes her break.

𓇼 paige drops to her knees in front of her, her hands shaking, trying to find zzzi’s face. her phone clatters out of her pocket.  “az, baby, please. please, look at me. it’s okay, you’re okay.” the older girl is borderline hyperventilating, casting panicked glances over her shoulder at the limp body of their unknown attacker. “i need you to move your hands, okay? just move them. i need to see how bad it is.”

𓇼 azzi’s eyes are wide, glazed with fear, but it’s the tremble in her voice that cuts paige deeper. “it hurts, p… it hurts so bad. i don’t want to die…”

𓇼 the words slice rip paige like a bullet, her heart almost collapsing at the sound of them. she doesn’t care if she’s bleeding too. she doesn’t care about the rest of it. she just needs Azzi to be okay. “i told you, ma… i told you, you’re not gonna die, alright? you ain’t going nowhere, you hear me? i got you. i got you.”

𓇼 the killer groans, rising with a hand to their masked head. “fuck!” paige whispers. “az, baby, we gotta move. ‘m gonna carry you.” azzi groans in pain as paige practically hauls her in her arms. “i know. i know, princess. fuck, ‘m sorry.” 

paige is pulling azzi into the bathroom, her grip firm but not hurting. she's trying to keep herself grounded, trying to focus on the fact that at least in this moment, azzi’s with her. paige’s chest is caving in with the force of her fear—she can taste bile in her throat—but she’s trying to stay quiet.

“shh, shh, baby…” paige’s voice is low, like she’s trying to coax azzi to stay calm, and her hands are already moving over azzi’s skin, lifting her shirt to see the damage, all business, checking for injuries, feeling for anything that could give her a glimpse of what’s happening underneath. 

and then her fingers brush over azzi’s ribs, her stomach, and there's a faint tremble in azzi’s breath, and there’s this sudden tension between them, a pressure rising along azzi's spine. 

azzi’s heart is racing, her breath ragged, but it’s not just from the pain. the nearness, the intimacy of it, the feeling of paige’s hands on her skin—it’s like fucking fire. the tenderness of paige’s touch, the way she moves so carefully over her body, it should be comforting but it’s only electric. azzi can't stop the warmth rising in her chest, can't ignore the strange pull of need that refuses to fade, even here, even now, in the middle of this absolute nightmare.

“please don’t say it. don’t you fucking dare, paige,” azzi chokes out, her voice shaking, half laughing, half sobbing, as she wipes her eyes. it’s too much. too much emotion, too much fear, and too much everything.

“you’re good, ma,” paige mutters, her thumb brushing over azzi’s stomach, gentle despite everything. “i’ve seen you like this before, don’t act like it’s new.” there’s a certain gruffness to paige’s words, like she’s pretending she doesn’t know the effect of the situation.

azzi huffs a little, trying to hide how embarrassed she is, how exposed she feels under paige’s touch. “i’m not wearing a bra,” azzi whispers through her tears, an attempt to divert attention from what was happening. it’s absurd, even in the face of this horror, how awkward she feels.

paige’s grin is soft, the kind of smile that azzi wished was occurring in a situation better than this. “ma, i’ve seen it all,” she teases, that teenage boy bravado in her tone. “we’re best friends. besides, you look good, like always. that ain’t new either.”

azzi laughs, but it’s broken, her body trembling with the sudden onslaught of pain. the adrenaline is wearing off. the blood, the fear,—it’s all so real, but somehow paige’s words make it feel like a momentary sick joke at a really intense tailgate. she can’t help it. she hits paige’s shoulder, weakly, but paige just takes it, laughing a little.

“not the time, az,” paige says, trying to keep things light, but azzi can feel how her voice shakes, how she’s keeping it low to not attract attention. and then, just like that, the sound of a booted footstep outside the door cuts through the tension. paige freezes, her eyes darting toward the crack under the door.

azzi, still struggling to breathe normally, goes stiff. her hands instinctively press against her stomach, trying to hold in the pain, trying to keep herself from falling apart.

“shit.” paige’s voice is even quieter now, the heat between them suddenly shifting, turning to a survival instinct. “we gotta go. now.”

paige doesn’t give her a second to argue, her hand on azzi’s back, guiding her away from the bathroom door, moving like they’ve practiced this a thousand times before—silent, swift, desperate.

𓇼 they spend hours in the police station, paige getting more and aggravated as the officers keep pushing for answers they don’t have. “what do you mean did they leave clues? bro, isn’t this your job?” azzi focuses on not having a panic attack. its only when the officer that seems to irritate paige the most dares to insinuate that maybe azzi should’ve been more careful that she realizes paige may recreate the crime scene. 

𓇼 “come on, p. i want to go home.” paige shoots the man another glare and wraps a hand around azzi’s waist, using her phone to call them an uber. 

𓇼 if azzi thought paige was clingy before, she was absolutely oppressive now.

azzi steps into the bathroom, about to close the door when paige’s voice calls out, “azzi, come on now, let’s use our brains. you know i’m not letting you even shower alone after all this.”

azzi rolls her eyes, trying to shut the door but paige’s arm is already wedged in, blocking it. she sighs, giving in. “paige! you can’t just follow me everywhere.”

paige raises an eyebrow, her tone completely unbothered. “girl, this is a classic horror scenario. haven’t you seen psycho?” she leans against the counter, casually pulling her phone from her pocket.

azzi stares at her in disbelief. “are you seriously standing there while i’m trying to take a shower? get out! go sit outside like a normal person!”

paige grins, looking incredibly comfortable in the moment. she’s changed and swept her hair into her signature slick-back bun, her bright blonde strands falling in just the right way, a thin silver chain resting around her neck. her sweatpants hang low and loose, and the black tee paired with it does wonders to show off her biceps as she crosses her arms. 

azzi shifts on her feet, feeling a strange pulse in her chest. she’s not sure if it’s from frustration or something else entirely. her gaze flickers down to where a tan strip of skin is revealing itself just above the rim of those damned sweats, and she unconsciously squeezes her legs together. paige notices, her smirk growing wider.

“be lucky i ain't coming in there with you,” she teases, her tone cocky as she scrolls on her phone, clearly unfazed by azzi’s protests.

azzi huffs. “spare me.” paige looks up and raises a brow. “you wouldn't.”

paige shrugs, scrolling casually. “we’ll see. i’ll be right here if you need me.”

azzi folds her arms, feeling a little cornered by both the situation and the fact that paige looks really good right now. it’s enough to make her blush, and she tries to pretend like she’s not noticing. “paige, seriously. get out.”

paige smirks, her eyes not leaving her screen as she leans a little closer to the bathroom door. “that’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

azzi rolls her eyes again, clearly fed up but also a little flustered. she glances at paige, then starts to undo her socks, taking one off slowly like she's in no hurry to just give in to the absurdity of it all. the moment she takes the sock off, paige whistles loudly.

“god damn, look at you.” she crosses her arms again, shaking her head, completely over the top with her reaction.

azzi freezes, her face turning the color of a maraschino cherry. “read my lips, paige. get out or i swear to god!”

paige raises her hands in mock surrender, laughing at her best friend's embarrassment. “alright, alright, i’m leaving! no need to bring our savior into it. you know you love me.” she steps back, still laughing to herself.

azzi rolls her eyes, trying to pretend she's not still flustered, and waits until paige is out of the bathroom before she breathes a deep sigh of relief.

𓇼

when azzi finally steps out of the muggy bathroom, her satin robe clings to her body in a way she really wasn’t prepared for. it’s short, the fabric cool and slick against her skin in a lovely shade of emerald green, and it leaves very little to the imagination—especially with how it sticks to her curves, still damp from the shower.

paige looks her up and down as she passes by, eyes narrowing in an exaggerated once-over, her lips curling into a smirk. “my god, az, you really trying to make me feel some type of way right now, huh?”

azzi huffs and quickly pulls the robe tighter around her, trying to ignore the avid embarrassment creeping up her spine at the way paige is looking at her. “oh my god, can you not?”

paige raises a brow, stepping closer, still completely unbothered. “what? you look phenomenal, mama. stop trying to act like you don’t know.” she steps in front of azzi now, blocking her way, a wicked grin tugging at her lips. “you could at least act a little embarrassed. i’m not the one who came out here in the world’s shortest robe, babe. that’s your problem.”

azzi tries to shift away, but paige reaches out and places a hand on her stomach, pressing gently—so gently, though azzi still sucks in a breath. the wound. the pain of it.

azzi’s breath hitches at the sensation, and she freezes. “p,” she starts, her voice wavering just a little, “seriously, it’s fine. i’m okay. we’re fine..” but she knows they’re not, not completely. not when the pressure of her best friend’s hand on her body sends an inebriate mix of heat and anxiety coursing through her.

paige doesn’t move, her thumb running in soft circles over the satin. the moment hangs there, both of them silent and unsure. she looks azzi in the eyes, her cocky mask slipping, replaced with something more raw, more vulnerable than azzi’s seen in a long time.

“that was way too close, az,” paige mutters, her voice low and almost trembling despite herself. “i’m not trying to be disrespectful or anything, but i wasn’t—i didn’t think it was real, y’know? like, it was always happening to other people, but then it was you—and that shit scared me.”

azzi looks up at her, the words hitting harder than she expected. it isn’t what paige usually says. it’s not the same sure, settled paige who never gets rattled. this is different. and it makes azzi’s stomach twist in a way she’s not sure she wants to think about right now.

“hey,” azzi starts again, her voice a little more sure this time. “i’m okay this time. really.” but the words feel thin. 

paige doesn’t pull back. she presses just a little harder against azzi’s stomach, right where the wound is, and for a split second, azzi feels like she can’t breathe. but it’s not pain—it’s something else. something that makes her flush. paige stares down at her for a long moment before taking a step back, but not without catching azzi’s gaze. her voice is back to being light, the flip switched but the edge of uncertainty still lingering there. 

“next time,” paige says, crossing her arms and giving azzi an appraising look, “i don’t care if i gotta lock you in a damn safe. you ain’t going anywhere without me. not even to pee. got it?”

azzi laughs weakly, but it’s forced. she’s shaking her head, though the tightness in her chest doesn’t loosen. “yeah, whatever, paige. you really think you can keep me all locked up?”

“trust, i will find a way. better start growing those curls out and change your name to rapunzel,” paige says with her trademark megawatt smile. 

azzi just sighs, rolling her eyes. “you’re so—.”

before she can say more, paige adds, more softly, “i’m serious, az. i’m not letting anything happen to you. i look after what’s mine.”

azzi’s heart thumps hard in her chest at the words, and she looks away quickly, brushing a wet spiral of hair behind her ear to hide the heat rising in her cheeks. before she can respond, paige’s phone buzzes loudly, breaking the tension between them. paige glances down at the screen, and her expression hardens. 

“i have to go,” she says. “i forgot i promised kk help on an assignment.”

azzi gives her a small, searching look before nodding. she watches her go, her stomach beginning to crawl with that uneasy feeling that only arises when she senses a lie.

𓇼 azzi wakes to the sound of the front door closing. it's three in the morning, and paige is slipping back into their apartment, her steps careful, measured. azzi pretends to be asleep, watching through slitted eyes as paige peels off her jacket, revealing a white t-shirt stained with something dark. 

𓇼 paige's hands are slightly trembling as she stuffs the shirt into the bottom of the laundry hamper. when she turns, her face is hollow, haunted. she looks at azzi's sleeping form with an expression that's almost tender, almost desperate. azzi squeezes her eyes closed, a single tear rolling down her face like a saltwater diamond.

𓇼 but like all things do, it comes to a head. paige is right back at it—the lies, the exceptionally late nights, the brushing off of azzi’s concerns. “so, you can be worried about me, but i have to play it cool?” she yells at paige’s retreating back. paige turns to face her before she slips back into her bedroom. “you got it, ma.”

𓇼 it's stupid and slick and she’s so obviously being cute and—why the fuck is it turning azzi on?

𓇼 regardless she’s had enough. so, azzi takes things into her own hands. 

the sound of the front door unlocking makes azzi tense, fingers curling around the blanket draped over her lap. the tv hums softly, casting pale light over her bare arms, her collarbones, the rise and fall of her chest. 2:47 am.

paige steps inside like she owns the place. she’s all black and strategic shadow, hoodie zipped up, joggers hanging low, her hair twisted into that stupid bun that looks effortless but isn’t. there’s something different about her tonight, something undeniably thick in the air between them.

azzi swallows. something is off. something's been off. she tries to find her strength from before.

paige kicks off her crocs, stretches her arms overhead, and looks at azzi with that familiar, lazy smirk. "damn, you almost scared me. you waiting up for me, princess?"

azzi doesn’t answer. just watches. the way paige moves—calm, controlled, unbothered. like she wasn’t just out in the dark doing god knows what.

paige tilts her head. "silent treatment? that’s crazy."

azzi’s stomach knots. she should just say it. just ask. her eyes flick up—linger at paige’s bun. she sees it now. the dried rust clinging to the strands, almost lost in the honey-blonde.

"there's blood in your hair."

paige stops in front of her, close enough that azzi can smell the warm spice of her cologne, something deeper beneath it. her grin flickers, like she wasn’t expecting that.

then she laughs, low and amused. "yeah?"

azzi nods, her throat dry. she’s suddenly so aware of her body. "yeah."

paige’s gaze dips. a quick flick—barely there—but azzi feels it, the weight of her eyes dragging down to the square neckline of her top, the way it presses tightly against her skin and pushes up her tits. it’s so quick she might’ve imagined it, but when paige looks back up, there’s something else in her face, something dark and hungry.

azzi’s heart skips.

paige leans in slightly, all sharp eyes and quiet hunger. "take it out and see." she grabs azzi’s wrist and presses it against her scalp, her fingers warm and firm over azzi’s skin.

azzi’s pupils blow wide. her heart slams into her ribs.

"see, az?" paige murmurs. "you’re just as bad as me."

azzi rips her hand away and backs up. paige follows, smooth, easy, and unhurried. azzi’s breath catches—there’s nowhere to go but down the hallway. she moves before she can think, turns—but paige’s voice follows her, teasing. 

"aw, don’t do that, princess. you know you can’t run from me."

azzi doesn’t listen. her socked feet slap against the hardwood as she bolts, and she almost slips, rounding the corner toward her bedroom. she doesn’t make it. paige is already there.

azzi’s breath shudders. she saw her in the living room. she just felt her presence behind her, but now she’s in front, her body loose and relaxed against the doorframe. 

azzi skids to a stop, heart hammering. paige just grins, cocking her head. "that was cute."

azzi’s stomach drops. she whirls around, runs back through the kitchen—paige is at the fridge, watching her like this is all some kind of game. azzi stumbles, chest heaving. she didn’t even hear paige move this time. didn’t realize how close she was until—

she trips.

a sharp gasp rips from her throat as she hits the floor. she scrambles to get up, but paige is already there, grabbing her ankle and dragging her back, slow and deliberate like she has all the time in the world.

azzi twists, pushing up onto her hands, her breath ragged, sweat clinging to the hollow of her throat. she might be screaming, but she can’t tell. her curls stick to her forehead, her lip combo still glossy, her skin warm and glowing in the dim light.

paige watches her struggle, mouth curving into something that shouldn’t be so blatantly fond. and then, low and appreciative: "jesus, ma. this top."

azzi gapes. “you can’t be serious right now.”

paige laughs—actually laughs, full and throaty, before ducking down and pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to azzi’s throat. azzi jerks, whimpers as a slow heat floods through her. 

"paige—"

"relax, baby," paige murmurs against her skin, lips grazing the pulse pounding at her neck. "you know i’d never hurt you."

azzi squeezes her eyes shut, chest heaving, fear and something unidentifiable tangling in her stomach. then paige pulls back, sighing like this is exhausting for her. she reaches into her hoodie, pulls out something small and sharp—a knife—and flicks it across the room. it clatters onto the hardwood.

azzi stares.

paige cups her face, tilting it up, her thumbs pressing gently into her cheeks. "look at me."

azzi does, breath uneven, her throat tight.

"i’m not gonna hurt you," paige says, softer this time, steady and sure. "you know that, don’t you?"

azzi’s lips tremble. and then the tears spill over. she makes a choked sound, shaking her head, her breathing turning sharp and uneven.

 "please," she whispers, voice cracking. "please, paige. you’re lying to me, i— i thought we were best friends. what did i do wrong? what—whatever it is, i’m so sorry.”

paige freezes. her face twists with an emotion so raw, that azzi is unsure if there’s a name for it. “azzi—”

azzi wrenches away from her grip and pulls back, hands tangling in her curls, her whole body wound tight. "there’s always two of you, right?" she gasps, voice rising in panic. "oh my god, i’m gonna die."

paige’s expression crumples. "don’t you dare say that shit."

azzi flinches, still hyperventilating, her shoulders rising and falling too fast, her vision swimming. paige exhales sharply and moves, pressing a steadying hand to azzi’s waist, keeping her from stumbling. 

"azzi, you can be pissed in a minute, mama. swear. but i need you to calm down first."

azzi blinks up at her, dazed, ribs aching.

paige tightens her grip, her voice dropping into something warmer, more familiar. "need you to breathe for me, baby. please."

and somehow azzi listens. her breath hitches in her throat as she slows it down, lungs expanding in time with paige’s steady exhalations, but it’s the space between them that feels suffocating now. paige’s grip doesn’t loosen. azzi thinks of her promise from before: i don’t care if i gotta lock you in a damn safe.

azzi’s fingers curl into the fabric of her shirt, her skin still slick with sweat, as her mind races to catch up with everything that’s happening. that flicker of fear still burns deep in her chest, but—god, she’s so close to paige. too close. her neck is still tingling from where paige kissed it, the skin still warm and alive from her touch.

but paige… paige is a killer. the killer.

she tries to pull away again—shaking her head, trying to break free from the grip she can’t seem to escape. "i—i can’t."

paige doesn’t let her go this time. instead, she leans down, their faces inches apart, her voice like honey and danger all at once. "you can, though.”

azzi swallows. "you’re not the paige i thought i knew."

a pause. paige’s eyes darken just the slightest bit, but there’s something else in them, something softer, a flicker of recognition, maybe even a hint of regret. but it’s gone before azzi can pin it down, replaced by something colder.

"ma," paige says, and her voice is sharp, but there’s something underneath it—something that cracks in a way speaks to her. "azzi, this ain't easy for me either. i didn’t—this isn't the person i wanna be in front of you."

azzi’s breath hitches. "then don’t be." she shakes her head again, frustration boiling over. "i don’t understand, paige. i don’t even know what’s real anymore."

paige’s hands tighten around her wrists, gentle but firm, and for a second, it feels like she’s holding herself together instead. "what’s real is my promises. i swear to god, az,  i’m not gonna hurt you."

azzi laughs, but it’s hollow, the sound falling against the floor. "how do you expect me to believe that?”

“you do believe that. that’s why you suspected me for so long and didn’t say shit.” azzi freezes. "you know why i keep you close? cause you make me wanna be better."

azzi scoffs, eyes wide. "what? it’s not my job to save you, p.”

paige leans in, her forehead brushing against azzi’s.  "but you do it every day. you’re the one thing in this world that still feels right. and i’m not about to let anything happen to you. not now. not ever."

azzi’s heart tugs with the weight of paige’s words. the sincerity in her voice wraps around her like a velvet rope, pulls her closer. but then—then—the cold reality crashes back in. azzi shakes her head, her eyes filling with that uncontrollable fear again. 

"i can’t be part of this, paige. i can’t be in this world with you. it’s too much. i don’t—i don’t know who you are anymore."

paige’s expression hardens, but she doesn’t let go of azzi’s face. "you do know me," she says, a soft, dangerous promise in her voice. "i’m still me. the same person who’s been by your side, who’d do anything for you. i swear, azzi, you’re all i care about."

azzi blinks, her vision blurry through the tears, her chest tight with the weight of it all. "then why—why do you hurt people?"

paige’s jaw clenches, the shadow of the killer flashing across her features again. but when she looks at azzi, it’s with something broken. "i’m trying to protect you. to keep you safe, az. you don’t get it. i’m doing this for you."

azzi shakes her head, backing away again, her hands trembling. "you’re still lying."

"no," paige breathes, reaching for her again, but azzi pulls back, pacing quickly, hands tangled in her hair again, trying to pull herself together. "please, just calm down. i need you to calm down, baby. we’ll figure it out."

azzi whips around, her hand swiping at her eyes. "i can’t figure this out, paige! i can’t! you’re not just a friend to me, you’re— i can’t lose you, but i can’t do this either!"

paige’s face softens, and this time, she steps back, giving azzi space, her shoulders sagging just slightly. "i’m not going anywhere. not unless you tell me to."

azzi pauses, her breath still coming in jagged bursts. "why wouldn’t i tell you to leave?"

"cause you love me," paige says simply, but it’s not a boast. it’s the truth, in a way azzi can’t ignore. "and i love you too, maybe even more. and that’s enough. it’ll always be enough, azzi. just trust me."

azzi’s breath catches. "you can’t make this go away, paige." and suddenly she’s just so angry.

her hands curl into fists, eyes brimming with the weight of everything she's been holding in. she looks away, but paige reaches out, gently grabbing her chin. the touch is light but unyielding, pulling azzi back into her orbit. “hey, what are you thinking? talk to me.”

azzi stares at her for a beat, then explodes, words spilling out faster than she can control them. "you don’t get it! you’re so obsessed with how i feel, with fixing everything with me, you can’t even see how badly you’re fucking up. you don’t see it, do you? you just want the thrill of being the one i choose! what even is this? are you just throwing your whole life away for five minutes of fucking fame, paige? you can be so fucking selfish when it comes to me, and you won’t even admit it."

paige stands there, quiet for a second, then slowly smirks. “yeah, okay. i am selfish about you. i don’t see anything wrong with it. you right, ma.” she steps forward again, closer to azzi, inching her way into her space until there’s nowhere for her to go. “but that doesn’t mean you get to make me feel like shit for it. ‘cause you like being special.”

azzi’s breath stutters in her chest, caught off guard by paige’s rather self-accountable response. she opens her mouth to retort but doesn’t get the chance before paige leans in, close enough that azzi can feel her breath, her warmth.

“i know., i know. i’m not taking you seriously. i’m not listening. yep, for sure, ma,” paige murmurs. “just—”and then she kisses her. it's slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that’s not just about desire but about the release of it.

azzi kisses back almost immediately, closing her eyes and digging her hands into paige’s hair. she opens her mouth, and paige slips her tongue inside, dragging a hand down to squeeze azzi’s waist. azzi moans, whole body shivering as paige presses two fingers to her aching clit. the pressure is fucking divine, and something sickly sweet swells in her tummy.

paige is playing dirty, and azzi is finding it hard to claw her way out of the web her best friend continues to spin. 

she pulls back, blushing as a thin string of spit connects them for several seconds before snapping. 

“don’t think for one second that you’re off the hook,” azzi says, voice shaky and defiant. 

paige only grins, smug, and presses harder against her pussy, rubbing gently through the fabric. “mmhmm. you taste so good, you know that? like fucking sugar, just straight honey.”

azzi’s pulse is racing, her chest tight, and she’s this close to yelling at her again. “you’re not even listening to me,” she says, but it comes out as a half-sigh, half-moan.

paige doesn’t back off, though. instead, she leans in again, slow and steady, keeping the pace of her fingers up as if she’d always known that this was where they’d end up. she presses her lips to azzi’s again and again, and azzi, against all her better judgment, melts every time. the next time it’s paige who breaks their contact. 

"i don’t know how to make it go away yet,” paige says, her voice quieter now as she speaks to azzi’s earlier worries. "but i need you to trust me. please."

azzi hesitates, eyes still wet, her chest tight. her heart aches. but for a moment, just a moment, she lets herself believe in paige. just a little bit, just a little more.

"what are you protecting me from?" azzi whispers, voice barely audible. “is it someone else?”

paige doesn’t answer at first, just steps forward and pulls azzi into a desperate hug. that only confirms it. this other person, the second piece to this horrific puzzle, has it out for her. 

"you don’t have to worry about that, baby. i got you. always."

azzi wants to believe her without any reservations because she knows, on a level, that it’s true.

that’s the worst part.

𓇼 it turns out azzi can forgive a lot when it comes to paige. loving her is a part of her genetic code.

𓇼 it's what she was meant for, body and soul.

𓇼 fuck.

© hcneymooners.

[darlingcloudie-9]

Live laugh love Kumonoue & Yuichiro’s straining relationship 💕

[alottiegoingon]

glinda has a crush.

glinda upland x fem!reader

summary: glinda upland is smitten, and she’s making sure the whole world (especially you) knows it, whether you catch on or not. warnings: fluff overload, afab reader, lesbian glinda, glinda being dramatic, harmless meddling, lots of pink, not proofread, nsfw at the very end, MDNI.

glinda is not subtle. when glinda has a crush, the whole of oz could probably figure it out before you do. she’s extra giggly around you, tossing her hair and flashing her most radiant smile whenever you’re in sight.

she has been fighting people that call her "glinda" for her whole life. "it's gah-linda. with a gah". but you could call her belinda and she'd be like "okay, guess that's my name now hehe :D".

lots of "toss toss". when you're around, she performs this move even more flamboyantly, ensuring you notice her. she even practice it in front of a mirror to perfect it all in hopes of impressing you.

her love language is... extravagant. expect surprise deliveries of glittery pink bouquets, handwritten notes sealed with her signature wax stamp, new clothes, and occasionally, enchanted trinkets she insists you “simply must have.”

“oh, wow, that outfit is so scandalocious! no one wears pink like you do!” glinda’s endless flattery toes the line between sweet and over-the-top.

despite her bubbly demeanor, glinda gets a little possessive... she might interrupt your conversations with others by swooping in, linking arms with you, and whisking you away under the guise of “urgent matters.”

elphaba is so done. she immediately catches on to glinda’s feelings and rolls her eyes at every lovestruck sigh or poorly veiled attempt to get your attention. “just tell her already,” she mutters, but glinda insists she’s being subtle.

not even fiyero can get away. he becomes glinda’s reluctant confidant. she quizzes him endlessly. “do you think she noticed my new hairpin? was it obvious when i accidentally brushed her hand?”

glinda occasionally ropes her more impressionable classmates into “spontaneous” group activities that just happen to involve you. picnic by the emerald city fountain? surprise study group? all glinda’s doing.

when you don’t pick up on her hints, glinda cranks up the theatrics. she might “accidentally” trip so you can catch her, dramatically swoon when you compliment her, or claim she needs your advice about “a dear friend who’s in love with someone amazing…”

subtlety? what subtlety? if all else fails, she starts making outrageous claims, like how the stars in the night sky don’t shine as brightly as your eyes. by this point, even munchkins are side-eyeing her obviousness.

very possessive. very jealous. careful, she bites. if she sees you talking to someone she doesn’t quite trust, glinda will immediately try to steal your attention. whether it’s showing up next to you with a loud “oh, darling, there you are!” or tugging you away by the waist with a soft, dramatic "i need you for just a second...", her jealousy is obvious, but she tries to play it off with a sweet, innocent demeanor. It's almost too cute to notice, but not quite.

when she finally confesses, you can expect a dramatic monologue.

glinda’s confession is a whirlwind of dramatic proclamations and heartfelt vulnerability. “dearest, i simply cannot go another day without telling you… you are the brightest star in my sky, the melody in my heart, and the only person who can make me feel like this!”

when you admit you feel the same, glinda’s jaw actually drops even if she had spent weeks trying to make you notice her. she recovers quickly, though, already planning millions of dates.

expect her to immediately start gushing to everyone who’ll listen. “attention, everyone! she said yes! isn’t she just perfect?” meanwhile, you’re trying to hide your face from the attention.

in a relationship, when you catch her being a little too clingy or dramatic after seeing someone else talk to you, glinda will act innocent, flashing you her most dazzling smile while saying, "me? jealous? oh, princess, no. i’m simply making sure you know you’re mine.” she’ll lean in for a kiss as if nothing's wrong, but you can tell she's putting on an act.

if she feels like she’s losing your attention for too long, she might retreat into a little meltdown, just to get you to reassure her. she’ll dramatically sigh and pout, plopping herself next to you on the couch or across the room. “ugh, why do they even talk to you like that? you’re too good for them!” her jealousy is always a bit over the top, but the underlying sentiment is clear: she wants all your love, and she wants it now.

expect your individuality to be gone when you become her girlfriend. you could be in a party and someone offered you pizza and glinda would wrap her arm around your waist, pull you close and say "oh, we would love it, don't we, my dear?"

personal space? there's no such a thing when glinda is your girlfriend, please! physical touch is a must. kissing, hugging, biting your cheeks or ears affectionately (or more), holding hands anywhere and any time, rubbing your back or your knee when sitting next to each other, you name it.

NSFW (MDNI)!!!

a very soft top!!!

glinda throws herself into everything with gusto, and intimacy is no exception. she treats every moment as though it’s a grand performance, designed to leave you utterly breathless.

glinda loves to talk during intimate moments. she’s shamelessly loud, peppering the air with compliments, exclamations of delight, and plenty of your name. it’s never quiet with her, not that you’d want it to be.

she talks you through it and she isn't shy about it. she likes giving orders and watching you fall apart when following religiously every word she says.

she’ll tease you mercilessly, grinning as she whispers things like, “oh, darling, you’ll have to beg if you want more. i couldn't quite hear you.”

while glinda radiates self-assurance, there’s also an adorable side of her that craves reassurance and exploration. “do you like it when i do this?” she’ll ask, watching your every reaction like her life depends on it.

if you wear glasses, she would love to keep it during sex. "let's put that back in," she says, while gracefully on top of you.

during your first time, she'd be so gentle and attentive to how you'd react to every touch of hers. you feel like passing out when she runs her fingers through your soaked folds so patiently just to see your face contorting in pleasure.

"oh, there it is," she says softly, with that adorable smile feigning innocence, when you trembled at the pad of her thumb touching your clit.

sometimes, when you are in your shared dorm after class, tired and sitting on your bed, you decide to read a book. it takes glinda nothing more than 5 seconds to get bored and impatient and climb onto the bed, crawling to you to spread your legs open and sit in between them. you'd complain and say you were reading and she'd go like "of course. keep doing that, darling, i'm not stopping you," before having her face buried in your pretty pussy.

glinda loves trailing her lips along your neck, often leaving faint marks she calls “little declarations of my adoration.” the hollow of your collarbone is her second favorite spot, especially if you’re wearing something that exposes it. you can't blame her, she likes showing you off!

she finds kissing your thighs endlessly fascinating, claiming it’s the “perfect way to worship you.” expect slow, lingering kisses here, especially when she’s feeling extra romantic (or very horny).

there’s something incredibly intimate about the way she kisses your fingertips and palms, sometimes intertwining your fingers with hers as she gazes at you like you’re the only person in existence.

tell her how beautiful she is, how good she’s making you feel, or how much you want her, and she’ll melt into a puddle of happiness. her confidence skyrockets when you’re vocal about your admiration.

glinda adores the little things. running her hands over every curve of your body, memorizing your favorite spots, and taking her time to make sure you feel completely adored.

post-intimacy, glinda becomes the clingiest cuddle bug ever. she insists on holding you close, peppering you with soft kisses, and telling you (loudly) just how much she adores you. if you let go of her to go get some water, she'll get very upset. do you even love her? do you hate her now? how dare you to abandon her for... 10 seconds?

[yesbothways]

I do not actually know how to handle how brilliant Arcane is. I had thought so much about how hard it would be to write a sex scene for Vi and Caitlyn that would fit with the excellence of the rest of the show. And the main question on my mind was like, where do you make it happen? The when was obvious to me, like right before the final battle, when everything is so heightened. But where was not. You cannot just use Caitlyn's mansion, because it means the wrong thing. This isn't a rags-to-riches for Vi where a girl who is essentially Piltover royalty falls in love with her. No. We aren't doing that. This is a ship where the extreme class difference doesn't mean anything except constant pressure to be enemies - means being caught in a cycle of violence and retribution. In this world, theirs is what a deviant and by default doomed love looks like. The class divide between topside and the undercity is the primary, structural inequality. And for them to essentially use repetition and parallel to stage that scene where Vi focuses on her one core loyalty and breaks the law to save her sister, then Jinx hits Vi in the wound and leaves her locked in the cell alone, and Vi has essentially an emotional crash over the cycle of failure and tragedy she's locked in... only to find that Caitlyn came down to get Vi and let her out of prison again. The way that communicated a crazy level of true love: I have so much recognition that I know what you're going to do when things get real and choices dire. And I love you, not in spite of this, but for this. And I am on your side no matter what is happening around us. Louder than loss or hate or revenge or duty or society. And then they just have sex right there and turn that prison cell into something completely else, unlocked and unprecedented. Nothing could be more of a clear poetic expression that their love wins in this against countless odds. Like if we weren't getting what their relationship was, if we were doubting it, if we were still thinking this story would be a tragedy piled on top of endless lesbian love stories used as the vehicle for tragedy, they just fucking said what their story was so hard it hit like a shift to another world. Punctuated by the final note of the last scene. And I genuinely fucking love them for this.

[morphids]

Omg… I love your works I’ve been keeping up with them for a while now! How cute would it be for Levi and Hange to be childhood friends and for reader to be Levi’s little sister in a modern! I imagine reader would have a crush on Hange but not say anything until they’re all adults 😭 probably mentioning it briefly in conversation like “haha yeah i had a crush on you… anyway”

brother’s best friend, hange zoë

oh hell yeah i love this!! sorry, i made it smutty—couldn’t help myself <3 hope u enjoy anonie! i put my whole pussy into it lmao

summary: brothers best friend!hange x f!reader modern au.

warnings: 18+ minors & ageless blogs dni!! explicit sexual content. poc friendly! nb!hange x female!reader. forbidden/secret relationship, switch!hange, switch!reader, older brother!levi. lesbian activity, yearning, angst? jealousy, fwb!abby anderson x reader cameo, dirty talk, tongue piercing, fingersucking, fingering, munching, strap usage, strap licking, hange refers to the strap as their cock once, they're both whores. for eachother <3. can't think of anything else. hange is tatted n pierced cos i said so :p

wc: 12.4k words.. look idk either don't ask. proofread but there's so many words im sure there's bound to be errors with my dyslexic ass.

—

As a child, you always used to follow your older brother everywhere. I mean, that's kind of a rite of passage as a younger sibling. You looked up to him, his friend group was nice to you, much to Levi's discontent, always buying you ice cream and little snacks and ruffling your hair until it was a tangled mess on your head.

You were only two years younger than him, but he acted like you were eight years old whenever you'd ask if you could go out with him and his friends.

"No—you can come when you're taller than me." He'd say, it worked when you were still smaller, but you had a little growth spurt, making you almost the same height as him. Levi hated that, being victim to endless teasing from both your parents and his friends.

 "But, I'm already almost taller than you?"

"Doesn't matter, brat." But he'd sigh, and let you go anyway. Feeling your mother's stare on him, no words needed, a simple look that stated, 'Take her with you, and don't argue,"

It wasn't like you didn't have any friends of your own to hang out with, but his were just, so cool. So different to yours. They stayed out much later and did more fun things like going to buy milkshakes and sit around idly in parks. Stuff your friends weren't allowed to do.

Plus, one particular friend of his always caught your eye more than the others. Hange.

With their comfy cardigans and messy hair, cheerful smile and bright demeanour. They were way taller than Levi, you always found that funny. How technically, he wasn't even tall enough to go out either by the standards he placed on you.

Looking back on it, you were a little embarrassed at how you trailed after Hange like a lost puppy. Eyeing their every move and following them as you tried to force their attention on you. Cringing at your younger self, you just really liked them. Wanted to be their friend, to hang out with them as much as you could.

Now, though, you had all grown into adulthood, you were in your first semester at college, at home for the first break of the year. The woes of young adulthood following you around like it did everyone else.

Levi and Hange remained best friends throughout, many of his other friends moving to distant colleges, whilst both of them stayed local, their friendship held strong.

You were currently reading a book on your bed as you heard the familiar laughs from Hange, and chattering from Levi through the open gap of your door.

You always admired their friendship, how close they were and the effort they made into retaining it. Many of your own friendships had come and gone, lost to time and petty arguments but theirs never did, not even once.

Sure, you had Mikasa, the closest you had to a best friend but she was bound to you by familial ties and family values. You often wondered if your friendship would've remained if you weren't cousins. You weren't ungrateful, though, Mikasa is a ride-or-die type of person. If you were friends with her, she'd die for you. Her own code of loyalty un-breaking in the face of silly things that'd rip other friendships apart. You hadn't seen her for a few days, though. She'd gone on some trip with her parents and boyfriend, and not wanting to ruin their family bonding time you opted to stay at home during the holidays.

Consequently, you were insanely bored. Out of your mind, even. You had read that book maybe five times? You weren't sure if you had it in you to finish it for the sixth. So, rather begrudgingly, you made your way down the stairs, to where Levi and Hange were sat playing video games on the couch.

Hange's legs were spread as their elbows rested on each knee, both of them hunched over their remotes, backs bent to feel closer to the screen. Shouting incoherently as their chosen characters were beating each other up, throwing high kicks and brutal uppercuts in a 1v1.

You watched them for a while, laughing as Levi got his ass kicked by Hange's chosen character. Claiming that Hange was cheating to make himself feel better about losing.

Hange hadn't changed much, their features were the same, albeit more pronounced and mature. It was their style that changed the most, going from dorky graphic tees to tightly cropped tank tops that exposed their arms and baggy ripped jeans that hung low on their slender hips. Not to mention the new piercings and the tats that now covered their wrists and upper chest, often poking through the collar hem.

Their hair was shorter, now, too. Layered strands falling out of its tie as shorter pieces framed the structure of their face. A curved, short metallic line pierced through their right eyebrow, along with a small band hanging off their septum on a curved nose. Hange was always attractive, for sure, but they got insanely hot. Confidence just radiated from them as they got comfortable in their own skin. You had always been drawn to them, you just got better at hiding it. The prefrontal cortex developing into self-awareness at how embarrassing it was to be so openly craving Hange's attention. Plus, they were Levi's best friend, it simply couldn't happen.

Did I mention they were also gay? You remembered when Hange first came out to Levi, nervously telling him about a crush they had on a cute barista in the city. You also especially remembered the way your chest constricted and the bitter taste that soured your tongue as Hange fawned over this cute girl they spoke to just a few times.

Levi took it well, like a good friend, besides he was gay, too— in love with Erwin. He told you about their secret kisses and conflicted feelings one night, after a bit too much to drink that he was heartbroken when Erwin moved away, and onto to better things. A disregarded potential relationship that never kicked off, he hasn't found another half since. You wished he would, he was a good person.

Hange noticed you standing behind them, head turning slightly for confirmation of your presence before turning back to try and focus on the screen. You were bent over the back of the couch, elbows resting on the cushions as you watched their game, the loose, comfy shorts exposing your thighs and a tight long-sleeved shirt with a cut down to the chest, pretty white lace rimming the hem as it sunk down. Due to your position, the grooves of your cleavage were slightly exposed, enhanced by the propping up by your elbows on the couch.

Hange suddenly started doing really bad at the game, their fumbling allowed Levi to throw them off and back them into the far edge of the screen, hit after hit until the health bar lowered fully and a low 'fatality' sounded out from the speakers.

"Fucking finally!" Levi exclaimed, shocked but happy that he won a match at long last. Hange groaned, setting the controller down, standing up to stretch their limbs, tank riding up their stomach as they did so.

"I don't even know how that happened, man." "Needa get your head in the game!" Levi was revelling in his win, clearly it must not happen very often for him. "Big talk for someone who lost every other match," Hange teased, taking a sip from their bottled water as they glanced up at you.

"Wanna play?" They asked, passing you the remote. "Nah, I'm good, would rather watch you beat Levi." "Man, screw you." Levi chuckled, knowing you weren't wrong. He had won by pure chance, and perhaps a little added distraction.

You moved around the couch to enter the kitchen for some snacks, Hange's gaze trailing after you as you walked away. Eyes falling down to subtly observe the way the hem of your shorts cut off a little too far up on your thighs, shaping around the curve of your ass as the soft fabric swished with your movements. You looked fucking good, with your hips that now filled out any pair of your jeans, smooth thighs and nice bre—

"Stop that," Levi tutted, smacking his hand hard on the back of Hange's head. "Hey! Stop what?" Hange responded, more defensively than they'd like to admit, rubbing their head over where Levi's knuckles had collided. "Staring at her," He whispered, not wanting you to hear from within the kitchen. He could hear you messing with plates and opening drawers, it was safe for now.

"I wasn— wasn't staring at her, man." "Sure. It's not like I have eyes or anything," Levi rolled his eyes, "Just don't stare at my sister like that, creep."

Hange scoffed, lowering their gaze to the remote, they weren't being a creep, right? You just got really hot, it wasn't a crime to look. It's not like they were going to actually try anything. You were Levi's little sister, for crying out loud!

"Whatever, man, let's just play," Hange muttered, loading the next match up. "Don't forget the promise." Levi murmured, eyes locked on the screen, not even looking at them as he said it.

Ugh, the promise.

The promise that Levi made his male, straight friends make to him, and then Hange, too, when they came out as a lesbian, the 'don't you dare try anything on her,' promise.

It happened one day after he caught Jean eyeing you up perversely, followed by an inappropriate comment about just how attractive you got and that he'd willingly take you out, amongst other things. Levi, being unimpressed as always, slapped him across the head, not so kindly letting him know you were strictly off-limits. That he shouldn't dare try anything, lest he face Levi's wrath.

He may have found you annoying, but you were still his sister. No matter what, he'd always want to keep you away from certain things, if he could help it. Canoodling around with Jean and ending up hurt was one of them, he didn't want another comment to be made like that in the future, so he made the others promise, too.

Hange wasn't like that, weren't a player by any means. Quite the opposite, respectful of women and monogamous, in fact, Hange had been the victim of being cheated on a few times. Never the other way around.

No, his motivations for making Hange promise were different than when he made Jean do it. Hange was his longest and most closest friend, he'd be damned if something were to happen between you, get fucked up and cost him their friendship. Didn't want the uncomfortable risk of being made to pick sides when something goes wrong and lose it all.

So that was that, you were off-limits. It was made abundantly clear. He didn't really care what you did with people he didn't know, or wasn't close with, isn't his business, frankly. But anyone in his friend group? No way. That was way too close for comfort.

"No one could forget the promise, Levi, y'never let 'em." Hange huffed, he had always been so insistent with it. "Good."

Hange hated that promise, with a passion. I mean, it's not like they intended to break it, and hurt Levi. But, come on? A promise? It's not like they'd fuck you around. You meant way more than that.

With a plate full of little cut up fruits in your hand, you stepped back into the living room, humming a random tune to yourself. Painfully, blissfully unaware of the conversation that had just taken place between them.

Hange made sure to keep their eyes locked in on the screen, especially as you sat yourself down on the floor in front of the couch, directly in front of Hange so you wouldn't block the television. Then especially as you grabbed at the squares of cut watermelon, propping it on your tongue and even more especially when Hange caught little drops of fruit juice trickling down the corner of your mouth. Their eyes darted away quickly, frenzied button smashing as they beat Levi again.

With an annoyed groan from Levi and a loud cheer from you, Hange felt a swell of pride within their chest as you rejoiced in their win against your brother. This is bad, they thought, they need to push that shit all the way down. And quickly.

—

A few days had passed, and the conversation they had the other day was completely forgotten, at least by Levi. It was eating Hange up alive. Guilt feeding at their chest as they knew none of this wouldn't end well, one way or another. It was getting harder and harder to be around you and pretend. Pretend that they weren't having weird thoughts about their best friend's sister.

Maybe Levi would make an exception for them?

Hange grunted, head in their hands as they knew that would simply never happen. Levi had made it too big an issue of it to simply back down now.

They were dreading the barbecue your family had so kindly invited them to, Hange was pretty much an honorary member of the household. Your parents absolutely loved them. Hange would hate to ruin that. Their own family wasn't as nice, or as welcoming. Hange felt extremely grateful that they had been given a second home and been able to experience what it was actually meant to be like. That couldn't all just go down the drain.

And yet, there you were.

Amongst the members of your family and invited friends, you were sitting outside on a deck chair, huddling around the table with Mikasa and another unidentified person, some buff woman with a long, blonde braid, whispering to each other, god knows what about. Your hand was cradled around the glass of your self-made cocktail, the other gesturing to match whatever you were talking about, a bright smile on your tainted dark-red lips and long-winged eye-liner to match.

Hange couldn't help but stand there and admire you. Levi's words echoed in their head whilst they looked at how the short, white dress fit around your chest. The way it tightly hugged your waist and flowed out. Levi's words repeated over and over like a mantra all the while.

I'm so fucking screwed.

That feeling soon doubled, however. Hange was sipping on their cold beer, taking a long swig of it. Their fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle as that unnamed person next to you placed their muscled arm around your waist. Comfortably and without a care in the world. Like it was so easy for them. The twist in their chest exacerbated when you leaned into their touch, placing your head on their shoulder, as you continued speaking with Mikasa.

Hange broke their gaze away as Levi shouted them over, asking for them to grab some spare cutlery from the kitchen. Being close enough with your family, Hange was often tasked with helping out. They didn't mind, honestly they'd rather go clean the whole damn kitchen if it meant not watching the way the blonde carelessly nuzzled her nose into your neck, and the giggles that left your lips. Hange wanted it to be them.

They quickly made their way into the empty house, the guests enjoying the sunshine outside as your father singed spiced meat on the barbecue. Chattering and drinking away. All of them without a care.

Hange stood there for a few seconds, trying to regulate themselves and rationalise. That the image of that shouldn't have affected them so much. They were being a terrible friend to Levi by even allowing the discomfort, by allowing the anger to be fuelled by a sight of you cuddling up to someone else. Knowing that they could never freely do so.

Hange didn't hear you step into the kitchen, about to grab some paper towels for the drink you'd spilled all over the table outside.

"Um, are you okay?"

Your recognisable voice rang out amongst the silence, Hange's head turning towards you.

"Oh—um, yeah, yeah, I'm good." Lies.

"You sure?" You stepped closer to them, placing a hand on their bicep with concern. Hange could smell the intoxicating signature perfume you always wore, vanilla with tones of lavender, "You were just kinda stood there?" Your expression was worried, brows furrowed as you looked them over.

You had always been so caring, especially towards Hange, but right now it was just stressing them out. Too confusing. It was allowing them to think too deeply on the why.

"I just... forgot what I came here for," Another lie. Yet, the way it came out from them was way too easy, one of the perks of growing up in a house where you had to evade certain truths to avoid harsh punishment.

You bit your lip and furrowed your brows, a hint that you didn't quite believe what they were spewing, but decided not to push it.

"Alright, I just came for some napkins," Your hand left their arm, "You should join us out there, Mikasa wants to ask you stuff about her course, you both study the same thing."

Greaat. Hange wanted to throw themself on the barbecue. Of fucking course.

Hange and Levi were in their last year of college, due to graduate this year. Mikasa started studying the same course, Hange remembered you mentioning it once. Normally, they'd have no qualms about helping out, but right now? Having to sit with you all, right next to the woman they had no idea you were even seeing? And watch helplessly as she touched you in the places Hange so desperately wanted to in her stead? No, thank you.

But Hange has never been able to say no to you. So with a heavy heart, and a stiff smile they nodded. "Would love to,"

—

Hange was not having a happy fun time. Having joined your table with Levi, in hopes that it wouldn't be so suspect if he was there, too. It was fucking difficult, trying to eat your dad's delicious cooking and your mother's famously drizzled salad, whilst you and the other girl, who they now know was called Abby, were chatting amongst yourselves.

Hange tried to focus on the questions about the course that Mikasa had. Tried to be helpful, not glaring at the muscled blonde that enjoyed touching you up at a family gathering a little too much. How could Levi not have a problem with this? How could he sit there and eat nonchalantly like his little sister wasn't getting felt up by this stranger you'd invited?

Hange would never be able to do this, not in a million years.

Mikasa had eventually ran out of questions for Hange, leaving the table with the typical silence that befalls over people enjoying a good meal. Apart from you and Levi bickering a little bit, and a few chatters between you, Mikasa and Abby, there was a lot of empty gaps.

Hange was usually someone that had a lot to say, with a lot to contribute to group outings, sometimes even too much. But right now? They could barely find a word to utter. Focusing on sipping their beer and finishing their meal. All whilst trying to ignore how Abby's hand landed at your thigh, with a squeeze so subtle that no one else batted an eye at it, except Hange.

They were hyperaware of all of the touches, and not proud to admit how it made their entire body seethe. Was this your new girlfriend? Hange didn't even know you were into women. Obviously, asking in the past would've probably made Levi question their motives, so they just always assumed you were straight, accepting they didn't have a chance. Hange's brain felt heavy, so full of thoughts that just wouldn't stop.

"Are you feeling better?" The sweetness in your voice didn't help, neither did the cautious look in your eyes as you asked them the question, clearly still thinking about Hange's odd behaviour from earlier. "Yeah, why?" "You've been quieter than usual, weirdo, it's freaky." said Levi, picking his food apart with a fork.

"I'm fine." They muttered, necking the last dregs of the bottle, hating how the attention had turned to them. Focus on the weird stranger feeling up your sister, not me!

After a while, Hange and Levi excused themselves, leaving the table and going to play video games in the living room, Hange thanked their lucky stars they could finally leave the table. Storming away would've brought too many questions they weren't ready to answer yet.

—

Night fell, the guests had left, your parents had gone to bed and all that remained was you and Abby chatting outside. Hange was nested on the couch in the dark, cozied up with a blanket. Levi didn't like sharing his bedroom very often, so Hange was sometimes exiled to the couch— it was a really comfortable couch, though, so it wasn't the worst scenario.

No, the worst scenario was right outside the backyard door, trying to creep inside quietly. Hange thought it was just you, at first, trying to drunkenly enter the house without waking your parents. They hadn't expected to see the Abby's silhouette trailing behind you, hand in hand.

It was dark, but certain lights from the outside were shining through the door, which was more a slidable window than a door. Hange wanted to sink into the couch when they heard your soft gasps as they could make out Abby pressing you up against the wall. Followed by the low smacking of lips against your neck as you let out a quiet moan, Abby quickly covered your mouth with her palm to keep you quiet, with a gentle, ssh. Clearly, neither of you noticed the other presence in the room, sat on the couch with an unfortunate view of the whole thing.

This was torture. Was this God's punishment for emotionally breaking Levi's promise? For having such thoughts about you and weird, romantic feelings towards you since you were both teens?

Hange shut their eyes, heart racing from accidentally witnessing the intimate sight, awkwardly covering their face with the blanket so they could see no more. Wishing that their torture would end. Unfortunately, they could still hear you kissing each other as you led Abby upstairs to your bedroom. They could still hear your door shut and the subsequent creaking of your bed right above their head.

They just didn't happen to hear the way you accidentally ended up moaning Hange's name into Abby's ear as she fucked you.

—

You were mortified.

So ashamed of your own actions as the sober morning awoke your thoughts. It had been a very awkward encounter between you and Abby.

Look, you weren't dating, it was a purely physical relationship. It started a few weeks ago when you needed some quick relief from someone you trusted and Abby happened to feel the same. You were both on the same page that there were no feelings involved, a simple friends with benefits agreement. A you scratch my back, I scratch yours, situation.

That doesn't mean that explaining to your college friend why you had moaned your brother's childhood best friend's name into her ear as she was knuckles deep inside you was a fun conversation to have. You didn't exactly fucking mean to, Hange had just looked so delicious all day, as they always did, you couldn't get them out of your mind. Plus, they were behaving odd yesterday, and as a concerned citizen, of course they had ended up on your mind? That was normal, right?

Abby was understanding, of course, she was, she was the sweetest. Even going as far as wishing you good luck and hoping that it ends up with the outcome you want. It didn't alleviate the embarrassment, though, finding yourself locked alone in the early morning hours as Abby vacated your house. You didn't want to face Hange, even if they didn't know what happened— you did, that was enough motivation to isolate yourself for the rest of eternity.

The sound of your stomach rumbling was the only thing that propelled you out from your bed, forcing you to go downstairs and feed yourself some breakfast. So imagine your horror as you saw Hange laying on the couch, awake, watching videos on their phone in the early hours of the morning, as they sometimes do when Levi doesn't feel like sharing his tiny bed. He was a notoriously late riser. Did they see you and Abby last night? You'd been a bit too inebriated last night to notice if they had been there whole time. That just makes you feel even worse.

Hange was the one you wanted. You had always wanted Hange, even when you were younger and didn't realise what that drive was called. As you grew up and realised what it was, you just shoved it deeply away for Levi's benefit, knowing he was uncomfortable with you dating his friends. What a shitty situation.

"Looked like you had fun last night," Hange spoke without looking at you, eyes stuck on their phone. They don't know why they even said that. They shouldn't have said anything at all. It was none of their business, and it shouldn't matter. You weren't theirs. It shouldn't bother them if you were dating someone else, it definitely shouldn't make their chest tighten a cold grip around their throat at the thought of you sleeping with someone else.

"Uh, did you see anything?" what a great job of not sounding suspicious.

"I saw enough to know you had fun," Hange muttered, rolling their eyes, lifting themself up into a seated position.

"I'm so sorry, we didn't realise anyone was here," The shame was visibly clear in your voice, the way it fumbled and stuttered, "I wouldn't have done that if I saw you were here."

"Wouldn't have slept with her or wouldn't have done it in your living room?" It was out before Hange could stop it, resenting the reeking jealousy hanging off their words. They had no right.

"I.. it's not like I slept with her right on top of you." You defended, not enjoying Hange's clear disappointment towards you, it didn't feel good in your stomach.

"Hm— it was close enough." stop it, Hange, what exactly are you doing? Their inner monologue shouted at them.

"Please, like you've never slept with anyone before." You crossed your arms over your chest, sighing, getting visibly more upset.

"I—you're right. I'm sorry, it's not my place." Hange ceded, taking a deep breath that matched yours. Finally looking in your direction to make eye contact. They didn't love the guilt that was riddled on your face, they shouldn't have made you feel bad for that. It wasn't fair on you.

You eased up at their words, uncrossing your arms as you placed yourself next to them on the couch. Dropping on the cushion beside them with a loud thump.

"Please, just don't tell Levi, okay? I don't wanna hear it."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Hange's expression was vague, a weird mix of defeat and weak despair, their teeth drawing in their lower lip. You rested your head against Hange's shoulder, it felt too tense, a frigid air haunting the room as they placed their head over yours.

"She's not my girlfriend, alright, we just sleep together sometimes." There was no reason for you explain yourself, not officially anyway. You just didn't want Hange to think that you were dating Abby.

Hange nodded, ignoring the punch of all punches that just punctured deep within their chest, "Don't worry, I won't say anything, dear." Their words were soft, a sudden contrast to the escalating conflict that was about to happen moments before. Lifting your head slightly, your eyes met, looking up at Hange, who matched the eye contact. Both of you just sat there for a few seconds, gazing at each other with terse silence. Both forced to sit with the uncomfortable tension.

Against your better judgement, your gaze sunk to Hange's lips, just before the sound of Levi's bedroom door opening upstairs split you two away from each other. Heart race sped up against your ears as the both of you jumped up into proper posture like you hadn't just been inches apart a second ago. Levi was whistling as he came down the stairs, and you prompted yourself to finally get yourself some breakfast.

Staying inside the house was too much for you today, it was a Friday night, you should go out and have fun! Forget all these weird thoughts and just let loose. You messaged Mikasa whilst your bread was toasting, asking if she was up for going out later. Once she answered with an agreement, you had eaten your toast and told Levi you had plans for the night. Your parents had left early that morning for a weekend get-away, leaving him in charge of the house.

—

On the Uber ride back home from the bar, you felt bad for the poor driver. He had to listen to you and Mikasa talk nonsense and laugh hysterically at literally nothing reasonable, you had to remember to give him a tip. He definitely deserves it. Nothing worse than dealing with stupidly drunk people when you're stone sober. You ended up drinking more than you intended, spilling your feelings to Mikasa who listened intently to your woes before trying to get your mind off things—off Hange specifically.

The Uber reached your house, and you said your goodbyes, making sure Mikasa was sharing the trip with you so that you could make sure she got home safely, too. Girl code, you know?

At your doorstep, you struggled to find your keys, lost deep in the depths of your tote bag. You don't even know why you still used them, they were bad for your posture and everything gets lost in them. You resorted to loudly knocking on the door repeatedly so Levi could let you in.

"Why are you banging on the door like you're being chased?" Hange said, why they opened the door and not your brother, you were too drunk to figure out.

"I.. can't find my keys,"

Hange sighed, chuckling as they let you in. Seemingly over the encounter you both shared that morning. You definitely weren't.

"Where's Levi?" You mumbled, tripping over your the doorstep as you attempted to make your way inside, clawing at the wall to keep yourself stable. You hoped that sober you wouldn't remember that.

"On the phone to your parents, they wanted him to take a photo of something they forgot to take," Hange grabbed your wrist, holding you up as they brought you inside, "Just how drunk are you?"

"Hella," you laughed, your eyes sparkling up at them. Drunkenness evident in your face just by your eyes.

"Great, your parents won't want to see you like this,"

"What—I'm fine! I got home okay?" You argued, before Hange shushed you so that your parents couldn't hear your drunken slurring, grabbing your phone from your pocket, "Need to check if Mikasa did,"

Catching Levi's attention, he twisted his neck around to see what was going on, muting the microphone from his phone, so he could speak to Hange.

"Is she drunk?" He sighed, unamused and definitely not impressed.

"Like a pirate." Hange responded, still holding you up by your wrist, you glanced at their bare arms. Putting your phone away as the notification that Mikasa's journey had ended.

"I'm not that drun—"

"Fucks sake, Hange, take her upstairs." Levi interrupted you, tutting, not wanting to turn the mic back on until you'd both gone upstairs.

Hange pretty much carried you up, following behind you on the staircase like a bodyguard, with an arm held out to ensure that you didn't fall over and break something. Once you reached your bedroom safely, Hange brought you to your bed, taking off your boots and jacket before making you lie down on the mattress. You just looked up at them as they helped you wordlessly, watched as they grabbed a water bottle from your bedside table and passed it to you.

"You should drink some of that before you sleep, it'll help you tomorrow."

"I don't need water, like I said, I feel fine..." You argued again, ignoring that the room was spinning too much as you finally laid horizontally. Alcohol was grim.

"Just drink it." Hange crossed their arms, not budging until you lifted the bottle to your lips, almost drinking half of it before setting it down. Hadn't realised how thirsty you actually were.

"There, happy?"

"Very, goodnight." They turned around to leave you, hand hovering over the light-switch.

"Hange, wait." You shouted, they turned back around to face you, as you continued, "Can you stay with me? The room is spinning—don't wanna throw up."

Hange's eyes widened, mouth splitting open. "I.. don't think that's a very good idea." Levi was right downstairs, what if he thinks Hange was taking advantage of you or something?

Your persistence was almost admirable, lips curved into a slight pout as you gaze broke through theirs, reaching over to tug at Hange's shirt, "Please, Hange?"

With this, Hange was once again reminded of their inability to say no to you, sighing with defeat as they sat just an inch on your bed, their back to you as you were laid down. The awkward distance in between made it clear that they were planning on leaving again shortly, deciding to just linger around until you fell asleep, messing with their nails to pass the time. You were taking a while to drift away though, not happy with how far they were sitting from you, like you were contagious.

Whilst they were distracted with their fiddling, you drunkenly thought it was a good idea to grab the back of their shirt. Pulling at it until Hange was laying side by side to you, you ignored Hange's surprised yelp and rested your head on their chest. It felt more secure than the pillow, the room not spinning as much.

"That's better," you beamed, happy with yourself, snuggling in between Hange's arm as you sighed contently, basking in their warmth. Meanwhile, Hange was panicking, praying that Levi wouldn't walk in and think the worst. They hoped you couldn't feel their heart speed up with your proximity, or the quickened rises of their chest with your head snuggled into them as you tucked your feet underneath yourself.

Hange tried to ease their racing heartbeat by looking around your room. It was very you. Your personality all over the walls and decorations. Hange thought you had drifted off by then, until your voice broke the calming silence.

"You're so pretty, Hange."

They turn to face you, heart skipping as they see the starry admiration in your eyes, attributing that to the alcohol.

"You've clearly had too much to drink," Hange tries to shrug it off, despite the hot red splotching in their cheeks. They messed with their eyebrow piercing, spinning it around, a habit that formed quickly after it healed.

You firm it though, the many volumes of gin in your system easing your words out, "No. I always thought it, even when I wasn't legally allowed to drink," you huffed, nuzzling deeper into their chest, almost reaching the crook of Hange's neck.

Hange was freaking out, fumbling to think of a response, convincing themself that you were just drunkenly babbling—desperate to not let a little spark of hope develop into an unstoppable force. Yet, you held firm as an immovable object, wanting them to know just how serious you were. So they just scoffed, leaning their head back against your headboard in false nonchalance.

"I mean it! I had a little crush on you when we were younger."

Hange short-circuited, you had a crush on them? Wait—what do you mean by had? Did it disappear? Dissipated and lost in the wind as your network of people expanded and Hange wasn't the only person in your close proximity? They had a crush on you, too, but it never left.

Your head fell forwards, the weight of your own head too heavy to hold up any longer as it sank lower and lower, eventually resting totally on Hange. "Always wanted you to like me back—it's embarrassing..." you mumbled, eyes fluttering shut as your voice grew more drowsy, "Maybe one day."

Just Hange's luck, right? They wanted you to fall asleep that entire time and you'd refused, but as soon as you put those blasphemous words out there, sleep had already gotten its grip on you. By the time Hange worked up the courage to look down at you, you were snoozing away, regular, soft breaths escaping as you slept peacefully— unaware of the brain damage you just inflicted.

Well, shit, what now?

—

Levi was subsequently left alone downstairs the entire night. He knew he asked Hange to take you upstairs, but they'd been up there for a damn long time, now. It's not like he didn't trust Hange, he'd trust Hange with his life and yours any day. They were not a threat in any sense of the word.

But he had this itchy feeling in the back of his head, that he just had to go check out what was happening. He took himself up the stairs, waiting outside your bedroom door for a minute to sus if he could hear anything through the walls. At the silence, he turned the doorknob and looked at the scene.

Your boots, side by side in line on the floor against your bed. Your jacket neatly folded up at the edge of the bed. And then you, cradling a half-empty bottle of water as you were cozied under Hange's arm, both fully dressed, sleeping soundly and undisturbed on their chest. Hange was gone, too. Lost the fight against sleep as their head was leaning against the headboard, not the comfiest position but he'd seen Hange sleep in way worse conditions.

You two looked.. almost sweet. Innocently sleeping on each other that it almost made Levi feel guilty about the stupid promise. Almost.

The risk was still too strong a threat. Too big a risk to chance. It's not like he was stupid, he'd clocked your attraction to each other a long time ago, he just hadn't anticipated there being emotional sweetness along with it. With a sigh, Levi closed the door and went to his own bedroom.

—

Light was beaming through your curtains, your eyes fluttered open as you awoke. Luckily, your head wasn't pounding too much, you were thankful that you got minimal level hangovers. The only thing you needed was water, throat feeling scratchy, but you just felt so comfortable. Your eyes opened properly, the strain of sleep having latched your eyes shut, a saw what you were laying on. Or rather—who.

Hange was fast asleep beside you, neck bent slightly to the side, their arm was around your back and your arm around their stomach. Your stomach sank as you noticed you had been cuddling them in their sleep, as memories of last night started popping through your mind. That's embarrassing, you thought. Looking back at Hange, you took the opportunity to admire them. Freely allowing yourself to admire their long eyelashes that casted lines of shadows on their skin, that lovely nose as it dipped into their septum piercing. Plump lips pouty as they rested. They were beautiful, breathtaking in the soft light of the morning.

Picking yourself up, you quickly made your way through to the bathroom to brush your teeth, promptly returning back to your spot on the bed.

You grabbed a water bottle, it'd been wedged underneath you during your sleep, hurting your ribs a little bit. There was half of it left, that's enough for now. Attempting to be quiet as you drank, but it was obvious that the crackles of plastic were too loud for Hange to continue sleeping, lifting their head as their gaze fell on you. "Hi." you breathed out, a cautious greeting against the silence in the room.

"Hi." Hange rasped out, voice deeper, coated with sleep. You sat up, not wanting to make Hange feel uncomfortable by leaning yourself against them any longer.

"How you feeling?" they asked, using the free space around them to sit up straight and stretch out their back, cracking as it did.

"Fine.." you responded, "uh—thank you for helping me last night."

Hange's cheeks heated up, breaking contact as they cleared their throat. So did you remember? Did you remember the haunting words you whispered into the night as you fell asleep?

"Yeah—um, no need to thank me," "Well, still—thank you for staying with me."

Hange nodded, their demeanour deflating as they failed to hold eye contact with you. What could they say? That they would stay with you forever if you asked? That they would gather you in their arms and keep you comfortable any day if it meant seeing the content smile on your lips? That they wished you had meant those sacred words?

"I'm—uh—a little embarrassed," You muttered, playing with the rimmed edges on the bottlecap, "I—"

"Y'don't need to explain—I get it, you were drunk."

Gaping up at them, you let out a sigh, "That.. wasn't what I was gonna say."

Hange was slipping away from you, their usual tender sweetness towards you covered by an uncharacteristic stiffness. You had no choice but be honest with them. Hange deserves to know the truth.

"I meant it, you know? That's why I'm embarrassed."

That seemed to grab their attention, their eyes finally meeting yours. The rise and fall of their chest increasing, eyebrows quipping up, you continued.

"I've always liked you," you whispered, "I just wish it didn't come out like that, if it hadn't maybe you'd believe me."

"But, Abby—"

"Was a distraction. A bad way of keeping myself away from you," you grabbed their hand, holding it, "'cos I don't know if you've noticed, Hange, but it's always been you."

Hange's mouth split open, lips moving as they thought of a response. You took the surprise on their face and the silence on their lips as an admission that your feelings just simply weren't returned.

"I-I know it's a lot to put on you, I'm sorry— I just couldn't hold it in—"

"I feel the same way." was their direct response, cutting you off before you could take the words back. To stop them from seeping into the walls and being long forgotten.

Biting your lip, eyes staring at one another's nervously, contrasting the serenity of the bedroom's illumination. Tentatively, you reached out a hand, placing it lightly on Hange's jaw. Letting out a soft breath, Hange's eyes fell shut, deeply nudging their face closer into the caress of your hand. Eyes only opening when they felt your body budge itself on the bed, seeing how close you now were to their lips.

"Hange," you muttered, words laced with your nerves. Your stomach rippling with uncertainty, the anticipation making you shiver as you leaned closer to them, lips inches away from theirs.

"We can't," Hange whimpered, the hesitation evident, "Levi will kill me." Their voice was so quiet, scared to utter the fact that you both knew. You're off-limits. No matter how much they craved feeling your lips on theirs. That facts remained.

"I don't fucking care about Levi."

Truthfully, you've simply had enough of your older brother being an obstacle in the only relationship you wanted. Throughout the span of your life, you've yearned for Hange, there's no way you'd allow this chance to escape you.

"If we both want this," Your dangerously sweet whispers were serpentine, like a siren sinking a sailor to their certain death. Even as your heart was racing, one of your thighs moved over Hange's stomach, until eventually you were straddling over them, Hange's dainty hands trembled as they delicately hovered over your thighs, almost scared to touch you, "Why should it matter?"

Dampening your bottom lip with a quick dart of your tongue, you leaned into them again, thighs tightening around Hange's midsection as that little black dress of yours from last night rode up, exposing more of your legs. Hange gripped the skin of your plush thighs so hard, a testament to their restrained desires.

"Why should he stop you from going after what you want?"

Your lips met the skin below Hange's ear, grazing light pecks that caused goosebumps up their spine. Hange was breathing heavily beneath you, head hanging back as they bit back sighs. Their conflicting thoughts seeping in their brain, overshadowed by the skimming of your lips burning their skin.

"Fuck—"

Hange lifted their thigh, pressing it against the centre of your legs, as your teeth sunk over their neck. Sucking on the soft skin and running your tongue over. Hange couldn't hold back a little whimper at the contact, especially as your hips began rolling, rubbing your clothed centre over their propped up thigh.

"I—I want you so bad, Hange, please."

That was it. The rope of restraint snapped, the moment had reached over its boiling point as you whimpered against their neck. Hange grabbed the top of your spine, eyes meeting briefly before they melded their lips over yours. 

You were whirling, hips grinding against Hange as your lips connected ardently. Feverishly slow open-mouthed kisses as you gasped into each other's touch. Years of mutually hidden cravings possessing your actions, feeling your tongues brushing desperately over into each other's mouths. Hange tugged at your ass, gripping at the skin through your clothes with a tight clasp.

Hange then separated your lips, looking up at you through their pretty eyelashes to gaze upon your state. With your eyes black with desire, they guided your hips into rhythm against their leg. Leaning their head up to kiss your neck, low, gentle pecks echoing within the room as you were trembling on top of them, chest rising and falling and your sinewy thighs trapping them underneath you. What a sight.

"Hange—"

Hearing their name slip from your lips in such a desperate manner, Hange felt like they should be locked up. The heavy sound of your low whimpers of their name causing a stir of their own burning heat to travel.

Levi was certainly going to kill them, good thing he's still asleep. Unaware of the way Hange was touching his sister in the next room. The whole thing was sinful, just reprehensible. The promise long forgotten, shoved to their back of their mind.

"You're fucking delightful, angel,"

Hange lifted themself up, back straight and chest tightly pressed to yours. Their hand rising from your ass to grip your lower back, fingers holding you in place to jut their knee against your core, their palm guiding your hips against them. Lips met again to quieten the gasps threatening to escape from within your throat. They couldn't deal with an interruption right now.

The pattern of movement in your hips faltered, grabbing Hange's wrist to place their free hand upon your clothed breast. Hange could feel your hardened nipple poking through the fabric, as their thumb rubbed over—god what they wanted to do. What they would do to see you without your layers, barren and exposed for them.

"I'm so—fuck— love seeing you like this," Your eyebrows were furrowed at their hushed words, teeth skimming over your bottom lip, it spurred them on more, "Thought about this so much, angel."

"Yeah?" You egged them on, pressing yourself harder against their knee, Hange could feel the dampness seeping through your underwear as your shaking hands reached down to unbutton Hange's jeans. They should've come off a long time ago, "I've thought about it, too—god—thought of your fingers, your mouth on me—fuck."

Unbuttoned jeans, and your dress just on as a formality, bunched up in folds around your waist. Hange lifted you up from their knee, your confession driving them over the edge. If only they knew how many times you touched yourself to the thought of them late at night.

Tugging the hem of your dress over your head, immediately catching the way your skin rippled from the chill in the air, nipples perked up and stiffened as your chest was heaving. A trail of hair leading down from your navel to your pussy, still covered by your lacy underwear, it drove Hange stupid.

"Shit— that's fucking hot," Hange rasped, words tight in their throat, desperately trying to keep their voice down.

Wasn't long before Hange was undressed, too. You made sure of that, ripping the shirt off their torso and helping to pull down their jeans. Both of you unclothed in front of each other. Your hands grazed over their breasts, admiring the tattoo beneath their collarbone, spread over the top of their chest, and their tatted forearms. Toned stomach twitching as your fingers travelled down from their chest to their abdomen.

Both of you just admired each other, before you brought your lips back together, open mouths chasing the sensation of each other's lips. You were straddling Hange again, rubbing yourself over their now bare thigh. Your dampness glistened on their skin with each roll, you felt fucking desperate.

"I'm burning for you, Hange—need your touch," You panted, losing yourself in the sight of Hange's slender barren body beneath you. Lost in the starry glaze within their eyes at you, tantalising. Hange groaned gently as they teased a finger on your slit through the fabric that was acting as the only barrier between your bodies, you twitched into their hand. Their knee wasn't enough, you craved more.

"What d'you want, angel?"

"Your mouth, fuck—please-"

The begging left you before you could help it, all you could think about was feeling Hange on you, anywhere, everywhere. Hange squeezed your thighs, laying their spine flat on the bed as they prompted you along their torso, your pussy accidentally grazing over their nipple, inches away from their mouth.

"Sit on my face, angel," Hange ordered, voice lowered and strained at the turned-on shock on your features. Hesitantly, you hovered over their waiting mouth, lacy underwear still on, trying to argue, "But I still have my—"

"ssh—just sit, baby." Hange was determined, hands rubbing over your bare skin as you shuddered on top of them. Silky thighs spread, opened just for them, like an unfurled deity, waiting patiently to be worshipped. They loved seeing you above them like this, aching for them. The slab of your stomach tensed as you tentatively placed yourself over their inviting mouth, feeling their wet tongue brush over your clothed slit.

The texture of the damp lace through their tongue pressing against your clit caused you to let out a shaky moan, a hand coming to grip the headboard, the other covering your own mouth. Hips began sliding autonomously over Hange's face as they sucked your pussy into their mouth, plump lips puckering over the fabric as their tongue swiped over in short bursts, with little pecks in between.

The top of your thighs started to burn from holding yourself up, legs shaking from the weight and the added sensation of Hange lapping underneath you, their muffled groans vibrating into your pussy. Hange's steady eyes were on you, watching. Their eyebrows pinched up as you both made contact. Their hands grabbed your hips, forcing you to rest your full weight on their face and ease the tension in your legs, you moaned into your palm as their tongue was closer to your throbbing centre. Spurred on by the intense way those amber eyes watched you whilst your mouth hung open. You ached to feel the wet muscle on you, to feel their warmth on you properly.

Hange's hand landed at your breast, kneading, your skin melted into the gaps between their fingers, the fat of your breast rolling underneath their hand. Hange's thumb teased over your nipple, spreading spurts of pleasure down your entire spine. Then Hange nipped the hem of your dampened, cotton underwear with their teeth and tugged it to the side, to expose your swollen pussy, leaking and throbbing in the cool air. A swipe of their tongue on your bare slit, lathering your sweet arousal on the tip of their tongue as they swallowed it, tasting you for the first time. They groaned out a muffled mm, into your centre, delighted by your taste. Before diving in to pleasure you properly, blissfully easing the tension that had built up in your core.

"That—hn— feels so good, Hange," your voice was muffled behind your palm, hips rocking over their face, coating their cheeks with your slick, their glasses fogging up with the honeyed arousal. You moved loose hairs from their face, fighting the wet strands as they clung to Hange's skin. "P-please don't fucking stop," you whimpered, gasping, losing control of your hips as you sat pretty on Hange's skilled tongue.

You could feel a coldness on your slit, realising Hange had a tongue piercing you never fucking noticed, the cold metal rubbing over your puffy centre. You leaned back, head hanging back at the chilled sensation, the contrast of Hange's warmth and the cold metal. Hange was struggling to breathe underneath you, clearly enjoying the light suffocation in between your thighs, eyes rolling back as their fingers harshly dug into your ass.

Your fingers travelled down Hange's stomach, reaching back behind you—feeling their abdomen twitch into your hand. Reaching Hange's centre, you rubbed your middle and index finger over their own swollen clit. Moaning as you felt how wet they were, their arousal matching yours in its desperation, Hange's legs spread out to give you better access. Aching for you as you ached for them.

Hange groaned weakly into your centre, lost in the scent, sight and taste of you as you played with their pussy above them, wanting to give them back some of the delectable pleasure they were giving you. Your perked up breasts were bouncing above them with the weight of gravity and the movement of your arm behind you, specks of sweat dripping down your stomach as you started losing rhythm in your hips, quickening up your rocking on their tongue, sometimes their nose would stroke over your clit, driving you further over the edge.

"Ah—fuck, 'm gonna cum," Your voice reached a higher pitch, you bit the back of your hand to stop yourself to shouting, "'m so fuckin' close, Han—gonna cum—fuuck."

Your hips twitched on Hange's face, they eagerly lapped up your arousal as it leaked from your throbbing hole, your release dripping down Hange's chin as they swallowed up what they could, like they were starved. Groaning happily beneath you as your fingers sped up against their clit.

You lifted your pelvis from their face, allowing them to breathe as you turned yourself over to focus on Hange. You placed yourself in between their welcoming, spread legs as they shook against your fingers.

"Fuck—angel.." Hange sighed, eyes closed as your fingers easily slipped inside them, lubricated by their own slick since you came on their tongue. They had been uncomfortably wet ages ago, but they were truly dripping now. Their own hips chased after your hand wretchedly as you curled three fingers against their cervix, rubbing over the squishy spot that had Hange throwing their head into the pillow. Hiding their face and mouth with their tatted wrist, their pelvis grinding into your hand whilst their body rocked from the repeated movements. 

You didn't like their face hidden away, obscured by their wrist, so you pulled at it with your free hand, tugging it down until it was trapped on top of their stomach, held down. Hange was crying out, not having a way to cover their face from being restrained, forcing them to expose their expressions as you worked your fingers diligently inside them.

"Shi—ah—keep going, fuck, please—just like that,"

In perfect circumstances, you'd have loved to hear Hange coming undone loudly for you, but right now you needed them to be more quiet, Levi was right in the next room. So, trapping their arm with your chest, you brought your fingers up to their mouth, rubbing over their bottom lip until they split open to suck in your fingers. Their sounds enveloped by your fingers in their mouth, fuck, the sight was heavenly. Your head dropped down, weakly faltering at the scene in front of you.

Hange's arm pushed your head down, moving you forcibly until your face was in front of their heat. The corner of your lips tilted into a self-satisfied smirk as you understood what they were asking of you.

"Want my mouth on you, hm?" you teased, fingers still curling into them as Hange hummed, their head feebly nodding, mouth full of your fingers. Chuckling, you lowered your head, swiping your tongue up their slit, revelling in the minute twitches of Hange's hips. The feeling of your tongue lewdly slurping up their arousal plus your fingers stretching their tight walls in a steady motion, Hange was close to oblivion. Breathlessly gaping down to watch you as you worked hard to please. The deity was in between their thighs, blithely moving your tongue down their pulsing centre.

Their hips faltered, Hange's face stiffening as their eyes rolled back, they were in your heavenly trap— how could they ever get out?

"G'na cum for me, Hange?" you mumbled, pussydrunk as Hange's abdomen tightened, their thighs taut against your head, dragging you impossibly closer. You whined into their core as Hange released the pressure of their climax into your mouth.

You popped your other fingers out of Hange's mouth, spreading their saliva around their jaw as they quivered, riding out their saccharine release.

"Fuuck," Hange's whimper was soft, spent, tired out from how hard they came. You sighed as you slipped your fingers out, lapping your digits dry of the droplets of their arousal.

"That's it," you soothed, tranquillising them as you brought your lips up to theirs, hands on their jaw as your naked chests rubbed against each other. Hange looked up at you, their eyes half-lidded as they caught their breath, both of you gazing at each other with unadulterated love in your eyes.

Feeling relatively rejuvenated, Hange's fingers trailed down to the curve of your ass, massaging the skin under your underwear, before ripping it down your thighs. They felt insatiable. Wanted this haze to last as long as possible. You yelped sharply, thinking they were too tired to continue, confused as Hange bent you over, your knees folded on the bed and your ass up.

Hange got into place behind you, caressing down your dimpled spine as their leg nudged you to spread your thighs apart. They ghosted kisses on your skin, hands rubbing over your lower body as they placed a knee in between your legs, teasing your entrance with two fingers.

"Oh, f-fuck," you gasped, head falling down into the mattress to silence yourself as Hange plunged two fingers inside you. There was no need for anymore teasing, you were absolutely dripping. Hange rocked their fingers deep into your cervix, fingertips reaching the back of your walls as your spine curved to let them in even further. A hand met your hip, squeezing the skin as they swung your hips to grind over their knee, stroking your clit as their pretty fingers fucked into you.

Hange thrust their own hips in rhythm with their fingers, imagining that they were fucking you with their strap as a proxy instead of their hands. Getting lost in their own imagination as the skin on your ass recoiled with each hit, you throwing your hips back to meet their thrusts.

"Shit—Hange," you whined, muffling into the blankets as you panted, feeling them move inside you as overstimulation struck. Your clit was so sensitive as it rubbed against their knee. Reaching your arm back, hand flailing for them to grab your hand, craving that extra connection. Hange's hand encompassed your own, gripping it as they didn't relent their movements, holding their chest against your back.

"Fuck, angel—I fuckin' love you," Hange muttered, losing grip on reality and the control over their mouth, not realising what they had just spoken into the universe. You clenched at Hange's words, tight walls sucking in their fingers as you trembled.

"Hange—hn, I love you, fuck,"

"Could be in this pussy forever, 's just fuckin' perfect," Hange drawled, more kisses at the back of your neck and you lost it. Mouth hanging open, you squirted all over the bed and Hange's knee, forcing out their fingers with a pop.

You stilled underneath them, catching your breath back as Hange kissed you through it. Turning your body to the side, in a daze, you met eyes. Truly fucked out.

Hange fell beside you, caressing your sides as you snuggled into their chest.

"Think we were too loud?"

"Hope not," you muttered, "He's a heavy sleeper," Hange chuckled at your answer. They hadn't quite come to the realisation that they had just fucked their best friend's sister into next week, breaking the one promise Levi ever held Hange to, not wanting to think about the consequences.

"You said you loved me," you whispered hesitantly, eyes closing against their heaving chest. A little fearful  of bringing it up in case it was just a heat of the moment thing, but since they said it, you couldn't stop thinking about it.

Hange stilled, feeling embarrassed that they uttered something like that during sex, they wouldn't have been as embarrassed about it if it wasn't true.

"I mean—I.. didn't lie,"

"You love me?" You looked up, it was hard to miss the way your doe eyes lightened up, specks of hope glimmering in them. Just like that, Hange's embarrassment dissipated.

"Yes, angel, I've loved you for a while," Hange moved a strand of your hair behind your ear, placing a kiss on your forehead. Biting your lip, you tried to withhold the smile that threatened to break out, failing miserably.

"I, I love you, too, Hange."

—

A week had passed, and Levi was none the wiser to the debauchery that took place in your bedroom that morning. Good, you thought, you weren't ready to tell him yet. You and Hange were in a good place, you didn't want Levi finding out and ruining everything.

Needless to say, you guys had begun secretly seeing each other. Hurried, covert kisses between you whenever he left the room. You couldn't help it, you were addicted, taking every chance you got to feel Hange against you. It'd been years waiting for this, there was no way you could go without it now. It wasn't like you could get much time by yourselves, anyway, you had to take what you could get and be grateful for it.

Dating Hange changed pretty much everything about your relationship, you were so much more comfortable around each other. That high-strung sexual tension that hung over both of you over the last few years had subsided, leaving space for an actual relationship to form where you could talk in comfort, behaving more normally around each other. That wasn't to say you didn't still want to fuck Hange's brains out, you just hadn't had a chance since that day, Levi was always hovering. You'd say he was more suspicious than usual, but why?

If he had heard anything that day, neither of you would be alive to tell the tale. He would've walked right in and killed you both on the spot. You felt like you'd been pretty inconspicuous, too, not saying anything out of the ordinary to Hange and not being touchy in front of him. Perhaps you may have been hanging around them more than usual, but would that be so suspicious?

Surely not, right?

You were craving some more alone time with Hange, wishing Levi would fuck off somewhere and leave you to it. You'd be ready to jump their bones at any given moment.

So when Levi left to go buy groceries for tonight's Hange was supposed to fixing something that had fucked up on their console. Hange's good at fixing things, often being tasked with doing so around the house. Trying to mask your excitement, not waiting to bait yourself out— you went up to your room. Waitied until Levi had got in his car and drove off before you messaged Hange to come upstairs.

Within seconds, Hange entered your room, giggling nervously as you pushed them up against the bedroom door, locking your lips on theirs.

"Hello to you, too," Hange chuckled, their slender hands grasping the sides of your head, getting the hint, as you slipped your tongue into their mouth. Hange moaning into the kiss as you slipped their shirt off, exposing their torso so you could bend your head and pop their nipple into your mouth. Rolling your tongue over the peak as Hange tightened their grip on you.

"Don't have much time, need you—now." you ordered, grabbing a hold of Hange's belt loops and dragging your bodies to the bed. Hange straddled over you as you made out in comfort, not worrying about volume for once. Hange unbuttoned your jeans, pulling them down to your ankles as you whimpered sweetly against their lips. The kiss was fiery, both feeling pent up and looking for mutual release, craving each other so badly. No more hesitation unlike the first time.

You unbuttoned your shirt, leaving it hanging open revealing your stomach and breasts, your hands coming to massage your own nipples as Hange gaped down at you, eyes darkening.

"I have something for you," you panted, eyes lidded as you smirked impishly, a mischievous glint in your eyes that intrigued Hange. You reached down below the bed, opening a box and pulling out a long, thick strap, nibbling on your lower lip as Hange stared incredulously at the toy in your hand.

"Don't you wanna fuck me with it, Hange?" the tone of your voice was too enticing, too seductive as you rubbed your fingers over the silicone. Hange tensed up, watching you tease them with it before passing it into their clasp. Trying to ignore the deep stir swirling in their core, with illicit images of you bouncing on their strap swirling around at the forefront of their mind. Hange rushed to prop it over their legs, tightening the straps around their hips and upper thighs.

"You're gonna be the death of me, angel," Hanged sighed, hands clutching your pillowy thighs. They could feel their pulse thumping in their ears with desire, eager to use the new toy on you. Not unlike you, who'd been itching to show it to your partner as soon as you got it.

"Couldn't sleep last night, Hange, couldn't stop thinking of you fucking me with it," you whined, as Hange's fingers teased your clit with soft touches, lips tilting up at your lewd words.

"That right, angel?" you nodded, "Been touching yourself thinking about it?"

"Fuck, yes.. tried to finger myself to get off, but t'wasn't the same," you huffed, feeling yourself get drenched by your own words, "can't reach as deep as you,"

Hange groaned, sucking your nipple into their mouth as they stroked your clit. You were throbbing, the last few days of fantasising left you feeling needy as fuck. Hange slid two fingers into your slick entrance, letting out a deep moan at how wet you were, at the way your pussy just sucked them right in like they were always meant to be there.

Your eyes fell shut as Hange scissored their fingers against your squishy walls, savouring the stretch to prepare you for the strap. Raising your hand to your mouth, you licked a stripe up your palm and lowered your hand to rub the silicone as it hung from Hange's hips. Hange's head fell down, watching dumbly as you rubbed your hand over it as if it were Hange's actual flesh. You'd swear they could actually feel it, too, the way their mouth split open and their breaths grew heavy. The way it provoked them to remove their fingers and edge the silicone tip over your folds, spreading your own slick all over your pulsing pussy.

"Hange—just put it in, please," You tried to push against it, feeling how Hange was separating your folds apart to lubricate the tip, "'ve been so good,"

Hange chuckled as they saw how ruined you were without them even doing anything. Slowly, they pushed the strap through your entrance, "You have been so good, baby," they pushed up until it were completely buried inside you.

"'n you're g'na take me so well, aren't you, angel?", you were filled to the brim, tears rimming your eyes as you rutted your hips into Hange's, "G'na take every single inch of me, aren't you?"

"Fuck—fuck, yes, Hange," you cried out, not withholding the volume of your moans as Hange began to thrust the silicone deep inside you, hitting the sensitive spot at the very back, "'Y're so fucking deep, f-feels so damn good,"

Hange grabbed your hips, using it as a stabiliser to thrust the strap in and out, your breasts bouncing as your body rocked, whimpering as the familiar ball in your abdomen tightened. Hange stared down at where the silicone disappeared inside your puffed folds, their expressions contorting when it'd come out soaked, with a little white ring of your cum forming around the base.

"Look so fucking good like this, all filled up, shit—and all mine," Hange rasped, fingers left marks on your legs as they swung the silicone deeper inside you. They bent down to lick your nipple, teeth latching around the pebbled peak as your back arched into them.

"All yours—ngh—don't fucking stop," Your arms wrapped around Hange's neck, keeping them close to your body as your eyes rolled into the back of your head. Your legs slackened around their waist, short nails scratching at Hange's back as the pressure hitting against your cervix got overwhelming.

"W'na see you come all over my cock, fuck,"

The pressure tightened and tightened until your legs were squeezing around Hange, pulling them into you as you released, salacious whines slipping from your pretty lips. Hange moaned with you, sated that they could finally indulge in the libertine noises rolling off your tongue.

"That's it, fuckin' soak it," they muttered, "that's a good girl,"

Hange talked you through it as you came, gushing your slick all over their strap, effectively drenching your lower bodies. They pulled the silicone from your walls, the strap was lathered in your slick.

Your thighs trembled, coming down from your high, as Hange brought the strap to your lips, nudging your mouth open to lick it clean. You lapped up your own mess, Hange watching you intently whilst your tongue skimmed over the plastic. That awoke something in them, something they'd definitely mention next time, you already looked too spent.

Hange affectionally gave you kisses all over your face, praising you for being so good, that you took them so, so well.

"Y'sound divine when you come for me," they mumbled against your neck, those pretty sounds would be imprinted in their brain forever.

"Hange..." you covered your eyes, embarrassed at how loud you had been.

"No point being shy now, my love."

"Ugh," you chuckled, "We should get cleaned up,"

Hange got up and grabbed a towel from your wardrobe, drying your inner thighs off and wherever else you'd leaked your own slick on, before drying their own legs. You both re-clothed yourselves, freshening up and fixing hairstyles to look as if nothing happened. Levi shouldn't be back yet, anyway, you were in the clear for now.

Making your way downstairs, Hange trailing behind you on the stairs, you laughed amongst yourselves. However, that laughter died out immediately as you spotted Levi stood in your living room with his arms crossed, and an unreadable expression on his face.

The atmosphere very suddenly changed, the smile on your face dropped and Hange averted their eyes from their best friend, unable to look him in the eye, putting their hands into their pockets. The shamed guilt was written all over their face.

"Uh—" you tried breaking the silence, but the words got caught in your throat, Levi's glare was too haunting. There was no way in hell he didn't just hear you two fucking, and watched silently as you and Hange ignorantly made your blissful way downstairs. Your heart dropped, tears brimming your eyes as you waited for him to speak. Knowing that the peaceful bubble you and Hange had been in was about to be nastily ripped open.

"Well?" He finally spoke, eyes landing between you and Hange expectantly, "You got nothing to say?"

That last part was targeted especially towards Hange, who lifted their head to look at their best friend for the first time since both came down.

"Levi, I-I'm sorry—" Hange was trying so hard not to cry, "I didn't mean to break the promise, I'm sorry, it just—"

"Levi, stop this madness—we're both adults and I love Hange. You don't need to make them grovel and feel like shit," You bit out, sure, you felt a little bad, but this was way over the top. You weren't doing anything wrong. Neither was Hange.

"You love Hange?" He spat out, face tensing.

"Fuck's sake, yes! And for the record, the feeling is mutual, okay, we're dating— it's not like we're just fucking around for the hell of it."

"I see,"

"I know the promise means a lot to you, Lev," Hange stepped a little closer to you, and your gaze softened as they braved out a little smile at you, "But.. this is different,"

Levi stared at the both of you, almost apathetic. He looked down and sighed, tutting, "I knew this was gonna fucking happen,"

"Levi—"

"Stop, I'm... not angry." He rubbed two fingers over his nose bridge, "It's just a little weird, seeing it. Hearing it is a different matter, I'm gonna need fucking therapy for that,"

Hange cheeks burned, he could've just omitted the fact that he heard it, we all know he did, was voicing it out loud necessary?

"You're not mad?"

"I'm annoyed that you both lied to me, but I get it," he shrugged, "Just.. please be quiet from now on? And for the love of god if you have any arguments—don't come to me, I really don't wanna know."

—

[starrywilliams]

guilty as sin? | abby anderson

“these fatal fantasies giving way to labored breath, taking all of me, we’ve already done it in my head”

warnings: masturbation, slight masochism, ruined orgasm, angst, perv!abby (a little), internalized homophobia (discussed in more detail below)

notes: no surprise my favourite ttpd song is the gayest one on the album, but guilty as sin? screams lesbian guilt i fear!!!! i’ve been writing this for over a month so i hope u guys like it 😭

cw: discussion of lesbian guilt & comphet - these are somewhat based on my own experiences with my sexuality and i absolutely!!! do not think a man can ‘cure’ a lesbian or anything similar to that. nor do i believe anyone should ever feel guilty for being gay. realising i’m a lesbian has been extremely freeing & dykes r the best x

wc: 1.8k

likes, comments + reblogs are greatly appreciated :)

the door slammed harshly behind abby as she stormed into her room. she pulled her jacket off desperately; her skin hot under its tight vice. she’d been in the gym, trying to work out her endless frustration of late, when you’d walked in.

you’d only said “hi" and smiled politely at her before setting your things down. but she felt her stomach churn, a black hole opening inside her. abby stood up, pulling the weights off the barbell and onto their rack. she grunted softly, glancing at you from the corner of her eye.

you’d started stretching, currently bent over as you touched your toes. her eyes drifted for an infinitesimal moment, locking onto the swell of your-. she looked away - wrongwrongwrong.

but then she looked back, her stare feasting on your body. she wondered whether you were doing this on purpose, trying to tempt her from across the room. she wondered if you knew her dirty little secret, abby picturing a smirk on your face as you mocked her for such indecent thoughts.

she didn’t want to feel this way. she didn’t want to feel the poison ivy swarming around her chest, getting tighter, tighter. the rash spread inside her; this invisible whip of lust lashing against her skin whenever your face appeared in her mind. well, had it been just your face maybe she wouldn’t feel like some depraved sinner.

now it wasn’t like abby believed in god, in a world where death and destruction infect every crevice you’d have to be mad to believe that any ‘god’ wanted its followers to suffer so greatly. but something inside her screamed every time she had these thoughts. these impure, twisted thoughts about you.

she didn’t know what made her feel like this. what made her resent you for simply existing; and what made her resent herself.

she recalled her teenage years, when manny had subtly suggested that owen liked her - so she was supposed to like him back, right? and she tried! she loved him even - but there was always that something, that feeling in her gut that told her that something was wrong, something about him that just would never sit right with her.

but all the other girls wanted a boyfriend too, and the jealousy was nice at first - she’d thought. after all, mel was the star student, a doctor in the making, her dad’s favourite; and nora was this freshly trained medical officer, and abby was- abby was just abby.

her dad began noticing her more too - previously too preoccupied with his firefly duties and his favourite student. now his little girl was slipping away from him, he finally began paying her the amount of attention she’d craved for so long.

before, their conversations had often drifted into talk of mel and her new achievements, or his hopes of a vaccine, or some animal he was tracking. never anything about his daughter’s life.

having a boyfriend made her interesting, it gave the other girls something to envy. which was a nice reversal, for a while. then her dad died, and she had become this object of pity. owen helped a bit, she supposed. he tried to distract her and keep her focused on their new role as soldiers, but she barely cared about him anymore. all she wanted was revenge, and with revenge, came you.

you were one of the gyms trainers, passionate about helping the members of the wlf stay fit and healthy! you’d helped her start lifting weights, squealed as she reached every milestone, and had remarked jokingly about just how much you loved her new physique.

it was innocent at first, the most being her brain going a little fuzzy when you’d bit your lip while spotting her; a slight blush when you’d hugged her a little too tight. then, once she and owen were finally broken up, these new pictures began hanging themselves on the walls of her mind. still, innocent, just slightly tainted with desire - the true nature of them still an avoidable matter for her back then.

when she could ignore the truth in her recent behaviour, abby loved spending time with you. after all, you were just really good friends! anyway, she’d had a boyfriend before so everyone knew she was normal, and absolutely not different, and she would never ever have to feel like an outsider.

yet it took a mere three months before she gave up on this foolish lie. she liked you, and as long as nobody ever found out, it wouldn’t matter.

but as her mind grew dark and twisted - joel a constant topic in her head as she obsessed over finally getting to enact revenge - her thoughts got worse in turn. she wanted you - filthily and desperately.

every gym session ended with another cold shower, a desperate plea for her body to stop and let her focus on the task at hand; a hopeless attempt to bury this ache into the ground; an endless endeavour to escape these urges for just one second.

but then she came back changed, every hair on her body endlessly erected with guilt. the way she’d killed him so mercilessly, the way it had done nothing to ease the pain, and the way you had tormented her mind ceaselessly throughout the entire trip.

maybe, had she never met you, she could’ve just killed him and been satisfied. maybe had you never offered to train her personally, she could’ve just stayed comfortable in that stuffy closet. maybe if she found the right man she’d stop feeling this way.

abby deemed such ideas unfathomable now.

owen made her feel nothing. being with him was like an eternal thursday, an endless wait for the week’s end and its pleasure to turn up at her door. every day she��d wait for some spark to arrive, the routine only becoming more and more tedious by the minute. but he helped her get people’s attention, which was enough when she was just abby.

but then she was abby anderson, top scar killer and isaac’s favourite. she got attention on her own, she was praised for her own accomplishments: people worshipped the fucking ground she walked on. but they didn’t know who she really was.

they didn’t know she liked girls the way she was supposed to like boys. she’d seen it in enough of those wlf movie nights - cruel jokes about anyone who even thought about being different. she’d heard the way people gossiped, “did you hear that they’re moving lesbians into the family unit? what a joke.”

they said it like it was something dirty, something egregious, something that she had to hate about herself. so she did.

but as long as she kept it secret, kept it locked away in her mind, maybe she’d be okay. after all, only your actions talk: it was the age old question really, if a tree falls in a forest and no one else hears it, does it make a sound?

abby fell back against her bed sheets, calloused hands pushing her cargos down to her ankles as she replayed the sight of you in her mind. bent over - she felt like you were trying to tempt her on purpose.

she felt like a heathen; staring, fantasizing, worshipping. her mind was bursting with the idea of every possible position she could put you in; head a chorus of every little noise she wanted to hear you make; eyes screwed shut as depravity filled her every sense.

she shoved her bralette up her chest roughly, fingertips dragging over her nipples with little mercy. she pinched them, the peach skin stinging underneath her touch.

she wanted it to hurt; wanted it to feel like some sort of punishment for her thoughts. but as her hips bucked into the air, a long whine dragging from her clenched jaw, she realised it needed to hurt more.

she imagined you, finding her like this. disgust burnt into your features - what the fuck was she doing? repeating your name like some subverted prayer, fingers harshly scratching along her stomach as she tried to make the pleasure feel more like pain, trying to induce some connection between the two.

if it hurt enough, would she stop? force herself to forget? could she torture this part of herself until it surrendered?

her hand slipped over the top of her boxers, a finger running tentatively over her clit through the now darkened fabric. she bit down on her lip, groaning against it as she pushed down harder and harder, attempting to break through the skin.

another finger pressed down, beginning to draw circles down on the throbbing bud. she jolted against her own touch, your head between her legs burning into her mind. your hands, trailing along her flesh - groping at her with little tenderness; tongue, swiping at her pussy with no intent of fulfillment: she wanted you to make her weep, smoke out her lungs with shame, deny her from gratification until all she could feel was regret.

she pulled away, only to cover her fingertips with her spit - diving under her boxers to continue with her corruption. abby let out a strangled sigh, hips grinding against her fingers as they toyed with her clit.

she moved a hand to her hair, knuckles stretching against her scalp as she began to pull her braid. she grunted, yanking even harder. she whispered your name: pained, hopeless.

she sped up her assault against her pussy, feeling that pit in the bottom of her stomach begin to grow. “pleasepleaseplease” her voice cracked as she begged, unsure what she was pleading for.

she wanted to stop, but she needed to try and make this feeling go away. she knew it would come back, it always did - but even five minutes free from your torment on her mind might save her.

her fingers kept going, drawing desperate circles against her weeping pussy relentlessly. the void was growing, almost consuming her entirely at this point. she thought of you laughing at her current state: a crying mess, pussy wet with perversion.

it was sick, really - how the idea of you hating her for this made her need even worse. you’d probably think it appalling: someone who was supposed to be your friend, now sat here burning at the thought of you.

a part of her wished that you shared this sickness. that you too let yourself be overwhelmed by the thought of sin. maybe you didn’t let the guilt swallow you whole - she hoped so.

but there was no point lingering in the what-ifs, they were far too fleeting.

her deft fingers quickened their pace, the ache all consuming. the climb began - a desperate jump towards oblivion. closer, closer. the flames scorched her bedsheets as her breathing hastened.

fuck, she hissed before reaching the apex with a scream of your name. a scream? a whisper? a thought? it didn’t make her actions any less deplorable.

her conscience grabbed pleasure by the throat as she ripped her fingers away, putting out the blaze on her hips like a cigarette crushed on the ground.

the desire imploded within the walls of her torso; scratching against her insides in the vengeance of her denial.

it was wrong; she had to stop it. yet still, the guilt poured into her lungs with no chance of resolve. she was a fool for thinking it would fix her. maybe next time it would work. maybe next time the exorcism would finally purify her.

until next time.

[yearningandstillnotlearning]

𝑺𝑻𝑨𝒀 𝑺𝑶𝑭𝑻,

𝑮𝑬𝑻 𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑬𝑵.

A/N: okay bear with me, this is a ‘poem’ (i don’t know what else to call it) that i wrote and when i read over it i realised some girls here would appreciate this imagery with their own infatuations, so whilst its not written like fan-fiction i felt generous enough to share it and i hope at least 1 of you will like it, best part is that you can picture any one of your favourite girls!!! Instead of a name i call the other character “Pretty”, so keep that in mind while reading, and again, this isn’t written like fan-fiction, but still i would appreciate it if you gave it a shot and told me what you think ��

tags: lesbian only, think anyone!, femme!r, metaphors, suggestive, nsfw undertones but they are so slight and hidden beneath the wordplay that i can’t really count this as nsfw, sadomasochistic in a way, did i forget something? Let me know!

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · ୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨ · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

I don’t want a cottage, i don’t want a life in simplicity and independency. I want a castle, i want an abandoned mansion adorned by vines hugging it long after solitude fell cold and loveless upon its very walls.

I want to hear the floors creak with every step, i want to hear the tremble of the floors effortlessly mirror the tremble of her legs, i want to have her, Pretty, and i want to keep her on her toes. I want, behind her gaze, to be as unpredictable as the grass around the mansion, a neglected ring of hues of green. Tall, short, eaten, rotten.

I want to give her the world, and i want to make her spin in the middle of it, i want to give her everything and make her feel like in a moment she could have nothing.

I want to make her dizzy and i want to make her euphoric, i want to see her scared and i want to hold her close, be the one to comfort her, Pretty.

I want our clothes to dance against each other when the weather drops and i take her out on walks, on the endless garden we’ve named ‘our hearts’ that no matter how long it’s been there for, untouched, unloved, uncared for, it just never seems to end.

I want her to let me tear her cotton fabrics apart and off, torn by grinding teeth and claw-like nails, hungry like a centuries-old vampire, lifetimes of self control and respect disintegrated in the very same time span Pretty’s clothes get ripped. Carefully laboured fabric, soft as freshly laved hair, made with the selfish, miserable thought of this granting them extra bread on their dinner plate.

And she would, she would let me tear her apart in one shared gaze. She would let me hold her and scratch her open, she would let me wound her because she knows i’ll be the one to heal her up again. And she knows i’ll do it before she can build the thought of asking me to.

She would let me darken her vision under the noon sun, heating and blinding. She would let me bruise her neck, violet splats trailing down her body like a rosemary. She would let me reach her depths and spin them around, it’d be nothing new to her, as long as her world is intertwined with mine she’s always spinning, she’s always dizzy. She would let me cradle her head as i treat her like fresh meat in aching, starved hands, because i’ve done so another hundred times, and each one she only seems more unwilted than the last.

Because she knows she’ll get me back.

Because she plans on making my darkest nights luminous, and she knows i’ll let her. The story is always the same; she unwraps me like a one-of-a-kind royal heirloom, her touches vigilant, precise on what she unfolds, what lies beneath her hands. And she knows i don’t fancy peace, her words forming clear juxtaposition to her touches, there are no blurred lines, my sense of touch and my sense of hearing are in two completely different words, and yet they co-exist in the pits of my stomach.

But like every child asking their parent to tell them a bedtime story, it doesn’t matter if its always the same, they always enjoy it the same. At the end of the day they fall asleep to it every time.

I’ll let her unwrap the lace off the corset, i’ll let her loosen every layer, watch the silks fall off my form, i’ll let her tell me the harshest things that leave my throat closing in on itself, as her hands soothe around my flesh getting me to ease up. She’ll rock me back and forth from being velvety to being cruel, i know it, and i will let her.

Because it takes two to dance, if you’re unable to match the other’s rhythm what’s the fun? It’s only enjoyable when you’re both having fun. 🫀

[mrs-march-ahs]

Buying Sex Toys with Sae-Byeok ♡ (smut!)

GIRL READER! x Sae-Byeok (067)

Summary: You're going to a sex shop with Sae-Byeok and trying to find a strap that will suit you both. But with every glance at a new toy, her eyes become fixated on it, imagining how the events would play out, if this is what you brought home with you

i put my whole pussy into this i hope u enjoy<3

The endless rows of boxes of various sizes and colours sit below glass cases, displaying the product inside. The discreet packages aren’t designed to give everything away too soon. One must have the courage to be seen with the box in their hands, and to gently lift the flap, like the cover of a book, and look at the product inside the see-through plastic window. Much like books, it’s hard to lift the cover and not begin imagining the story that could unfold.

The privacy screens on the glass cases restrict the view of anyone not looking directly at it. To avoid confusion, Sae-Byeok walks directly behind you the entire time, with her hand on your shoulder, guiding you down the narrow, overstimulating, hallway that displays, what must be, every form of sex toy that has ever existed.

The two of you make your way down slowly, starting at the displays closest to the entrance of the store. Though not many people are inside, the uneasy feeling of being watched from people walking around the mall on the outside prompts you to try and follow the corridor down faster. Sae-Byeok on the other hand, doesn’t care, and doesn’t allow it.

“In a rush? Think you’re too good for the basics?”, she asks, and not as quietly as you’d like. She’s not looking at you, but the glass in front of the both of you. You look ahead at the dildos standing inside. They’re what one would imagine as a strap for lesbians. They’re flesh coloured, not majorly detailed, simple. Maybe something that a couple like you and Sae-Byeok should buy, to get started with. You’re ready to upgrade from mouths and hands, but not ready for anything crazy.

You look at the middle-sized dildo in the window. The vision of your girlfriend wearing this is a pleasant thought. It matches her skin, and it doesn’t look like it would be painful for you. You look up and over your shoulder at your girlfriend, whose focused gaze isn’t broken when you look at her. What could she be thinking?

She slowly slides the thick cock in your mouth. Your hands tremble, but stay exactly where instructed, on either side of her hips. She thrusts forward and back in a painstakingly slow and unpredictable rhythm, moaning and revelling in the way that your eyebrows turn more and more inwards with every move. With a particularly deep thrust, a shiver rushes up your back and makes you straighten, the little gasp you make vibrating through the fake cock that fills your mouth. Your hands gently protest, pushing her away instinctively as she hits the back of your throat. She does not like this.

She moves your hands from her hips to her ass. With one hand firmly planted on each cheek, pushing her away becomes impossible, the only move possible for you being to pull her even closer, and the cock even deeper. Exactly how she wants it. When you look up at her, she’s already looking down at you, sucking in her teeth at the view of the girth of her new dick filling your mouth and making its imprints on your cheeks. Suck in harder, she tells you. You obey without hesitation, sucking harder and getting an instant reaction from her, as though she can feel you. You hadn’t practiced breathing through your nose yet, and the faster that Sae-Byeok pushed her strap in you, the harder it was becoming to not choke. As though by magic, she reads your mind and slows down, pulling herself out of you, then back in, but slower. She runs her fingers through your hair. The affectionate act prompts you to let out a satisfied hum, grateful that she’s taking such good care of you. The feeling of her hand in your hair makes your thighs tingle, however, the warm feeling in your chest drops lower down your body when the big hand on your head gets tangled in your hair, and pulls you closer towards her crotch. The move wasn’t as loving as it seemed, and before you realise your lips are touching the cold metal buckles of her strap.

“Sae-Byeok?”, you ask. She blinks and looks down at you, no longer directly behind you, with her hand on your shoulder, but instead at least two feet to the right, with your whole arm extended to hold her hand. You’ve been analysing the prices of the products and telling her about them for the past several minutes, but your words seem to have fallen flat.

She gives one last startled glance at the products behind the glass in front of her, and then slowly takes the few steps necessary to be, once again standing behind you.

“Are you… okay?”, you quietly ask. “Do you want to leave?” She raises her eyebrows and quickly shakes her head ‘no’. You’ll keep the cost-benefit analysis to yourself.

After taking a brief look at the increasingly more expensive toys, you look up at the glass window behind which stand much bigger, purple dildos. The price tracks, these are much more realistic, they have veins, the ends of them are shaped and even a little slit is moulded in the tip of them. They seem a little intense to you, especially as the first purchase, but you’re open to the idea and certainly trust your girlfriend to make sure everything is pleasurable to you. As your gaze falls down to the black boxes at waist height, to look at the price options, Sae-Byeok, presumably unintentionally, pushes herself against your back. The curvature of your butt fits like a puzzle piece against her groin. You quickly glance to either side, and see that there is a couple where you stood a few minutes ago, but they are deep in conversation and likely don’t see Sae-Byeok pushing herself up against you… for some reason.

The veins on the purple dildo are life changing, and send electrifying pulses all over your body every single time that Sae-Byeok moves. The stretch of her new dick alone would be enough to send you cumming, but the ridges and tip of this purple beast all hit previously untouched territory inside of you. Your tits rub furiously against the table she bent you over, but the friction doesn’t hurt, or maybe it does? You wouldn’t notice either way. Sae-Byeok runs her hands down your arms, making them shiver, and pulls them together behind your back. You have no choice but to completely succumb to her every whim, going randomly faster before slowing down and focusing on deep, before speeding things back up and pulling all the way out of you just to slam it all back in. If someone heard the gasps that she forces out of you, they’d think you’re receiving the most shocking news of a lifetime. They wouldn’t know that you lie there motionless, feet barely touching the ground, while your girlfriend fills you to the brim. Sae-Byeok was taking complete care of you, your only job was to keep your head up and not bite your lip, and you were failing at both. “Bite your lip one more fucking time”, she spits out, using her hold on your arms to slam you towards her. Unfortunate, that she needed to keep telling you this. She continuously reiterates how desperate and whiny you sound, and how much she needs to her every bit of it. How dare you deny her of that!

She uses her free hand to slap it down on your ass, and thankfully for you, you managed to let your bottom lip free from your teeth just a millisecond before, allowing her the full pleasure of hearing your clear moan. She quietly curses at the sound and keeps her hand on your ass. She way that your pussy takes her dildo in its entirety allows for the perfect fit on your ass against her groin. The feeling and the sight is absolutely intoxicating her, and the light-headedness she feels from looking at you makes her indecisive. Hand on your shoulder, to push herself in deeper? On your ass, as a constant warning to not disobey her again? In your hair, tugging your head up every time you let it fall? She remains unsettled on all the equally fantastic options, and keeps her hand on your ass cheek, pulling it apart to watch as you swallow her purple cock whole.

Your unintentionally seductive groan seems to snap her back to reality much better than calling her name, despite it being a groan of annoyance. You let go of her hand seconds ago, and moved along without her. She stood there still as you looked further down the hallway, admiring the endless range of toys at your disposal, but dreading the hours it may take for the two of you to get through everything if Sae-Byeok continues at this pace. The way she rips her eyes away from the purple and veiny products looks like it hurt her. She sheepishly trots towards you, having to do so for several seconds before eventually getting to where you stand.

She returns to her position behind you, but to avoid any more mishaps like the previous mindless grinding she doesn’t even seem she was attempting, you lean your back against her chest. She wraps her arms around your waist and watches your reflection in the glass. You inspect the dildo. It’s the most expensive thing you’ve looked at thus far, but for good reason. It requires a special lube, that looks like cum? You can somehow stuff it inside, then when Sae-Byeok would fuck you, she would be able to release her load into you.

It’s unlike anything you’ve seen before, but it’s intriguing. As you inspect it, you notice Sae-Byeok is looking at you in the reflection. Not at the dildo behind the glass, but at you. You can see that the thoughts behind her eyes must be turbulent, whatever they may be.

You look in the mirror at Sae-Byeok’s hands grasping tightly under your knees. She’s strong; she holds your entire body weight in her arms, only dropping you occasionally… and rhythmically. She snaps her hips upwards, leaning back in the armchair, fucking the thick dildo upwards. You struggle resisting throwing your head back, and even with tears beginning to pool in your eyes, you just cannot stop looking in front of you at the reflection of your girlfriend. Even a meteor wouldn’t be able to break the dead locked gaze she has on the thick dildo disappearing inside of you.

Your moans become increasingly staggered as you reach closer to orgasm, whining and begging unidentifiably for something and simultaneously absolutely nothing. Not a thing that Sae-Byeok could do could make the fire burning in your pussy any hotter, you thought. In a last lazy attempt to stop your girlfriend’s potential edging tricks that could ensue, you almost break a sacred rule, and lift your hand from the armrest of the chair to try and speed up the impending climax. But you don’t make it even close to your tingly clit, before the glowing, electrifying heat spreads over your entire body, and you release. You both do.

With little idea how, and even less energy to find out, Sae-Byeok’s cock releases inside of you, the biggest load either of you have ever seen. The white cum pours out of you with every thrust, covering Sae-Byeok’s entire lap and sliding down her legs. The now ruined chair, covered slippery floor, nor itchy feeling of the lube dripping down her leg bothered her. Her sole focus was on you in the mirror. She slows down her thrusting, and lifts you off her. You lean back and lay against her chest, with your head on her shoulder and your cheek touching hers. You look identical to each other in that moment, both with sweat covering your upper lips, and with your mouths slightly agape, looking in the exact same spot in the mirror: at the white substance gushing out of you.

You’ve had enough of the trip. Sae-Byeok’s eyes continued to fixate on your reflection in the mirror, and no matter how many times you stick out of your tongue or smile at her, her serious expression never fades. You turn around and gently cup her face in your cold hands, waking her up.

“What do you think, baby? What should we get?”, you sweetly ask. There’s still rows and rows of other things that the two of you could play around with, but for now, what you’ve seen on this trip, feels sufficient to you. Sae-Byeok seemed a little more uncertain of being in here, so you let the final choice be hers. After a second of examining your face, your eyes, your lips, you’re finally graced with an answer.

“Whatever, as long as we buy it fast”