ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ only mdni, established but secret relationship, long distance relationship, pussy drunk abby, oral (r!receiving), fingering, soft dom abby, tittie sucking, dirty talk, honestly a bit of feral abby, manny is the king of terrible timing, so is ellie, my favorite tlou doggie makes an appearance.
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 2.3k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: I finished this one a lot faster than I initially realized so look at me go omg. also anything that I’m writing and posting for this au is gonna be out of order so hopefully it’s not too confusing. but a big shout out to @somebitchprobably for helping me come up with a much better ending line for ellie, I appreciate you bestie <3
It had started off innocently enough.
Just one kiss—that you leaned up to press against her mouth right before she was about to start streaming for the night.
It was never meant to linger, never meant to turn into several.
But both of you were starting to realize as she guided you back onto her bed that just one was never going to be enough for either of you anymore.
“Abby,” you mewl, fingers fisting in her t-shirt as her mouth leaves hot, open mouthed kisses along your throat. “You’re gonna be late.”
Abby huffs softly but descends lower, sliding your shirt up your torso and latching her lips around one of your nipples. She swirls her tongue around the hardened peak, palming the other with her hand until you’re gasping and squirming beneath her. She pauses her ministrations but her lips never fully leave your skin—they just travel lower, until her mouth hovers right over your clothed cunt.
“You want me to stop?” she asks, glancing up at you with a look that makes your whole body thrum in anticipation and need.
“I—fuck,” you start to answer but are immediately cut off when you feel her tongue lightly trace over the skin just below your navel.
“Hm?” she hums, warm hands spreading your thighs open further so she can settle between them. “What was that, baby?”
“Don’t you fucking dare stop,” you pant.
Abby immediately sits back up with a wide grin, fingers curling into the waistband of your underwear and tugging them down your thighs in one smooth motion. And fuck, you can feel how wet you are, your thighs already sticky with the evidence of it. But you can’t find a reason to feel embarrassed when Abby practically moans at the sight.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” she all but whines, her fingers gliding through your slick center and your hips jolt up when her fingertips brush over your clit. “This all for me?”
She asks like she doesn’t already know the answer.
But you nod anyway, not entirely able to string together a coherent sentence when you feel the tip of her middle finger nudging against your entrance.
“Words, baby.” She reminds you, those dark blue eyes meeting your slightly hooded ones.
“Yes,” you writhe, hips grinding back down against her hand. “Only for you, Abs.”
“Good girl.”
You release a choked noise when she finally dips her head between your thighs, obscenely spreading you open with her fingers and dragging her tongue from where your arousal pools at your entrance—all the way up to your throbbing clit.
“Fuck,” you cry out again, your fingers tangling in her already loose braid.
Abby hums against you, her tongue sliding deep inside you before she’s circling it back up and over your clit again. She repeats these ministrations for a long while, until your thighs start to tremble around her head but somehow it’s still not enough.
“Abby,” you pant, gripping her wrist and guiding her hand between your legs. “Need your fingers, now.”
“So bossy,” she chuckles and you can almost feel the way she’s smirking against you.
But she doesn’t tease you beyond that, instead she glides two of her thick fingers inside you and you practically moan out of sheer relief. Her tongue is back to circling over your swollen clit as she slowly starts to thrust her fingers inside you and the slick sounds that fill her bedroom are downright filthy.
“God, you hear that?” she rasps, her nose nudging against your clit. “How fuckin’ ready you are for me?”
You cry out again when her fingers curl up to rub against that sensitive spot inside you, your core muscles tightening with each firm and calculated thrust. Each one threatens to unravel you faster than you’d ever dare admit aloud.
The tension in your middle coils tight, heat continuing to build between you until the sharp, all too familiar chime of a discord call cuts through the charged haze in the room and you both freeze.
“Shit,” she says under her breath, resting her forehead against your inner thigh. “Impeccable fucking timing, Manny.”
But Abby makes no move to answer it, letting it ring as buries her face back between your legs and you practically melt into the mattress. That sweet relief doesn’t last long though, because all too soon her cell phone starts to ring, buzzing obnoxiously on the bedside table and she lets out a deep, frustrated groan.
“Abs?” She looks up at you then, a mixture of desire and irritation written all over her features. “Just go log on, he’s not gonna stop calling until you do.”
And unfortunately, you both know you’re right.
It takes a great amount of effort for her to pull herself away from you, and your body involuntary clenches around nothing when she slides her fingers back out.
“You,” she hums, leaning over you to press a hot, wet kiss to your mouth before she pulls away entirely. “Stay put, I’m not done with you yet.”
That subtle threat sends heat curling low in your belly and you grin up at her, giving her a small, lazy salute. Abby scoffs lightly, rolling her eyes but the subtle quirk of her mouth gives her away as she leans down to kiss you again.
“Go,” you laugh against her still eager mouth, gently nudging her away when her discord starts blowing up again.
“Alright, alright.” She relents with a pout, wiping away the remaining slick from her chin with her shirt sleeve as she stalks over to her desk on the opposite side of the room.
She haphazardly sits down and puts on her headset, adjusting her camera so the bed—and you are no longer in frame. Then she’s live.
“Hey guys, sorry about that. WiFi’s been acting up all day.”
You have to stifle a snort of laughter, burying your face in her pillow to muffle it. But the way she clears her throat is a subtle warning in itself. Behave.
“Alright, let’s get Manny patched in here…”
You reach for your phone that was left discarded beside her own on the nightstand, pulling up her stream on the app and turning the volume all the way down.
But her chat already knows something is up.
downwiththethickness69: yo why does she look so dishelved??
gibby420: she’s acting sus 🧐🧐🧐
lurker4life: the vibes are definitely off
look4thelight (mod): for once I have to agree with chat
Abby just rolls her eyes. “You guys are the ones being weird.”
She pulls up the game, trying her best not to think about the fact that you’re laying on her bed—mere feet away—half naked and waiting for her.
“Alright, Manny, you ready?”
Whatever Manny says next is lost on you, but Abby’s shoulders stiffen like he struck a nerve.
“What? I’m fine.”
She queues up the next match, fingers drumming impatiently against the surface of her desk.
“I don’t have any kind of look, you’re reaching,” she mutters.
You bite your lip, holding your phone closer to your face because she absolutely does. It’s a look you’ve seen more and more over the last few months, she’s softer around the edges and it makes your heart thud erratically in your chest.
“Alright, alright. Just shut up and watch my six,” she huffs, muttering a small pendejo under her breath.
Everything seems to settle after that, the room falling into an easy silence that’s only broken by the sharp clicks of her mouse and the steady tapping of keys. But Abby doesn’t fully relax, not like she usually does on stream—because she’s far too aware of you.
You can tell in the way her attention flickers, how she seems to track every small movement you make on the bed behind her. Every shift of the blankets, every subtle adjustment of your legs pulls just enough of her focus away that on more than one occasion she misses a shot. And each time, you have to bite back a laugh.
Her chat, of course, doesn’t miss a thing.
simp4abby: she’s awfully distracted today
darkblade28: I swear I keep hearing shit in the background 🧐🧐
Abby tries to remain outwardly calm, ignoring it as she rolls her shoulders and tries to lock back in.
But then…
Your phone rings—loudly.
Ellie’s contact photo flashes across your screen and you curse softly, nearly dropping the phone on your face in your rush to shut the ringer off.
But the damage is already done.
abbysleftbicep: SOMEONE ELSE IS THERE
clihrider: THERES NO FUCKING WAY
ruthlessxghost: ITS HER ISNT IT??? FINALGRL IS IN SEATTLE???
Abby groans, dragging a hand down her face and shaking her head. “Guys, stop, alright? No one’s here.”
look4thelight (mod): that was sooo not convincing abby
Your phone starts to ring again almost immediately, but this time you manage to silence it before it causes any more problems.
Still, you know Ellie and she isn’t going to stop hounding you until you finally pick up.
So you carefully slip off the bed, making sure you’re still out of frame and quietly sneak out of the room.
“Ellie,” you hiss into the receiver once you’re a safe distance from Abby’s room, lowering your voice as you glance down the hallway. “Now is really not a good time.”
From the living room, Bear lets out a loud, dramatic yawn and stretches, hopping down from the sofa and padding over to you. He gently bumps his snout against your knee, whining softly.
“Hey, mister man,” you coo softly, scratching behind his ear. “Who’s a good boy?”
“Mister man?” Ellie echoes with a snort. “Who the fuck are you talking to?”
“Bear,” you say automatically, smiling widely when he nuzzles his face further into your hand.
“Bear? Who the hell—”
Then it clicks.
“You’re at Abby’s, I fucking knew it!”
“No I’m not,” you respond too quickly.
“Yes, you fucking are. DINA!” Ellie shouts and you wince, pulling the phone away from your ear. “You owe me $20 bucks!”
“You guys were betting on me?” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“Not just you,” Ellie scoffs. “Both of you. But don’t act so surprised, both your chats have been calling this shit out for months.”
“And what exactly was the bet?”
Dina’s voice cuts in then, voice laced with a mixture of amusement and disappointment. “To see which one of you caved and flew out first. But unfortunately for me, I was betting on Abby.”
“You guys are ridiculous, you know that?” you sigh.
“Says the one pretending she’s not totally in love with—”
“Don’t,” you cut in, glancing down the hall toward Abby’s room.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Ellie is laughing, harder than before. “Oh my god. You are in love with her!”
“I didn’t say that—”
“You didn’t have to,” Dina chimes in sweetly.
You lean your head back against the wall with an embarrassed grunt. “Can you guys not do this right now? She’s literally streaming in the other room.”
“Yeah, we know,” Ellie says, rather smugly. “That’s why I called, we’ve been watching the entire time.”
“Ellie, I swear to god if you—”
“Relax, we aren’t gonna rat you out.”
“Yet.” Dina finishes. “Watching you both try and fail to act like you aren’t down bad for each other is the most entertaining part of this entire thing.”
“Okay, I’m hanging up now,” you huff, pulling the phone away from your ear.
“MAKE SURE TO SHUT THE CAMERAS OFF BEFORE YOU START SUCKING FACE!” Ellie shouts and you immediately end the call.
“What am I going to do with them, Bear?” you murmur, giving his ears one final scratch before the sound of his automatic feeder has him bolting out of the room and toward the kitchen.
You release a small laugh, standing there for just a moment longer before you make your way back down the hall, your phone still warm against your palm.
Abby is mid-match when you slip back into the room.
She doesn’t look back at you, but the way her hand tightens on the mouse tells you she’s all too aware of your presence again.
“Manny, if you don’t cover me—” Abby cuts herself off, missing two more shots when you settle back onto the bed.
You press your lips together, but it’s useless because a soft laugh escapes anyway.
Abby’s shoulders tense. “Fuck, I swear I had that.”
You decide to take pity on her then, already knowing that her chat and Manny must be roasting the hell out of her for her unusually poor performance tonight. But part of you can’t help but feel a subtle twinge of pride, knowing that she’s off her game entirely because of you.
So for the next half an hour you try to stay as still as possible, but every quick-witted comeback she spews into the mic has that familiar heat sparking between your thighs and the harder you try to ignore it—the worse it becomes. So you stretch yourself out on the bed, desperate to release some of the tension in your limbs. Her t-shirt that you’re wearing riding up your bare thighs and you release a soft, breathy sigh of frustration.
And that’s what finally breaks her.
“Manny, one sec,” she mutters, before pulling her headset off. “There’s something I gotta take care of.”
Abby spins in her chair then, her dark eyes focusing on where you’re lounging across her bed.
The chat explodes in an instant, messages flooding in rapid succession across her screen before she ends the stream with one firm click.
She says nothing as she pushes her chair back, rising to her feet.
“Abby,” you murmur, scooting back until your shoulders meet the headboard—your tone low and teasing. “They’re absolutely going to clip that, you know.”
“Don’t care,” she rasps, crossing over to you in three long strides.
You release a small squeal when she wraps her fingers around your ankle, dragging you back down the mattress. Her warm hands slide up your calves to spread your legs apart, one of her knees pressing down into the edge of the mattress between them.
“What about your stream?” you ask, slightly breathless as she leans over you, her nose nudging yours.
she’s old, rusty and stupidly horny — you bet that cute ass violet vanderson’s fucking her sister’s best friend tonight.
cw # 18+ minors and cismen dni as this contains smut, older!vi + chef!vi so be aware that this contains an age-gap relationship (reader's in her late twenties and vi is in her forties, reader’s also jinxs bestie) doctor!reader, blood and injury descriptions, vi is tripping here i love my girl, switch!switch dynamic cuz i'm a sucker for who's in control and who's not (expect sub!vi and not), scissoring, good old pussy eating, shit ton of flirting, spit, some choking, sweet names, degrading ones — yikes.
listen to some tunes for this one // masterlists // 10,3k words.
side note # in screams of agony, i bring you serpentskirt, a love hate fic i’ve been writing since january 18th acording to ellipsus. i’m not gonna lie but this was a pain in the ass so it makes me happy to finally let it see the light — trust me, i needed to move on, i’m kinda proud of how it turned out despite almost going pussy-bald on how stressing this was. still. hope you enjoy what i personally believe its the perfect blend of yearning and smut,,,, i expect your opinion on this one since its very important babymwah,,,,, #art bellow by entr0phea on instagram!!
vi has experienced appetite before.
eyes who swallow and mouth who irks in hunger, she knows what it's like when you experience desire firsthand, how it settles in her lower stomach like a monster ready to devastate. blends like an injection with her blood, turns her primitive in the closed space of the last drop, stupid.
"you remember who she is, right?"
is it a trick question? does her sister know half of what happened a handful of years before? fresh out of school while she was already finishing uni, ready to escape and move out: violet doubts you told jinx about the big crush you had back then with her so randomly, much less about the fact that she rejected you that very same night since she was already busy fucking a classmate, far from looking at her little sister's best friend with something more than a friendly approach — with this in mind, please care to explain when, exactly did you get this fucking hot?
slowly, she regrets being ten minutes late to a party she almost avoided at first, after so long investing this much time in staying away? karma breathes down her neck and it surely catches vi in a low moment of her life, or at least, guilty enough to curse silently while her sister keeps talking unaware of how stiff she is. shit, how long has it been since she last saw you? six, seven years now? time's an illusion created by men when minutes don't pass like as would: you're careless now, unaware that she still exists, cool.
"my best friend from school, you know her-- braces, weird haircut..." let cupid shoot his arrow twice cause you're far from the girl who once was drunk confessing a teenage crush in the middle of a starry night like a secret from the government — "c'mon be smart."
"i am smart--" vi replies offended, is this some kind of punishment for being late to her birthday party? for avoiding her hometown like it's haunted? "i know who that is. the troublemaker friend you had who followed you everywhere."
"well congratulate her and don't be a fucking asshole. she bagged this big job in the hospital of piltover to be part of the e.r team. it's a big night for her too."
the memory of when you were too drunk blurting out your hopes and desires settles in her brain and it's impossible to let go. pulls the corners of her mouth in an unexpected smile cause she can still go back to the words you mumbled between pouts and cheeky smiles, how she was already tired of zaun and how hot that summer was — you went too hard with the vodka, and she is, still too old for you.
"vi?" it's a knot in the throat when you become aware of her presence, say her name like you're missing one star all along, a new planet announced to the rest of the world. suddenly she turns into an old friend you hold close to your heart instead of that never-before-experienced-lover or your forever wonder. "oh god, how are you? jinx told me you were coming but i thought she was daydreaming-"
it's fast and it turns the air toxic as your arms surround her in an unexpected hug: god she's in such deep trouble. impossible not to freeze as her own arms welcome you back; she has the perfect excuse right? since you've been around each other at a young age you're an indirect part of her life, no? — she hasn't known anything about you in years so it's almost fair.
was it the mini-skirt? the way your hair smells as you're that close? she's a sucker for that kind of things — maybe it was the deprivation of good sex for what felt like a lifetime, or the sound of your voice when you talk so close to her. everything's a menace as your laugh seems to fill the entire place; her space at least, so inexistent at that point it makes vi afraid of having her sister wondering what the hell is going on.
"congrats on your new job, doc" it's nothing but politeness sprinkled with bits of flirting, subtle. "turns out you were a smart-ass after all, huh?"
"seems like it, yes-" is that cockiness in your voice? confidence? "thank you. been working hard for it."
"can tell you did" crooked smile, head slightly tilted to the right, she's been on this game for almost forty years: "you've always been annoying when you want something."
"i'd say determined, but yeah" you're now a very intelligent brat who seemed to have every answer to her playful banter. "you're staying long?"
"not much, your friend here's keeping tabs on me so i doubt that i can't leave before" maybe she should be more grateful of the volatile attention span of jinx already invested in another conversation to know what she's even talking about. "got a lot of work to do and i can't stay that long, the restaurant doesn't work well without me."
"well that's nice. j missed you quite a lot," maybe it's the smile that throws her off as you're called by your friends, when other people claim your attention and she wishes to have it all to herself. "see you around?"
"you call the shots, doc. talk to you later."
problems. she has a lot of problems nowadays to add another one to the list.
a sure inconvenience, but it doesn't stop life from making it considerably hard to pay attention to anything else after that hug, after having you so close, talk. it's only fair when she spends a good amount of time gripping her plastic cup too hard, surrounding herself with people who ask her about the job and how she is only to give back half asserted answers cause she lose the track of what she's saying, too damn tired to pretend she gives two fucks about anything else more than the cute friend of her young sister.
are you aware of how interested someone can be in you? how actively she's following your movements around and waiting for the moment to have the tender pleasure of your attention? just a simple conversation. makes her feel guilty when she realizes who she's lusting over, the inevitable years that separate the both of you: she's entering her forties and you're what? 28, 29? too young.
so vi stays on her side of the line. survival mode. avoid any further interaction cause she's too good to flirt with her sister's best friend, too polite to admit you're attractive. instead she turns the other cheek and forces herself to keep a normal conversation — remember that it's her sister's birthday and not a lesbian speed date event.
and plans would keep going amazing if she wasn't already tired of people, if the hours weren't so long and vi wasn't already moody from before. she kisses her sister's cheek before promising to come back tomorrow when the clock hits three in the morning, and she waves her friends goodbye before fixing her scarf ready to face the cold snow that gathered outside the bar: avoid you. she's fast when zipping up her jacket and pretends she's rushing for an emergency more than saving her own ass, not searching for you when the place's full.
thing is? it would be easier to escape from you if you — the prime headache, weren't outside the bar silently smoking a cigarette, if you didn't whistle loud enough to make her look at you. so much easier if the street wasn't empty and you weren't smiling all optimistic as you walk careful not to fall in the frozen streets.
"you leaving this early?" you ask, holding onto your coat to warm yourself from the cold "is the party too boring for the elderly?"
"twas a long trip" vi replies politely, now under the cold light of the moon and the reflection of the light in the snow she's capable of seeing you better, be a witness of the new details on your face: every mark on your skin, every line.
"so you're leaving without even saying goodbye instead."
"i'm not-" is there any excuse? like a teenager that's caught doing something wrong, vi's mouth rushes into a line at the lack of words — "are you supposed to even be smoking that, doctor?"
"this? nah, it should be the last of your worries." why is there something hot about it? about the way you lean against the wall of the last drop, the dim yellow light of the street lamp projected in your face, "trust me. this holds my last bit of sanity together-- do you really have to leave so soon? none of my friends wanted to join me here since it's too cold outside, c'mon. just five minutes. i'll let you leave when i'm done with my cigarette."
"well, it's freezing here your friends have a point" there's no doubt when she never thought twice to accept your words, almost embracing the failure of her plans as she sighs in fake annoyance, turns out she's quite bad when it comes to acting. "go on doc, smoke. i'll join you in your rush of sanity."
that's how she signs her ultimate contract with the devil in the end, when she stays still right next to you, silent, distant, deep in her thoughts: it may be the first time she's talking to you decently, so if the tension's palpable? you are good at ignoring while filling the air with a distinct smell that made her scrunch her nose in disgust.
"so," vi pauses for a second, too bad at small talk. "doctor, huh? always thought you were going to be something annoying like a lawyer."
you hum, and it's the most delicious sound vi can ever hear from over the distant noise contained in closed doors, savors it in her tongue as you speak again — "yeah, found out i really like to help people. be there. i wanted something to feel i dunno, tangible i guess-"
"so you turned into mother teresa, then?"
"shut up" you laugh, she does it too when pretending to be hurt from the push you playfully give her, even when in reality she can barely feel it under so much clothing, "and i also wanted to prove people wrong. i don't think anybody had the faith in me to do something like that."
"all of them can go straight to hell," fuck's sake, is she a five-year-old that can't keep her thoughts private? "people are used to do that, think you're less than what you really are."
"yeah they can go straight to hell, you're so right." man, why are you looking at her like that? pleading eyes, big smile, like some simple words found the path close to your heart and you just remembered why she was your crush back then when you were young. "i'm really happy you're here, vi. jinx missed you a lot and its nice to see her this happy in her special day."
so vi tries to find a rational explanation to why her heart skips a beat the way it does, resting her back close to where you are to the point the mix of the smoke and your perfume installs now in every corner of her mind making it severely difficult to not get invested like she's currently getting that night and wonder, deep down, if that crush you once got is still there gripping to the last bits of sanity that remains: impossible.
"thanks for being there for her," — "i don't want pow to be alone while i'm not here."
"well she has me, and ekko" you add, "she's been my best friend since i can remember, family. i fear she's stuck with me too."
"stuck with you, huh?" her brows furrow slightly at the thought. "poor pow. you two being annoying is something you can never get used to."
"teenage years were crazy" you chuckle. "a fever dream and my peak of embarrassment."
"why so?"
"please, as if you don't remember," how could she not? you're good at roll your eyes and play with the cigarette between your fingers as if it keeps you grounded, still and not nervous at all.
"do i, now? a lot happened while we grew up-"
"so you don't remember when i told you about my massive crush on you?" you question curiously, interrupting midway. "i literally spill my guts to you mid party. awful night, but i would be offended still if you forgot."
you're so casual while saying it, unaware that vi's soul drops in the very same second, almost losing balance as she can feel the heat coming from her insides staining her cheeks, burning her bones with fever as she crosses her arms right bellow her chest, suffering: how can a cigarette last so fucking long?
"i was trying to be polite," she tries to defend herself from your bad look — "you were so drunk it's really a miracle you can remember half of what you said back then."
"yeah, i know. it doesn't count either way" holding the smoke in, you kick the snow that gathers at your feet aware of the weight of her gaze. "sorry if i weirded you out-- i was young and full of hormones back then. adolescence is pretty rough."
you're aiming to play dumb, and she's willing to play along in anything you decide at this point, indulge you a bit, keep feeding that spoiled attitude bubbling like champagne; and the universe itself knows that vi would love to keep flirting there, truly. yet she suffers from the epitome of bad luck when she's trying to avoid the most random accident, unable to answer — so fast it does not give her enough time to blink.
how did you trip? was it the snow? did she get in the way? it doesn't matter when she's trying to save your butt from touching the freezing cement, strong arms that hold you and help you defy gravity before you hit the ground but does not stop your savior from losing balance herself: the pavement's froze due to the weather, and it's hard to stay on her feet as she lands on the snow, somehow avoiding a bigger injury.
"oh god," she can hear you as you get up by her side, kneeling in front of her. "are you okay? did you hit your head?"
maybe it's the doctor part that kicks in, makes vi wonder for a moment. your hands are gentle when you slowly touch her face, gaze searching for her blue eyes in any sign of confusion or pain. it's dangerous, how much she enjoys it even when your hands are super cold, worried about her while you ask a bunch of questions she ignores since it's difficult to pay attention to a single word you say more than the worried look in your face this close.
"don't move, take it easy," you pick the perfect path to your future it seems, cause you're not even half as affected vi is that moment, professional even when her heart's beating loudly in her ears, palms sweating against the snow, stupidly nervous. "talk to me, yeah? tell me how you feel, vi."
"is this how you treat your patients in e.r, doc?" — "you truly a lifesaver."
"how many fingers do you see?" ignoring her tries of flirtation, you're definitely good at doing your job, make sure she's alright, and vi? man, she's loving every second of it, having your eyes scanning every inch of her face while your fingers touch the back of her head, your eyes on her own: there is no need to even ask cause the answer would lack coherence.
it's a fact that the closeness got her speechless for a moment, cause she cannot think about an existent number when you're like that, when your brows furrow in concern and she can notice a wrinkle or two now that she's too close, now that she can smell your nice and sweet perfume again and you're looking at her like she's the only girl on earth.
"hi there, you here with me?"
"uh, three--"
"what?"
fuck. she needs to look again before correcting herself — "fingers. i see two fingers. sorry."
"can i touch you?"
"uh, what?"
"your head, vi" your smile is beautiful even from where she is, still freezing her ass. "i need to see if there's any wound or irregularity in your head."
"oh-- yes, i'm sorry" god, she needs to get a fucking grip.
your hands are already in her head wandering around her pink hair, gently they touch unaware of how devastating it is for a person who has endured solitude as a way of living, how she crumbles and wishes to have further beyond.
"are you in pain?"
"well, not really."
the world turns silent for a moment, her mind finally stays shut and the moment seems eternal in the pages of her head. fuck. fuck-fuck-fu--
"i think you're okay," can you realize how she's flirting with you and not caring about anything else? how she's looking at you now that you're busy touching her? "it was just a scare."
"you think i'll live?" you laugh at whatever she's saying and it has no right to be that delicious; not even pretending to be normal when you stare at her eyes checking on the size of her pupils: were you always this composed? this professional. "tell me the truth doc, i can handle bad news."
"you'll live, unfortunately" funny. it's the alcohol who makes the pink-haired stick her tongue out in response. — "don't hit your head again, though. try and keep your old ass out of the emergency room, can you?"
"dunno ma'am, i suffer from bad luck in this city."
"then i'm afraid i'll be seeing you around more than i want to, huh?" are you flirting with her too? she's having trouble to tell as you offer her a hand to stand up from the floor. blame it on her head. "thanks for staying with me while i smoke."
gentle, your voice's like a kiss on the cheek, a reward. it may be awkward for a second and vi's unexpectedly happy when she can notice you're nervous, nervous as you go from one side to another, as you play with the ring in your index finger, as you avoid looking at her as if you were back to being seventeen and she's still that cool uni girl too busy to pay attention.
"it wasn't so bad," even if her ass hurts and she will get a bruise or too. "thankfully i got you to take care of me, doc."
now this fucks with your head entirely, when she kisses your cheek goodbye this time and shoves her hands inside her jacket, watching you leave like it was the worst vi experienced in her life.
"are you going to stay in the door or going in?" the girl teases you when you stop mid-way the entrance — "can't keep the door crowded, an emergency can happen. you know that stuff."
"going in," unsure, you have to turn back to look at her one more time. "i'll see you around, right?"
it's just a simple question. not that deep. not that important-- yet the way you say it? makes her gulp the saliva contained in her mouth cause it's the tone you use, how your fingers grip the wood of the door nervous of the outcome, nothing but you gathering enough courage to admit you want to see her again somehow. subtle. almost a delusion of her own mind.
"you bet, peach." she likes your smile almost too much, how some words can lighten up the entire night. "take care of yourself for me and don't go falling around in this bad weather, yeah?"
lesbian things are happening lately.
vi can tell.
now.
it's actually funny when vi's in the emergency room two days after.
the place is full, the heat is on and she can swear she's paying some kind of punishment due to the miserable crying of a random kid for the last 40 minutes while she's there installed in the uncomfortable black chair of the waiting room with her sister, holding onto her arm with a new white cloth she was given by one of the nurses like her life depends on it.
it was all an awful joke.
i mean-- she was helping jinx with some house stuff vi could totally explain. sane. it didn't hurt that bad but still she wanted to get checked out either way cause — well, she would love to see you again, and it's clear that she does not know how to put it in words like a normal person would, ask for your phone or admit she's interested, so instead? she's at the hospital.
bleeding.
cause she's a noble knight. the most helpful sister.
and she kinda needs stitches.
so she remains optimistic the first hour: it's a big emergency room and the place is chaotic, but she chooses to believe that she can find you amidst the chaos, that somehow you'll end up being her doctor; by the second hour though? she knows it's like trying to find a needle in a haystack, that you may be busy, that it may be your day off, anything to make her remember why she hates coming back to the city so much.
hours seem eternal before she's finally called, still holding onto the bloody cloth now seated in a stretcher that's much more comfortable than the chair from before.
"pow, you're making me nervous like that-- i'm fine," she's thankful for the silence before her sister insisted on walking from one side to another — "they're not going to come any faster if you burn a hole in the ground."
"i know, but i'm both worried and bored," jinx later adds, a dangerous combo. "m'gonna go find my girl. maybe i can speed things up."
"wait no--" it's too late when jinx's already leaving to admit it's a bad idea, invisibly cuffed to the hospital bed as the silence finally fills the room and vi can enjoy a moment of silence without side quests: turns out enduring the waiting room was the first part of the task, now she needed to wait for the doctor to appear.
ten, fifteen minutes, she knows her sister has the attention span of a sardine so there are strong chances of vi being left behind for an iced coffee and something nice to eat, yet minutes don't matter when someone is waiting outside the door — someone whose voice can be recognize from before.
"good evening miss--" holding on to some papers in your left hand, she can't help but check you out as the black ambo uniform seems more than comfortable for 12-hour shifts, pretty even."vi? what are you doing here? what happened?"
"hi- uh, i was helping out pow," stupid. her brain turns stupid with you near and it's much worse to admit how she made a huge mistake to you than to anyone else — "she wanted the chimney to work so i was you know, chopping some wood."
now. you're worried, she can tell when your brows furrow and your eyes scan the blood on the cloth she was using, you're quick to disinfect your hands again with alcohol gel and enter the action under your big glasses, get on her side.
"let me see," you ask before inspecting the wound. "well you gonna need stitches, but i need to know if anything's infected here, was it with the old axe?"
"yes,"she can handle pain, always been good at the uncomfortable — yet nothing prepares violet for watching you in your zone, when you scan every inch of her teared skin under gloved hands and a serious expression while she's there feeling dumb as fuck.
"who's idea was this?" you ask, going back to the computer on the left, already writing orders for the medicine you need and creating a new tab for vi's medical records to include the incident that just happened. "cannot think of a worse idea than chopping wood with a rotten axe."
"me," it makes her blush when admitting it, and while you talk with the nurse, vi's actually happy you're distracted enough to not realize how she's already hiding under a pile of shame. "i was doing okay until powder distracted me."
"so all of this was your sister, huh?" it's all an effort to distract her from the pain, but standing there in front of her with your hands in your waist like you own the entire piltover hospital? she'd let you do anything you want without saying a single word while you wait for the nurse to come back. wait for hours. "i'll numb the zone with lidocaine, yeah? it will take a couple of minutes, i'll check if it's infected and after that? you're good to go home with some stitches."
"what if it's infected?" the pink haired ask curiously while looking at the dried blood on her forearm.
"it's not a big deal," you reply calmly. "the wound's not deep, so you would need some strong antibiotics instead of surgery. nothing alarming."
"i trust in your judgment, doc" she's too optimistic to even think about surgery, cause there's no other doctor in the place vi would trust her life with. "i'm happy you are here-- i mean. for good luck purposes."
"good luck purposes," you repeat her words with a laugh. "i like that."
and the universe must know vi would like to keep talking, flirt until it's evident and she cannot longer hide the adrenaline of being interested in somebody, even if it's the hot friend of her younger sister who mind the world — it's definitely too young for the population to approve; yet it's impossible when the nurse's interrupting any try to keep on talking and the pain of the needle takes her for surprise the moment she's applied lidocaine to numb the entire zone.
flirting at what fucking cost?
"thank you nellie" you say, and vi may be biased but you're made for it, to offer that calm smile that says everything's okay, keep being professional while she's in cloud nine trying to keep her shit together, not be insanely ridiculous. "good news. your arm's not infected so you won't need antibiotics, only stitches."
"at least something nice."
"so. you ready for me, miss vanderson?"
"please be kind--"
so she's blushing again to the point that big ass needle you hold is nothing against her own sabotage, inevitable when she's staring at you. you are fixated in her arm, in doing a good job — so she's allowed to look, right? not be very subtle about it, she's stuck in that problem cause while you work vi's invested, invested in your lips there under the white lights, in that fucking uniform, in every detail, mark, scar as if roles were reversed now and she's the one pinning after someone that's out of reach.
"does it hurt?"
"don't feel a thing, love."
who cares about pain when the shape of your smile may or may not be imprinted in vi's memories? afraid she would miss something if she dares to blink, clear now about her intentions even when she doesn't have to admit it out loud: yes she's interested in you, yes, she wants you like this, so close she can smell the notes on your perfume, so close vi can tell you're nervous. there's no point in dismissing what's clear, in denying she's seated in a hospital bed, wishing-- begging, you'll look up and notice she's centimeters away from giving up the nice behavior she insists on pulling up.
you do your work in silence and vi's inevitably absorbed by it, not even wincing when the needle pierces her skin over and over again and she's attacked by a weird feeling running down her spine when the thread stitches the parted skin together. your chest follows a path in controlled breathings, and vi's eyes can't help but follow the inviting path of your neck, that necklace that hangs over your uniform and makes her waste time wondering how the charm would settle in your chest, half romantic half perv.
"you don't have to risk your health to have some time with me, you know that, right?"
there's no time to panic, and it makes her shiver even under your gloved hands, a smile that pulls the corner of her pink lips upwards in an unexpected smile. midway through the stitches, you face now turns her way to demand an answer, yet the only thing vi can think about is the lame reply of:
"so you think this is for you?"
"is it not?"
the game's immediate. the sudden tension, the way the air turns hotter the moment you respond and it's fun, it's interesting, stimulating in ways vi thought they were lost for the next eternity. you're a little monster and she can almost feed on it.
"if you're so intelligent peach, then please enlighten me: what do i have to do so i can have you more to myself?"
"you can do something else more than just look at me for starters," you reply before going back to the stitches you were working on, making her chuckle at your response — you're far from the shy kid who blurted out some teenage crush, medicine makes you grow guts. "i mean, you've been doing it since jinx's birthday. like you'd eat me for breakfast but can't seem to do anything about it. bit boring."
"interesting. so you want me to make a move on you?" a dumb smile takes over vi's mouth, impossible to keep it shut. "you do realize i'm way too old for you, right?"
"how old are you? forty? forty-five?" you question. "that's not old."
so she'd love to respond, say something in return since you decided to be such a smart-ass, but her sister's coming back with a cup of coffee before vi could think of a decent reply and you're greeting her without looking cause you're too fixated on stitching her skin like an embroidery set.
get in the fucking line.
"i was looking for you," the blue-haired says sipping on her drink. "i wasn't going to accept any other doctor so i was outside fighting for my sister's rights."
"we're a bit full today--" you explain as you finish the last stitch, turning to look at your friend as if you weren't shamefully flirting with her older sister mere seconds ago. "but there you go. stitched. i will cover it down but when you get home? let it breathe for a while, yeah? it's an open wound. clean it, protect it, change pads every 4-5 hours."
"sure thing doc."
god, that damn nickname.
the process after is annoying, boring and a waste of time when vi wants to keep talking to you, go further and beyond with her sacred flirting tries, make you zoom out just like she does when you fuck her brain up: make you useless as a way of revenge.
an hour later powder holds a good amount of papers as she walks close to her sister. hands in her pocket, vi's surely disappointed about the fact that you disappeared the rest of her visit, not seeing you again after you explained the painkillers she needs to take and clearly — ruining her plans of finally asking you out.
it wasn't so bad right? you're old enough to reject her if you feel like it, she's old enough to be salivating over her sister's best friend.
"turns out she was really busy," her sister rants as they reach the exit. "good thing is her free day tomorrow, i can't imagine the kind of stress she goes through working here every day."
dates. dates. dates.
"vi!" she think she's going delusional after hearing your voice until powder calls your name surprised, an un-gloved hand that reaches her arm to pull her aside: did you run after her? man, bless this patient-doctor confidentiality cause it makes immediate sense in her brain somehow when jinx stays behind, "you forgot this."
she didn't. the medicine you hold does not belong to her but vi takes it without even thinking twice. shove it in the back of her jeans pretending it was something quite important to have a doctor going to the waiting room on her own free will.
"how kind," she replies instead with a warm smile despite the new pain in her arm as the lidocaine dissipates. "what would i do without you?"
takes you off for a minute, as if you're going to have a headache due to how hard you keep thinking about it — "i dunno. would you have a date with me?"
"yes, gladly." pathetic, she can't even pretend to be cool these days.
"friday night?"
"sounds good to me."
"my place?"
"got yourself a deal, doc."
"amazing," you say with a victorious smile."bye j, see you around."
it's fast and you go directly to the point (is it possible to like you even more?) — even when you turn around to go back to the restricted area and she stays there planted in the same spot afraid of growing roots until she dares to remember where she is and how to act normal again, breathe, walk, act as if she's not affected by your ideas, your direct questions, you.
"what did she say?" her sister asks curiously as they leave together, almost running to catch up with vi's fast steps as they reach the car.
"nothing. something about the antibiotics."
"ah sucks, you have to take medicine--"
"at least i got all my fingers, s'not that bad…"
"well that's a way of seeing it sure."
violet vanderson's a filthy. fucking. liar.
she's a rare optimist when her fist finally knocks the door.
standing outside feels like an eternity before you finally open, nervous like a teenager facing her first date ever before registering the chaotic scene developing — apron tied to the waist, she's sure there is food in your hair and dried something on your shoulder.
"is this a bad timing?" vi asks curiously as she takes a look inside your apartment, small, cozy while a warm light falls to stain your white walls just like she imagined.
guilty smile, you shake your head in denial as you wipe your hands in the fabric of the apron.
"no, please" almost ashamed you fully open the door to give her an entire glimpse of your personal life, silently inviting her in. "thought it was a good idea to impress you with risotto. it's not working currently."
it delights her, head that tilts backwards when the smile transforms into a laugh she cannot contain now noticing the dried rice in your clothing, the messy bun and the face of guilt. she takes off her jacket since the cold's cruel on the way to your place only to leave it on a chair nearby:
"you want me to take care of it?" she's a chef, right? with a known restaurant back where she lives — she definitely should have no problem with it. "the rice, peach. i can help you with the food."
"no please, don't want to make you feel like i'm taking advantage of you," you quickly reply worried. "we can go out, i know a good place nearby."
"nonsense," vi says instead as she gently takes your hand, pulling it slightly forward as she searches for the kitchen where the smell is coming out. "you're not taking advantage of me. i want to teach you how to do it."
at this point? god, she wishes you would take advantage, do anything that implies your good. letting go of your hand, she hovers over the rice casserole with a furrowed brow — half smile of contentment when it takes the famous chef no longer than a minute to actually notice what is wrong with your dinner tries, turning to look at you with a pleased expression.
"c'mere, i see where you are wrong," the pink haired mumbles, and she could very well explain it out loud from where you are standing currently, yet she refuses to keep that nonsense of not being interested any longer as her hand finally finds your waist and she uses little-to-inexistent force to pull you closer, so close you can feel her breathing subtle and barely there against the back of your neck. "that's not the correct rice for what you have in mind love, nor the right temperature."
her words are similar to a kiss, tender and bruising to the soul. no one's looking when her body drags itself closer to you so there is no space left and pretend she's fixing the rice you did before even when she knows, damn well, that it has no way to be fixed truly.
the skin of your waist feels hot under vi's fingers and it makes the chef volatile, lost in the seconds she's able to get by luck.
"is there a way to fix it?" you ask before she gives you a bit of space, "or do we have to start all over again?"
"oh you messed it up badly, i'm afraid." dramatic, not entirely true, she just wants to see your face. "but don't worry sweetheart. i can handle it."
so she tries not to look your way when you sit next to her, up in the counter to have a full view of what she's doing and vi has a hard time not wanting to think about it — it's hot as fuck.
not many times in your life you can have an award-winning chef in your kitchen trying to fix your mess, walking around like she owns your place more than you ever did. she puts on the purple apron you used before, and your eyes wander on their own inevitably as you help her tie it on her back: all is fucking trouble.
it would be better if you weren't a pervert all along. if you weren't salivating as her muscles flex each time she moves your wooden spoon resting in the pan. you are that kid again with a massive crush as you swallow the saliva contained in your mouth, risotto. what a good thing it is to fail at making risotto.
"i will steal those mushrooms," she's concentrated and there is something hot about it as you're there, installed next to the greatest chef you know. maybe its the kitchen fire that keeps making you feel warm, or the pink-haired who keeps adding stuff to the casserole to save your ass.
"smells good," you praise, hoovering over to smell the vapor coming out. "you really are a top-star chef, huh?"
"wanna try?" she asks, not even looking at you before adding, — "open up."
kinky, it is a wild ride still. turbulent as your lips part on their own and your eyes close to make this fucking sound it makes the chef hold on her breathing for a second as you savor the taste of a simple mushroom risotto. what's crazy here? the way vi cannot get a grip of attention in anything else other than your lips opening for the spoon, how your face distorts and what's supposed to be close to a moan.
"any thoughts on it? feedback?"
"you do risotto's back in your restaurant? holy shit, vi" you look up to her face and it does things to her, so much her thumb works on its own when it goes up to the corner of your mouth to wipe the excess of food there, makes you hold your breath as she takes the rest of the food back to her mouth to eat the crumbles.
"i do, but a fancier version."
"it tastes amazing," you say, licking your lips. "no feedback, i want a full plate please."
it feeds her ego, clearly. she's so normal with it, throwing species, smelling how its going — "its impossible there's nothing you want to change, no dish is perfect love."
"you're just pushing me to say something."
"c'mon. be brutally honest."
"then be careful with the salt," your comment makes her laugh before she's tries the risotto on her own, looking at you with a furrowed brow as you show your hands as a sign of innocence — "you told me to be brutally honest."
"yeah, but you're talking out of your ass" vi says not looking at you as she tries the risotto again. "'cause well, i haven't add any salt, that's what you poured before."
that's where it messes with her head. the intimacy of it. the way you laugh at her stupid jokes and her double intended comments, hands gripping the edge of the counter, messy hair, you let your guard down when she does and my god — it's just what vi needed, that injection of adrenaline that keeps her body awake through the course of the seconds, interest, that damn tension that comes every time she stares at you more than she should.
the smell fills the kitchen, makes it warm and inviting to be in, maybe that would explain why she installs between your legs, hands gripping your thighs as she reaches the plates you signal over your head. close. aching to trespass that miserable space left behind she left to be educated.
"you hungry?" she dares to ask.
"starving."
appetite.
how was it again? violet vanderson's used to experience the devastating appetite.
when minutes later she's full and resting your legs over hers, a simple touch that makes vi's mind run wild with imagination: twenty minutes alone with you means an eternity of longing, of craving something forbidden, unsatisfied hunger.
"what are you thinking about?"
can she be honest right now? not really, not when her hand rests on your upper leg and her thumb constantly rubs on your naked skin, when she doesn't give two shits about the cold risotto whose remains lie now on the table long forgotten.
"you're usually bad at cooking risotto or is it a general thing?"
"this would be offensive, but most of the time i'm too tired to cook or live," you reply before eating again, savoring each bite. "you'd be surprised but take-out works wonders if you know how to choose the place."
"so you're not much of a party girl either, i see."
"after a 12-hour-shift? all i crave is my bed, i have no time to flirt so i just go straight to the point."
"that's why you invited me to a date where i have to cook?"
"yeah. you can say that, thankfully you accepted it cause it would be extra-crushing to be rejected for a second time" it's crazy how you lack inhibitions now, how any trace of shame is now gone to the point vi can hardly tell you were full of it when you were younger. "most people would say no thinking it's just a code to have sex but to be honest? i cannot think of dressing up to go outside with this weather going on, plus fridays are always brutal."
a fake moan, vi's fist closes right over her beating heart before her eyes follow in a pained expression — "so you don't want any sex? i'm hurt, peach. i feel misled."
"please, as if you're not too cool for me."
"cool?"
"michelin chef who lives far away from here and never comes to visit? that's pretty cool."
"so that's what you think of me, huh?"
"you always knew i found you out of my reach," you comment as you finally finish the risotto — "i'm positive you thought the same too."
"well, uh, you talked too much about the lord of the rings back then."
"fuck off. you cannot say eowyn's not hot," her brows furrow as you prove your point: still a nerd deep down. "i don't know, i was young and you were so confident about liking girls, of being you despite what people think-- meanwhile i was trying hard to believe i wasn't a lesbian at all, you can't blame a girl for a crush."
"for the record, i think you are far too cool now."
"do you?"
"you saved my arm," vi replies showing you the covered injury that landed her in the emergency room. "that's a cool thing to do, doc."
"i studied for that, tons" you laugh at her remark, staring at the white bandages that cover half of her arm. "how is it, by the way? pain too bad?"
"amazing since i have the best doctor in town to take care of my ass" it's a beneficial position at this point cause you're far too comfortable to look at her covered arm, stupidly close to where she is seated, tangled legs, vi's grip still on your thigh with no intentions of leaving. "you'd be surprised by the benefits that it can have."
"you shouldn't be forcing it so much-- the risotto, the date…"
"yeah? you think so?" do you even realize how close you fucking are? are you doing it on purpose? your body leans against her own and it's a heat that turns impossible to control: she's wearing a tank top for christ sake and you're on a black shirt she's sure you wore at work earlier thin as parchment paper. "cause all of that was your fault, you know? the date you invited me, the risotto you messed up, you're the one inciting me to do things when i should be resting."
she's not bothering to hide it now (never did), that flirt, that constant back and forth as you seem to have an answer for everything. it's tangible and there is no point to regret it cause well —, you're flirting back right? allowing her to touch you like that, with that half smile pulling your lips upwards in a charming smile even after you're tired. it may be the most relaxed date vi has ever experienced in her life, and weirdly enough the best, so when she's using her index finger to pull you closer to where she is, it's nothing but the cherry on top; the sweetest dessert and what both deserve.
it hooks on your shirt and you don't pretend to be surprised about it, about the reveal of desire, the rush of blood that leaves goosebumps on your skin when her mouth blends with your own and her tongue invades it like it's now enemy ground: that's a real moan, one that comes from vi's mouth to crash against your parted lips. messy, there is too much saliva, infinite desperation that somehow she craves more than the perfect kiss, instead, vi finds herself aching for the flawed, the contained chaos and the imperfect.
"go home then and pretend it didn't happen."
you're a cheeky bastard. you know she doesn't care about the bandages on her arm, about anything else other than getting lost in the moment, in the smell of your skin as you strip off that stupid shirt you've been wearing for so long.
"i may be a little rusty in this field," vi says looking at the cute bra you choose to wear, so red it's clear she's ashamed of saying it out loud. "be gentle with me, please."
the words come out on their own, the movie that keeps playing in the background, the smell that comes from the kitchen from a steamy casserole that still contains the warmth-- god there's tenderness in your touch, kindness in your kisses so much that she can be intoxicated with it after choosing a life of solitude and silence, after being too tired of having another person around. your touch is the one that surprisingly alleviates all worry, all bad.
you'd take care of her, right? cause fuck, she's your long-time crush, no? nice ass, delicious back tattoo. you can be anything she wants — happy to comply, happy to kiss her neck, happy to just notice how she holds her breath in when your tongue circles against that damn spot in her clavicle making the pink-haired sure you'll leave a hickey behind. suddenly your weight presses her down against your comfy sofa and it's a handful of real moans now, moans that keep so far from the fake ones she did before in a joke, ones that leave her throat dry only to turn you on.
how many times have you got your life crush there moaning for your kisses? hand on your waist, fighting to pull you closer and finally unhook your bra? even after a long shift, even when your bones are a weight that's annoying to carry, you kiss on the flesh to leave a mark, take her time in pleasing her cause you heard from jinx she's been having a rough time lately and she deserves it, right? when you get on your knees and you pull on her muscle tee upwards to kiss on her lower stomach making her shiver, you're a soldier to her pleasures, to simply keep going.
she encourages you, cause who's violet vanderson to ever deny any show of caring? her legs open to make space for you, and she gives you a pillow to put in your knees cause she knows how annoying it can be when the carpet sticks to your knees. knows.
"straight to the point, doc?" looking down at you, she's blushing as you unbutton her pants, helping you to finally get them off as they were always decoration of the floor.
"straight to the point," her arms rest behind her head and her muscles flex when you hit a sensitive spot gifting you such a nice view you can't pretend not to be checking her out — you want her like that, comfortable, relaxing, hazy eyes that stare at you almost as a dare, invested in every future move you make.
it's ridiculous. she's been slowly melting in a nice velvety sofa thanks to those heaty kisses you leave behind for the last fifteen minutes and it seems she cannot get tired of them, of how vi can see the saliva you leave behind on each proof of devotion: it's near pathetic to admit how she's been dreaming about you since her sister's birthday, stuck on your lips smoking that cigarette, that cloud that follows you around and only pushes her in.
so your touch becomes a vital need, a contagious disease when her whole body shivers and her hips buckle forward in need of having more of your face. she can't really complain about it when your tongue's invading her with practiced ease, pushing the chef to the edge of the seat so she can rest her legs over your shoulders and gift you the most comfortable access to her still covered cunt: turns out violent vanderson's a fucking needy mess who will cream her underwear before she's even touched.
when was the last time she had her pussy properly eaten? god, turning vi stupid even when she was relying on her five senses, a loser who soaks her underwear to the point its no longer usable. a mix of your saliva and arousal stains her inner thighs as she rubs herself against your mouth desperate to have more of your lips assaulting her covered cunt, soaked in every bit, somehow trying to make her underwear disappear so she can drown in the direct contact of your lips sucking her clit instead of the overwhelming torture of damn cotton.
"don't be rude-- please-" she trains on the gym every fucking day: why is she sweating like that? the image of having you there in your knees so eager to please fucking her brain entirely, soft voice that begs to be touched until you're pulling the fabric to the side and there it is — salty, it fills your mouth with a feast of flavors, pink and soaked hair from a pussy that's inviting you to take what you like, spread her out using your fingers, get dirty.
you take your time with her, cause you have it, right? you can have violet for the rest of the night. you can steal every breath when your tongue fucks her just right, nose rubbing on her g-spot on each try to go deeper, make her turn into a blabbering mess.
"fingers, ah--" it takes her a while, sensitive and overwhelmed and still greedy "can you like-, god…"
"you gonna fuck yourself on my fingers?" the way you say it turns her on more than it should, and her body betrays her when it keeps moving with the help of your hand now placed in her ass.
you're gentle at first, want to prepare her as a couple of fingers spread her cunt so you can slowly sink them until you're deliciously deep, sure she can feel you in that spot she needs. your tongue rubs on her clit without fully touching it, and vi's sure her brain-cells are close to combust, a constant movement she forces herself to continue on each motion her hips make: always full of your fingers, rubbing on that spot inside she now decides to love.
"there you go- s'good right? let me train this pretty cunt so i can fuck you better with another finger, yeah? god-- how can you look this hot, vi."
you're going to be her pending doom, the handsome devil that stalks every thought even when you don't try cause the way you look between her legs? demonic. hands gripping on her sides to pull her closer to your mouth, eyes staring back at her own, your tongue seems to go in full motion with you fingers and shit — how do you make it so good? what the fuck are you doing down there to make her feel this nice?
swollen clit, your fingers curve inside to the point and fuck-- vi's losing it, hand holding you close to her cunt so she can use you how she wants to, loud and erratic moans praising on your skills, on how good you are at eating her soaked cunt to the points its all over your cheeks.
"mmf-m'gonna cum like that--," rough voice, it's so nice to see her like that when she's usually so composed, so serious. her body moves on its own and her face finally distorts when finally reaching her peak, leaving her legs shaking, it's an arrow that's shot to the chest and steals the air from vi's lungs as you use a hand to spread her folds and take care of the mess you've done between the chef's legs.
she wants to keep going, adrenaline injected into the blood flow before vi pulls you up to her lap interrupting all tries to stay nested there in her cunt — it's all fun and games but deep down it's a fight for who's in control, isn't it all? even out of breath, hair sticking to the sides of her face as a lazy smile appears on her face: are you glowing? is it the sweat that makes your skin all shiny under the lights of your apartment? fuck-- crazy how vi starts to need you under her.
"you okay up there?" she asks instead, thumbs helping you to clean your cheeks in the last act of chivalry.
"i am" you reply, leaning against her touch to get more of the warmth of her hands. "are you, rusty lady?"
"think i am--, that was some heavy activity doc, thought i needed some rest."
"you rested. on the sofa. that was-- very low effort for you" it's a good point, and vi cannot think of a clever reply when your kisses are distracting her to form a thought on her own. "are you in pain?"
who the fuck cares about pain when you begin sucking on her thumb? making sure any trace of her stays on your mouth rather than your cheek or her hand — maybe it's the adrenaline of the moment, the rush of endorphins that run to leave vi full of the dopamine she lacked when she ends up turned on once again as if she wasn't chaotic already getting wet in your living room.
"mmhm no, no pain-- does it taste good?"
"yeah, wanna try?"
she likes to be this filthy, mouth wide open, tongue up before her head's tilting backwards and shit: it should be illegal, a capital sin when you hoover just how you did when she was cooking before to now gather a decent amount of saliva and simply spit against her parted lips; it's her, right? mixed with your very own personal taste, a blend that stays there imprinted on her brain and makes her malfunction cause it's not something that common to have a pretty girl there willing to spit on her mouth after eating her brains out.
desire is radical, desire is unexpected and a curse cause there's no such rational thought when vi's pulling on your jeans with the insane need of fucking you to the verge of tears, no fight for dominance now as you shimmy out of your clothes already feeling sticky. desire is raw and turns her desperate, the vision of a person who once cared for comfort and now pushes you roughly back to her lap.
"where's your room?" so yeah, she wants to fuck you properly, pointing the closed door with your index finger, your underwear already rests in the floor midway before she's throwing you in the good-queen-sized bed, bad jokes, horny comments, vi has no trouble to move you around and put you in the position she wants you to be, one hand on your ankle while the other's on your waist so it takes little to no time to understand her intentions with no need to say a word.
she pushes you down when she places herself on top of you, tangled legs, vi simply fits against you without much effort so it becomes a sight there laying in the comfortable sheets, sweaty body, her tits bounce every time her hips rolls against yours so her mess is now your mess and the shapes of your body and her own blurry to the point of the erratic and you can't tell now about anything else more than the sounds you two make on each movement, when finally becoming one.
it's wet, fills the room so it's hot, so your breathing reduces considerably and you finally let her do the job, keep rubbing her soaked pussy against yours so it leaks to the bed and stains your clean sheets. loud moans, vi's ego's inflated with the pride of making you act like that, resting your weight over your elbows so you can spread yourself wider, give her more space so the contact can be even more devastating.
"good fuck-- you're such a greedy slut," a guilty smile, are you even aware of your existence anymore? when the bed hits the wall in the most annoying sound and her hand closes around your neck to keep you controlled, are you aware of your fucked-self? aching to keep you still as she forces your breathing channel, your cunt on each movement. "there you go, be good and touch that pretty pussy for me, yeah? help me out."
trembling hands, your fingers circle against your clit in slow motions, already overwhelmed when vi's leaning to spit directly to your working fingers, lubricating your g-spot so you can go faster, combine your movements with her own until you're moaning her name, praising the skills of your lover like they're sacred, a new religion to follow.
relentless, she doesn't stop until your body's rigid, limbs cramped before you reach the most delicious orgasm, sensitive cunt, it's a shared chaos that stains your inner thighs in a delicious mix vi suddenly crave to taste.
"well fuck--" it's a problem now, officially. her thoughts betrayed her so now she's lusting over her little sister's best friend to the point it becomes real, real as the warmth your body radiates when you crawl under the bed seeking for contact, a silence that weighs down the meaning of having a new shared secret, intimacy neither of you searched for. "so much for being rusty, liar."
do problems matter anymore? if jinx gets mad because she fucked her friend, so what? it's a connection she cannot control as she laughs at your remark, leaving a soft kiss on your shoulder with the weird need to stay instead of leaving early like she usually does whenever someone's interested in her.
"i am rusty, you're just kind."
so maybe that's the last thing she needs, get all complicated like that, mix up her feelings with your own. she has a restaurant in another city, a life outside zaun and lots of money problems to take care of — so maybe she doesn't need a younger girlfriend that messages almost too much, who keeps her fucking horny all of the time.
"m'gonna take a shower in twenty minutes-- do you think we should order junk food?"
her face betrays her when she listens to your words, quickly shaking her head in response — "no fucking way. i think you should be saying goodbye to delivery apps for a while, peach."
she needs to stay, right? it would leave her arm in danger as she kisses you once again, always close: who would take care of her injured body?
so how was it again? ah. sure.
violet vanderson has experienced appetite before, plenty of times to be honest, but now she has a younger girlfriend to take care of it, more bills to pay and a very angry sister.
𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: 18+ only MDNI, angst, hurt/comfort, no use of y/n, established relationship, horror elements, descriptions of bones breaking/snapping, blood, kissing, scenting, abby’s boobies.
𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 7.2k
𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗'𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊: holy shit it’s done! this really was a labor of love because I wanted to give up on it many, many times over the past week. but I really need to thank @justanotherabbystan for brainstorming and helping me work through the parts of this fic that made me want to rip my hair out. so I’m dedicating this one to you lana <3
p.s. I also want to further expand on this au with blurbs and headcanons and some other one-shots to show abby’s shifts, her regaining her control and the progression of their relationship. but I hope you all enjoy this one xx.
An empty bed.
That’s the first thing you’re aware of when you begin to stir, your palm reaching out across the mattress in search of the steady, familiar warmth you’ve come to expect. But you find nothing, just an empty space right where Abby should be.
The sheets are still warm and for a moment you just lay there, waiting for any indication that she’s still here. The soft thud of her boots, the tug of a zipper, a muffled sniffle but you’re only met with resounding silence. Your eyes flutter open, the dimly lit room slowly coming back into focus.
“Abby?” you murmur around a yawn.
No answer.
You sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you glance around your shared space. It looks the same as you left it a few hours ago, nothing amiss besides her presence. Moonlight spills through the slits in your curtains, the clock on your bedside table showing just after midnight. Your gaze drifts over to her side of the bed, and a feeling of dread instantly washes over you.
The sheets are ruined, a series of long slashes tearing deeply into the mattress beneath. You trace a finger over them and your heart thuds erratically because you swear they look like claw marks. But the stains of crimson that litter the shredded fabric has bile suddenly rising up your throat.
Abby’s hurt. She came back from patrol like this and didn’t say anything.
Damn her and her stubborn pride.
You spring from the bed in an instant, suddenly wide awake as you reach to pull on whatever clothes are closest. You nearly stumble as you pull a pair of worn sweats over your bare legs and frantically shove your feet inside your boots, gripping onto the back of a chair for support.
Your fingers grasp onto the rough collar of Abby’s jacket slung over the back of the chair, her pack resting untouched on the floor beside it. That feeling of dread coils tighter in your stomach when you notice her gun is amongst the belongings, tucked safely inside its holster. That’s how you know something is very wrong.
Abby Anderson is a force to be reckoned with, one of the strongest soldiers in the WLF’s ranks but she’s not invincible. Nor was she stupid enough to go off on her own, completely unarmed and injured. So what would have pushed her to that point, where she would leave without even saying goodbye?
Something tightens in your chest when you think back on when she slipped into bed with you just a few hours earlier, the movement stirring you enough from your sleepy haze to reach out for her. You felt her stiffen beneath your gentle touch, heard the harsh intake of breath before she carefully guided your hand up to rest on her shoulder.
“S’everything okay?” you ask, blinking up at her.
“Don’t worry about it, baby,” she’d said, pressing a kiss to your brow before pulling you closer. “Just a little sore, I’ll be fine.”
Deep down, you knew it was more than that.
But you’d been too tired to argue, and now you really wish you had.
You reach for her jacket, slipping your arms through the too long sleeves and snatching up the firearm to tuck it inside the innermost pocket. The scent of peppermint and pine wraps around you, but it does little to soothe you as you rush out of the room.
The stadium is quieter this time of night, only a few stray soldiers milling about. On any other occasion you’d find it sort of peaceful, but now the hum of the overhead lights only seems to set your nerves alight. Every instinct inside you is telling you to run, to move faster—she needs you.
But you keep your pace steady, your breathing even, a mask of complete calm. The last thing you need is to draw any unnecessary attention to yourself. So you let your feet guide you further down the winding halls, already knowing the way. There’s an unused maintenance tunnel hidden beneath the stadium, leading well past the high walls and watchful eyes of the WLF.
Abby had shown it to you months ago, the first time the two of you had snuck out to the aquarium. She’d found it by complete accident, late one night when sleep had continued to evade her. She’d said it was yours, a discreet way out in case the two of you ever needed it…and it was clear tonight that you did.
You give one quick glance behind you to ensure you’re still alone before you throw open the door and duck into the empty stairwell. Your heart thumps unevenly as you race down the steps, no longer caring how loudly your footsteps echo up the stairwell. The sound follows behind you, rivaling each heavy thud of your heart. But you don’t stop until you finally reach the landing, throwing open the basement door and stumbling into the dimly lit hallway.
The smell hits you immediately, the air thick with the scent of rust, mildew and something metallic that clings to the back of your throat. The lights above you flicker with each step you take, offering brief flashes of the path ahead before you’re bathed in darkness again. It’s so much eerier than you remember, all of your senses heightening as you trudge forward.
The exposed pipes above you hiss and groan every so often, which only adds to your feeling of unease. You’ve never been down here on your own before, so used to the comfort and safety that Abby’s presence always provided. But now you find yourself jumping at every shadow, unable to discern what’s real from the horrors your mind continues to conjure up.
Something suddenly scurries across your feet, causing your breath to punch out in a sharp gasp as you slam back against the opposite wall. But the sight of the small, harmless mouse has a startled laugh bubbling past your lips.
Pull yourself together, you scold yourself. You’re no use to her in this state.
So you take a deep breath and keep moving, forcing down the fear that threatens to consume you whole, until it’s just a dull ache beneath your ribs.
You’re nearing the end of the hall now, where the corridor splits off in two different directions. Your eyes linger on the faded arrows, the words above labeled Maintenance Access and the other Storage.
That’s when you notice it, a smear of crimson across the wall.
The panic slams back into you like a freight train, because it’s fresh, still wet enough to catch in the muted light. Abby had just been through here, but you don’t find any comfort in that sudden revelation. Your feet carry you faster down the hall now, your boots sloshing wetly against the cracked cement.
But as you round the corner you discover it’s not just one small smudge, she’s left a bloody trail.
The marks drag unevenly along the wall, the color looking unnaturally bright against the pale brick. You follow them further down the corridor until the trail abruptly ends, not far from the entrance to the maintenance tunnel. But your eyes linger there for a moment, on the scattered, bloody palm prints that have smeared in some places where her hands must have slipped, like she was struggling to even hold herself upright.
“Goddamnit, Abigail…” you hush under your breath, turning your gaze back to the door.
The sight of it makes your heart stop.
The rusted door—hinges and all have been crushed, dented inward like someone had taken a battering ram to it. The handle is missing, torn clean off as the edges of the door curl in on itself like something pried it open. Nausea stirs in the pit of your stomach as you take a step closer to further inspect the damage and discover a near perfect indent of a shoulder in the metal.
And your thoughts can’t help but drift through the early signs of infection you were taught to recognize: extreme aggression, unnatural strength, the complete loss of control…
But you immediately shove the thought aside before it can take root. There’s no way it could be true.
Then why would she leave you like that? A small voice in the back of your mind sneers.
Releasing a harsh breath, you step forward, reaching for the curled edge and pulling. The metal groans in protest, scraping against the cement floor but it opens a little wider for you to be able to squeeze inside. But as you slip through the narrow gap, the metal catches on the sleeve of your jacket and pulls some of the threads loose. You curse softly, but keep moving until the darkness of the tunnel swallows you whole.
The air feels different here, hollow and cold. The corridor seems smaller, emptier than you remember and even as your eyes slowly start to adjust, that feeling doesn't relent. Instead it presses down on you, like the walls themselves are closing in now that there’s no one to shield you from the dark. The panic threatens to bring you to your knees but you swallow it down, reaching out a hand, allowing your fingers to drift along the cold cement and letting it guide you.
Despite the lingering darkness, you can still picture her here. Walking just a step ahead of you, pulling you down the narrow tunnel, her fingers tangled with yours like she never planned on letting you go. The not so subtle way she’d glance over her shoulder at you, her eyes shining with warmth and affection that was only ever meant for you. And how you’d continue to pull her to a stop, reeling her back in to steal soft, breathless kisses that echo with your shared laughter.
But Abby isn’t here and you can feel the weight of her absence with each step that you take.
Your fingertips brush over the curved edge of the wall and you follow it, rounding that final corner. At the far end of the tunnel, moonlight spills in through the hatch above, bathing everything it touches in a harsh, pale glow. That feeling of dread instantly slithers back into your veins, because that hatch is not supposed to be open.
Why would she leave it open?
Your hazy memories from the last few hours begin to surface now, slow and unrelenting.
The way she held you a little tighter than usual, the hushed ‘I love you’ she pressed into your hair right before you drifted off and the way she lingered after, like she couldn’t bring herself to pull away.
Each one only solidifies the horrifying truth you’d been too afraid to face until now.
She'd been bit.
The realization settles deep within your chest, suffocating and heavy because she wasn’t just being affectionate, she was saying goodbye.
Hot, angry tears blur your vision and you’re unable to stop the moisture from slipping down your cheeks as you take those last few steps and grab onto the rusted rungs of the ladder and start to climb.
The night air is crisp, the gentle breeze stinging your damp cheeks as the familiar smell of fresh rain and pine fills your nose. The forest stretches out before you like a dark and endless abyss, only the smallest slivers of moonlight lighting your way. But it’s way too quiet, you realize the deeper you descend into the trees. There’s no chittering wildlife, or the soft hum of cicadas to drown out your racing thoughts.
It’s like the forest itself is holding its breath.
Dead leaves crunch beneath your boots as you walk, your eyes scanning your surroundings for any sign that she’d been through this way. They land on a tree just a few paces ahead, and you instantly pick up your pace until you’re able to see it more clearly. You swallow thickly, reaching out to trace your fingers over the four long scratch marks that are embedded into the bark.
“Abby?” you call softly.
Silence.
So you continue on, noting how the ferns up ahead were wilted and crushed—she’d been here too.
There’s a sudden, loud snap that stops you dead in your tracks and you move on impulse, quickly ducking behind a fallen log. You hold your breath, straining your ears to listen for that haunting whistle that would inevitably sign your death warrant.
But the forest falls silent again.
There’s no flicker of flames from a torch, or arrows slicing through the night air. So you wait a heartbeat longer, still not fully trusting that you’re safe. When nothing happens, you carefully rise from your hiding place and continue deeper into the trees.
Another sharp crack echoes up ahead and you immediately turn toward it.
“Abby?” you call again into the darkness, and the answering yelp has you taking off in a full sprint, no longer caring about the possibility of Scars or infected because she needs you.
Branches whip past your face and bite into your cheeks but you don’t care, you force your legs to carry you faster. There’s a break in the line of trees up ahead, the opening of a small clearing. She’s close now, you can hear each choked breath that leaves her, every painful whimper and it fractures something deep inside your chest.
You burst through the line of trees at the edge of the clearing and stop dead in your tracks.
Abby is crouched near the base of a tree, her back to you as she keeps one hand braced against the trunk while the other clutches onto her side. Her hair is loose, spilling wildly over her broad shoulders and down the middle of her back. Slivers of moonlight shine through the canopy above, casting the rest of her in shadow.
“Abby?” you whisper, taking a tentative step forward.
Her head instantly snaps up and when she turns to face you, your stomach twists. Her eyes look wrong, but not in the way you’re expecting. They aren’t bloodshot, there’s no yellowing around the irises, in fact they’re almost too bright. The moonlight reflecting off them in a way that feels more animal than human.
Abby mutters your name low in her throat, almost as if it pains her to speak. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
You take another step. “Neither should you.”
She ignores the accusation in your tone. “Turn around and go back to the stadium, now.” The sudden authority in her voice leaves no room for argument.
Your anger flairs. “I’m not some soldier that you can order around, Abby. I’m not leaving you like this.”
“Why are you always so stubborn?” she growls.
“Why are you?” you fire back, taking another step into the clearing. “You disappear in the middle of the night and expect me not to—”
Abby doubles over with a sharp, choked sound and the anger evaporates from your body as you rush forward.
“Don’t come any closer.” She snarls, but it’s not anger lacing her words. It’s fear. “I fucking mean it.”
But you don’t listen, taking another step toward her hunched form and it’s only now that you realize she’s shaking. Violently.
“Abby, look at me.” you press, nearly close enough to reach out and touch her. “Whatever this is, we’ll find a way to deal with it, together. Just tell me—”
“No,” she says through gritted teeth, something dark and primal bleeding into her voice.
Something that doesn’t sound human.
“Why won’t you just tell me what’s going on?”
“Because I don’t know what this is!” she shouts, hunching further into herself as her body fights off another violent shudder.
“So it’s not…cordyceps?” you ask slowly.
But there’s no relief that comes with the small jerk of her head.
Abby suddenly struggles to her feet, using the tree as leverage, gripping onto it so hard that the bark cracks beneath the pressure of her palms. She moves several paces back before you can stop her, her movements jerky and uncoordinated like her body is becoming foreign to her. She’s only able to make it a few more feet when her legs give out and she falls to her knees. You rush toward her panting form without thinking about the consequences.
“Stop, please,” she pleads, something shifting behind her eyes. “Something’s happening and I…” Her fingers dig harshly into the earth beneath her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
That stops you in your tracks.
You’ve seen Abby take down grown men with her bare hands, kill her way through hoards of infected with startling ease but you’ve never seen her look so overcome with fear as you do right now.
“You won’t.”
She just shakes her head.
“I can’t fight it anymore,” she says between clenched teeth. “You need to go, now.”
But you just shake your head, “I told you I’m not leaving you.”
Abby screams in agony as she collapses forward, her spine arching painfully as her knees buckle beneath her. But you can’t do anything but stand there and watch in utter horror as her limbs twist unnaturally, the bones snapping and reshaping themselves beneath her skin. Sharp claws sprout from the calloused hands that cradled you mere hours ago, her flesh stretching to accommodate her newly elongated limbs.
Dark fur begins to push through the skin along her arms and down the back of her neck as her body expands, shoulders widening. Her t-shirt strains against her chest, the worn fabric unable to withstand the sudden growth and it splits apart at the seams. Her breath comes out in harsh, painful grunts, each one sounding more animalistic than the last and you have to force yourself to look away.
But the sound of your name has your head snapping back up as she forces herself to stand on shaking legs, looking at you with a pained expression.
“Please,” she pleads, a sudden raw edge to her voice. “Baby, please just go.”
But you’re frozen in place.
“Go!” she shouts, her voice distorting into something vicious and unrecognizable.
The last of her control fractures as she seizes, her whole body contorting in a violent convulsion that threatens to tear you apart. She looks at you one last time, her eyes glassy and pleading before they squeeze shut and her body forcibly gives in to the change with a final sickening crack of her spine.
Then the forest stills, and it’s over.
Abby doesn’t move for a long moment, keeping her head bowed as she sucks in several deep, ragged breaths. Every muscle is still twitching, the aftershocks of the transformation rippling under her skin like a live wire. Every part of you longs to run to her, to pull her close and hold her through the tremors but your feet are still rooted in place.
A soft breeze suddenly whips through the trees, rustling the leaves overhead and stirring up your hair. Abby immediately goes rigid, muscles flexing as she lifts her head to meet your wide-eyed gaze, and your stomach sinks.
Her eyes are glowing, golden and bright, leaving no trace of the deep blue you’ve come to know. Her silhouette is all sharp angles and corded muscle, a glimmer of sharp teeth and claws in the moonlight. She doesn’t look like the woman you fell for anymore—she’s a force of nature, something so powerful that the forest itself seems to cower in her presence.
And yet, there’s something so familiar about the way she holds herself, the hunger in her eyes. It’s disarming and terrifying all at once.
A low, warning growl rumbles through her chest when you move, instinctively reaching out for her despite every instinct in your body warning you to turn and run.
“Abs?”
She doesn’t respond, merely tilts her head as she takes a slow, measured step toward you.
“Abby…” you try again, softer this time. “It’s me, you know me.”
She begins to pace in a slow, predatory circle that makes it feel like the world is closing in around you. She moves with a terrifying grace, keeping her head low and eyes locked on you as if she’s measuring the distance, calculating exactly how long it would take to get to you. A lion closing in on a cornered gazelle.
Her gaze suddenly drops to your throat, sharp and deliberate as it fixes on where your pulse thrums beneath your skin, and the lack of recognition there has your throat tightening.
“Please,” you plead, your voice trembling. “I know you’re still in there.”
Her claws flex at her sides, the tendons in her neck straining as if she’s being pulled in two different directions. Then her body lowers into a crouch, every muscle coiling tight, with a mixture of intent and restraint—like she’s actively fighting to resist even as she prepares to strike.
And for a moment, she hesitates, her expression shifting, softening with a familiarity that makes your chest ache.
But it doesn’t last.
Something inside her finally snaps and she doesn’t hesitate this time, she lunges.
You stumble away from her with a startled gasp, your heel catching on an upturned root and throwing you off balance. But with nothing to grab onto to stabilize yourself, you fall backwards. You hit the ground hard, the back of your head slamming against something smooth but solid. A searing pain shoots up the back of your skull, and your vision swims.
You don’t have any time to recover before she’s on you.
Her body is a warm, solid weight that presses against your ribs, her claws grappling in the dirt on either side of your head. Another low growl erupts from deep within her chest, but she’s close enough now that you can feel the rumble of it. Her muscular thighs bracket your hips, pressing you into the cold, damp earth but your bodies align in such a way that ignites heat between your thighs.
This position is too familiar, too intimate. So when Abby’s mouth dips lower, her nose nudging against your jaw, you don’t hesitate to bare your throat to her. Her sharp fangs graze over your thundering pulse, and you tense—waiting to feel them tear through your soft flesh.
But it never comes.
The pressure of her teeth are suddenly gone but she doesn’t retreat, she hovers, her mouth mere inches from your throat. And when you turn to look at her, you realize her eyes are screwed shut, teeth clenched to the point of pain as she fights a battle waging inside her.
You don’t think when you reach out to carefully cradle her cheek. “Abby?”
Those golden eyes flash open to meet yours and she grabs your wrist, pinning it in the dirt above your head in a movement far too fast for you to be able to dodge. Then she’s leaning in again, her nose nudging against the fabric bunched at your shoulder—her jacket.
She stays like that for a heartbeat, just breathing you in.
Then the hand holding your wrist captive loosens and she reaches lower to grip onto the side of the jacket, like she’s trying to ground herself there. Your heart thuds erratically when she releases a soft, human sounding sigh before burying her nose deep into the collar. Something akin to hope flares inside your chest when she mumbles your name against your skin, the sound a distorted mixture between a whine and a growl.
“Yeah,” you breathe, releasing a small, choked sound when she affectionately nuzzles into the crook of your neck. “I’m right here, Abs.”
But the tender moment shatters as quickly as it came.
Abby tears herself away from you, retreating so quickly that you can’t tell which direction she went. You force yourself upright, a little too fast, as a sudden wave of dizziness crashes over you. The back of your head throbs as everything blurs and tilts around you, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut and take a few steadying breaths while you wait for the feeling to pass.
When the world slowly drifts back into focus, you’re already searching for her.
“Abby?” you call, rising unsteadily to your feet.
The edges of the clearing are bathed in shadow, but you don’t need to see her to feel the weight of her presence, lingering somewhere just beyond the tree line. You take a small step out of the center of the clearing, approaching the edge with slow, cautious strides. You strain your eyes as they scan through the darkness, only settling once you see a flash of gold between the trees.
Another warning growl cuts through the silence when you take a step into the shadows.
“Stay back,” Abby warns, her voice broken and raw—like she’s still getting used to speaking again.
But you ignore the warning, stepping closer. “You keep saying that.”
She releases a gruff noise that sounds oddly like a snort. “And yet, you still aren’t listening.”
You can see her silhouette now, tense and guarded as she watches you closely.
“I’m not afraid of you,” you murmur, taking another step closer.
“You should be.”
There’s no real bite behind her words, only fear and regret bleeding through.
But this time you don’t allow yourself to falter because you see her now—the Abby you fell in love with. The gentle, broken woman you held close when the nightmares kept her awake at night, who didn’t think she deserved any of the love you offered. She was still there, hidden beneath the sharp claws and thick layers of fur.
“It doesn’t matter,” you say simply.
“It doesn’t matter?!” She fumes, that dark edge creeping back into her voice. “It doesn't matter that I almost—”
“It doesn’t matter to me what you are!” you shout.
Your words land with the force of a physical blow, knocking the breath from her lungs.
“I love you, Abby,” you continue, quieter now as you step closer. “Nothing is going to change that.”
You can see the inner struggle she’s having, the way she starts to retreat with each step you take but she doesn’t stop until her shoulders press into the rough trunk of a tree. Her chest heaves, each breath sharp and uneven as she buries her claws so deep into the bark that it splinters—like she’s trying to anchor herself there.
When she says your name again, the warning in her voice starts to waver as you continue to close the distance between you. It’s a staggering, strange reversal of roles as the prey begins to advance on the predator, forcing Abby to face the very thing she’s been trying to protect you from: herself.
“Why didn’t you leave?” she whispers, the most human she’s sounded all night.
Your throat tightens. “Would you have left me?”
Abby doesn’t answer, but the look in her eyes says it all.
“I told you before, I’m not going anywhere.”
“What if I lose it again?”
“You’re still here,” you say, softer. “You stopped.”
“Barely,” she mutters through clenched teeth.
You reach up to gently cradle her jaw and the tension there loosens ever so slightly. A slow, shaky exhale follows, like she’s been holding it this entire time.
“You really should stay back,” she asserts weakly, leaning into your touch.
“I know,” you reply.
You both stay like that for a long moment, trying to familiarize yourselves with each other again. Her breathing has finally slowed, claws loosening their death grip on the trunk to hang at her sides. But they tremble, seemingly torn between wanting to reach out and touch you, but not fully trusting herself to do so yet.
So you make the decision for her, carefully guiding one of her clawed hands to rest against your hip, and her breathing stutters. You can feel the heat rolling off her in waves as you step further into her space and the wild look that flits across her features makes your blood pump faster, but this time it’s not from fear.
Abby inhales deeply, that hunger settling back into her golden eyes.
“I can hear your heart,” she mutters, voice still rough around the edges. “This is a bad idea.”
“Probably,” you hum.
But you don’t pull away, you press closer.
The first brush of your lips is hesitant, cautious in a way you haven’t had to be before. Abby is tense beneath your touch, but she doesn’t push you away—she holds you there. Your mouth hovers over hers, your breaths mingling together and you fight the urge to deepen the kiss, not wanting to push her too far.
“Still with me?” you ask softly.
And she answers by closing the distance with her mouth.
Her lips are warm and wet when they meet yours, her breath releasing in uneven huffs as she pulls you flush against her chest. The kiss is clumsy, but full of so much raw need that it makes your whole body tingle. Her sharp teeth catch on your lower lip, lightly pricking your skin and the metallic taste that fills your mouth pulls a needy whine from your throat. Abby’s responding groan quickly morphs into a low growl that vibrates through her chest, her grip tightening around your waist.
In one swift motion she spins you around, pinning you back against the trunk. The splintered bark bites through the jacket and scrapes against your skin but you welcome the sting. Her mouth is back on yours in an instant, hot and frantic like she’s pouring every ounce of her frustration and longing into the kiss. So you reel her in closer, your fingers sliding up into her hair out of pure instinct and you tug.
Her body suddenly goes rigid beneath your hands and she wrenches her mouth away with a deep growl.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt, attempting to step out of her embrace but her grip tightens on your waist.
“Don’t. Move.” Abby hisses, and this time you listen.
You become immobile in her arms, barely daring to breathe as she tries to regain some of her control back. She leans in with another low growl, her nose skimming along the collar of the jacket before she buries her face there, each labored breath warming your skin. And with each deep inhale you can feel her start to settle, her grip on your waist loosens, and she slowly lifts her head to meet your gaze.
“Guess I got a little carried away, huh?” you say.
You see the corner of her mouth twitch.
But beneath that raw and unbridled desire, you can see the fear still lingering in her golden eyes.
“Abby?” you breathe, and you feel her grip tighten on your waist.
“Don’t…” The word comes out as a partial growl. “You can’t say my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me, not…not like this.”
“What if I do?” you counter.
Abby releases a shuddered breath. “No,” she says through her teeth, every one of her muscles tensing. “It’s too dangerous. I could have killed you, I still could.”
You nod, features softening. “I know that, and I’m not saying tonight. But I do want you, Abby, in whatever way I’m still allowed to have you.”
She meets your gaze, uncertainty and longing lingering in her eyes. You slowly lift your hands toward her face, still cautious—giving her the opportunity to pull away.
“I trust you,” you murmur.
“I don’t.”
That admission fractures something deep within your chest.
But she doesn’t pull away, so you gently cup her cheeks between your palms. Her eyes flutter shut, her body leaning further into the comfort of your touch. You allow your fingers to carefully explore her sharpened features, sweeping across that familiar bump on the bridge of her nose, where she'd broken it many years ago. The freckles that fan out across her cheeks, and the faded scar above her left eye.
All the things that still make her yours.
A deep purr suddenly rumbles through her chest when your hands slip lower, threading your fingers through the soft fur at the nape of her neck. The sound has you gasping aloud, a rush of heat settling in the pit of your stomach. Her golden eyes flash back open, hungry and wild as she inhales deeply.
“You’re not making this very easy, you know.” Abby grunts, that familiar twinge of sarcasm lacing her tone.
You don’t offer her a reply, but simply lean in until your foreheads brush. You slide a hand back down her shoulders to her chest, where you can feel the frantic flutter of her heart beneath your palm.
“It’s not going to be easy,” you murmur. “But I’m not running away now.”
Time passes strangely after that, seconds that melt into minutes which blur into hours. Sleep doesn't come easy, or at all. You feel yourself drifting in and out, waking whenever her body goes rigid beside you, a low growl slipping past her lips like she’s unable to stop it.
And in those moments where she becomes restless, muscles tensing like the animal within is threatening to unleash itself—you somehow always bring her back to herself. A gentle hand on her shoulder, your fingers threading through her loose hair as she buries her face in the crook of your neck.
That’s where you stay the rest of the night, bodies tangled together at the base of an old maple tree.
When the first rays of dawn begin to break over the horizon is when you feel her body start to change. But it’s not a violent, brutal transition like before—it’s more like a release.
The tension leaves her shoulders, her tight grip on the jacket loosens as she fully comes back to herself.
And the forest itself breathes a sigh of relief.
“Hi,” you mumble, voice still thick with sleep.
She hums softly in response, her breath tickling the exposed skin of your neck. The sound is so completely human and so entirely Abby that it makes your heart flutter.
“You okay?” she asks, lifting her head from your shoulder. “Your heart is racing.”
You can already feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck. “You can hear that?”
“Is that weird?” she asks, almost sheepishly.
“No, it’s just…new.”
She nods thoughtfully and leans her head back against the trunk of the tree, her eyes slipping shut—a pillar of stoicism.
“Are you really alright though?”
You can hear the question hidden beneath, and it makes your throat tight.
Did I hurt you?
The back of your head throbs in response, your lower lip still a little tender as you run your tongue over it.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you su—”
“Abigail,” you interrupt, resting a hand on her clothed thigh. “I said I’m fine.”
Her brows furrow as she glances down at you, her eyes searching your face. But as you meet her gaze, you notice the flecks of gold that now linger there, which contrast brightly against the deep cerulean of her irises. Her frown deepens when her eyes flick down to your mouth and she reaches for you, her thumb ghosting over the small slit in your lip.
“That was me.”
It’s a statement, not a question.
So you nod, unable to deny that fact.
Abby leans closer then, gently cupping the back of your neck to get a better look but you can’t hide the way you flinch away from her touch. She instantly pulls her hand back, noting the sticky flakes of blood that cling to her fingertips.
You see a plethora of emotions flit across her features then: horror, anger, disgust, regret.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, and you can feel how she starts to pull away from you.
Not just physically but emotionally too. It’s the way her voice wavers, her eyes becoming distant and unfocused as her hands start to shake. But you won’t let her, not this time—not when you just got her back.
You move before she’s able to get too far, pushing her shoulders back against the trunk and swinging a leg over her thighs to settle onto her lap.
“No, you don’t get to do that.” you snap, your tone harsher than before. “You don’t get to pull away from me again. Not after everything we just went through.”
Abby looks taken aback by your sudden outburst, but the uncertainty and regret still linger in her wide eyes.
“Did I…” she trails off, unable to put those thoughts into words.
“No, you didn’t.”
Your answer seems to release some of the renewed tension in her shoulders.
“Can I?” she asks, motioning toward the back of your head. “I just…I need to make sure.”
You nod, scooting closer on her lap until there’s barely any space left between you. Her fingers are gentle as they slowly slide up the back of your neck, stopping their exploration when she feels a small bump near the base of your skull, the gash still sticky and swollen and you wince beneath her touch.
“I am so sorry,” she repeats and her hand lingers there, her thumb lightly ghosting over it as if she could take the pain away by sheer will alone. “The last thing I ever wanted was for you to get hurt.”
You lean in then, closing the distance and leaning your forehead against hers. Abby’s eyes squeeze shut, her muscles tensing but it’s not because she is afraid of losing herself again. But rather she’s trying to come to terms with how the monster she became last night is the same person who is allowed to hold you like this.
Her hands slide back down your neck to your shoulders, her eyes fluttering back open to meet yours. But Abby’s gaze suddenly drifts lower, landing on the patch that reads A. Anderson that’s sewn into the breast pocket of the jacket you’re wearing.
“Were you wearing this the whole night?” she asks.
You nod, a questioning look on your face.
“So that’s why,” she mumbles, so softly you almost miss it.
“What?” You ask, shifting slightly.
Abby’s fingers curl around the sleeve of the jacket and she lifts your wrist to her nose, inhaling deeply.
“There was so much…” She seems to be struggling to find the right word. “Noise, it made it almost impossible for me to recognize you.”
You can hear the guilt in her voice, and the way she won’t fully meet your eyes.
“And every time I thought I was going to…” she trails off, swallowing hard. “I smelled it on you.”
“Smelled what?”
Her eyes flick up to meet yours.
“Me.”
The weight of her words sink in, anchoring you both to the reality of what really happened last night. That the jacket that’s wrapped around you wasn’t just comfort, or instinct—it was a lifeline. A tether. Something that kept pulling her back each time she slipped too far beneath the current.
“It brought you back to me,” you murmur.
Something shifts then.
The heaviness of the night seems to lift all at once, taking all of the fear and uncertainty with it. The space between you suddenly feels smaller now, more intimate and Abby pulls you closer without warning, arms tightening as she buries her face in the crook of your neck.
“Uh, Abby?” you squeak, caught off guard.
“Hmm?” She hums, her warm breath sending a shiver down your spine.
“It’s uh—” you rasp, struggling to get a breath in as your chest tightens. “A little hard to breathe.”
She tenses for a moment, then immediately loosens her hold.
“Shit, I’m sorry.” Abby pulls back far enough to look at you and rests her hands on your hips, her touch suddenly a lot more hesitant than before. “Did I hurt you?”
You shake your head, releasing a small breathy laugh. “No, just give a girl a little warning next time.”
“Right,” she mumbles, her thumbs absentmindedly drawing small circles against your hips.
You shift in her lap, opening your mouth to speak again when your eyes flick lower and—
Oh.
A small smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth.
“You know…” you drawl, slow and casual. “I’m definitely not complaining, but I, uh, think you’re missing a little something.”
Her brows furrow in confusion. “What do you—”
Abby follows your gaze and curses under her breath.
You can’t stop the giggle that bursts from your chest when her cheeks instantly flush and she quickly crosses an arm over herself in an attempt to cover her bare breasts.
“Oh come on, it’s not like I haven’t seen them before,” you tease, with a slight wiggle of your brows.
“God, you’re such a perv,” she mutters fondly, giving your side a gentle squeeze.
“What? Can you really blame me?”
Abby huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she tries to feign annoyance but the way her eyes have softened gives her away. She pulls you an inch closer, the heat of her body a grounding reminder that she’s really here with you. That she chose to stay.
“I probably wouldn’t be much better,” she says thoughtfully, glancing back over her shoulder for a moment. “But you know, I really did like that shirt.”
When she turns back to you, the slight pout on her lips has another giggle slipping past your own. A gentle breeze slips through the trees just then, carrying the sound of your laughter and blowing some of her hair across her face. But her pout only deepens and you beam at her, reaching up to tuck those loose strands back behind her ear.
“Hey, do you know how hard it is to find decent clothes around here? Between your thievery,” she pauses, playfully tugging at the hem of her jacket. “And now this, I’m not going to have any left.”
You roll your eyes, still smiling as you slip off the jacket. “Alright, alright, come here you goober.”
You carefully slide the jacket over her shoulders, your fingers brushing along skin that’s still too warm. Her muscles tense for a moment before they begin to ease under your gentle guidance, and you feel her truly surrender to your touch.
It’s a quiet sort of trust—the way she lets you handle her, to see her vulnerability, and how she allows you to bridge the distance she fought so hard to maintain. Abby isn't just letting you put the jacket on, she’s letting you back in. Your hands linger a little longer than necessary as you adjust the collar, smoothing the fabric over her arms before they settle at the zipper.
You glance up to find her already watching you, her eyes holding such intensity and reverence that it feels like she’s stripping you bare. But you hold her gaze as you slowly drag the zipper up, the soft, familiar sound filling the space between you. Her breath hitches when your knuckles accidentally graze the underside of her breast and a different kind of hunger darkens her eyes.
“Better?” you ask softly.
Abby doesn’t answer right away.
Instead she leans in, cradling your jaw and kisses you.
Only this time when she presses her mouth to yours, it’s all familiar, no sharp teeth or urgency. Just the desire to feel, to be close.
“Still with me?” she asks, leaning her forehead against yours.
some of them innocent!reader, crybaby!reader or overly pouty/oblivious!reader fics be making y/n straight up act like a toddler i cant be the only one that highkey feels uncomfortable with that specific setting....
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ about : astronaut!ellie records little clips throughout her time in space to share with you.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ warnings : swearing. fluff. established relationship. jesse appearance and two other unnamed crew members. no major warnings! though i think this is different from my usual stuff and therefore is a bit out of my comfort zone... kinda unserious? they had those damn iphones on the artemis II so. sorry for any inaccuracies, i've never been to space!
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ word count : 3.2k
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ extra : inspired by this! a very important & special thanks to @letmebeurbaby for the inspo boost from the ask and also @seasonsofchaos for sharing knowledge and answering my dumb questions <3 very important creds!!
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☾⁺ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
"...well, it's not actually live, but–”
Ellie’s voice was quiet. Almost a little too quiet. She might as well have been simply murmuring to herself, which seemed arguably more embarrassing than talking loudly to a camera.
Only her face was in frame, like she was tucked away and trying to be as lowkey as possible.
It wasn’t like Ellie had any sort of privacy, because she didn’t. The quarters were close. It also wasn’t like what Ellie was doing was a secret, because it wasn’t. When you were packed into a relatively small environment with a crew of other people, room for secrets did not exist.
But still.
Despite how close–physically and emotionally–Ellie had admittedly become with the other crew members, she still considered herself to be a relatively private person.
Sure they worked together, trained together, communicated together, and were essentially living together for a brief time… but that didn’t mean that Ellie was thrilled about the idea of them hearing every single word that she spoke as she tried to record something for you.
Ellie’s love for you was nothing to be hidden, of course.
Even so, she preferred to dodge any more potential ribbing from the other crew members. She already got enough shit from them on the daily as is. And, the idea of words that were meant for you being heard by other people’s ears admittedly made her feel a bit squeamish, in a way. It was a certain vulnerability that Ellie kept close to her chest.
The others had been by Ellie’s side throughout rigorous physical training, and had witnessed her in nearly every single state possible by this point–but god forbid they heard her refer to you as babe while speaking to a camera.
Ellie glanced away from the camera, cheeks painted red and brows furrowed with concentration. Her “area” was not a secluded one, but she was being granted privacy. The others were talking, sharing laughter amongst each other. Surely, they knew what she was doing. They were choosing to ignore it. Fucking humiliating, in a way, but Ellie would take it.
“I didn’t, uh, do this yesterday since… you know,” Ellie continued, muttering.
Yesterday had been the first day in space, so–busy. Also, Ellie hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to record for a personal project.
A soft exhale, and Ellie’s gaze flickered back to the lens, as though she could make eye contact with you through the damn thing.
“But, I wanted to start this now, I guess. Because…”
Because I know you’re probably worrying. Because the idea of not being able to share this with you actually really fucking sucks.
“...because I have the time now, so,” Ellie continued with a huff. “Nothing major to report, except for the insane fucking view. I’ll, uh, show you later. We’ve been taking pictures like crazy… kinda wanna draw, and stuff. Gonna have a shit ton of ideas to paint when I get home, I think.”
When I get home, because Ellie had to promise over and over that she would absolutely get home in one piece. NASA’s equipment and technology might as well have been a cardboard box taped together and an old flip phone when it came to the mind of a concerned girlfriend.
Ellie knew that she was currently being given so much grace, so she felt the urge to make it quick.
“I’ll show you everything. Promise. It’s… it’s really fucking incredible,” Ellie finished, exhaling the last of her words. A soft, small smile tugged at her lips, making her appear more like the wide-eyed sixteen year old that she had previously been, as opposed to the woman that she was now.
Ellie looked up, knowing that her few seconds of pretend privacy would rapidly be coming to an end. For one last second, she looked into the lens.
“Love you.”
Ellie fumbled with the device, turning it off.
Space. Day 3. Video 2.
Ellie’s face filled most of the frame. Her shorter strands of hair–the ones that usually followed the curves of her cheeks and framed her face–were unruly.
“Hey babe,” Ellie muttered, her voice soft.
She took a breath, the audio crackling slightly.
Voices could be heard in the background–talking, and occasional laughter.
There was a brief break in the chatter, with Ellie shooting a glance to the side. More laughter followed. When Ellie’s gaze returned to the lens, her face was tinted red.
Ellie swallowed, her lips pressing into a line.
“Took more pictures today. Lots of cool stuff, uh…”
She scratched her nose, eyebrows knitting together. “You’ll see some soon, I think. Wish you could see it for real, though. You’d be losing your mind, dude.”
There was a short pause, like Ellie was waiting for the other crew members to get louder before she started speaking again.
“You’d hate the whole sleeping situation, though. And the bathing stuff. Like… yeah. You’d really hate it.” Ellie inhaled slowly, gaze flickering away from the camera, momentarily lost in thought. Then, she cracked a small smile. “No aliens yet, so… that’s a bummer. Dunno what I’m here for if there’s no take me to your leader shit going on.”
Ellie’s lips twitched due to her own joke, her eyes fixated on the lens like she was expecting a laugh.
“Maybe tomorrow, uh–”
Despite her vast training and knowledge, Ellie moved to set the device down out of habit. Immediately, the view tilted–the device floating aimlessly.
“Fuck–” Ellie muttered, hastily grasping at the thing.
A loud burst of laughter could be heard in the background.
Space. Day 4. Video 3.
“I’m kinda bad at this,” Ellie mumbled. It came out sounding more like a breath as opposed to actual words.
Only Ellie’s neck and chin were in frame, the footage shaky as though she were moving.
“Gotta show you this, though.”
The camera flipped, still shaky as it panned around the interior of the spacecraft. The video was jerky, like Ellie was attempting to avoid recording the other bodies that occupied the space.
“It’s, uh… the grand tour, basically,” Ellie continued with an airy chuckle.
The camera flipped again, Ellie’s chin being the only thing that was able to be seen from that angle as she maneuvered her way toward the porthole.
“The view, though? Hang on, you’ll– It’s kinda shitty– Not the view, but the fact that the camera doesn’t really do it justice. I’ll show–”
“When are you gonna let us say hi, huh?” a voice called from offscreen. Jesse.
Ellie’s words halted, along with the movement of the filming. Her jaw tensed, visible due to the close filming angle.
“Uh, never?” Ellie muttered. The twitch of her lips betrayed her, her expression giving away to subtle amusement as the camera shifted.
“What, no spreadin’ the love?” Jesse quipped, his voice growing louder as he moved closer toward Ellie.
Ellie scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Dude. No.”
Jesse was selfless and compassionate. A team player and natural-born leader, which made him excellent for his role–the commander. Though, if Ellie were to be asked, she would say that he was annoying, and a massive pain in her ass.
Truthfully, throughout everything, Ellie had grown closest to him. Jesse was one of her best friends, which meant he was prone to giving her the most shit.
The members of the small crew were a second family, which was the obvious outcome of the very situation that they were in together. But the bond between Jesse and Ellie was just… different.
“Why are you being all–”
“I’m not being anything, shut up–” Ellie interrupted.
Laughter from the other two crew members could be heard in the background. Half of Jesse’s form appeared in the video.
“You won’t let me say hi to your girl?” Jesse asked, his tone too annoyingly casual.
Ellie mumbled something, the audio crackling with the sounds of her breath.
“You’re the worst,” Ellie retorted halfheartedly. “I’m trying to–”
Jesse’s hand entered the frame, gently knocking at the device. Immediately, the footage tilted. Ellie huffed, and more laughter ensued. Ellie reached to snatch the device out of the air, similar to the previous video.
“Oh my fucking–”
The video went blurry, and then ended.
Space. Day 5. Video 4.
“Alright, babe,” Ellie murmured.
The footage wasn’t focused, until Ellie steadied the device in her hand, pointing the camera out toward the porthole. The view was inexplicable through a lens, and even more so in person.
“You seeing this? It’s– The view is out of this world.”
Ellie chuckled softly to herself, adjusting the angle of the camera as she continued to film through the porthole.
The other crew members were existing idly, though it didn’t seem to hinder the filming this time. Ellie was speaking quietly, but still normally. Less awkwardly, at least.
“Feels kinda fucked that I get to see the moon like this and I can’t, like… bring you a souvenir, or something. I mean, the videos, but… Yeah, I dunno. You know what I mean. Maybe there’s a little gift shop on the moon, run by aliens. We should just get a little closer. Just to be sure.”
Space. Day 6. Video 5.
“Well, well, well. Look who it is.”
The video starts with Jesse’s beaming face in the frame, before the camera pans to a very unsuspecting Ellie.
She was mid-conversation with another crew member, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
“Ellie Williams in her unnatural habitat. I mean in space, not socializing. But, that could also be–”
“That’s mine?” Ellie said, gaze snapping to the camera lens, and then to Jesse. The footage went shaky as Jesse started to laugh.
“The fuck are you doing?” Ellie continued, pushing off of a beam and moving to grab the device out of Jesse’s grasp. He briefly used his height to an advantage, holding it above Ellie’s head before relenting and passing it on.
“Ugh,” Ellie huffed, shooting a sidelong glance in Jesse’s direction. “You got your fucking fingerprints all over–”
Space. Day 6. Video 6.
“Sorry about that,” Ellie said, a sheepish smile gracing her features. “Now that I’ve gotcha here… Why did the alien go to Saturn? To go ring shopping.”
“Oh?” A crew member voiced from the background. “Is that a hint to someone?”
Ellie glanced up, cheeks tinting red. “Pshh…”
Space. Day 7. Video 7.
The focus was on Ellie’s face, though her gaze was directed toward the porthole.
“Day seven,” Ellie spoke, monotone despite the ease with which the words left her lips. “Still no aliens. Also, no one has given me a lightsaber yet. Pretty fucking lame if you ask me.”
Ellie’s head turned to look at the camera lens, her shoulders shifting as she sighed. “Still can’t deny that view, though,” she murmured with a soft, content smile. “Shit, lemme show–”
The camera flipped, the view vast and beautiful. Ellie exhaled from behind the camera.
“I thought I was prepared for it, but it’s still so… You’d get it, I think. Like, the feeling of it. Just from looking at it. Puts things into perspective, that’s for sure.”
A pause, the angle of the video shifting just slightly.
“Miss you.”
Space. Day 8. Video 8.
“...why couldn’t the star stay focused? He kept spacing out,” Ellie said with bravado to the lens.
“Jesus Christ, how many space puns do you know?” Jesse questioned from the background.
The footage briefly went shaky as Ellie lifted her free hand, flipping him off.
“Okay, okay,” Ellie muttered, steadying the device as the video continued. “What… is an alien’s favorite day of the week? Sunday. Get it? Because sun–”
“Really great work from one of our mission specialists, truly,” one of the crew members joked. “Only the best of the best for our crew, which, clearly– Great use of your free time, Williams–”
“You’re torturing her, man,” Jesse quipped, clapping a hand on Ellie’s shoulder. Ellie rolled her eyes, tightening her grip on the device. “You’re miles upon miles upon miles away from home, in space, and you’re still torturing your girl with those awful–”
“Oh, c’mon. Don’t be a dick. They’re funny, she thinks they’re funny,” Ellie muttered in defense, a crease forming between her eyebrows.
Ellie shrugged off Jesse’s hand, rubbing at her nose before she focused once more on filming herself. “What kind of books do– Oh, shit. I fucked it up. Okay. What do stars like to read before bed? Comet books. Ugh, man. If I could read Savage Starlight up here… that would be so goddamn cool.”
Space. Day 9. Video 9.
“Day nine… still no aliens. Thinking of making a career change.”
Ellie shot a look to the camera, her gaze pointed. Her baby hairs were frizzy, the rest of her strands pulled back into a low bun.
“And no lightsabers. Should’ve just brought mine from home.”
Ellie looked amused at her own comment, the other people in close proximity to her clearly letting her dialogue slide. Her recording was devoid of interruptions for the moment, and her demeanor appeared to be more relaxed.
“Speaking of home…” Ellie exhaled, her cheeks momentarily puffing.
She hesitated, gaze drifting before she spoke once more.
“Sorry I haven’t done the best job at… this,” Ellie muttered, giving the device a slight shake. “It’s been busy, and I’ve been focused, but… still been thinking about you the whole time. And I’ll tell you more about everything when I get home, alright? Every detail if you wanna hear it. Even the boring shit that you claim to like hearing about. I, uh… wish you could be here, honestly. Like, seeing everything? But I’ll do my best to explain it, I guess. God, you have–”
A hair tie drifted into frame, after seemingly being flicked in Ellie’s direction.
“Pretty sure that’s yours, man,” Jesse spoke.
Ellie grabbed it from the air, and then the footage ended as she started to mutter.
Space. Day 10. Video 10.
The first few seconds of the video were silent.
The camera was pointed toward the porthole again, seemingly a last ditch effort to try and capture the view that Ellie still couldn’t comprehend that her eyes had been seeing.
“Soaking it in,” Ellie breathed out, her voice just shaky enough to be noticeable. “Looking forward to being home, though.”
Ellie inhaled. Exhaled.
The angle shifted, showing Ellie’s face as she gazed outwardly. Her green eyes were glistening, just enough to be caught by the camera.
“I never thought that I’d… Yeah. Yeah, you know. It almost doesn’t feel real. A lot of things don’t, I guess. But in, like, a good way? I dunno. This is everything that I’ve…”
Ellie swallowed, her jaw working as she suppressed the tangent.
“Fuck. It’s beautiful, babe. I’ve been so shitty at recording, these videos don’t do anything justice, I swear. I want you to see this.”
Ellie blinked as she gazed out of the porthole, her breathing slow and even.
“I’ll get home safe, then I’ll tell you everything. Think I already said that before, though. Hopefully you’re not worrying about that right now. It’s been all good up here, except for Jesse being a dick. So… yeah, everything’s been all good,” Ellie muttered softly.
“Excited for an actual bed again. Missed that. And you. Jury’s still out on the whole gravity thing, though. Uh… yeah, I’ll see you soon. Love you.”
The camera stayed focused on the porthole for a long moment, the audio crackling with the faint sound of Ellie’s breathing.
“It is really fucking insane. But… yeah. I miss you.”
The video went shaky, the footage ending.
☾⁺ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Your tears started slowly, prickling gradually at the corners of your eyes. Then, all at once, they overwhelmed you.
Your face felt numb from your attempt at suppressing the emotion, hands betraying you with a slight tremble as you swiped at your cheeks.
The laptop screen–and Ellie’s face–dimmed after the footage was done playing.
“Whoa– Hey, hey, why are you crying? What the fuck?”
Ellie’s voice popped your bubble of emotion as you rapidly blinked your stinging eyes. One of her hands moved to rest against your back, her other hand reaching for your knee.
“You were crying too,” you hastily defended, gesturing pointedly to the screen. “At the very end.”
Ellie scoffed, giving a slight, stubborn shake of her head. “No, I wasn’t. That was– The air was weird in there. I was tired. I wasn’t–”
“Shut up,” you muttered, though your tone was soft. Gentle.
“Okay,” Ellie relented easily.
“It’s not a bad cry,” you continued, shifting your position on the couch to face her. Ellie's hands hovered, allowing you to adjust. Once you settled, her hands rested against your legs. “I’m just really fucking proud of you. You know that, right? And I’m so glad that you’re home, and–”
“Yeah, yeah. You’ve been staring at me like crazy the last few days,” Ellie joked dryly, though her expression was soft. Fond.
“Shut up,” you repeated.
“Okay,” Ellie replied again.
“Just let me be proud,” you murmured, hands gingerly cupping the sides of her face. Instinctively, Ellie relaxed into your touch. “And,” you continued, “let me be relieved that you’re home. Safe.”
“Babe,” Ellie muttered. “There was never any–”
“I know. But still. And the videos were perfect. And you’re perfect. And–”
“Laying it on a little thick, huh?” Ellie joked quietly. A quiet huff escaped her lips, the kind that she forced as a way to regulate–like she couldn’t really deal with feeling flustered, even after all of the years that the two of you had been together.
You gave a slight shake of your head, delicately brushing strands of auburn behind Ellie’s ears. “Just saying what I feel,” you murmured.
“Yeah. Yeah, you’ve always been good at that, I guess.”
A wry smile tugged at your lips, your gaze flickering over Ellie’s features. “Yeah. But… code of honor? Seriously? Were there aliens, and they just made you swear to deny it?” you questioned, thumbs brushing over Ellie’s cheeks.
Ellie’s eyes met your own, one corner of her mouth twitching upward. “You know it,” Ellie muttered dryly. “I’m basically the keeper of secrets for the entire Universe. Can’t tell you too much, though. For your own safety.”
“I knew it,” you enthused quietly, your smile matching Ellie’s.
Your hands dropped away from her face, and Ellie huffed as she readjusted.
“Those definitely were tears, though,” you said pointedly. “You can’t even deny it at this point, El. Space makes you emotional, it always–”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Coming from the one that, like, cried multiple times during Project Hail Mary–”
You scoffed, an incredulous look immediately crossing over your features. “Hello? You were crying during it, too. At least I don’t pretend like I wasn’t. We both–”
“Wait, hang on. I gotta ‘nother one,” Ellie interrupted, causing your eyebrows to knit together.
“Another what?” you asked, one of your hands reaching for her own.
Your fingers tangled easily, like always. Since Ellie returned home, the two of you absolutely could not pull away from each other, your bodies gravitating toward each other in a way that simply just made sense.
“What do astronauts listen to in a spacecraft? Nep-tunes. That’s– Well, okay, that wasn’t the best one–”
PLSPLSPLSDD write something inspired by go go juice by Sabrina Carpenter with abby Anderson😭😭🩷🩷🫰
go go juice
synopsis: really nobody is safe when you're drunk, and that includes your past situationship...
warnings: situationship, drunk reader
word count: 1.7k
a/n: writing this made me so excited since i havent been able to write for tlou in years
(last time i wrote for it was 2021)
Your phone screen keeps slipping out of focus, like it’s playing a joke on you.
You blink once. Twice. Still blurry. “Okay,” you mumble to no one. You wobble around the side and somehow bump into a brick wall. “Rude," you grumble beneath your breath.
The night hums around you—cars passing, laughter spilling out the door behind you, bass thumping faintly like a second heartbeat. Everything feels a little too loud and a little too far away at the same time.
You unlock your phone. Or you think you do, it takes three tries. Your contacts swim into view, names stretching and snapping back into place like rubber bands. And somehow, of course, it lands on Abby.
You stare at her name longer than you mean to, thumb hovering just above the screen.
You shouldn’t call her.
You absolutely shouldn’t call her.
You tap it anyway.
The phone rings once. Twice.
Your stomach flips, suddenly very awake despite everything else feeling floaty.
“Hey, you’ve reached Abby—”
“No, no, no—” you blurt, too late, pressing the phone harder to your ear like you can shove the voicemail back in.
“…leave a message, thanks."
There’s a beep, and you inhale sharply, like you’ve just been caught doing something you can’t undo.
“Abby,” you start, and your voice comes out softer than expected. Not slurred—just honest in a way you’d never allow sober. You laugh a little, but it wobbles.
“Okay, um—hi. This is… wow, you know who this is. Obviously. That was—yeah, ignore that.”
You slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the cold pavement, knees pulled in, the world tilting just enough to feel like you might slide off it.
“I wasn’t gonna call you,” you admit, words tumbling out faster now, like they’ve been waiting all night. “I was actually doing really well at not calling you. Like, impressively good. You would’ve been—” you pause, frowning, “—not proud. You don’t get to be proud. But like… You know what I mean.”
A car passes. You watch the headlights smear into streaks.
“I had this thing,” you continue, gesturing vaguely even though she can’t see you. “Like a plan. Just… go out, have fun, don’t think about you. Which—by the way? Terrible plan. You’re very think-about-able.”
You groan, dropping your head back against the wall.
“God, I sound so drunk.” You giggle, "I am so drunk, but also,” you add, softer now, “I think this is the only way I could say this without chickening out.” Your fingers tighten slightly around the phone.
“I miss you,” you say. It hangs there, simple and heavy. “And I hate that I miss you,” you rush on, like you can cover it up. “Like, it’s actually inconvenient. I had a whole personality without you for a minute there, and now it’s just—boom. Gone. Ruined. Because you had to go and be.. you."
Your eyes sting, but you blink it away, smiling a little despite yourself.
“I keep thinking I’m over it,” you admit. “And then something stupid happens—like a song, or someone says your name, or I see that dumb jacket you left—and it’s like I’m right back there. With you. Every time.” Your voice dips quieter. “And I don’t even know if you ever think about me like that.”
Silence hums on the other end, of course it does. You swallow.
“Anyway,” you say, forcing a lighter tone that doesn’t quite stick, “this is me being very cool and casual and definitely not emotional.”
A small, breathy laugh.
“Don’t call me back,” you add quickly. “Actually—no. Do. Or don’t. I don’t—” you squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head. “Wow, I’m bad at this …I just wanted you to know,” you finish quietly.
Your thumb hovers over the screen again. You hesitate, but then you hang up. For a second, you just sit there, the night pressing in, your heartbeat loud in your ears, and then your phone buzzes.
You look down and see Abby's name in your blurry vision. With your current state of pure euphoria from the alcohol in your system, you stupidly pick up the phone.
"Hey," Abby's sweet voice can be heard on the other side of the phone. ".. You okay?"
"Fuck you," you grumble, the alcohol from your breath filling the air in front of you.
".. Where are you?" She asks, and you can't tell if her worry is out of pity or genuine worry for you. "Are you alone?" You don't answer. Instead, you let the sound of people and cars passing by speak for you, and hope that it's enough for Abby to understand your current circumstances. "Just stay there."
You comply.
You aren't sure why.
A part of you screams at you to leave, while the other begs for you to stay.
It doesn't take long for Abby to show up, and it doesn't take long for you to recognize her car. "Get in," she says.
"No," you grumble.
"Get in," she says more sternly, and you huff beneath your breath from frustration as you abide. "What're you doing out in Seattle all alone at night?" You blink at her, your eyes finally focusing as her blue eyes come into sight.
"Do you still love me?" You sniffle as the alcohol begins to affect your cognitive functioning. "Because—Because I still love you and—"
"We should talk about this when you're not so drunk," Abby sighs. "You can stay at my place," she says, beginning to drive. As her car moves through the streets of Seattle, the colours of the street blur together and the sounds of the radio muffle in your ears.
"Shut up," you grumble to seemingly nobody.
Abby glances over, “I didn’t say anything.”
“Exactly,” you mumble, sinking further into the seat, arms crossed like that somehow holds you together. “You’re thinking things. Loudly.”
She huffs out something that might be a laugh, might be a sigh. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” you whisper, turning your head toward the window. The city smears past in neon streaks—pink, blue, gold—like someone dragged a highlighter across the night. “You loved that.”
The car goes quiet after that. Not empty quiet—thick quiet. The kind that presses against your ribs.
You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “You didn’t answer me.”
“I’m driving," Abby grips the wheel.
“That’s not an answer," you grumble.
Abby’s grip tightens on the wheel. You see it, even through the blur, “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re deflecting,” you shoot back, a little sharper now. The alcohol makes you brave in all the worst ways. “It’s like your favourite hobby, Abs.”
She exhales slowly, like she’s counting to ten. “We’re not doing this right now.”
“Right, because ‘right now’ is never the right time with you,” you mutter. “There’s always a better time. A calmer time. A less messy time.” You laugh under your breath. “Newsflash, Abs—I am messy.”
“I know,” she says quietly.
That stings more than it should. You turn to face her fully now, legs tucked under you, heart doing something uneven and annoying. “Then why did you leave?”
There it is. The question. It drops between you like it’s been waiting for this exact moment—half past midnight, half a bottle deep, no escape routes left.
Abby doesn’t answer right away. The turn signal clicks. Once. Twice. Three times. Too loud.
“I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you,” she finally says.
Your breath catches, sharp and immediate. “That’s—” you laugh, but it cracks. “That’s worse, you know that, right?”
“I left because loving you felt like trying to hold onto something that kept slipping through my hands,” she continues, voice tighter now. “Every time I thought we were okay, something would just shift.”
“That’s not fair,” you snap, even though part of you knows exactly what she means.
“I know it’s not,” she says. “But it’s true.”
You shake your head, blinking hard. “So what, I’m just too much?”
“I didn’t say that," Abby sighs.
“You didn’t have to.” The car slows to a stop outside her place, but neither of you moves. The engine hums softly, filling the space where your heartbeat used to be. You swallow, suddenly very aware of everything—your hands, your voice, the way your chest aches like it’s been bruised from the inside out.
“I tried to be less,” you admit, quieter now. “After you left. I thought maybe if I just… toned it down or whatever, it would stop hurting so much.”
Abby looks at you then. Really looks at you. And it almost undoes you completely.
“I don’t want you to be less,” she says.
“Then what do you want?” you ask, the words coming out small despite everything.
She hesitates. Just for a second. But it’s enough.
“I don’t know,” she says.
And there it is—that familiar, awful drop in your stomach. Like missing a step in the dark.
You nod slowly, even though it feels like something inside you is folding in on itself. “Cool,” you murmur, reaching for the door handle. “That’s… super clear. Love that for me.”
“Hey—” she starts.
But you’re already pushing the door open, cool night air rushing in like a reset button that doesn’t quite work. You step out, a little unsteady, but determined in that reckless, go-go-juice kind of way, half heartbreak, half bad decisions.
“Thanks for the ride,” you say, leaning down to look at her. Your smile is crooked, fragile. “And, uh.. for not letting me become a true crime podcast episode.”
“Don’t do that,” Abby says, something pleading slipping into her voice.
“Do what?”
“Make a joke out of everything.”
You pause. Just for a second.
Then, you speak, “It’s either that or cry, and I’ve already done enough of that tonight.”
There’s a pause. A long one.
“Come inside,” she says softly. You look at her. Really look this time. At the familiarity. The history. The almost. Your grip tightens on the door.
“Yeah,” you say finally, voice quieter now, but steadier. “Okay.”
And when you follow Abby into her house and let the door shut, it feels a little like pressing play on something you never actually finished, even if you already know how messy the next verse is going to be.
content: mdni 18+ content ;; sexual themes, potentially sensitive themes (self-doubt, anxiety, writer's block, self-loathing, pent-up frustration, etc), reader is DEFINITELY a loser in this, shit hits the fan, scary dina, dina being an absolute shit stirring bitch, lying + gaslighting, invasions of privacy, misunderstandings, LOADS OF DOUBT, insecurity in the relationship, reader being left on read how cute!! , everyone is second guessing everything (except dina), ANGST ANGST ANGSTTTT, DRAMAAAA, afab reader ⸺ men dni, college au, modern au, multiple part fic,, lmk if i missed anything!!
word count: 15k
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synopsis: the one person you thought you could trust the most makes you reach your breaking point, makes everything you once knew crumble around you. you try to explain. ellie tries to understand. love clashes with hurt, honesty with fear. you learn that admiration isn’t the same as care—and that intention doesn’t erase impact.
“WHEN WERE YOU GONNA TELL ME YOU WERE FUCKING ELLIE?”
The words hang in the air like smoke, like poison, like the kind of accusation that changes everything, that draws a line in the sand, that divides your life into before and after this moment when your roommate—your friend, your person who's supposed to know you, supposed to understand you—looks at you like you're a stranger, like you're someone who's capable of betrayal, like you're anything except the person who's been terrified of hurting anyone, who's been careful to the point of paralysis, who never wanted any of this.
Your mouth opens but no words come out. Your brain is moving too fast and too slow simultaneously—a million thoughts per second and complete blankness, trying to process how she knows, how she found out, who told her, what she heard, spiraling through possibilities like you're searching for the right answer on a test you didn't study for, like there's some combination of words that will make this better when nothing can make this better, when the damage is already done.
"I—" you start, your voice barely above a whisper, barely sound at all. "How did you—"
"How did I find out?" Dina's laugh is sharp, bitter, nothing like her usual warmth, nothing like the sound you've heard a thousand times in this apartment, in your friendship, in the comfortable space you thought you'd built together. "Are you fucking kidding me right now? The entire campus is talking about it. Your little love story is apparently required reading for anyone with access to the internet."
She stands from the couch—sharp, aggressive movement, all the ease gone from her body, replaced with tension that radiates outward like heat, like anger barely contained, like violence waiting for an excuse. "I had to hear about it from some girl in my Poli Sci class. Some random girl who thought it was romantic that my roommate wrote this beautiful project about a model and everyone's putting the pieces together. 'Isn't that your roommate?' she asked me. 'Isn't that Ellie, the girl you hooked up with?' And I had to stand there like an idiot and pretend I knew what she was talking about when clearly—clearly—I'm the only person who didn't know."
"Dina, I can explain—" you try again, taking a step forward, reaching out like physical proximity might bridge the gap that's opening between you, like you can somehow fix this with the right words, with the right explanation, with anything except standing here watching your friendship dissolve in real-time.
"Explain?" Dina cuts you off, her voice rising, sharpening into something that could cut, that could draw blood. "Explain what, exactly? Explain how you went behind my back to hook up with the girl I was clearly still into? Explain how you've apparently been in some secret relationship while I've been walking around this apartment like everything was normal? Explain how you looked me in the eye every day and lied about where you were going, who you were seeing, what you were doing?"
"You said—" Your voice cracks, breaks under the weight of trying to defend yourself, trying to explain something she clearly doesn't want to hear. "You said you and Ellie were a one-time thing. You said it meant nothing. You said you weren't catching feelings, that it was just—"
"I LIED!" The words explode from her like a detonation, like something that's been building pressure until it had nowhere to go except out, except at you, except into the space between you that's growing wider with every second. "Of course I lied! That's what you do when you're trying to protect yourself, when you're trying to seem cool and casual and not like some pathetic person who catches feelings for someone who was just looking for a good time."
She's pacing now, her movements jerky and agitated, her hands gesturing wildly as she talks, as she builds momentum, as she works herself into something bigger than anger, something more dangerous. "I thought—fuck, I actually thought she might come back. That she might text me. That what we had might turn into something. But then she just disappeared. Stopped responding. Clearly found something better to occupy her time."
Her eyes land on you and there's so much hurt there, so much betrayal, so much pain that you caused even though you didn't mean to, even though you didn't know, even though you were careful, so careful, too careful, never careful enough. "That something was you, apparently. My roommate. My friend. The person I trusted to—"
"I didn't know you still had feelings for her!" The words burst from you with the desperation of someone drowning, someone going under, someone fighting for air. "You told me it was casual. You told me it was nothing. You were the one who said—"
"It doesn't matter what I said!" Dina's voice has gone shrill, has crossed from anger into something more raw, more wounded. "You should have known. You should have asked. You should have—god, you should have at least told me instead of sneaking around like I was too stupid to notice, too oblivious to figure it out."
"I tried to tell you!" You're crying now, tears streaming down your face without permission, without control, your body betraying you with visible emotion when you need to be strong, need to defend yourself, need to make her understand. "I wanted to tell you but I didn't know how, didn't know when would be the right time, didn't want to hurt you—"
"Well congratulations," Dina cuts you off again, her voice dripping with sarcasm, with venom, with the particular cruelty that comes from being hurt and wanting to hurt back. "You failed spectacularly. Because learning about it from campus gossip? From Instagram posts and strangers Sherlock Holmes-ing this shit? That hurt way more than if you'd just had the decency to tell me to my face."
She takes a step closer and her expression shifts into something darker, something calculated, something that makes your stomach drop because you recognize this look—this is Dina when she's going for the kill, when she's done being defensive and has decided to go on offense, when she's found your soft spots and is preparing to press on every single one.
"But you want to know what really hurts?" Her voice has gone quiet now, soft in a way that's more terrifying than the shouting, more dangerous than the anger. This is controlled fury, this is intentional pain, this is someone who knows exactly where to aim to cause maximum damage. "What really fucking destroys me?"
You don't answer. Can't answer. Are frozen in place like prey that's spotted a predator, like someone who knows what's coming will hurt but can't figure out how to avoid it, can't find the escape route, can't do anything except brace for impact.
"It's that you actually think she loves you." Dina's smile is cruel, is calculated, is designed to cut as deeply as possible. "That you've convinced yourself this is real, that you're special, that you're anything except convenient."
"Stop," you whisper, but it comes out too quiet, too weak, too easy to ignore.
"She doesn't love you," Dina continues, each word a knife, each syllable a wound. "She can't. Because Ellie doesn't love people. She fucks them. She moves on. She finds someone new and leaves the last person wondering what they did wrong, why they weren't enough, why she couldn't just stay."
"You don't know that—" You're backing up now, physically retreating from her words, from her proximity, from the assault of her certainty about things she can't possibly know, things she's making up to hurt you, things that land anyway because they're the same things you've been afraid of, the same doubts that live in your head, the same fears she's now giving voice to.
"Don't I?" Dina follows you, matches your retreat step for step, refusing to let you escape, refusing to let you have space. "I know her better than you think. I know what it's like to have her attention, to feel special, to think maybe this time it's different. And I know what it's like when she pulls away, when the texts stop, when you realize you were never the exception—just another person she picked up and put down when something shinier came along."
"That's not—we're not—" You can't form complete sentences anymore, can't articulate your defense through the tears, through the panic, through the way her words are burrowing into your brain like parasites, like poison, like truth that you don't want to believe but are terrified might be real.
"You think you know her?" Dina's laugh is caustic, is designed to strip away your certainty, your confidence, your belief in what you have. "You think a few weeks of fucking makes you special? Makes you different from me, from everyone else she's been with?"
She leans in closer, invading your space, making sure you can't look away, can't escape what she's about to say. "Here's what you don't understand, what you're too naive and too desperate to see: You may have her now, but I had her first. I know what she tastes like, what she sounds like, what it feels like when she—"
"Stop it," you say again, louder this time, but still not loud enough, still not strong enough to make her stop, to make her hear you, to make her see what she's doing.
"I had her first," Dina repeats, savoring the words, using them like weapons, like proof of some kind of ownership, some kind of precedence that means something. "And you know what that means? It means you're just the rebound. You're just the distraction. You're just someone convenient who was there when she needed someone and who'll be forgotten the second she leaves."
"That's not true—"
"Isn't it?" Dina's voice has gone soft again, poisonous in its gentleness. "Think about it. Really think about it. She's leaving in what, a couple days? And then what? You really think she's going to stay for you? Come back for you? Remember you exist when there are literally thousands of other people she could be fucking instead?"
Each word is a nail, is a hammer, is something building a coffin around your hope, around your belief, around everything you've let yourself feel for Ellie despite knowing better, despite being afraid, despite every instinct telling you to protect yourself from exactly this kind of hurt.
"You're nothing to her," Dina continues, relentless, merciless, going for your throat with the precision of someone who knows exactly where the jugular is. "You're just convenient. Just available. Just someone to pass the time with before she moves on to her real life, the one that doesn't include some anxious disaster who can't even—"
The slap happens before you're conscious of making the decision.
Your hand moves on instinct, on rage, on the accumulated weight of every word she's said, every wound she's inflicted, every lie she's told disguised as truth. The sound of your palm connecting with her cheek echoes in the apartment like a gunshot, like punctuation, like the physical manifestation of your breaking point finally, finally being reached.
Dina stumbles backward, her hand flying to her face, her expression shifting from cruel certainty to shocked disbelief in the space of a heartbeat. She stares at you like she's seeing you for the first time, like she didn't know you were capable of this, like you've just revealed something about yourself that changes everything.
You stare at your hand like it belongs to someone else, like you can't quite believe what you just did, what line you just crossed, what boundary you just violated even though she deserved it, even though she pushed you there, even though you'd take it back if you could except you wouldn't, you wouldn't because she needed to be stopped, needed to be silenced, needed to understand that there are limits to what you'll tolerate even from someone you care about.
Your hand is shaking. Your whole body is shaking. But underneath the shock, underneath the disbelief, underneath the horror at your own capacity for violence—there's something else.
Anger.
Not the hot, explosive kind. The cold kind. The certain kind. The kind that's been building throughout this entire confrontation, that's been growing with every accusation, every assumption, every word designed to break you down, to make you doubt, to convince you that what you have with Ellie is nothing, means nothing, will never be anything except temporary and forgettable.
"No," you say, and your voice is different now—steadier, stronger, coming from someplace deep in your chest that you didn't know existed until this moment. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to tell me what I mean to her. You don't get to decide what we have based on what you had with her."
Dina opens her mouth but you raise your hand—not to hit her again, but to stop her, to silence her, to make it absolutely clear that you're done being interrupted, done being talked over, done letting her control this narrative.
"You want to know the difference between you and me?" You take a step forward now, reclaiming the space she tried to take from you, refusing to be backed into a corner anymore. "The difference is that she chose me. Not for a night. Not for convenience. Not because I was available and willing. She chose me. She keeps choosing me. She told me she was falling for me. She’s willing to change her plans to stay longer. She made room in her life for me when she doesn't make room for anyone."
Your voice is rising now, gaining strength from somewhere you didn't know you had reserves, somewhere that's been dormant until you needed it, until you had to defend what you have, what you are, what you mean to the person who matters most.
"You were a one-night stand," you continue, and the words are cruel but they're true, they're true and she needs to hear them, needs to understand that her version of events isn't reality, isn't what actually happened, isn't what Ellie felt or feels or will ever feel. "One night. That's it. That's all she wanted from you. And I'm sorry if that hurts. I'm sorry if you wanted more. I'm sorry if you lied to me about being over it because you were embarrassed or protecting yourself or whatever."
You're crying still, tears streaming down your face, but they're not weak tears anymore—they're angry tears, frustrated tears, the tears of someone who's been pushed too far and is finally pushing back.
"But you don't get to project your shit onto my relationship. You don't get to tell me I'm just convenient when she looks at me like I'm everything. You don't get to say she doesn't love me when she told me—when she's shown me—when every single thing about the way she treats me proves that I'm not just some temporary distraction."
Dina's hand is still on her cheek, her eyes wide, her face red where you hit her. She looks smaller now, diminished, like your words have deflated something in her, like she's realizing that her cruelty backfired, that instead of breaking you down she's revealed her own pain, her own jealousy, her own desperate need to believe that what you have isn't real because if it's real then what she had was meaningless, was nothing, was exactly what Ellie told her it was from the beginning.
"I know she loves me," you say, quieter now but no less certain, no less sure. "I know it because I feel it. Because she's shown me. Because the way she touches me, the way she looks at me, the way she makes space for me in her life—that's not nothing. That's not casual. That's not convenient."
You take a breath, steadying yourself, preparing for the final blow, the one that will end this, that will make absolutely clear where the line is, where the truth lives, where you stand.
"She doesn't love you, Dina. She never did. And I'm sorry that hurts. I'm sorry you wanted something she wasn't offering. I'm sorry you caught feelings for someone who was clear from the beginning that it was just sex." Your voice softens slightly, not with kindness but with the particular cruelty of pity, of understanding someone's pain while refusing to take responsibility for it. "But that's not my fault. And it's not Ellie's fault. And it sure as hell doesn't give you the right to come at me like this, to try to destroy something real just because you're bitter about something that was never going to be anything more than what it was."
The silence that follows is deafening, is heavy, is filled with everything that's been said and everything that can never be unsaid, all the words that have been exchanged like blows, all the wounds that have been inflicted that might never fully heal.
Dina just stares at you. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again but no sound comes out. She looks lost, looks young, looks like someone who just realized they've gone too far and doesn't know how to come back, doesn't know how to undo what's been done, doesn't know how to bridge the chasm that's opened between you.
But you're not interested in bridges right now. Not interested in reconciliation or understanding or any of the things that might come later, might be possible when the wounds are less fresh, when the anger has cooled, when you can think about this without wanting to scream or cry or hit something.
Right now, you just need her to leave. Need space. Need air that isn't thick with accusation and pain and the particular suffocation of proximity to someone who just tried to destroy you with words, who just tried to convince you that the best thing in your life is actually the worst, who just revealed a side of themselves you never knew existed and never wanted to see.
Dina seems to understand this without you having to say it. She takes a step back, then another, her hand finally dropping from her face, revealing the red mark your slap left, the physical evidence of violence that you committed, that you're not proud of but don't regret, that exists now as proof that you have limits, that you can be pushed only so far before something in you breaks and fights back.
"I'm going to—" Dina's voice is small now, uncertain, nothing like the venom from moments ago. "I'm going to stay with a friend. For a bit. Give us both some space."
You don't respond. Don't acknowledge her words with anything except a slight nod, don't turn to face her, don't give her the satisfaction or the comfort of your attention when she just spent the last ten minutes trying to systematically destroy your sense of self-worth, your relationship, your belief in being loved.
You hear her walk to her room. Hear drawers opening, items being shoved into a bag with the particular carelessness of someone packing in a hurry, someone fleeing, someone who needs to leave before more damage gets done, before more words get said, before the fragile thread of your friendship snaps entirely instead of just fraying to the point of near-breaking.
Fifteen minutes pass in silence. You stand in the same spot, staring at the wall, your arms wrapped around yourself like you're trying to hold yourself together, like you're afraid that if you move wrong something will crack, will shatter, will prove that you're made of glass after all, that Dina's words did damage even though you fought back, even though you defended yourself, even though you know—you know—that she was lying, was projecting, was trying to hurt you because she was hurt.
You hear Dina emerge from her room. Hear the shuffle of her feet, the weight of her bag, the pause at the doorway like she's waiting for you to turn around, to say something, to acknowledge her departure with anything except this deliberate absence of attention.
You don't turn around.
Don't give her what she wants.
Keep your back to her, your eyes on the wall, your posture rigid with the effort of not breaking, not crying, not collapsing under the weight of everything that just happened, everything that's still happening, everything that's waiting for you the moment she leaves and you're alone with your thoughts, with your phone that Ellie still hasn't responded to, with the knowledge that your friendship is broken and your relationship might be breaking and everything is falling apart faster than you can hold it together.
"I'm sorry," Dina says quietly, and she sounds like she means it, sounds like the cruelty has drained out of her along with the anger, leaving behind something smaller, more human, more capable of regret. "I'm sorry. For all of it. I just—I didn't know how to—"
"Leave," you say, your voice flat, empty of everything except exhaustion. "Just leave, Dina. Please."
The door opens. Closes. The sound of her footsteps fading down the hallway, growing distant, disappearing entirely until all that's left is silence, is emptiness, is the particular quality of alone that comes after conflict, after confrontation, after you've defended yourself but at what cost, at what price, at what sacrifice of the relationship you thought you had.
You stand there for a long moment, still staring at the wall, still holding yourself together through sheer force of will.
And then you collapse.
Not physically—you don't fall, don't drop to the floor in some dramatic gesture. But internally, something gives way. The dam breaks. The walls crumble. All the strength you summoned to fight back, to defend yourself, to stand your ground—it evaporates, leaving you with nothing except the raw truth of how much it hurt, how scared you are, how desperately you need Ellie to respond to your messages, to tell you that Dina was lying, to prove that you were right to defend what you have.
You pull out your phone with shaking hands.
Still nothing from Ellie.
Still just read receipts and silence.
Still alone with the fear that maybe Dina was right about some of it, maybe not all of it but enough, maybe Ellie doesn't love you the way you love her, maybe you're fooling yourself, maybe you're exactly as naive and desperate as Dina said, maybe—
No.
No.
You know what you have. You know what Ellie said. You know how she looks at you, how she touches you, how she makes you feel like you matter, like you're worth staying for, like you're something precious instead of just convenient.
Dina was wrong. Had to be wrong. Was projecting her own hurt onto your relationship because she couldn't stand the thought that Ellie chose you, wanted you, loves you when she never wanted or loved Dina beyond one night of mutual physical need.
You know this. You believe this.
But god, you wish Ellie would text back.
You wish she would confirm it.
You wish she would tell you that everything Dina said was bullshit, that you're not just convenient, that you're not just temporary, that you're not going to be forgotten the second she leaves.
You wish you could stop crying.
You wish you could stop shaking.
You wish any of this was easier.
But it's not.
So you sit on the floor of your empty apartment, alone with your phone and your fears and the lingering echo of Dina's words that you fought against but can't quite silence, can't quite ignore, can't quite stop from worming their way into the spaces where your doubts live, where your insecurities wait, where the voice that sounds like your anxiety whispers that maybe you've been fooling yourself all along.
And you wait.
For Ellie.
For answers.
For proof that you were right to fight back.
For proof that what you have is real.
Ellie's been walking for twenty minutes and still hasn't figured out what she's going to say.
The campus paths stretch before her like a labyrinth, like a test, like something she needs to navigate without a map when she's never been good at following directions anyway, when her usual approach to problems is to just push through them rather than thinking them through, to act rather than plan, to trust her instincts instead of trying to logic her way to the right answer.
But her instincts are a mess right now. Contradictory. Conflicting. Pulling her in seventeen different directions simultaneously—toward you and away from you, toward anger and toward understanding, toward the safety of shutting down and the risk of opening up, toward all the things she usually avoids because feelings are complicated and messy and she's spent most of her life keeping hers at a manageable distance from anything that could actually hurt her.
Except you already hurt her. Or not you, exactly. But the situation. The exposure. The violation of having private moments made public, of having intimate observations shared without permission, of being known by strangers who think they understand something about her because they read poetic descriptions, because they connected dots, because they decided her relationship was their entertainment.
She's not angry at you. She needs you to know that. Needs to say it out loud, needs to make absolutely clear that reading those excerpts—seeing the way you described her freckles like constellations, her missing fingers like part of a story, her body like art instead of just anatomy—it didn't make her angry. It made her feel seen in a way she's never felt seen before, made her understand that you look at her and see her, not just the surface details, not just the interesting physical characteristics that make her good for figure drawing.
But she's scared. Terrified, actually. Because her privacy is gone and people are talking and everyone seems to think they have opinions about her relationship, about her feelings, about whether she's really the muse or if you made it all up or if there's drama or if they're going to get together or break up or any of the thousand speculations that people seem to think they're entitled to make about her life.
And the worst part—the absolute worst part that she's been trying not to think about for the past six hours—is that she doesn't know how to do this. Doesn't know how to be in a relationship that's public, that's known, that's subject to commentary and judgment and the particular scrutiny that comes from being the subject of campus gossip.
She's used to keeping things casual. Keeping things private. Keeping things contained within the boundaries of what she can control—her body during modeling sessions, her attention during brief hookups, her heart during nothing because she doesn't let people that close, doesn't let anyone past her walls except apparently you, apparently you've been living inside her walls for weeks now and she didn't even notice until it was too late, until she was already attached, already falling, already so fucking gone for you that the thought of losing you makes her chest tight and her breathing shallow and her thoughts spiral into panic.
She turns the corner toward your building and her phone burns in her pocket—weighted with your unanswered messages, heavy with the guilt of leaving you on read for hours, impossible to ignore even though she's been trying. She knows she should have responded. Knows you're probably freaking out. Knows that her silence is making everything worse, is probably confirming every fear you have about not being worth staying for, about being easy to abandon, about all the insecurities she's spent weeks trying to disprove, trying to soothe, trying to prove wrong with her actions since words have never been her strong suit.
But she couldn't text back. Not until she figured out what to say. Not until she could promise you something, could offer you certainty when she's drowning in her own uncertainty, could be the stable one when stability has never been her thing, when she's built her entire life around not being tied down, not making promises, not staying when leaving is easier.
Except leaving isn't easier anymore. Leaving means losing you. And that—that's not acceptable, that's not an option, that's not something she's willing to do even if staying is terrifying, even if being known is overwhelming, even if she has no idea how to navigate this situation where your relationship is public knowledge and everyone has thoughts about it.
She'll figure it out. Has to figure it out. Will do whatever it takes to make this work because the alternative—a world where she doesn't have you, where she gave up because things got complicated, where she let fear win—that's worse than any amount of public scrutiny, any amount of exposure, any amount of having to exist as part of a couple instead of as a singular entity accountable only to herself.
Your building comes into view and her heart rate picks up, her palms starting to sweat, her whole body preparing for confrontation even though this shouldn't be a confrontation, should just be a conversation, should just be her explaining that she's sorry for not responding, that she needed time to process, that she's here now and she's not leaving and you're stuck with her whether you want to be or not because she's decided you're hers and she's yours and fuck anyone who thinks they have a say in that.
She's maybe fifteen feet from the entrance when the door swings open with enough force to suggest someone's leaving in a hurry, someone who's upset or angry or just needs to get out, needs to escape, needs to—
Dina.
Dina emerges from the building with a bag slung over her shoulder—hastily packed based on the way items are sticking out, on the way the zipper isn't fully closed, on the general chaos of someone who packed in a rush, who's fleeing rather than leaving, who's running from something.
They make eye contact and everything stops.
Just stops. Time, movement, breathing—everything freezes in this moment of recognition, of unexpected collision, of two people who've been carefully avoiding each other suddenly forced into proximity, into acknowledgment, into the particular awkwardness of running into someone you've fucked when you're on your way to see the person you actually care about.
Ellie's first instinct is to look away, to pretend she didn't see, to just keep walking because she doesn't owe Dina anything, doesn't want to talk to her, doesn't want this delay when she needs to get to you, needs to explain herself, needs to fix whatever damage her silence has caused.
But Dina's staring at her with an expression that's hard to read—not quite hostile but not friendly either, something calculating, something that makes Ellie's skin prickle with unease, with the instinctive recognition of someone who's about to make things complicated, who's about to be a problem, who's about to say something that Ellie won't want to hear.
The moment stretches. Becomes uncomfortable. Becomes the kind of silence that demands breaking even though neither of them wants to be the one to break it, even though speaking would require engaging and engaging would require pretending this isn't awkward as hell.
Ellie breaks first—not with words but with action, stepping around Dina, heading for the door, choosing forward momentum over confrontation, choosing you over this weird standoff with someone she hasn't talked to in weeks, hasn't thought about except in the context of that night, that hookup, that thing that happened before you and means nothing now except as an obstacle, as a complication, as something that keeps coming up when it should just stay buried.
"Ellie."
The voice stops her. Not loud, not aggressive, but certain—the kind of voice that expects to be listened to, that assumes its words carry weight, that knows it has your attention even when you'd rather give it to anything else.
Ellie closes her eyes for just a second—a brief moment of acceptance, of resignation, of knowing that she's going to have to turn around, going to have to engage, going to have to deal with whatever Dina wants when all she wants is to get inside, get to you, get this conversation over with so she can move forward instead of being stuck in this purgatory of having hurt you without meaning to, of having made everything worse by trying to protect herself, by needing space when you needed reassurance.
She takes a breath. Deep, steadying, the kind that's supposed to calm you down but just makes you more aware of your heartbeat, of your tension, of all the ways your body is preparing for conflict even when you're trying to avoid it.
Then she turns around, forcing her expression into something pleasant, something neutral, something that doesn't reveal how much she doesn't want to be having this conversation, how much she'd rather be anywhere else, how much every second of this delay is making her anxiety about seeing you worse, is making her doubts louder, is making her wonder if she's already waited too long, if her silence has already cost her more than she can afford to lose.
"What?" It comes out sharper than she intended, less pleasant than the expression she's forcing, revealing her irritation despite her attempt at civility.
Dina shifts her bag on her shoulder—a nervous gesture, or maybe just adjusting the weight, it's hard to tell. But there's something in her expression now that Ellie can see more clearly at this distance, with this focus—something calculated, something almost predatory, something that makes every alarm bell in Ellie's head start screaming danger, warning, threat.
"I just wanted to say hi," Dina says, and her voice is light, casual, completely at odds with the intensity of her gaze, with the way she's holding herself like she's bracing for something, like she's preparing for impact. "We haven't talked in a while. Thought it would be weird to just... not acknowledge each other."
"Hi," Ellie says flatly, offering the bare minimum, refusing to give more than Dina's asked for, refusing to engage beyond what's absolutely necessary. "Acknowledged. We good?"
She turns again, reaching for the door handle, thinking this is over, thinking she's satisfied the social requirement and can now escape, can now get to you, can now—
"How are things with my roommate?"
The question lands like a punch, like an ambush, like exactly the thing Ellie should have seen coming but somehow didn't, somehow let herself believe this would be simple when nothing involving Dina has been simple, when this whole situation is a minefield and she keeps stepping on explosives because she's too focused on forward movement to watch where she's going.
Ellie's hand freezes on the door handle. Her jaw clenches. Her shoulders go rigid with tension that's morphing from general irritation into specific anger, into frustration at being trapped in this conversation, at being asked about you by the last person who should be asking, by someone who has no right to your business, to Ellie's business, to the relationship that's none of her fucking concern.
"Fine," Ellie says without turning around, her voice clipped, final, designed to end this conversation before it can go anywhere else. "We're fine."
"Are you?" Dina's voice has changed—less casual now, more pointed, carrying an edge that suggests she knows something, has information, is about to reveal a card she's been holding. "Because she seemed pretty upset earlier. Before I left."
Now Ellie turns—fully turns, letting go of the door handle, facing Dina with her full attention because something about that sentence doesn't sit right, doesn't make sense, raises questions that she needs answered before she goes inside, before she sees you, before she walks into whatever situation is waiting for her without understanding the context.
"What do you mean, upset?" Ellie's trying to keep her voice level, trying not to reveal how much that word concerns her, how much the thought of you being upset—more upset than you already were about the project, about the exposure, about everything—makes her chest tight with guilt, with responsibility, with the knowledge that her silence probably contributed to whatever state Dina found you in.
"Oh, you know." Dina waves her hand vaguely, dismissively, like she's discussing something minor instead of your emotional state, like your feelings are inconsequential, like any of this is casual. "Just upset. About everything. The project going public, people talking, the whole... situation."
She's being deliberately vague and Ellie knows it, can see it in the way Dina's avoiding specifics, in the way she's dancing around whatever actually happened, in the way she's baiting Ellie into asking for more information that she clearly wants to give but wants to be asked for first, wants to control the revelation of, wants to use as leverage for something.
"Right," Ellie says slowly, suspicion creeping into her tone, into her posture, into the way she's looking at Dina now with narrowed eyes, with the particular scrutiny of someone who's trying to figure out what game is being played, what angle is being worked, what Dina actually wants from this conversation. "And you're telling me this why?"
"Just thought you should know." Dina shrugs, but there's something calculated about the gesture, something rehearsed, something that suggests she's thought about this conversation, has planned what she's going to say, how she's going to say it, what effect she's hoping to achieve. "Since you weren't answering her messages. Since you left her hanging all day while she was freaking out. Assuming from the fact she’s been checking her phone all day like a maniac."
The accusation lands and Ellie feels it—the guilt, the shame, the knowledge that Dina's right about that part at least, that Ellie did leave you hanging, did ignore your messages, did choose her own processing over your need for reassurance even though she knows how your anxiety works, knows how your brain spirals when you're left without answers, knows she should have responded even if she didn't have the right words yet.
"I had shit to process," Ellie says defensively, her voice hardening, her walls going up because she doesn't owe Dina explanations, doesn't need to justify her choices to someone who's not involved, who has no stake in this except apparently wanting to stir up drama. "Not that it's any of your business."
"You're right. It's not." Dina's smile doesn't reach her eyes, doesn't carry any warmth, is just a shape her mouth makes that's supposed to indicate friendliness but reads as anything but. "I'm just trying to be helpful. Friend to friend."
"We're not friends," Ellie says bluntly, tired of the pretense, tired of the game, tired of standing here when she could be inside, could be with you, could be fixing things instead of letting them get worse. "We fucked once. Weeks ago. That doesn't make us friends."
Something flickers across Dina's expression—hurt maybe, or anger, or vindication at having Ellie confirm what she already knew, what you already told her, what she wanted to hear out loud anyway because confirmation hits different than assumption.
"True," Dina agrees, and her voice has gone softer now, more dangerous, carrying that same calculated edge that Ellie noticed earlier, that same sense of someone who's about to make a move, about to reveal their hand, about to do something that's going to change the game. "We're not friends. But I thought you might want to know that she's done."
Ellie's heart stops. Actually stops. Skips a beat or freezes or does whatever the medical term is for when your cardiac rhythm gets disrupted by words, by fear, by the sudden certainty that something terrible is about to be said and you can't stop it, can't prevent it, can only brace for impact.
"What are you talking about?" Her voice comes out strained, tight, revealing the panic she's trying to hide, revealing how much that sentence affected her, revealing exactly what Dina wanted to reveal—that Ellie cares, that this matters, that the thought of you being "done" is devastating enough to crack her composure.
Dina takes a step closer—not threatening exactly, but invasive, closing the distance that Ellie would prefer to maintain, making this more intimate than it should be, than Ellie wants it to be, than is appropriate for two people who aren't friends, who aren't anything except two people who happened to fuck once before one of them found something real.
"She told me," Dina says slowly, carefully, like she's placing each word with precision, like she's building to something, like this is the moment she's been waiting for, the reveal she's been planning since she walked out of that building. "Right before I left. She said she doesn't want anything to do with you anymore."
The words hit like a sledgehammer, like a car crash, like every fear Ellie's been trying not to think about for the past six hours suddenly given voice, suddenly made real, suddenly transformed from abstract possibility into concrete reality that she has to deal with, has to process, has to somehow accept even though acceptance feels impossible.
"The fuck are you talking about?" Ellie's voice rises, sharp and disbelieving, her body moving forward instinctively, aggressively, closing the distance between her and Dina because this doesn't make sense, can't make sense, isn't true because you texted her, you apologized, you asked her to talk, you wouldn't just give up, wouldn't just decide you were done without even having a conversation, without even giving Ellie a chance to explain.
Unless you would. Unless Ellie's silence was the final straw. Unless six hours of being ignored was enough to convince you that Dina was right—that Ellie doesn't care, doesn't love you, was always going to leave anyway so why bother fighting for something that was always temporary, always doomed, always going to end in exactly this kind of hurt.
Unless Ellie waited too long. Thought too much. Let her fear override her certainty, her need for processing override your need for reassurance, her comfort override your crisis.
Unless she fucked up so badly that there's no coming back from it.
Unless she's already lost you.
The silence in the apartment is suffocating.
Not peaceful silence. Not the comfortable quiet of being alone with your thoughts. This is oppressive silence, heavy silence, the kind that presses down on your chest and fills your ears with white noise that sounds like screaming, that feels like absence given weight and substance, that transforms empty space into something almost tangible, almost alive, almost malicious in its completeness.
You're curled on the couch—knees to chest, arms wrapped around yourself like you're trying to hold your pieces together, like you're afraid that if you let go you'll fly apart, scatter across the floor, prove that you were never whole to begin with, just fragments pretending to be a person, just cracks pretending to be solid, just barely-held-together chaos masquerading as a functional human being.
The apartment has never felt this empty. Even when Dina's gone—which she often is, which is normal, which you're used to—her presence lingers. Her energy remains. The space still feels inhabited, still feels lived-in, still carries the echo of her voice, her laughter, her constant movement through rooms like she's allergic to stillness, like she needs to fill every silence with sound, every emptiness with presence.
But now it's just... void.
She took something with her when she left. Not just her physical presence but something else, something more fundamental—the safety of knowing where you stand, the comfort of familiar dynamics, the assumption of friendship that you built your life around, that you counted on, that you thought was solid until it shattered like glass, like trust, like every foundation you thought you were standing on.
Your hand still tingles from the slap. You keep looking at it like it belongs to someone else, like you can't quite believe it's yours, like the evidence of violence is written on your palm in invisible ink that only you can see, that only you can feel burning there like shame, like guilt, like proof that you're capable of hurting people when pushed far enough, when cornered hard enough, when your breaking point gets reached and you snap like a branch under too much weight, like a wire pulled too tight, like a person who's been holding everything together finally letting everything fall apart.
You hit her.
You actually hit her.
Raised your hand and struck another human being with the intent to cause pain, to make her stop, to silence her in the most primitive way possible when words weren't working, when she wouldn't listen, when the only language she seemed to understand was the one written in the sharp crack of palm against cheek, in the physical manifestation of your breaking point, in the violence you thought you weren't capable of until you were, until circumstances proved that everyone has limits, everyone has thresholds, everyone has a point beyond which they stop being the person they think they are and become the person they're afraid they might be.
The thoughts spiral like water down a drain, like your sense of self circling an abyss, like everything you thought you knew about who you are being called into question by one moment of losing control, one instant of letting anger override everything else, one choice you can't take back no matter how much you might want to.
You shouldn't have hit her.
Even if she deserved it—and part of you still thinks she did, still believes that her words were designed to wound, to break, to destroy—violence wasn't the answer. Violence is never the answer. That's what you've always believed, what you've built your identity around, what separates you from people who solve problems with fists instead of words, who let their anger control them instead of controlling their anger.
Except now you're one of those people. Now you've crossed that line. Now you can't claim moral high ground, can't pretend you're above that kind of reaction, can't maintain the fiction that you're someone who would never, could never, absolutely isn't capable of that kind of base, violent response.
But she was hurting you. She was deliberately, systematically trying to destroy your sense of self-worth, your relationship, your belief in being loved. She was using your insecurities as weapons, your fears as ammunition, your vulnerabilities as targets. She was aiming for your soft spots with sniper precision and hitting every single one, making you bleed in ways that don't show, making you hurt in ways that don't leave visible marks.
Doesn't that justify defending yourself? Doesn't that make it okay to fight back when someone's attacking you, even if the attack is verbal instead of physical? Doesn't self-defense apply to emotional warfare too, or are you just supposed to stand there and take it, supposed to let people say whatever they want, supposed to absorb abuse because hitting back makes you the bad guy regardless of what provoked you?
You don't know. Can't think straight. Can't separate justified from unjustified when both feel true simultaneously, when the fact that she hurt you doesn't erase the fact that you hurt her back, when being wounded doesn't give you license to wound in return, when being the victim doesn't automatically make you innocent once you become the aggressor.
Your thoughts chase each other in circles like dogs chasing their tails, like the ouroboros eating itself, like logic trying to consume emotion and emotion trying to override logic and neither winning because they're too evenly matched, too fundamentally opposed, too impossible to reconcile into anything resembling clarity or certainty or peace.
Dina's been your friend for years. Years. She was there when you moved into this apartment, anxious and overwhelmed and convinced you'd somehow mess up college before it even really started. She was there for your first breakdown over a deadline, your first all-nighter fueled by coffee and panic, your first success that felt like maybe—maybe—you could actually do this, could actually survive in an environment that felt designed to crush people like you who weren't built for constant performance and social navigation and the particular brand of chaos that is university life.
She's seen you at your worst. Seen you at your best. Seen you in all the middle spaces where most of life actually happens, where you're neither disaster nor triumph but just... existing. Just trying. Just doing your best even when your best feels inadequate, feels insufficient, feels like you're one crisis away from complete collapse.
And you hit her.
Physically struck someone who's been part of your life for so long that you can't remember what it was like before her, who's been woven into your daily routine so thoroughly that her absence feels like missing a limb, like phantom pain where familiarity used to be, like your life has a Dina-shaped hole that nothing else can fill because she was supposed to be permanent, supposed to be safe, supposed to be the one person who wouldn't leave, wouldn't turn on you, wouldn't make you choose between defending yourself and maintaining a friendship.
But she did turn on you. Did say things that were designed to hurt. Did attack your relationship, your worth, your belief in being loved with the kind of precision that only comes from knowing exactly where someone's vulnerable, exactly what will cause maximum damage, exactly how to break someone using nothing but words and the cruel truth that sometimes the people who know you best are the ones who can hurt you most effectively.
So maybe you were justified. Maybe she pushed too far. Maybe the slap was self-defense, was the only way to make her stop, was the physical manifestation of a boundary that needed enforcing when she refused to respect it any other way.
Or maybe you're just making excuses. Maybe you're trying to rationalize violence because acknowledging that you fucked up, that you lost control, that you became someone you don't want to be is too painful, too confronting, too threatening to the image you have of yourself as someone who doesn't hit, who doesn't lash out, who doesn't let anger override conscience.
You don't know. Can't know. Are drowning in uncertainty and guilt and the particular kind of anxiety that comes from having multiple truths that contradict each other, from being both right and wrong simultaneously, from being justified and unjustifiable in the same action, in the same moment, in the same desperate attempt to protect yourself from someone who was supposed to be your friend but became your attacker instead.
Your phone sits on the coffee table—face up, screen visible, mocking you with its emptiness, with its lack of notifications, with the absence of the one message you need, the one response that might make any of this bearable, the one word from Ellie that would confirm you were right to defend your relationship, right to believe in her love, right to fight back against Dina's attempts to convince you otherwise.
But there's nothing.
Still nothing.
Just the time displayed in cold white digits, just the battery percentage slowly draining, just the lockscreen photo of you and Ellie that you took last week—her kissing your cheek, you laughing, both of you looking so happy, so uncomplicated, so blissfully unaware that within days everything would implode, that your privacy would be violated, that your friendship would shatter, that you'd be sitting here alone wondering if anything you believed about your life was actually true.
You reach for your phone—compulsive, automatic, the physical manifestation of hope and desperation in equal measure. Your hand shakes as you unlock it, as you check your messages for the hundredth time, as you look for evidence that Ellie has responded, that she's forgiven you for the project going public, that she still wants you, that Dina was lying about everything, that what you have is real and solid and not about to disappear like smoke, like dreams, like every good thing you've ever let yourself believe in.
Nothing.
The read receipts stare back at you like accusations, like proof that she's seen your messages and chosen not to respond, that she's made a deliberate decision to leave you hanging, to let you spiral, to prioritize her own processing over your desperate need for reassurance that you're not alone in this, that she hasn't given up, that you haven't lost her.
Your chest tightens. Gets tighter. Keeps tightening until breathing feels impossible, until each inhale is a conscious effort, until you're gasping for air that's right there but somehow can't reach your lungs, can't fill the space that's collapsing inward like a dying star, like your ribcage is trying to cave in on itself, like your body is trying to fold into a space too small to contain it.
You're having an anxiety attack. You recognize the symptoms—the shortness of breath, the racing heart, the tunnel vision, the sense of impending doom that has no specific source but feels absolutely certain, feels like death approaching even though you know logically that you're not dying, that this is just your nervous system misfiring, just your brain's alarm system responding to threat that's more emotional than physical.
But knowing it's an anxiety attack doesn't make it stop. Doesn't slow your heart rate. Doesn't restore your ability to breathe normally. Doesn't do anything except add another layer of frustration because you should be able to control this, should be able to talk yourself down, should be able to use the techniques your therapist taught you—the breathing exercises, the grounding methods, the cognitive restructuring that's supposed to help you recognize that thoughts aren't facts, that fear isn't reality, that you're safe even when you feel like you're dying.
But you can't access any of it. Can't remember the steps. Can't focus on anything except the crushing weight on your chest, the tightness in your throat, the way the room is starting to spin slightly, the way your hands are trembling so badly that your phone nearly slips from your grip, the way everything is too much and not enough simultaneously.
You're alone. Completely alone. Dina's gone and Ellie's not responding and you're sitting here having a breakdown in an empty apartment with no one to call, no one to help, no one to tell you it's going to be okay even if they're lying, even if it's not going to be okay, even if everything is falling apart and there's nothing you can do except watch it happen, except experience it in real-time, except survive it somehow and hope there's something left of you when it's over.
What if Dina was right? The thought slithers into your consciousness like a snake, like poison, like something toxic that you've been trying to keep out but that finds a way in anyway, that exploits every crack in your defenses, that knows exactly where you're vulnerable and presses on that spot until you break.
What if Ellie doesn't really love you? What if you're just convenient, just temporary, just someone to pass time with before she leaves and forgets you exist? What if everything you thought you had was actually just wishful thinking, just you projecting meaning onto casual affection, just you being so desperate for love that you convinced yourself it was real when it was always just... nice. Pleasant. Temporary.
What if the reason she's not responding is because she's realized it too? Realized that this is too complicated, too public, too difficult to navigate when she could just leave, could just go back to her original plan, could just move on to someone else who doesn't come with campus gossip and published love letters and a roommate who's in love with her and a life that's suddenly very messy and very public and very far from the casual, uncomplicated connection she probably wanted?
What if you fought with Dina, burned that bridge, potentially destroyed one of your longest friendships—for nothing? For a relationship that's already over? For love that was never as real as you thought it was?
What if you're alone because you deserve to be alone, because you're too difficult, too anxious, too much work for anyone to actually want to deal with long-term? What if everyone eventually realizes that you're more trouble than you're worth, that the effort of loving you exceeds the reward, that they're better off finding someone easier, someone simpler, someone who doesn't come with this much baggage and insecurity and need?
The thoughts spiral faster, tighter, pulling you under like a riptide, like quicksand, like drowning in your own head while sitting perfectly still on a couch in an empty apartment where nothing is actually wrong except everything feels wrong, feels unsustainable, feels like the beginning of an end you saw coming but couldn't prevent, couldn't avoid, couldn't escape no matter how hard you tried to be different, to be better, to be someone worth keeping.
Your phone screen goes dark—the automatic lock kicking in after too many seconds of inactivity, of you just staring at it without touching it, without doing anything except hoping, praying, desperately wishing that something would change, that Ellie would text back, that any of this would make sense.
You don't unlock it again. Can't bear to look at the empty inbox again, can't handle another confirmation that you're still alone, still waiting, still hoping for something that might never come, that might already be over before you even realized it was ending.
So you just sit there. Curled up. Shaking. Trying to breathe through the panic that won't stop, that won't ease, that just keeps pressing down on your chest like weight, like gravity.
And you wait.
Still waiting.
Always waiting.
For Ellie to respond. For clarity to emerge from chaos. For proof that you weren't wrong to believe, to hope, to let yourself love someone despite knowing how much it would hurt if it ended, despite knowing that you're not built for heartbreak, despite knowing that you might not survive losing her the way you've survived losing other things.
The silence presses down. The apartment stays empty. Your phone stays dark.
And you stay exactly where you are—alone, anxious, drowning in doubt, wondering if you've lost everything that mattered, wondering if you ever really had it to begin with, wondering if this is what it feels like when your world ends not with drama or spectacle but with quiet, with absence, with the slow realization that you're alone and might stay that way because you're too broken to fix, too difficult to love, too much of a disaster for anyone to actually choose to keep.
Ellie sits on a bench outside your building—hunched over like she's been punched in the stomach, like her body doesn't know how to hold itself upright anymore when the foundation of everything she thought she knew has just been kicked out from under her.
Her lips are parted slightly, caught mid-breath, frozen in the shape of shock that hasn't quite processed into something else yet, hasn't transformed into anger or hurt or any of the emotions that come after the initial impact, after the bomb drops, after you hear something that changes everything and your brain is still trying to catch up to what your ears just registered.
"She only wanted you for inspiration and sex."
Dina's words echo in her skull like a curse, like a haunting, like something that's taken up residence in her head and refuses to leave no matter how much she wants it gone, wants it to be untrue, wants it to be just another lie in a day that's been full of them.
"She never really loved you. She needed material for her project, and you were convenient. Available. Interesting enough to write about but not interesting enough to actually stay for."
The narrative Dina built was meticulous, was detailed, was delivered with the kind of certainty that comes from either absolute truth or practiced deception, and Ellie can't tell which, can't separate fact from fiction when both feel equally plausible, when her own fears have been whispering similar things for weeks, when the voice in her head that tells her she's not worth staying for sounds exactly like Dina's voice explaining why you never really wanted her.
"Think about it, Ellie. The timing. She barely talked to you until she started this project. Then suddenly she's obsessed? Writing pages and pages about you? That's not love. That's research. That's you being a subject, not a person. An object of study, not someone worth caring about beyond what you can provide for her art."
Ellie runs her hands through her hair—rough, aggressive, pulling at the strands like physical pain might override the emotional kind, like she can hurt herself enough to stop feeling the other hurt, the deeper hurt, the kind that lives in your chest and your throat and makes breathing feel like work, like something you have to remember to do instead of something automatic.
"Fuck," she mutters under her breath, the word inadequate but necessary, the only thing she can say that captures even a fraction of what she's feeling—betrayal and confusion and the particular agony of not knowing what's real, of having your entire relationship recontextualized as manipulation, as use, as something transactional disguised as love.
She wants to not believe it. Wants to dismiss everything Dina said as jealousy, as bitterness, as the desperate attempts of someone who's hurt to hurt back. Wants to trust you, trust what you said, trust the way you looked at her, the way you touched her, the way you said "I love you" like you meant it, like it cost you something to admit, like it was truth instead of just words.
But there's evidence. The timeline Dina laid out. The project that everyone's talking about. The fact that you wrote about her before you really knew her, cataloged her like she was a specimen, described her body in detail that suggests clinical observation rather than intimate knowledge, analyzed her like she was a character to be solved rather than a person to be loved.
And the worst part—the absolute worst part that's making this impossible to dismiss—is that Ellie knows what it's like to be looked at as a thing rather than a person. She's a model. She poses naked while people study her body, reduce her to lines and curves and shadows, treat her as an object to be rendered rather than a human being with thoughts and feelings and an interior life that matters beyond how interesting she is to draw.
She thought you were different. Thought you saw her as more than just a body, more than just an interesting subject. Thought the way you described her freckles like constellations, her missing fingers like story instead of tragedy, her existence like art instead of just anatomy—thought that meant you loved her, not that you were just better at objectification than most people, more poetic about it, more skilled at making exploitation sound like reverence.
What if Dina's right? What if the entire relationship was just you gathering material, using her for inspiration and physical satisfaction and then planning to discard her once the project was done, once you got your grade, once she stopped being useful?
What if "I love you" was just another line in the narrative you were constructing, another detail to make the story more compelling, another element to add depth to your character study of the model who was dumb enough to think she was being loved when she was just being used?
Movement in her peripheral vision pulls her from the spiral. Dina's still there—has been standing a few feet away this whole time, watching Ellie process, waiting for the information to sink in, to take root, to do its damage.
She pulls out a flask from her jacket pocket—silver, dented, the kind of thing that's been used hard and often. She unscrews the cap with practiced ease and holds it out to Ellie like an offering, like comfort, like the universal solution to problems that don't have solutions, to pain that can't be fixed, to situations where the only thing left to do is numb yourself enough to survive them.
Ellie stares at the flask for a long moment. She doesn't drink usually—doesn't like losing control, doesn't like the way alcohol makes her thoughts fuzzy when she prefers them sharp, doesn't like needing substances to cope when she's built her entire identity around being strong enough to handle things sober.
But right now—right now she wants fuzzy. Wants blurry. Wants anything except the crystalline clarity of this moment, this realization, this possibility that everything she believed was a lie.
She takes the flask. Brings it to her lips. Takes a gulp that burns going down—whiskey, probably, cheap and harsh and exactly what she needs, exactly the kind of pain that's comprehensible, that makes sense, that has a clear cause and a predictable effect unlike emotional pain which just exists without logic, without reason, without any of the things that make suffering tolerable.
She shoves the flask back at Dina without a word, without thanks, without any of the social niceties that make interactions smooth because she's not interested in smooth right now, is barely interested in functional, is operating on autopilot while her brain tries to process information it doesn't want to accept.
Dina takes the flask back and caps it slowly, watching Ellie with an expression that might be sympathy or might be satisfaction—it's hard to tell, hard to read anything clearly when Ellie's entire perception feels compromised, when she can't trust her own judgment about people's motivations, about what's real and what's performance, about any of it.
"I'm sorry," Dina says quietly, and she sounds like she means it, sounds genuinely regretful about being the bearer of bad news, about having to be the one to shatter Ellie's illusions, about destroying something that Ellie thought was real. "I know you cared about her. I just thought you deserved to know the truth before you went up there and made it worse. Before you invested more in something that was never going to—"
"Don't," Ellie cuts her off, her voice rough from the whiskey, from emotion, from the effort of not screaming, not crying, not breaking down in public where people can see, where vulnerability becomes performance, where pain becomes spectacle. "Just don't."
Dina reaches out—her hand landing on Ellie's shoulder, heavy with intention, with the weight of comfort that Ellie doesn't want, doesn't need, doesn't trust coming from someone who just destroyed her world even if that destruction was supposedly for her own good, even if knowing the truth is supposed to be better than living in ignorance.
Ellie shoves the hand off roughly—aggressive enough to make Dina stumble back slightly, aggressive enough to make her point clear that touch is not welcome, that proximity is not wanted, that whatever Dina thinks she's offering, Ellie is not interested in receiving.
She stands abruptly, her body moving before her mind has fully decided, operating on instinct and need and the desperate certainty that she has to see you, has to hear this from you, has to look you in the eyes when you confirm or deny what Dina said because she can't just take Dina's word for it, can't make decisions based on secondhand information, can't let someone else's narrative become her reality without at least attempting to verify it.
She walks toward the building entrance without looking back at Dina, without acknowledging her presence, without any of the closure that ending a conversation usually requires because this isn't a conversation—it's an ambush, it's information warfare, it's something that happened to her rather than with her and she's done being passive, done standing still while other people tell her what to think, what to feel, what her own relationship means.
The stairs feel endless—each step an effort, each floor a milestone, each breath a reminder that she's moving toward something that might break her, toward a conversation that could confirm her worst fears, toward a moment that will either salvage what she thought she had or destroy it completely, and she won't know which until she's already there, already committed, already past the point of retreat.
She reaches your floor. Your door. The physical barrier between her current state of uncertainty and whatever truth is waiting on the other side.
She knocks—three sharp raps that sound too loud in the quiet hallway, that announce her presence without subtlety, that demand response rather than requesting it.
The door opens almost immediately—like you were waiting right there, like you've been standing by the door hoping, praying, desperately wishing for exactly this, for Ellie to show up, for this conversation to happen, for some kind of resolution to the hours of silence and uncertainty and spiraling that's been consuming you.
And then you see her.
And everything else ceases to matter.
You practically throw yourself into her arms—no hesitation, no pride, no attempt to maintain dignity or composure or any of the things that usually prevent people from showing exactly how desperate they are, how much they need, how close they are to falling apart completely.
You're sobbing instantly—the tears that have been threatening, that have been building, that have been held back by sheer force of will finally breaking through now that Ellie's here, now that she's real and solid and in front of you instead of just a concept, just a hope, just a person who exists in your phone's unanswered messages and your spiraling thoughts.
Ellie catches you—her arms coming around you automatically, muscle memory, the way her body knows how to hold you even when her mind is full of doubt, even when Dina's words are still echoing, even when she came here for answers but is getting questions instead, is getting you falling apart in her arms, is getting proof of emotion that might be real or might be performance and she can't tell, can't trust her judgment, can't rely on instinct when instinct has been wrong before.
She embraces you for a moment—lets herself feel it, lets herself hold you, lets herself pretend for just a second that everything is okay, that Dina was lying, that this is real and you love her and none of the doubt matters because you're here and you're crying and you clearly care even if she doesn't know if that caring is love or guilt or just fear of losing your inspiration, your subject, your convenient source of material and physical satisfaction.
Then she pulls away. Gently but firmly. Creating distance. Establishing separation. Making it clear through body language that she's not here for comfort, not here for reconciliation, not here to just fall back into what they had without addressing what she's heard, what she's been told, what she needs to know.
You look up at her with eyes that are red and swollen and full of so much pain that it makes Ellie's chest ache, makes her want to pull you close again, makes her want to forget about Dina's words and just believe in this, in you, in what you clearly feel even if she doesn't know what that feeling means, doesn't know if it's love or something else, something more complicated, something she can't name.
"Did you—" Ellie's voice cracks and she has to stop, has to clear her throat, has to try again because this matters too much to mess up, because the question has to be asked clearly, has to be understood, has to be answered in a way that leaves no room for ambiguity. "Did you tell Dina that you don't want anything to do with me anymore?"
Your face does something complicated—confusion and hurt and disbelief all flashing across your expression in rapid succession, all fighting for dominance, all trying to make sense of a question that doesn't make sense, that comes from nowhere, that implies things you never said, never thought, never would have even considered.
"What? No!" The denial is immediate, is frantic, is accompanied by you reaching for Ellie again like physical contact might make her understand, might make her believe, might bridge the gap that's opening between you. "No, I never—where did you—why would you think that?"
"Dina said—" Ellie starts, but you cut her off.
"You don't actually believe her, do you?" The question is barely above a whisper, is fragile, is weighted with the kind of fear that comes from needing an answer but being terrified of what that answer might be, from hoping for reassurance but bracing for disappointment, from knowing that the answer to this question might determine everything that comes next.
Ellie doesn't respond. Can't respond. Is caught between Dina's certainty and your denial, between secondhand narrative and direct contradiction, between what she was told and what she's seeing, and she doesn't know which to believe, doesn't know who's lying, doesn't know if anyone's lying or if truth is just more complicated than either version suggests.
Your face changes as the silence stretches—hope draining away, fear creeping in, the dawning realization that Ellie's not immediately dismissing Dina's words, that there's doubt here, that something has been damaged, broken, poisoned.
"Do you?" you ask again, quieter now, more desperate, your voice breaking on the second word. "Ellie, do you actually believe I would—"
But Ellie's not looking at you anymore. She's looking through you, past you, at something in her memory that's surfacing, that's demanding attention, that's connecting to Dina's words in ways that make too much sense, that create a narrative that's too coherent to dismiss, that explain things Ellie didn't realize needed explaining until now.
The timeline. The way you stared at her through that window before you ever spoke to her. The project that's apparently been in the works for weeks, that requires fifty pages, that's detailed enough to catalog her freckles and her missing fingers and the exact way her body exists in space. The way you were so protective of your laptop, so secretive about your writing, so careful about what you let her see.
What if it was always about the project? What if she was always just research? What if every moment, every touch, every word was just you gathering material, collecting data, studying her like a scientist studies a specimen, like a writer studies a character, like someone uses another person for their own purposes and calls it love?
"I need space," Ellie says finally, and the words feel like they're being pulled from somewhere deep in her chest, somewhere that knows this is wrong but doesn't know how to make it right, somewhere that's protecting her from getting hurt worse by putting distance between her and the thing that might destroy her. "I need time to process all of this. Everything that happened today, everything with the project going public, everything Dina said—I just need space to think."
"Ellie, please—" You're reaching for her again but she takes a step back, maintaining the distance, establishing the boundary, making it clear through action what words have already said.
"It's not—I'm not saying it's over," Ellie clarifies, even though she's not sure if that's true, not sure if this is temporary distance or the beginning of permanent separation, not sure what she's promising or threatening or just stating as fact. "I just need to figure out what I think, what I feel, what's real. And I can't do that while I'm looking at you, while you're crying, while every instinct I have is telling me to just believe you and ignore everything else."
She takes a breath, tries to make this clearer, tries to explain in a way that will hurt less even though she knows it's going to hurt regardless, knows that "I need space" always hurts no matter how it's phrased, no matter how justified it is, no matter how necessary the breathing room might be.
"I care about you," she continues, and at least this part is true, is certain, is something she can say without doubt. "But I don't know if what we have is what I thought it was. And I need time to figure that out. To understand if you—if this—" She gestures between them, frustrated by her inability to articulate what this is, what they are, what's at stake. "I just need time."
Your face is crumpling, is breaking, is showing every stage of hope dying in real-time, every stage of understanding that Ellie is leaving, is choosing doubt over trust, is listening to Dina's poison instead of your truth, and there's nothing you can do to stop it, nothing you can say to make her stay, nothing except respect her boundaries even when those boundaries feel like rejection, feel like abandonment, feel like the beginning of the end.
"Okay," you whisper, and the word costs you everything, costs you your pride and your hope and your certainty that this was real, that you were loved, that you had something worth fighting for. "Okay. Take the space. Take the time. I'll be here when you're ready."
But even as you say it, you don't know if it's true. Don't know if she'll come back. Don't know if space means hours or days or forever. Don't know if this is a pause or an ending disguised as a pause, if you're waiting for something that's never going to come, if you're holding onto hope that's already dead but hasn't stopped moving yet.
Ellie nods once—sharp, final, the kind of gesture that ends conversations, that signals departure, that says everything that needs to be said without requiring more words. She turns toward the door, toward leaving, toward putting distance between herself and you and the situation that's too messy, too complicated, too painful to navigate right now.
You want to stop her. Want to grab her hand, pull her back, make her stay until you can explain, can convince her, can prove that Dina's lying, that you love her, that this is real. But you don't. Can't. Won't violate her clearly stated need for space even when that space feels like it's killing you, even when letting her walk away feels like letting her walk out of your life permanently, even when every instinct you have is screaming at you to fight, to hold on, to not let this happen.
So you just stand there as she opens the door, as she steps through it, as she disappears into the hallway without looking back, without a final glance, without anything except the sound of her footsteps getting quieter, getting farther, getting gone.
The door closes. The click of it sounds like finality, like punctuation, like the end of a chapter you weren't done reading, like the last word of a story that didn't get its resolution, that ended mid-sentence, that left you hanging in the space between what was and what might have been.
Your hands come up to cover your face—automatic, instinctive, trying to hide even though there's no one here to hide from, trying to hold yourself together even though you're already falling apart, trying to contain the grief that's spilling out of you in the form of tears that won't stop, that won't slow, that just keep coming like they have an endless supply, like your body is trying to physically expel the pain through salt water and broken breathing.
You're crying so hard you can't see, can't think, can't do anything except feel the weight of what just happened, the magnitude of Ellie walking away, the certainty that something fundamental has broken and you don't know if it can be fixed, don't know if she'll come back, don't know if you just lost the best thing that's ever happened to you because Dina lied and Ellie believed her and the universe is fundamentally unfair in ways you can't control, can't fight, can only survive.
You should move. Should do something. Should call someone or write something or find a way to channel this grief into something productive instead of just standing here being destroyed by it, being consumed by it, being reduced to nothing except pain and tears and the hollow understanding that you're alone again, have always been alone, will probably always be alone because you're not built for keeping people, for making them stay, for being worth the effort of fighting through complications and doubt and external interference.
But you can't move. Can't make yourself take the steps that would carry you away from this door, away from this moment, away from the place where Ellie was just standing, where you could still smell her cologne, where you could still feel the ghost of her arms around you before she pulled away, before she chose distance over closeness, before she decided that space was more important than you.
Time passes—seconds or minutes or hours, you genuinely couldn't say. Everything has gone fluid, gone strange, gone dreamlike in its unreality except this is the worst kind of dream, the kind you can't wake up from, the kind that's actually just reality being more painful than your imagination could construct.
Eventually, something in you shifts. Some survival instinct kicks in. Some part of your brain that's still functioning despite the grief decides that standing in your entryway crying is not sustainable, is not a long-term plan, is not something you can do forever even though forever is exactly how long this pain feels like it will last.
You move. Slowly, carefully, like your body is fragile, like you might shatter if you move too quickly, like grief is a physical weight you're carrying and you have to be cautious not to drop it, not to let it fall and break into pieces that will be impossible to clean up.
Your bedroom door is open—the same bedroom where Ellie spent nights, where you slept tangled together, where you learned what it felt like to wake up next to someone you love, where you built a space that felt like home because she was in it and now she's not and it's just a room again, just furniture and walls and the absence of what made it matter.
Your vision is blurry from tears that won't stop, that keep falling even though you've been crying for what feels like hours, even though you thought you'd run out by now, even though there should be a limit to how much salt water one person can produce except apparently there isn't, apparently grief is infinite, apparently pain is a renewable resource.
Through the blur, your eyes catch on something draped over your desk chair.
Ellie's shirt.
The band tee. The one she wore on your first official date, the one that got a drink spilled on it when some asshole bumped into her, the one she changed out of in your room while you tried not to stare, tried to be respectful, failed at both because she was beautiful and you were already gone for her even then, even before you knew what loving her would feel like, what losing her would cost.
You'd washed it. Folded it carefully. Meant to give it back but kept forgetting, kept finding excuses to hold onto it, kept it on your chair where you could see it, where it served as proof that she existed in your space, that she left pieces of herself behind, that you had something of hers even when she wasn't physically present.
You reach for it with shaking hands—pulling it from the chair, holding it like it's sacred, like it's precious, like it's the last remnant of something holy that's been destroyed, like it's all you have left of her and you need to treat it with the reverence it deserves even though it's just fabric, just cotton and thread, just an object that shouldn't hold this much meaning but does anyway because it's hers, because she wore it, because it smells like her.
You pull off your own shirt—the one you've been wearing all day, through the fight with Dina and the confrontation with Ellie and the hours of crying alone in your empty apartment. It falls to the floor and you don't pick it up, don't care about it, don't care about anything except getting Ellie's shirt on, getting as close to her as you can manage when she's chosen to be far away, when physical closeness is impossible but you can at least have this, can at least wear something that touched her skin, that carries her presence even in absence.
You pull it over your head and the tears come harder, come faster, come with the force of breaking, of shattering, of something inside you giving way completely because the shirt smells like her—like her laundry detergent and her deodorant and her skin, like every night you spent pressed against her, like every morning you woke up with her arms around you, like every moment of happiness you're not sure you'll ever feel again.
You collapse onto your bed—the bed where she slept, where she held you, where she told you that you were worth staying for, that you were worth changing plans for, that you were worth everything she was risking by choosing you over the safety of being alone, of not letting anyone close enough to hurt her.
The pillows smell like her shampoo—something floral and clean and distinctly Ellie. You bury your face in them, breathing in the scent like it's oxygen, like it's the only thing keeping you alive, like if you can just smell her strongly enough you can pretend she's still here, still yours, still someone who loves you instead of someone who doubts you.
The sheets carry her cologne—the one she wears sometimes when she's trying to look nice, when she has plans, when she wants to smell good for you even though she always smells good to you, even first thing in the morning before showers, even after workouts, even just existing in her default state that you love unreasonably, that you love without logic, that you love in ways that feel bigger than yourself, bigger than both of you, bigger than any single person should be able to feel.
These remnants of her presence might be all you have left.
The shirt on your body. The scent on your pillows. The cologne on your sheets. The ghost of her that lingers in your space even though she's gone, even though she's chosen distance, even though she's decided that Dina's words carry more weight than your tears, that suspicion is more trustworthy than the evidence of months of love, that space is safer than risking staying.
You curl into yourself—knees to chest, arms wrapped around your middle, trying to make yourself as small as possible, trying to take up less space in a world that's suddenly too big, too empty, too full of absence where presence used to be.
And you cry.
You cry for the relationship that might be over. You cry for the friendship with Dina that's definitely broken. You cry for the privacy that was violated, for the project that was supposed to be contained but became public, for all the ways today has stripped you down to nothing, has taken everything you thought you had and revealed it as temporary, as conditional, as fragile enough to break under pressure you couldn't have predicted, couldn't have prevented, couldn't have survived better no matter how hard you tried.
You cry yourself into exhaustion, into the kind of sleep that's not restful but is at least unconscious, is at least a break from feeling, is at least a temporary escape from the pain that will be waiting when you wake up, that will still be there tomorrow and the day after and however long it takes for this to either heal or scar over into something you can live with.
You sleep wearing Ellie's shirt, surrounded by the scent of her, holding onto remnants like they're enough, like they're all you need, like you can survive on ghosts and memories and the fading presence of someone who might not come back, who might have already decided this is over, who might be gone for good even though you're still here, still waiting, still hoping against hope that space means pause instead of ending, that time means processing instead of permanent, that Ellie will come back and you'll still have a chance to prove that what you had was real.
But you don't know.
Can't know.
Can only wait.
Can only survive.
Can only hold onto what's left and hope it's enough to get you through the night, through tomorrow, through however long it takes to find out if love is strong enough to survive doubt, if trust can be rebuilt after it's broken, if what you had with Ellie was real enough to weather this storm or if it was always going to end this way—with you alone in a bed that smells like her, wearing her shirt like armor, crying into pillows that carry her shampoo like it's the only proof you have that any of it was real, that she existed in your life as more than just inspiration, that you loved her and maybe—maybe—she loved you too.
SYNOPSIS: The space between you and Vi fractures just as Piltover turns its gaze on Zaun. Lines are drawn, loyalties burn, and the person you trust the most is the one lighting the match.
series masterlist | WC: 11,341
CONTENT WARNING: vi x fem!reader. soulmate and enemies-to-lovers au. canon-typical violence, mentions of mass casualty events. a bit of choking. this is such an angsty chapter.
note: took me a long time to write this chapter but i'm happy with how it turned out! hope you enjoy, a lot goes on so... enjoy!
“Ah, shit.”
You were too slow to block the blow. Your partner’s fist slams your torso instead of your guard, sharp enough to make you stumble back half a step.
“Again,” someone calls from down the line.
You reset your stance, jaw tight, and your partner nods apologetically before she raises her hands again. You mirror her, forcing your focus forward, but your attention keeps snagging on the sound of boots behind you.
It’s none other than Vi.
As usual, your shoulders tense at the awareness of her being nearby, but you’re no longer bracing for a sharp correction or a barked insult. Your pulse doesn’t spike with irritation or dread as it used to, and you can’t describe the new feeling that settles in your stomach.
You block the next strike cleanly, countering just like you were taught. From the corner of your eye, you see Vi pause a few steps away, arms crossed as she watches the drill play out. Just as you start to think she might say anything —a snarky comment, a correction, just a simple “Good job”—, she looks away and keeps walking.
It shouldn’t bother you, it never did before. But, for some reason, the absence of her attention feels louder than her criticism ever did. You had never thought you would miss her shouting orders or making fun of your failed attempts to actually hit the target, but her sudden disregard for you made you feel uneven.
Deep inside, you were waiting for her to look at you again. And you hated yourself for it.
Out of habit, your eyes flick toward the edge of the courtyard. Vi stands there with her arms crossed and posture rigid, gaze fixed on a handful of trainees who make the drills look so simple and effortless— smooth footwork, precise strikes, the kind of control that comes from confidence and skill.
Vi barely has to say anything. She just gives them a glance and a clear instruction, and they adjust immediately. You could almost see the ghost of a smile on her face, clearly proud of seeing her hard work training civilians paying off.
You swallow and force yourself to look away, suddenly very aware of how clumsy your own movements feel in comparison.
“Earth to (Y/N),” your partner’s singing voice brings your attention back to her. “You good? You’ve been very distracted today.”
You clear your throat, readjusting your stance as you raise your hands. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”
“Uh-huh… whatever, you ready?”
You nod in response, and she gets into position. Vi’s voice calls out someone down the line, and you know the order isn’t meant for you, but your body reacts anyway. Your muscles tighten on instinct, but your partner was already throwing the next punch.
You block a second too late, the impact clipping your forearm and making you hiss under your breath.
“Oops, sorry!” your partner grimaces, hands reaching out for your arm. “Did I hit you too hard?”
“It’s alright,” you mutter, automatically glancing over at Vi.
Her eyes are on you this time. Her gaze is assessing, even across the courtyard you notice how solid she looks, all muscle and control wrapped in her blue Enforcer uniform. For once, her attention doesn’t make you shrink. It makes you hyperaware instead— of your posture, your breathing, the way your pulse thrums louder.
You look away, heat creeping up your neck for reasons you refuse to think of right now.
The session winds down not long after. The training yard feels different today— there’s less shouting, less nervous energy. People linger instead of lining up, stretching sore arms and laughing like they’ve survived the worst possible scenario together.
You’re sitting down, back resting against a pillar, when you notice Vi and Caitlyn drift toward the center of the yard. The low chatter slowly fades as everyone watches them, too, and Caitlyn steps forward, with her posture straight and hands folded neatly behind her back.
“You’ve all done well,” she says, voice carrying easily across the courtyard. “We understand that, right now, our situation may seem frightening, but all of you stepped up and decided to help protect your neighbors, your homes, and each other.”
Her gaze flicks toward Vi, who stands just a few paces behind her. She crosses her arms, and your attention snags on the definition in her forearms, the muscle shifting beneath her sleeves. You force your eyes away a second too late.
“On behalf of the Council and the Enforcers, thank you,” the sentence sounds practiced, careful in the way official words always are.
Caitlyn nods in approval, returning her attention to the crowd. “Stay alert and stay safe. If you see anything alarming or suspicious, don’t hesitate to come to us.”
“You’re dismissed.”
There’s a moment of applause, scattered but sincere, and people start to move, conversations picking back up as the tension finally drains from their shoulders. You push yourself up, rolling your shoulders as you grab your things, trying to ignore the dull ache settling in your arm and torso.
Your focus drifts back to the courtyard. Vi is already halfway back into her Enforcer role, talking quietly with Caitlyn about patrol rotations and perimeter coverage. Even on the last day, there is no sharp remark thrown over her shoulder or a single double-look at you. Just distance.
It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself as you sling your bag over your shoulder. You’ve survived worse than a little indifference, so why does it sit so uncomfortably in your chest? The realization settles in unwelcome and undeniable: you miss her attention.
“Hey, partner.”
You turn to find your training partner beside you, her expression relaxed now that the drills are over. She offers you a hand, a crooked smile on her lips.
“Guess this is it, huh?”
You shake her hand. “Yeah. End of the program.”
She hums in agreement, glancing around before she takes a step closer. She lowers her voice, as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear.
“Not for me. I’m joining the Enforcers,” she blurts out, her grin widening with excitement. “This program made me want to give it a shot, and I passed the assessments. They offered me a spot.”
For a second, the noise around you fades. There’s a dull pressure you can’t quite name tightening your chest, and your mind has very conflicting thoughts.
On one hand, your head tells you that everyone else seems to know exactly where they’re headed, while you’re still standing in the courtyard, unsure which direction to walk.
On the other hand, there’s a bit of clarity— if your partner could take the step forward, if this program could change something for her, then maybe it wasn’t as impossible as you’d been telling yourself.
“That’s amazing,” you say, and you mean it.
“Thanks,” she bumps her shoulder lightly against yours. “Take care, okay?”
“You too,” you nod, giving her a gentle smile.
With a quick wave, she walks away, excitement in her stride.
Your gaze lingers on her retreating figure before drifting back to where Caitlyn and Vi stand together. You exhale slowly, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag.
Hovering on the edge of things, half-in and half-out, is starting to frustrate you. The city isn’t slowing down, and you want to do things right. You don’t know if this is bravery or stubbornness or just bad timing. Maybe it’s reckless. Maybe Caitlyn will laugh it off or shut you down immediately. Maybe, just maybe, she’ll give you a chance.
Before you can second-guess yourself, you start walking toward them.
You slow as you approach, not wanting to rudely cut into their discussion. Caitlyn and Vi are standing close, heads inclined toward each other in quiet conversation, and you take a second to admire them, or, more precisely, Vi.
Vi’s arms remain crossed, relaxed but attentive. Her brow creases faintly as she listens, lips pressed together in that familiar way she gets when she’s thinking hard— it’s not like I’m always watching, she’s just predictable, you try to convince yourself. There’s nothing sharp about her in this moment, just a quiet intensity that pulls your attention whether you want it to or not.
Focus, (Y/N), you have to remind yourself why you came over in the first place.
“Sorry,” you say finally, keeping your voice light. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”
Caitlyn turns at the sound of your voice, surprise flickering across her face before she smiles. “Oh, hey. You left me hanging the other night.”
You swallow, hands curling briefly at your sides. “Yeah, sorry about that, too. Do you think we could speak… privately?”
Vi’s curious gaze turns to you for a second, before she gives you a silent nod. She turns on her heal and starts walking toward the gate, boots striking the stone with purpose.
“Is it an urgent matter?”
Cait’s voice snaps your focus back into place.
“I, uh, wanted to ask— well, I… do you think I could try out for the Enforcers?”
Her smile falters, not enough to be unkind, but enough that the space between you feels suddenly more formal and measured. The courtyard noise seems to dip around you, conversations blurring into the background.
“That’s…” she exhales softly, choosing her words. Her eyes study your posture, your hands, your face like she’s already weighing the question. “That’s not a small thing to ask.”
You nod quickly. “I understand. I thought… maybe it was worth a shot, maybe if you saw potential in me I could train and do things properly.”
Caitlyn’s expression softens at your words, but it doesn’t disappear entirely. As much as she would love to help and train you, she knows it is not a decision she can take on her own. Not only that, but given the circumstances, they need to weigh all the pros and cons.
“This is not a question I can answer on my own,” she starts, voice gentle but firm. “You were part of Project Unity, so...”
Before you can open your mouth and take back your decision, she raises her voice just enough to carry.
“Vi.”
You glance over Caitlyn’s shoulder, toward Vi’s retreating figure, and you can see how she slowly comes to a stop. Vi turns around, brows knitting together as she walks back toward you, eyes moving between Caitlyn and you.
Oh, she knows this conversation isn’t going to be easy.
“What’s up?”
“I need you to give me a quick report on (Y/N)’s performance during the self-defense program.”
The words make your stomach drop. You feel suddenly too visible. Heat crawls up your neck and settles behind your ears, and you resist the urge to fold in on yourself or stare at the ground. Your fingers curl against the strap of your bag, knuckles pressing into worn fabric like it might anchor you in place.
You hadn’t realized what you were asking for.
“A report?” Vi echoes, genuinely surprised. “Why?”
“You were in charge of her squad,” Caitlyn replies, gesturing between the two of you. “You led Project Unity and you’re the Commander of Enforcement Division. Your assessment matters when we discuss a potential Enforcer enlistment.”
Vi goes quiet.
This is exactly what she didn’t want. She’d spent weeks watching you struggle, get back up, push through bruises and frustration with stubborn resolve. She knows where you fall short —hell, she’s been biting back comments about it for the last couple of weeks—, but she also knows how hard you tried. And now, Caitlyn is asking her to put it into official words right in front of you.
Vi crosses her arms, a familiar posture now, but you notice the hesitation before she speaks. Her eyes are fixed somewhere over your shoulder instead of on you.
“Took hits, but she learned from them,” she starts, exhaling slowly. “Good instincts when she wasn’t second-guessing herself. Didn’t freeze under pressure, if anything it only pushed her further. I’d say she improved… a lot, actually.”
A smile threatens to creep onto your face, and you quickly force it down.
“But it doesn’t mean she’s ready.”
You bite your lower lip, forcing yourself to stay where you are and not jump at Vi’s throat immediately. Caitlyn’s presence is enough to help both of you to remain as calm and professional as you can.
“She doesn’t know how to use firearms,” Vi continues, voice steady but careful. “No live-combat experience. Hand-to-hand fundamentals are there, but not solid enough to hold during a real fight. No tactical training, no field strategy… that sort of stuff isn’t optional.”
There’s no malice in her words, and it only makes them sting more than you expect.
You swallow, heat creeping up your neck. “I—I could learn.”
“I’m sure you could,” Caitlyn says kindly, folding her hands in front of her. “But Enforcer enlistment and training isn’t something we rush.”
Vi’s eyes finally flick to you, and something unreadable flashes across her gaze. The sharp anger you’re used to is gone, replaced by an expression you can’t quite decipher.
She takes a deep breath, and you don’t miss the way her fists clench at her sides. “The situation with the Undercity is tense, we can’t afford the risk right now.”
You nod slowly, even though a tight ache has settled in your chest.
“Right,” you mumble, readjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. “I get it. Thank you for your time.”
You turn to leave, already halfway through convincing yourself that this was the right outcome. It had been naive to think you could walk away with anything other than polite dismissal.
“Wait.”
You glance over your shoulder and see Vi standing a few steps behind you, hands planted on her hips. Caitlyn is already walking towards the other side of the courtyard, the flow of people thinning as the yard clears out.
“Come with me.”
It doesn’t sound like a request, and your first instinct is to refuse. Pride flares within you, hot and immediate, but curiosity edges in just as fast.
You hesitate only a second before nodding. “Fine.”
Vi turns without another word, already moving toward the stone archway that leads back into the Council Hall. You follow a step behind, the echo of her boots against the floor setting a pace you struggle to match. A faint numbness lingers in your left forearm, but it’s the dull ache in your torso that’s starting to wear on you.
Inside of the building, the halls are cooler and quieter. Light filters in through tall windows, and you can’t ignore the way it makes Vi’s hair look brighter. She doesn’t slow until she reaches a door set off from the main corridor. She opens it and steps inside, holding it just long enough for you to follow before letting it swing shut behind you.
The room is small, with no decorations or personal touches. A desk is pushed against the farthest wall, papers stacked on top of it in uneven piles, and a coat slung over the back of a chair. A pair of worn bandages are tossed near the edge of the desk, like they’ve been dropped there without a second thought.
Vi exhales as soon as the door clicks shut, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. She scrubs a hand over the back of her neck and finally turns to face you.
“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot back there,” she says, voice softer now, stripped of the edge she uses in front of others. “That wasn’t my intention.”
You shift your weight, fingers curling around the strap of your bag. “Didn’t come across like it.”
Vi winces. “Yeah. Fair.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and awkward. You’re suddenly very aware of how small the room feels, how there’s nowhere to look that doesn’t land on her— on the crease between her brows, the scar cutting through her left brow, the faint blush along her cheeks, the scar on the left side of her upper lip. Has she always had those scars, or are you just paying attention now?
Vi clears her throat, snapping your focus back into place. “Caitlyn shouldn’t have asked me like that, but she wasn’t wrong either. If you’re serious about this… I needed to be honest.”
“I know,” you reply, even though the words still sting. “That doesn’t make it easier to hear. I just thought… well, it’s just, my training partner said—"
“Maddie Nolen?” Vi cuts in, nodding softly as she now understands where your line of thought is coming from. “She told you she’s enlisted.”
“Yeah… made me think it was worth to ask, you know?”
Vi huffs out a breath, something caught between frustration and something closer to guilt.
“You did better than you think,” she admits. “You worked hard, you didn’t quit. That counts for more than most people realize.”
Your chest tightens at the fact that her words sound so sincere. You weren’t expecting praise, you thought she had led you into her office just so she could reprimand you for even considering joining the Enforcement Division.
Vi’s mouth twists as she carefully thinks of her next words. “But wanting something doesn’t make it safe, and I don’t get to ignore that just because…” she trails off.
“Because what?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.
You glance back up to her figure. Vi shifts her weight, boots scraping against the tiles. When she speaks again, her tone is gentler.
“I know what it’s like to think wanting it badly is enough. That if you just care more than everyone else, you’ll make it work.”
You let out a shaky breath, folding your arms over your chest as if it could give you a sense of security. “We’ve… fought about this over and over before. I get it, I don’t have what it takes, but why are you telling me all this?”
“Because I was reckless, too,” Vi admits, and a humorless smirk tugs at her mouth. “I rushed in without thinking— No, worse. I used to think I could take anything head on. It only got people hurt and…”
She cuts herself off and her gaze drops to the floor. It’s like everything comes back to her in an instant— her life in the Undercity, her family, all the losses she went through. She doesn’t even know why she’s telling you all of it, but she can’t stop now that she begun.
Your arms tighten across your chest, a thin line of anger cutting through the ache.
“This isn’t fair,” you mumble.
Her head snaps up. “What?”
“This isn’t fair,” you repeat, louder now. The heat in your chest rises, sharp and unwelcome. “You’re talking like I’m some mirror, like I’m just a reminder of everything you regret.”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” Vi argues, but there’s less conviction in it now.
You shake your head. “It sure feels like it. You keep telling me what I don’t understand, what I can’t handle, like I haven’t thought this through at all.”
“Have you?” she shoots back. “You think I woke up one day and decided to throw myself into danger without knowing the cost?”
“No.”
Vi stills. She hadn’t expected the calm and certainty with which you’re speaking right now. The retort dies on her tongue, having nowhere to land. She’s used to you getting defensive, raising your voice and folding under pressure. But you didn’t this time.
“I think you decided it was worth it,” you continue, meeting her gaze. There’s no anger in your eyes now. “You weighed the risk and chose to step forward anyway. And now you’re telling me I’m not allowed to do the same.”
For a moment, Vi can’t tell if she’s angry because you’re wrong or because you’re not. The conviction in your voice sounds a lot like the one she used to carry, back when consequences felt distant and survivable.
She exhales sharply, looking away as if it would help her hold herself back better.
“You don’t know what it costs,” she mutters.
“Neither did you.”
She looks back at you, at the way you’re standing your ground, at the tension in your shoulders, at how much this matters to you. And that scares her the most.
Vi’s jaw tightens. “That’s different.”
“Why? It worked out for you.”
“You call this working out?”
The room feels smaller with every word, the air thickening until it’s hard to breathe. You take a step forward without meaning to, frustration buzzing under your skin.
“Vi, I’m only asking you to see me.”
She laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “You think I don’t?”
“Only as a liability,” you snap, so you take a deep breath to keep yourself calm. “I’m so much more than that. You have to stop deciding what I can and can’t survive.”
Vi opens her mouth, then closes it again. Her hands curl at her sides, knuckles whitening, and her head starts to throb. Why is speaking to you such a complicated task?
“You don’t know what survival looks like out there,” she says finally, voice rough and tired. “This isn’t a game. The streets, the Undercity… they won’t care how motivated you are.”
“Funny,” you mutter, bitterness slipping through before you can stop it. “Jinx seems to think I can handle myself just fine.”
Vi freezes.
“What did you just say?”
Oh, shit, you think to yourself. It’s too late to take it back now.
“I said Jinx,” you repeat, heart pounding with anger and something dangerously close to regret.
Vi takes a step toward you, slow and deliberate. The scrape of her boot against the tile is so loud in the quiet room it sends a shiver up your spine.
“Is Jinx the friend you’ve been visiting in Zaun?” she asks, her voice low and roughened around the edges. You nod in response, and she lets out a frustrated sigh. “You shouldn’t be talking to her… you shouldn’t even be fucking near her.”
The words vibrate through the small space between you, and your chest tightens at them.
“You don’t even know her.”
“I’ve heard enough about her,” Vi’s jaw clenches, the muscle jumping beneath her skin.
Heat rushes to your face, your pulse pounding hard enough that you can feel it in your throat. You step closer without realizing you’ve moved.
“You’ve decided what she is without listening or taking a real look,” your voice falters for half a second before steadying again. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
“That—This is not the same thing,” Vi snaps, gesturing between the two of you. “Jinx, whoever she is, isn’t someone you admire. She’s the type of person you stay the hell away from.”
“Why? Because she doesn’t wear the uniform or follows your rules?” your hands tingle uselessly at your sides, fingers flexing as if they need somewhere to land.
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Then what is it about?” your voice drops, quieter but sharper, threading straight into the space between you. “Because right now, it feels like you don’t trust me to make my own choices.”
Vi drags a hand through her hair, fingers catching briefly before sliding free. She exhales hard through her nose, trying to bleed off pressure before it overwhelms her.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” she mumbles. “I just don’t trust anyone who makes you think this is simple.”
“I never said it was simple. I said she didn’t make me feel small.”
That stops her.
For a long, suspended moment, she just stares at you. Her eyes flick involuntarily to your lips, and her breath hitches. You notice the way her chest rises a little too fast before she forces it steady again.
Vi knows exactly what you think of her, she has read about it more times than she can bring herself to admit. But it’s nothing compared to hearing it out loud, to having you say it to her face, even comparing her to an Undercity criminal she knows only through blood-soaked rumors and secondhand warnings.
The fact that you admire and trust this so-called Jinx and lands like a punch she never saw coming. It’s not just anger that flares in her chest, but something uglier and tighter. Whatever version of Jinx you’ve decided to believe in, Vi knows what people like her leave behind: bodies, ruins and ghosts.
The idea that you might look at all that and still choose to defend her does something awful to Vi’s self-control. It makes her feel she’s already losing ground she didn’t realize she cared about.
She clenches her fists, nails biting into her palms, grounding herself in the sting. This isn’t about pride or reputation. It’s about the sudden, unbearable thought that someone else —someone dangerous and reckless— has already managed to reach you in a way she hasn’t.
“You have no idea what you’re stepping into,” her voice is quieter now, almost hoarse.
“And you do?”
Her lips part, but no words come out.
The silence presses down, loud and brittle. You’re standing far too close now, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her, to catch the faint scent of sweat and leather. Your heart is racing, every beat echoing in your ears.
“I’m not asking you to save me,” you say, your voice barely above a breath. “I’m asking you to stop pushing me away.”
The words hand between you, fragile and exposed. Vi doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze drops, searching for something solid to hold onto. Her shoulders are tight, breath shallow, every line of her body pulled back as if she’s bracing for impact.
You can see it now, clearer than ever. All this time, you thought every dismissal and snarky remark came from a place of apathy and indifference. But seeing her fidget with her hands, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, you finally understand: she’s pushing you away because she cares.
Your heart aches at the realization.
“Vi,” you murmur, taking a small step in her direction before doubt takes over you. The movement is almost hesitant, but it closes what little space remains between you. “You don’t have to shut me out.”
She lifts her head at that, eyes dark and conflicted, and for a moment it feels like the world has narrowed down to the two of you.
“Don’t,” she whispers weakly. It’s not an order, but more of a plead to you and a warning to herself.
Your hand lifts, hovering near her arm, not quite touching. You’re suddenly aware of how close you are, the way her attention feels like a physical weight.
“I’m not afraid of you,” you speak softly, and Vi’s hands start trembling at the way you’re staring at her. “Or of wanting this.”
Something breaks in her expression. Her breath stutters, and when her eyes flick down to your lips again, she doesn’t look away this time.
That’s all it takes for you to close the distance.
You lean in, slow enough that she could stop you, but she doesn’t. When your lips meet hers, it’s tentative at first, almost unsure, like you’re both testing whether this is real. For a heartbeat, Vi is completely still beneath the touch, and she doesn’t know how her hand ended up curled into the fabric of your sleeve.
Then, she exhales into the kiss, a shaky sound she doesn’t bother to hide, and everything shifts.
Her hand slides from your sleeve to your waist, anchoring you there as if she’s afraid you might vanish into thin air. The kiss deepens, full of everything she hasn’t said and everything you’ve been trying to reach.
Your fingers brush her arm gently, and the touch snaps Vi out of her stupor. She pulls back abruptly, hard enough that the sudden absence of her warmth leaves the air between you cold.
“Wait,” Vi says, breath uneven. She takes a step back, forcing herself to obey her head instead of her body. She lifts her hand, palm out as if she’s putting distance back where it belonged.
Her jaw tightens, eyes darting away before snapping back to your face. When she drags a hand down her face, her fingers linger over her mouth like she’s trying to erase the memory of your lips there.
“I—” Her voice breaks off and she exhaled hard, trying to shove the moment back into her chest and lock it there. “This is a mistake.”
The words land heavier than a shout. You don’t try to reach out, instead you opt to watch her, heart hammering, giving her the space she’s clearly fighting for. How could something that felt so real turn wrong so fast?
“Vi…”
Her name is barely more than a breath, but it still makes her flinch.
“No,” she says sharply, finally meeting your eyes. There’s panic there. “Don’t make this into something it’s not.”
“What was it then?” you ask, hurt creeping into your voice despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “You kissed me back… I thought it meant something.”
Her mouth twists as a bitter huff of air leaves her lips. “It didn’t. I screw up.”
Tears prickle at your eyes, but you refuse to let her see you cry. God, what were you thinking? It’s Vi, the girl you have despised ever since you first met. She’s always found the way to get under your skin, of making you feel too much and say too little.
“Look,” Vi says, voice flattening and slipping back into her colder, more familiar demeanor. “You don’t want this. You think you do, because you’re frustrated and angry cause you can’t find your soulmate and you’re looking for something solid to grab onto.” Her eyes flick over you, sharp and assessing. “I’m not it.”
“Wow,” a short, humorless laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. “You really are a dick who doesn’t waste her time, aren’t you?”
“If that’s how you want to put it. I’m just telling you the truth.”
The truth. No, she’s trying to keep you safe. Anyone who gets close to her ends up hurt, and she doesn’t want to hurt you. It’s ironic, because she’s breaking your heart by trying to protect you from herself. But she can’t let you know that.
“And what truth is that?” you demand.
“You’re reading into things,” she says, harsher now, because she needs the words to hurt in order to believe them herself. “You always do. That kiss? It was just the heat of the moment. Nothing more.”
Your chest aches tightly, and you swallow hard, blinking back the tears until the sting dulls into something manageable.
“That’s bullshit. You didn’t pull away because you didn’t want to.”
You can still feel her lips on yours, the way she held you like she was afraid to let go. Now, she’s standing there, looking at you like you’re a problem to be solved.
“I’m not trying to tell you what to feel. I’m telling you it didn’t mean anything to me.”
That one lands clean. The silence that follows is heavy and suffocating.
You don’t argue. You just stand there, staring at her. Something inside your chest has finally cracked. It’s stupid, you think. You should have known better, should have remembered who she is to you: no one.
You tell yourself this ache is nothing more than wounded pride, that it will fade if you give it time. Still, your throat burns, and it takes everything in you not to beg her to take it all back.
Vi feels like she’s just struck herself instead. The words are still ringing in her ears, she can feel the way they left her mouth like a weapon she didn’t want to use but couldn’t drop. She doesn’t miss the way your eyes go glassy with hurt.
That’s the worst part. Because it meant everything to her, but she can’t tell you. She crossed a line she had been drawing for weeks. Everything she carefully folded away every time she opened that damn journal and saw your handwriting staring back at her had been thrown out the window.
Kissing you felt like confirmation, like surrender. And she can’t afford that. If Vi lets herself want you, she’ll drag you into everything she’s running from. The danger, the mess… it terrifies her.
“Fine,” you say at last, clearing your throat. “This never happened.”
Vi stiffens at that, like the idea of pretending there’s nothing between you costs her more than before.
“Good,” she replies, too quickly.
You straighten, pulling yourself together piece by piece. “I promise not to make the same mistake twice.”
Guilt and fear flickers across Vi’s face, but she doesn’t stop you when you turn away.
Your steps are steady as you head for the door, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of seeing you hesitate. But the moment you’re no longer facing her, the tight control you’ve been clinging to slips. A single tear breaks free, sliding quietly down your cheek.
You wipe it away quickly, almost angrily, just as the door opens.
“Ah, sorry,” a familiar voice says.
You nearly collide with Viktor as he steps into the office, a tablet tucked under his arm. He freezes when he sees you, concern flashing across his face almost instantly. His gaze flicks to your eyes, then to Vi behind you, and his expression sharpens with understanding.
“I was just leaving,” you blurt out before your voice can betray you.
Viktor hesitates. “Are you—”
“I’m fine,” you cut in gently but firmly, already moving past him. “Excuse me.”
He steps aside without argument, watching you go. The door closes softly behind you, the sound echoing far louder than it should. Vi doesn’t move, she’s staring at the door like it might open again if she just waits long enough.
Viktor turns to her slowly.
“What did you do?” he asks.
Vi exhales, scrubbing a hand over her face. “What I had to.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She laughs under her breath, sharp and humorless. Viktor studies her as she drips into the chair behind the desk and lets her head fall back in quiet exasperation. He doesn’t miss the way her hands shake, or the hollow, defeated look that settles over her face.
“You should have never given her authorization to cross the bridge.”
Vi’s head snaps forward. The edge is back in her voice now, sharp and defensive. Viktor doesn’t flinch, knowing Vi is just looking for somewhere or someone to direct her anger.
“She was going to cross anyway,” he replies calmly.
“That wasn’t your call to make,” Vi shoots back, pushing herself up from her chair. Her body is buzzing and she needs to walk the feeling off. “You don’t get to decide how much risk she takes.”
“Neither do you,” Viktor says evenly. “I didn’t decide. She did.”
“You enabled her.”
“No,” he corrects gently. “I mitigated the damage.”
Vi stops pacing, hands placed tightly against her hips. She knows it’s wrong to take her frustration out on Viktor, but she can’t stop now. “By what? Handing her a pass and wishing her luck?”
By now, Viktor’s patience has thinned just enough to let annoyance creep into his voice.
“By giving her a communicator.”
“A what?” Vi looks at him stunned.
“A short-range encrypted channel,” Viktor continues. “Emergency use only. If something goes wrong, she can reach someone immediately.”
Vi shakes her head, looking up to the ceiling. Ever since she discovered Viktor was the one who authorized your ‘investigation’, as you called it, she had wanted to speak to him. Of course, she would have preferred it if it happened under different circumstances— on a less chaotic day.
“And you thought that giving her access to the Enforcers’ channel was a good idea?”
“I know it was, because I restricted the signal.”
Her eyes narrow, looking back at him. “Restricted how?”
Viktor sighs, taking a few steps forward until he reaches a chair. He sits down slowly, hesitating for a second, but soon realizes there’s no point in beating around the bush now.
“In only connects to two endpoints.”
“Which are?” Vi asks slowly, sitting down on the chair across from Viktor.
He meets her gaze. “Mine… and yours.”
Fear makes her chest twist, hot and immediate. An unwelcomed image crosses her mind: you alone in the middle of a soiled alleyway, danger closing in, your hand hovering over a device that would summon her.
“You had no right,” Vi says quietly.
“I trust you, Vi. So does (Y/N), whether you like it or not.”
Vi turns away sharply, her gaze snapping back to the door. To the empty space where you stood just moments ago.
The universe seems to enjoy seeing her suffering. No matter how hard she has tried to stay away from you, everything else keeps pushing you closer—being assigned to her squad during Project Unity, Viktor tying your frequency to hers, the devastating revelation of you being her soulmate.
The image won’t leave her head now. Your face set with quiet resolve, the way you looked at her having already made up your mind long before you spoke. The softness of your lips and how easily they fit against hers. The way your body felt under her hands, warm and real and wanted.
And then inevitably comes the part she can’t escape.
The way your eyes welled with tears you tried to hold back. The vacant look you gave her just before you turned away. The way your voice cracked, only for a second.
Vi presses her palm against the desk, grounding herself in the solid weight of it. She did that. She told herself that pushing you away now was better than watching you get hurt later, that this was what protecting someone looked like. It was necessary, or so does she repeat over and over in order to convince herself.
“If anything happens to her…” Vi stops herself, the rest of the sentence lodging painfully in her throat.
“That is precisely why I did this,” Viktor lets out a tired sigh, leaning back against the chair. “Pretending she will stay safe if we deny her agency is a comforting lie. One I am no longer willing to indulge.”
She exhales sharply through her nose, her fingers coming up to press firmly against her closed eyes. “We’re putting her in the middle of this.”
The first time she learned you had gone to Zaun, she should have stopped it immediately. Put your face on every Enforcer notice, denied you access to the Undercity, kept better track of you, made sure you understood how much bigger the picture is.
“She put herself there,” Viktor corrects, interrupting her train of thought. “I simply made sure she has a way out.”
Silence stretches between them.
Vi’s gaze drifts, unbidden, to her desk drawer where her journal is hidden. She had just started bringing it with her everywhere, it became a bad habit she couldn’t break. Like if she kept it close enough, she could keep the truth contained between its pages.
“That means, if (Y/N) presses that button…”
“You’ll be able to find her,” Viktor finishes. “Yes.”
Her throat tightens.
“And if I don’t answer?”
Viktor’s voice softens, a knowing smile settling on his lips. “You will.”
Vi doesn’t respond. Her hand lingers near the drawer, fingers twitching as she considers opening it. She has no need to reread the pages, for she knows the words by heart now.
i kissed her
i kissed vi
i try to tell myself it doesn’t matter because she’s not you
but my heart won’t listen
if you’re really out there… i’m sorry
i don’t know how or when or why
it just happened
i don’t know what i’m doing anymore
it felt right in a way that scares me
You stare at the last line until the words start to blur. The page feels heavier than it should, like it’s accusing you of something you can’t even defend yourself from.
There’s a tight, aching pressure behind your eyes, the kind that makes your chest feel too small to hold everything you’re trying to keep contained. Vi’s face keeps intruding your mind anyway. The way she looked at you right before you turned away, the way her hands had held you like she didn’t know how to let go.
You’re about to close the journal when you see it. A dragged pen line that stops short as if someone pressed down and then thought better of it. Your stomach drops.
You run your fingers over the mark, heart stuttering. I didn’t do this, you think to yourself. You would remember if your pen had slipped or if you had ruined the page.
For one stupid, reckless second, your chest lifts at the thought of your soulmate writing back to you. Then, it sinks in. There’s no message, no words, just proof of their existence. They put the pen to the paper and then decided not to say anything.
The realization hurts in a quieter way than anything Vi had said to your face earlier. There’s no anger, just the hollow certainty that this isn’t absence— this is a choice.
You close the journal, pressing it shut like you can trap the feeling inside. You don’t know what hurts more: that your soulmate is real, or that they’ve decided you’re not worth the words.
The broadcast cuts through the room without warning.
You weren’t really listening at first, it was just background noise while you pretended not to think about anything. But the word fatalities made you turn immediately toward the screen.
Smoke still curls from broken stone and twisted metal, Piltover’s skyline fractured by scorch marks. The anchor’s voice is careful, restrained in that way that means the situation is worse than they’re saying.
“—confirmed civilian deaths following the attack. Authorities believe the device originated from the Undercity—”
Images flash by: shattered glass, Enforcers pulling people from rubble, a glimpse of blue graffiti half-burned into a wall. You feel cold all over, noticing it’s shape: it’s a monkey drawing.
Watch out for the monkeys, Jinx had told you the first time you met.
You thought it was just another one of her strange warnings, half-joke and half-threat, delivered with that crooked grin like she was letting you in on a secret no one else could hear. Now, your stomach twists.
You lower yourself slowly onto the edge of the couch, knees weak. The thought hits harder than anything else. You try to breath through the tightness in your chest, pressing your lips together. There has to be another explanation, the symbol can’t mean what you think it does. You wish for it to be a simple coincidence.
The broadcast continues, moving on to officials, to “next steps, to words like accountability and security measures. You barely hear it, all you can think about is Jinx. Did she do this? Is she okay? Has she always been behind it all?
For the first time since meeting her, since defending her, since insisting there was more to Jinx than what others believe, you’re scared of what the answer might be.
Later at night, there had been another broadcast announcing a public address from the Council. An update, as they had called it. It’s the kind of phrasing that pretends to keep things calm while promising consequences.
By morning, the streets are packed with people, voices overlapping in a restless hum that crawls under your skin.
You stand near the back, close enough to see the raised platform in the middle of the square, but far enough to slip away if things turn ugly. Enforcers line the perimeter, uniforms stiff and polished, hands never straying far from their weapons.
The platform finally fills, and you fold your arms across your chest, nails pressing into your sleeves, grounding yourself in the small sting.
Councilors step into view one by one, their presence is enough to hush the crowd. Jayce stands in front of the podium, his posture rigid in a way you’ve never seen before. Beside him, Mel is composed as ever, but her eyes are sharp as she scans the crowd. Viktor takes a seat behind them. He looks more tired than usual, and the disappointment is clear in his expression.
Caitlyn stands a couple of feet back, hands clasped behind her, face carefully neutral. Vi appears alongside her with her arms crossed and shoulders squared. She stares straight ahead, her expression closed off in that familiar way that reads as confidence to everyone else and restraint to you.
You force your gaze away from her figure as your chest tightens.
Jayce clears his throat, and the murmuring dies down to a brittle quiet.
“Yesterday’s attack resulted in the loss of civilian lives,” he begins. “This is not an incident we can afford to dismiss or downplay.”
Around you, people shift, some even nodding. The air is tense, everyone is holding back their breath as Jayce speaks again.
“Evidence strongly suggests the weapon and the attackers come from Zaun.”
The square erupts.
Shouts cut through the air, overlapping and sharp. Someone near you curses under their breath, another voice yells that it was about damn time. Your stomach twists as if the ground beneath you has tilted.
Jayce raises a hand, waiting for the crowd to quiet down before continuing.
“This does not mean we condemn the Undercity as a whole,” he says carefully. “We are not declaring war. But we will be taking action against those responsible.”
Behind him, Viktor shifts in his seat, his gaze dropping for a moment before lifting again. He looks conflicted, like he already knows where this leads and hates himself for being unable to stop it.
You glance at Vi despite yourself. The way she goes rigid is almost imperceptible, how her shoulders tense and her jaw locks even harder.
Jayce keeps talking about increased patrols, investigations, targeted operations, and cooperation between Piltover and Zaun— which sounds an awful lot like pressure and force wrapped in pretty language.
Your thoughts spiral, and your fingers curl tighter into your sleeves. You think of smoke and rubble and that half-burned monkey painted into stone. You think of Vi’s words yesterday, about how you don’t know the whole story.
And somewhere beneath the fear, beneath the dread clawing it’s way up your throat, one thought keeps repeating, sharp and relentless: if they go looking for someone to blame, they’re going to find Jinx.
By the time you reach the bridge, you already know you won’t be able to cross.
The checkpoint is heavier than usual— more Enforcers, closer together, rifles slung where they can be lifted in a heartbeat. There are no gaps, no blind spots and no patience.
Vi had given you clearance at the gates before, but considering the situation, you didn’t want to risk getting questioned or for her to get called again. You turn before anyone can notice you hesitating, blending back into the crowd with your head down and your hood pulled tight. Your pulse doesn’t slow until you’re two streets away.
So, this is how it starts.
Zaun doesn’t only exist below Piltover. It clings to its edges, running through the spaces the city forgot to seal.
You cut through backstreets, then climb. The first ladder rattles under your weight, bolted to the side of an old warehouse. You climb fast and awkwardly, ignoring the way your calves burn, pulling yourself up onto a narrow ledge just as a patrol passes below.
From there, it’s rooftops. You move low and quick, boots scraping against gravel and rusted sheet metal. The wind up there is sharp, tugging at your jacket. You jump your first gap without thinking.
The second takes more convincing. You back up two steps, heart pounding, then run and leap. Your hands slap against the opposite ledge, and for a terrifying second you think you won’t make it— but then you’re hauling yourself up, chest heaving as you roll onto the roof.
You don’t stop. It’s too late for that.
Down a fire escape. Across a narrow beam. Over a broken skylight you avoid at the last second. You follow instinct more than precaution, letting it carry you forward because stopping means doubt. That’s when you misjudge a landing.
Your foot slips on damp metal, heel slipping out from under you. You crash hard, shoulder and forearm slamming against the edge of a lower roof before you hit the ground in a breathless sprawl.
You clamp a hand over your mouth to keep quiet, curling in on yourself as the ache sets in deep and throbbing. For a long moment, you just lie there, staring up at the underside of the roof you fell from.
This is stupid. You could turn back. You absolutely should.
Instead, you force yourself up, teeth clenched, and test your arm. It hurts when you move it, but you can live with that. You pull your hood lower and drop the rest of the way down into Zaun.
The air changes immediately. It’s thicker, sour with chemicals and smoke. You blend into the crowd, favoring your injured arm, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins.
Any other day, you would have waited for Jinx to come around and look for you. But now, you had no idea how to get to the bridge and no patience for standing still until she arrived.
As you disappear deeper into the Undercity, one thought keeps you moving forward despite the pain and the fear.
If Jinx won’t come to the bridge, I’ll go to her.
Zaun had never welcomed you, but today the hostility is sharper. People linger in doorways, conversations stop the moment you pass, eyes track you longer than necessary.
Jinx had said it was dangerous for you without her by your side, but you decide to keep your head down and walk anyway.
Posters have gone up overnight, warning notices slapped onto rusted walls and cracked pillars. They’re half-ripped already, but you can make out words like curfew, cooperation, inspection. The Enforcers acted rather quickly.
You turn a corner and slow. That’s when you notice the footsteps.
They’re too light to be Jinx’s and too deliberate to be coincidence. When you stop, they stop too.
You glance sideways at a shop window, catching the reflection just barely. A small figure tucked a few steps back, half-hidden behind a stack of crates. A kid.
Your chest loosens a bit, then tightens again when recognition hits. You’ve seen her before. Not often, and never close, but enough times to know. Always perched somewhere nearby when Jinx was around, watching and following her. You used to think of her as Jinx’s shadow.
You start walking again, slower this time to test her. The footsteps follow, and you turn suddenly.
The girl freezes mid-step, eyes wide like she’s been caught stealing. She can’t be more than twelve, maybe younger. Her dark hair is pulled back messily, clothes patched and repatched, hands stained with grease and paint.
When your gaze meets hers, she doesn’t look away. Instead, she lifts one hand and makes a small motion— two fingers flicking, then pointing down an alley.
“You’ve seen her, haven’t you?” you ask softly.
The girl doesn’t answer. She just tilts her head, studying your face like she’s trying to match you to something she already knows. Then she taps her own chest once, points at you and gives a quick, sharp nod.
“You know me,” you murmur, more to yourself than to her.
Her eyes flick briefly to your hands, your stance, and you know she’s checking for weapons. Before you can hesitate, you take a small step toward her.
“Can you take me to her?” you keep your voice low, careful of not being overheard. “I need to see Jinx.”
The girl glances over her shoulder, then back at you, eyes narrowing in warning. She raises one finger to her lips and nods.
She turns immediately, already moving, and you’re forced to hurry after her. She slips through gaps you wouldn’t notice, ducking under pipes, pausing just long enough to listen before darting ahead again.
Your injured arm brushes against a rusted railing trying to keep up, pain blooming sharp and hot. You bite back a hiss, not wanting to slow the girl down.
She notices anyway. She glances back, eyes dragging over your scraped sleeve and the way you’re holding your arm a little too stiff. Her expression hardens, clearly not worried, but annoyed at the unnecessary mistake.
She taps her own forearm, then points to yours and raises her brows.
“I’m fine,” you whisper.
She studies you for another second, shaking her head as she exhales through her nose. Then she turns away, clearly done arguing.
Footsteps echo somewhere above you. Voices, they’re close enough. Enforcers, maybe. Or worse, people who’d sell you out faster.
The girl waits until the sound fades, then reaches out and grips your wrist, tugging you forward faster this time. Her hand is small but strong, grip unyielding.
You realize she’s making sure you don’t turn back.
And as you stumble after her, heart hammering and arm aching, you reach for your communicator without fully realizing it. Your fingers brush its edge, pressing down.
The two of you keep moving for a while, deeper into the Undercity than you had ever been before. The air grows warmer and thicker. The girl slows down once she’s sure you’re both out of danger and guides you toward a narrow stairwell cut into the side of a building, half-hidden behind hanging cables and torn banners.
She stops there, peering down, before looking back at you. Two fingers to her eyes, then she points down. Look.
You step carefully to the edge.
Below, the space opens into a wide, circular pit carved out of old industrial foundations. Scrap metal platforms and welded catwalks are crowded with people. Zaunite workers, smugglers, teens and kids are packed shoulder to shoulder, staring at the same thing— the center platform that crackles with blue light.
Graffiti coats every visible surface, Jinx’s mark is everywhere. Jagged symbols, laughing faces, monkey drawings. Makeshift speakers hang from chains overhead, blasting noise that rattles your ribs.
And then, she steps into view.
Jinx climbs onto the platform like she owns the air itself, boots ringing against metal as the crowd erupts. Her eyes glim as she lifts her arms, soaking in the noise like it’s oxygen. She shouts something you can’t quite hear over the crowd, but the response is immediate. Fists punch the air and voices roar back in approval.
This isn’t chaos. It’s devotion.
Your stomach twists. You’ve waited for her at the bridge, watched the hours slip by, wondering if she was hurt, lost, or dead. And here she is— center stage, alive and glowing, feeding off a crowd that looks at her like she’s a savior.
The crowd eventually disperses, energy buzzing low and dangerous as people peel away. Someone slaps a friend on the back, a few kids scramble for dropped bits of scrap, and the speakers sputter before cutting out entirely.
The pit empties slowly, but Jinx stays where she is. She paces the platform, kicking a loose bolt over the edge, humming to herself as she fiddles with something sparking in her hands.
Out of a sudden, her head snaps up and her gaze meets yours. Her mouth curves into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Well,” she calls, voice carrying easily through the thinning space. “Look what crawled down from up top.”
Jinx hops down from the platform, landing lightly, and starts walking toward you with that loose, bouncing stride you know too well. She climbs the stairwell, ignoring the curious glances some of her followers give her before they drift away.
The little girl stiffens beside you. She steps half in front of you, small hands clenched, shaking her head sharply.
Jinx’s expression flickers. Surprise, then irritation.
“Isha,” she says sharply. “What’d I tell you about playin’ tour guide?”
The girl stays planted, staring into her eyes without moving even a centimeter.
“I asked her to,” your voice sounds too loud in the sudden quiet. “I needed to see you.”
Jinx looks back up to you. Up close, the energy rolls off her in waves. There’s a faint smear of grease on her cheek, a new cut on her knuckles.
“You needed to see me,” she repeats slowly.
Her eyes flick to your arm, eyes furrowing before settling back to your face.
“Well, you’ve seen me,” she laughs, light and hollow. “You proud?”
Isha makes a frustrated sound in her throat, tugging on Jinx’s sleeve. Jinx shrugs her off gently but firmly.
“Go on,” she mutters without looking. “I’ll catch up.”
The girl hesitates, eyes flicking between the two of you. She offers you one last look, a combination of an apology and a warning, before she steps away.
Now, it’s just you and Jinx. The pit feels too big without the crowd, every sound echoing loudly.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Jinx says at last. “Told you it’s dangerous for you.”
“You didn’t come,” you shake your head. “I waited for days and… well, you never came to the bridge.”
She tilts her head. “Yeah. Got busy.”
“People are dead,” the words stumble out before you can soften them. “Piltover’s talking about retaliation, Enforcers, raids.”
Her smile tightens, and she leans back against the wall.
“Means they noticed. Fucking finally!”
You gesture helplessly at the walls, the symbols, the scraps scattered on the floor. “This isn’t a message, Jinx. There’s blood on your hands now.”
“Oh, is it?” she snaps. “Didn’t hear you crying when it was our blood in the gutters.”
“Don’t do that,” you say quietly. “Don’t act like I didn’t care. You know damn well I do.”
Jinx’s eyes flick to yours and she straightens slowly, pushing off the wall.
“Why are you here?”
You swallow, throat tight. For a moment, you stay silent, for saying it out loud would make everything real in a way you can’t undo.
“I was scared,” you admit, voice cracking for a second before you regain composure. “Up there… it’s a mess. And you just vanished without a warning.”
Jinx scoffs. “I disappear all the time.”
“People are getting hurt. Enforcers are going to come down here looking for someone to blame,” you continue.
Something flashes across her face then, too fast to fully catch. Hurt. Fear. Conviction. Maybe all three.
“So what?” she shrugs. “You come to give me a warning? A boring lecture?”
“I came because I needed to know if this was really all you.”
“Congrats, you found me,” she gives you a lopsided smile before she gestures around you, at the pit and the remnants of the rally. “This? This is the first time your city is listening to us.”
“They’re listening because they’re afraid,” you mumble, taking a step forward. “Fear doesn’t fix anything, it will only make it worse.”
Jinx steps closer too, invading your space, eyes bright and unblinking.
“Fear gets results,” she clarifies, staring straight into your eyes. “Fear will get us food, medicine, fucking clean air. It will keep Pilties from stepping on us like bugs.”
“How many more people will have to suffer before it’s enough?”
Her mouth twists and the silence stretches, heavy and aching. She lets out an exasperated sigh, shaking her head.
“I didn’t want you to see this part,” Jinx admits, quieter now.
You can almost see the wheels on her head turn as she thinks of her next words.
“You could stay,” she says suddenly. Her voice sharpens. “You don’t have to go back up there, to them. They’ll never pick you.”
Your chest tightens as the words hit too close to home.
“You don’t belong in Piltover,” Jinx continues. “You belong here. With us.”
“No, I just—” you falter, frustration bleeding into your voice. “This isn’t okay, Jinx. You need to stop.”
Jinx’s eyes narrow, something sharp and wounded cutting through the brightness.
“Stop?” she echoes. “You think I can just tell them to stop? That if I play nice enough, Piltover will suddenly grow a conscience?”
“I’m saying this isn’t saving anyone,” you insist, emotion cracking through. “It’s just trading lives. I can’t do that.”
“You don’t have to do anything. You just have to stay.”
She reaches out, fingers brushing your sleeve almost unsure. You hiss at the pang of pain that spreads through your arm, but she leaves her hand there anyway.
“You know what it’s like to be unwanted up there. They look at you and they see a problem, a risk,” her voice lowers, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Down here, you’d matter. If you bleed, we bleed… we’ll pick you and fight for you if you do the same for us.”
The offer is tempting. Not because you agree, but because you’re so tired of feeling unwanted. You think of the Council Chambers, of Vi’s closed-off stare, of being talked around instead of listened to.
But you remember the little girl at the bridge from months ago, the scared civilians who joined Project Unity, the broadcast that announced fatalities at the latest attack.
“I can’t,” your voice comes out broken. “I won’t. Not like this.”
Her hand drops.
“So that’s it,” Jinx says, a brittle laugh slipping out of her mouth. “You draw the line where things get ugly.”
“No,” you shake your head. “I draw it where people die.”
“Wake up, sweetheart,” she says coldly. “People are dying up there? Good. People have been dying down here forever, and no one gave a shit. You’re no better than them— all morals until it costs you comfort.”
“You know that isn’t true… this isn’t fair,” you murmur, your body buzzing with fear. You had never seen this manic side of Jinx.
“Neither is the Undercity,” she fires back. “And I thought—” she stops herself, jaw clenching. “I thought you were different.”
A faint, almost imperceptible beep cuts through the air.
Jinx freezes. Her gaze drops to your figure, eyes narrowing. “What’s that?”
Before you can answer, she rips the communicator off its holster. She inspects it for a moment, and the air goes still around you.
“Oh,” she says after a beat, voice eerily calm. “You brought a leash.”
“No— Jinx, listen—”
Her disappointment is worse than her anger. Jinx’s face goes still in a way you’ve never seen before. There’s no smirk, no laugh, nothing. Her mouth presses into a thin line, her gaze empty as if something vital has shut off behind her eyes.
“So that’s it,” she lets out a humorless laugh. “All this time…”
She looks at the communicator again, then back at you, like she’s reassessing every word you’ve ever said. Everything was a lie, she says to herself.
“You brought them here,” she says quietly.
“No, I— It was just for emergencies. I never used it.”
“You used it now,” she cuts in sharply.
Her fingers tighten around the device, and the plastic creaks under the pressure.
“You know what this makes you?” she asks, sighing in disappointment. “A risk.”
“I didn’t come to hurt you,” you say desperately. “I came because I was worried… because I care for you.”
Jinx laughs once. “Yeah. And look where caring gets us.”
In one swift motion, she hurls the communicator against the wall. It shatters on impact, sparks skittering across the floor. Your stomach drops and you take one step backwards.
“Jinx—”
Her hand snaps out, grabbing you by the collar and slamming you back against the metal support beam behind you. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, and shots a pang of pain through your injured arm. Her grip tightens, fingers wrapping around your neck and squeezing just enough to make you panic.
She’s stronger than she looks, adrenaline sharp and unforgiving.
“You don’t get to play us,” she snarls, face inches away from yours. “Not anymore.”
Your vision blurs, heart hammering against your chest. “Please.”
For a second, doubt flickers in her eyes. A ghost of the girl who warned you about the Undercity, who took you under her wing and laughed like the world hadn’t already taken everything from her.
Then, it’s gone.
“If you’re not with me, you’re in the way.”
She raises her hand and you close your eyes, bracing for the impact.
“Hey!”
The shout cracks through the space like a gunshot.
Jinx spins, startled, grip loosening just enough for you to gasp in a breath. Heavy footsteps pound against concrete, and a familiar figure barrels into the room. All force and fury and barely contained panic.
Vi doesn’t hesitate.
She slams into Jinx, knocking her sideways, metal clanging as bodies collide. The impact sends Jinx stumbling back a few steps, boots scraping against the concrete before she regains her balance with a sharp twist of her body.
Her eyes flick to you and she laughs, wiping at the corner of her mouth. “Wow. You really collect strays, huh?”
You suck in a shaky breath, lungs finally remembering how to work. Your body slides down the beam just enough to steady yourself, fingers digging into the cold metal behind you.
Vi barely has time to brace before Jinx crashes into her, the two of them colliding hard enough to rattle the room. Metal shrieks somewhere above as Vi slams Jinx into a wall, and the blue-haired girl laughs as she takes the hit, feral and breathless.
“Is that all you got?” she asks, and then she knees Vi in the ribs.
Vi grunts, staggers back half a step, then comes back harder. They move like opposites. Jinx fights like chaos given a body, unpredictable and fast, slipping through Vi’s guard with infuriating ease.
Vi counters with brute force and discipline. She drives Jinx back and down, pinning her hard against the floor. The metal groans beneath her weight as Vi plants a knee at her side, one hand braced at her shoulder while the other grips Jinx’s wrist to keep her still.
“Stay down,” Vi snaps, breath coming fast.
Jinx struggles once, sharp and violent, then stills. Her eyes flash with feral irritation.
“You done?” she scoffs.
Vi doesn’t answer.
For the first time since the fight begun, she notices Jinx’s electric blue hair, wild and uneven. The eyes are too bright, burning with the same unhinged spark Vi has spent years struggling to remember.
Her gaze drifts to the room around them. Makeshift bombs in various stages of assembly, wires twisted together with almost obsessive care, half-finished devices scattered across the floor. They’re built smarter and deadlier, but the logic behind them is the same.
Like the toys she used to make.
Vi’s grip falters, fingers loosening before she realizes she’s letting go. Her chest tightens, breath catching painfully in her throat.
Jinx feels it immediately. She shoves Vi off her and scrambles back to her feet, boots skidding as she takes a few steps back.
She doesn’t attack. Not yet. Instead, she tilts her head, eyes narrowing, studying Vi like she’s the unpredictable variable now. Suspicion flickers across her face, sharp and calculating.
Vi’s heart is pounding so loud it drowns out everything else. The memory hits her hard and fast: scraped knees, the same reckless confidence and refusal to slow down, a voice insisting I can do it, I can, just watch.
Jinx’s gaze flicks briefly to you, then back to Vi. Her shoulders roll back as she raises her hands again, fists clenched, braced for the next hit.
Vi swallows. When she speaks, her voice comes out rough and uncertain.
“…Powder?”
NEXT PART: coming soon...
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content: mdni 18+ content ;; sexual themes, dina talks about ellie in a sexual context, reader having trouble processing her emotions again, potentially sensitive themes (self-doubt, anxiety, writer's block, self-loathing, pent-up frustration), reader is DEFINITELY a loser in this, ellie tries finding reader on the official uni instagram, dina lowk missing ellie, reader feeling a lifetime of (short-lived) embarrassment, afab reader ⸺ men dni, silent yearning, college au, modern au, multiple part fic,, lmk if i missed anything!!
word count: 14.9k
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synopsis: dina fills the apartment with music, food, and unfiltered desire, talking about bodies like they’re interchangeable. when ellie becomes the topic, something in you recoils. discomfort—disgust, even. coffee turns into conversation, and conversation turns into something dangerously close to comfort. tension builds in the quiet spaces… until a mistake threatens to unravel everything.
“TÚ ME GUSTAS, LIKEY-LIKEY (MUA-MUA-MUA)”
The dorm smells like garlic and ambition—Dina's cooking, which is always an adventure, always an experiment, always teetering on the edge between edible and disaster. Tonight it's pasta something, the details of which you haven't bothered to absorb because you're only half-present, only partially tethered to this reality where you sit at the small dining table with your laptop open, pretending to work.
The kitchen area is small—barely functional, really, just a two-burner stove, a mini-fridge that hums aggressively, and approximately three feet of counter space that Dina has somehow managed to cover entirely with ingredients. Onions and garlic cloves and a half-empty bottle of olive oil and tomato paste and pasta boxes and approximately seventeen spices that you're not convinced she actually needs but that she insists are "essential for the flavor profile."
Young Miko blasts from Dina's portable speaker—the expensive one she splurged on last semester, the one that's shaped like a cylinder and produces sound that's way too quality for the price point—at a volume that should probably be illegal, that definitely violates the dorm's noise policy, that will absolutely result in a passive-aggressive note on the community board if you're not careful. All Spanish lyrics and beats that make the walls vibrate, that seep into your bones whether you want them to or not, that turn the small space into a nightclub you didn't ask to attend.
Dina sways her hips as she stirs whatever's in the pot—probably the sauce, you think, though you haven't looked closely enough to confirm. She's wearing her usual evening attire: oversized band tee, sleep shorts that are maybe too short for having company over, fuzzy socks with cats on them that she got as a gag gift but now wears unironically. Her hair is down, falling past her shoulders in dark waves, and she's tied a kitchen towel around her waist like an apron even though it serves no practical purpose.
She sings along to the music with the kind of unselfconscious joy that you've never quite managed to access, that seems to come so naturally to people who aren't constantly trapped in their own heads, who can just exist in moments without analyzing them to death. Her Spanish is decent—not fluent, but functional, better than your nonexistent grasp of any language that isn't English. She stumbles over some of the faster lyrics but doesn't care, just laughs at herself and keeps going, keeps moving, keeps being so effortlessly herself that sometimes you wonder if you're even the same species.
You're supposed to be writing. That's what the laptop is for, what the open document is for, what this whole charade of productivity is meant to achieve. You told Dina you needed to work, which is true. You have forty pages to write in less than two weeks, which means you should be typing, should be creating, should be doing literally anything except what you're actually doing.
But instead, you're on a thesaurus website—the free one with too many ads, the one you've been using since high school because you're too cheap to pay for the premium version—typing in random words just to see what appears. Like you're mining for linguistic gold, like the perfect synonym is going to suddenly unlock your creative genius and make the remaining forty pages write themselves, like procrastination disguised as research is somehow better than just admitting you're stuck.
You stare at the list. None of them feel right. None of them capture what you're trying to say, which is probably because you don't actually know what you're trying to say, don't have a specific context for this word search, are just avoiding the blank page by creating the illusion of working adjacent tasks.
Stunning feels too dramatic, too much like you're describing a sunset or a work of art. Gorgeous is too casual, too much like something you'd say about a dress or a meal. Exquisite is pretentious, makes you think of Victorian novels and people wearing monocles. Radiant implies light, warmth, things that might not apply to what you're trying to describe—which is what, exactly? You don't even know.
None of them are right. None of them carry the specific weight you need, the particular shade of meaning that exists in your head but refuses to translate to actual language.
You close that tab and type in obsession.
The results load—the site takes a second, struggling under the weight of its own advertising, a banner ad for car insurance flashing aggressively at the top of the page: fixation, preoccupation, compulsion, mania, infatuation, fascination, passion, craze, fetish, addiction.
You lean closer to the screen, like proximity will help the words make more sense, will help you understand which one captures what you're feeling, what your character is feeling, what anyone feels when they can't stop thinking about someone they barely know.
Fixation is clinical, cold, sounds like something a therapist would say during a diagnosis. Preoccupation is too mild, too easily dismissed. Compulsion has connotations of lack of control that feel uncomfortably accurate. Mania is too intense, too unhinged—though maybe that's exactly right, maybe that's the truth you're avoiding.
Infatuation lands somewhere in your chest, settles there like a stone.
Infatuation: an intense but short-lived passion or admiration for someone or something.
Short-lived. That's the key word, isn't it? The escape clause. The expiration date built into the definition itself. This thing you're feeling—whatever it is—it's temporary. It will pass. You'll move on, forget about green eyes and freckled skin, return to your regularly scheduled programming of anxiety and deadlines and the comfortable loneliness you've built your life around.
That should be comforting. It's not.
You type: longing.
Longing: a strong persistent desire or craving, especially for something unattainable.
That one lands in your chest like a stone, like truth, like a diagnosis you didn't ask for but can't deny. The word sits there on your screen, glowing, accusing, perfectly capturing the specific ache that's taken up residence beneath your ribs.
Especially for something unattainable.
There it is. The core of it. The thing you've been dancing around, avoiding, refusing to examine too closely because looking at it directly would mean acknowledging just how pathetic you are.
Ellie is unattainable. Not because she's cruel or disinterested or fundamentally unavailable—she literally gave you her number yesterday, literally asked you to coffee, literally suggested it might be a date if you wanted it to be. She's unattainable because you are fundamentally incapable of believing that someone like her could want someone like you, because your default setting is self-sabotage and catastrophizing, because you've spent so many years building walls around yourself that you've forgotten how to let people in even when they're actively trying to enter.
"God, Young Miko's so fucking hot," Dina announces suddenly, loudly, to the kitchen and to you and to the universe at large, interrupting your spiral with the subtlety of a car alarm. "Like, genuinely, criminally hot. Should be illegal to look that good. Should require a license or a permit or some kind of warning label."
You make a noncommittal sound—somewhere between "mm" and "hmm," a noise that could mean agreement or acknowledgment or absolutely nothing. It's a skill you've perfected over years of cohabitation, the verbal equivalent of nodding along, of being present without actually engaging. Your eyes don't leave your screen, still staring at longing like it might reveal additional secrets if you just look at it long enough.
"I mean, did you see that video from her last show? The one she posted on Instagram?" Dina continues, her voice rising to compete with the music, which she still hasn't turned down despite the fact that you're having a conversation. "The one where she's wearing that leather jacket and all the chains and she's doing that thing with her tongue? She can get it. Like, I'm not even playing. She could ruin my life and I'd thank her."
Another noncommittal sound, this one even less committed than the last. You've gotten very good at these—the survival skill of introverts everywhere, the art of seeming engaged while actually being miles away in your own head. It's a survival mechanism you've developed over years of having roommates, of navigating social interactions you don't have the energy for, of existing in proximity to people without letting them see too far inside your head, without revealing that you're not actually listening, that you're somewhere else entirely, that their words are just background noise to your internal monologue.
You type a new word into the search bar: yearning.
Yearning: a feeling of intense longing for something.
So it's the same as longing, essentially. Just with more intensity. More desperation. More of the thing you're already drowning in.
Great. Helpful. Exactly what you needed to confirm—that the English language has multiple words for the specific flavor of pathetic you're currently experiencing.
"If I ever meet her—like actually meet her in person, not just thirst over her from a distance like a normal fan—I'm just saying, I would do things." Dina laughs at her own commentary, the sound bright and unashamed and so fundamentally different from how you move through the world that it might as well be a foreign language. "Unspeakable things. Things that would make God herself blush and look away. Things that would require confession and possibly an exorcism afterward."
She's stirring the pot with more enthusiasm than is probably necessary for pasta sauce, the wooden spoon clanking against the sides in rhythm with the music, creating an unintentional percussion section. Some of the sauce splashes onto the stovetop—you can see it from here, red droplets that will definitely stain if she doesn't wipe them up soon—but she doesn't notice, too caught up in her own narrative, her own fantasy about a celebrity she'll never meet.
You should probably respond. Should probably engage with this conversation like a normal roommate, like a normal friend, like someone who's capable of existing outside their own head for five consecutive minutes. You could ask questions about the show, about the music, could participate in this moment of connection that Dina is offering.
But your brain is elsewhere—calculating deadlines, counting pages, trying to figure out how you're going to write five pages a day when you can barely string together five sentences without second-guessing every word choice, when you're spending your evenings looking up synonyms for emotions you're too afraid to feel directly.
You type: desire.
Desire: a strong feeling of wanting to have something or wishing for something to happen.
Wanting. Wishing. The passive construction of it, the way it positions you as a vessel for longing rather than an agent capable of action. You don't do anything with desire—you just have it, carry it, let it consume you from the inside out like a slow-burning fire.
The music shifts to a different song, this one with a harder beat, more aggressive bass that you can feel in your sternum, in your bones, in the fillings of your teeth. Dina turns it up. Of course she turns it up. Why wouldn't she turn it up when it's already loud enough to vibrate your laptop screen, to make the water in the pot on the stove ripple with each bass drop?
You're about to say something—finally, after twenty minutes of noncommittal sounds, you're going to actually form words and ask her to maybe turn it down just a little—when her voice cuts through the music again.
"Okay but like, speaking of people who can get it—"
The shift in Dina's tone makes your fingers still on the keyboard. There's something different now, something more immediate, something that pulls your attention away from your screen despite your best efforts to remain detached.
Something conspiratorial. Something that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up even before she finishes the sentence.
"Ellie? Fucking Ellie?"
Your stomach clenches. Every muscle in your body tenses simultaneously, going rigid like you're bracing for impact, like you're preparing to be hit, like your body knows something your brain hasn't quite processed yet.
You don't want to hear this. Don't want to know what Dina thinks about Ellie's body, about what they did, about any of the details that are probably about to come spilling out because Dina has never met a thought she didn't immediately vocalize.
"That girl is walking sex appeal. Like, I genuinely don't understand how she exists. It's unfair. To everyone. To me specifically." Dina's laugh is loud, unrestrained, the sound of someone who's comfortable enough with themselves and their desires that they can talk about them without shame or hesitation.
You keep your eyes on your laptop screen, on the thesaurus results that have become meaningless, just words without weight. Your hands hover over the keyboard but you're not typing, not moving, barely breathing.
"The freckles," Dina continues, oblivious to your discomfort, to the way you've gone completely still, to the way your jaw has clenched so tight it's starting to ache. "Like, everywhere. And I mean everywhere. I counted at least fifty on just her shoulders and I wasn't even trying. They're like little works of art, you know? Like someone took a paintbrush and just went wild."
Something hot and sharp twists in your gut. Not quite anger—you don't have the right to be angry, don't have claim to Ellie or her freckles or how people talk about them. But something adjacent to anger, something that tastes bitter on your tongue, something that makes your hands curl into fists against your thighs beneath the table where Dina can't see.
Those freckles. You'd memorised them too, through that window, in that brief eternal moment before everything got complicated. But you hadn't thought about them like this—like decorations, like aesthetic details to be counted and commented on. You'd thought about them like constellations, like maps, like each one was a small miracle that demanded its own attention, its own reverence.
The difference matters. You can't quite articulate why, but it matters.
"And her body?" Dina's voice rises with enthusiasm, competing with the music that's still blasting at borderline-aggressive volume. "Jesus Christ. She's got that whole like, androgynous thing going on but still feminine, you know? Like she could throw me around—and did, actually, not gonna lie—but also there's these curves that are just..." She makes some kind of gesture you don't see because you're still not looking at her, still staring at your screen like it's the most fascinating thing in the world.
"Like, she's got abs. Abs. When's the last time you saw someone with actual visible abs in real life? I thought that was just something that existed in movies and on Instagram with perfect lighting. But no, they're real, they're right there, and I got to—"
"Dina." Your voice comes out strangled, sharp, a warning wrapped in discomfort, in something dangerously close to pain.
But Dina's on a roll now, lost in her own narration, in the memory of Wednesday night that you'd tried so hard to block out, to not think about, to pretend didn't happen even though you'd heard every agonizing minute of it through walls that were never designed to provide actual privacy.
She's in that post-hookup analysis phase that some people seem to enjoy, that need to relive and recount and share every detail like it's a story that needs telling, like her experience is entertainment that should be performed for an audience.
And you're the audience. The captive, unwilling audience who would rather be literally anywhere else.
"And her hands—okay, I know it's probably fucked up to talk about, but the missing fingers? It's actually really hot. Like, she knows exactly how to use what she has, and the texture difference is insane. I didn't think it would make that much of a difference but—"
"I don't want to know." The words burst out of you more forcefully than you intended, sharp enough to cut through the music, through Dina's rambling, through the fog of your own spiraling thoughts. They echo in the small space, too loud, too revealing, too much of everything you've been trying to hide.
Dina finally—finally—turns around from the stove. The wooden spoon is still in her hand, dripping red sauce onto the floor in slow drops that neither of you acknowledge. Her expression shifts from enthusiastic to confused, her eyebrows drawing together as she tries to understand what just happened, why you just snapped at her when you never snap at anyone, when you usually just absorb and deflect and disappear rather than confront.
"What?" she asks, and there's genuine confusion in her voice, no malice, no understanding of what she's done wrong because from her perspective she hasn't done anything wrong. She's just talking about a hookup, just sharing details the way friends do, just existing in her body and her experiences without shame.
Which is fine. Which is good, even. You want Dina to be comfortable talking about sex, want her to exist without shame, want her to have whatever experiences she wants without judgment.
You just don't want to hear about this particular experience. Don't want the details of Ellie's body delivered in crude inventory, don't want to know about hands and abs and texture differences, don't want the image of them together that's now burned into your brain like someone took a brand to your gray matter.
"I don't—" You swallow hard, trying to find words that won't reveal too much, that won't expose the raw nerve she's currently stomping on with the casual cruelty of someone who doesn't know they're causing damage, who thinks this is just normal conversation between roommates.
Your throat feels tight. Your chest feels tighter. You need to get this right, need to find the balance between honesty and self-protection, between setting a boundary and not revealing why you need that boundary in the first place.
"I just don't need to hear about your hookups," you finally manage, and it comes out more defensive than you intended, more sharp. "That's not—it's weird. Hearing about it. In detail. It's uncomfortable."
It's not a lie, exactly. You genuinely don't want to hear the play-by-play of Dina's sexual encounters, genuinely find the level of detail she provides to be more than you want or need to know. That's true regardless of who she's talking about.
But it's also not the full truth. Not even close to the real reason why your chest feels like it's being squeezed in a vice, why your throat has gone tight, why you suddenly can't stand to be in this room for one more second without screaming or crying or doing something equally mortifying that will require explanation.
Because the truth is worse. More pathetic. More revealing than you can afford to be.
The truth is that hearing Dina talk about Ellie like she's just another conquest, just another hot body to catalog and critique and discuss in crude terms—it makes something twist in your gut. Something possessive and irrational and completely unjustified. It makes you feel protective of someone who doesn't need your protection, who probably wouldn't want it, who exists just fine without you having any feelings about how people talk about her.
The truth is that you don't want Ellie reduced to the sum of her physical parts, to her freckles and her abs and her hands—even though you did the exact same thing when you first saw her, cataloged her like she was a character you were creating rather than a person with her own interiority, her own thoughts, her own existence independent of your observation.
The hypocrisy should shame you. Does shame you. But it doesn't stop the feeling, doesn't prevent the visceral reaction to hearing her discussed like she's just a body, just an experience, just a story to tell.
Because to you, she's already more than that. Has been more than that since she caught you staring and smiled instead of being creeped out. Since she called you writer girl with that rough voice that settled in your chest like smoke. Since she gave you her number and suggested coffee and made it seem like maybe—maybe—there was something worth exploring between you.
Which is insane. Which is irrational. Which is exactly the kind of obsessive fixation that's going to destroy you if you don't get it under control.
You know all of this. Can see it clearly, can diagnose your own dysfunction with the precision of someone who's spent years in therapy learning the vocabulary of their own pathology.
But knowing doesn't make it stop. Doesn't make the feeling go away. Doesn't do anything except add another layer of shame to the already impressive pile you've been accumulating like it's a competitive sport and you're going for gold.
Dina's still looking at you, wooden spoon still in hand, sauce still dripping onto the floor in a small puddle that's going to be a pain to clean up later. She's studying you with that expression she gets when she's trying to solve a puzzle, when she knows something's going on but can't quite figure out what.
"Okay," she says slowly, carefully, like she's testing the word before committing to it. "My bad. Didn't realize it was a touchy subject. I thought we were cool like that, you know? Like, I've heard you talk about your hookups before."
"I don't have hookups," you say automatically, which is true but also sounds more defensive than you intended. "And when I do talk about... people I've been with, it's not—I don't give you graphic details. I don't narrate every physical attribute like I'm writing a grocery list."
Dina's expression shifts slightly—something that might be hurt flashing across her face before she schools it back to neutral. "Right. Okay. Point taken."
The music is still playing, Young Miko still singing about something you don't understand, the bass still vibrating through the floor. It feels too loud now, oppressive, like it's taking up all the oxygen in the room and leaving none for you.
You need to leave. Need to extract yourself from this conversation before you say something you can't take back, before your carefully constructed walls crumble entirely and Dina sees exactly why this bothers you so much, exactly what you've been hiding.
You close your laptop with more force than necessary, the click of it shutting somehow final, somehow ominous. The sound of a door closing, of a conversation ending, of retreat.
"I have a lot of work to do," you say, gathering the laptop to your chest like a shield, like armor, like it can protect you from your own feelings if you just hold it tight enough. "For my project. I'm just going to work in my room. Where it's quieter. Where I can actually think."
The last part comes out more pointed than you intended, but you don't take it back, don't soften it. Let it land however it lands.
Dina opens her mouth like she's going to say something—maybe apologize again, maybe push back, maybe ask what's really going on—but then seems to think better of it. She just shrugs, a casual roll of her shoulders that suggests she's already moving on, already letting it go because that's what Dina does. She flows like water around obstacles, doesn't hold onto things, doesn't dwell on uncomfortable moments or awkward exchanges.
"Sure, yeah," she says, turning back to her cooking, to the pot that's probably close to boiling over by now based on the aggressive bubbling sounds coming from it. "Let me know if you want pasta. I'm making enough for like three people because I apparently never learned portion control and consistently overestimate how much food one human can consume in a single sitting."
"Thanks," you say, even though you know you won't want any, know that your appetite has disappeared entirely, replaced by a knot in your stomach that feels like it might be permanent. "Maybe later."
You're already moving, already retreating to your room like a wounded animal seeking its den, like a soldier falling back from a battle they can't win. Your feet carry you across the small space on autopilot, your body knowing the path even though your mind is somewhere else entirely, still stuck in that conversation, still hearing Dina's words echoing in your skull.
The freckles. The body. The hands. Everywhere.
The door closes behind you with a soft click that feels like punctuation, like the end of a sentence you didn't know how to finish, like a period where there should have been a comma or maybe an ellipsis suggesting more to come. You stand there for a moment, back pressed against the wood, laptop still clutched to your chest like it's the only solid thing in a world that's tilting sideways. You're breathing too fast, heart racing like you've just run a marathon instead of just having an uncomfortable two-minute conversation about a topic that shouldn't affect you this much, that you have no rational reason to care about.
This is ridiculous. This whole thing is ridiculous.
You force yourself to move, to unpeel from the door and cross the small space to your bed. It's unmade, as always—sheets tangled in the specific configuration you left them this morning when you dragged yourself out of them after a night of too little sleep and too many thoughts. Your pillows are askew, your comforter is half on the floor, and there's a dent in the mattress from where you sleep in the same position every night like your body has worn a groove into the memory foam.
You collapse onto it with all the grace of a puppet whose strings have been cut, whose framework has given out, whose support system has completely failed. Your laptop falls beside you—not dropped, not thrown, but definitely placed with less care than a several-hundred-dollar piece of electronics probably deserves. It bounces slightly on the mattress before settling, the screen dark and judgmental.
The ceiling stares back at you, blank and white and utterly unhelpful. There's a small crack in the corner that you've been meaning to report to maintenance but keep forgetting about, a brown water stain that suggests either a leak or the beginning of mold, a cobweb in the far corner that's been there so long you've started to think of it as décor rather than a cleaning failure.
Your string lights are off—you haven't turned them on yet today, haven't managed to make your space feel cozy or safe or anything except what it is: a small room in a shared dorm where you hide from the world and your own thoughts in equal measure, where you're supposed to be productive and creative and functional but mostly just lie awake at night spiraling about deadlines and inadequacy and girls with green eyes who've invaded your consciousness like a virus you can't shake.
Except you can't hide from your thoughts. They're here with you, have always been here with you, will always be here with you because they live inside your head and there's no escape from your own skull, no matter how much you might want there to be.
You think about Ellie. Of course you think about Ellie. You've been thinking about her almost constantly since Wednesday, since that first glimpse through the studio window, since your entire world tilted sideways and hasn't quite righted itself since, probably never will.
You think about her freckles—not the way Dina talked about them, like they're decorations to be counted and commented on like items on a menu, like aesthetic details that exist for observation and appreciation but nothing more. You think about them the way you did when you first saw her: like constellations, like maps of undiscovered territory, like each one was a small miracle that demanded individual attention.
You'd wanted to trace them. To connect them with your fingertips like you were drawing lines, creating new patterns, new meanings. You'd wanted to know if they continued everywhere, if there were places where they were dense as stars and places where they thinned to nothing, if there was a pattern or if they were random, if she'd grown up somewhere sunny or if they were just genetics, just the way her body decided to express itself.
But that's not sexual, is it? That's not crude. That's something else—something that feels more like wonder, more like reverence, more like the way you'd observe a piece of art in a museum that you wanted to understand rather than just consume.
You think about her missing fingers, about the casual way she exists with them, about how that small difference somehow makes her more compelling rather than less—not in a fetishistic way like Dina implied, not in a way that reduces them to a sexual novelty, but in a way that speaks to history and adaptation and the specific ways bodies tell stories about the lives they've lived.
You'd wanted to ask about them. Still want to ask about them, if you ever get the chance, if you don't completely blow tomorrow and ruin whatever fragile connection might be forming. You want to know when it happened, how it happened, if it hurt, if she remembers it, if it changed how she moves through the world or if she's always been this confident, this comfortable in a body that doesn't match the expected template.
But you'd never ask in the way Dina talked about it—like it was hot because it was different, like it was a kink to be explored rather than just part of who Ellie is. That makes your skin crawl, makes something protective flare up in your chest even though you have no right to feel protective, no standing to police how people talk or think or feel about bodies that aren't yours.
You think about her voice—that rough, low register that settled in your chest like smoke, like warmth, like something you wanted to wrap around yourself. The way she called you writer girl, the way she told you to stop running away like it was a challenge, like a dare, like an invitation to stay instead of flee.
You think about her eyes—those impossible green eyes that you've seen in person thrice now and still can't quite believe are real. Green as bottle glass held up to sunlight, green as sea glass tumbled smooth by waves, green as the underside of maple leaves in spring when everything is new and possible and not yet ruined by reality.
You think about tomorrow. About coffee. About "it's whatever you want it to be."
What do you want it to be?
The question sits in your chest like a stone, like an anchor, like something heavy enough to drag you under if you're not careful. Because wanting things has always been dangerous for you, has always led to disappointment or heartbreak or the specific flavor of humiliation that comes from reaching for something and having it slip through your fingers like water, like smoke, like everything you've ever tried to hold onto.
You're good at not wanting. Good at convincing yourself you don't need things, don't need people, don't need connection or intimacy or any of the things that require vulnerability and risk. You're good at being alone, at existing in your own head, at building a life that's safe if not exactly happy.
But Ellie makes you want. Makes you want in a way that feels dangerous, feels reckless, feels like standing at the edge of a cliff and considering what it might be like to jump.
Is it a date? Is she interested? Or is this just a friendly gesture, an apology for keeping you awake, a casual coffee between two people who happen to know the same person and have crossed paths under mortifying circumstances multiple times?
You don't know. Can't know. Won't know until it happens, and even then you'll probably spend the entire time trying to read subtext that may or may not exist, analyzing every word and gesture and pause for hidden meaning like you're excavating an archaeological site, like you're searching for evidence of something that might not even be there.
The uncertainty sits in your stomach like a lead weight, like undigested food, like something your body wants to reject but can't, like poison you've swallowed that's slowly working its way through your system.
Your mind spirals through possibilities the way it always does, the way it has since you were old enough to overthink, which is to say: forever.
Best case scenarios where she actually likes you, where the coffee goes well, where somehow—impossibly, miraculously—this works out and you get to have something good for once in your disaster of a life. Where she thinks you're interesting instead of just awkward, charming instead of just anxious, worth knowing instead of just a weird girl who stares through windows and can't form coherent sentences under pressure.
Worst case scenarios where you embarrass yourself spectacularly, where she realizes within five minutes that you're not worth the effort, where she was just being nice and you read everything wrong because you're desperate and lonely and so starved for connection that you'll project meaning onto any interaction, any smile, any casual comment that could be interpreted as interest if you squint hard enough and ignore all evidence to the contrary.
Most likely scenarios where it's somewhere in between—pleasant but forgettable, a nice time that doesn't lead anywhere, a story you'll tell yourself about the time you almost had something but didn't, about the girl who got away because you were too scared or too awkward or too fundamentally yourself to hold onto anything good, to believe you deserved anything more than the safe, lonely existence you've built.
Each scenario plays out in your head like a movie, like a Choose Your Own Adventure book where all the choices lead to different flavors of disaster. Your imagination—so useful for writing, so completely useless for living—conjures detailed scenes of every possible outcome, each one more vivid and painful than the last.
You can see yourself spilling coffee, saying the wrong thing, laughing too loud or not enough, being too intense or not interesting enough, talking about your writing project and watching her eyes glaze over with boredom, fumbling for conversation topics and coming up empty, sitting in awkward silence while she checks her phone and plans her escape.
You can see yourself being exactly who you are—anxious, overthinking, trapped in your own head—and watching her realize in real-time that you're not worth the effort, that whatever she saw in you was a mistake, a misreading, a brief moment of interest that evaporated under the harsh light of actually having to spend time with you.
The thoughts spiral tighter and tighter, a whirlpool pulling you down, a trap of your own making that you can see clearly but can't escape because your brain won't let you, won't give you peace, won't allow for the possibility that maybe—maybe—things could work out for once.
You press your palms against your eyes until you see stars, until the pressure creates colors behind your eyelids—purples and greens and golds, whole galaxies of light that don't exist anywhere except in the space between your hands and your face. It's a grounding technique your therapist taught you years ago, something about interrupting thought patterns, about using physical sensation to break the spiral.
It doesn't work. It never really works. But you do it anyway because what else is there?
You're so deep in your spiral, so lost in the maze of your own thoughts, so completely consumed by anxiety about tomorrow and regret about earlier and the general disaster of your existence, that you don't hear your phone buzz the first time.
Or the second.
But the third time, the sound finally penetrates your consciousness, cutting through the white noise of your internal monologue like a knife through silk, like a gunshot in a library, like anything loud enough to demand attention when you're trying very hard to ignore the world.
You fumble for your phone on the nightstand—it's plugged in, charging, because you have enough anxiety about technology without adding "dead battery" to your list of potential disasters. The screen lights up, too bright in the dim room, and you have to squint against it.
Three new messages. All from the same number.
A number you saved yesterday as just "Ellie," nothing fancy, nothing that captures the way seeing her name on your screen makes your heart lurch into your throat, makes your breathing go shallow, makes every other thought in your head scatter like startled birds.
Your hands shake as you unlock your phone. Actual, physical shaking, like you're afraid, except you're not afraid—you're something else, something without a name, something that lives in the space between terror and hope.
Ellie: hey writer girl
Ellie: so we still on for tmrw? i was thinking that coffee place on main st. the one with the weird art on the walls
Ellie: unless you've decided im too much of a disturbance to your creative process and you're ghosting me. which would be fair honestly
The messages sit there on your screen, glowing, demanding response, proof that yesterday actually happened, that you didn't hallucinate or dream or construct the entire interaction out of desperate longing and creative desperation.
She wants to know if you're still on for tomorrow.
She suggested a place—that coffee shop on Main Street, the one that's been there forever, the one with mismatched furniture and local art covering every surface and coffee that's overpriced but actually good. The one you've been to a hundred times because it's close to campus and has outlets for your laptop and doesn't kick you out after one cup when you need to write for hours.
She made a joke. A self-deprecating joke about being a disturbance, about the very thing she apologized for yesterday, turning it into something light instead of heavy, something you can laugh about instead of dwelling on.
She texted you first. You didn't have to agonize about whether to reach out, didn't have to draft and delete seventeen versions of a message trying to sound casual, didn't have to spend hours wondering if it was too soon or too forward or too desperate to send a text.
She did it. She took that step. She made it easy.
And now you have to respond.
Now you have to craft a message that sounds normal and interested but not too interested, casual but not dismissive, witty but not trying-too-hard, exactly the right tone to match her energy without revealing that you've spent the last day and a half thinking about nothing but her.
No pressure.
You stare at the screen, at those three messages, at the cursor blinking in the text field, waiting for you to type something, anything, literally any combination of letters that forms words that form sentences that convey meaning.
Your mind is blank. Completely, utterly blank.
All those synonyms you were looking up earlier? Useless. All those years of writing, of crafting sentences, of finding the perfect word? Irrelevant. Because apparently, when faced with responding to a simple text from a girl you like, your brain just... stops working.
You need to respond. You need to say something. You can't just leave her on read, can't let these messages sit unanswered while you spiral about the perfect response.
But what do you say?
What do you say?
Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, paralyzed by possibility, frozen by the fear of getting it wrong, of saying too much or too little or the wrong thing entirely.
The cursor blinks.
Waits.
Judges.
Just like always.
Finally, you type:
You: still on. that place is sounds good
You stare at it. Is that too short? Too casual? Should you add more? An exclamation point? An emoji? No, definitely no emoji, that would be too much, too eager, too—
You hit send before you can spiral further, before you can talk yourself into deleting and rewriting for the fiftieth time.
Three dots appear immediately. She's typing. She's actually typing right now, in real time, somewhere in this building or on this campus or in this universe, and you're connected through this small rectangle of glass and metal and—
Ellie: cool. 11am work for you?
You: perfect
The conversation sits there on your screen, short and simple and somehow monumental. You've just confirmed a date. Or a not-date. Or whatever "it's whatever you want it to be" means.
You save the messages like they're important documents, like they're evidence, like they're proof that this is real and happening and not just another elaborate fantasy your desperate brain has constructed.
Tomorrow. Coffee. Ellie.
You're either going to die of anxiety before then, or somehow survive long enough to make a complete fool of yourself in person.
Probably both.
Ellie's room in the guest housing is smaller than she expected—barely bigger than a closet, really, with just enough space for a twin bed, a desk that's seen better days, and a narrow closet with a door that doesn't quite close properly. The walls are that institutional beige that exists in every temporary housing situation ever, the kind of non-color that's designed to offend no one and inspire nothing, that makes you forget where you are the moment you look away.
She's made almost no effort to personalize it. Why would she? She's only here for two and a half more weeks, visiting her friend Jesse who's doing some graduate program she doesn't fully understand but supports anyway because that's what friends do. Her duffel bag sits open on the floor, clothes spilling out in organized chaos—the way she packs, the way she lives, never quite neat but never quite messy either, existing in some productive middle ground.
The desk holds her sketchbook, a few pencils, her laptop charging with its constellation of stickers covering the lid—various bands, queer pride flags, a moth she'd drawn herself and printed out. The window overlooks the quad, dark now except for the lampposts creating pools of yellow light in the darkness, students crossing between them like actors moving between spotlights on a stage.
Ellie sits on the bed—mattress too firm, sheets too scratchy, pillow too flat—with her back against the wall and her phone in her hand, staring at the messages she just sent. Then your response. Then her follow-up. Then your final confirmation.
Perfect.
One word. Six letters. And Ellie's smiling at it like it's poetry, like it's profound, like it means something more than just an agreement to meet for coffee at eleven in the morning.
She's being ridiculous. She knows she's being ridiculous. It's just coffee. Just a casual meet-up to apologize for being loud as hell the other night, for keeping poor you awake with sounds that definitely carried through those paper-thin walls. It doesn't mean anything.
Except.
Except she can't stop thinking about you.
The writer girl. The one who'd stared at her through that studio window like Ellie was the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen, like she was trying to memorize every detail, like she was cataloging Ellie in real-time for some purpose Ellie couldn't quite determine. The one who'd gone absolutely rigid with panic when Dina brought Ellie home, who'd looked like a deer in headlights, who'd stammered out responses that were equal parts awkward and endearing.
The one who'd fallen asleep at the dining table with her laptop open, drool on her arm, looking exhausted and vulnerable and somehow compelling in her complete lack of pretense. The one who couldn't quite meet Ellie's eyes this morning, who'd blushed so hard Ellie worried about her blood pressure, who'd fled to her room like Ellie was going to chase her down and demand explanations for things that didn't need explaining.
The one who, when Ellie had caught her trying to speed-walk past the studio yesterday, had looked so mortified and so desperately like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole that Ellie had actually felt bad for calling out to her. But not bad enough to let her escape without getting her number, without setting up this coffee thing, without creating an opportunity to figure out what the hell it is about this girl that's gotten under her skin like a splinter, like an infection, like something she can't quite shake no matter how much she tells herself it's nothing.
Ellie's not used to this. Not used to being the one who's intrigued, who's curious, who wants to know more. Usually she's the object of interest—the nude model, the girl with the missing fingers and the tattoos and the androgynous appeal that draws a certain type of person like moths to flame. Usually she's the one being pursued, being reduced to her interesting physical characteristics by people who see her as a conquest or a curiosity or a story to tell their friends.
But this girl—this anxious, overthinking, disaster of a writer who can barely string together coherent sentences in Ellie's presence—she looked at Ellie like she was trying to understand something deeper. Like she was searching for meaning beneath the surface. Like Ellie was a puzzle worth solving rather than just a body worth experiencing.
It had been disarming. Still is disarming. Makes Ellie want to know what's going on in that head, what thoughts are spinning behind those eyes that always seem to be looking slightly to the left of where they should be looking, what words are forming in that writer's brain that never quite make it to actual speech.
Ellie realizes, with something like surprise, that she barely knows anything about YOU.
Doesn't know your name—actual name, not just "writer girl" or "Dina's roommate." Doesn't know what you’re studying beyond the obvious writing thing. Doesn't know where you’re from, what you like, what you do when you’re not falling asleep at tables or staring through studio windows or fleeing from conversations like you’re being chased.
The curiosity itches under her skin like a rash, like something that needs scratching, like a question that demands answering.
Ellie opens Instagram—muscle memory, the app she probably spends too much time on, the place where everyone performs curated versions of their lives. She navigates to the university's official account, the one that posts about campus events and student achievements and all the sanitized, marketable moments that make the school look good for prospective students and donors.
She starts scrolling, looking for... what? A tagged photo? A candid shot? Some evidence that the writer girl exists outside of their brief interactions, that you’rea real person with a real life and not just a ghost who appears in Ellie's peripheral vision and then vanishes?
It takes longer than expected. The university posts constantly—sports games, club meetings, academic achievements, campus beauty shots that make everything look more idyllic than it actually is. Ellie scrolls past dozens of photos, each one more generically cheerful than the last, all smiling faces and school spirit and the performance of collegiate joy.
Then she sees you.
Not in the center. Not in focus. Not even fully in frame.
But there, in the background of a photo from some writing symposium two months ago—a blurry figure at a table in the back row, head down, apparently taking notes while everyone else faces forward. Eyes down, hunched shoulders, the posture of someone trying to take up as little space as possible, trying to exist without being noticed.
Ellie zooms in, pixelating the image, making it worse but needing to confirm. It's her. Has to be her. Same energy, same body language, same determined invisibility.
She keeps scrolling, looking now with purpose, with focus, searching for more glimpses of this girl who seems to live in margins, in backgrounds, in the spaces between official narratives.
There—in a photo from a campus festival three weeks ago. Way in the back, partially obscured by a tent pole, watching the crowd rather than participating. Observing. Always observing.
And there—in a shot from the library's Instagram, promoting their extended hours during finals week. A figure at a table in the distant background, surrounded by books, bent over a laptop, completely unaware of the camera, completely absorbed in whatever you’re working on.
Each photo is the same. You existing in background, in periphery, in the negative space around the main event. Never in the center. Never in focus. Never the subject of the photo, just incidental detail, just part of the scenery, just there.
And somehow—impossibly, unexpectedly—Ellie finds this endearing.
Finds something compelling about someone who lives like this, who moves through the world leaving such a light footprint, who seems to be watching everyone else live their lives while remaining carefully, deliberately outside of it. Someone who catalogs and observes and exists at a remove, who sees without being seen.
Or who tries to exist without being seen. Because Ellie has seen you. Has caught you staring multiple times now. Has noticed the way you notice things, the way your eyes track details, the way you seem to be constantly filing away information like you’re going to write about it later.
Which you probably are. You’re a writer. That's what writers do, isn't it? Watch and catalog and transform observation into narrative, into meaning, into something that exists on the page rather than just in the messy reality of living.
Ellie wonders what you write about. Wonders if she's in there somewhere, in those pages you guard so carefully. Wonders if she's being cataloged right now, if somewhere in this building there's a description of her freckles or her hands or her voice being carefully constructed, being translated from observation into language.
The thought should bother her. Should feel invasive, uncomfortable, like being studied under a microscope.
It doesn't.
Instead, it feels... interesting. Flattering, maybe. Like being seen as something worth documenting, worth trying to capture in words, worth the effort of translation from visual to verbal.
Ellie's phone buzzes in her hand—a text from Jesse asking if she wants to grab dinner tomorrow after his class—but she barely glances at it before dismissing the notification, her attention still caught on these photos, on this girl who exists in backgrounds and seems to be haunting Ellie's thoughts with the same persistence that Ellie apparently haunts hers.
Because that's what's becoming clear, isn't it? This isn't one-sided. This fascination, this intrigue, this whatever-it-is—it goes both ways. You stare at Ellie through windows and can't form coherent sentences in her presence and agree to coffee with single-word responses that somehow convey volumes.
And Ellie can't stop thinking about you, can't stop wondering about you, can't stop seeking out evidence of your existence in the digital archives of campus life.
It's been days. Days. And Ellie's already gone from "mildly curious" to "actively investigating," from "might be interesting" to "definitely want to know more," from "casual coffee" to... what? What is this? What does she want this to be?
She doesn't know. Hasn't decided. Hasn't let herself think about it too hard because thinking about it means acknowledging that this feels different from the usual casual hookups and brief interests that populate her social life, means admitting that there's something about this anxious, awkward writer that's gotten past her defenses in a way that's both alarming and exhilarating.
Tomorrow. Coffee. Answers.
Or at least, more questions. Better questions. Questions that might actually lead somewhere instead of just spinning in her head like a carousel, like a loop, like something she can't quite escape even when she tries.
Ellie sets her phone on the desk, face down, like that will somehow stop her from checking it every five minutes for messages that won't come until tomorrow. She should sleep. Should rest up for whatever tomorrow brings. Should stop obsessing over a girl she barely knows and focus on literally anything else.
But when she closes her eyes, she sees flustered cheeks and averted gaze and hands that type words she'll probably never get to read.
And when she opens them again, she's smiling.
Yeah. Tomorrow can't come fast enough.
The coffee shop on Main Street exists in a state of perpetual artistic chaos—walls covered in local art that changes monthly, mismatched furniture that looks like it was rescued from various estate sales and thrift stores, exposed brick on one wall and chalkboard paint on another where customers have scribbled quotes and doodles and declarations of love or caffeine dependency. String lights crisscross the ceiling like captured stars, casting everything in warm amber, making the whole space feel like something between a living room and a gallery, between functional and aspirational.
It smells like espresso and cinnamon and the particular mustiness of old books—there's a shelf by the window where people leave paperbacks for others to take, a lending library operating on the honor system and the faith that strangers might be kind.
You arrive fifteen minutes early because of course you do, because anxiety has never met a deadline it couldn't beat by an excessive margin. You order something complicated—a vanilla oat milk latte that you'll probably regret because you're already jittery with nerves and caffeine will only make it worse—and claim a table near the window, not too visible from the street but not hidden either, accessible but not presumptuous.
You've changed your outfit four times this morning. Currently wearing: your favorite jeans that actually fit right, a dark green sweater that Dina once said made your eyes look interesting, your usual canvas sneakers that are held together by prayers and denial. Your hair is down, which never happens, because you thought it might make you look more... what? Approachable? Feminine? Less like a disaster? You don't even know. You just know that you stared at yourself in the mirror for twenty minutes this morning trying to decide if you looked like someone worth having coffee with or someone who should just cancel and save everyone the trouble.
Your laptop is in your bag. You brought it as a security blanket, as armor, as something to do with your hands if the conversation dies and you need to fill the silence. But you're not taking it out. Not yet. Maybe not at all.
Your phone says 10:58. Two minutes.
You watch the door like you're waiting for execution, like you're a prisoner counting down to something inevitable and inescapable. Your hands wrap around your coffee cup, absorbing its heat, using the mild pain of too-hot ceramic to ground yourself in the present moment instead of spiraling about all the ways this could go wrong.
At 10:59, Ellie walks in.
She's wearing a denim jacket over a faded band tee you don't recognize, black jeans that somehow look effortlessly good, boots that have clearly walked many miles and have the scuff marks to prove it. Her auburn hair catches the light from the windows, turning it copper and gold and fire. She scans the room with those impossible green eyes, and when they land on you, her entire face transforms with a smile that makes your stomach flip, makes your heart forget its rhythm, makes every carefully prepared conversation topic evaporate from your brain like morning dew under sunlight.
She walks over with the kind of easy confidence you've spent your entire life trying to fake, pulls out the chair across from you, and sits down like she belongs here, like this is the most natural thing in the world, like having coffee with you is something she does all the time instead of a first occurrence that you've been catastrophizing about for twenty-four hours straight.
"Hey," she says, and even that single syllable in her rough voice makes something in your chest constrict. "You actually came. Part of me thought you might bail."
"I thought about it," you admit, because honesty seems safer than pretending to be someone you're not, someone who doesn't consider fleeing from social situations like it's a valid life strategy.
Ellie laughs—a real laugh, not polite, not restrained. "At least you're honest. That's refreshing." She nods at your cup. "What'd you get?"
"Vanilla oat milk latte. It's... complicated. Probably unnecessary. I should have just gotten regular coffee but I panicked when the barista asked and—" You're rambling. You're absolutely rambling and you need to stop but your mouth has disconnected from your brain's emergency override system.
"I like complicated," Ellie says, and something in the way she says it, the way her eyes stay fixed on yours, makes you think she's not just talking about coffee.
She gets up to order—something simple, black coffee with one sugar, which somehow feels very her—and you use her absence to take three deep breaths and remind yourself that you're a functional adult who can have a conversation without completely falling apart.
When she comes back, she settles into her chair like she's settling into the conversation, into this moment, into the space between you that feels both too large and too small simultaneously.
"So," she says, wrapping her three-fingered hand around her cup in a way that's become familiar to you, that you've memorized without meaning to. "Writer girl. That's all I know about you. You write. You stress about it. You fall asleep at tables. But what do you actually write about?"
The question lands in your chest like a stone. It's innocent enough, standard small talk, the kind of thing people ask when they're trying to get to know each other. But for you, it's loaded with landmines, with vulnerability, with the terror of being truly seen.
"Fiction," you say, which is technically true but reveals nothing. "Stories. Character-driven stuff mostly. I'm working on my final project for my writing workshop—it's supposed to be like fifty pages and I'm very behind and slowly dying about it."
"What's it about?"
"It's..." You pause, choosing words carefully, walking through a minefield of honesty and self-preservation. "It's about someone who watches. Who exists in margins. Who catalogs people from a distance instead of actually connecting with them."
Ellie's eyebrow arches—that devastating single eyebrow that should be registered as a weapon. "So it's about you."
The observation hits like a punch, like truth, like being x-rayed and having all your internal architecture exposed. "Maybe. I don't know. All writing is kind of about the writer, isn't it? Even when we're making things up."
"Can I read it?"
"No." The word comes out too fast, too defensive, and you try to soften it. "I mean, it's not ready. It's rough. It's barely coherent. I don't let people read my stuff until it's like, actually finished and edited and maybe not even then."
"Protective of your work," Ellie observes, not pushing, just noting. "I get that. I'm the same way with my sketches. Like, I'll model naked in front of a room full of people, but showing someone my personal art? That's actually vulnerable."
The parallel strikes you—how exposure and vulnerability aren't the same thing, how you can reveal your body and still keep yourself hidden, how the things we create hold more of us than the flesh we inhabit.
"What do you draw?" you ask, desperate to turn the conversation away from your work, from the laptop in your bag that contains words about her that she can never see.
"Everything. Whatever catches my eye. Mostly nature stuff—plants, insects, that kinda thing. There's something about the way life just... exists without performance, you know? Like, a moth doesn't give a shit if you think it's beautiful. It just is what it is."
You think about the moth tattoo on her arm, about the way she talks about existence without performance while literally performing existence as a nude model, about the contradiction and how it somehow makes perfect sense.
"Is that what you want to do? Art?"
Ellie shrugs, a roll of her shoulders that's casual but you can see something underneath it, something less certain. "Maybe. I don't know. I'm taking a gap year to figure shit out. Everyone's got plans and paths and five-year goals, and I'm just like... I want to make things. I want to exist. I want to figure out what matters to me instead of what I'm supposed to want."
The honesty of it, the vulnerability wrapped in casual delivery, makes your chest ache. You're used to people performing certainty, faking confidence about futures they're probably just as confused about as you are. But Ellie just lays it out there—I don't know, and that's okay.
"Can I ask about your hand?" The question escapes before you can stop it, before your filter can catch it and label it as too personal, too intrusive, too much for a first coffee date that might not even be a date.
But Ellie doesn't flinch. "Sure. Everyone wants to know, they just don't usually ask directly. I appreciate the honesty."
She holds up her hand, the missing ring and pinky finger immediately visible, the absence somehow more present than presence would be. "Accident when I was a kid. Twelve. I was messing around with some machinery I definitely shouldn't have been messing around with on my uncle's farm. Learned a valuable lesson about following safety instructions."
"Does it hurt? Like, still?"
"Sometimes. Phantom pain, mostly. My brain forgets they're gone and sends signals to fingers that aren't there anymore. It's weird but you get used to it. Mostly I just forget about it until someone new meets me and does that thing where they try really hard not to stare but absolutely are staring."
"I stared," you admit, heat creeping up your neck. "Through the window. I noticed."
"I know," Ellie says, and that smile is back, that dangerous smile that makes you forget how to breathe properly. "You weren't subtle. But you weren't staring like I was a freak. You were staring like you were trying to understand something. Like it was a detail that mattered."
"It did matter. Does matter. It's part of your story."
"Most people see it as a tragedy or a curiosity. You saw it as a story." Ellie leans forward slightly, her elbows on the table, her eyes locked on yours in a way that makes the rest of the coffee shop fade into background noise. "That's different. That's interesting."
The conversation flows easier after that, like something has loosened, like you've both revealed enough that the pretense isn't necessary anymore. She asks about your classes, your writing process, why you chose this university. You ask about her modeling, her gap year, where she's from originally.
You learn that she's from a small town three hours away, that she's visiting her friend Jesse who's in graduate school here, that she's been modeling for art classes for two years because the money's decent and she likes the stillness of it, the meditation of holding a pose, the way it forces her to exist in her body without commentary.
You tell her about your name (of course), your insomnia, your anxiety, the way writing is both torture and the only thing that makes sense, how you've always felt like you're watching life happen to other people instead of participating in your own.
She tells you about her ex, a girl back home who wanted Ellie to be someone she wasn't, who had plans that didn't include gap years or uncertainty or the freedom to figure things out.
You don't tell her about the pages you've written about her, about the way she's been consuming your thoughts like a wildfire, about how sitting here with her feels both terrifying and like the most natural thing you've ever done.
The coffee shop fills up around you—the Saturday morning crowd, people with laptops and books and conversations that create a pleasant hum of humanity. But you barely notice them. Your entire world has contracted to this table, this conversation, this girl who keeps surprising you with her honesty, her humor, the way she listens like what you're saying actually matters.
An hour passes. Then another. Your coffee has gone cold but neither of you moves to leave, both caught in the current of conversation that keeps finding new tributaries, new directions, new territories to explore.
It's only when Ellie checks her phone and curses softly that you both realize how much time has passed.
"Shit, I'm supposed to meet Jesse for lunch in twenty minutes across campus." She looks almost reluctant to leave, almost disappointed, which does something dangerous to your heart rate. "This was... really good. Like, actually good. Not just 'obligation coffee to apologize for noise violation' good."
"Yeah," you manage, your vocabulary apparently reduced to single syllables in the face of Ellie's proximity and attention. "Really good."
You both stand, gather your things, move toward the door in that awkward dance of not quite wanting to leave but knowing you have to. The sunlight outside is bright after the coffee shop's amber warmth, making you both squint slightly.
"We should—" Ellie starts, but she doesn't get to finish.
A guy barrels past—college-aged, clearly in a hurry, clearly not watching where he's going, clearly about to ruin what had been a perfect morning. His shoulder collides with Ellie's, sending his iced coffee—one of those enormous plastic cups filled with what looks like more milk and sugar than actual coffee—flying directly onto her chest.
"What the fuck!" Ellie jumps back, but the damage is done. Her shirt is soaked, brown liquid spreading across the faded band logo, dripping down onto her jeans.
"Oh shit, I'm sorry, I didn't—" The guy barely slows down, throws the words over his shoulder like an afterthought, already moving away.
"You didn't look where you were fucking going!" Ellie shouts after him, but he's already halfway down the block, either didn't hear or doesn't care.
She looks down at herself, at the mess, and lets out a laugh that's half frustration, half disbelief. "Perfect. Great. Love this for me."
Your brain short-circuits through several options—offer napkins (useless), suggest she wash it off in the bathroom (still useless, she'll be soaked), just stand there awkwardly (default setting but unhelpful)—before landing on something that makes your anxiety spike but also feels like the right thing to do.
"I have clothes you could borrow, if you want," you hear yourself say, the words coming out before you can fully process them, before you can calculate all the ways this could go wrong. "So you're not walking around soaked all day."
Ellie looks at you, surprise flickering across her face, followed by something else—gratitude maybe, or interest, or some combination you can't quite parse. "You sure? I don't want to impose."
"You're already soaked. That's worse than imposing." You're trying for humor, for lightness, but your voice comes out strained because you just invited Ellie to your dorm, to your room, to your personal space that you guard more carefully than your laptop.
"Okay. Yeah. That would be great, actually." Ellie gestures at herself, at the spreading stain. "Lead the way."
The walk back to your dorm takes five minutes but feels like five seconds and five hours simultaneously. Your mind races with everything that could go wrong—Dina could be home, your room could be a mess (it definitely is), Ellie could see something that reveals too much, you could trip and fall and die of embarrassment, the list is endless.
But you make it to your building, up the stairs, down the hallway to your door. Your hands shake slightly as you unlock it, as you step inside and hold it open for Ellie to follow.
The common area is empty—Dina's out, her door closed, no signs of life. Small mercies.
"My room's just—" You gesture toward your door, leading her across the small space, hyperaware of every sound, every breath, every detail of this moment that feels surreal and terrifying and somehow inevitable.
Your room looks exactly how you left it this morning: bed unmade, string lights on, books everywhere, laptop on your desk where you'd been writing at 2 AM, unable to sleep, unable to stop thinking about today.
Ellie steps inside and you close the door behind her—for privacy, for the ability to change without your roommate potentially walking in, definitely not for any other reason that makes your face heat and your stomach flip.
"Let me find you something." You move to your closet, rifling through options, trying to find something that will fit her, that won't be weird, that won't make this even more awkward than it already is. You pull out a black t-shirt—oversized on you, might fit her okay—and hand it over. "Here. Bathroom's attached, you can change in there."
"Thanks." Ellie takes the shirt, her fingers brushing yours for just a second, just long enough to send electricity up your arm, to make you forget how to perform basic motor functions.
She disappears into your tiny bathroom—barely bigger than a closet, just a toilet and sink and mirror—and you stand in the middle of your room trying to remember how to breathe normally, trying not to think about the fact that Ellie is in your bathroom, taking off her shirt, existing in your space in a state of partial undress.
You busy yourself with straightening your desk, closing your laptop, moving books into slightly neater piles that don't actually improve anything but give your hands something to do besides shake.
Ellie emerges wearing your shirt—it fits her better than you expected, hugs her shoulders in a way that makes your mouth go dry—carrying her wet shirt and jacket. "Where should I...?"
"Just—" You take them from her, trying not to think about the warmth still in the fabric, trying not to be weird about laundry of all things. "I'll hang them up. They'll dry."
You drape them over your desk chair, carefully, like they're important, like they're not just clothes but evidence of this moment, of Ellie in your room wearing your shirt.
When you turn back around, Ellie's not looking at you. She's looking at your walls, at your bookshelf, at the careful chaos of your personal space. She moves slowly through the room like she's in a gallery, examining the art, reading the titles on your spines, taking in details you've never thought about because you see them every day but that probably say more about you than you'd like to admit.
"You read a lot of poetry," she observes, pulling out a worn copy of Ocean Vuong from your shelf, flipping through it carefully like she understands that some books are precious.
"Poetry's good for... understanding how to use language differently. How to make words do more than just convey information." You're hovering by your desk, unsure where to stand, how to occupy space in your own room when Ellie's presence has somehow made it feel smaller and larger at the same time.
"Read me something," Ellie says, turning to face you, book still in hand.
"What?"
"Read me something. From this." She holds up the book. "I want to hear what you sound like when you're reading someone else's words instead of scrambling to find your own."
Your heart hammers against your ribs like it's trying to escape, like it knows this is dangerous, like it's trying to warn you that you're about to cross some line from which there's no return.
But you take the book from her, let your fingers brush hers again—intentional this time, or maybe not, maybe just inevitable. You flip to a page you know by heart, one you've read so many times the spine automatically opens to it.
"To be gorgeous, you must first be seen, but to be seen allows you to be hunted—" Your voice cracks slightly, not from emotion but from the sheer vulnerability of this, of reading poetry in your room to a girl who's wearing your shirt and looking at you like you're something worth paying attention to.
Ellie's moved closer. You didn't notice when but she's there now, just a few feet away, close enough that you can smell your own laundry detergent on her, can see the exact pattern of freckles on her collarbone where your shirt's collar is slightly too wide.
"Keep going," she says quietly.
But you can't. Can't focus on the words because Ellie's looking at you like that, like you're interesting, like you matter, like this moment matters. The book hangs forgotten in your hand, the page still open but meaningless now.
"Ellie," you say, and it comes out barely above a whisper, barely sound at all.
She takes another step closer. "Yeah?"
You don't have words for what you want to say, don't have language adequate to the feeling rising in your chest like floodwater, like something that's been held back too long and is finally breaking through every carefully constructed dam.
Ellie reaches up, slowly, giving you time to move away if you want to, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Her fingers linger there, just barely touching your skin, and the contact is electric, is devastating, is everything you've been simultaneously hoping for and terrified of since you first saw her through that studio window.
"Is this okay?" she asks, her voice low and rough and doing things to your nervous system that should probably be illegal.
You nod, not trusting your voice, not trusting anything except the fact that if you don't kiss her right now you might actually die, might combust, might cease to exist from the sheer wanting of it.
Ellie leans in, her eyes searching yours for confirmation, for permission, for any sign that this is what you want.
You lean in too, closing the distance, closing your eyes, feeling her breath on your lips, feeling the moment stretch and expand until it fills the entire room, the entire universe, until nothing exists except—
The front door slams open.
"—and I'm telling you, he's like, objectively gorgeous. Like, model-tier. Those cheekbones? Criminal!" Dina's voice, loud and enthusiastic and absolutely not supposed to be here, carries through your closed door like a siren, like a warning, like the universe's worst timing.
You and Ellie spring apart like you've been electrocuted, like you've been caught doing something illicit rather than almost kissing, emphasis on almost.
Ellie's eyes are wide, your heart is trying to escape your chest, and Dina is right outside your door, clearly talking on the phone, her voice animated with the particular energy she gets when she's excited about something.
"Shit," you whisper, running your hands through your hair, trying to look normal, trying to look like you weren't just about to kiss your roommate's recent hookup in your bedroom at eleven-thirty in the morning.
"Do I need to hide?" Ellie whispers back, and there's humor in her voice despite the situation, amusement at the absurdity, but also something else—disappointment, maybe, at the interruption.
"No, just—stay here. I'll go talk to her. Just... give me a minute."
You slip out of your room, closing the door behind you perhaps a bit too carefully, too deliberately. Dina's pacing in the kitchenette, phone pressed to her ear, gesturing wildly with her free hand even though whoever she's talking to can't see her.
"I know, right? Anyway, I gotta go, my roommate just emerged from her cave. Yeah. Okay. Bye!" She ends the call and turns to you, her face lit up with that particular glow that means she's met someone new, someone interesting, someone who's currently occupying all her mental real estate.
"Hey! Where've you been all morning? I texted you like three times." She doesn't wait for an answer, already moving to lean against the counter, practically vibrating with excited energy. "Okay so remember that guy from my Poli Sci class? The one I said had like, unfairly attractive bone structure?"
"Uh... sure?" You don't actually remember, but Dina doesn't need confirmation, she needs an audience.
"So he asked me to study with him tomorrow and I'm like ninety percent sure it's not actually about studying because we literally just had our midterm, there's nothing to study for, which means it's definitely a date disguised as academic collaboration." Dina's grinning, practically bouncing. "His name is Mason and he's pre-law and he's got this whole like, intellectual hot guy thing going on. Very 'I read philosophy for fun' energy but in a way that's actually genuine and not pretentious?"
"That's... great." You're trying to sound enthusiastic, trying to be a supportive roommate, but your brain is still half in your bedroom where Ellie is waiting, where you were two seconds away from kissing her before Dina's impeccable timing ruined everything.
"I know! I'm excited. Like, actually excited, not just 'bored and looking for entertainment' excited." Dina's still talking, describing Mason's various attractive qualities in detail you're not fully absorbing, and you're nodding along, making appropriate sounds, but your eyes keep drifting toward your closed door.
Then, because your mouth operates independently of your better judgment, you hear yourself whisper: "I thought you were still going after Ellie?"
The question lands in the space between you like a stone, like something heavy and sharp-edged.
Dina's expression flickers—something passing through her eyes too quickly to fully read, but you catch it anyway. A shadow of something. Want, maybe. Regret. The ghost of feelings that haven't fully dissipated despite knowing they should.
But then she shrugs, and the moment passes, and her casual mask slides back into place with practiced ease. "Ellie was fun. Really fun. But that was a one-time thing, you know? She's not sticking around, she's got her whole gap year wandering thing happening, and I'm not trying to catch feelings for someone who's leaving in like almost three weeks."
Her voice is light, dismissive, the tone of someone who's totally fine and definitely not thinking about auburn hair and green eyes and freckles that go everywhere. But you know Dina, know the tells she doesn't realize she has—the way she's fidgeting with her phone case, the way she won't quite meet your eyes, the way there's something wistful underneath the bravado.
"But you—" you start, not sure what you're asking, just knowing there's more there.
"I'm fine," Dina cuts you off, too quick, too defensive. "Really. Ellie's cool, we had fun, but I'm not about to pine over a girl who's literally just passing through. Mason's here, he's interested, and he's not going anywhere. That's better. Easier."
She's lying. Not about Mason—you believe she's interested in him, believe that attraction is real. But she's lying about being over Ellie, about it meaning nothing, about it being as casual as she's pretending.
You can see it in the way her jaw tightens slightly when she says Ellie's name, in the way her fingers clench around her phone, in the way she's trying just a little too hard to sound unaffected.
"Dina—"
"Besides," she interrupts again, her voice taking on a forced brightness, "you should be more worried about your own love life. When's the last time you went on a date? Actually, when's the last time you talked to someone you were interested in for more than thirty seconds without having a minor panic attack?"
The deflection is obvious, the subject change deliberate. She doesn't want to talk about Ellie, doesn't want to examine whatever she's feeling, doesn't want to admit that maybe it wasn't quite as casual as she told herself it would be.
And you should push. Should be a good friend and make sure she's actually okay. Should talk this through like roommates are supposed to do.
But Ellie's in your room, wearing your shirt, waiting for you to come back, and your own feelings are too loud, too consuming, too immediate to make space for examining Dina's.
"I'm fine," you echo her words back at her, equally unconvincing. "Just... busy with my project. You know how it is."
"Mmhmm." Dina's looking at you now, really looking, and you can see the exact moment she registers something's off, something's different. "You're being weird. Why are you being weird? Did something happen?"
"Nothing happened. I'm just tired. Didn't sleep well." All technically true, even if misleading.
Dina opens her mouth like she's going to press further, but then her phone buzzes and her attention immediately diverts. "Oh shit, Mason just texted. Okay, I'm gonna..." She waves vaguely toward her room. "You good?"
"Yeah. Fine. Go text your pre-law student."
She grins, already moving toward her room, already pulled back into her own orbit. "Don't work too hard on your project. Take a break occasionally. Maybe go outside. See the sun. Revolutionary concepts, I know."
Her door closes, and you're alone in the common area, heart still racing, mind still spinning, knowing that Ellie's waiting on the other side of your door and you need to go back in there and face whatever comes next.
You take a breath. Then another. Then you return to your room.
Ellie's exactly where you left her, except now she's at your desk, and your laptop is open, and she's staring at your screen with an expression you can't quite read—surprise? Interest? Horror?
Your heart stops. Completely stops.
Because you know what's on that screen. Know exactly what document is open, what words are visible, what descriptions of her—her freckles, her eyes, her hands, her everything—are currently being read by the subject of those descriptions.
"Ellie—" Your voice cracks, shatters, reveals every ounce of panic currently flooding your system.
She doesn't move. Doesn't look away from the screen. Just sits there in your desk chair, wearing your shirt, reading your words, and the silence stretches between you like taffy, like agony, like every worst-case scenario you've ever imagined condensed into a single eternal moment.
You want to run. Want to grab the laptop and slam it shut and pretend this never happened. Want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. Want to cease to exist rather than face whatever comes next.
But you can't move. Can't do anything except stand there, frozen, watching Ellie read about herself through your eyes, through your writer brain’s obsessiveness, through prose that's probably way too honest about how much you've been thinking about her.
The silence is suffocating. Your pulse thunders in your ears. Each second that passes feels like an hour, like an eternity, like time has stopped altogether just to maximize your suffering.
Finally—after what feels like hours but is probably only thirty seconds—Ellie looks up.
And she's smiling.
Not smirking. Not the teasing smile you've seen before. A genuine smile, soft and surprised and something else you can't quite name but that makes your chest ache with its warmth.
"Y/N," she says, your name rolling off her tongue in a way that has you weak in the knees. Her voice is rough with something that might be emotion, might be amusement, might be both. "You really are protective of your work."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to see that, I should have closed it, I—"
"Stop." Ellie stands, moves toward you slowly, deliberately, and you want to back away but your feet have forgotten how to perform basic motor functions. "Don't apologize. This is... nobody's ever thought about me like this before."
"Like what?" Your voice is barely audible, barely sound at all.
"Like I'm worth paying attention to. Not just my body or my 'interesting' features or whatever the fuck people usually fixate on." She pauses, and you watch something vulnerable cross her face, something real beneath her usual confidence. "You wrote about me like I'm a person worth understanding. Worth figuring out. Like I'm more than just surface details."
"You are more than surface details."
"I know that. But most people don't bother looking deep enough to see it." She's close now, closer than she was before the almost-kiss, close enough that you can see the darker ring around her irises, can count the freckles on her nose if you wanted to. "You looked. You really looked."
"I couldn't stop looking."
"I know," she says softly, and there's something in her eyes now—heat, interest, want. "I couldn't stop thinking about you looking."
The air between you feels thick, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. Your skin is too hot, too tight, every nerve ending firing in anticipation of touch that hasn't happened yet but feels inevitable.
Ellie reaches up, slowly, giving you time to move away if you want to, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Her fingers linger there, just barely touching your skin, and the contact is electric, is devastating, is everything you've been simultaneously hoping for and terrified of.
"You know what's interesting?" Ellie's voice has dropped lower, rougher, intimate in a way that makes your stomach flip. "Reading this, seeing how you see me... it made me realize something."
"What?" You can barely form the word, barely think through the fog of want and nervousness and desperate hope.
"You're trying to write about me, but you're doing it from memory. From observation through windows and hallways and brief conversations." Her hand slides from your ear to cup your jaw, her thumb brushing your cheekbone in a touch so gentle it makes you ache. "That's like trying to paint a sunset from a photograph. You're missing dimensions. Details."
You're not sure you're breathing anymore. "What are you saying?"
Ellie's smile shifts into something more intentional, more purposeful. "I'm saying, if you wanna write about me—really write about me, capture what you're trying to capture—you need better reference material."
Your brain short-circuits trying to process what she's suggesting, trying to understand if she means what you think she means. "I don't... I'm not sure I understand."
"I think you do." Ellie's thumb traces your jawline, a touch that's simultaneously grounding and destabilizing. "I'm a model. That's what I do. I pose. I give artists what they need to create." She pauses, her eyes searching yours. "I could do that for you. Private sessions. Just you and me. No classroom, no other students, no pretense of academic distance."
The implication hits you like a physical force, like a wave, like something that threatens to knock you off your feet. "You want to... model for me?"
"I want to give you what you need for your project. For your writing." Her voice is steady but you can see something flickering in her eyes—nervousness maybe, vulnerability, the courage it takes to offer something like this. "I want to be looked at the way you look at me. Like I'm art instead of just anatomy."
"Ellie, I—" You're not sure what you're trying to say, not sure you can form coherent thoughts when she's this close, when she's offering this, when every fantasy you've tried not to have is suddenly crystallizing into potential reality.
"Think about it," she says, stepping back slightly, giving you space to breathe, to think, to process. "No pressure. But the offer's there. I'm here for almost three more weeks. We could... explore this. Whatever this is."
She gestures vaguely between you, at the space that's charged with electricity and want and the weight of unfinished moments. At the almost-kiss that still hangs in the air between you like a promise, like potential, like something waiting to be fulfilled.
"I should go," she says, glancing at the time on her phone. "Jesse's probably wondering where I am. But text me. Let me know."
She moves to grab her now-dry jacket from your chair, shrugs it on over your shirt—which she's apparently keeping, which means you'll see her wearing it again, which means there's a future implied in that action.
At your door, she pauses, turns back. "For what it's worth? The way you write about me?" Her smile is soft, genuine, devastating. "It's the first time someone's made me feel like being seen isn't the same as being exposed. So thank you. For that."
And then she's gone, slipping out of your room, out of your dorm, leaving you standing in the middle of your space that still smells faintly like her, that still feels charged with her presence, with words unspoken and touches not yet shared and possibilities that make your hands shake and your heart race.
You sink onto your bed, staring at your laptop that's still open, still showing those words you wrote about her that she read, that changed something between you.
Your phone buzzes.
Ellie: meant what i said btw. think abt it. the offer stands.
Ellie: and for the record? i was thinking about kissing you wayyyyy before i read your document
Ellie: just in case that wasn't clear
You stare at the messages, reading them over and over, trying to make sense of the fact that this is real, this is happening, that Ellie Williams just offered to pose for you privately, just admitted she wants to kiss you, just left your room wearing your shirt like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Outside your window, campus continues its Saturday routine—students crossing the quad, couples holding hands, life happening the way it always does.
But inside your room, inside your chest, inside your head—everything has changed.
So dictator commander cait has been on my mind ever since s2 came out.. and i really need cait yearning and pining for reader who doesn’t know cait even exists oh how delicious it would be to have reader reject cait and I would love to know what do you think cait would do!!!
cw: mentions of vi (breakup) . heartbreak . no smut .
i feel like this is so ahh, i so hate this
everyone knows commander caitlyn kiramman. they know the posture, straight back, immaculate, hands folded behind her like restraint itself is a weapon. they know the voice, clipped and precise, capable of ending arguments and lives with equal calm. they know she does not hesitate anymore. not after the breakup. not after power settled into her bones and decided to stay.
what no one knows is that every night, without fail, she reads the same civilian registry entry.
your name. you don’t know she exists, well not really.
you’ve seen her on banners,posters. the sharp blue of her eyes rendered in propaganda tones, softened just enough to be palatable. protector of piltover. architect of peace. she’s just another figure in a city full of uniforms now. that ignorance eats at her because caitlyn knows you.
she knows the cadence of your laugh from a single overheard conversation months ago. knows the way you tilt your head when confused. knows you live three streets away from a checkpoint she pretends not to notice running overtime, just so she can justify walking past your block during inspections.
after she left vi, caitlyn learned the discipline of wanting without reaching. she tells herself this is the same, which it isn’t.
wanting vi was visceral, loud, reckless. wanting you is quieter and worse. it feels like faith.
she engineers the meeting carefully.a charity hearing, civilian outreach, your name floated onto the guest list with surgical inevitability. she rehearses what she won’t say. convinces herself this is just curiosity, just closure for a woman who has already lost enough. when she sees you in person, it is catastrophic.
she speaks your name like a secret she’s been holding in her mouth too long. you blink,“sorry, do i know you?”
something in her fractures. not visibly, never that. but the realisation lands clean and brutal, she has been living in a one sided mythology.
she introduces herself anyway. offers a smile that has ended negotiations and started wars. you offer one back.
the conversation is brief and administrative. you thank her for her time, you do not linger, you do not ask questions, you do not look at her like she is anything more than a function.
when she, carefully, deliberately, steps past protocol and asks if you would like to continue this discussion privately ,coffee perhaps, you hesitate.
“I don’t think that’s appropriate,” you say, gently. “with everything going on… and you being you.”
you being you. she nods. accepts it with grace so pristine it hurts. she does not argue.
you leave. the city does not explode. no orders are given. but something shifts.
caitlyn does not pursue you openly after that. that would be crude. your neighborhood becomes safer and quieter. patrols rerouted away from your door. your workplace receives funding it never applied for. a permit you were sure would be denied is approved overnight.
you feel it before you understand it, that strange sensation of being protected by something you never consented to.
and caitlyn? she watches from a distance. she tells herself this is restraint. that she is honouring your rejection. that she will not take what is not freely given.
content: mdni 18+ content ;; sexual themes, angst, fluff, strangers to lovers, silent yearning, jealousy, afab reader ⸺ men dni, use of "y/n l/n", swearing, implied situationships / confusing relationship dynamics, sensitive themes (excessive vulnerability, lack of explicit consent, social anxiety, etc), alcohol and substance usage, college au, modern au, multiple part fic,, will be updated if needed as i continue!
word count: loading . . .
synopsis: you’re a writer with a deadline looming and nothing but a blinking cursor to show for it. until one glance down a hallway changes everything.
ellie williams is a nude model—sharp-tongued, unapologetic, all confidence and freckles and green eyes that linger just a second too long. one look at her and suddenly you’re seeing things through a different lens, thinking thoughts you can’t quite justify, writing words that feel too close to the truth. she becomes your muse without meaning to… and maybe without your permission.
as late nights blur into stolen glances, awkward encounters, and unusual regularity, inspiration turns personal. too personal. and if there's one thing every writer should know, it's to never get too invested in your work, or it may just be the end of you.
[ 28 . 12 . 25 ] you stare at a blinking cursor until the bell saves you from yourself. then, one stolen glance turns into something heavier, something that lodges itself under your skin. you run, try to shake her from your thoughts, but she lingers anyway, haunting your room and your body. but if there's one thing you learnt, it's that you can't run away forever, no matter how hard you try.
[ tbd . . . ] sleep becomes impossible when dina’s bedroom door shuts. sounds bleed through the walls, each one twisting something sharp in your chest. your project grows, but only barely—emotion bleeding into the margins without taking shape. guilt, shame, something unnamed. but that's all pretty much thrown out the window when ellie offers to take you out for coffee.
[ tbd . . . ] dina fills the apartment with music, food, and unfiltered desire, talking about bodies like they’re interchangeable. when ellie becomes the topic, something in you recoils. discomfort—disgust, even. coffee turns into conversation, and conversation turns into something dangerously close to comfort. tension builds in the quiet spaces… until a mistake threatens to unravel everything.
[ tbd . . . ] a private posing session blurs the line between art and intimacy. you talk more than you mean to, revealing pieces of yourself you usually keep locked away. ellie listens—really listens, and suddenly, you find yourselves using your mouths for more than talking.
[ tbd . . . ] an impromptu invite to a house party turns your nightly writing plans upside down. it's loud, messy, and intoxicating. music thrums through the walls as boundaries loosen and desire takes over. in the chaos, you and ellie collide in a way that feels reckless and perfect. for one night, you let yourself forget the consequences, even if they come back to bite you in the ass.
vi teaching you how to eat her out !!!! this was supposed to be short.. oops! not proofread btw so if it’s ass sorry
“i…baby—no. okay. okay, timeout.” vi tells you, sitting up on her elbows, baby blue eyes staring at you. you sit up (well, back, really. on your knees) and wipe her slick off your chin with your sleeve.
she chuckles at you, at that little befuddled furrow in your eyebrows. you’re confused, truly. you thought you were doing at least a bit well. obviously, that’s not the case.
but you begged for this. you’d begged to eat her out. pleaded with that pouty, bratty little look that always got you what you wanted. “just once. please?” you told her; voice all soft, fake confidence stitched into every word.
it’s not that you don’t know how to make her feel good—you do. you just aren’t great at giving head. it’s never been your thing, and she’s never pushed it. you wouldn’t have even brought it up if it weren’t for that damn package that came in the mail a couple days ago. some clit-sucking, tongue-attachment bullshit. way too close to the real thing.
you asked vi about it the same day, she told you it was nothing. you thought it was everything. she has you for gods sake! you don’t need her relying on some shitty, shoddy toy. absolutely not.
“..i did it wrong, didn’t i?” you asked her, sheepish, subconsciously shrinking into yourself. it’s embarrassing. you actually debate just getting up and forgetting about it, let her use her fuckass fake tongue and that’s that. your cheeks burn, head bowing to stare at the floor.
she catches it and pulls her boxers back up, telling you to look at her.
you do.. reluctantly, not really meeting her eyes. she tilts your chin up until you don’t have the choice, telling you, “don’t hide from me, angel. you just need me to guide you, yeah? ‘s no biggie.” you don’t say anything in response, just nodding, though the pout stays. “you want me to help you?” she tries again, words dropping to a low coo. another nod.
“speak, baby.”
“yeah. i want you to… help me. please.”
she hums low in her throat, satisfied. “okay. good. now,” she scoots back on the bed until her bare back hits the headboard, banging it hard against the wall, “my shirts already off, kiss my tits. suck them—whatever. they’re sensitive that’s the point.”
you obey without word and you’re on her in seconds, lips wrapping around one of her nipples, rolling the other between your fingertips. she lets out a small whine, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. then, when you switch to give them equal attention, her hips buck up. she’s undoubtedly turned on again.
you know how to do this part—you kiss down her body, stopping occasionally to suck bruises into her skin. down down down, hands all over her. digging your nails into her skin, tracing over her muscles until you reach her waistband. two fingers curl the fabric and give a gentle tug. silent permission yet you were face deep in her cunt not even fifteen minutes ago.
after a small nod from her, you pull them down in a heartbeat. you don’t want to waste anymore time. she snickers at your eagerness, you’re to excited to care. she spreads her legs back open once you’re face to pussy with her—she’s fucking glistening. literally. she’s wetter than before.
you freeze to look up at her, awaiting instructions.
“right, okay. use your tongue first, around my clit. lay your tongue flat. move up and down—ohhh, fuck. yeah. yeahyeahyeah, like that.” her words end in something between a high whine and a moan, her hand already fisting in her hair.
you’re a fast learner. and she’s just sensitive from the fact that it’s you on her. win fuckin win.
when your pace starts to falter, she gives you more direction. guidance. because, as sweet and patient as she’s being, she needs this to be worth her while. she needs to cum. bad.
“baby. baby, my clit—stop using your tongue and suck it instead.” her words cut through whatever rhythm you had going. , lips wet. a string of saliva-slick connecting you to her pussy. she literally whimpers at the thought. her fingers tighten in her hair, you don’t care.
“…suck it? wouldn’t that—”
“suck it hard as you want,” she cuts you off, “i’ll tell if it feels weird or bad or… or whatever.” and then she’s pushing you back between her thighs. you nod into her cunt, tongue going back in your mouth and plump lips wrap around the bud. the first few sucks are weird. some are too harsh, or too soft, your teeth rub against her. but when you find that rhythm, she’s a goner.
hips lifting off the bed, ever so desperately chasing that pleasure. it buzzes through her, making her body run warm. she feels like on fire—the good kind. you’re too fucking good at this already. god. praise after praise spills from her lips, you own legs clench at that.
“so good. you’re doing so fuckin good, my good girl.” “gonna make me see stars.” “ohhh fuck, ‘m gonna cum so hard and it’ll be all you.” “best head i’ve ever had.”
it spurs you on. gives you this random burst of confidence that wasn’t there before. without much thought; you slide two fingers through her folds, sliding them up and down, coating them in her slick. she’s too caught up in her own world to notice. that is until you push them in.
she gasps at first, sound so harsh you stop for a minute to make sure you didn’t accidentally hurt or something. she waves you off. “don’t fuckin stop, i’m fine. g-good gasp, good gasppp—fffffuck me. oh fuck.” the syllables drag like honey on her tongue, beyond fucked out.
you’re pumping in and out of her now, fingers curling once you find that spot inside her. over and over again. you alternate between sucking and rolling her clit with your tongue. this woman is on cloud nine, moaning uncontrollably, hips thrashing. she’s drowning out everything else in the room—there’ll definitely be a noise complaint from a neighbor.
she lasts all of… maybe five minutes after that. she tries to hold it, truly she does. wants this to last as long as possible, but one particular, harsh suck and a “sssso good, my baby’s fuckin me so—so good.” she barely gets a chance to warn you.
just a strangled “i’m gonna cum—fuck—‘m cumming.”
her juices squirt alll over you. your face, the sheets underneath you, her inner thighs. everywhere. you drink it all up, moaning at the taste of her. she’s so sweet.
you ride it out for her, sucking and pumping until she has to push you off. too sensitive for much else. she collapses onto the bed, you follow after her. her pupils are blown wide, the corners of her lips turned upward. “sooo… not bad for your first time.”
“mm.” you try to hide your own grin. “you squirted. pretty hard, might i add.” her cheeks turn bright red at that.
“..yep. it was hot, you’re so hot.”
“i have a good coach. now. lemme get you cleaned up, both of us actually.”
you move to get up, but she pulls you back down. “noooo, not yet. stay.”
“…fine.”
“can we do that again actually? like when i’m not so sensitive. we could sixty nine or something.”
she showed up at your door one night—bloody, shoulders heavy with a kind of exhaustion you’d never seen on her before. said she had nothing left. said she’d taken down a few visitors herself.
you hesitated.
times were hard, and trust was a currency you couldn’t afford, so you’d spent yours wisely.
but she was a face you’d known for four years now—the helpful hand that always showed up when something heavy needed carrying, the generous neighbor who patched up your house without ever asking for anything in return.
having her around felt safe. just the two of you. you cooked, she cleaned. sometimes she’d hum under her breath for you, and for a while, it almost felt like normal.
until it didn’t.
restlessness gave her away fast. she stopped sleeping. stopped laughing at the dumb jokes that used to make her freckles wrinkle and her nose scrunch up like a kid.
the news kept listing off symptoms
red eyes
delayed reactions
inability to dream
but she was also human. tired, grieving. missing her hometown, missing a dad she couldn’t return to—the only family she had left.
but in times like these, it’s better to be safe than sorry.
she didn’t take it well when you brought it up. didn’t argue, didn’t fight, just fell silent. but you could tell she was hurt.
you told her it was just so you’d sleep easier if you ran a few tests.
her eyes were a little red, maybe from the smoke or the sleepless nights.
but that didn’t necessarily mean she was a visitor… right?
a/n : sorry but i’ve been completely obsessed with this game so this is all you’re getting for now. and yes half of this is just heavily edited (my photomodes tho :p) except for the hands and the eye. those are actually drawn and animated by me hehe (still learning don’t be mean)
Raising your teenage brother and grappling with a proper work-life balance is far from easy. But after a freak car accident, strange things start happening to both of you, and your oddly distant girlfriend is extremely interested in it.
WORD COUNT: 18.354
CONTAINS: Fem!Reader. Hair and skin color are not described, though the reader's hair is mentioned to get longer/thicker over the course of the fic. Some ABO kind of. Standard horror themes and descriptions - murder, death, blood, and gore. The brother in this fic is intended to be Ekko, but it can be read as an adoptive relationship! Smut! Some blood kink/play? Idk, they're werewolves. Penetrative Sex (Reader receiving). Rough sex.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic is basically a reboot of the movie 'Cursed' by Wes Craven from 2005. Is it good after a complete deviation from the original script and 4 reshoots? No. Do I care? Also, no. It's one of my favorite werewolf flicks, primarily because we have none, especially ones with a romantic element. Seriously, who do vampires always get the girl at the end? We need a werewolf romance renaissance STAT. A lot of inspiration came from the soundtrack piece love theme, which is just so romantic and haunting, ugh. Also, my longest fic to date! Yippee! Happy Halloween I love y'all <3
Ever since your parents took you to the county carnival on a brisk night when you were 13, you knew it in your soul that you had a connection to the moon.
You were suspicious of the lone fortune teller when you saw her, wild blonde hair framing her face in a way that made her look more like a lost nomad than a carnival seer. But she had called you over, and wanting to get the most out of this rare outing where it was just you and your parents, you indulged her to your parents’ amusement.
You had expected her to give you a fortune like she did your parents, how you’d find success like your father, or how she could predict sunshine would bring you luck like rain would bring your mother misery.
Instead, when you placed your palm in the stranger's, her face went cold, her grip pressing harder before she hurried to flip over her cards. You didn't understand what gibberish she was mumbling to herself under her breath, and you could feel the worry emanating from your mother and father behind you.
Almost like a light switch, the seer regained her composure. She gently held both your hands together and whispered,
“The night will bring you many things. Some beautiful, some tragic, others confusing. But you must continue to put your faith in the moon and its light. Do you understand?”
Her voice took on an almost worried tone, and before you could finish nodding, your father dropped a bill on the table as your mother grabbed your shoulder and pulled you away.
You thought of that fortune often after that night. When only a year later you had your first kiss with a girl at a mutual friend's sleepover, how you won your first regional debate match during an event strangely held deep into the night, every little twist and turn of fate that happened while that beautiful white rock shone in the sky.
Then you were 21, watching over your 14-year-old brother on an abnormally stormy night when a phone call told you that your parents were gone, that it was just the two of you now.
You swiftly forgot about that ‘fortune’, and whenever your brother would beg to go back to the county fair, you'd always make up an excuse. He learned not to get too upset at it over the years, but you knew he'd be upset at you tonight.
Your job had you running extremely late, stuck in a brief over the last-minute demands of your firm's new, stuck-up celebrity client that would take weeks to finalize, and then you were tasked with checking in with each team lead of the current project to inform them about the changes. Annoyed grumbles and misplaced anger you could deal with, but then, of course, she had to distract you, just like she had been for the past few months.
And she was none other than Vi Vanderson. Esteemed stunt artist, her prestige in her craft is only rivaled by her reputation for wooing the lonely lesbians in every corner of Los Angeles.
Obviously, you’d heard about her reputation; you wouldn’t be anyone in this town without having done so. She was a pro at her work, and even more proficient at being one of the worst playgirls you’d had the displeasure of knowing and hearing about. She had a certain way with women, stringing them along with her pretty face and prettier words before chewing them up and spitting them out right back to whatever bar she picked them up from. It seemed every other month, you’d pass by a teary-eyed girl in your coworker's favorite hangout downtown, her friends consoling her as she wept about how she truly had felt special with that woman.
It only made sense that when your boss told you she was hired onto your current client's project, you avoided her like the plague. For a while, it was easy, movie sets were bustling, and there wasn’t much time for making acquaintances among the staff during early and mid production, but it seemed like in no time she managed to sniff you out, cold blue eyes meeting yours across one of the break rooms while you fetched a much-needed cup of coffee.
Like you had a gravitational pull, she dismissed her fellow stunt actor and strided to you, long legs bringing her across the room a lot quicker than you anticipated, and way quicker than you could muster up an escape plan. She doesn’t speak as soon as she’s in front of you, taking a few seconds to let her eyes take the chance to flicker over your face before introducing herself.
(You’d never admit it, not until you’d hit the six-month mark in your relationship, but you had taken the few seconds to admire her back. You’d also never admit you were slightly hoping the whispers of her beauty were faked as a part of a sort of post-breakup self-soothing method, maybe even that she wouldn’t be your type. But no, she was gorgeous, and exactly your type.)
“Hi.” God, even her voice was attractive, smooth but rough at the same time.
“Hi.”
You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t immediately silently gawk at how gorgeous she was. Before her face, your gaze spanned out to take in her figure, broad shoulders prominent through her short-sleeved tank that was doing nothing to hide the muscles of her torso. Her facial features were nothing short of striking, with jet black hair standing out against her pale skin and paler gray-blue eyes, eyes which were currently similarly observing every square inch of your face.
You were starting to see why girls got weak in the knees and fell into her web so easily. A few years ago, you might’ve thrown yourself at her too, forgoing any sense of self-preservation in favor of a few days of hot, casual sex ending in a heartless goodbye before never seeing each other again.
But now you were…you. You, who had become an orphan and was entrusted with the care of your teenage brother. Who had slowly become disconnected from your friends that made you laugh until you cried, the hobbies that brought you a sense of joy you had yet to replicate. That girl didn’t have the time to even go on dates with recommended friends of friends, let alone become broken-hearted over some attractive woman you had met at your job.
So you did the only thing that seemed reasonable to you.
You walked away.
Was it rude? Yes. Unprofessional? Incredibly so. But at the time, it seemed perfectly reasonable. She’d probably be dejected for only a minute before moving on, leaving you to continue with the enjoyable mundanity of your job without worrying about workplace romances.
But Vi wasn't dejected; she was determined.
It started the next day: a steaming cup of coffee, your exact order, waiting for you at your usual spot in the breakroom. You figured it was a gesture by your work friend until she denied it, teasing you about a secret work crush you hadn't told her about.
That was easy to deny. Until the sticky notes started. Every day, like clockwork, you were met with the sight of the aggravating adhesives stuck to the edge of your temporary desktop at the work site, always an electric shade of blue or red to make sure you couldn't miss them even if you tried.
‘Your outfit was cute yesterday.’
‘I like seeing your handwriting on your department's notes.’
‘Maybe I'm going crazy, but I could've sworn I saw a smile on your face the other day. Maybe I was dreaming of you. Again.’
Eventually, you had had enough, were fed up, and completely annoyed after the last message. You stormed out of your workspace at the end of the day, your body like a homing missile that led directly to her, catching her as she was leaving the building after a day spent doing whatever crazy stunts she loved to do.
“Do we have a problem here?” You harshly tapped on her shoulder, crossing your arms once she turned to look at you, and only answered you with silence and a stunned look.
“Hey, hi, I mean - What? What problem?” She stuttered, caught off guard by your harsh confrontation.
“I'm talking about these.” Your hand dug inside your purse until you found the paper-clipped stack of notes, holding them up to her face to make sure she got a good look. “They look familiar to you?”
She nodded, lips pressed together. “Look, I can explain-”
“No, you look. And I'm only gonna say this once. I care about my job. And I'm not going to do anything to jeopardize it, especially by sleeping around with the hired talent.”
“You think I'm talented?”
You groaned, closing your eyes and huffing out air through your nose as you tried to regain your composure. God, she was a piece of work. You didn't know how she ever managed to seduce so many women if this was the kind of shit she was pulling.
“Hey, c'mon, don't get upset, alright?” Vi whispered, hesitantly resting a hand on your shoulder and slightly shaking you until you relented and looked at her again. It unnerved you for a moment how calm it made you to look at her, to feel the simple weight of her palm pressing into your skin. You attributed it to not getting laid in months. Definitely nothing else.
“I wasn't trying to jeopardize our jobs, okay? I'm not doing this just for a quick fuck, either. I just wanted-”
Her voice trailed off, a flash of varying emotions crossing her face. You spotted the hesitancy, that familar draw between her brows that signified she's worried about something, but there were traces of something else there that you couldn't quite name - deeper and darker than you could anticipate.
“You just what, Vi?”
“I want to get to know you. Actually. Like on a date. Think I'd like to know more than just what kind of coffee you like to drink.” She laughed, her voice more hopeful than you think you've heard it before.
“I don't do dates, Vi.”
“Neither do I, really.”
You scoffed under your breath, “Yeah, I've heard.”
She laughed again, more dejected this time. “I know my reputation isn't the best, but I really do mean it. I like you. I've liked you since I first saw you.”
Your heart begrudgingly skipped a beat at her confession, your cheeks running hot, and your teeth aching to gnaw at your lip. You reflected on how embarrassing it was for something so simple to get to you so heavily, how what was likely just a simple statement of attraction can make you feel so desired, so seen.
Anxiously, you mulled over the choice in your head. At the time, you hadn't been laid in months, only a real date for even longer. You couldn't even remember the last time someone had flirted with you genuinely, let alone well enough to have you flushing like a damn teenager. You, of course, had your job to think about, and how unstable contracts and agreements could become when people on projects began workplace relationships. You had worked for too long and too hard for this company, and while you doubted that they'd toss you to the side so quickly, you could never be too sure, especially when you had your brother and home to think about.
But then, in the middle of your miniature mental crisis, Vi dropped her hand from your shoulder and gently reached for your hand, the rough palm caused by her stunts brushing over your stiffened fingers from constant writing until her fingers delicately toyed with yours. Your brain stopped for a second, watching how her face was focused on the objectively small amount of contact, as if it were the highlight of her day.
“We can…probably get a coffee sometime. I know a place downtown.”
You'd seen Vi smile before that, cheeky grins shared with her stunt team and polite upturns when meeting with the upper heads of the divisions. But you had yet to see her smile the way she did then, bright and beaming like you had just told her the best news of her life.
You didn't know it then, but in a way you had.
To your surprise, Vi was the perfect girlfriend - caring, chivalrous, humorous. Always the first to text you good morning and constantly eager to stay up with you on the phone into the late hours of the night. She took you out to the best places in the city, small holes in the walls that only someone like her could know about, before insisting that she hadn't shown them to anyone but you before.
You had doubted it at first, figuring that you would just be a quick fling with her before she moved on to bigger and better pastures. But with every knowing glance, with every gentle prod at what you were thinking and to let her into your head, you found a gentleness in Vi that only made your fondness for her grow. You could see why so many women fell for her charms, able to make random women’s knees weak with just a polite and enchanting smile as you walked together on the street. But each time it happened, she seemed to barely recognize it, always diverting her attention back to you.
And God, did you fall for her. As silly as it made you feel, you couldn't help but be smitten. When the pressure of your grief and your daily stresses became too much to bear, she was there, quick to come over to be a shoulder to cry on or an ear to listen to you rant about any of your problems. You had told her about losing your parents only years before, and she had shared that she had gone through the same, mentioning the death of her birth parents and the disappearance of her adoptive father only a few short years ago. You could tell it took a great effort from her to share that trauma with you, and you assured her you didn't take it lightly.
(And although it wasn't the most important thing, the sex between the two of you was as amazing as the stories you’ve heard. At first, you were on edge to sleep with her, shaking with nerves the first time you entered her apartment as you thought about your recent inexperience, combined with all of the women she had led down the very same path to her bed. But Vi could already detect your worries before you even had to voice them, assuring you that the only thing on her mind at the moment was making sure you were comfortable and cared for, and that she wouldn’t do anything to make you feel pressured to have sex with her. When you finally did have sex, it was slow and passionate, making you so emotional that you had silently cried in her arms.)
But lately, it had started to seem that the brief few months of bliss had turned sour in a way you hadn't expected. For the past few weeks, it felt like Vi was becoming increasingly distant, missing your calls and texts when she was away, and constantly drifting off into her own head and avoiding questions when she was near. The previous contract between your companies had ended, sending you back to your regular office while Vi had started on a new project, which left her busy for most of the week.
At first, you attributed her avoidance to stress, likely a result of the pressures of overseeing one of her company's biggest projects yet, that no amount of assurance of he talent could waver, but her mood had taken a downturn that you couldn't help but notice. Normally, despite the stress, she was constantly beaming, always quick to reply with a joke or assurance that she was fine and just feeling a little worn from her work. However, lately, it felt as though there was something angrier and more worried resting inside her. She was constantly checking her breathing, looking in a nearby mirror to check for whatever it was she was looking for in her face, almost waiting for something to change.
That only led you to earlier tonight, where you had decided to visit her quickly at TINSEL, the new nightlife club mixed with a movie and horror museum that was to open on the strip in only a few days. At first, you were confused about why Vi was picked to be in charge of the opening, until you learned that her boss had recommended her for the role after learning about her adept horror and bar knowledge. You were ecstatic when you first heard the news and were eager to see her progress since then. And at first, she had been happy to show you around, keen to show off the progress on the hall of mirrors and some of the technical effects of the iconic monsters exhibit.
“Now, over here, we have the ‘Classics’ section. Probably my favorite, you know how much I love these things.” Vi’s hand was glued to your back as she led you around the space, directing your eyes to the replicas of horror movie classics - Dracula, the Mummy, and the Wolfman. It delighted you to see the way her eyes lit up as she showed off the hard work of her team, already so excited to see how the crowds would react to this.
“What about that thing?” You question, pointing to a special-looking prop in the middle of the exhibit. Her eyes light up when she sees it, dragging you over and smoothing her hand over the metal of the cane.
“It’s the actual silver can from the Wolf-Man. We had to go through so many people to get it, but it was worth it. Check it out.” She hands the prop to you, and you admire it in your hands. It’s heavy in your ways, all the detailing signature to the golden age of Hollywood that you can't help but admire. The most significant part is the head of the cane, made up of a silver replica of a snarling wolf's head.
“Is this real silver? At least if a real werewolf shows up, you’ll have some protection.” You point the cane at her, pretending to tap her in the heart when she ducks out of the way.
“Whoa now, I can’t have you dropping that and costing me a fortune.”
You sheepishly hand the cane back to her, watching as she delicately places it back atop the display. She’s gentle with it, and you can’t help but admire how her large hands wrap around the black metal. Safe to say you were a little pent up.
“Look, I was thinking since you’re gonna be at the opening, and since I’m gonna be at the opening, maybe we can be here together.” You sidle up in front of her, wrapping your arms around your neck and clasping your hands together to keep her close to you. It was an uncharacteristic show of PDA, but safe to say you were getting a little desperate after going without her touch for two weeks.
You swore you could see it working, notice the way her eyes dipped below your top and how her hands came to rest on your sides, before grasping at the fabric of your shirt. But just as soon as the telltale signs of desire appeared, they vanished, Vi gently pushing you off of her until you could feel your cheeks heat up with rejection.
“I think I’m just gonna skip the opening, y’know? Just feel like lying in bed for a few days.”
“Well, I could always join you there, too.”
You wait for her answer, and it doesn’t come, only getting a sigh in response. You blink in frustration, fixing up your shirt and pants before looking around to make sure no one was watching as you were so clearly rejected.
“Y/N, I-”
“Y’know what, it’s fine. I have to go pick up E, anyway. I’ll call you later, alright?”
You don't wait for her answer, quickly making your way to the exit to hurry and pick up your brother before he has to wait any longer. You can feel your girlfriend's eyes on your back as you leave, and you fight the urge to turn around the entire time you walk out.
The roads of the LA mountains are dark, the only source of light on Mulholland Drive being the moon in the sky and the dim illumination of your headlights. Both of your hands stick to the wheel, your white-knuckled grip steady as you keep your eyes on the road to ignore the tense air in the car. Your brother similarly stares outside the side window, brows drawn and lips pursed as he tries his best to ignore you. You know he’s upset after you left him alone on the boulevard for an hour, but you are thankful he’s giving you the silent treatment for the moment. The last thing you needed was another stressful encounter tonight.
“I was waiting for over an hour.”
Welp, never mind.
“I’m sorry, E. I had a lot to finish up at work, and I had to go and see Vi-”
“The same Vi who’s ignoring you?” HE whispers under his breath, loud enough where he wants you to hear it, but low enough that he thinks he can get away with it. God, teenagers.
“Excuse me?”
“…Sorry. I heard you on the phone the other night.”
You sigh, looking ahead at the road and trying to steady your breathing as you navigate the winding roads. You always had a bout of anxiety taking these roads at night, mental images flashing of the night your parents had passed, navigating streets just like these.
“I said I was sorry, okay? I don’t know what more you want from me. Why didn’t you ask one of your friends to take you home?”
“I don’t exactly have many of those anymore.”
“Look, I know that we’ve been going through a lot, but I’m trying my best here. I don’t know what else you want from me.”
“I don’t want anything from you, I just want - watch it!”
His shout bleeds through your ears only seconds too late, the sight of a large animal in the road causing you to gasp and turn the wheel seconds too late as it lands right in the trajectory of your car. But instead of staying still and getting hit, it leaps, jumping off the front windshield until you’re too disoriented and blinded by the splintering cracks in the glass that, in the middle of trying to right the way of the vehicle, you crash into another, listening to the thundering booms as the car rolls off the road and into the trees.
Your body immediately goes on autopilot, checking over your brother's body for injuries before moving to your own, noting the slight disorientation and blood dripping from your head before you leap out of the car. You barely register the fact that your own car is completely totaled, only the large gap in the road barrier leading down a small trench, a billow of smoke wafting into the air. Walking up to the edge and looking down, your heart drops at the sight of the other vehicle, bent and busted as it lies upside down in the brush.
Struggling down the side of the trench in your heels, you assess the damage before dropping to your knees, breathing out a sigh of relief when you see that the driver is alive and breathing, stuck upside down in the driver's seat as she starts to hyperventilate.
You try your best to assure her that everything will be alright, that you told your brother to dial 911 before you came down the hill, and that you’ll try your best to get her out of the ruined vehicle. She tells you that there’s a jack in the trunk, and after trying and failing to retrieve it, you come back to see your brother halfway in the car as he tries his best to break open her seat.
“Oh, thank god, thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“It’s alright, you’re gonna be alright, okay?”
You can hear their brief conversation after she’s freed from the seat, but your attention is immediately grabbed by a sound to your right, just beyond the tree line. You stand up to attention, squinting towards the dark bushes and trees to try and see what could have made the noise. You figure it’s nothing until it happens again to your left, the hairs on your arms standing to attention.
“Guys, I think you should hurry up, alright,” You warn, urging your brother to get a move on.
“What the hell even happened?”
“Oh, we hit an animal, but it’s gone, don’t worry.”
“It wasn't a dog, was it-”
A loud shatter and shrill scream pierce your brain, your knees instantly giving out to see what's happened, only to see your brother slowly being dragged further into the car. Without thinking, you grab onto his legs, feeling the dirt and twigs on the ground dig into your stomach as you’re pulled along with him. You can't focus on anything but your fear and the screams of the woman and your brother ahead of you, trying to lift your head and get a glimpse of what’s happening, but all you can see is an animal, an animal you can’t even name, dragging along the stranger with its teeth bitten into the woman’s neck. You grip harder onto your brother's ankles, trying your best to yank him away from the danger before you feel a deep pain rush through your forearm. Eventually, your body stops moving in the dirt, your brother falls into your arms, and the woman from the wreck is gone without a trace.
Without a word, you both scramble back to the car and out of the other side, panting and trembling as you check over each other to see if you were injured. A large gash tears through the fabric of your brother's shirt, a bloody claw mark clear on his skin, and he gently raises your arm to show a similar wound on your forearm. You hear the blaring of police sirens coming closer, and you tug him with your good arm up to the road.
Only a few minutes later, you are bandaged and shaken in the back of an ambulance, one of the sheriffs at the scene insisting that this was all just a freak accident and a bear or mountain lion must have just gone crazy and attacked. You don’t respond to the statement, and you don’t respond when your brother presses that the animal wasn't some bear or cat but a wolf.
“Kid, no one’s seen a wolf in California in 70 years. It’s just not possible.”
“No, I know what I saw. What we saw. Y/N?”
They both look at you, waiting for your response. But what could you say? The only thing you could focus on at the time was your brother and making sure that whatever it was didn’t tear your brother to pieces.
You don’t know what you saw, but you know that it was big. You know that it scared you. You know that all you want is to go home and pretend that this night never happened
All you do is nod, ignoring your brother's confused look before accepting the ride one of the deputies offers you both home, further ignoring your brother's questions once you step inside your home, before heading upstairs and dropping onto the chilled sheets of your bed with a withered noise echoing from your throat.
Because as much as it hurt you to ignore your brother after such a traumatic experience, what was there really to say? A woman died in front of you, screaming and in agony as she was ripped to shreds, while you couldn’t do anything to stop it. A scathing little voice in the back of your mind repeated how strangely familiar this felt, reminding you of the constant mental images that would run through your mind after your parents’ deaths - their terrified shouts as they lost control of the car, the loss of gravity as the car flipped and turned until it became as mangled as it was in the accident photos, how their bodies were so horribly damaged that every cop and medical professional demanded on a closed casket funeral.
And how through it all, you had the ever-present thought that maybe if you had tried harder, done more, been more, you could have stopped it from ever happening. The thought forces tears to form in your eyes, only made worse by the framed photo of your once-happy family staring at you from atop your dresser.
But like you’d learned years ago, tears are never a permanent solution to your troubles. After a quick few minutes of letting your sorrows drain out, you quickly compose yourself, lifting yourself from your bed and preparing to try and physically wash the memory of the day from your skin. As the steam from your shower fills the bathroom and your skin starts to turn red from your harsh scrubbing, just as you feel close to your goal, you’re stopped when you hear a distinctive thud from downstairs. At first, you chalk it up to your brother getting a late-night snack, likely dealing with his familiar coping mechanism of eating everything in your fridge, but when it happens again, you feel an irregular turn in your stomach.
Could this night possibly get any worse?
Slowly, you creep down the stairs and check over the locks on the front door, close an open window in the living room, and embarrassingly get startled by an antique cuckoo clock your father had bought on a whim years ago. The memory is the only thing preventing you from feeling completely unnerved as you turn the corner, only to see that the front door you had just locked is open, rotting and falling autumn leaves sneaking inside with the gusty winds.
You try to find an explanation, any tiny bit of reason that could explain how a door you had just locked three times over could be blown wide open without you hearing it, when you stumble back into a tall body and flail your arms out of fright, only to see -
“Vi!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.” Vi scrambles to apologize, her voice shaky as she tries to calm you after your shock.
“What are you doing here? You scared me half to death.”
“I know, I know. I just…” She pauses, eyes glancing upstairs and back out into the street from the view of the still open front door. You're reminded to keep your voice and temper down, lest you wake up your brother and make him even more worried than he already is. “I needed to talk to you.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure you couldn't have just talked to me when I was free earlier, right?” You snapped, voice harsher than you realized. Vi’s eyes widen in shock, and you’d feel worse about it if you weren't still mad at her and on edge about everything that had happened in the past two hours alone.
“Something’s different. You’re upset.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve had a really shitty day today, okay? So I don’t need you sneaking in here and freaking me out even more.”
“I didn’t sneak in. Key under the flower pot, remember?”
You shake your head, bringing your hand up to rub at your temples. “What are you doing here, Vi?”
“I’m…I’m scared, Y/N.”
Your fingers stop their soothing movements, head rising until your eyes meet hers, big and vulnerable like you’ve only seen a few times before.
“I never thought that I’d find someone like you, y’know? You’re so…different, in the best way, and I feel like I’m going to ruin this no matter how hard I try.”
“Vi, I understand, okay? You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in such a long time, and I’m terrified that I’m so… so broken, that I’m just pushing you away from me-”
”Hey, hey, hey,” she coos, resting her large palms on your arms and stepping closer until she’s so close you can feel the heat radiating off of her, until you can breathe in and smell her familiar scent of cedar and something earthy that always makes you feel safe. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? I promise.”
When you glance down at her lips and see her doing the same to yours, you feel a warmth quickly bloom inside your stomach, overwhelming you as she steps forward even nearer and leans in, silently checking in with you before you reach up and connect your lips with her own. Her lips are soft, tasting like her regular cherry chapstick, while the kiss rapidly grows passionate as Vi groans into your mouth before trailing her lips down your chin and to your neck, biting and nibbling at the sensitive skin while your eyes roll back in pleasure.
Yet you can feel something growing inside - that same warmth quickly traveling up from your stomach into your throat until it’s practically burning you with the pressure and absolute need. You don't have half the mind to question it, letting the rising desire pull your head back in bliss while she continues to mark your neck, her right hand digging into your hair as she pulls you closer by the waist with the left.
But before you can control the urge, before you can even detect the thought rushing to your brain to stop yourself, your teeth are bared and needle sharp, and you’re biting down into the skin of her pale neck. Hard enough to draw blood. Hard enough to eat.
The piercing sounds of her screams are the backdrop to a painful flash of images that cross your vision - elongated and dripping teeth, the muscles and bones cracking inside of a body transforming, the nails of your hands sharpening into claws and tearing down the recognizable sight of your lover's back, leaving jagged and bloodied trails in their wake.
As soon as you’re able to detect the bitter taste of her blood filling her mouth, you’re suddenly sitting upright in your bed, your heart pounding wildly, and your skin soaked in a cold sweat while you look around your room in disorientation. When you finally manage to control you’re breathing and realize that you were only in the middle of a wretched nightmare, you find that it’s still late in the night, the illuminating light of the moon peaking through your windows and shining its light across you.
The sight of it sends a rush of calm through your body, and the sense of it only confuses you further.
The next morning is the official start of a series of stranger and stranger events. While in the middle of making a steaming cup of coffee and watching the morning news report of last night's crash, your brother bounds downstairs, darting to the fridge to retrieve some leftovers, when he sits down with you at the kitchen table, stating casually that not only did he wake up naked in the bushes, but that the appalling attack you had witnessed last night was the result of a literal werewolf. Trying your hardest to remember that trauma had varying effects on different people, you had assured him it couldn't be the case, stealing a piece of his breakfast before sending him off to school, to his annoyance.
“I got bitten by a werewolf last night. How is that not enough for a sick day? I could be cursed.” He whined.
“Everybody's cursed, Ez. It’s called life.” You chide, grabbing another bite of his meal before walking away to start getting ready for your day. It’s only after a few steps that you notice the earthy taste of the meat as you continue to chew it, pulling out a piece from your mouth to observe what could make the taste so altered, only to do nothing but stare when you realize that both of you were casually chewing on raw meat.
Surely this could be rationalized. But you’d have to do that later.
Only an hour later, you headed into work, repeating words of affirmation to yourself and lightly scratching at the gauze still covering your wound as you stepped into your office. You noticed people watching, figuring they were wondering about the noticeable bandage on your arm when you were normally such a careful person. But you still didn’t think that would be enough for a man to turn his head around the corner to watch you leave the elevator. Jesus, you really needed to stop by HR.
Though you couldn't lie and say that some of the sudden attention didn’t make you downright blush. A particular female security guard caught your eye while she was making her rounds, dark eyes trailing up and down your body, and throwing a playful wink your way. You caught your heart stuttering over the interaction, quickly shaking the thought of her out of your head and reminding yourself of your girlfriend. Your girlfriend, who was currently barely speaking to you, and when she did talk to you, loved to dodge the topic about what was wrong with her, and hadn’t even called you after your sudden departure last night.
You were reminded again of your dream just last night, questioning the meaning of it as you sat at your desk and set down your bag. You could still feel every part of the dream like it really happened - the brush of Vi’s lips against yours, her large hands gripping onto your body, the give of her throat under your teeth. For a flash of a second, you wish to feel it again, chalking the disturbing thought up to exhaustion and the lingering shock from the previous night.
Besides the usual annoying encounter with your coworker, Madison, a high-strung and bossy woman around your age, who you tried to avoid whenever possible, reminding you about the company party later on that night and who, for some reason, decided to question your relationship with Vi, mentioning that it was ‘only a matter of time until she got to you’, the start of your day was going well.
But when your friendly coworker Kyle came in to give you some pleasant reassurance about ignoring Madison, you suddenly paused at your desk, standing up and peeking past your door as something, some smell, grabs and immediately commands your attention. You question Kyle about what could smell so good that you could notice it all the way from in here, overlooking his confused reaction, and leave to find the source of the aroma. You don’t register how your senses are tracked on this one scent; you don’t even question how you start sniffing at the air, to the startled eyes of two passersby.
All you can concentrate on is how your search led you to the breakroom, greeted with the sight of a woman standing at the edge of the sink. Slowly, you step closer, curious about what food she could have brought that was able to call to you so seamlessly, only for her to turn around and reveal that she has no meal with her. She’s only clutching a heavily bloodied tissue to her nose, waving it off as a frequent thing because of the heat. You can’t help but stare, your own blood running hot as you continue to gape at the stained fabric resting in her hand. She asks if the blood is freaking you out, and you can’t come up with the words to answer.
Only twelve hours later, you’re finally arriving at the company’s rooftop party, making your way past the multitude of creative seasonal costumes and dancing strangers to find your way over to Madison, who gives you a look at your noticeable lack of costume before leaving you at the bar to retrieve one of the clients you had to speak to.
You heave out a sigh, starting to turn and order yourself a hard drink to attempt and use some liquid courage to make this night just the smallest bit easier for you, when you feel a familiar presence coming up from behind you, a shiver running down your spine, before your ear pricks up at the sound of the charming voice in your ear that you know all too well.
“Now don’t you look fantastic. I’d say you don’t even need a costume, babe. Wouldn’t wanna cover up your natural good looks.” Vi flirted, dressed in a simple but attractive suit, the white button-down underneath the jacket only buttoned halfway to show off the smooth skin of her chest. You try not to pay much attention to it, but it doesn’t help that it’s pretty much in your direct line of sight. For a brief second, you’re reminded of the last time you saw her in this shirt, when she had taken you out on an intimate dinner downtown and bought you a bouquet of your favorite flowers. The night was romantic and personal, and you feel your face warm when you remember that it ended with the two of you tangled in the back of her car, your lips trailing down the exposed skin of her chest while she moaned out your name.
The rest of her doesn’t help keep up your annoyed mood either, because as much as you were pissed at your girlfriend, there was no way you would be able to admit how hot she was. You really needed a drink now.
“What are you doing here, Vi?” You asked, brows scrunching in confusion and fingers darting to fix a loose piece of your hair.
“I needed to see you.”
“Oh, really?” You scoff. “What about the opening? How you wanted to ‘disappear for a few days.’ Don't look very ‘disappeared’ to me.”
Vi sighs, looking down at her hands that are fidgeting with each other. “I’m guessing that didn’t go over so well, huh?”
You roll your eyes, already exasperated from the conversation. “Y’know what? I understand. We’ve only been seeing each other for what, a couple of months? If you need some space, you could just tell me that. It’s fine.” The bartender taps you on the shoulder, finally handing you your drink before you take a long and needed sip.
It wasn’t like you were exaggerating or completely trying to cower into yourself to save yourself from further rejection. It was only late October, and you’d only started officially seeing Vi in late July. You knew most lesbians would have called the U-Haul and taken the next steps by now, but you had asked for her understanding at the start of the relationship for some time and space to get acquainted with having a new person in your life, which she understood wholeheartedly. You just didn’t think she’d want this much space.
You can’t exactly complain about something you asked for, can you?
“Don’t do that, baby. Don’t try to make this fine when it’s not.” Vi gently grabs your arm, starting to speak some more when she notices how the bar is getting steadily more crowded. She pulls you away from the crowded bar until you’re both standing in an isolated corner of the rooftop, the music dulling to a soothing bass mixed with the sounds of the LA traffic down below you.
“I won’t lie to you, alright? You’re right. For a long time, that’s all I did, sleep and date around, and then leave when things got too serious. I can’t… exactly tell you all the reasons why, but long story short, I was scared.”
You tilt your head, eyes racking her face for any amount of dishonesty that you felt you could detect on her face after months of knowing each other. But you see no pinch between her brows, can’t see her eyes darting to the sides because they never look away from yours for even a second, sending a pang of fondness through your body.
“This thing between us is special, Y/N, and I don’t wanna lose you. I don’t think I can. Please, just give me a little longer to sort things out, and this will all make sense.”
You sigh, thinking over your options. You could down your drink, send her off with a snarky comment, and go about your night as normally as possible. But just the thought of doing so sends a pang through your body. More than ever, you feel a desire to be close to her, to have her whisper in your ear that everything will be fine and that she won’t leave your side. All anger bubbling in your spirit dies as she continues to stare and wait for your answer, her big blue eyes tracking your every movement.
“Maybe… maybe once I’m done here, we can go somewhere and talk.” You suggest deciding that giving her a chance to explain herself couldn’t hurt. Vi smiles, that cute, goofy grin that she only shows around you, and wordlessly nods her head. It’s enough to make you feel better already, hopeful that by the end of the night, every unspoken thing between the two of you will be settled, and you can finally move forward from this strange period in your relationship.
And also from the strange things going on with you otherwise, but you’d handle that after. Hopefully.
And before you can ever truly get your hopes up, a woman, an admittedly pretty woman dressed in a very revealing cheetah costume, cuts in front of you without even acknowledging your presence, instantly souring your mood.
“Vi! Don’t you remember me?” She bats her lashes, resting her hand on Vi’s chest while the sight makes your ears ring. “I’m Jackie’s friend Jenna, remember?”
“Uh, yeah, yeah, hey. How are you?” Vi greets, eyes darting between you and the woman currently pressing herself closer and closer to your girlfriend.
But for some reason, you barely recognize her silent plea for understanding, only able to focus on the girl pestering Vi about how her friend was waiting for her call, about how if she had moved on, she’d be happy to have her info instead. You bite your tongue in your mouth, hard enough until you feel the pricks of iron blood rush through your mouth.
God, what was going on with you? You’d been jealous before, of course, but never anything that felt like this. That made you feel so violent. You take another sip of your drink, ignoring how the alcohol burns your injured muscle before rushing down your throat.
Madison quickly comes over to save you, a sentence you never thought you’d say, taking care to mention the intensity of the awkward moment before pulling you away to meet with the celebrity client. As you walk away, you feel the brush of Vi’s hand over your waist, and despite every sense in you telling you to turn back, you bury the thought and continue on your way.
You’ve never wished for a party to end quickly as much as you did tonight, done with the frequent squealing made by people getting way too drunk already, and your client only heightens that wish.
You thought it was going normally, sitting down with a polite greeting and quickly getting into the details of his set, to some annoyance when he found out his spot on the show had been bumped down a spot. You tried your best to appease him, sighing when he muttered in annoyance and looking around for a brief moment of peace. You look up at the sky, admiring the shadowed divots in the moon above. Instantly, you’re filled with a bout of confidence, returning to the conversation and suggesting a compromise that would hopefully make the client happy.
Maybe you were a little too confident because he then takes that as a pass to make a move on you, rubbing his rough hand up your thigh.
Yet again, you feel that rage surfacing in your chest, swallowing the anger down as you brush his hand away before giving him a curt goodbye, downing your drink, and making your way towards the exit.
More than ready to head home and down a glass of whiskey in your parents’ secret stash, you start to rush towards the exit, ignoring Madison’s insistent questions about what happened with the client as you head to the elevator. As soon as you press the down button, though, you hear Vi calling your name as she rushes up behind you, turning you around by the shoulder to ask you what’s wrong.
Just as you’re about to say anything, to ask her to come with you, to ask her to leave you alone, even to ask her to keep looking at you for a few seconds longer, that same cheetah from earlier comes up behind Vi’s back and looks at you from over her shoulders.
“Be careful, this one’s trouble.”
That’s enough for you to make your decision, ignoring Vi’s weary look as you step into the elevator.
Your mind is racing as you speed-walk to your car in the dim and empty parking lot, slamming your car door before settling into the leather of your car seat.
Completely exhausted, you prepare to give yourself a few seconds to comprehend yet another horrible night when you feel a shiver rush across your body, your eyes immediately darting up to look around outside of your car, searching for the hidden threat that you could feel in your bones was hiding somewhere. But after a minute of tense searching to no result, you relax back into your seat, rolling your eyes at yourself for seemingly internalizing your brother's crazy theories before turning the key in the ignition and pulling out of the lot.
You don’t question it when you arrive home, only to see your brother continuing to do his werewolf research in the living room. He goes on and on about the facts he’s learned, about how the curse of lycanthropy gives those affected a multitude of benefits and downsides. Your brow slightly quirks at some of them - intense mood swings, superhuman strength, heightened senses, and even an unnatural sexual allure.
“E, what the hell are you going to do with that?”
“Well, probably nothing, but I could always use the strength thing to get ahead in sports.”
“Yeah, I think people are gonna start asking questions when you start lifting weights out of nowhere.”
You’re ready to shake this off as just a new special interest of his, walking out to the kitchen to get yourself a much-needed snack, before he corners you against the fridge, forcing you to set down your lunch meats as he shoves his book of proof in your face.
“Look, it says here that people with the curse bear this mark, right? The five-pointed star.” He points out, and your eyes are observing the drawing with annoyance, before he hands his palm up, showing that he bears the same pattern on his right palm.
“That’s… probably just an infection, maybe there was some poison ivy in the woods last night-”
“Oh yeah?” He grunts, setting down the book before yanking your right arm up as well. “Then what’s this?”
And you’re about to yank your hand back, ready to tell him to put this silly infatuation to bed and beg him to cope with this normally when you see it.
Your right palm. 5 points. In the same pattern as his.
“I also touch poison ivy. What’s your point?”
He groans, moving on to his next point - silver. Even you know this one, that the shiny metal burns any werewolf that touches it.
And to finally soothe his worry, you guide him to the framed photo of your family resting in the entryway of your home, telling him that you bought the silver ornament for a hefty price, picking it up and holding it in your hands to prove that his theory is wrong. You swear you see him visibly deflating, shoulders slumping as he hesitantly nods before heading upstairs without a word.
When you hear his door click shut, you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding in, taking one last glance at the permanent image of your happy family before heading upstairs yourself.
As you let the steam of the hot shower envelop you, you ponder your choices. Because while that frame was expensive, and truly was a gift to your parents for their wedding anniversary, it wasn't silver at all. You know, because there was a stupid tag on the back reading ‘STERLING STEEL’ that you had removed with a grumble after you bought it.
You swore you wouldn’t lie to your brother, but this time you felt like you had no choice. You couldn’t hear him like a sister while protecting him like a mother.
Your dreams that night aren’t violent or frightening, and instead are exhilarating. You’re running through a forest, twigs and branches scratching at your skin as you jet through the trees, and the sounds of birds and other woodland animals envelop you. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so free as you do as you let yourself focus only on your next step, on where you’re going, on what you’re searching for.
You feel an abnormal burst of confidence when you wake in the morning, taking extra care to ready yourself for the workday. Offhandedly, you notice you look subtly different; your eyes more alert, your skin brighter, even your hair seems longer. Your brother comes in in the middle of you fluffing up your hair, messing with his own as he makes a sly comment under his breath.
“What, is your girlfriend making an appearance today?”
“At least I have one.”
He gapes, poking you in the neck. “You're cruel, y'know that?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You're the one always complaining about that cute girl in your class who won't acknowledge you. Maybe you can use your newfound ‘allure’ to win her over, huh?”
“So you admit it then? That we're… different?”
“I'm admitting that you have as much confidence as you think you have. So get the girl and stop whining.”
“Whatever. Hey, do you think my hair is getting longer? My roots are growing out already.”
“Hmm, a little. Think mine's a little longer too.”
He stares at you in the mirror for a few seconds, eyebrows raised with a silent suggestion.
“Raoid hair growth isn't just the result of being a werewolf, y'know that, right?”
“Yeah, but-”
“Hurry up before you're late!”
An hour later, you're strutting into work, noticing the number of people yet again staring at your form as you walk by and into the office. You can't deny how odd this is, because while you had decided on a dresser too and even shorter skirt than yesterday, you didnt think it was anything to write home about. Maybe your perfume was just more noticeable, radiating with the rapid heat influx you notice in your body. Though it did feel nice to have people commenting that you looked ‘pretty’ instead of ‘proper’.
Kyle sides up to you as soon as you're in his sight, informing you about the fact that Vi had apparently been calling for you all morning, resulting in your mood already souring before you could even truly get started. A strange voice in the back of your mind urges you to rush to your desk and listen to what she said, stomping it down with confusion at the sight of the random, strangely dressed women sitting in the show office's lobby. Kyle chuckles, informing you that the women are a group of fortune tellers, apparently guests for auditions for one of your hosted magic segments. You plan on ignoring it, making way to your office until one of them stops you, her hand grasping around your shoulder and looking at you with intense worry.
“You're in danger.” “Excuse me?” You squint, confused by her statement and by the fact that she looked so familiar, a sense of deja vu running through your brain. She quickly looks to the side, making sure the coast is clear, before pushing you back into your office and lowering her voice.
“It will come for you. Don't let this… get up fool you, I truly have the gift. Got it from mom. Tends to be genetic.” She removes her hat, shaking out her wild blonde hair before looking at you earnestly. It's only then that you recognize her as the same seer you had met all those years ago, the same who had foretold you about your connection to the moon, the same who had made the strange connection between storms and your mother. She was a little older, a little wiser, and it seemed a lot more haunted by the fortunes she had read since then. You feel bile rising in your throat when she grabs your wrist, looking at the strange marks on your palm.
“Would you - it's just poison ivy, Jesus -”
“You bear the mark of the beast.” She states, staring in sympathy when you yank your hand back like her touch had burned. “I don't mean to scare you, but you've been infected. You're cursed.”
Hearing the slight commotion, Kyle comes in quickly, ushering the fortune teller out as she raves on about how you have to ‘sever the line of the beast to break the curse’, to remember that ‘the creature that did this to you is human as well’.
You can't help but stare at the doorway after she's gone, thoroughly shaken by the memory of the first time you met her, about how her being here makes all of what's happening to you feel way too real.
Because as often as you put up a front of complete composure, dismissing the mystical forces of magic and nature as children's stories and nonsense, you had never forgotten the fortune that woman had told you as a child. You had turned it over in your head night after night after, and all these years later, you still thought about it before you fell asleep, always taking one last look at the full moon before you shut your eyes.
It had been there when your parents’ car had crashed, and it was there when you had watched a monster tear a woman apart only two days ago.
You think about it over and over during the course of the day, because while you had been trying your hardest to stay composed for your brother, to deny that anything strange or unnatural was happening to you, to keep your own sanity, you couldn't lie and say that what was happening to you wasn't strange. That there were too many coincidences for this to just be a string of normally abnormal events.
But even if you did admit it, what could you possibly do afterward? Once you say that the cause of everything that was taking place was supernatural, how could you move forward with your life? It wasn't like you'd ever seen a movie where a werewolf was particularly happy to be one; they normally suffered through a painful transformation, social ostracization, and an agonizing death at the end of the movie. Was that truly the life that you wanted for yourself? For your brother?
The thought can only force itself deeper into your brain by the end of the day, ringing like a tornado siren when you continue to inexplicably exhibit strange behaviors.
The only brief respite you receive is when you finally listen to the voicemails left on your phone, having been ignoring the calls left over the past day. It's all standard at first - the car repair shop reminding you of your bill from the accident, one of your old friends checking in after she had apparently seen you at the party the night before but hadn't gotten the chance to say hello, your brother from only the same day telling you of his win at… wrestling? Before you finally reach the end of the messages, borderline sitting on the edge of your seat as you listen to Vi's voice echo through the small space of your office, holding the device up to your ear as if you press hard enough, you'll travel through time and space to be next to her.
“Hey, it's me, uh, Vi. Well, you're getting this on your phone, which will tell you who I am, so I don't really need to, but, yknow. Just to let you know. Call me.”
“Hey. Just wanted to say good morning. I know you hate them, but i hope this one is a little better than the day before.”
“Hey, E called me earlier about what happened. He seems really shaken up about what you're going through. Please know you can talk to me about it. I'm always here for you.”
You shake your head to forcefully rid yourself of the tears building in the corner of your eyes, setting your phone down with a harsh slam on your desk. Damn this, and damn her for still being so damn sweet. Always telling you pretty words to make you bend for her, but still skirting around the subject. How were you supposed to trust her with your problems when she could barely do the same for you?
Everything only culminates when, a few hours later, one of the late show hosts pricks his finger before heading out on stage, and without a napkin in sight, you decide to get rid of the dripping blood yourself, sticking the digit in your mouth and sucking before letting him go with a smile, ignoring his bewildered expression.
And you can feel it again just like you felt it in the breakroom, just like you felt in your dream with Vi, that scratching pressure building in your stomach and clawing it's way up your throat as you wordlessly escape the stage building and make your way to one of the regular employees bathrooms, taking a minute to splash some water on your face and calm yourself down. You push the damp hair back from your face and look at yourself in the mirror, panting and wide-eyed from the building stress in your stomach. You can steadily feel the ache growing and pulsing until it's pounding at the back of your eyes, your teeth gritting in pain as an indescribable anger continues to form inside of you.
You're briefly startled out of your stupor when the bathroom door creeks open, the same woman from the break room the other day looking at your surely disheveled state in worry before you hurry into one of the stalls, mindlessly forgetting to lock it behind you.
She tries to tell you some comforting words, thinking that you're just freaking out about period cramps or the stress of work problems, but all it does is make the grating pain in your mind even worse, your hands coming up to the sides of your head to try and sate the pain in any way possible. You don't hear the poor woman stepping closer and closer to your stall, only able to focus on the way it feels like your skull is straining against your skin and like you'll pass out at any given moment. Her hand starts to slowly push open the door, your own hand jutting out to the edge of the metal to prevent her from getting any closer.
What would happen if you were seen like this? If someone witnessed how broken you truly were?
The thought scrapes at your brain as you feel the splintering pain radiating up from your fingers to your wrist, the longer you press against the door, pulling back at her soft gasp to see your fingers covered in a thin layer of your own blood.
This can't be happening, I have to keep it together, but god, I'm so angry, I’m sorry hungry.
It's only the rage and the hunger you can blame when you scream at the woman to get out of the bathroom, your voice unrecognizable to yourself, and looking at her in a way that sends a visible wave of fright over her body before she scurried out as quickly as she could, leaving you yet again to your lonesome.
As you step forward in a daze to return to the sink, you look at yourself in the mirror as you think: This was it, you couldn't deny what was happening to you anymore. The unnatural reactions to blood, the odd ways people had started to react simply to your presence, the bubbling rage that lingered in your stomach for all hours of the day.
You were turning into a monster, and if the movies you had seen on the silver screens were right, you didn’t have much longer until your transformation would be complete and your life would be changed for good.
By the time you could get out of work, the sky was dark, the moon high in the sky and taunting you as you speed walked through the abandoned halls of the office, stopping only to see the eerie light from a left on TV detailing the news of a grisly murder the night before. You plan to ignore it, already feeling beaten by the horrible events already happening in your life before you hear the name.
Jenna Murphy.
Your head perks up, eyes trained on the television as you see the picture of the woman you had seen just the night before grace the screen. She's smiling, just as beautiful as you remembered her being, as the tagline below her details that she had been ripped apart.
No, no, not again.
But it's true. Only seconds later, another picture is shown, the girl smiling on the TV as the news caster links the two deaths together, speculating over the cause.
Jackie Roberts.
Jackie and Jenna. Jenna, who had approached your girlfriend just the night before. The same Jenna who had mentioned that your girlfriend had ghosted a girl named Jackie. The same Jackie who had been dragged from your car wreck like game.
Horrified, you hurry to the parking lot to start your car to try and rush as fast as you can to your house. Before you could press your foot to the gas, however, you're letting out a scream caused by a bang! on your car window, feeling a rush of adrenaline coursing through your body as you prepare to defend yourself against-
Vi?
“Vi, what the hell are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you, please. I don't think it can wait any longer.”
Jesus, was she actually serious? You notice how disheveled she looks just through the window, hair mussed and clothes askew, looking like she borderline ran to get here. You feel like a bug under a microscope as she looks at you, eyes tracking your movement.
“Vi, this is the worst timing ever. I have to get home to E to -”
“To protect him. I know. But I need to protect you.”
Her voice is rushed, a panicked edge to it that you don’t think you've ever heard her use before, only putting you more on edge. When you look at her through the glass, she's panting, her hand resting on the window and-
Her hand.
The five dots.
You can feel every hair on your body stand on end at once, your mouth drying out as you can't help but stare at the sight of her palm in front of you.
Her eyebrows scrunch in confusion before she follows your gaze, blue eyes piercing as she catches your horrified gaze.
“I can explain. Please, please let me explain. I'm not going to hurt you.”
Damn right she's not. You don't give her the chance to explain herself, foot stepping on the gas with a quickness as you pull out of the parking lot, tuning out her pleas with your focus on getting to your brother before it's too late.
You dial your brother’s cell, muttering curses under your breath as you speed around cars driving too slow on the lit-up roads of the city. As the streets blend into each other, and as you avoid the strangers honking at your erratic driving, you can’t help but play a mental rerun of every moment shared between you, every little oddity that you passed off as just a quirk about being without another damaged person who was truly opening up for the first time.
Her constant worry about her temper getting out of control, citing the fact that she used to get ‘outbursts’ when she was younger.
The way she always seemed to be able to spot a threat before it even became one, sporting innate reflex that she always brushed off as a learned carefulness.
Even the way she simply touched you, delicate like she was afraid your would break if she pressed and prodded too hard. You could still remember the way she felt you late into the night, irritated that she treated you like a piece of glass before she kissed you and dismissed it with a whisper.
“Just don't wanna push you too hard, baby.”
Tears forming in your eyes, you jerk the steering wheel to avoid a collision as you try and shake the thoughts running through your mind.
Was all of it just a lie? Was she warming me up to be her next victim? Her next meal?
You still can't figure out the reason for the odd distance over the past few weeks, your brain is trying to rush and out the pieces together before you try and decide how to act next. And you feel so annoyed at yourself, because when you even try to say to yourself that it was all just a ploy, a trap to make you want her more so she could reel you in for the kill, a sharp pang burns in your chest until you're gritting your teeth in pain.
Even still, your phone finally picks up, your voice breaking off into a hopeful little gasp as you finally form a line of connection with your brother.
“E! Oh, thank God, why haven't you been answering!?”
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Something attacked us at the house, and Ezreal gave me a ride to TINSEL-”
“Wait, you're at TINSEL?” You interjected, completely ignoring the fact that your brother had apparently become buddy-buddy with the guy who was bothering him at school. Weirder things had happened.
“Yeah, we were gonna ask you and Vi for help-”
“No!” You shot, hand gripping the steering wheel. “E, Vi's the wolf, she's…she's the killer, you stay away from her, okay?”
“Wait, what? Are you sure?”
“Yes! She had the mark on her hand. She knew those girls, the one in the wreck. If you see her, stay away from her, alright? Promise me.”
“Alright, alright, I promise.” He says, voice muted over the sound of the lively party music in the background.
After making sure he had heeded your warning and reluctantly hanging up, you finally park in the packed parking lot next to the club's building, pushing your way past the crowds as you try to observe every face you pass to find your brother. Finding no luck at the entrance, the bar, or the dance floor, you reluctantly enter the Maze of Mirrors, faintly hearing his voice echoing through the reflected attraction.
You call out his name, hands grasping at the walls as you try to find your way through the mirrored walls. You can hear him calling out back to you, and you can't help but let out a relieved smile at the sound.
But he's not the only one looking for you.
Your heart starts to pump wildly when you realize you can hear her voice, husky and taut as she calls out your name to get your attention.
“Y/N. Please, baby, don’t be afraid.”
“Stay away from me, Vi.” You growl, your head whipping around in every direction as you try to use your senses to find her location. She's close enough that you swear you can feel her on your skin, the hairs on your arms yet again standing on edge.
“But it wasn’t me, I swear-”
“Bullshit! I saw your hands.” You shout, quickly growing agitated. You were sick of her honeyed nicknames, her unexplained excuses, the memory of how she looked at you with such care while lying to you so deeply.
“There’s another one like me. I don’t know who or where it is, but that’s who killed those girls. I think… I think it’s trying to get to me. ” Her words echo and reverberate around you, bouncing around in your head and making you all the more panicked. You bump into something behind you and startle, only to see that it's just a wall.
You couldn't stand feeling like this, feeling so helpless, like everything was just happening to you with no interference. Already, you can feel that buried anger rising again in your chest, ready to defend yourself and your brother no matter the cost.
Even if the thought of hurting Vi is already tearing you apart.
“I… I don’t know what to believe, Vi. I don’t think I can trust you.”
Even from this presumed distance, you can feel the deep sigh she lets out, and it stimulates a strange, deep need to listen to her, to see her for what she truly is once and for all.
“I was born with this curse. So were my parents, so was my sister. I’ve learned how to control it. I’ve learned to live with something terrible. Just like you. We’re not that different, and when I realized that, it’s part of why I hid away from you.”
“Why didn’t you just…”
“What, tell you? Didn’t think you’d take ‘Hey, I’ve been ignoring you because I’m a werewolf who has an insatiable craving for meat and sometimes I can turn into a dog,’ very well.”
You scoff, the noise tapering off into a laugh at the end. This whole scenario was pure insanity.
“I don’t know what to do, Vi. I feel so angry, and sad, and…and scared.”
“I know, I know, baby. But I’m here for you and E. We can do this together.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because, Y/N,” Her voice is even closer than before, and it feels like you can tell where her warmth is, can feel her heartbeat in sync with yours, because when you turn around, she’s already there, not a warped reflection but flesh and blood. “I love you.”
Your face flushes with heat the closer she gets to you, leaning your head into her palm when she cups your cheek with her large and scarred hand. Every doubt leaves your mind when she touches you, every nervous voice silenced when she looks at you the way she’s doing now.
“I love you, Y/N. I care about you so much it terrifies me, but I don't want to stop. I don’t think I can.” She laughs, eyes becoming glossy as she looks at you like you put the moon in the sky.
You don’t think you could ever explain why her proclamation of love wrecks you so completely. Maybe someday you’d realize how many times you had dreamt of her saying it, whispering it to you while in bed, while you were both sweaty and panting, or in the middle of a romantic dinner where any stranger could hear her dedicate herself to you. Each time you did, you quickly squashed the thought, reminding yourself of your conviction to not fall for her too deeply, to never let yourself become too vulnerable for a heartbreak you knew you wouldn’t be able to bear.
And yet none of it helped. Yet again, you find yourself replaying every little moment between the two of you, now with the context of what she has been hiding from you from the start, now knowing, somehow truly knowing, that she had loved you all along.
As much as you wanted to fight the urge, to reject the feelings that you had known were in your heart for so long, you knew you could no longer hide them. After days of your brain turning itself inside out with your emotions, after trying to put the pieces of your life and relationship together, after a powerful change that you were just now coming to terms with. After just spending the last half hour believing that she could be a murderer, all you can feel is an impossible pull of your body to hers. It feels like fate. It feels like…
“I love you, too, Vi.”
And then it feels like a weight is lifted off your chest. Vi smiles, bigger and brighter than you’ve ever seen, and so whole that you can actively feel it fix a snapped part of you deep inside. She leans down to kiss you, still smiling into the kiss, which only makes you giggle in return. Her lips are soft and insistent once she focuses on actually kissing you, her hands resting on the back of your head and wrapping around your back to pull you closer, easily swallowing the gasp that slips out of you.
You pull away when you can feel that desire to make this more heated rise in your stomach, biting your lip when you notice the sheen of your spit still covering her bottom lip. Her eyes are dark as they watch you, almost like she could tell what you were thinking before you even had to say it.
“C’mon, we’ll find your brother, go home, and I’ll explain everything, yeah?” She asks, holding out her hand for you to take.
And without even thinking about it, you do, feeling the electricity when you brush your fingers against hers, when a loud shatter right to your left stops you, the mirror on the wall smashing with the force of something breaking through it. It pushes you back with the strength of it, only able to see it push Vi so harshly that she falls through another mirror, the broken glass and fog blocking your view of her.
“Vi!” You call out to her, your worry growing for every millisecond that she doesn’t respond. But when you glance back, you see it, the towering creature that makes your blood run cold at the sight of it. It’s worse than you could have imagined, hulking and beastly in a way that makes it seem like it came straight out of a book of horrors.
Its claws are sharp, its teeth prominent, and its cruel, yellowed gaze is locked on you.
Your instincts were right, Vi wasn’t the killer werewolf. But now it was here, growling at you like you were its next meal.
You let your intuition guide you again, ducking back into the inner walls of the attraction as the beast claws and slashes at the thick material shielding you. You bite your lip to silence yourself when one of its claws pierces through, inches thick and only centimeters away from your face. Looking for a quick diversion, you throw a piece of debris at a collection of pipes, the animal falling for the bait and puncturing the steel until a steady flow of scalding air hits it in the face.
Dodging and weaving your way out of the cramped space, you finally find an exit and rush out back to the entrance of the maze, alerting passerby of he danger that lurks inside. Of course, no one believes you, a concerned security guard approaching to ask you what’s wrong, before the wolf bursts out of the walls yet again and throws him into the air, slashing at any person who gets too close.
You become lost in the sea of people screaming and rushing toward the exit, finding Kyle standing at the exit and asking him about your brother.
He tells you that he’s still inside, and without hesitating, you roll back under the shutting metal gate, barely prepared to face the beast that awaits you inside.
Silently, you walk forward, eyes and ears alert for any semblance of a threat. Your eyes search the shadows, trying to catch even a glimpse of fur-
When a hand covers your mouth and yanks you behind an attraction, your hands ready to claw and fight your way out of the hold, only to see your brother, his lips pressed together and his eyes just as wide as yours surely are.
“It’s fine, it’s just me.”
You pull his hand away, checking him over for injuries before he shakes his head, assuring you that he’s fine.
“Did you see it?”
He nods, visibly tense. You feel your heart start to crack at the sight, not having seen him this shaken up since the wreck a few days ago, and your parents’ accident.
You slowly start to lead him along through the exhibit, passing by the Hollywood section, complete with famous memorabilia and mannequins of the stars.
“We’re gonna get out of here, okay? There’s a staff entrance in the back. I’ll make sure you’re safe and then I’ll come back for Vi-”
“Wait, what? Didn’t you say this was her?”
“No, I was wrong, it’s someone else. I think it wants to hurt Vi, so I have to-”
“Wait a minute,” He stops in his tracks, staring ahead at the mannequins of the stage, a classy blonde to the right and a glam brunette to the left. “Weren’t there three?”
“Three? Three what?”
“Yeah, there was a redhead here-”
His sentence is cut off when a bare leg shoots out from behind the curtain and kicks him hard in the chest, his body flying back and landing into yours. The force of it causes your head to smack on the ground, your sight going blurry as you try to compose yourself, looking up to see-
“Madi?”
“Showtime. Isn't that what they say?”
She’s smirking as she effortlessly jumps off the platform, docked in a velvet purple nightgown, likely stolen from the mannequin your brother was talking about, that only adds to the unsettling vibe she’s currently giving you.
“Just for the record, I didn’t ask for this, okay?” She states, pacing back and forth as she begins to explain the origins of her condition to you. “It was supposed to be just a hot night with the girl that everyone else wanted. Guess I should’ve been more careful. Then again, there isn’t exactly such a thing as safe sex with a werewolf, huh?”
She holds up her hand for you to see, greeted yet again with the five-pointed star.
“That Vi, she sure is a catch, huh?”
You shake your head, agitation rapidly growing inside of you. You always thought her attitude towards you was just a character flaw, not that she was a bloodthirsty ex-girlfriend of your girlfriend.
“But, alas. She didn’t want me. And if I can't have her…well, you know how it goes.”
Your brother, trying his best to do something, grabs onto her ankle and tries to pull her down to the floor, only for her to kick him hard enough for him to wheeze.
Without thinking, you retaliate, rising and grabbing onto her shoulders to try and pull her down, just for you to now be on the brunt end of her strength. And Jesus, is she strong.
She keeps shit talking while you and your brother take weary turns trying to fend her off, remarking how she never even saw you as a serious romantic threat, wondering why women always go for the damaged ones. Eventually, you and your brother manage to create some distance, grabbing the can of pepper spray from the hip of the deceased security guard, taking care to empty every last drop right into her eyes.
You both stay hidden when she searches for you, pushing down your rage when Vi, limping and weary, halts her in her steps, telling Madi that she won't let her hurt the two of you, right before Madison harshly throws her into the security gate, your lover's head going limp with unconsciousness. Afterward, you get a view of the truly freakish transformation of her turning from human into werewolf - hearing her bones crack, seeing how her limbs elongate into paws and her nails shift into those same claws that nearly ended you earlier.
She stalks around, eventually using her heightened sense to find your hiding spot, and the two of you use everything in your power to fight her off when you finally hear the police arrive and try to force their way into the building. Right before the authorities break through the security gate, she has you pinned, her snarling maw right above your face as your hand scrambles for something, anything to get her off of you.
And you find it - the silver wolf’s head from the antique cane, the metal burning the skin of your head before you shove it straight down her throat, the creature screaming in agony before escaping up into the rafters of the club.
The cops come in with their guns at the ready, a dozen of them flooding the room and looking for the animal.
“God, what the hell is it anyway?” One of them murmurs to his partner.
“It’s a werewolf, that’s what.”
Three of the cops turn, brows drawn at your brother's statement. You look at him with wide eyes, trying to give him a hint before you think it over. Yeah, you could work with this.
“Yeah, yes. She might have turned back into her human form. Her name is Madison.”
The cops are… surprisingly receptive to the fact. “Well, what did she look like?”
“What, about 5’3?” Your brother mutters, looking to you for help.
“She…she’s got dry skin, and this grating accent, and a fucked up haircut-”
“LIAR!”
Madison, still in werewolf form, bursts through the wooden rafters of the upper floor of the club, clawing and growling at you from above before the cops around you open fire, the sounds of dozens of shots making your ears ring as you hold your brother close to you.
Once the sounds die out, you look to the ground, witnessing the corpse of the monster, of the woman, who had made your past two days a living hell. It’s odd to see a grotesque sight that brings you nothing but contentment as you watch the plethora of bullet holes leak the dark blood onto the club floor.
Is it over?” Your brother whispers, his nails digging into your arm as he grasps onto you.
“Yeah, yeah, it's over.”
A pang in your side jolts you back to attention, your mind remembering the fact that your girlfriend is feet away and likely still in pain, checking in with your brother before he runs back into the maze, your own body carrying you over to the security gate where a puzzled paramedic is fussing over Vi.
“I promise you I’m fine, it’s just a scratch-”
“Your shirt is covered in blood, you were just passed out a second ago…”
“I have a thick skull, alright?”
When she sees you rushing over, she pushes him away, groaning when she stands up before you throw yourself into her body, a whine escaping her when you press into her side, and yet she’s only hugging you closer to her in return.
“Vi!” You shout, pulling back a bit and trying to get a good look at her wound. “Oh my god, what did she-”
“Guess I don't have the best relationship with most of my exes, huh?”
“Not the time, Vi.”
She grimaces, observing the deep scratches visible through the torn material of her shirt. “Thought I'd try and lighten the mood. Don't worry, I'll be fine. She was just strong. Crazy strong.”
“I think it's warranted, you drive me crazy all the time.”
Her bloodied hand meets your wrist when you reach for the wound, your eyes tracked on the dark liquid, before her other hand guides your chin up, meeting your eyes with her own.
“I know. But I swear from now on I'll tell you everything. No secrets.”
“No secrets.”
With all the grace of a woman carrying her bleeding lover out of a club, you join E and his new friend in your cars and head back to your home, ready to help Vi rest while you talk about what all of this means for your family.
Able to sense the incoming intimate conversation, E leaves you at the door to your home, a nice-looking girl with dyed purple hair waiting on your doorstep before greeting your brother with a tight hug. You and Vi share a look, sending him off with a smile as the three of them walk off into the moonlit streets of the city.
After some pampering and fussing over Vi, including getting her a glass of water, feeling her temperature, and even fetching her a mostly meat sandwich to get back her energy, you stop once she waves off your worrying with a laugh and raises her shirt only to see that her wound has nearly already healed by this point, you sit down with her on your couch.
“You’re good at the ‘nesting’ thing already, that’s for sure.”
“’ M not nesting, I was just worried. I could have lost you, Vi.” You sigh, already reminded of the pit of dread that formed in your stomach when you saw Vi lying on the floor after she was kicked, her body eerily still.
“I know, but you won't, okay? I’m right here.” Her hand gently takes your wrist, guiding your palm to rest over her chest, right over her heart. It’s still pumping, almost in tune with yours.
“You’ve been like this forever? The whole time?”
“Yeah, since I was born. It was mostly a problem when I was younger; after my parents died, I just wanted to fight and hurt everyone, and to protect my sister no matter what. After that, my mom’s friend took us in, but he…”
Her voice trails off, and you’re close to telling her that it’s fine, that she’s told you enough for you to figure out, and to not tire herself out after such an exhausting night.
But she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes for a few seconds, and keeps going.
“He turned too, we think my sister scratched him when she turned one night. He handled it well for a while, but one night everything went bad and… I didn’t see him again. Or my sister.”
You nod, scooting closer and throwing an arm around her shoulders to try and provide some comfort.
“For years, I just kept it a secret - used my abilities for my job, picked on animals in the desert, didn’t let anyone in too close. I slept around a lot, just to try and feel close to someone, even for just a few minutes. But I always felt so guilty afterward. I knew I couldn’t let them see what I was.”
“And me?”
She sighs, tilting her head to rest it in the crook of your neck, grabbing one of your legs, and throwing it over her lap to try and get even closer than you already are.
“From the moment I saw you, it just felt different. I couldn’t explain it, and I still can’t, but it’s like I knew you were supposed to be in my life, like you were meant to be mine.”
“Is that why you left those corny and creepy notes before you started talking to me?”
“They weren't creepy!” She chuckles, pinching the fat of your thigh over your jeans. “If it is, then you’re equally creepy, you kept them in your purse.”
Maybe later you’d tell her that they were still in your purse, stuck in a tiny Ziploc bag, so they wouldn’t be ruined by time. Maybe.
“Think I knew I was supposed to be yours, too.”
She looks up at you, her eyes pretty and big as she smiles up at you.
“Really?”
“Really.”
And then you kiss her, sighing in relief and desperation into her mouth before she attaches both of her rough hands to your hips and yanks you on top of her, wrapping her arms around your waist. It just feels right as you pull and tug at each other, love and desperation and lust evident in every motion of your hips, in every nick of her teeth at your lips.
Her tongue swirls in your mouth with a fervor, pulling away from your lips, laughing darkly at your whine before she moves her motions downwards - nipping at your chin, kissing at your cheeks, before licking a long stripe down your neck with her wet mouth.
Your hips involuntarily start to move against hers, grinding and rocking as you try to get any bit of stimulation you can from her. Your head tips back in bliss when she starts to kiss and suck at your chest, biting marks that you don't even care about covering up later when you arch your back into her mouth.
Your hands are twitching when they rush down to the hem of her shirt, muttering out a string of curses when you struggle to lift it off and over her head, ignoring how she chuckles at your eagerness.
Your eyes are once again caught by the injury on her side, the claw marks nearly fully healed at this point, the once evidence of her previous state the faint streaks of blood still staining her skin. She notices where your gaze lies, a darkness forming in her pale blue eyes.
“You want some?”
Your breath hitches, taken aback by her ability to read you, by how casually she says the sentence. “What?”
“It's alright. Guess you still haven't had a good meal yet.” She explained removing one of the hands still stuck to your hips to the sticky patch on her torso. “I don’t mind indulging you a bit.”
“Vi, you don't have to -” You don’t get the chance to deny her suggestion, her stained fingers quickly rising up to stick them into your mouth. As soon as you register the taste on her blood on your tongue, your eyes become hooded, and you start to suck, not willing to let a single drop go to waste.
Vi watches you the entire time, finding herself clenching around nothing and her briefs growing damp as she looks at you, becoming increasingly more feral as you suck her blood off of her fingers. She groans when she feels you nip at the tips of her digits, bucking her hips into yours when she feels you start to grind down on her once again.
“You want this, baby?” She questioned, voice hoarse with desire and need.
You nod, her fingers falling out of your mouth and traveling to your chest, squeezing at the fat of your breast.
“Want it, Vi. I want it hard.”
“Yeah? You think you can take it?”
The question is framed as teasingbbut you can sense the hesitancy lying underneath. For all of your previous sexual encounters, Vi had been soft, taking the utmost care to show you the gentleness she knew you deserved. She never got rough with you, even going as far as to avoid kissing you too hard. Now you knew the reason why; she was afraid of actually hurting you with her strength.
But now you were just as strong as she was, and you could take whatever she gave to you.
To prove it, you kiss her again, forceful enough that your teeth briefly knock together as you swallow her gasp. You bring your hands up to her shoulders, rubbing over her muscles before digging your nails in deep, tearing down until pricks of blood pool on the skin.
And Vi growls, something entirely inhuman that rattles you when you hear it, taking your act of pain as a confirmation of what's about to happen, standing up in a flash and tossing you over her shoulder, your euphoric laughter echoing throughout the empty house as she rushes up the stairs like she can’t get her hands on you fast enough.
In only a minute, she's slamming you onto your bed and ripping off your clothes, ignoring your small whines about how you actually liked that top before she's touching you all over, calloused hands pinching and grabbing at any piece of your skin she can see. She bites at your stomach, pinches at your nipples, all the while neglecting the part of you that needs her the most.
“Stop teasing me, I need you.” You beg, batting your lashes when she comes back up to face you, her large body hovering over yours, only making you dizzy with want.
“M not teasing, just enjoying,” She replies, kissing your lips while her hand maneuvers its way down to your center, the pads of her fingers rubbing over your clit until you start to moan into her mouth.
You wrap your arms around her back and pull her even closer to you, groaning and whining into her ear as she starts to use your wetness to thrust in and out of your cunt, the stretch of her thick fingers hitting a deep spot inside of you that sends a jolt of heat straight up your back.
Your legs widen until they ache, too overcome with the need to reach deeper, for her to go harder.
“More, Vi, fuck - need more.” You whine, mouthing at her neck and biting at the skin.
“Yeah? You feelin’ needy, baby?”
Her voice is smug, eager to see just how far she can push you, to finally see just how much you can take. She decides to test it when you nod, stuffing another finger into your pussy until your eyes nearly cross at the painful pleasure.
“Yes, Vi, yes, yes, yes-”
You become so consumed with her and the pleasure she's giving you that it feels almost scary, a blissful haze taking over your body until all you can focus on is the woman above you and her fingers inside of you. You only register the hushed words she whispers into your ear, doing nothing to stave off your impending orgasm.
“God, I dreamed about this, y'know? Used to hump my damn pillows and wish they were you.”
“Fuck, look at how you're taking it, baby. Can't wait until I've fully stretched you out.”
“Just wait until I split you open on my strap, gonna have you fucking screaming.”
Each word leaves you with a mental image of the scenarios, your body flushed as you imagine her doing everything she says she wants to do to you.
She sinks her teeth into your neck and you come with a shout, legs twitching and lungs grasping for air as she continues to pound her fingers in and out of your pussy as you steadily soak the sheets below.
Your orgasm is long, much longer than you're used to, but instead of scaring you, it just feels right. Like this is how it feels when you finally connect with the person who you were made for.
With her lips pressing soft kisses to your lips and neck, you come down from your high, panting and almost laughing in bliss as you come back to reality. Vi plops down on the bed next to you, resting on her side so that she can keep admiring you, idly playing with a loose lock of your hair.
“When is it going to happen?” You ask, voice soft and quiet as you attempt to not ruin the peaceful air of the moment.
Vi scoots in ever closer, almost on top of you again. “I don't know for sure. Maybe tonight. Maybe next month. Gets harder to control during the full moon.”
And looking out the view of your windows you see it - a full white rock in the middle of the sky.
“Will it hurt?”
“Yeah, it will.”
“Will I come back?”
“Eventually.”
“Will you stay with me?”
You try to hide the shake in your voice but fail, lip wobbling as you think about what this means about what's going to happen now that this is what you are. You're shaken out of your fright when Vi cups your cheek and angles it to her, looking into your eyes. She's just as scared as you are, but also so full of love.
“Always.”
And for you, that was enough.
After a year of confusing reports on news stations, conspiracy theories on popular city forums, and quite a few downright absurd explanations you had heard passing people in the grocery store, the city of Los Angeles was finally settling back into its peaceful chaos, and the biggest indicator was the city fair coming back in full force.
The scents of overpriced candy, greasy foods, and some rather unfortunate smells made by attendees who had just gotten off of exhilarating rides flooded your nose, fully immersing you in the energy of the carnival. You yourself had some greasy food in your hand, chowing down on a hot dog covered in toppings while your other hand was occupied with holding on to Vi and making sure she and your brother didn't run off out of your sight.
The past year had been challenging, to say the least. Your first transformation had occurred deep in the middle of Angeles National Forest, a favorite spot of Vi's during her own transformations when she didn't have the patience to drive further into the desert. She had stayed by your side as your bones cracked and your body changed in ways you couldn't fathom. But when it was done, you felt a euphoria you couldn't have expected, running through the dense trees of the forest without a care or doubt in your mind.
It came with a list of things you now had to adapt to - your heightened senses made everything unbearable for the days after your first shift, able to hear people from rooms away, to smell everything in a space before you even walked inside, and you had to adapt to the different tastes of every food you had grown accustomed to. Your hair was constantly growing, and with many YouTube videos’ worth of help, you quickly learned how to cut your and your brother's hair. Then, of course, there was your strength, something you constantly had to keep a check on lest you break things in public. You definitely had to replace a few annoying household appliances.
But over the months, you had learned to see the beauty in your new condition. A deep bond had grown between you and Vi, yes, but the same could be said about you and your brother. Now that you no longer had to worry about his safety, you were able to settle back into the normal sibling relationship you had missed so deeply. It also warmed your heart to see him and Vi growing closer over time, your girlfriend a trusted voice in his corner whenever he needed another person to give him advice.
That advice wasn't working now, however, as both of you tried and failed to convince him not to use his advanced strength to obliterate the High Striker, carrying a heap of prizes in his arms already.
“He is so going to get us caught.” You laugh, noticing the number of people passing him by and staring at the sheer amount of plushies and snacks he’s carrying.
“Eh, let him have his fun. He deserves it.”
Vi starts to swing your hands, smiling a dopey grin when you let her have her public display of affection. You’ve grown increasingly accustomed to them over the past year, and even found yourself eager many times to show the world the proof of how much you loved this woman. You could only blame your new instincts at the end of the day, no matter how much she tried to tease that the transformation only brought out the true cuddle bug that was hidden deep inside.
“Fine, then you’re gonna be the one to deal with his big head when he challenges you at one of the games.”
“What, you don’t think I can beat him?”
“I think when it comes to him, you turn into a softie.”
She scoffs, tugging you by the arm until you’re tucked comfortably under her arm. “Just so you know, I’m a softie for you, too. I don’t play favorites that much.”
“Mm, I’d beg to differ.”
You continue to tease each other as you walk through the crowded pathways of the fair, in the middle of laughing at one of her corny jokes, when you see something in the corner of your eye that catches your gaze.
The blonde fortune teller - the one who had read your fortune as a teen, the one who had told you about your curse only a year ago - is now staring at you from her booth near the pier, her eyes wide as she watches you.
You watch her back, waiting for her next move, prepared for her to scream bloody murder or alert someone of the danger of three werewolves in the middle of a crowded event.
But all she does is let her gaze drift. She sees the happy look on your face, the comfort of your body as you lean into your girlfriends, the way your younger brother calls from in front of you to hurry and ride with him on one of the crazy roller coasters. And she smiles. Confused, truly bewildered, but a smile nonetheless.
“Hey,” Vi grabs your attention, noticing the weary look in your eye as you have a staring match with the woman who had foretold your fate. “Is everything alright?”
And you glance back at her, the pure concern built from love in her eyes as she looks at you, before taking a brief glimpse at the moon above you. Just like the year before, it's full, big, and visible in the cloudless sky. Instead of the uncertainty it used to invoke in you, you can only feel happiness when you look at it now.
“Yeah, everything's perfect.”
After Note: I definitely did not write about 14k of this in the span of the last week and a half, despite it being planned since January!!!! It's not perfect, of course, but who cares! I love werewolves, I love Vi, and I love lesbians! Also, yes, the jealous, murderous ex is supposed to be Maddie. At first, I was thinking of making it Cait, but no matter how much I have beef with S2 Caitlyn, it just felt so...petty? So I went with the munchkin. No real hate I just needed someone lol.
vaporwave
yousharknotpass
