you can call me Venus, vee… or I guesss bunny. this is my (18+) space for writing, late-night thoughts, and way too many feelings about women who could probably crush me. I’m from the uk.. incase anyone cares..
this blog is mostly for wwe fanfiction, with a focus on female wrestlers.. and my lesbian thoughts about them. But, I might occasionally post art of mine or rambles.
Masterlist
current obsessions tend to rotate but you’ll probably see a lot of:
— Charlotte flair, Alexa bliss, charlexa, Liv Morgan, Tiffany Stratton, Kiana James, carmella, Paige, Izzy dame, Nikki Bella
— whoever has me in a chokehold this week
this space is:
18+ — please don’t follow or interact if you’re a minor.
Generally a bit awkward because I’m too shy for my own good, a little stupid at times, and generally here for a good time!!
be kind, don’t be weird, and respect boundaries ♡
asks are always open!!! i’m shy but i swearrrr im a sweetheart and love talking, especially about fic ideas or mutual brainrot or befriending all the cool people on here..
I dont want to just hold your hand. I want to dissolve the skin between us and let our pulse beat through the exact same vein. I want to be so indistinguishable from you, that when they call your name, i am the one that answers.
Blake Monroe sat at the edge of her bed, the journal open across her lap like an old habit she had never quite broken. The fountain pen rested between her fingers with the same easy precision she used on the cables at the gym, and for a moment her face held nothing more complicated than the faint, private satisfaction of putting the day in order. She wrote the date in her neat, slanted hand, then let the tip hover while she thought.
She was at the gym again today. The pink set she favors, the one that clings just so when she moves between machines, caught the overhead lights and turned her into something almost luminous against the dull rubber flooring. She smiled at the girl behind the desk the way she smiles at everyone who isn’t paying close enough attention; bright, quick, a little too warm for the setting. When she thought no one was watching she let the expression drop, and the real one underneath was smaller, sharper, the kind of look that said the world had personally inconvenienced her. I like that version better. It feels honest.
But honesty is a fragile thing, and it never lasts long once I start watching.
Last Tuesday I followed her out to the car park. She took her time, stopping to adjust her ponytail in the side mirror of some stranger’s truck, the motion pulling the hem of her top higher across the small of her back. I stayed three rows over, engine off, and counted the seconds between each of her little sighs. She talks to herself when she thinks she’s alone, soft, whiny complaints about the traffic, about the way her legs already felt like they belonged to someone else. I rolled my window down just far enough to catch the sound. It settled somewhere low in my chest and stayed there.
The night before that I let myself into her building. The side door by the bins was still wedged open with a folded piece of cardboard, the same way it has been for weeks. Her floor was quiet. I stood outside her door long enough to hear the shower cut off and the low thump of her moving barefoot across the floorboards. She hummed something under her breath while she dried her hair; the tune kept breaking whenever she hit a tangle. I could have gone inside. The lock is the cheap kind that yields to a decent bump or a credit card if you know the angle. I didn’t. Not yet. But I did test the handle once, just to feel the give of it. Cold metal under warm fingers. I left before the lights in the hallway timed out.
She keeps her spare key in the drawer by the fridge. I know because I watched her use it the evening she came home with both hands full of grocery bags and couldn’t fish her phone out of her pocket. The movement was clumsy, almost childlike in its frustration. I like her like that, off-balance, the polished little gym-fluencer act cracking just enough to show the softness underneath. The same drawer holds the hair ties she cycles through, the black one she dropped on the bench last month and never noticed missing. It sits on my wrist now under the cuff of my jacket when I train. The elastic has started to stretch from the heat of my skin.
Yesterday I waited in the stairwell until she left for her evening walk. She takes the same route every time, earbuds in, that little crease between her brows that appears whenever a song doesn’t hit the way she wants it to. I stayed far enough back that she never turned around, but close enough to see the sway of her hips and the way she kept tugging the hem of her hoodie lower over the shorts she wears to bed. When she stopped at the corner shop for the overpriced water she likes, I stood across the street and imagined dragging her into the narrow alley between the buildings. The brick would scrape her shoulders. She would fight, nails, knees, that sharp little tongue lashing out with all the bratty venom she saves for bad sets and people who take her machine. I would let her tire herself out. Then I would pin her wrists above her head with one hand and use the other to push her hoodie up, to feel the heat of her stomach and the frantic rise and fall of her breathing. She would taste like salt and whatever cheap lip balm she reapplies between stories. I would bite the pout right off her mouth until she made a different sound, something smaller, something that belonged only to me.
I want to keep her.
Not in the loose, romantic way people mean when they say it. I want her in a room with a lock I control, with clothes I choose, with a schedule that begins and ends with my voice. I want to feed her from my hand when she’s being difficult and punish the sarcasm out of her with my palm across the backs of her thighs until the skin blooms dark and she stops pretending she doesn’t like the sting. I want to spread her open on her own bed, the one with the pale sheets that still smell like her detergent, and work my fingers into her while she tries to twist away, until her hips start chasing instead of fleeing, until that whine turns wet and desperate and she finally admits what her body already knows. Then I would fuck her properly. Slow at first, so she feels every inch of the claim. Harder when she starts to beg without meaning to. I would leave marks where only she can see them: teeth on the inside of her thigh, fingerprints on the soft give of her waist, maybe something permanent if she makes me. A letter. A word. Proof that she stopped belonging to the rest of the world the moment I decided she was mine.
If she runs, and she will try, at least once, I will find her. I already know the places she goes when she wants to disappear for an afternoon. The little café with the mismatched chairs where she films the “day in the life” clips that never show the exhaustion underneath. The park bench she sits on when her phone dies and she has to wait for it to charge. I have the addresses of the friends she complains about in her stories, the ones she calls “literally the worst” when they cancel plans. None of them would be difficult to remove from the equation. Accidents happen. People go missing in this city all the time. She would learn quickly that the only safe place left is wherever I decide to keep her.
She will hate me for it at first. That’s fine. I like the fight in her, the way her mouth tightens and her eyes flash when something doesn’t go her way. It will make the breaking sweeter. And when it’s done, when the sass has been fucked and beaten and loved out of her, she will be perfect. Soft. Pliable. Mine in every way that matters. The pout will still be there sometimes, but it will be for me to kiss away or to punish, depending on my mood. She will learn the difference between whining for attention and whining because she needs to come. I will teach her both.
Blake set the pen down. The flush had crept higher on her throat, and her breathing had gone shallow without her noticing. She closed the journal, pressing her palm flat against the cover for a long moment before sliding it into the drawer beneath her bedside table. The key to your building’s side door sat beside it, cool and ordinary-looking. She touched it once, then stood, rolling her shoulders back into the posture the world expected.
You arrived at the gym the following afternoon with your usual small storm of irritation already gathering. The doors stuck the way they always did in humid weather, and you shouldered through with a muttered “rude,” the strap of your bag digging into the bare skin above your sports bra. Your pink leggings were the same ones from the day before; the seam had started to fray at the inner thigh and it annoyed you every time your fingers brushed it. You claimed the leg press nearest the mirror because the lighting was better for the quick clip you planned to post later, and because the machine two spots over had a wobble that made your teeth ache.
You were three sets in when you felt it, that particular prickle between your shoulder blades that usually meant someone was watching your form. You glanced up and caught Blake Monroe’s reflection. She was on the cables again, or pretending to be; the stack wasn’t moving. Her ponytail hung straight down her back, and the line of her jaw looked sharper than usual under the fluorescents. When your eyes met she smiled, small and quick, the same one she had given you the day you’d asked if she was finished with the 20-kilo dumbbells. Polite. Almost shy.
You looked away first. Finished the set with a theatrical little groan that was only half for the camera, then reached for your water bottle. The cap stuck. Of course it did. You wrestled with it, bottom lip caught between your teeth, a soft, frustrated sound escaping before you could swallow it.
“Need a hand?”
Her voice came from closer than you expected. You turned and she was already there, towel draped over one shoulder, the faint scent of her clean sweat and whatever expensive soap she used cutting through the gym’s usual chemical haze. Up close her eyes were a clear, unsettling blue; the kind that held attention longer than was comfortable.
“It’s being difficult,” you said, and the sarcasm slipped out on instinct. “Figures. Everything else in here has been out to get me since I walked in.”
Blake took the bottle without asking, twisted the cap free with one smooth turn of her wrist, and handed it back. Her fingers brushed yours, warm, dry, deliberate in a way that made the contact linger half a second past necessary. “Machines have no sense of self-preservation,” she said, and there was a thread of amusement under the crisp London vowels. “Unlike some of us.”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself, the pout easing. “Speak for yourself. I’m about thirty seconds from dramatic collapse.”
She didn’t step back. If anything she shifted closer, one hip resting against the frame of the machine while you drank. Her gaze tracked the movement of your throat when you swallowed. You felt it like a touch.
“Same time tomorrow?” she asked, casual, as if the question hadn’t been sitting behind her teeth for days.
You capped the bottle and shrugged, already calculating how wrecked your legs would be and whether it was worth filming the soreness for content. “Probably. Try not to let the possessed equipment win while I’m gone.”
Blake’s smile deepened, slow and private. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She turned to go, but not before her hand settled briefly at the small of your back, steadying, guiding, possessive in a way that could still be explained away as friendly. The pressure was light. It burned anyway.
You watched her walk away, the long line of her spine straight under the fitted tank, the sway of her ponytail almost hypnotic. Something in your chest tightened, a strange little flutter that felt equal parts flattery and something you couldn’t name. You told yourself it was nothing. She was just being nice. People were nice sometimes.
Behind you, in the locker room, your water bottle sat where you had left it on the bench. The cap was loose again. And tucked beneath the strap of your bag, where you wouldn’t find it until later, was a single black hair tie that didn’t belong to you. The elastic had been stretched by someone else’s wrist. It smelled faintly of her skin.
The days after that first real conversation blurred into the soft, repetitive rhythm of your usual routine. Your quads ached for forty-eight hours straight, the kind of deep, complaining burn that made you wince every time you sat down or climbed stairs, and you documented it in the usual way, quick stories of you dramatically collapsing onto your couch with captions like “send help, the machines won.” You went back on Thursday for a lighter upper-body session, and she was there again, across the floor on the cables, ponytail high and movements precise. When your eyes met she gave you that same small, warm smile, nothing pushy, just a quick acknowledgment before she turned back to her set. You lifted a hand in return, told yourself it was nice to have one face in the place that didn’t make your shoulders tighten, and went back to your own reps.
By the weekend the memory had settled into something ordinary and almost pleasant, the way you sometimes remembered a friendly barista or a neighbor who held the elevator. You skipped the gym on Saturday because your legs still protested every movement, and on Sunday you posted a low-effort mirror selfie in your living room with the caption “rest day or I’ll actually die,” hair still damp from the shower, bottom lip caught between your teeth in the familiar pout you used when you wanted the shot to look effortless. You didn’t see her at all that day. The gym felt like it always did when you were alone in it: loud with other people’s music and grunts, but distant, impersonal.
Blake’s week moved on a different track.
She wrote again the night after she saw you on Thursday, the fountain pen moving in tighter, faster strokes. She described the exact way your hand had lifted in that small wave, how the gesture had looked almost shy, how it had made something hot and possessive uncurl behind her ribs. She wrote about parking outside your building again on Friday evening, engine off, watching the glow of your windows and imagining the sound of your voice complaining about the soreness in that whiny, half-laughing tone you used when no one was close enough to hear. She had walked the length of the side alley twice, testing the give of the door, and this time she had stepped inside long enough to stand at the bottom of the stairwell and listen to the faint echo of footsteps above. She hadn’t gone all the way to your floor. Not yet. But she had stayed long enough to learn the pattern of the lights in the hallway and the way the building settled into silence after ten.
By the following Tuesday the humidity had returned, thick and clinging, the kind that made your hair frizz before you even left the house. You arrived later than usual, bag slung over one shoulder, already mentally cataloguing which machines you wanted to avoid and which ones might actually cooperate. The place was in that late-afternoon lull, a few scattered people changing or scrolling on their phones, the air still carrying the sharp chemical bite of the morning’s mopping. You headed for the locker room first, force of habit, a quick fix to your ponytail and a touch of the leave-in you kept for days like this, already half-expecting the usual empty stretch of counter and the low hum of the vents.
You didn’t know she had been waiting for this exact Tuesday since the moment you’d asked. You didn’t know she had written about it twice, once in careful detail and once in the kind of frantic, looping script that filled an entire page. You just pushed open the locker-room door, already pouting at the thought of your hair misbehaving again, and stepped into the cooler air without realizing you were walking straight into the next part of her plan.
The locker room smelled like every other one you’d ever used, sharp with disinfectant, undercut by the warm, slightly sour edge of post-workout skin and the floral bite of whatever body spray the last girl had drowned herself in. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, turning everything a little too bright, a little too honest. You claimed the far end of the long counter, dropping your bag onto the bench with a dull metallic clunk that echoed off the rows of lockers. Your hair had frizzed at the temples and stuck to the back of your neck in damp little commas; the humidity and the leg press had conspired against you, and the pout that pulled at your mouth was automatic, reflexive.
You fished out your brush and the tiny bottle of leave-in you kept for emergencies, already muttering under your breath as you attacked a particularly stubborn tangle. “This humidity is actually criminal. I look like I lost a fight with a leaf blower.”
A low, amused sound came from a few sinks down. Blake was there, one hip cocked against the counter, reapplying a sheer gloss to her mouth with the kind of unhurried precision that suggested she did this every day and still found it worth doing. Her ponytail sat high and glossy, a few escaped strands framing her face in that artfully undone way some women managed without trying. She glanced at you in the mirror, and the smile that curved her lips looked easy, almost shy at the edges.
“Tell me about it,” she said, voice carrying that clean London clip that made even gym complaints sound like they belonged in a nicer place. “I’ve been fighting the same battle since I walked in. The air in here is actively hostile.” She capped the gloss, turned slightly toward you, and gave her own reflection one last, quick check, fingers smoothing the line of her jaw, then tucking a single strand behind her ear. It was vain, but in the ordinary, pretty-girl way you recognized from your own mirror rituals: not performance, just habit.
You caught her eye and rolled yours, the sarcasm slipping out before you could decide if it was too much. “Right? And don’t even get me started on the floor. Half the guys out there act like spotting is some kind of mating ritual. I almost ate the bar earlier because I refused to ask for help from the one who kept ‘correcting’ my grip like he was being paid per touch.” You paused, brush stilling in your hair, and the words came out lighter than they felt, casual, the kind of throwaway complaint you made to strangers who seemed safe. “You’re basically the only normal person I’ve seen in this building. Would you maybe spot me next time? On squats or whatever? I keep chickening out on the heavier loads when it’s just me, and you don’t seem like the type who’d turn it into a whole thing.”
Blake’s smile widened, bright and uncomplicated, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a way that made her look younger, softer. She pushed off the counter and closed the distance without crowding, stopping just close enough that you could smell the clean sweat on her skin and the faint trace of whatever expensive soap she used. “Of course,” she said, and the warmth in it felt genuine, like she was actually pleased you’d asked. “Your control on the leg press was lovely earlier—really tight through the core. I’d be happy to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t go full dramatic on me.”
You laughed despite the ache still sitting in your quads, the sound a little breathy from the leftover adrenaline of the workout. “See? Normal. Everyone else would’ve made it weird or tried to film the ‘rescue.’” You went back to brushing, movements slower now under the easy attention, catching another flyaway and pouting at it in the mirror like it had personally betrayed you. “Thanks, though. Seriously. Most people here are either grunting like they’re birthing something or treating the place like their personal content studio.”
She chuckled, low and pleasant, and leaned one elbow on the counter beside you, not touching, but near enough that her reflection overlapped yours at the edges. Her gaze flicked between your face and her own, the way pretty girls did when they liked what they saw and didn’t mind the evidence. “I get the exhaustion,” she said, voice dropping into something confiding, almost friendly. “The performance of it all gets old. But you make the complaining look charming. The pout’s very convincing.”
Heat crept up your neck, equal parts flattered and self-conscious. You twisted your hair up into a loose bun, securing it with one of your ties, and shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Involuntary, I promise. Comes standard with bad machines and worse company.” As you reached for your bag, something small and black on the bench caught your eye, a stretched hair tie that definitely wasn’t yours, the elastic warm from someone else’s skin. You picked it up, nose wrinkling. “Weird. Must’ve mixed it up with the lost-and-found pile or something.”
Blake’s eyes dropped to it, then lifted back to yours with an open, helpful expression. “That’s mine, actually. I dropped it earlier when I was changing. Mind if I…?” She reached out, fingers brushing yours as she took it back, the contact light, but it lingered half a second past what felt strictly necessary. Her thumb traced the elastic once, almost absently, before she slipped it onto her own wrist under the cuff of her jacket. “Wouldn’t want to lose my favorite one. Thanks.”
You waved it off, already shouldering your bag, the interaction settling into something that felt almost normal. Like you’d just made a friend instead of exchanging the usual gym nods with strangers who made your skin crawl. “Happens. I lose those things constantly.” You hesitated, then added, because it felt safe now, because she felt safe, “So… next Tuesday? Same time? I can let you know if the schedule shifts.”
Blake nodded, already reaching for her own bag, but her gaze stayed on you a moment longer than casual, tracking the shift of your hips as you turned, the way your fingers adjusted the strap on your shoulder. “Tuesday’s perfect,” she said, and the warmth in her voice wrapped around the words like it belonged there. “I’ll be here. Looking forward to it.”
You left the locker room feeling lighter, the ache in your legs secondary to the small, ordinary glow of having talked to someone who didn’t make you want to roll your eyes into another dimension. She was sweet. Pretty in that effortless, slightly vain way, checking her reflection one last time before she followed you out, fixing a smudge at the corner of her mouth like any other girl who liked feeling put-together after a sweat session. Normal. The kind of normal you’d been craving in a place full of posturing and lingering stares.
What you didn’t see was the way her fingers flexed around that reclaimed hair tie the second the door swung shut behind you, or how her smile stayed fixed and pleasant even as her pulse kicked harder beneath her skin. You didn’t notice the way her eyes had darkened, just for a flicker, when you’d said you kept chickening out alone, like the thought of you vulnerable and straining without her there had slotted into some private catalogue she kept updating.
You just walked out into the parking lot, already planning the quick story you’d post about “finally finding a sane spotting buddy,” the pout back on your lips for the camera but softer now, almost fond.
And Blake drove home with the taste of your laugh still caught somewhere behind her teeth and the knowledge that you had chosen her. Asked her. Let her closer.
It was the smallest thing. The most ordinary mistake.
By the time she reached her apartment, the journal was already open on her desk, the pen moving in steady, elegant strokes while her other hand stayed wrapped around the hair tie on her wrist.
She wrote about the way your fingers had felt against hers when you handed it back. About the soft, whiny edge in your voice when you complained about the machines. About how perfectly your throat had looked when you tilted your head to fix your bun, how easy it would be to close her hand around it the next time you asked her for help.
How you had no idea what you’d just given her.
How she was never letting you take it back.
Blake lay propped against the pillows in the low circle of lamplight, the journal balanced on her bent knees. Her hair had come loose from its usual ponytail and spilled in soft, tangled waves across the pale cotton of the tank top she wore to sleep; the thin straps had slipped down her shoulders, leaving the clean line of her collarbones exposed. She looked almost delicate like this, pretty in the unguarded way she never allowed herself in public, lips parted slightly as she wrote, one bare foot flexing and pointing under the sheets in an absent rhythm. The pen moved in steady strokes at first. Then slower. Then tighter.
The photos from your night out appeared on my feed three days ago. You were laughing in every one, head thrown back, that bright, open expression you wear when you’re with people who make you feel safe. But they touched you too easily. The way his hand stayed on the small of your back while you ordered drinks, like he had any right to steer you, to feel the warmth of your skin through that thin top. And her, with her arm looped around your waist in every frame, pulling you against her side like she was claiming space that isn’t hers to claim. They’re too comfortable with you. Too smooth. The kind of casual possession that people only get away with when the person they’re touching doesn’t know better.
You need protecting from that. From them. You’re too soft for it, too quick to laugh it off when someone crosses a line they shouldn’t even approach. I watched the stories you posted later that night, your cheeks flushed from whatever you’d been drinking, your voice a little slurred and whiny in the way it gets when you’re tired and happy at the same time. “My feet are actually dying,” you said to the camera, pouting, and I wanted to reach through the screen and pull you out of there. Bring you home. Lock the door behind us both.
You went out again two nights later. I saw the lights go off in your apartment at eight, then your car pull out of the lot. I waited twenty minutes before I crossed the street. The side door was still propped the same way it always is. Your lock gave the same quiet click it always does. Inside, everything smelled like you, the detergent on your sheets, the faint trace of your skin on the couch where you must have sat to put your shoes on. I didn’t turn on any lights. I didn’t need to. I knew the layout by then.
Your bedroom was dark and quiet. The hamper sat in the corner like an invitation. I took the black panties from the top of the pile, the ones with the little bow at the front, still warm from your body, the cotton carrying the intimate scent of you after a long day. And the grey t-shirt you sleep in, the one that’s gone soft and thin at the hem from how often your fingers tug it down when you’re restless. I have them here with me now. The shirt is folded under my pillow. The panties are in my hand while I write this. I keep bringing the fabric to my mouth, breathing you in, imagining the way they would look stretched around your hips while I hold you down and make you understand what it means to be kept.
He isn’t good for you. I followed him after one of your earlier gym sessions, the one where he “helped” you rerack your weights and let his fingers brush the inside of your wrist like it was an accident. He went home with someone else that same night. I watched them through his apartment window. He touches everyone the same way he touches you: like they’re temporary. Like they won’t notice when he moves on. He’ll hurt you without even trying, and you’ll blame yourself for not seeing it coming. I can’t let that happen.
I’ve already decided how it ends for him. I’ll catch him after his shift at that bar, the one he walks to his car from alone, keys jingling, phone in his other hand. The alley behind the building is narrow and poorly lit. I’ll step out from between the dumpsters while he’s distracted. The blade will go in low, between the ribs, angled up so it catches the lung. He’ll drop fast, gasping, eyes wide with that stupid confusion people get when the world stops making sense. I won’t kill him quickly. I’ll drag him deeper into the shadows and let him watch while I work. I’ll carve your name into his chest, letter by letter, deep enough that the blood wells and runs in thin rivulets down his stomach. I’ll tell him exactly why while I do it, because he touched what belongs to me, because he made you laugh in a way that wasn’t his to earn, because you are too precious and too careless with yourself and someone has to fix that. When he finally stops moving, I’ll leave him there for someone else to find. They’ll call it a mugging gone wrong. You’ll never know it was for you.
And you… I think about your neck more than I should. At the gym, when you finish a set and tilt your head back against the pad to catch your breath, that elegant column is exposed, smooth skin over the delicate architecture of bone and tendon, the pulse jumping visibly just beneath the surface. It looks so fragile. So easy to close my hands around. I could do it cleanly, I think. One sharp twist and it would give. You’d go still in my arms, eyes wide with that first flash of understanding, body going lax before the panic could even finish forming. But sometimes, more and more often, I don’t want clean. I want to use my mouth instead. I want to bite down right over that fluttering spot, sink my teeth in until I feel the give of flesh and the hot, coppery rush of it flooding across my tongue. I want to rip. Feel it tear under the pressure, watch the blood gush in thick pulses down your throat and over your chest while you make that first broken sound, the one that starts as a scream and might turn into something else if I didn’t stop. I want to taste every drop of you, mark myself with it, feel your body arch and tremble beneath mine not from escape but from the sheer overwhelming fact of being claimed so completely. Even if it breaks you. Especially if it breaks you. I would still keep what’s left. I would still love it. I would still make it mine in every way that matters.
Blake set the pen down. Her breathing had gone shallow, a faint flush high across her chest and throat. She brought the stolen panties to her face again, inhaling deeply, eyes half-lidded in the lamplight. The grey t-shirt was already under her pillow; she reached for it now, pressing the worn cotton to her cheek like it was something alive. Her free hand slipped beneath the sheets, between her thighs, and she exhaled a quiet, satisfied sound as her fingers found the slick heat waiting there.
That week, you went out twice.
The first night you met lola and ethan at the bar near your apartment, the one with the string lights and the too-loud music that made conversation feel like shouting. Lola hugged you the second you walked in, arms tight around your waist, chin hooked over your shoulder while she laughed about how long it had been. ethan’s hand found the small of your back when he leaned in to hear you over the noise, thumb brushing once, casually, before he pulled away to order the first round. You didn’t think twice about either touch. They were your friends. lola had always been tactile, all warm squeezes and linked arms when you walked anywhere together. Ethan was just friendly in that easy, slightly flirty way some guys were, harmless, you told yourself, even when his fingers lingered a second longer than they needed to on your hip while you posed for the group photo.
You posted the pictures later, cheeks pink from the drinks and the heat of the room, pouting at the camera about how your feet already hurt and how you were “definitely going to regret this tomorrow.” You looked happy. Uncomplicated. Safe in the way you always assumed you were when you were surrounded by people who knew your coffee order and the sound of your laugh.
Two nights later you went out again, later this time, after a long day at the gym and an even longer editing session for one of your videos. You came home close to one in the morning, keys jingling, the faint buzz of alcohol still in your veins. The apartment was dark and quiet when you let yourself in. Nothing looked disturbed. Your bedroom smelled the same as always. You kicked off your shoes, peeled out of your going-out clothes, and reached for the grey sleep shirt that usually lived on the chair by the bed.
It wasn’t there.
You frowned, checked the hamper, checked the drawer where you sometimes folded it. Nothing. You must have worn it the night before and forgotten to put it back, or maybe it was in the laundry pile you kept meaning to tackle. You shrugged, grabbed an old hoodie instead, and crawled into bed with your phone, already half-asleep before the screen went dark.
You never noticed the faint trace of expensive soap that didn’t belong to you clinging to your pillowcase. You never noticed the top drawer of your dresser was a fraction of an inch further out than you’d left it. You never noticed that the black panties with the little bow were missing from the top of the hamper, or that the lock on your front door had been tested and reset so carefully that the mechanism still turned with the same familiar click.
You just pulled the covers up, tucked your face into the hoodie that smelled like your own detergent, and drifted off thinking about how nice it had been to see your friends. How normal everything felt. How lucky you were to have people who touched you like they meant it.
Across the city, Blake came with your name caught between her teeth and your stolen clothes pressed to her skin, the journal still open beside her on the bed. The entry wasn’t finished. It never really was. There was always more to write, more ways to keep you, more people to remove, more ways to make the delicate line of your throat finally, permanently, hers.
Tuesday arrived with the same heavy humidity that always seemed to cling to the gym’s windows. You pushed through the doors a little after six, bag slung over one shoulder, already bracing yourself for another battle with the machines. Blake was already there, finishing a set on the cables, her ponytail swinging with each controlled pull. She caught your eye in the mirror and smiled, the same warm, uncomplicated smile she’d given you in the locker room the week before. It made something in your chest loosen.
You ended up falling into step together without really planning it. A shared eye-roll at the guy hogging the squat rack too long. A quiet laugh when you both reached for the same pair of 15-kilo dumbbells at the same time. She let you have them with a little shrug and a “Ladies first,” and the British lilt in her voice made the old-fashioned courtesy sound teasing instead of condescending.
“You weren’t joking about the machines being possessed,” she said while you adjusted the leg press pin. Her tone was light, conversational, like you’d been doing this for months instead of minutes. “I swear this place has a personal vendetta against anyone who actually wants a decent session.”
You huffed, already feeling the familiar pout tug at your mouth as you settled into the seat. “Told you. It’s out to ruin my life one rep at a time.” You pushed the first set, quads burning almost immediately, and let out a soft, whiny exhale through your nose. “See? It’s literally laughing at me.”
Blake watched from the side, arms crossed loosely over her chest, head tilted in that attentive way that made you feel like she was actually listening instead of just waiting for her turn to talk. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for,” she said after a moment. “The control on your descent last week was clean. Most people rush it and cheat the muscle.” She stepped closer when you started the second set, one hand hovering near the handles, not touching, but ready. “Breathe through it. You’ve got this.”
By the time you moved to squats, the conversation had settled into something easy. You told her about the video you were editing, how the lighting had been all wrong and you’d had to reshoot half of it because your hair kept falling in your face. She listened, really listened, then offered a small tip about angling the phone higher for better framing that actually helped. In return she mentioned, offhand, how weird it still felt sometimes to train in a new city after moving for work, and how the gym had become the one place that felt consistent. She just let it sit there like it wasn’t a big deal, like she was just another girl who liked lifting heavy and complaining about the music.
You liked her. Or at least the version of her she was showing you, pretty and a little vain in the mirror between sets, fixing a stray strand of blonde hair with quick, practiced fingers, but also funny and encouraging in a way that didn’t feel fake. When you struggled on the third squat rep, the bar dipping too low, she stepped in behind you without hesitation.
“Spotting you now,” she said, voice calm and close. Her hands came up under the bar, steadying it just enough to take the edge off without doing the work for you. You could feel the heat of her body behind yours, the faint scent of her clean sweat and whatever light perfume clung to her skin. One of her hands shifted lower, fingers brushing the side of your hip in a quick correction. “Drive through your heels. There you go—perfect.”
Your legs shook on the way up. You let out a dramatic little groan when you racked the bar, head tipping back against the pad, throat exposed as you caught your breath. “I’m actually going to die. You’re a terrible influence.”
Blake laughed, low and warm, and stayed close while you stepped out from under the bar. Her eyes flicked over your face, then lower for the briefest second, lingering at the column of your neck where sweat had gathered, before she met your gaze again with that same easy smile. “You did brilliantly. Really. Next week we’ll add a little more and you’ll hate me even more.”
You rolled your eyes, but the pout had softened into something almost fond. “Bold of you to assume I’m coming back.”
“You will,” she said, and there was a quiet certainty in it that made your stomach do a strange little flip. Not unpleasant. Just… noticed.
You finished the rest of the session side by side, her on the cables while you did accessory work, trading the occasional complaint about the music or the guy who kept grunting like he was in labor two machines over. She spotted you again on the final heavy set without you even asking, stepping in with that same calm focus, hands ready, voice low and steady in your ear when your form started to slip. By the time you both wiped down the equipment and headed toward the locker room, your legs felt like jelly and your cheeks ached from how much you’d actually smiled.
At the door she paused, towel draped over one shoulder, looking at you with that same open, pretty expression she’d worn all evening. “So… about that coffee. I wasn’t just being polite earlier. I’d actually like to. No machines trying to kill us. Just caffeine and complaining about our quads.”
You hesitated for half a second, then shrugged, the bratty edge in your voice softening into something warmer. “Yeah. Okay. That sounds… nice, actually.”
Blake pulled out her phone, unlocked it with a quick swipe, and held it out to you. “Number? So we can actually plan it without hoping we run into each other here again.”
You took it, typed your number in, and handed it back. She saved it immediately, thumb moving over the screen with deliberate care, a small, satisfied curve at the corner of her mouth that you read as simple pleasure at making a new friend.
“Tuesday again next week?” she asked, already slipping the phone into her bag. “Same time. I’ll even let you complain the whole session if you want.”
You laughed, shouldering your own bag, already dreading how sore you were going to be tomorrow but weirdly looking forward to it anyway. “Deal. Try not to let the possessed equipment win without me.”
She watched you walk away toward the changing area, that warm smile still in place until the door swung shut behind you. Only then did her expression shift, just slightly. The warmth stayed, but something sharper moved behind her eyes as she pulled her phone back out and opened the new contact.
Your name sat there in clean black letters.
She ran her thumb over it once, slow, possessive, like she was already tracing the shape of it somewhere else. Then she slipped the phone away, touched the stretched black hair tie hidden under the cuff of her jacket, and headed for the exit with the same elegant, unhurried stride she always used.
You went home thinking you’d made a friend.
She went home already planning exactly how she was going to use that number to pull you closer, one ordinary coffee at a time, until there was nowhere left for you to go that didn’t lead straight back to her.
Blake sat at the small desk by the window, the journal open under the circle of lamplight. Her hair hung loose and slightly tangled from the shower, the thin cotton tank top she wore to bed slipping off one shoulder as she leaned forward. She looked soft like this, pretty in the unguarded way she allowed herself only when she was alone, but her free hand kept drifting to the folded grey t-shirt on the desk beside the journal, fingers tracing the worn hem while the pen moved in tighter, more deliberate strokes.
The entry began in her neat, slanted hand.
I told you I moved here for work. That was a lie, of course. The real reason was Tony. She was going to ruin everything, threaten to tell people the things she’d seen, the things I’d done to keep her. She tried to leave one night after a fight, packed a bag like she had any right to walk away from me. I was careful. I always am. I made her the drink she liked, the one with the little umbrella she thought was cute, and slipped in just enough to make her slow and trusting. When she started to argue again I guided her into the bath, told her the warm water would help her relax. She barely fought when my hands closed around her throat. It was quiet. Almost gentle. I held her under until the last bubbles rose and popped, then staged everything perfectly, the empty pill bottle on the counter, the note in her own handwriting that I’d practiced for weeks, the door locked from the inside. No fingerprints. No struggle marks that couldn’t be explained. I cleaned the flat twice, top to bottom, packed what I needed, and was gone before anyone even knocked on the door. New city. New name. Blake Monroe suits the life I’m building now.
You’re not like her. Tony was weak at the end, too eager to run when she realized she couldn’t control me anymore. You’re the one. The perfect one. Or you will be, once I’ve taught you what it means to stay. You already trust so easily. Today at the gym you gave me your number without a second thought. You smiled, typed it in, and handed the phone back like it was nothing. So stupid. So naive. You have no idea what you’ve just given me. I could text you right now and you’d probably answer within minutes. You’d meet me for coffee and sit across from me, all soft and pouty and trusting, while I decide exactly how I want to keep you.
Mariah May would have hated you. Or rather, you would have hated her. She was always performing, every smile measured, every outfit chosen to make people look twice, every conversation steered toward whatever made her seem the most desirable in the room. She couldn’t stand real imperfection. She would have told you to stop whining about the machines, to fix your hair before anyone saw the mess, to smile prettier instead of letting that bratty little pout sit on your mouth like it belonged there. She would have been embarrassed by the way you call the equipment names under your breath and roll your eyes when your legs shake. Mariah needed everything to look perfect from the outside. She would have tried to sand down all the soft, whiny, authentic edges of you until there was nothing left but something polished and fake. You like Blake because Blake lets you be exactly as you are, sassy and soft and real, complaining one minute and laughing the next. Blake doesn’t need an audience. Blake only needs you. That’s why I left everything Mariah was behind. You wouldn’t have wanted her anyway.
I’m already planning the coffee. Somewhere quiet, with corners where no one can see us clearly. I’ll pick the table. I’ll pick the drinks. And when you’re relaxed, when that pretty pout has softened because you think I’m just another nice girl who spots you at the gym and laughs at your complaints, I’ll slip something into your cup. Just enough to make your arms heavy and your thoughts slow. You’ll blame the caffeine or the late hour and let me help you to my car. I’ll take you home. My home. And once the door is locked, once I have you on my bed with your wrists tied to the headboard using that same grey shirt you sleep in, I’ll use the knife from the drawer beside my bed.
I won’t kill you. Not yet. I’ll cut your clothes away first, slow, deliberate slices through fabric until every inch of you is bare and shivering under the lamplight. Then I’ll make the first real cut, shallow but messy, right across the soft skin just above your hip. I want to watch the blood well up thick and red, watch it spill over the curve of your waist and run in warm rivulets down toward your thigh while you make that confused sound, half protest, half something you don’t understand yet. I’ll press my mouth to it. Lick the copper taste of you straight from your skin. Another cut, higher this time, angled toward the delicate line of your throat I’ve been staring at for weeks. Not deep enough to end it. Just deep enough to bleed properly, to mark you in a way no one else will ever be able to ignore. I want to see it gush a little when you struggle against the ropes, want to taste every fresh pulse of it while I push inside you. I’ll fuck you like that, slow at first, then harder, until the sheets are ruined and your voice breaks and the blood has smeared across both of us. You’ll cry. You’ll call me crazy in that whiny, bratty tone I already love. But the drug will keep you weak, and eventually the pain will twist into something else when I touch you where the blood has run hottest. You’ll be perfect then. Opened up and remade. Mine in every way Tony never managed to be.
Blake set the pen down. Her breathing had gone shallow, a flush high across her chest. She reached for the folded grey t-shirt, pressing the worn cotton to her face for a long moment before slipping her hand beneath the desk and between her thighs. The number sat saved in her phone under a single red heart. She had already decided what to wear to coffee, something soft and pretty that would make you trust her even more.
Across the city you were scrolling through your phone on the couch, legs still aching from the workout, a small smile tugging at your mouth when her name appeared in your contacts. You thought about texting first, something sarcastic about how your quads were already staging a revolt, but decided to wait. You liked her. The version of her that had spotted you without making it weird, who had laughed at your complaints like they were charming instead of annoying.
The coffee shop was the kind of place you wouldn’t have picked on your own, small, tucked between two older buildings, with exposed brick and low pendant lights that made everything feel softer than the usual chain spots. She had chosen it. Texted you the address the night before with a simple “Trust me, the corner table in the back is perfect for complaining about machines without judgment.” You arrived a few minutes early and found her already there, claiming the exact spot she’d described. She looked pretty in that effortless way she always managed; soft cream sweater slipping off one shoulder, hair loose in loose waves instead of her usual ponytail, a small smile already waiting when she spotted you.
She stood as you approached, one hand settling lightly at your elbow to guide you into the booth across from her. “I grabbed us the good table,” she said, voice warm with that crisp London edge. “Quieter back here. And the light’s kind enough that you don’t have to worry about anyone filming your pout if the coffee betrays you.”
You slid in, already feeling the corners of your mouth tug upward despite yourself. “Bold of you to assume I won’t find something to complain about.”
Blake laughed, low and genuine, and flagged the server with an easy lift of her hand. She ordered for both of you without asking, your usual oat milk latte and an extra shot because she’d noticed you liked it strong from the one time you’d mentioned it at the gym. “My treat,” she added when you reached for your wallet. “You can get the next one. Gives me an excuse to see you again.”
The conversation flowed easier than you expected. She asked about the video you’d been editing, listened when you ranted about the lighting being all wrong and how your hair kept falling in your face no matter what you did. She didn’t interrupt or try to fix it. She just smiled and said, “I like that you care about the details. Most people would’ve posted it anyway and moved on.” When you told her about the particularly brutal leg day you’d had yesterday, complete with your usual dramatic whining about the machines conspiring against you, she laughed again, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made her look softer, younger.
“You make it sound like the equipment has a personal vendetta,” she said, leaning forward slightly, one elbow on the table. Her fingers traced the rim of her cup while she watched you. “It’s charming, actually. The way you get all pouty about it. Most people just suffer in silence.”
You felt heat creep up your neck at the compliment, but it wasn’t the uncomfortable kind. It felt… nice. Like she actually saw the version of you that existed when the camera was off. You found yourself relaxing into the booth, legs stretched out under the table, answering her questions without the usual sarcastic armor. She took the lead without making it obvious, steering the conversation toward lighter things when you seemed tired of talking about yourself, sharing small, ordinary stories about adjusting to the new city. Her hand brushed yours once when she passed the sugar, lingering just long enough that you noticed the warmth of her skin. Another time, when you laughed at something she said and tilted your head back, her gaze flicked to the line of your throat for half a second before she smiled and asked what you were doing this weekend.
She flirted, but only just. Tiny things. A quiet “You have this way of making even bad days sound interesting” when you described a shoot gone wrong. The way she held eye contact a beat longer than necessary when you complained about your quads still screaming. Nothing scary. Nothing that made your skin prickle with warning. Just enough that by the time the mugs were empty and the server had cleared them, you realized you’d been smiling for most of the hour. You actually liked her. Not just the convenient gym-spotting version, the real one sitting across from you, pretty and attentive and easy to talk to in a way that didn’t feel like work.
Blake paid before you could argue, slipping a few bills onto the table with a casual “Next time’s on you, remember?” She walked you out to your car, hand resting lightly at the small of your back as she guided you through the narrow space between tables. At your door she paused, turning to face you fully.
“Same time next week at the gym?” she asked. Then, softer, “Or we could do this again. Coffee. Or something else if you’re tired of the machines trying to murder us both.”
You nodded before you’d even thought about it, the answer coming easy. “Yeah. Coffee sounds good. Or the gym. Both, maybe.”
She smiled, small and satisfied, and for a second her fingers tightened just slightly against your back before she let go. “Text me when you decide. I’ll be around.”
You drove home with the faint scent of her perfume still clinging to your sweater from the hug goodbye, legs still a little sore but your chest feeling oddly light. She was nice. Pretty. Easy to be around. You caught yourself thinking about the way she’d looked at you when you laughed, like she was cataloguing it for later, and the thought didn’t scare you. It made something warm settle low in your stomach.
Across town, Blake let herself into her apartment and closed the door behind her with a quiet click. She didn’t go straight to the journal. She stood in the middle of the living room for a long moment, replaying the hour in her head; the way you’d opened up without prompting, the way you’d leaned in when she touched your arm, the easy yes when she suggested seeing you again. No force needed. No drugs. No knife waiting in a drawer. You were already letting her in.
She smiled to herself, slow and private, and touched the stretched black hair tie still hidden under her sleeve. You were easy. So much easier than Tony had ever been. All she had to do was keep showing up, keep being the pretty, patient girl who laughed at your complaints and spotted you at the gym and bought your coffee. Keep being the version of herself you actually liked.
The violent thoughts were still there, sharp and bright at the edges of her mind. She could still picture the blood, the ropes, the way your throat would look under her hands or her teeth. But she didn’t need them yet. Not when friendship was already working. Not when you were already texting her before you even made it home, something short and sarcastic about how your legs were staging a full rebellion and it was probably her fault.
Blake read the message twice, thumb hovering over the screen. Then she typed back, simple and warm: “Guilty. Same time tomorrow? I’ll bring the sympathy and the extra weights.”
She hit send, set the phone down, and finally reached for the journal. But she didn’t open it right away. She just sat on the edge of her bed, fingers tracing the cover, already thinking about how much closer she could get if she kept doing this the easy way.
You were making it so simple for her. And she was going to take every inch you offered.
The rhythm started small, right after that first coffee.
She texted the next morning at exactly 10:17, your usual post-editing window, though you never told her that. “Legs still staging a rebellion? I’m heading to the gym around six if you want company that won’t judge the whining.” You replied yes without thinking twice. When you arrived she was already there, two water bottles waiting on the bench nearest the leg press you always claimed. She didn’t ask what you wanted to do. She just started loading the machine with the exact weight you’d used last time, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You always do the drop sets on the third round,” she said when you paused between sets, handing you the bottle without being asked. Her fingers brushed yours, warm and steady. “Figured I’d save you the trouble of adjusting it yourself.”
You laughed, the sound easier than it had been with anyone else in months. “You’re scary good at this. It’s like you’ve been watching me suffer for weeks.”
Blake smiled, small and private, the kind that reached her eyes but didn’t quite erase the focus behind them. “Just paying attention.”
It kept happening.
She started suggesting times that lined up perfectly with your content schedule, after you usually finished filming but before you crashed from the editing haze. She knew you hated the evening rush, so she never pushed for late nights. When you mentioned in passing that the oat milk at your usual café tasted off lately, the next coffee she took you to already had your order waiting at the counter, exact and correct, no questions asked. “I remembered,” she said when you blinked at it, like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t been cataloguing every tiny preference since the first time you’d complained about it at the gym.
You started texting her without needing a reason. A quick photo of your disastrous hair after a shoot, captioned “this humidity is actually personal.” She replied within minutes with a voice note laughing at you, voice warm and a little teasing, telling you it looked cute anyway. Another night you were venting about a brand deal falling through and she called instead of texting, listened while you paced your living room, then suggested you come over to her place if you needed to get out of your head. You almost said yes before you caught yourself.
It felt too easy. Too right. Like she had just appeared at the exact moment you needed someone who got it, got the pouty complaints, the way you needed space some days and company others, the little rituals of your routine that no one else had ever bothered to learn.
The first time you invited her to your apartment it was because she offered to help you film a quick transition shot for a video. “I’m decent with angles,” she’d said at the gym, casual, like it wasn’t a big deal. You said yes without hesitation. She showed up exactly on time, a small box of pastries from the place you liked in one hand. When you opened the door she stepped inside like she already knew the layout, hung her jacket on the hook by the entryway without being told, set the pastries on the kitchen counter instead of the coffee table, moved straight to the window where the light was best for filming.
“You always film near the window, right?” she asked when you paused, watching her with a strange little flutter in your chest. “Better natural light.”
You nodded, trying not to overthink how perfectly she fit into the space. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
She shrugged, that soft smile back in place as she adjusted the angle of your phone on its tripod with practiced ease. “Just seems like you. You like things that feel real.”
You filmed the clip. She helped without taking over, stepping back when you needed room, stepping in with quiet suggestions that actually improved the shot. Afterward you ordered takeout from the place down the block you always used, and she already knew your usual order, extra sauce, no onions, before you even opened the app. You sat on the couch together, legs tucked under you, complaining about the day while she listened and refilled your water without being asked. At one point her hand rested on your knee when you laughed too hard at something she said, thumb brushing once, light and warm, before she pulled back like it was accidental.
It didn’t feel accidental.
By the time she left that night, after a hug that lasted a second longer than friendly, after she’d already texted you from the hallway to say she’d made it home safe, you were sitting on your couch with your phone in your hand, smiling at the screen like an idiot. She just fit. Into the gym. Into your texts. Into your apartment. Into the small, ordinary spaces of your life that had felt empty for longer than you wanted to admit. It was like she had always been meant to be there, anticipating the things you needed before you even said them out loud.
You had no idea she already knew the exact layout of your kitchen because she’d stood in it weeks ago with the lights off, running her fingers along the same counter she’d just set pastries on. You didn’t know she’d memorized the way you left your keys in the little bowl by the door, the way your editing chair faced the window at a precise angle, the exact time you usually turned off the lights in the bedroom. You didn’t know the reason she never had to ask where anything was, the reason she moved through your space like she belonged there, was because she had already been inside it more times than you could count.
All you knew was that when she texted the next morning “Same time at the gym? I’ll bring the good water this time” you answered yes before you’d even finished your coffee. And when she showed up exactly when she said she would, already knowing which machine you’d want first and which weights made your legs shake in that specific way you hated and loved, it felt less like coincidence and more like something you’d been waiting for without realizing it.
She was fitting into your life so cleanly it almost felt like destiny.
And Blake, watching the way you smiled at her across the gym floor like she was the best part of your day, knew she didn’t need the knife or the drugs or the locked door just yet.
She could just keep doing this.
Keep being the one who already knew everything.
Keep letting you hand her more of yourself, one easy, perfect piece at a time.
You’ve started to be more comfortable with me. I can see it in the way you text without overthinking, the way your messages come through later at night when you’re tired and the walls are down. You talk about things that aren’t the gym anymore. Last week you told me about the lows,the heavy ones that make it hard to get out of bed some mornings, the way everything feels too loud and too quiet at the same time. I already knew, of course. I took pictures of the beta blockers in your medicine cabinet weeks ago, the exact brand and dosage, just in case I ever needed to make sure you had the right ones. Or the right amount. You don’t have to explain any of it to me. I already understand.
You’ve started inviting me into the rest of your life like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Grocery shopping last Tuesday because you said you hated going alone. Dinner at your place last night because you were too tired to go out and wanted something quiet. A movie on the couch after, the lights low, your legs tucked under you while you picked something soft and easy. You looked so relaxed. So open. You kept glancing at me when you thought I wasn’t paying attention, that soft little look in your eyes like you were thinking about leaning in. Like you wanted me to kiss you.
I was thinking about chopping you up.
While you were sitting there so close I could smell your skin and the faint trace of whatever you’d used in the shower, I was imagining the sound your bones would make if I twisted them the wrong way. The wet, cracking give of them. I wanted to see how you would scream, really scream, not the little whiny complaints you make at the gym. I wanted to hear you gasp when the knife went in, wanted to watch the blood bubble up thick and dark and watch you cough it out in red ropes across your own chest. I kept seeing it while you smiled at me. The way your throat would work when you tried to speak and couldn’t. The way your body would jerk and arch under my hands, not from pleasure but from the shock of being opened up so completely. I was so hard for it I could barely breathe. And the whole time you were looking at me like you might actually kiss me.
Then your stupid friend called.
The phone lit up on the coffee table and you answered it without thinking, that bright, easy voice you use for other people sliding back into place like it had never left. You laughed at something they said. You told them you were just watching a movie, that you’d call them back later. And just like that the moment was gone. I wanted to take the phone out of your hand and smash it. I wanted to drag them out of whatever sad little life they have and make them disappear the way I made Tony disappear, quiet, clean, no trace left for anyone to find. They don’t deserve to interrupt us. They don’t deserve to take even a second of your attention when you were finally looking at me like that.
You let me stay the night on the couch because it was late and you said it was stupid for me to drive across the city when I was already comfortable. You brought me a blanket that still smelled like you and told me to make myself at home. I waited until your bedroom door closed and the light went off. Then I lay down on the cushions where you had been sitting, pressed my face into the fabric, and breathed you in. Your detergent. Your skin. The faint trace of whatever lotion you use on your hands. I pulled the blanket over me and slid my hand between my legs, fingers slick and desperate, and I came with my mouth open against the couch, moaning into the cushion like I could taste you through it. I kept thinking about the way you would sound if I really did it, if I held you down and let the knife do what I’ve been dreaming about. The screams. The gasping. The blood. I came so hard my legs shook.
You have no idea how close I was last night. How close I still am.
Blake stayed at the desk even after her hand had gone numb around the pen. The lamplight had turned her skin pale and her eyes dark. She didn’t move for a long time, just breathing through the ache in her chest that always came when she thought about you too long. Then she turned the page and kept writing.
I took pictures of you while you slept last week. You left the bedroom door cracked open like you always do when you’re too tired to care, and I stood in the hallway for twenty minutes just watching the rise and fall of your chest under the blanket. Your face looked so young like that. So soft. I took three pictures on my phone before I made myself leave. One of your mouth slightly open. One of your hand curled near your face like you were reaching for something in a dream. One of the delicate line of your throat when you turned your head. I look at them every night now. They help when the wanting gets too loud.
I love you so much I can’t bear the idea of living without you. It feels like my lungs forget how to work if I go too long without seeing you, without hearing your voice or watching the way you move through a room. I love you so much it hurts to breathe sometimes. I can’t wait to take you out properly, somewhere nice, somewhere you’ll let me hold your hand across the table and order for you and watch you smile at me like I’m the only person in the world. Once I’m settled a little deeper in your head. Once you stop reaching for your phone to text anyone else first. Once you understand that I’m already everything you need.
I don’t really want to hurt you. Well… I do. But not in some evil, senseless way. I’m not crazy. I just want you all to myself. I want to protect you from everything that could ever touch you wrong. I want to keep you safe inside the life I’m building for us. I want to fuck you until you forget every other name that’s ever left your mouth. I want to love you so completely that you never have to feel low or scared or alone again. I want to be your everything, the person you text when you wake up, the person you come home to, the person who knows exactly how you like your coffee and exactly where you leave your keys and exactly how to make the bad days quieter. You’re so pretty. So fragile. You need me. The other day at the grocery store you couldn’t reach the top shelf for the pasta you like and I had to do it for you, and the way you looked up at me afterward, like I’d done something important, made something in my chest go tight and hot. Last night when you nicked your finger cutting onions and those stupid little tears welled up in your eyes because it stung, I was the one who took your hand and ran it under cold water and wrapped it for you. You let me. You leaned into me a little while I did it, like your body already knows I’m the one who’s supposed to take care of you.
You’re my everything. Every single part of you. The pouty complaints and the soft laughs and the way you go quiet when the lows hit. The way you trusted me enough to let me stay on your couch and the way you smelled on the cushions when I pressed my face into them later. I’m going to keep being exactly what you need until you can’t imagine a single day without me in it. Until the thought of anyone else touching you or calling you or taking even a second of your time makes you feel as sick as it makes me.
I love you. I love you so much it’s going to ruin us both, and I don’t even care.
you were already in bed again, the small cut on your finger throbbing faintly under the bandage she had put there. You had no idea she had taken pictures of you while you slept. You had no idea she was sitting in the dark right now, staring at those pictures and planning the first real date like it was a promise she intended to keep.
You only knew that when your phone lit up with her name, the message felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“Hope your finger’s feeling better. Let me know if you need anything tomorrow. I’m around.”
A few days later the boxes were still stacked by your desk, the new monitor screen dark and the tower still in its packaging like it was mocking you. You’d been putting it off, telling yourself you’d figure it out eventually, but the truth was simpler than that. You missed her. The quiet way she moved through your space. The way she listened without trying to fix everything. The way the apartment felt less empty when she was in it.
So you texted her.
“Hey. I got that new PC setup and it’s already winning. You free to come over and help? I missed having you around.”
She replied within minutes.
“On my way. Want me to bring food?”
She showed up forty minutes later with takeout from the place you liked and that small, warm smile that always made something in your chest loosen. She stepped inside like she belonged there now, hung her jacket on the same hook, and set the bags on the kitchen counter without asking where anything went.
The setup took longer than either of you expected. Neither of you were particularly good at it. She sat cross-legged on the floor beside you while you read the instructions out loud, her hair falling forward as she tried to match cables to ports with the kind of focused patience that made you laugh when she got one wrong twice in a row.
“You’re supposed to be the helpful one,” you teased, bumping her shoulder with yours.
Blake glanced up, eyes crinkling. “I never claimed to be a tech genius. I’m just here for moral support and to make sure you don’t throw the whole thing out the window.” Her hand brushed yours when she passed you the screwdriver, lingering half a second longer than necessary. The contact was warm. Easy.
You worked in comfortable silence for a while, the low hum of the city outside your window and the occasional rustle of packaging the only sounds. Every so often she would lean in to see what you were doing, close enough that you caught the faint scent of her perfume and the clean warmth of her skin. At one point she reached past you for a cable, her chest brushing your back, and you felt the shift in the air between you before either of you said anything.
When the monitor finally flickered to life and the desktop loaded, you both sat back on your heels and looked at it like you’d accomplished something monumental. You turned to thank her and found her already watching you, that same soft focus in her eyes that had been there during the movie night.
It happened slowly. Naturally. You leaned in at the same time she did, or maybe she leaned first, you weren’t sure. The kiss was gentle at first, almost tentative, her mouth warm and careful against yours. Then it deepened for a few seconds, her hand coming up to rest lightly at the side of your neck, thumb brushing just beneath your jaw. It felt good. Easy. Like something that had been building without either of you naming it.
You pulled back first, breath a little uneven, and the words came out before you could overthink them.
“Hey… I like you. A lot. But I’m not really looking for anything serious right now. Is that okay?”
Blake didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away or look disappointed. She just smiled, small and calm, and let her hand slide down from your neck to rest on your shoulder instead.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Of course it’s okay. No pressure. I like spending time with you. We don’t have to label anything.”
There was no awkwardness in the way she said it. No tightness in her voice. She kissed the corner of your mouth once more, soft and unhurried, then sat back on the floor like nothing monumental had shifted.
You didn’t have sex. You didn’t even go further than that one kiss. The rest of the evening was spent finishing the setup between bites of takeout, her shoulder occasionally brushing yours as you both figured out the last of the cables. She stayed until the desktop was fully customized and the boxes were broken down by the door. When she left she hugged you at the threshold, longer than friendly but not demanding, and texted you twenty minutes later that she’d made it home safe.
You went to bed that night with the faint taste of her still on your lips and the PC glowing quietly in the corner of the room like proof that she fit into your life even in the smallest, most ordinary ways.
Blake drove home with both hands on the wheel and a small, private smile on her face. The kiss had been better than she’d let herself imagine. You had initiated it. You had wanted it. And even when you pulled back and set the boundary, you hadn’t pushed her away. You had still let her stay. Still let her help. Still looked at her like she was the person you wanted in your space when things felt overwhelming.
She was already thinking about the next time you would text her. The next time you would miss her enough to ask her to come over. The next time the kiss might last a little longer.
She was in no rush. She could be patient. You were already letting her in.
A few nights after the kiss, Blake didn’t go straight home.
She drove in slow circles for almost an hour, the taste of your mouth still caught behind her teeth, the memory of your hand on her shoulder replaying on a loop. The calm she had worn so easily while sitting on your floor had started to crack the moment she closed your door behind her. By the time she parked three blocks from your building, the itch under her skin had turned sharp again.
She let herself in through the side entrance she had used before, the copied key sliding into the lock with the same quiet click. The apartment was dark except for the faint blue glow of the new PC’s screensaver in the living room. You were asleep in your bedroom, door cracked the way you always left it when you were tired. She could hear the soft, even sound of your breathing from the hallway.
Blake moved through the space without turning on any lights. She knew exactly where the floorboards creaked. She knew the layout of every room like it was her own.
First she went to your bedroom.
You were on your side, one arm tucked under the pillow, the bandage she had wrapped around your finger still visible in the low light. She stood at the foot of the bed for a long time, just watching the rise and fall of your chest. Then she took her phone out and took new pictures, close, quiet shots. The curve of your neck where she had kissed you. The way your lips were slightly parted. The small, vulnerable line of your throat. She took six before she made herself stop.
She didn’t touch you. Not yet.
Instead she moved to the laundry basket in the corner and took the t-shirt you had been wearing earlier that evening, the one that still smelled like your skin and the takeout and a faint trace of her own perfume from when she had hugged you goodbye. She folded it carefully and slipped it into the bag she had brought.
From the living room she took the small framed photo on the shelf by the window, the one of you with that friend who had called during the movie. She stared at their face for a long moment, jaw tight, then slid the photo into the bag as well.
On the way out she paused in the bathroom and took one of your hair ties from the cup by the sink, the black one you used when you were too lazy to find a better one. She wrapped it around her own wrist, right next to the older one she already wore.
Before she left she stood in the middle of your living room for almost a minute, breathing in the quiet of the space that was slowly becoming more hers than yours. The new PC glowed softly on the desk you had set up together. She ran her fingers along the edge of the monitor, then turned and slipped back out into the hallway, locking the door behind her with the same careful click.
You slept through all of it.
The next morning you woke up to sunlight coming through the blinds and the quiet hum of the new PC already on standby. Nothing looked obviously wrong. The photo on the shelf was gone, but you assumed you had moved it while cleaning and forgotten. The t-shirt from the laundry basket was missing, but you figured it had gotten mixed in with a load you hadn’t done yet. The hair tie was just another one you had lost, you were always losing them.
You texted her while you made coffee.
“PC is actually working. You’re a better tech support than you let on. Last night was really nice, by the way.”
She replied almost immediately, the same calm, easy tone she had used after the kiss.
“Glad it’s running. And yeah… it was. We should do it again soon. No pressure.”
You smiled at your phone, already thinking about the next time she would come over, already feeling the warm, easy pull of having her in your life.
Blake read your message twice while she sat at her own desk, the stolen t-shirt folded neatly beside the new photo and the hair tie now on her wrist. She brought the fabric to her face and inhaled, eyes half-closed.
The kiss had been good. But it wasn’t enough. Not anymore.
She opened the journal and started writing again, the pen moving in the same tight, elegant strokes.
I went back last night. You were asleep. I took more of you with me. The photo of you with them. Another shirt. Another piece of the life you’re still pretending is yours alone. I stood over your bed and thought about what it would feel like to press my mouth to that same spot on your neck I kissed and bite down until I tasted blood. Until you woke up gasping and realized it was me. Until you understood that the kiss was only the beginning of how completely I’m going to have you.
I don’t want to hurt you in some pointless, ugly way. I want to hurt you because you’re mine. Because every mark I leave will be proof that no one else gets to touch you. Because I love you so much it feels like I’m dying when I have to leave your apartment without taking more of you with me.
You’re going to let me in again soon. You already miss me. I can feel it in the way you text. And when you do, I’m going to keep taking pieces until there’s nothing left of your life that doesn’t have my hands all over it.
You’re my everything.
And I’m done pretending I can be patient forever.
The night had started ordinary enough for Blake.
She had finished a late workout at the gym she sometimes used when she couldn’t sleep, the kind of punishing session that usually quieted the noise in her head. She was walking home with her gym bag slung over one shoulder, the familiar weight of a dumbbell still inside it from the set she hadn’t bothered to return. Her plan had been simple: shower, write in the journal, maybe look at the new pictures of you sleeping and try to convince herself that waiting was still the right choice.
She wasn’t satisfied. Not really. The kiss had only made the hunger sharper. But she had told herself she could be patient. She could keep slipping into your life piece by piece until you didn’t know how to exist without her.
Then her phone buzzed with the location alert she had set up weeks ago.
You were at the bar on 8th.
She told herself she was only going to check. Just a glimpse from across the street to make sure you were safe. That was all.
But when she reached the window and saw you inside, the world tilted.
You were at the bar, a drink in your hand, and some girl, some stupid, pretty little thing in a too-tight top and too much lipstick, was leaning into your space. Her hand was on your arm. She was laughing at something you said, head tilted, body angled toward yours like she had any right. And you were letting her. You weren’t pulling away. You were smiling, that soft, slightly buzzed smile you got when someone made you feel seen. You even leaned in a little when she said something close to your ear.
Blake’s vision went white at the edges.
She wanted to go in there and drag the girl out by her hair. She wanted to skin her. She wanted to make her watch while she reminded you exactly who you belonged to. The rage was so sudden and so complete that for a second she couldn’t breathe.
She didn’t go inside.
She waited.
She stood in the shadows across the street, gym bag heavy at her side, and watched through the glass until you finally paid your tab and headed for the door. You were a little unsteady on your feet, not drunk, just relaxed in that way that made you careless. The girl had tried to follow you out, but you waved her off with a laugh and a shake of your head. Still, the fact that she had tried was enough.
Blake followed.
You took the alley.
The one she had warned you about more than once. The narrow cut-through between the old buildings that smelled like piss and damp brick, the one she had told you never to use alone at night because bad things happened to pretty girls who thought they were safe. You took it anyway, probably because it was faster and you were tired and a little warm from the drinks and the attention.
She stayed far enough back that you wouldn’t hear her footsteps over the distant traffic. The rage was still there, thick and hot in her chest, but it had narrowed into something colder and more focused. Her hand slipped into the gym bag and closed around the dumbbell. She hadn’t planned this. She had only brought it because she hadn’t wanted to leave it at the gym. But now it felt like it had always been meant for this.
You were halfway down the alley when she caught up.
She didn’t say your name. She didn’t give you a chance to turn around.
The weight connected with the back of your skull in a single, vicious arc.
The sound was awful, a dull, wet crack that seemed to echo off the brick. Blood sprayed across the wall in a bright arc. Your knees buckled instantly. You made a small, surprised sound, almost like a gasp, and then you were falling. Your body hit the wet ground hard, limbs loose, head turned to the side so she could see the dark, spreading stain in your hair and the way your eyes had already rolled back.
Blake stood over you, chest heaving, the dumbbell still gripped tight in her hand. Blood dripped from the end of it onto the concrete. For several long seconds she didn’t move. The adrenaline was crashing through her so hard her vision pulsed at the edges. She hadn’t planned this. She hadn’t thought it through. She had just seen red and swung.
But you were here now.
Unconscious. Bleeding. Hers.
She dropped the weight back into the bag with shaking hands, then crouched beside you. Your pulse was still there, thready but steady under her fingers. The cut on the back of your head was ugly, already swelling, but it wasn’t gushing the way it would have if she’d hit harder. Concussion, probably. Maybe worse. She didn’t know. She didn’t care right now.
She hauled you up under the arms, half-dragging, half-carrying your dead weight toward the mouth of the alley where her car was parked at the curb. Your head lolled against her shoulder, blood soaking into her jacket. Every few steps she had to stop and readjust her grip because you were heavier than you looked when you were limp like this.
She got you into the backseat, laid you on your side so you wouldn’t choke if you vomited, and threw her jacket over you to hide the blood. Then she drove.
Not to a hospital.
To her apartment.
The whole way there her hands were tight on the wheel, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. She kept glancing in the rearview mirror at your unconscious form, at the dark stain spreading on the jacket. Part of her was still screaming that this was insane, that she had ruined everything, that she was supposed to wait.
The louder part, the part that had been starving for months, was quiet now. Almost peaceful.
You were in her car. Bleeding because of her. Unconscious because she had decided you were hers and no one else was allowed to touch you.
She had you.
Finally.
And she wasn’t letting go.
The car idled outside her building for a long minute before she killed the engine.
Blake sat in the driver’s seat with both hands still locked around the wheel, breathing hard through her nose. The adrenaline had started to thin, leaving something colder and heavier in its place. She twisted in her seat and climbed into the back, the movement awkward in the confined space. You were still slumped on your side across the seat where she had laid you, the jacket she had thrown over you now dark and heavy with blood in the low light from the streetlamp outside.
She pushed the jacket aside with both hands, slow and careful, as though you might wake if she moved too quickly. Your breathing was shallow but steady, each exhale a faint, warm brush against the cool air inside the car. She leaned over you, close enough that she could see the individual strands of your hair matted with blood at the back of your head. The wound had stopped actively bleeding, but it was still seeping, thick, dark blood welling slowly from the split in your scalp and trickling in thin, lazy rivulets down the curve of your skull. It had already begun to clot in places, turning tacky and dark against your skin, while fresher blood continued to gather at the edges of the cut.
Blake pressed two fingers gently to the wound. The blood was warm, still body temperature, and startlingly sticky. It clung to her fingertips immediately, thick and viscous, stretching in thin, glistening strands when she pulled her hand back slightly. The metallic scent of it rose up at once, sharp and coppery, undercut with the warmer, earthier smell of your skin and the faint trace of whatever shampoo or product you used. It was unmistakably you. She felt it coat the pads of her fingers, warm and wet, seeping into the whorls of her skin as though it wanted to stay there.
She checked your pulse at your throat next, fingers resting lightly over the steady throb beneath your skin. Still strong. Still alive. A concussion at worst, she told herself again. She needed to believe that.
When she drew her hand away, her fingers came back painted red. The blood had already begun to dry at the edges, turning darker and tackier against her skin, while the centre remained wet and warm. Without thinking, she brought them to her mouth.
The taste hit her like a shockwave.
It was metallic first, bright and sharp, almost electric on her tongue, then warmer, richer, unmistakably yours. The blood was thicker than she expected, coating her tongue in a slow, viscous layer that made her mouth water. She closed her eyes and sucked her fingers clean with deliberate slowness, tongue working between each digit, licking away every trace until only the faint ghost of copper and salt remained. A low, involuntary sound escaped her throat, half moan, half something darker and more primal.
She reached for the blood-soaked section of her own jacket next, the part that had been pressed directly against your head when she carried you. The fabric was heavy with it, saturated and wet, the blood already beginning to stiffen in some places while remaining warm and liquid in others. She brought the ruined material to her face and pressed it firmly against her mouth and nose, breathing in deep.
The scent flooded her at once, thick, metallic, intimate. Your blood. Your skin. The faint, lingering trace of whatever you had worn to the bar mixed with the sharper, iron tang of what she had done to you. It clung to the inside of her nostrils, coated the roof of her mouth when she inhaled through the fabric. She could taste it again just from breathing. Her free hand moved without conscious thought, slipping beneath the waistband of her leggings and between her thighs.
She was already soaked.
Her fingers found slick, swollen heat immediately, and she groaned into the bloodied jacket as she began to rub herself in tight, desperate circles. The combination was overwhelming, the taste of your blood still coating her tongue, the heavy, metallic scent of it filling her lungs with every breath, the knowledge that you were right here, unconscious and bleeding and completely at her mercy because she had decided no one else was allowed to touch you. Her hips jerked forward against her own hand, the movement rocking the car slightly on its suspension. She sucked harder on the fabric, pulling the blood into her mouth in slow, deliberate pulls while her fingers worked faster, sliding through her own wetness with obscene, wet sounds that filled the quiet space.
The orgasm built fast and brutal.
Her thighs began to shake first, muscles tightening as the pressure coiled low in her belly. She moaned openly into the jacket, the sound muffled and broken, hips bucking harder against her hand. The taste of you on her tongue, the smell of your blood thick in the air, the knowledge that she had finally taken you, it all crashed together at once. She came hard, body curling forward over yours as the pleasure ripped through her in sharp, pulsing waves. Her fingers kept moving through it, drawing it out, thighs trembling violently as she muffled a broken cry against the blood-soaked fabric. The aftershocks rolled through her in smaller, weaker tremors, her breath coming in ragged gasps against the jacket until she finally stilled, fingers still pressed between her legs, forehead resting against your shoulder.
For a few long seconds afterward, she stayed curled over you, breathing ragged, forehead resting against your shoulder.
Then the high drained away.
And the reality of what she had done crashed into her all at once.
Her eyes snapped open. She jerked upright so fast she nearly hit her head on the roof of the car. You were unconscious in her backseat. Bleeding. She had hit you. Kidnapped you. There was blood on her clothes, on the seat, on her hands. If anyone saw, if you woke up and screamed, if you died…
Panic clawed up her throat so violently she almost gagged.
For three full seconds she sat frozen, eyes wide and wild, chest heaving like she couldn’t get enough air.
Then something in her shifted.
The panic didn’t disappear. It just got locked down, fast and brutal, behind the same cold, precise focus she used when she wrote in the journal. Her breathing evened out. Her hands stopped shaking. She wiped her bloody fingers on her leggings without hesitation, already moving.
First she checked your pulse again, still there. Still steady. Good.
She pulled the jacket back over you to hide the blood as best she could, then climbed out of the car and scanned the street. Quiet. No one around. She popped the trunk, grabbed the old blanket she kept there for the gym, and used it to wrap around your upper body so the blood wouldn’t be obvious if anyone glanced over.
Then she hauled you out.
You were heavier unconscious than she expected, but she managed, half-dragging, half-carrying you toward the side entrance of her building, the one with the broken security camera she had noticed months ago. Every few steps she had to stop and readjust her grip, murmuring under her breath like she was soothing a child.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, voice low and steady now. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
She got you inside and up the stairs to her apartment without being seen. The door clicked shut behind her with finality.
Only then did she allow herself to pause.
She laid you carefully on her couch, propping your head on a pillow so the wound wouldn’t press against anything. She fetched the first-aid kit from the bathroom, cleaned the gash on the back of your head with shaking but efficient hands, and bandaged it as best she could. She checked your pupils with the flashlight on her phone. Still reactive. Breathing still even.
You were alive.
You were here.
In her apartment.
Bleeding because she had decided no one else was allowed to have even a piece of you.
Blake sat on the floor beside the couch for a long moment, staring at your unconscious face. The panic was still there, buzzing at the edges of her mind like a live wire. But she didn’t let it take over again.
She had you now.
Everything else, the consequences, the risk, the fact that this had been impulsive and messy and not at all how she had planned, could be dealt with.
One step at a time.
She reached out and gently brushed a strand of blood-matted hair from your forehead, her touch almost tender.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she murmured. “Not anymore.”
Then she stood up, rolled her shoulders back, and went to the kitchen to start cleaning the blood off her hands and clothes.
She had work to do.
Blake stood in the bathroom with the light on for the first time since she’d dragged you inside.
The mirror showed her exactly what she had become in the last hour.
Her face was streaked with your blood. It had dried in thin, rust-coloured lines across her cheekbones and down one side of her jaw where she must have wiped her hand without thinking. There was a smear of it across her lower lip from when she’d sucked her fingers clean in the car. Her eyes looked too wide, too bright. She looked insane.
She stared at her reflection for a long moment, head tilted slightly, studying the mess like it belonged to someone else.
Then she exhaled through her nose and shook her head once, sharp and dismissive.
She wasn’t crazy. Not at all. She was just in love.
She turned the tap on cold and methodically washed the blood from her face and hands, scrubbing until the water ran clear. She changed out of the ruined jacket and into a clean black tank top, moving with the same calm efficiency she used when she wrote in the journal. Only when she was clean did she allow herself to move through the apartment with purpose.
She found the duct tape in the bottom drawer of the kitchen. The zip ties were in the toolbox under the sink. She took both without hurry, testing the strength of the tape between her fingers before carrying them back to the living room.
You were still unconscious on the couch, breathing slow and even through the bandage on the back of your head. She knelt beside you and worked gently.
First the mouth.
She tore off a strip of duct tape, smoothed it carefully over your lips, and pressed the edges down with her thumbs so it wouldn’t pull at your skin when you eventually woke. “Just in case,” she murmured, voice low and almost tender. “I don’t want you to choke if you get sick. And I really don’t want you to scream.”
She ran her fingers through your hair, pushing it back from your forehead with slow, soothing strokes.
“Look what you made me do,” she whispered. The words came out soft, almost sad. “You made me hurt you, my pretty girl. I didn’t want to. Not really. But you were letting her touch you. You were smiling at her. What was I supposed to do?”
She bound your wrists next, looping the zip tie just tight enough that you wouldn’t be able to slip free, but not so tight it would cut off circulation. She did the same to your ankles. Every movement was careful. Deliberate. Almost loving.
When she was finished she sat back on her heels and looked at you for a long moment, at the tape across your mouth, at the way your hands rested limp against your stomach, at the slow rise and fall of your chest. Something warm and satisfied unfurled in her chest.
She gathered you up carefully, one arm under your knees and the other around your back, and carried you into her bedroom like you weighed nothing. She laid you in the centre of her bed, arranging your bound limbs so you looked comfortable, then pulled the covers up over you to your chest. The new bandage on the back of your head had started to spot with fresh blood, but it wasn’t bad. Not yet.
For a moment she stood over you, eyes tracing the shape of your body beneath the blanket.
She wanted to touch you.
She wanted to peel the tape back just enough to kiss you properly. She wanted to slide her hand under the covers and feel how warm you were, how soft. She wanted to take what she had been fantasising about for months while you were helpless and bleeding and finally, finally hers.
But she didn’t.
That would be too far, even for her.
Killing was one thing. Taking you like this when you couldn’t say yes, when you couldn’t look at her and tell her you liked it, that felt wrong in a way she couldn’t quite name. Inhumane, almost.
So she didn’t.
Instead she smiled, small and pleased, the expression softening the sharp lines of her face. She stripped down to her tank top and underwear, climbed into bed beside you, and curled onto her side so she could watch your face. One of her hands rested lightly on your bound wrist, thumb stroking slow circles over the skin there.
You were here.
In her bed.
Tied up and quiet and bleeding because she had decided no one else was allowed to have you.
Blake let out a long, slow breath and closed her eyes, pressing her forehead gently against your shoulder.
Finally.
She had everything she wanted.
The morning light was soft when Blake woke.
She had barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes she kept reaching out to check your pulse, your breathing, the slow seep of blood through the bandage at the back of your head. You were still deeply unconscious, the concussion keeping you under far longer than she had expected. That was fine. It gave her time.
She slipped out of bed carefully, moving around you like you were something fragile and precious. In the bathroom she took her time. She washed her face, brushed her hair until it fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and changed into a clean, pale grey tank top and soft black shorts, the kind of casual, pretty outfit she knew you liked seeing her in at the gym. A touch of gloss on her lips. Just enough to look put-together. Normal. Like someone you could trust.
Only when she was satisfied did she return to the bedroom.
You were still out, bound hands resting on your stomach, the duct tape across your mouth slightly creased from your breathing. She sat on the edge of the bed and watched you for a while, fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. The room around her was perfect. She had spent months making sure of it.
Everything was exactly as it should be.
The same framed posters on the walls in the same positions. The same plants on the windowsill, the same ceramic pots. The same dark wood dresser with the little nick in the top right corner that you had never fixed. Even the new PC setup sat in the corner exactly where yours did in your apartment, same monitor angle, same keyboard, same little stack of notebooks beside it. She had copied every detail. Every single one.
When your breathing changed and your eyelids started to flutter, Blake straightened up, smoothing her hands over her thighs. She looked calm. Pretty. Ready.
You woke slowly.
The first thing you felt was the pounding in the back of your skull, deep, nauseating, like someone had taken a hammer to it. Your mouth was dry. Something sticky and wrong was pressed over your lips. Your wrists ached. Your ankles too. You tried to move and the restraints bit into your skin.
Panic hit fast and sharp.
Your eyes flew open.
The room was wrong.
No… the room was right. Too right.
It looked exactly like your bedroom. The same posters. The same plant on the windowsill with the slightly yellow leaf you kept meaning to fix. The same dresser. The same new PC glowing softly in the corner like you had just finished setting it up yesterday. Even the light coming through the blinds fell in the exact same pattern across the floor.
But you were tied up.
And Blake was sitting on the edge of the bed beside you, looking fresh and calm and heartbreakingly pretty, like she had been waiting for you to wake up all morning.
Your eyes met hers.
She smiled, small, warm, almost shy.
“Good morning,” she said softly, voice gentle. “Don’t try to talk yet. The tape’s just there so you don’t hurt yourself if you get scared when you wake up. I’ll take it off in a second, okay?”
She reached out and brushed her fingers over your bound wrist, the touch light and careful.
“I know this is confusing,” she continued, still smiling that soft, pretty smile. “But you’re home now. I made it nice for us. Everything’s exactly how you like it. See?” She gestured lightly toward the room with one hand. “I wanted it to feel right. I wanted you to feel safe.”
Her eyes were bright. Loving. Completely, terrifyingly sincere.
You tried to speak against the tape, a muffled, panicked sound, but she only shushed you quietly, thumb stroking over the back of your hand.
“It’s okay,” she murmured. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. We’re finally where we’re supposed to be.”
She leaned in a little closer, close enough that you could smell the clean scent of her skin and whatever soap she had used.
“I’m going to take the tape off now,” she said, voice still so calm, so gentle. “And then we can talk. Properly. Like we should have done a long time ago.”
Her fingers moved to the edge of the duct tape.
She was still smiling.
The tape came off slowly.
Blake’s fingers were careful, almost hesitant, as she worked one corner free. She didn’t rip it. She peeled it inch by inch, like she was afraid of startling you. The adhesive pulled at your skin, at the fine hairs above your lip, and the sting made your eyes water. She murmured the whole time, voice low and even, the way someone might speak to a frightened dog that could bolt at any second.
“Easy,” she said quietly. “Just breathe. I’m taking it off nice and slow so it doesn’t hurt too much. You’re okay. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
The last strip came free with a soft, sticky sound. Cool air hit your mouth. You sucked in a sharp breath, tasting blood and the faint metallic ghost of the tape. Your tongue felt thick. Your head throbbed so hard it made your vision pulse at the edges.
For a second you just stared at her.
She looked… normal. Pretty, even. Her hair was loose and soft around her shoulders, the grey tank top clean, her face calm and open. She was sitting on the edge of the bed like this was any other morning, like you weren’t bound at the wrists and ankles in a room that was and wasn’t yours.
“Blake,” you rasped. Your voice cracked on her name. It sounded small. “What… what the fuck is going on?”
She gave you a small, reassuring smile and reached out to brush a strand of hair from your forehead. The touch was gentle. Too gentle.
“You’re okay,” she repeated, like she hadn’t heard the panic already creeping into your voice. “I know everything feels confusing right now. You took a pretty hard hit last night. Your head’s going to hurt for a while, but I’ve been watching you. You’re going to be fine.”
Your eyes darted around the room again. The posters. The plants. The exact angle of the new PC in the corner. The same dent in the dresser. It was all here. Every single detail you had lived with for years, recreated down to the smallest, most ordinary thing.
“This isn’t my apartment,” you said. Your voice was shaking now. You tried to sit up and the zip ties bit into your wrists. The panic spiked higher. “This isn’t— Blake, this looks exactly like my room. What did you do? Why am I tied up? Why the fuck am I tied up?”
You yanked at the bindings without thinking. The plastic dug in. Your breath started coming faster, shallow and ragged. The room tilted. Your head pounded so viciously you felt sick.
“Hey, hey, hey.” Blake’s voice stayed soft, but she shifted closer on the bed, one hand hovering near your shoulder without quite touching you. “Don’t do that. You’re going to hurt yourself. Look at me. Just look at me for a second.”
You did. Your eyes were wide, wet at the corners already. You could feel the tears starting and hated them.
“I don’t understand,” you said, voice cracking harder. “I was at the bar. There was that girl, and then I left, and then— I don’t remember after that. My head—” You winced as another wave of pain rolled through you. “Did you hit me? Did you actually hit me with something?”
Blake’s expression didn’t change much, but something small and tight flickered behind her eyes.
“I had to,” she said quietly. “You were going down that alley. The one I told you never to use alone. And after that girl was all over you… I couldn’t just let you walk home like that. Anything could have happened to you. I was protecting you.”
You let out a shaky, disbelieving sound that was half laugh, half sob.
“Protecting me?” The words came out too loud. Your chest felt too tight. “You knocked me out. You tied me up. You brought me here and made my fucking room in your apartment and you’re telling me this is protecting me?”
Your voice was rising. You couldn’t stop it. The confusion and the fear and the throbbing in your skull were all crashing together at once. You pulled at the zip ties again, harder this time, and the plastic cut into your skin.
“Untie me,” you said, frantic now. “Blake, untie me right now. Please. I don’t— I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know why you did this. I was just at the bar, I wasn’t even— that girl wasn’t even anything, I was just talking to her, and then—”
You were crying now. Quiet, helpless tears that you couldn’t wipe away because your hands were bound. Your breath hitched. The room that looked so much like yours only made it worse, like the world had tilted sideways and you were the only one who could see it.
Blake’s jaw tightened just slightly. She reached out again, slower this time, and rested her hand on your bound wrist. Her thumb stroked over the skin there in slow, soothing circles.
“I know you’re scared,” she said. Her voice was still gentle, but there was a new thread underneath it now, something thinner. “I know this feels like a lot. But I need you to try and calm down for me, okay? You’re not thinking clearly because of the concussion. Once you’ve had some water and rested a little more, you’ll see that this is better. We’re better like this.”
You shook your head, tears slipping down your temples.
“No. No, this isn’t— you hit me. You actually hit me over the head and now I’m tied to your bed in a copy of my own room and you’re acting like this is normal. Like we’re just— like we’re together or something. We kissed once. Once. And I told you I wasn’t looking for anything serious and you said that was fine and now I’m—” Your voice broke. “I’m scared, Blake. I’m really fucking scared right now.”
She was quiet for a moment.
Her hand stayed on your wrist, but her thumb had stopped moving.
“I did everything for you,” she said after a beat. The softness was still there, but it had gone careful. Measured. “I made this place exactly how you like it. I copied every single thing so you wouldn’t feel like you were somewhere strange. I’ve been taking care of you since last night. I cleaned your head, I watched you breathe, I made sure you were safe. And the first thing you do when you wake up is panic and tell me you’re scared of me?”
She let out a small, shaky breath through her nose. Her eyes flicked away from yours for half a second before coming back, brighter than before.
“I know you’re overwhelmed,” she tried again, voice dropping back into that soothing register. “I get it. Really. But you don’t have to be. I’m not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you on purpose. Last night was… it was an accident in the moment. I was angry and I wasn’t thinking straight because I saw that girl touching you and I just— I couldn’t let anything happen to you. You’re too important to me.”
You stared at her, chest still heaving.
“I don’t want this,” you whispered. “I don’t want to be tied up. I don’t want to be here like this. Please just untie me. We can talk after, I swear, but I can’t— I can’t think when I’m like this.”
Blake’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
She was still trying to keep her voice calm, but you could hear the edge creeping in now.
“I can’t do that yet,” she said. “Not until I know you’re not going to do something stupid like try to leave or call someone. You’re not thinking clearly. Once you’ve calmed down and we’ve talked properly, maybe we can loosen some things. But right now I need you to trust me. Can you do that? Just for a little while?”
You let out another broken sound and turned your face away from her as much as you could, tears still slipping down your cheeks. The room that looked so much like home only made the bindings and the tape and the pounding in your head feel that much more wrong.
Blake sat there beside you in silence for a long moment, her hand still resting on your wrist.
She was trying to stay patient.
You could feel it in the way her fingers twitched every so often, in the too-even rhythm of her breathing.
But the cracks were starting to show.
And you were too scared, too frantic, too lost in the wrongness of everything to notice the way her expression was slowly tightening behind the gentle mask.
The pain in your head was getting worse by the second, a deep, pulsing throb that made your stomach turn and your vision swim at the edges. Every time you tried to move, even just to shift your shoulders against the pillows, the zip ties dug in and sent fresh sparks of discomfort up your arms. Your mouth was dry from the tape, your throat raw from crying and talking too fast.
Blake watched it all with that same careful, patient expression, though her fingers had started to tap lightly against her thigh.
“You’re hurting,” she said softly, almost like she was confirming it to herself. “The concussion’s probably making everything feel worse. I can get you some water. It’ll help with the headache, at least a little. But I need you to try and settle for me first, okay? Can you do that?”
You swallowed hard, nodding even though the movement made your skull feel like it was splitting. Your breathing was still too quick, too shallow, but you forced yourself to slow it down because she was looking at you like she was waiting for you to spiral again.
“That’s it,” she murmured, reaching out to stroke your hair again, slow and deliberate. “Just breathe. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I know this is a lot, but you’re safe with me. I promise.”
She kept talking in that low, soothing tone while she checked the bandage at the back of your head, her fingers gentle against your scalp. She told you to focus on her voice, on the feeling of the sheets under you, on anything steady. It worked a little, enough that the frantic edge in your chest eased from a scream to a constant, anxious hum. Enough that when she asked again if she could go get you water, you managed a small, shaky nod.
“Okay,” she said, giving you one last soft look before she stood. “I’ll be right back. Just a minute. Don’t try to move too much while I’m gone.”
She left the room.
The second the door clicked shut behind her, the fragile calm she’d built started to crack again. The room was too quiet without her voice filling it. Your eyes darted everywhere, the identical posters, the plants in the exact same spots, the PC glowing in the corner like a cruel joke. You tested the zip ties again, wrists twisting uselessly, and a fresh wave of panic rolled through you. What if she didn’t come back? What if this was some kind of sick game? What if the water she brought back had something in it?
By the time she returned, carrying a glass of water with a straw already in it, your breathing had picked up again.
Blake sat back down on the edge of the bed and held the glass out toward you, tilting it slightly so the straw hovered near your mouth.
“Here,” she said, voice still gentle. “Small sips. It’ll help.”
You stared at the glass.
Your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat. The water looked normal, clear, cold, condensation beading on the outside, but the thought hit you like a punch anyway. She’d already hit you over the head. She’d already tied you up. She’d already recreated your entire apartment like some twisted dollhouse. What was stopping her from putting something in the water? Something to make you sleep again. Something to make you compliant.
You turned your face away from the straw.
Blake’s hand stilled.
“Drink,” she said, a little firmer this time.
You shook your head, eyes stinging. “I… I can’t.”
She was quiet for a beat too long.
“It’s just water,” she said, still trying to keep her voice light. “I promise. It’ll help your head. You’re probably dehydrated from last night too.”
You swallowed hard. Your throat clicked.
“I… I don’t know if I can,” you whispered. Your voice was hoarse, shaky. “I’m sorry. I just— what if you put something in it?”
The words came out before you could stop them. You regretted them instantly.
Blake went very still.
For a heartbeat she just looked at you, the glass still held out between you. Then something in her face shifted. Not all at once. Slowly. Like a crack spreading through glass.
“No,” she said.
It was quiet at first. Almost confused.
“No,” she said again, a little louder. “No, no, no. Don’t do that. Don’t do that to me.”
She set the glass down on the nightstand with a sharp clink. Her hands were shaking now.
“You’re not— you’re not going to do that,” she said, voice rising. “You’re not going to sit there and act like I would drug you. Like I’m some kind of— like I’m crazy. No. No no no. Don’t do that. Don’t you dare do that.”
The repetition started building, the way it had in the car last night but worse now, rawer. Her breathing had gone fast and shallow. She leaned in closer, eyes wide and bright and wet at the edges.
“No,” she said again, louder. “No no no no. Stop it. Stop acting like I’m crazy. I’m not crazy. I did all of this for you. I made everything perfect for you. I copied your whole fucking life so you wouldn’t feel scared and now you’re looking at me like I’m going to poison you? No. No no no. Don’t do that. Don’t you do that to me.”
Her voice was climbing. Cracking. The words were starting to tumble over each other, faster, louder, the same frantic denial looping on itself like she couldn’t stop it.
“No no no no no— stop it, stop looking at me like that, stop acting like I’m the one who’s insane when you’re the one who was letting that stupid girl touch you in the bar, when you were the one walking down that alley like nothing bad could ever happen to you— no no no, I’m not crazy, I’m not, I did this because I love you, because you needed me to—”
She was almost shouting now, the sound filling the room that looked exactly like yours. Her hands were clenched into fists on her thighs, knuckles white. Tears were slipping down her cheeks but she didn’t seem to notice them. The “no” kept coming, louder each time, raw and desperate and unhinged.
“No! No no no no no— stop it, stop it, stop acting like I’m crazy, I’m not crazy, I’m not, I’m not, I’m not—”
You were crying too now, properly, the tears hot and helpless because your hands were still bound and you couldn’t wipe them away. Your head was screaming with pain and the fear was so thick you could barely think, but you forced the words out anyway because you had to make it stop.
“Blake— Blake, you’re not crazy,” you said quickly, voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just— I’m scared and my head hurts so bad and I don’t understand what’s happening. Please. Please just give me the water. I’m sorry. You’re not crazy. I know you’re not. I’m sorry.”
You kept going, frantic, trying to reach her through the storm.
“I’m sorry for what I said. I’m sorry about the bar. I’m sorry I made you upset. Just— please, can I have the water? My head is killing me. Please. You’re not crazy. I know you’re not. I’m sorry.”
Something in her broke.
Or maybe it clicked back into place.
The shouting stopped so suddenly it was almost worse than the noise had been. Blake blinked hard, like she was coming out of a trance. Her breathing was still ragged, but the wild look in her eyes softened. She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, smearing the tears, and took a slow, deliberate breath.
Then she picked the glass up again.
“Okay,” she said quietly. Her voice was gentle again. Calm. Like the last minute hadn’t happened at all. “Okay. I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have yelled. You’re hurt and you’re scared and that’s my fault. I know that.”
She shifted closer on the bed and carefully helped you sit up a little more, one hand supporting the back of your neck with surprising tenderness. She brought the glass to your lips.
“Small sips,” she murmured, the same soothing tone from before. “That’s it. Good girl. Just like that.”
You drank because you didn’t know what else to do. The water was cold and clean and tasted like nothing at all. She held the glass steady for you, watching your face with that same soft, attentive expression she’d worn when she first peeled the tape off.
When you’d had enough she set the glass aside and used the small towel to gently wipe a stray drop from your chin.
“See?” she said, almost whispering now. “I’ve got you. I’m going to take care of you. You don’t have to be scared anymore.”
Her thumb brushed over your cheek, catching a tear.
“You’re home now,” she said. “With me. And I’m going to make sure nothing bad ever happens to you again.”
She smiled at you then, small, tired, but real.
And for a second, in the room that looked exactly like yours, with your hands still bound and your head still throbbing, it almost felt like she believed every word she was saying.
The water helped a little with the worst of the dryness in your throat, but the pain in the back of your head was still a thick, relentless pulse. Every beat of your heart seemed to send another wave of it through your skull. You were still bound at the wrists and ankles, still lying in this bed that wasn’t quite yours, and Blake was sitting beside you like this was any other conversation between two people who cared about each other.
You had to say something. Anything. The silence was making the room feel smaller, and the longer you lay there without speaking, the more real it all became.
“Blake,” you started, voice hoarse. You cleared your throat and tried again. “Can we… can we talk about this? Please? I’m trying to understand what’s happening.”
She tilted her head slightly, watching you with that same soft, attentive expression. Like you were the most important thing in the world. Like nothing about this was strange.
“Of course we can talk,” she said gently. “I want you to understand. I want you to feel safe here. Ask me anything.”
Your eyes flicked around the room again. The posters on the walls. The exact same plants. The new PC setup in the corner, angled the same way you had set it up in your own apartment just days ago. It made your stomach twist.
“This room,” you said carefully. “It looks exactly like mine. Every single thing. The posters, the furniture, even the way the light comes through the blinds. How… how long have you been doing this? Building all of this?”
Blake smiled, small and almost shy, like you’d complimented her on something thoughtful.
“A while,” she admitted. “Months, really. I started paying attention to the little things. The way you arranged your plants. Which posters you had up and where. The exact angle you like your monitor at. I wanted it to feel right when you finally came here. I didn’t want you to wake up somewhere that felt wrong or scary. I wanted you to feel at home.”
She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with careful fingers. The touch was light. Almost loving.
“I know it must seem strange at first,” she continued, voice calm and reasonable. “But I did it because I love you. Because I want us to have a life together that feels good. Safe. I’ve been thinking about this for so long. About how we could just… be. Without all the noise from outside. Without people who don’t understand us.”
You swallowed hard. Your head throbbed.
“The bar,” you said. “Last night. That girl. She was just talking to me. I wasn’t… I wasn’t going home with her or anything. I was going to leave. And then you—” Your voice cracked. “You hit me. In the alley. You knocked me out and brought me here and tied me up. That’s not… that’s not normal, Blake. That’s not something people do when they care about someone.”
She didn’t flinch. If anything, her expression softened further, like she was explaining something simple to a child who didn’t quite get it yet.
“I know it doesn’t seem normal right now,” she said quietly. “But you were in danger. That alley is dangerous. I’ve told you before. And after seeing her touch you like that… I couldn’t just let you walk away. What if something had happened to you? What if she had followed you? Or someone else had? I couldn’t take that risk. Not with you. You’re too important.”
She shifted closer on the bed, one hand resting lightly on your bound wrist again. Her thumb stroked over your skin in slow, soothing circles.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” she said. “I really didn’t. But sometimes you have to do hard things to protect the people you love. You’ll see that soon. Once the concussion settles and you’ve had some time to rest, you’ll understand. This is better for us. We can be together without anyone getting in the way. Without anyone else trying to take pieces of you that don’t belong to them.”
You stared at her. The calmness in her voice was the worst part. She wasn’t raising it. She wasn’t defensive or angry. She sounded like she genuinely believed every word. Like this was a normal conversation about a relationship. Like tying someone up after knocking them unconscious was just another way of showing care.
“Blake,” you tried again, voice shaking. “People are going to notice I’m gone. My friends. My phone. I didn’t come home last night. Someone’s going to call the police or come looking for me. You can’t just… keep me here like this forever.”
She smiled again, that same small, patient smile.
“I’ve thought about all of that,” she said softly. “I have your phone. I can handle anything that comes up. And your friends… well. They’ll understand eventually. Or they won’t matter. What matters is that you’re here with me now. Where you’re supposed to be. I’ve waited so long for this. For us to finally have a chance without all the distractions.”
She leaned in a little, close enough that you could see the faint flecks of gold in her eyes. Her voice dropped even softer, almost intimate.
“I know you’re scared. I know this feels overwhelming. But I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to make sure you have everything you need. Water when you’re thirsty. Food when you’re hungry. Rest when your head hurts. And when you’re ready, when you’ve had time to see how good this can be, we can talk about loosening the ties. About what comes next for us.”
You felt tears prick at your eyes again. The more she spoke, the more unreal everything felt. She truly believed this. She truly thought she was being kind. Reasonable. Loving.
“Blake,” you whispered, desperate now. “This isn’t love. This is… this is kidnapping. This is hurting me. I don’t want to be tied up. I don’t want to be here like this. Please. Just untie me. We can talk more after. I promise I won’t do anything stupid. I just… I need to move. My head hurts so bad and I can’t think when I’m like this.”
She was quiet for a moment, still stroking your wrist.
Then she sighed, soft and almost fond.
“I know it’s hard to see right now,” she said. “But you will. One day soon you’ll look back on this and understand why I had to do it this way. Why I couldn’t risk losing you. Why I built all of this for us. We’re going to be so happy here. You’ll see.”
She reached for the glass of water again and brought it back to your lips, helping you take another small sip like nothing had changed.
“Try to rest a little more,” she murmured. “I’ll stay right here with you. I’m not going anywhere.”
Her voice was calm. Gentle. Completely, terrifyingly sincere.
And in the room that looked exactly like yours, with your hands still bound and your head still pounding, you realized she wasn’t pretending.
She really did believe every word.
The rest of the day passed in a strange, hazy stretch of time that felt both endless and compressed, the way hours sometimes do when your head is still pulsing with the aftermath of the hit. You were still bound at the wrists and ankles, still lying in her bed inside the room that was and wasn’t yours. The concussion made everything feel slightly off-kilter, sounds a little too loud, light a little too sharp, thoughts slippery and hard to hold onto for long. But one thing became clear as the morning dragged into afternoon: fighting wasn’t going to get you anywhere right now. Not while you were tied down. Not while your head felt like it was splitting open every time you moved too fast. Not while she was watching you with that calm, unwavering certainty that this was all perfectly normal.
So you played along.
It started small. When she came back into the room a little while later carrying a bowl of something warm, soup, you thought, or maybe broth she’d heated up, you didn’t pull away or turn your head. You let her sit on the edge of the bed again and lift the spoon to your lips. The first few times your hands twitched against the zip ties out of instinct, but you forced yourself still. You opened your mouth when she brought the spoon closer. You swallowed even though your throat felt tight and your stomach was uneasy from the pain and the fear.
Blake’s face lit up in a way that made your chest ache with how wrong it all was.
“There you go,” she murmured, voice soft and pleased. “That’s it. Good girl. You need to eat something. You’ve been through a lot.”
She fed you slowly, carefully, like she’d been thinking about this exact moment for weeks. Every spoonful came with a quiet comment, how she’d made it just the way you liked it, how she’d remembered you preferred things not too hot when you weren’t feeling well. Her free hand rested lightly on your shoulder or brushed a stray strand of hair from your face between bites. It was intimate in a way that made your skin crawl even as you forced yourself to lean into it.
You kept your voice small and careful when you spoke between sips.
“Thank you,” you said once, and watched the way her eyes softened even more. “It’s… really good.”
She smiled like you’d given her a gift.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” she admitted quietly, almost shyly. “About taking care of you like this. Just us. No distractions. No one else getting in the way. I knew it would feel right once we were here.”
You nodded like you understood. Like this made sense. Your head throbbed harder with the effort of keeping your expression neutral, but you managed a small, tired smile in return. Anything to keep her calm. Anything to make her think you were starting to accept this.
She stroked your hair after that. Long, slow passes of her fingers through the strands, nails lightly scratching your scalp in a way that would have been soothing under any other circumstances. You let your eyes close for a moment, leaning into the touch even though every instinct screamed at you to flinch. She hummed softly under her breath, some tune you didn’t recognise, and the sound filled the too-familiar room while she fed you the last of the broth.
Later, when the light outside the blinds had shifted into the heavier gold of late afternoon, she helped you sit up a little more against the pillows. Your arms ached from being in the same position for so long, but you didn’t complain. You let her adjust the blankets around you like you were sick instead of captive. She talked the whole time, about how she’d imagined mornings like this, how she’d pictured the two of you in this room, how much better everything would be now that she didn’t have to watch you from a distance anymore.
You listened. You nodded at the right moments. You even asked a careful question or two “How long did it take you to set all of this up?” because the more she talked, the more she seemed to relax into the fantasy. The more she relaxed, the more chance there might be that she’d loosen the ties eventually. That was the hope you clung to. Pretend this was normal. Pretend you were starting to warm to it. Maybe she’d trust you enough to untie your hands at least. Maybe she’d let you move around the room. Anything was better than lying here completely helpless while your head kept pulsing and the walls kept looking exactly like the ones you’d left behind.
At one point, when she leaned in close to tuck the blanket higher around your chest, you tilted your face up and kissed her.
It was clumsy because of the angle and the way your hands were still bound between you, but you did it anyway. Soft. Deliberate. You let your lips press against hers for a few seconds longer than felt natural, hoping she’d read it as acceptance. Hoping it would buy you something, trust, a moment of lowered guard, anything at all.
Blake went very still against your mouth.
Then she kissed you back.
It was gentle at first, almost tentative, like she was afraid of scaring you off. Her hand came up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. When she pulled back a fraction, her eyes were bright and shining in a way that made your stomach twist harder than the concussion ever could.
“You’re starting to see it,” she whispered, almost reverent. “I knew you would. I knew once you were here, once you had time to feel how right this is, you’d understand.”
You forced another small smile, even though your head was screaming and your wrists were starting to go numb from the zip ties.
“I’m trying,” you said quietly. “It’s just… a lot. But I’m trying.”
She stroked your hair again, slower this time, and pressed another kiss to your forehead. The tenderness in it made your eyes sting.
“I know it is,” she murmured. “But you don’t have to figure it all out today. We have time. All the time in the world now. I’m going to take such good care of you. You’ll see.”
She stayed close after that, one arm draped carefully over your waist as she settled in beside you on the bed. The room that looked like yours was quiet except for the low hum of the PC in the corner and the sound of her breathing. Every so often she would brush her fingers through your hair again or press a kiss to your temple, murmuring things about how perfect this felt, how she’d waited so long for you to be here like this.
You let her.
You let her feed you when she brought more water and a few crackers later. You let her stroke your hair until your eyes grew heavy from the pain and the exhaustion. You even let yourself lean into her when she curled closer, because the alternative, fighting, panicking, showing how terrified you really were, felt too dangerous while you were still tied down and concussed and completely at her mercy.
Inside, your thoughts kept circling the same desperate loop. Pretend. Just pretend long enough for her to trust you. Long enough for her to loosen the ties. Long enough to find a way out.
You didn’t know if it would work. You didn’t know how long you could keep this up before the fear and the confusion and the wrongness of everything broke through. But for now, with your head still throbbing and your body still bound in this perfect copy of your own life, it was the only thing you had.
So you stayed quiet. You stayed soft. You let her play out the fantasy she’d been writing about for weeks, one gentle touch and careful word at a time, while the afternoon light slowly faded into evening outside the blinds that looked exactly like yours.
The next morning, you woke to sunlight cutting through the blinds in that exact same angle it always did in your real bedroom. For a few disoriented seconds, your concussion-muddled brain almost convinced you that everything was normal. Then the zip ties around your wrists and ankles pulled tight when you tried to stretch, and the dull, heavy throb at the back of your skull reminded you exactly where you were.
You turned your head.
The bed beside you was empty.
“Blake?” Your voice came out rough from sleep and the lingering dryness in your throat. You cleared it and tried again, louder. “Blake?”
Nothing.
The apartment was quiet in a way that felt wrong. No soft footsteps in the kitchen. No low hum of her moving around the way she had yesterday. You waited, listening hard, but there was only the faint tick of the clock on the wall, the same clock that hung in your real apartment, and the distant sound of traffic outside.
She wasn’t here.
A spark of something sharp and desperate cut through the fog in your head. You didn’t know where she’d gone or how long she’d be gone, but this might be the only chance you got. You couldn’t just lie here and wait for her to come back and keep playing house in this nightmare version of your life.
You started moving.
It was slow, humiliating work. Your hands were still bound in front of you, the zip ties digging into your skin every time you shifted your weight. Your ankles were tied too, so you couldn’t stand properly, you had to kind of half-crawl, half-drag yourself off the bed and onto the floor. The impact when you hit the carpet sent a fresh spike of pain through your skull. You had to pause, breathing through your mouth, waiting for the nausea to settle.
Then you started across the room.
Every inch felt like it took forever. You used your elbows and knees, pulling yourself forward in awkward, painful lurches. The replica room watched you the whole time, the same posters, the same plants, the same dent in the dresser. It made everything feel even more surreal, like you were escaping from your own life. Your head pounded with every movement. By the time you reached the bedroom doorway, sweat was beading on your forehead and your arms were shaking.
You kept going.
The living room took even longer. You had to navigate around the couch, past the coffee table that was placed in the exact same spot as yours. Your bound hands made it hard to push yourself up when you slipped. At one point you had to stop and rest your forehead against the floor, eyes squeezed shut against the dizziness. Half an hour, at least. Maybe more. Time had gone strange again.
When you finally reached the front door, you had to use your shoulder and bound hands to push yourself up high enough to reach the handle. It was locked. Of course it was locked. You rattled it anyway, yanking as hard as you could with your limited range of motion, but it didn’t budge. There was no key in sight. No deadbolt you could reach from this angle.
You let out a shaky breath that was half sob and slumped against the door for a moment, forehead pressed to the wood.
The fire escape.
You remembered seeing it yesterday through the window in the living room, the same window that looked out onto the same view as yours. If you could get to it, maybe you could force the window open or break the glass. Anything.
You dragged yourself across the living room again. It felt even harder this time. Your muscles were burning, your head was screaming, and every few feet you had to stop because the room kept tilting. When you finally reached the window, you had to use your bound hands to fumble with the latch. It was stiff. You worked at it for what felt like forever, grunting with effort, until it finally gave with a sharp click.
You pushed the window up.
Cool morning air hit your face. The fire escape was right there, metal and rusted in places, just like the one outside your real apartment. Freedom was only a few feet away. You started hauling yourself up onto the sill, using your elbows to lever your body forward. Your bound ankles made it awkward as hell, you had to kind of roll and drag at the same time. Glass from a small crack in the corner of the window cut your forearm, but you barely felt it over the pounding in your skull.
You were halfway through the window when you felt it.
A hand.
It clamped around the back of your neck from behind, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Before you could even make a sound, it yanked you backward with brutal force. Your body jerked, legs kicking uselessly against the sill as you were dragged back into the room. You hit the floor hard, the impact rattling through your already concussed head.
Then the pain came.
White-hot and sudden, exploding in the back of your right knee.
You screamed.
The sound tore out of you raw and involuntary as the blade sank in, not a clean cut, but a vicious, twisting stab that went deep into muscle and tendon. Blood sprayed hot and wet across the floor, across your leg, across her hand. You could feel it gushing with every frantic beat of your heart.
Blake was on top of you now, one knee pinning your back, her grip on your neck unrelenting as she wrenched the knife free and stabbed again, lower this time, another brutal puncture that made your leg jerk and seize.
“You’re not supposed to do that!” she was yelling, voice raw and cracking. “That’s not what you’re supposed to do! You were being good! You were being so good yesterday and now you’re trying to leave? No! No no no — you don’t get to do that!”
She yanked you back harder by the neck, dragging you fully away from the window. Blood was everywhere, pooling under your leg, spilling over the rug that looked exactly like yours, splattering across the floorboards. The pain was blinding. You couldn’t think past it, couldn’t even form words at first, just choked gasps and broken sounds as she kept you pinned.
“You were being good,” she repeated, voice dropping into something lower and more unhinged. “You let me feed you. You kissed me. You were starting to understand. And now you’re trying to run? After everything I did for you? After I made all of this for us?”
She was breathing hard, chest heaving against your back. The knife was still in her hand, blade dripping. Your leg was on fire, the back of your knee a mess of torn tissue and pouring blood. You could feel it soaking through your clothes, warm and slick.
Blake’s grip on your neck loosened just slightly, but she didn’t let go. Her voice shifted again, still angry, but cracking with something that sounded almost like hurt.
“I trusted you,” she said, quieter now but no less intense. “I thought you were starting to see how good this could be. And you do this? You try to leave me?”
You were shaking, tears mixing with the sweat on your face, leg throbbing with every heartbeat. The blood was spreading fast beneath you. You couldn’t move your right leg properly anymore, it felt wrong, weak, like something important had been cut.
Blake stayed on top of you for another long moment, knife still in her hand, breathing ragged against the back of your neck.
Then she leaned down, voice right by your ear.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she whispered. “Not ever. Not after this.”
She finally released your neck, but only to grab your bound wrists and start hauling you backward across the blood-slick floor, away from the window, away from the fire escape, back toward the bedroom that looked exactly like yours.
The wooden floors made everything louder.
Every drag of your body across them sent a hollow scrape echoing through the apartment. Your injured leg left a thick, wet trail of blood behind you, dark and glistening on the pale wood, smearing with every inch she pulled you. The pain in the back of your knee was blinding now, a deep, tearing throb that shot up your thigh and made your whole body seize every time the wound caught on the floorboards. You were crying openly, harsh sobs tearing out of you between the screams you couldn’t hold back.
“Blake— please— it hurts— it hurts so bad—”
She didn’t answer at first. She just kept hauling you backward by your bound wrists, her grip iron-tight, breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The knife was still in her other hand, blade dripping. Her face was flushed, eyes wide and glassy, hair falling out of place across her forehead. She looked unhinged. Actually scary in a way she hadn’t before — like something inside her had finally cracked all the way open and there was nothing left holding the pieces together.
You reached the kitchen area near the hall and she finally stopped, dropping your wrists so your upper body slumped against the floor. The blood from your leg was already pooling beneath you, warm and sticky against the wood. You tried to curl in on yourself, leg jerking involuntarily from the pain, but the zip ties on your ankles kept you from moving properly.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped out, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry— I wasn’t— I wasn’t trying to leave, I swear—”
She climbed on top of you without warning.
Her weight settled across your hips, knees pinning your sides. The knife was still in her hand, hovering near your face for a second before she seemed to remember it was there. She set it down on the floor beside your head with a sharp clatter, then leaned over you, both hands braced on either side of your shoulders. Her breathing was fast and uneven. Up close, she looked worse, eyes too bright, pupils blown wide, a smear of your blood across her cheek from when she’d grabbed you. She looked completely gone.
“You were being good,” she said, voice low and shaking. “You were being so good yesterday. You let me take care of you. You kissed me. And then you do this?”
You were babbling now, frantic, anything to pull her back from wherever she’d gone.
“I’m sorry— I’m sorry, Blake, please— my head was hurting so bad, I just needed air— I wasn’t trying to leave, I promise, I just— I missed you. I woke up and you weren’t there and I got scared and my head— it was pounding and I thought if I could just get some air—”
You tried to reach for her even with your hands bound. Your fingers brushed weakly against her arm, then higher, toward her face. You were crying so hard your words kept breaking.
“Please— I wasn’t running, I swear— I just needed to breathe— my head hurts so much, Blake, it hurts—”
She grabbed your bound wrists and slammed them back down against the floor above your head, hard enough to make the wood rattle. Her face was inches from yours now, eyes wild.
“Stop it,” she hissed. “Stop saying that. You were trying to leave. I saw you. You were going out the window like I wouldn’t notice. After everything I did. After I made this place for you. After I took care of you.”
Your leg was still bleeding heavily. You could feel the warmth of it spreading under you, soaking into your clothes and the floor. The pain made your vision spot at the edges. You kept reaching anyway, desperate, arching up as much as you could with her weight on you, trying to press closer.
“I’m sorry,” you whimpered again, voice small and broken. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t trying to go anywhere. I missed you. I woke up and you were gone and I got scared. Please— please don’t be mad. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good, I promise. Just— it hurts so much, Blake. Please.”
You tilted your face up toward hers, still crying, and tried to kiss her. It was awkward and messy with your hands pinned and your leg screaming, but you pressed your lips to the corner of her mouth anyway, then higher, toward her cheek, anywhere you could reach. Anything to make her calm down. Anything to make that terrifying look leave her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered against her skin between shaky breaths. “I’m sorry I scared you. I wasn’t leaving. I just needed air for my head. I missed you. I was being good yesterday, right? I let you feed me. I kissed you. I’m still being good. Please— please just calm down. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t— don’t look at me like that.”
Blake stayed frozen over you for a long moment, breathing hard against your face. Her expression flickered, rage and hurt and something darker warring behind her eyes. The blood from your leg was still spreading across the wooden floor beneath you both, dark and glossy in the morning light.
You kept whispering, kept trying to reach her, kept babbling whatever you thought might pull her back from the edge.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t trying to leave you. I missed you. My head just hurt so bad. Please. I’ll be good. I’ll be perfect. Just— please don’t be scared. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
Your voice cracked on the last word. You were still crying, still trying to press closer to her even as the pain in your knee made fresh tears spill down your temples.
Blake’s grip on your wrists loosened just slightly.
But she didn’t move off you yet.
And the look in her eyes stayed wild.
The pain in the back of your knee was unbearable now. It wasn’t just sharp anymore, it was deep and burning, radiating up your thigh and down into your calf with every frantic beat of your heart. You could feel the blood still pulsing out of the wound, warm and steady against the wooden floor beneath you. Every time you shifted even slightly, fresh agony lanced through the torn muscle and tendon. Your vision kept swimming at the edges, the concussion and the blood loss making everything tilt and blur. You were crying harder than before, quiet, helpless sobs that shook your whole body.
Blake was still on top of you, breathing hard, her weight pinning your hips to the floor. Her eyes were wild, too wide, too bright, that same unhinged gleam from earlier. She looked completely gone, like the version of her that had been calm and gentle yesterday had been peeled away and this raw, terrifying thing was all that was left underneath.
You were desperate. So desperate you would have said anything.
“Blake,” you whispered through the tears, voice cracking. Your bound hands twitched uselessly against the floor where she still held your wrists. “You look so pretty right now. Even like this. It’s… it’s making it so hard for me to think.”
The words felt wrong coming out of your mouth, but you pushed them out anyway. Anything. You had to try anything.
She blinked.
For a second the wild look in her eyes flickered, like something had caught her attention. Her breathing was still ragged, but it slowed just a fraction. You kept going, voice small and shaky, forcing yourself to meet her gaze even though every instinct screamed at you to look away.
“You’re so… intense,” you murmured, trying to keep your tone soft, almost admiring. “The way you look at me. It’s overwhelming. I can’t think straight when you’re this close. You’re making everything feel… too much.”
You swallowed hard, the taste of salt from your own tears on your lips.
“I wasn’t trying to leave,” you whispered again, desperate to circle back to something that might reach her. “I swear. My head was hurting so bad from the concussion and I just needed air. I missed you. I woke up and you weren’t there and I got scared. That’s all it was. I wasn’t running. I promise.”
Blake’s grip on your wrists loosened slightly. Her expression was still strange, that scary, detached intensity hadn’t fully left, but something in her face shifted. The rage didn’t disappear, but it seemed to settle into something darker and more focused. She tilted her head, studying you like she was trying to decide if she believed you.
Then she spoke.
Her voice was low. Rough. Almost breathless.
“The way it felt,” she said, almost like she was confessing something intimate. “When the knife went in… the way it just sank into the back of your knee like that. It was so clean at first. Then it caught on something and I had to push harder.” She exhaled shakily, eyes flicking down to the blood still spreading across the wooden floor beneath your leg. “It did something to me. It really did something to me.”
She leaned down closer, her face inches from yours. One of her hands finally released your wrist so she could brush her fingers along your jaw, almost tenderly, even as the other stayed braced beside your head.
“I didn’t expect it to feel like that,” she murmured. “The resistance. The way your body reacted. The sound it made. It was… attractive. More than I thought it would be. Knowing I was the one doing it to you. Knowing you were bleeding because of me.”
Your leg was still screaming. The pain was so constant and overwhelming that fresh tears kept slipping down your temples. You could feel the blood loss making you weaker, your thoughts fuzzier. But you forced yourself to keep talking, keep playing into whatever she needed to hear.
“It hurts,” you whimpered, voice breaking. “It hurts so so much, Blake. Please. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not trying to leave. I just… I missed you. That’s why I got up. I woke up and you were gone and my head was pounding and I needed air. I wasn’t running. I swear I wasn’t.”
You tilted your face up again, trying to kiss her the way you had yesterday, anything to pull her back from the edge. Your lips brushed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek. You were still crying, still shaking, but you kept pressing soft, desperate kisses wherever you could reach.
“You look so pretty when you’re like this,” you whispered against her skin, forcing the words out even though your voice was thick with pain and fear. “Even when you’re upset. It’s… it’s hard to think when you’re this close to me. You’re making everything feel too intense. I can’t focus on anything else.”
Blake’s breathing had started to even out. The wild, unhinged look in her eyes was slowly softening into something else, still intense, still a little unhinged, but calmer. She shifted her weight slightly on top of you, one hand moving to gently stroke your hair the way she had yesterday when she was feeding you.
“You really weren’t trying to leave?” she asked quietly. There was still an edge to her voice, but it was quieter now. Almost hopeful.
You shook your head as much as you could with her still hovering over you.
“No,” you said quickly. “I wasn’t. I missed you. That’s all. I promise. I was being good yesterday. I’ll keep being good. Just… please. It hurts so much. Can you… can you help me? Please?”
She studied your face for a long moment, fingers still carding slowly through your hair. The terrifying intensity hadn’t completely left her expression, but the worst of the rage seemed to be ebbing. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, soft, almost loving, even as your blood continued to pool on the wooden floor beneath your ruined knee.
“Okay,” she murmured against your skin. “Okay. I believe you. You were being good. You’re still being good now.”
She stayed on top of you, but her posture relaxed just slightly. One of her hands moved down to hover near your injured leg without quite touching it, like she was deciding what to do about the bleeding.
“You scared me,” she admitted quietly. “I thought you were trying to leave me. After everything. But if you really just needed air… if you really missed me…”
She trailed off, still stroking your hair with that same gentle rhythm from yesterday.
You kept whispering whatever you thought might keep her calm, kept trying to kiss her when she got close enough, kept telling her she looked pretty, that she was overwhelming you, that you weren’t going anywhere. The pain in your knee was still excruciating, blood still seeping steadily onto the wood, but you forced yourself to stay soft. Stay pliant. Stay whatever version of “good” she needed you to be right now.
Because what else could you do?
The alternative was worse.
The wooden floor was cold and slick beneath you, your blood still spreading in a slow, dark pool around your ruined knee. The pain was constant now, a deep, throbbing burn that radiated up your thigh and made your whole leg feel wrong, like something vital had been torn loose inside the joint. Every tiny shift sent fresh waves of it through you, sharp enough to steal your breath.
Blake was still on top of you, breathing hard, her weight pinning your hips. For a moment she just stared down at you, eyes still wild and glassy. Then she leaned in.
Her mouth found yours without warning.
The kiss was rough at first, almost desperate, her lips pressing hard against yours like she was trying to crawl inside the contact. You tasted copper, whether from her or from the blood still smeared across her face, you couldn’t tell. She pulled back just enough to speak against your mouth, voice low and unsteady.
“Your pulse is hammering,” she murmured. Her breath was hot against your lips. “I can feel it. Right here.” One of her hands slid up to rest over the side of your throat, thumb brushing the frantic beat beneath your skin. “It’s okay. I’ll fix it. I’ll make it better. I know how. I’ve thought about it so many times.”
You knew exactly where this was going. The way her body had shifted, the way her eyes kept flicking down toward your bleeding leg. You were still terrified, still in so much pain you could barely think straight, but you forced yourself to play along. Survival was the only thing left.
You tilted your chin up, pressing another shaky kiss to her mouth.
“I want to feel better,” you whispered, voice hoarse from crying. Your bound hands flexed uselessly against the floor. “Please. It hurts so much. Make it better.”
Something in her expression softened at the words, not all the way, but enough. The wild, unhinged edge in her eyes cooled into something darker and more focused. She kissed you again, slower this time, almost soothing, before she pulled back.
She reached for the knife.
You stayed very still as she brought the blade down to your ankles. The zip tie there gave way with a quiet plastic snap. She did the same to the other one. Your legs were free now, or as free as they could be with one of them torn open and useless. You didn’t try to move them. You didn’t even twitch. You just lay there, breathing through the pain, watching her face.
Blake set the knife aside.
She lowered herself further, pressing her cheek flat against the wooden floor right beside the spreading pool of your blood. For a second she just stayed like that, eyes half-lidded, breathing in the scent of it. Then she turned her head and dragged her tongue slowly through the blood on the floor.
A low, broken moan vibrated out of her throat.
She did it again, slower this time, savoring it, the wet sound of her tongue against the wood obscene in the quiet room. Her eyes fluttered shut. Another moan, deeper, almost grateful. She pressed her whole face into it for a moment, smearing your blood across her cheek and lips like she couldn’t get enough of the taste, the warmth, the reality of it. Her free hand slid down between her own thighs, pressing hard against herself through her clothes as another shudder ran through her.
You watched, chest tight, pain still radiating up your leg in thick, nauseating waves.
She finally lifted her head. Her mouth was red now, your blood on her lips, her chin, even a little on her teeth when she smiled. It was a small, private, utterly satisfied smile.
Then she tugged your pants down, freeing you as she reached for your injured leg.
Her hands were careful but insistent as she lifted it, cradling the back of your thigh and calf so the ruined knee was raised just enough. The movement made fresh blood well up from the stab wounds, two deep, ragged punctures at the back of the joint, the tissue torn and swollen, blood still pulsing sluggishly from the deeper one. You gasped at the shift, the pain flaring white-hot, but you didn’t fight her. You couldn’t.
Blake lowered her mouth to the wound.
The first touch of her tongue was slow. Deliberate. She dragged it across one of the punctures, collecting the fresh blood that had welled there, and moaned again, louder this time, the sound vibrating against your torn skin. She did it again, and again, licking broad, wet stripes over the ragged edges of the wound, tasting the torn muscle and the steady seep of blood like it was something she’d been starving for.
You could feel everything.
The hot, wet drag of her tongue against the raw tissue. The way it dipped into the deeper puncture, pushing slightly, almost fucking into the wound with the tip of her tongue like she was trying to get inside it. The sting of it, sharp and burning on top of the already brutal pain. Blood kept welling up around her mouth, and she kept licking it away, sucking gently at the edges of the torn skin, moaning every time more of it flooded across her tongue. Her eyes were closed now, lashes dark against her flushed cheeks, one hand still pressed between her own legs while the other held your leg steady.
She was lost in it.
Every few seconds she would pull back just enough to breathe, lips shiny and red, then dive back in, sucking at the wound, tongue working deeper into the torn flesh, lapping at the blood as it continued to flow. The wet, obscene sounds of it filled the space between your ragged breathing and her soft, constant moans. She pressed her face fully against the back of your knee at one point, smearing blood across her cheek again, and let out a long, shaking groan like she was coming apart from the taste alone.
You stayed as still as you could, leg trembling in her grip from the pain and the effort of not jerking away. Your head was still pounding, vision still hazy at the edges, but you forced yourself to speak anyway, voice small, shaky, playing along because it was the only thing left to do.
“It… it feels different now,” you whispered, even though the pain was still overwhelming. “Not as bad. You’re… you’re making it better.”
Blake moaned again at the words, the sound muffled against your bleeding skin. She sucked harder at one of the punctures, tongue pushing insistently into the torn muscle, blood trickling down her chin and onto the wooden floor. Her free hand tightened on your thigh, holding you in place as she lost herself in the act, licking, sucking, tasting every fresh pulse of blood that welled up from the wounds she had made.
She didn’t stop.
She stayed there on the floor with you, mouth sealed over the back of your ruined knee, moaning softly every time more of your blood flooded across her tongue, completely absorbed in the reality of a fantasy she had clearly been carrying for weeks. The blood kept flowing. The pain kept throbbing. And she kept licking it up like she never wanted it to end.
The blood was still warm beneath you, thick and slow-moving across the wooden floor, and Blake’s mouth was still sealed over the back of your knee when the shift happened.
She had been lost in it for what felt like a long time, licking, sucking, tongue working into the torn edges of the stab wounds with these low, constant moans that vibrated against your ruined skin. Every pull of her mouth sent fresh spikes of pain up your leg, sharp and burning, the torn muscle and tendon protesting every movement. You could feel more blood welling up around her tongue, and she kept chasing it, kept swallowing it down like she couldn’t get enough. Your head was still pounding from the concussion, your vision hazy at the edges, but you stayed quiet except for the occasional broken whimper. You had to. You had to keep her calm.
Eventually she lifted her head.
Her lips were red and shiny, chin streaked with your blood. She looked up at you from between your spread thigh and the floor, eyes dark and glassy with want. For a second she just breathed there, chest rising and falling fast, one hand still gripping your thigh to keep your injured leg elevated. Then her free hand slid higher, slow, deliberate, up the inside of your other thigh until her fingers brushed between your legs.
You felt her touch you.
She didn’t push in right away. Just stroked, light and careful, like she was testing. Her eyes flicked up to your face, watching every micro-expression. You knew what she wanted. You knew where this was going. And even with the pain still radiating through your leg in thick, nauseating waves, even with the blood still seeping from the wounds she’d just been licking, you forced yourself to play along.
“I want that too,” you whispered, voice hoarse. Your bound hands flexed against the floor. “I want to feel good. Please.”
Something bright and almost childlike lit up in her face.
She smiled, wide, pleased, excited in a way that made her look younger for a second, like you’d just given her the best gift. “Yeah?” she breathed. “You want me to make you feel good?” Her fingers pressed a little firmer, sliding through the slickness there with obvious delight. “Fuck. I’ve wanted this for so long. You have no idea.”
She started gentle.
Her fingers circled first, slow and teasing, building pressure in careful strokes while she watched your face. The other hand stayed on your injured thigh, thumb brushing just above one of the stab wounds like she couldn’t stop touching the damage she’d made. Every so often she would dip her head again and drag her tongue across the back of your knee, collecting fresh blood, moaning softly into your skin as her fingers kept working between your legs.
“You’re so wet already,” she murmured against your thigh, voice low and chatty, almost conversational even as her fingers slid lower and pressed inside. “God, I knew you would be. I thought about this every single night. How tight you’d feel. How you’d sound when I finally got to fuck you.” She pushed two fingers in deeper, slow and careful at first, curling them like she was learning the shape of you. “That’s it… just like that. You’re taking me so well already.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to focus on anything other than the constant burn in your knee. The fingers inside you felt strange at first, invasive in a way that made your stomach twist, but you forced your hips to shift toward her touch, forced a soft sound from your throat that you hoped sounded like pleasure.
Blake’s eyes fluttered at the noise.
She moaned again, louder this time, and her rhythm changed almost immediately. The gentleness started to slip. Her fingers thrust deeper, faster, the wet sound of it mixing with the low, constant drip of blood from your knee onto the floor. She kept talking, voice getting rougher, more excited.
“Fuck, listen to you,” she breathed, curling her fingers harder on every thrust. “You sound so good. I knew you would. I knew once I got inside you you’d make the prettiest noises for me.” She leaned down and licked another slow stripe across the stab wounds, tongue pressing into the torn tissue as her fingers fucked into you in a steady, building rhythm. “You were being so good yesterday when I fed you. So sweet. And now you’re letting me do this. Letting me fuck you while you bleed for me. God, it’s even better than I thought it would be.”
The pain in your knee was still there, deep and constant, flaring every time her tongue or her hand shifted against your leg, but you kept making the sounds she seemed to want. Soft moans. Little gasps when her fingers hit a spot that made your body react despite everything. You told yourself it was just to keep her calm. Chose to ignore the feelings of enjoyment as they slowly crawled into you.
Blake’s free hand slid up your body, smearing blood across your stomach as she went, until she was cupping your breast through your shirt. She squeezed, thumb brushing over your nipple, and her hips rocked forward like she was trying to fuck you with her whole body.
“You feel so fucking good around my fingers,” she said, voice breaking a little with how worked up she was. “So tight. So warm. I’ve been thinking about this for months — how you’d clench when I touched you like this. How you’d sound when you came for me the first time.” She thrust harder, rougher now, the heel of her palm grinding against you with every movement. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you. Don’t hold back. I want all of it.”
She dipped her head again and sealed her mouth over one of the stab wounds, sucking hard enough that you felt the pull of it in the torn muscle. At the same time her fingers curled and thrust faster, rougher, the wet sounds filling the space between her low, constant moans and your own shaky breathing.
“You’re mine now,” she murmured against your bleeding skin between licks. “All mine. No one else gets to touch you like this. No one else gets to see you fall apart. Just me. Just us. In our home. Fuck — I can feel you getting closer already. You like this, don’t you? You like when I fuck you while you’re bleeding for me.”
She kept going, chatty and relentless, fingers moving faster inside you while her mouth stayed latched to the wound, licking and sucking like she was trying to drink every drop you had left to give. The pain in your knee was still there, still sharp and deep, but you kept making the sounds she wanted, kept letting your body react.
Because what else could you do?
She was too far gone now, too pleased, too excited, and the only thing keeping her from snapping again was the way you were letting her have this. So you stayed pliant. You stayed soft. You let her fuck you on the blood-slick wooden floor while she moaned against your torn knee and told you in that low, chatty, obsessive voice exactly how long she’d been waiting for this moment.
The pain in the back of your knee never fully left. It stayed there beneath everything else, a deep, constant burn where the knife had torn through muscle and tendon, blood still seeping slow and warm onto the wooden floor. But her mouth stayed latched to the wound, tongue working in slow, filthy strokes while her fingers thrust steadily inside you, and something in your body started to betray you.
You felt it building.
At first it was just pressure, the way her fingers curled and dragged against that spot inside you over and over, relentless and knowing. The sting from her tongue pressing into the torn edges of the stab wounds kept mixing with it, sharp and hot, until the two sensations started to blur. Your hips twitched despite yourself. A moan slipped out, real this time, low and shaky, and Blake made a broken, pleased sound against your skin like she’d been waiting for it.
“That’s it,” she breathed, voice rough and chatty against the bleeding wound. “There you go. I knew you’d sound like that for me. Knew you’d get so fucking wet once I got my fingers inside you.” She sucked hard at one of the punctures, tongue pushing deeper into the torn tissue as her fingers fucked into you faster. “You like it when I taste you like this, don’t you? When I fuck you while you’re bleeding all over my floor. God, you’re clenching around me already.”
Your wrists pulled uselessly against the zip ties above your head. The pain in your knee flared every time her tongue dragged across it, but the pleasure was building underneath it now, thick and insistent, coiling low in your stomach. You moaned again, louder, more desperate, and this time you didn’t try to hold it back.
Blake groaned like the sound did something to her. She lifted her head just enough to look up at you, lips shiny and red, eyes dark and hungry.
“You’re close already, aren’t you?” she said, voice low and pleased. “I can feel it. You’re getting tighter around my fingers. That’s my good girl. Come for me. I want to feel it. I want to taste how much you like this while you’re bleeding for me.”
She sealed her mouth over the deepest part of the wound again and sucked, tongue working in filthy, insistent strokes as her fingers thrust harder, rougher. The wet sounds of it filled the space between her low moans and your own broken breathing. Your leg trembled in her grip. The pain was still there, sharp and constant, but it was twisting into something else now, something hotter, something that made your hips rock up to meet her hand despite the way it made the stab wounds bleed faster.
You came with a choked, helpless sound, thighs shaking, the orgasm ripping through you in long, pulsing waves that made your vision white out at the edges. Your body clenched hard around her fingers, and she moaned loudly against your knee like she could taste it, like the way you were coming for her was the best thing she’d ever felt.
But she didn’t stop.
She kept her fingers moving inside you, slower for a few seconds while you rode it out, then picking up the pace again as soon as your body started to settle. Her mouth stayed on the wound, licking and sucking through the fresh blood that welled up from how hard you’d clenched. The overstimulation hit fast, sharp and almost too much, but it didn’t stay there. After a minute the sensitivity shifted, melted into something deeper, something that made your hips twitch toward her hand again instead of away.
Blake noticed immediately.
“Oh fuck, there it is,” she murmured against your skin, voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re getting sensitive but you still want it, don’t you? I can feel how wet you are. You’re dripping down my wrist.” She thrust her fingers deeper, rougher now, the heel of her palm grinding against you with every movement. “That’s it. Let it feel good. I knew you would. I knew once I got you like this — bleeding and open and mine — you’d stop fighting it.”
She lifted her head just long enough to look at you, eyes bright and a little wild again, but in a different way now. Excited. Possessive. She leaned up and kissed you hard, letting you taste the copper of your own blood on her tongue before she pulled back and pressed her forehead to yours.
“You feel so fucking good,” she said, voice low and chatty, almost breathless as her fingers kept fucking into you. “So tight and warm and perfect around me. I’ve wanted this for so long — wanted to feel you come on my hand while I tasted every drop of you. And now you’re giving it to me. You’re letting me have all of it.” She curled her fingers hard on the next thrust, hitting that spot inside you over and over. “That’s my girl. Moan for me again. I want to hear how good it feels now that you’re not pretending anymore.”
Your body was reacting on its own now. The pain in your knee was still there, still sharp every time her tongue returned to the torn wounds, but the pleasure was building again underneath it, real and insistent, making your thighs tremble and your back arch off the bloody floor. You moaned without meaning to, the sound raw and genuine, and Blake groaned like it was the best thing she’d ever heard.
“Yeah,” she breathed, fucking you faster, rougher, her free hand sliding up to grip your bound wrists and pin them harder to the floor. “Just like that. You’re so fucking pretty when you stop fighting it. When you let yourself feel how good it is to be mine.” She dipped her head again and dragged her tongue slowly across the deepest puncture, moaning at the taste before she sucked at it, gentle at first and then harder, like she was trying to pull more blood from the wound while her fingers thrust deep and relentless inside you.
“You’re going to come again,” she said against your skin, voice dark and certain. “I can feel it. You’re getting tighter. Wetter. Fuck — I can feel how much you like this now. How much you like me fucking you while you’re bleeding all over my floor.” She thrust harder, the wet sound of it obscene. “Come for me again. Be good for me. Show me how much you want it.”
And you did.
Your second orgasm hit harder than the first, your body clenching around her fingers as the pleasure crashed through you in long, shaking waves. This time there was no holding back the sounds you made. They spilled out of you raw and genuine, mixing with the low, constant moans she let out against your bleeding knee. She didn’t stop moving her hand. She kept fucking you through it, slower now but deep, drawing it out while her tongue lapped lazily at the wounds like she couldn’t get enough of the taste of you falling apart for her.
When the aftershocks finally started to fade, she lifted her head and looked at you again, lips red and eyes dark with satisfaction. She was still moving her fingers inside you — slow, deep strokes that kept the pleasure simmering low in your stomach even as the pain in your knee throbbed steadily beneath it all.
“See?” she murmured, voice soft and pleased, almost tender. “I told you I’d make it better. I told you it would feel good once you let me have you.” She leaned up and kissed you again, slow and deep, letting you taste yourself and the blood on her tongue. “You’re mine now. All of you. And I’m going to keep making you feel this good. Every single day.”
Her fingers curled inside you again, and even through the lingering sensitivity and the constant burn of the wound, your body responded, hips shifting toward her touch, another soft, genuine moan slipping from your throat.
Blake smiled against your mouth, dark and satisfied.
“That’s my girl,” she whispered. “Just like that.”
Guys please don’t be mad… but my next fic drop is another Blake one… I’m sorryyyy but it’s cool it’s a dark fic… okay it’s basically horror porn but it’s good I’m excited to post it
Would anyone possibly be interested in reading a horribly sad and depressing Charlexa fic if I wrote one… I used to write a lot of angst fics for other fandoms and if I’m miserable atm I thought I might as well capitalise off of it 🤔
AN: so i edited this kinda fast and istg i said blake has dark hair somewhere and so im so sorry in advance i was writing this and a kiana fic on and off at the same time and my head has just been a mess. that aside im very sorry for the wait and i hope you all enjoy even if the editing has a few mistakes
Title: crave you
Pairing: blake monroe x nerdy!fem!reader
WC: 28,261
Warnings: explicit sexual content!! oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, praise kink, light dominance and submission dynamics, dirty talk
——
The studio always smelled faintly of stale coffee and the sharp bite of electronic equipment warming up, a scent that had become as familiar to you as the back of your hand. You crouched beside the low table, fingers fumbling slightly with the XLR cables as you plugged in the microphones, the cool metal connectors clicking into place with a satisfying snap. Your pulse thrummed a little too insistently beneath your skin, a persistent reminder of the guest list for today’s episode. Late afternoon light slanted through the half-drawn blinds, striping the carpet in lazy bars of amber that shifted whenever the air-conditioning kicked on with its low, rhythmic hum.
Chelsea Green perched on the edge of the worn couch opposite you, her legs crossed at the ankles, scrolling through her phone with one hand while the other toyed absently with the hem of her oversized hoodie. She glanced up, catching the way your shoulders had drawn up tight, and a mischievous grin split across her face, the kind that always spelled trouble in the best possible way.
“Oh my god, look at you already,” she drawled, her voice carrying that bright, teasing lilt that made her segments on “Green with Envy” so addictive, the same unfiltered candor she brought to every messy story about her relationship disasters or the latest fitness meltdown that left her swearing off burpees forever. “We haven’t even left to grab her yet, and you’re doing that thing with your hands again. You know, the anxious little twist thing.”
You straightened up too quickly, nearly knocking over a water bottle perched on the table’s edge. Heat crept up the back of your neck as you shot her a look, trying for exasperated but landing somewhere closer to sheepish. The bottle wobbled once before you caught it, your laugh escaping in a short, self-deprecating burst that betrayed you completely. “I’m not doing anything. I’m setting up the mics, Chels. That’s literally my job right now.”
She let out a bright, bubbling laugh that filled the small space, tilting her head back so her brunette hair caught the overhead lights in a soft shimmer. “Sure, sure. Setting up the mics. Not thinking about how Blake Monroe, the Blake Monroe, your literal wrestling crush since she stepped foot in WWE, is gonna be sitting right here in like, an hour. Talking to us. With her accent and her whole…” She waved a hand vaguely, as if outlining an elegant silhouette in the air between you. “Glamour thing.”
Your stomach did a slow, traitorous flip. You busied yourself adjusting the pop filter on one of the mics, focusing on the fine mesh instead of meeting her eyes. The foam felt slightly gritty under your fingertips, grounding you for half a second. “It’s just an episode. We’ve had bigger names on before. It’s fine.”
Chelsea wasn’t buying it. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin propped in her hands like she was settling in for prime gossip hour on her own show. Her eyes sparkled with unrestrained delight, the kind that always made you feel both seen and gently roasted at the same time. “Mhmm. ‘It’s fine.’ That’s what you said last time her name came up on the pod, and then you spent the next ten minutes tripping over your words like a teenager asking someone to prom. It’s adorable, honestly. The fans eat it up. ‘Our goofy little co-host has a type… tall, British, and could suplex you into next week.’”
You dropped the spare cable you’d been holding, the coiled length landing with a soft thud against the carpet. Heat flared hotter across your cheeks as you bent to retrieve it, muttering under your breath. “You’re the worst. Remind me why I co-host with you again?”
“Because I’m hilarious and I bring the snacks,” she shot back without missing a beat, gesturing grandly toward the spread of half-empty chip bags and a suspiciously fancy cheese board she’d assembled earlier. “And because our little show would be boring without my expert poking. Plus, you love me. Admit it.”
You straightened, the cable now properly stowed, and sank into the armchair across from her with a dramatic sigh that did nothing to hide the grin tugging at your mouth. The fabric of the chair gave a familiar creak beneath you, and you pulled your notebook into your lap, flipping it open to the page of scribbled notes you’d half-prepared the night before. Loose questions, mostly, nothing too clinical, just the easy back-and-forth that made your episodes feel like late-night girl talk rather than an interview. “Okay, fine. I love you. Marginally. Now can we actually plan this thing before we have to leave? Blake’s probably landing soon, and traffic’s going to be a nightmare if we don’t time it right.”
Chelsea’s grin softened into something almost conspiratorial as she grabbed her own legal pad from the couch cushion, though the mischief never fully left her expression. She tapped the pen against the paper in that erratic rhythm she always fell into when she was excited, the sound a light staccato against the steady hum of the AC. “Alright, babe. Logistics first. Her flight lands around four, right? You wanna drive or should I? Because if it’s you, I need to know if you’re gonna be able to keep the car on the road or if you’ll be too busy having a full-on nervous breakdown in the driver’s seat.”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched upward despite yourself. Your fingers traced the edge of the notebook page, smoothing a crease that wasn’t really there. “I can drive. I’m not that bad. And it’s not a breakdown—it’s… preparation. Professional preparation.”
“Professional preparation,” Chelsea echoed, drawing the words out with exaggerated slowness before dissolving into another giggle. She flipped to a fresh page on her pad, scrawling something in her looping handwriting. “God, you’re such a dork. It’s why the listeners adore you. That whole awkwardly endearing sweetheart thing you do. Anyway—loose plan. We keep it light, like always. Start with the easy stuff: how it feels to finally be on the main roster after all the buzz in NXT. Her first impressions of the SmackDown locker room. Maybe poke a little at the whole ‘Glamour’ persona—does she actually own that many killer outfits, or is it just for the cameras? Fans love the behind-the-scenes tea.”
You nodded, scribbling a quick note beside your own list, the pen gliding smoothly across the paper. The familiar rhythm of planning settled over you like a well-worn blanket, even as that persistent flutter lingered low in your chest. “Yeah, and we can circle back to some of the fan questions we pulled from the last episode. Nothing invasive—just the fun ones. How she unwinds after a brutal match. If she’s got any pre-match rituals that aren’t as polished as she looks out there. Keep it gossipy, not grilling.”
Chelsea leaned back against the couch, stretching her arms overhead with a satisfied groan that turned into another laugh when she caught your expression. “See? You’re already sounding less like a blushing mess and more like the pro co-host I know. But real talk—if you start stammering on mic when she smiles at you with those perfect British vowels, I’m not saving you. I’m leaning in.”
The words landed with a playful nudge, and you felt the warmth return to your face, softer this time, more like the glow of shared secret than outright embarrassment. You tossed a crumpled napkin at her across the table; it bounced harmlessly off her knee. “You’re relentless. I’m going to remember this next time you’re spilling about your latest gym catastrophe.”
She caught the napkin mid-air with surprising reflexes, crumpling it further before lobbing it back. “Worth it. Now come on—grab your keys if you’re driving. We should head out in the next ten so we’re not late. Blake Monroe waits for no one, and I refuse to be the reason our favorite guest thinks we’re unprofessional.”
You stood, notebook tucked under one arm, the familiar weight of the studio equipment and Chelsea’s easy chaos grounding you even as the anticipation coiled tighter. The blinds rattled faintly as you passed them, the golden light now deepening toward evening. Chelsea hopped up beside you, slinging her bag over her shoulder with a wink that promised the teasing was far from over.
“Try not to blush the whole way there,” she added, voice light and singsong as she held the door for you. “Or do. It’s cute either way.”
You stepped out into the hallway, the cooler air of the corridor brushing against your skin, carrying the faint echo of your own footsteps and Chelsea’s lingering laugh.
The car door thunked shut behind you with a solid, familiar sound, sealing in the faint remnants of the studio’s coffee scent that clung to your hoodie like an old habit. You adjusted the rearview mirror with a quick flick of your wrist, the engine rumbling to life beneath your hands as you twisted the key. Chelsea dropped into the passenger seat beside you, her bag thudding onto the floor mat with a muffled clatter of keys and whatever half-eaten snacks she’d shoved inside at the last minute. The late afternoon sun slanted low through the windshield, warming the dashboard in uneven patches that made the air inside feel close and lived-in, the kind of comfortable mess that came from too many drives just like this one.
You pulled out of the lot smoothly enough, merging into the sluggish flow of traffic with one hand loose on the wheel, the other tapping idly against the gear shift. Chelsea immediately kicked her feet up onto the dash, socks mismatched, one striped, one plain, and fiddled with the radio until some low-key indie track hummed through the speakers, the bass line thrumming soft against the seats. “Okay, real talk,” she started, twisting in her seat to face you more fully, her grin already sharpening at the edges. “Did you see that last SmackDown segment? The one where the whole tag division imploded in like, three minutes flat? I swear, it was better than any reality show. Pure chaos.”
You laughed under your breath, the sound loosening something tight in your chest as the car eased forward at a red light. The engine idled with a steady, low vibration that traveled up through the steering column into your palms. “Right? I was watching from the green room and actually yelped out loud. Like, full-on startled noise. The intern next to me looked at me like I’d lost it.” Your eyes flicked to the side mirror, checking the blind spot out of habit, then, almost without thinking, darted to your own reflection. You tilted your head a fraction, smoothing a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “Hey, does my makeup still look okay? I feel like the lighting in the studio did something weird to the under-eye situation.”
Chelsea’s head snapped toward you so fast you caught the motion in your peripheral vision, her eyebrows shooting up in exaggerated delight. She let out a bright, unrestrained cackle that filled the cabin, leaning over to poke your shoulder with one manicured finger. “Oh, my god. We’ve been in the car for maybe four minutes. Four. And already with the mirror check?” Her voice dripped with that signature playful mockery, the same cadence she used on air when she roasted her own dating disasters for the listeners. “Babe, you look fine. You always look fine. But we both know this isn’t about what I think. This is Blake Monroe preparation hour, and you’re already spiraling.”
Heat prickled along your collarbone, and you gripped the wheel a little tighter, the textured leather warm under your fingers. The light turned green, and you accelerated with a touch more force than necessary, the car surging forward into the next stretch of highway. “It’s not spiraling,” you protested, the words tumbling out a beat too quick, your tone landing somewhere between defensive and sheepish. Your free hand lifted instinctively to brush at your cheek, as if you could wipe away the flush you could already feel building there. “It’s just… professional courtesy. We’re picking up a guest. I don’t want to show up looking like I rolled out of a laundry basket.”
Chelsea’s laugh doubled, bright and infectious, bouncing off the windows as she slumped back against the seat, clutching her sides like the whole thing was the funniest bit of the week. “Professional courtesy. Sure. Tell that to the way your voice just went all high and squeaky. You don’t ask me if you smell nice before we film with, like, anyone else. Last week with Nia and Lash? You showed up in yesterday’s hoodie and called it a vibe.”
You reached over without looking and swatted at her arm, the motion half-hearted and mostly for show, your mouth twitching despite the fresh wave of embarrassment. The traffic thickened ahead, brake lights winking red in a lazy rhythm, and you eased off the gas, letting the car coast. The radio track shifted into something slower, a guitar riff curling lazily through the speakers. For a few minutes, the conversation meandered back to easier ground, Chelsea recounting a disastrous gym story from her latest episode, complete with dramatic reenactments that had her gesturing wildly enough to nearly clip the sun visor. You chimed in with your own observations, the words flowing easy and unfiltered, the kind of back-and-forth that made these drives feel like an extension of the podcast itself.
But ten minutes later, as the airport signs started flickering into view on the overhead gantries and the sun dipped lower, painting the hood of the car in deeper golds, you caught yourself glancing at the rearview again. Your fingers drummed once against the wheel before you cleared your throat. “Hair still cooperating? It feels like it’s doing that weird flip thing in the back.”
Chelsea didn’t even hesitate. She turned toward you slowly this time, lips pressed together in a failing attempt to hold back another grin, her eyes sparkling with pure, unadulterated mischief. “You absolute disaster of a human. We’re literally halfway there, and you’re still fishing for compliments. From me. As if I’m the one whose opinion matters right now.” She reached over and gave your shoulder a gentle shake, her touch light and sisterly. “It’s cute, honestly. The way you get all fidgety and defensive. But come on—admit it. This is peak Blake-induced panic. You’re out here smelling your own wrist like you’re about to walk a runway, and it’s because of her accent and her whole… everything.”
Your face burned hotter, the flush creeping up to your ears as you shot her a sidelong glare that lacked any real heat. The car hummed along beneath you, the tires whispering against the asphalt in a steady hush. You shifted in the seat, adjusting your grip again, the defensive edge sharpening your words even as a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “I do not smell my wrist. And it’s not panic. It’s… basic hygiene awareness. You’re the one who always says first impressions matter on the pod. I’m just being thorough.”
“Thorough,” she echoed, drawing the word out like it was the punchline to her favorite joke, her laugh spilling over again, rich and warm, filling the small space until it felt less like teasing and more like shared sunlight. She wiped at the corner of her eye with the back of her hand, still chuckling. “God, I love you. Never change. But seriously, if you ask about smelling nice one more time, I’m rolling down the window and telling the whole highway you’re trying to impress your wrestling crush.”
You groaned, long and theatrical, but the sound dissolved into a laugh of your own, the tension easing just enough for the drive to feel lighter again. The airport exit loomed ahead, traffic slowing into a more deliberate crawl, and Chelsea launched back into another story about a listener email that had her cackling all over again. You let the conversation pull you along, the low thrum of the engine and the fading daylight wrapping around the two of you like a familiar rhythm, gossip, jabs, easy silences, while the quiet flutter in your chest refused to settle completely.
Still, when the next check slipped out under your breath a little while later, “Wait, does this shirt still look okay from the side?” Chelsea’s delighted howl was immediate, and this time you didn’t even bother fighting the grin that broke across your face.
The airport arrivals loop curved ahead like a sluggish river of brake lights and honking horns, the late-day sun glinting off windshields in sharp, fleeting bursts that made you squint even behind your sunglasses. You eased the car into the designated pickup lane with deliberate care, the tires whispering against the curb as you killed the engine. The air outside hummed with the low roar of jet engines in the distance, the sharp tang of exhaust mingling with the faint, metallic scent of rain that had passed through earlier. Your hands lingered on the wheel for half a second longer than necessary, steadying the last remnants of that persistent flutter in your chest, schooling it down into something manageable, something polite and professional. Just another guest. Just another episode.
Chelsea was already unbuckling, twisting in her seat to peer through the passenger window with an eager bounce to her posture. “There she is—by the pillar, the one with the carry-on that looks like it costs more than my rent.” Her voice carried that bright, effortless energy, the same one that turned every tangent into something magnetic. She popped the door open before you could respond, stepping out into the mild evening chill with a wave already lifting her arm.
You followed a beat later, the car door clicking shut behind you with a solid thunk. The pavement felt firm under your sneakers, grounding you as you rounded the hood. Blake stood just beyond the automatic doors, posture relaxed yet impossibly composed, one hand resting lightly on the handle of a sleek black suitcase. Her dark hair caught the overhead lights in subtle shifts, framing features that looked even more striking in person than on any screen, sharp cheekbones softened by the easy curve of her mouth, eyes scanning the crowd with quiet attentiveness. She spotted Chelsea first, and her expression bloomed into a genuine smile, warm and unhurried, the kind that reached the corners of her eyes and crinkled them with real delight.
“Chelsea Green, as I live and breathe,” Blake called out, her British accent wrapping around the words like a well-worn melody, precise yet infused with that effortless warmth that made everything she said feel like an invitation. She rolled her suitcase forward a step, closing the distance with a graceful stride that somehow managed to look both purposeful and completely at ease. “You didn’t have to come all this way. I could’ve grabbed a car.”
Chelsea pulled her into a quick, enthusiastic hug, the kind that involved actual squeezing and a laugh that rang clear above the surrounding din. “Are you kidding? This is basically tradition at this point. Plus, our little co-host here insisted on driving. Said it was the least we could do.” She pulled back, gesturing toward you with an open palm, her grin widening in that conspiratorial way that promised she’d behave, just barely.
You stepped forward then, offering a hand that felt steady in your own grip, your smile sliding into place with practiced ease. The crush stayed tucked neatly behind your ribs, a quiet hum rather than a roar, as you met Blake’s gaze directly. “Blake, hi. It’s really great to finally meet you in person. I’m so glad you could make the trip—traffic wasn’t too brutal on our end, so we’re right on time.”
Her handshake was firm but not overpowering, fingers cool from the airport air, and she held the contact for just long enough to feel sincere. That smile of hers deepened, a soft tilt to her head that conveyed genuine appreciation without a hint of performance. “The pleasure’s mine, truly. I’ve been looking forward to this since the invite landed in my inbox. Your podcast has such a brilliant vibe—feels like chatting with mates over a cuppa rather than anything formal.” She released your hand with a small nod, her free one adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder in a casual, unselfconscious motion. No grand gestures, no polished celebrity distance, just open, easy friendliness that made the bustling arrivals area feel a fraction less chaotic.
Chelsea looped an arm through Blake’s like they’d done this a hundred times before, which, given the overlapping circles in the WWE world, they probably had. “See? I told you she’d be a gem. Come on, let’s get you loaded up before some overzealous fan spots us and turns this into a whole thing.” She guided Blake toward the trunk, chattering easily as she went, her cadence light and familiar. “How was the flight? Any screaming babies, or did you luck out with the quiet row? I swear, last time I flew international I ended up next to a guy who thought it was his personal duty to narrate every turbulence bump like it was a wrestling promo.”
Blake chuckled, the sound low and genuine, carrying that subtle lilt that made her words feel layered and alive. She lifted her suitcase with minimal effort, muscles shifting smoothly beneath the fitted jacket she wore, and slid it into the open trunk as Chelsea popped it. “Mercifully quiet, actually. I managed a decent nap and a truly abysmal in-flight film about spies who couldn’t spy their way out of a paper bag. But the tea was passable, so I’ll count it as a win.” Her eyes flicked toward you over the car’s roof, warm and inclusive, as if drawing you into the exchange without forcing it. “And you? Driving through this mess must’ve been its own adventure. Chelsea mentioned you’re the steady hand behind the wheel today.”
You closed the trunk with a gentle push, the latch catching with a satisfying click, and offered a small, self-deprecating shrug as you circled back to the driver’s side. “It wasn’t bad at all. Gave us time to run through a few loose ideas for the episode—nothing set in stone, just the usual easy flow we like.” Your voice stayed even, warm without overreaching, the polite professionalism settling over you like a second skin. Inside, that flutter stirred faintly at the direct attention, but you kept it locked down, focusing instead on the way Blake’s expression stayed attentive, her posture open and relaxed against the car’s frame.
Chelsea slid into the backseat this time, claiming it with a dramatic flourish and leaving the front passenger seat for Blake. “Shotgun for the guest of honor. I’ll play DJ from back here and pretend I’m not eavesdropping on all the good bits.” She winked at you through the rearview as you settled behind the wheel again, engine purring back to life under your foot.
Blake eased into the seat beside you, buckling with a fluid motion and settling her hands in her lap, fingers loosely interlaced. She glanced your way once more, that same unforced smile in place, the airport lights catching faint highlights along her jaw as she turned. “I appreciate the lift more than you know. And the easy flow sounds perfect—none of that stiff questionnaire nonsense. I’ve done enough of those to last a lifetime.” Her tone held a hint of wry humor, the kind that invited laughter without demanding it, and she leaned back just enough to look completely at home already.
Chelsea leaned forward between the seats, elbows propped on the center console, her energy filling the cabin like sunlight through a cracked window. “Exactly why we wanted you on. Our listeners are gonna lose it when they hear you actually have opinions on the ridiculous locker room drama from last month. Remember that whole catering fiasco? You were ringside for it, right? Spill—did anyone actually throw a protein bar?”
Blake’s laugh came easy again, rich and unhurried, her head tilting slightly as she glanced back at Chelsea. The conversation flowed from there like a well-rehearsed but never rote exchange, Chelsea steering it with the effortless familiarity of someone who shared late-night bus rides and post-match debriefs. You navigated the traffic with quiet focus, chiming in here and there with a nod or a light comment, “That does sound like something that would escalate fast,” keeping your responses warm and engaged without letting anything slip. Blake’s replies always looped back to include you, her gaze steady and kind, that understated sweetness threading through every word and gesture; the way she gestured with one hand when emphasizing a point, open-palmed and unassuming; the subtle shift of her shoulders as she relaxed deeper into the seat; the soft cadence of her voice that made even the smallest anecdote feel worth hearing.
The city lights began to streak past as you merged onto the main road, the car’s interior warming with shared stories and the low hum of the engine. Chelsea kept the thread alive, her teasing reserved for now, focused instead on the easy camaraderie that made Blake feel less like a guest and more like she’d always belonged in these conversations. And you drove on, the flutter in your chest a private, contained thing, polite smiles in place, everything schooled exactly where it needed to be. For the moment, at least.
The driveway curved into view under the deepening twilight, the studio’s modest brick facade glowing softly from the single porch light you’d left on earlier. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as you guided the car to a gentle stop, the engine ticking down into silence with a series of quiet, metallic sighs. The air inside the cabin had grown cooler during the final stretch of the drive, carrying the faint, earthy scent of damp grass from the recent rain and the lingering trace of Chelsea’s citrusy hand lotion. You killed the headlights, letting the world settle into the hush of early evening, distant traffic a low murmur beyond the hedges, the occasional rustle of leaves overhead.
You’d kept mostly quiet for the last leg, content to let the road and the low hum of conversation wash over you, your hands steady on the wheel and your responses measured whenever they were needed. Chelsea, never one to let a lull stretch too long, had twisted in the backseat again somewhere along the highway, her voice cutting through the comfortable quiet with that bright, insistent cheer she wielded like a favorite party trick.
“Alright, makeup emergency,” she announced, leaning forward to prop her chin on the center console, eyes flicking between you and Blake with deliberate mischief. “You’re the one who actually knows what the hell contour is supposed to do without making you look like a startled raccoon. Blake, back me up—does this girl not have the best under-eye game you’ve ever seen? I tried that cream she recommended last week, and it actually worked. Spill your secrets before I steal your entire routine.”
Blake turned her head slightly in the passenger seat, the motion unhurried, her profile catching the faint glow from the dashboard lights. A soft chuckle escaped her, warm and unforced, the corners of her mouth lifting in quiet amusement. “I’m afraid I’m rather hopeless with anything beyond the basics myself. Mascara and a decent brow pencil on a good day. But if you’re the expert, I’d love to hear it—sounds far more useful than whatever overpriced nonsense I keep buying on impulse.”
You felt the pull of the conversation like a gentle tug on your sleeve, and you obliged with a small laugh, one hand lifting briefly from the wheel to gesture vaguely at your own face. “It’s not that deep, I promise. Just a good concealer and a tiny bit of setting powder. The one with the peach undertone—helps with the tiredness without looking cakey.” Your voice stayed easy, the words flowing without the earlier flutter sharpening them. “Coffee’s the real game-changer, though. Cold brew with a splash of oat milk if I’m filming. Keeps the hands from shaking when I get too into a tangent.”
Chelsea snorted, delighted, drumming her fingers against the seatback. “See? She knows her stuff. I’m over here chugging whatever’s in the green room and wondering why I look like I’ve been hit by a truck by episode’s end. You two are making me feel uncultured.” The exchange stayed light, drifting from there into a brief detour about the worst coffee they’d ever suffered through on the road, Blake sharing a wry story about some arena concession stand that tasted like regret and motor oil, her tone laced with self-deprecating humor that invited easy laughter without demanding it. Nothing heavy, nothing probing. Just the three of you easing into the evening, the car’s interior filled with the low cadence of voices and the occasional shift of fabric against leather.
Now, with the car parked and the engine off, Chelsea unbuckled first, hopping out with her usual boundless energy. “Home sweet temporary home. Come on, let’s get you inside before the bugs decide to join us.” She fished the keys from her bag, the jangle bright in the quiet, and headed for the front door, leaving it propped open behind her in a clear invitation. Warm light spilled out onto the step, cutting through the cooling air and illuminating the faint haze of pollen drifting in the breeze.
You stepped out after her, the gravel shifting under your shoes with a soft grind, and circled to the trunk. Blake followed at a more measured pace, her movements fluid as she stretched subtly, one hand pressing lightly to the small of her back. She glanced toward the open door, then back at you, that same genuine warmth softening her features, the kind that made the space between you feel smaller without any pressure behind it.
Before she could reach for the handle, you moved in smoothly, fingers already curling around the suitcase’s grip. “Here, I’ve got this,” you said, voice quiet but sincere, the offer slipping out as naturally as breathing. Your posture stayed open, shoulders relaxed, a small smile tugging at your lips to match the gesture.
Blake paused, one eyebrow arching in gentle surprise, the expression tempered by clear fondness. She let her hand fall away, tilting her head just enough to catch your eye fully. “You sure? It’s heavier than it looks—packed like I was moving countries rather than for one night. I can manage, really.”
The tease landed light, her accent wrapping around the words with an almost playful lilt, the corner of her mouth quirking upward in a way that crinkled the skin at the edges of her eyes. No expectation, just that easy sweetness that made refusal feel impossible.
You shook your head once, already lifting the case with a quiet exhale, solid, yes, but nothing you couldn’t handle, and offered her another quick, reassuring glance. “I’ve got it. Promise. Least I can do after you put up with our driving playlist the whole way back.” The suitcase wheels bumped softly over the threshold as you followed her inside, the cool evening air giving way to the studio’s familiar warmth; that same stale-coffee undertone now mixed with the faint vanilla from the diffuser Chelsea had switched on earlier. Your steps stayed even, the weight a grounding presence in your grip, crush still neatly tucked away behind the polite facade.
Chelsea’s voice drifted from deeper in the room, already bustling about with the easy authority of someone who knew every corner. “Make yourselves comfy! I’ll grab waters. You head back and finish the mics, yeah? Blake, couch is all yours—kick off whatever you want. We’re not formal here.”
Blake murmured a soft thanks over her shoulder, her gaze lingering on you for a brief, appreciative beat before she moved to settle in, the tension of travel easing from her frame as she sank onto the cushions. You carried the suitcase the rest of the way without fanfare, setting it down carefully beside the low table where the equipment waited, the faint clack of its wheels the only sound breaking the gentle hush.
The studio door clicked shut behind you with a soft, decisive latch, sealing the three of you inside the small, familiar space where the air always carried that faint static hum of electronics on standby. You led Blake through the short hallway from the entryway, your footsteps muffled against the worn carpet, the suitcase wheels trailing behind you with a low, rhythmic bump-bump that echoed faintly off the walls. The overhead lights cast a warm, diffused glow across the setup, cables neatly coiled on the low coffee table, the two microphones angled just so, the pop filters still slightly askew from your earlier fidgeting. Chelsea’s voice drifted from the kitchenette down the hall, something about “finding the good glasses, not the chipped ones,” but it felt distant, like background noise in a scene that had suddenly narrowed to the quiet stretch of floor between you and Blake.
She followed at an easy pace, her presence filling the room without crowding it, shoulders relaxed, one hand lightly brushing the strap of her bag as she took it all in. Her gaze moved over the equipment with genuine curiosity, the kind that didn’t feel performative, just open and interested. “This is cozy,” she murmured, voice carrying that precise, melodic cadence that made every syllable feel considered. “Much more intimate than the usual press rooms. What’s all this, then?” She gestured toward the tangle of XLR cables you were already crouching to adjust, her head tilting slightly, dark hair shifting with the motion. “Are those the inputs for the mics? I’ve always wondered how these things actually work behind the scenes—looks a bit like untangling Christmas lights after a particularly rowdy holiday.”
You knelt beside the table, fingers finding the familiar connectors with a precision that usually came easy, but under the weight of her attention they suddenly felt clumsy. Heat crept up the back of your neck, slow and insistent, as you clicked one cable into place with a little more force than necessary. The metal gave a sharp, satisfying snap, but your pulse kicked up anyway, a traitorous flutter that made your next breath catch. God, you felt like such a dork, crouched there in your hoodie and sneakers, explaining tech like some overly earnest intern while Blake watched with those steady, kind eyes. “Yeah, um—exactly,” you managed, the words coming out a touch too quick, your voice pitching just shy of awkward. You kept your focus on the second cable, twisting it carefully around the stand. “These run to the mixer over there. Keeps everything balanced so we don’t get that horrible feedback screech mid-sentence. It’s… not as complicated as it looks, I promise. Just habit at this point.”
Blake lowered herself onto the arm of the couch, perching there with effortless grace, one ankle crossed over the other. She leaned forward a fraction, elbows resting lightly on her knees, watching your hands with that same unhurried interest. A small smile played at the corner of her mouth, softening the sharp line of her jaw. “Habit, is it? I’m impressed. I can barely manage my own phone charger without cursing the entire electronics industry. Do you have to test the levels every time, or is it more of a set-it-and-forget-it situation?” Her tone stayed light, conversational, the question genuine rather than probing, but it still landed like a spotlight, warm and direct.
Your fingers fumbled the gain knob on the mixer, turning it a hair too far before you caught yourself and eased it back. The small red light on the board blinked in response, steady and accusing. You could feel the flush blooming across your cheeks now, unmistakable, and you ducked your head lower, pretending to inspect a connection that was already perfect. The air in the room felt suddenly thicker, the faint vanilla from the diffuser mixing with the sharper ozone scent of warm circuitry, and your laugh came out shorter than you meant it to, self-conscious, a little breathy. “Uh, yeah—no, we test them every time. Chelsea’s got this thing about making sure the levels are even, or she says it throws off the whole vibe. I’m just… making sure nothing’s loose from earlier.” You sat back on your heels, wiping your palms on your thighs in what you hoped looked casual, but the gesture only highlighted the slight tremor there. Huge dork. Absolute disaster. Why was your brain suddenly blanking on basic cable management?
Blake’s expression didn’t shift into anything pitying or amused at your expense; if anything, her smile deepened, the corners of her eyes crinkling in quiet empathy. She opened her mouth to ask something else, another gentle, curious follow-up, you could already tell, but the sound of footsteps cut through the hallway before she could.
Chelsea swept in like a well-timed rescue flare, two glasses of water clinking in one hand and a fresh bag of chips in the other. Her eyes took in the scene at a glance, the way you were still half-crouched by the table, the faint pink still staining your face—and her grin sharpened with that familiar, affectionate mischief. “Oh, look at you two already geeking out over tech. Blake, babe, don’t let her fool you—she acts like it’s nothing, but she’s the one who can diagnose a blown preamp from three rooms away.” She set the glasses down on the table with a soft clink, bumping your shoulder lightly with her hip as she passed. The contact was deliberate, grounding, pulling you back into the easy rhythm you two had perfected over months of episodes. “You good over there, tech wizard? Or do I need to step in before you start explaining impedance like it’s a love language?”
You straightened up too fast, nearly knocking your elbow against the mic stand, and shot her a look that was equal parts grateful and mortified. The heat in your face eased a fraction under her teasing, the normalcy of it settling your shoulders. “I’m fine,” you muttered, though the smile tugging at your mouth betrayed the relief. “Just… finishing up.”
Chelsea waved you off with a laugh, dropping onto the couch beside Blake and handing her one of the waters. “She’s being modest. This one’s the backbone of the whole operation—keeps me from sounding like I’m broadcasting from a tin can. Blake, you want anything else before we hit record? We’ve got about ten minutes if you want to get comfy, maybe run through a couple of the loose questions we were chatting about in the car.”
Blake accepted the glass with a nod of thanks, her posture shifting to face Chelsea more fully, the conversation flowing seamlessly into her hands like a baton pass. “I’m perfect, thank you. And I’d love to hear more about those questions—keeps things feeling natural, doesn’t it?” Her gaze flicked back to you for a brief, inclusive second, warm and without a trace of the awkwardness you’d felt radiating off yourself moments ago. “Though I have to say, watching the setup process was rather enlightening. You make it look effortless.”
Chelsea’s foot nudged yours under the table, a silent you’re welcome that carried all the sisterly solidarity in the world, and the room settled back into its familiar pre-episode hum, the low whir of the mixer, the faint rustle of Chelsea tearing open the chip bag, the easy cadence of two voices already trading light banter. You sank into your armchair, notebook in hand once more, the flush finally fading as the moment passed. Saved, again, by the one person who knew exactly how to turn your dorky spirals into just another part of the vibe.
You settled into the low armchair wedged comfortably between the couch and Chelsea’s usual spot, the worn upholstery giving a familiar creak beneath your weight. The laptop rested warm and solid on your thighs, its screen glowing soft blue with the loose bullet points you’d scribbled the night before, nothing rigid, just anchors to keep the conversation drifting in the right direction. Blake had shifted over on the couch to make room, her posture easy and open, one arm draped along the back cushion so her fingers brushed near the armrest closest to you. The faint scent of her perfume, something clean and subtly spiced, like cedar and cold air, drifted across the small space every time she moved, mingling with the vanilla from the diffuser and the sharper ozone hum of the recording equipment.
Chelsea dropped into her chair on your other side with a theatrical sigh, legs crossing at the ankle as she reached forward to tap the record button on the mixer. The red light blinked once, then held steady, and just like that the episode began. No grand countdown, no stiff preamble, just the three of you easing into the familiar rhythm that made these recordings feel less like work and more like the world’s coziest group chat.
“Alright, welcome back to pod, everyone,” Chelsea started, her voice pitching into that bright, conspiratorial cadence she saved for the mic. She leaned toward the central mic with a grin that crinkled the corners of her eyes, blonde hair catching the overhead light in a soft halo. “I’m Chelsea Green, your favorite unfiltered disaster, and beside me we’ve got our resident tech genius and co-host who’s probably already regretting every life choice that led her here. Say hi, babe.”
You offered the mic a small, self-deprecating wave even though no one could see it, your fingers tightening briefly around the laptop’s edge. “Hi, everybody. Ready to be mildly unprofessional with us.” The words came out steadier than you felt, but the laptop screen blurred for half a second as your pulse gave a single, traitorous skip.
Chelsea’s laugh spilled out warm and immediate, and she gestured grandly toward Blake. “And today we are beyond thrilled to have the one, the only Blake Monroe joining us fresh from the NXT trenches. Blake, you absolute gem—welcome to the pod. How are you feeling after that flight? Any residual jet lag, or are you one of those terrifying people who just powers through like a machine?”
Blake’s chuckle rolled low and genuine, the British lilt wrapping around each syllable like it had been polished for comfort rather than performance. She shifted on the couch, the fabric whispering under her, and angled herself slightly toward Chelsea while still including you in the easy sweep of her gaze. “I’m surprisingly human today, thank you. A decent nap and whatever mysterious elixir they call coffee on the plane helped. Though I will say the turbulence over the Atlantic made me question every life choice that didn’t involve staying firmly on the ground.” Her fingers tapped once against the couch back, a small, unconscious rhythm that spoke of relaxed energy rather than nerves. “But being here makes up for it. This setup feels far more civilized than the usual post-match scrum.”
The banter settled in like a well-worn blanket, loose and unhurried. Chelsea steered it with the effortless hand of someone who’d done this dance a hundred times on *Green with Envy*, keeping the questions light, surface-level, perfect for easing listeners in without any sharp edges.
“So tell us about the NXT grind,” she prompted, leaning forward with genuine curiosity sparkling across her face. “You’ve been tearing it up down there—especially that whole storyline with Tatum. The way you two went at it in that last match? Chef’s kiss. What’s it like actually stepping into the ring with someone who’s just as unhinged as you are on camera?”
Blake’s smile widened, slow and appreciative, the kind that reached all the way to the faint laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. She gestured with one hand as she answered, open-palmed and fluid, the motion painting the story in the air between you. “Tatum’s brilliant, honestly. She brings this chaotic creativity that keeps you on your toes every single second. One minute you’re setting up for a perfectly respectable suplex, the next she’s decided the match needs a dramatic hair-pull spot that wasn’t in the script. It’s exhausting in the best way—makes every match feel alive.” Her gaze flicked briefly to you, warm and inclusive, before returning to Chelsea. “And the crowds down there… God, they’re loud. Proper loud. You feel it in your chest before the bell even rings.”
You nodded along, fingers scrolling idly across the trackpad on your laptop to the next note, something about travel logistics, but you kept quiet for now, letting Chelsea carry the thread. It was safer that way. The rapport between the two of them crackled with natural chemistry; Chelsea’s bright, gossipy lilt bouncing perfectly off Blake’s dry, self-aware humor, the kind of back-and-forth that would make the episode gold for listeners. Blake leaned in when Chelsea described a particularly ridiculous NXT catering story she’d heard secondhand, her laugh genuine and unguarded, head tilting in that attentive way that made the whole room feel smaller and warmer.
“Travel’s another beast entirely,” Chelsea continued, steering them toward the next tame topic with a conspiratorial wink. “You’re bouncing between cities, hotels that all smell vaguely like dust and Febreze. Any survival hacks? Because I’m still convinced the only thing keeping me sane on the road is overpriced airport sushi and spite.”
Blake hummed thoughtfully, crossing one leg over the other with a soft rustle of fabric. “Spite is underrated, I’ll give you that. My trick’s a decent playlist and pretending the hotel gym isn’t plotting against me. Though I will admit the flight here was smoother than most—got to watch the sunrise over the clouds and actually enjoy it instead of stressing about call time.” She paused, the corner of her mouth quirking upward again. “And meeting you both properly has been the highlight. Your show has this lovely candid energy. Feels like I’m just chatting with friends rather than doing press.”
Chelsea’s grin turned a fraction sharper, though still playful, her eyes darting sideways toward you for the briefest second. “See? She gets it. Our little co-host over here has been low-key obsessed with your work for ages, by the way. Keeps the notes pristine every time your name comes up.” The tease landed light, tame, exactly as promised, but it still sent a quick spark of heat crawling up your neck. You felt your shoulders tighten just a touch, fingers pausing on the laptop keys as you forced a small, sheepish laugh and nudged Chelsea’s foot under the table.
“Low-key is doing a lot of heavy lifting there,” you managed, voice steady enough but carrying that awkwardly endearing lilt you couldn’t quite hide. Your free hand lifted to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear, a nervous tell you hoped the mic didn’t catch.
Blake’s gaze shifted fully to you then, warm and curious without a hint of performance, her expression softening in a way that made the flutter in your chest do something complicated. “Is that so?” she asked, tone light and genuinely interested, the accent curling around the question like an invitation rather than an interrogation.
Chelsea let the moment breathe for half a beat, her laugh bubbling up soft and fond, before steering them smoothly onward, back to safer waters about NXT house show antics and the difference between British and American crowd energy. The conversation flowed on, easy and sparkling, the red light on the mixer glowing steady while you sat there with your laptop balanced like a shield, heart hammering a little too loudly behind your ribs. Chelsea and Blake’s rapport was effortless, magnetic, perfect content. But every time Chelsea’s eyes glittered with that familiar mischief, you waited, half-terrified, half-resigned, for the pivot you knew she was capable of making at any second.
The conversation had drifted, easy as the low hum of the mixer’s fan, from NXT house-show exhaustion into the softer edges of life off the road. Chelsea steered it there with her usual effortless nudge, the kind that felt like gossip over coffee rather than an interview, her legs tucked up under her in the chair, one elbow propped on the armrest as she leaned toward Blake with that sparkling, conspiratorial glint.
“So, off the record but also very much on the record,” Chelsea said, voice dropping into that playful lilt she reserved for the juicier segments, “what’s the dating scene like when you’re bouncing between arenas and airports? Any secret admirers we should know about, or are you keeping the roster on its toes?”
Blake’s laugh came low and warm, the sound curling through the studio as it belonged there. She shifted on the couch, the cushion sighing faintly under her weight, and tilted her head in that thoughtful way that made the overhead light catch along the curve of her cheekbone. “Oh, I’m not one for kissing and telling,” she answered, the British cadence wrapping around the words with gentle mischief. Her fingers traced a lazy pattern along the back of the couch, inches from where your shoulder rested. “Let’s just say the road keeps things… interesting. Complicated enough without adding fuel to the fire.”
The words landed soft, harmless on the surface, but something in the way her gaze swept the room, lingering just a beat longer than necessary, sent heat blooming across your cheeks in a sudden, traitorous rush. It started at the collar of your hoodie, creeping upward in slow waves that prickled against your skin, the laptop on your thighs suddenly feeling heavier, warmer. You kept your eyes fixed on the screen, scrolling blindly through the same three bullet points you’d already read twice, the cursor blinking accusingly.
Chelsea’s head snapped toward you so fast the mic picked up the faint rustle of her hair. “God, you’re blushing,” she crowed, delight cracking through her voice like sunlight through blinds. She didn’t even try to hide the grin; it stretched wide, pulling at the corners of her eyes as she pointed one manicured finger in your direction. “Look at that. Actual pink. We’re three minutes into personal-life territory, and she’s already gone.”
“I’m not—” The denial tumbled out too quickly, tripping over itself before you could catch it. Your fingers tightened around the laptop’s edge, knuckles whitening. “I’m not blushing. I have a natural pink complexion; it’s the lighting in here. These bulbs are weird; they do that sometimes, you know? Makes everyone look—” You gestured vaguely at the air, the sentence fracturing into nothing as another nervous giggle escaped, high and breathy and completely betraying you.
Blake turned toward you fully then, the movement unhurried, her posture opening like she was leaning into the moment rather than away from it. Her expression stayed soft, attentive, the faint crinkle at the corners of her eyes deepening with quiet amusement that carried the slightest, sweetest edge of something warmer. “You’re blushing,” she confirmed to Chelsea, voice pitched low and fond, like sharing a secret just between the three of you. But her eyes stayed on you, steady and gentle, the accent softening every syllable into something that felt dangerously close to a caress. “Why are you blushing?”
The heat flared hotter, crawling up to your ears now. You scooted back in the armchair without thinking, the legs scraping faintly against the carpet, putting another inch of space between you and the couch. Your gaze darted to the mixer instead of meeting hers, the red recording light blurring in your peripheral vision. “I’m not,” you managed, the words small and unsteady, chased by another short, mortified laugh that made your shoulders hunch. “It’s nothing. Just—warm in here, maybe? The diffuser or something.”
Chelsea cackled, leaning across the space between your chairs to nudge your knee with her foot. “Oh, come on. You’re literally leaning away from her right now. And you won’t even look at her. Blake, back me up—she’s doing the full avoidant turtle maneuver.”
Blake’s chuckle joined in, soft and melodic, but she didn’t pull back. If anything, she leaned in a fraction more, elbow resting on her knee, chin propped in her hand as she studied you with that same unwavering kindness laced with playful curiosity. “Why are you blushing?” she asked again, the question gentler this time, almost coaxing, the slight flirtation threading through it like a quiet invitation rather than a demand. Her head tilted, hair slipping over one shoulder. “Whyyy?”
You swallowed hard, the sound audible even to you, and risked a glance that immediately skittered away again. Your free hand lifted instinctively, pressing cool fingers to your cheek as if you could will the flush down. “I don’t—I’m not, I swear. It’s just… the conversation, and you’re both looking at me like that, and I—” The words tangled, tripping over each other until they dissolved into another nervous giggle. You shook your head, laptop nearly sliding off your lap before you caught it. “I don’t know what to do with this. It’s too much. I’m overstimulated or something, I don’t even—”
Chelsea’s laughter doubled, bright and unrestrained, the kind that filled the whole studio and made the mic levels jump. “Overstimulated! Babe, we’re literally just talking. Blake, she’s so gone right now.”
Blake didn’t laugh quite as loud; hers stayed low, intimate, the sort of sound that wrapped around you like warm air. She held your gaze, or tried to, anyway, her voice dropping softer still, attentive and sweet with that faint, flirty lilt underneath. “Why aren’t you making eye contact with me?” she pressed, gentle as a fingertip tracing a question mark. “Why are you blushing? Come on… whyyy?”
You sank deeper into the chair, knees drawing up slightly under the laptop, another helpless giggle bubbling out as you buried your face in one hand for half a second. The heat on your skin felt electric now, every nerve alight under their combined attention. “No, I’m not,” you mumbled through your fingers, the denial muffled and unconvincing, words stumbling again. “It’s not— I’m fine, really, just… the lighting, and the questions, and you’re both being so—” Another fractured laugh escaped, short and endearing in its awkwardness. You peeked through your fingers, eyes flicking anywhere but directly at Blake, heart hammering loud enough you were half-convinced the mic would catch it.
Blake’s smile curved wider, soft and patient, eyes sparkling with that attentive warmth. “Why are you blushing?” she repeated, the question a gentle loop, almost tender now, the flirtation a quiet undercurrent that made the air between you feel charged and alive. “Tell me.”
Chelsea grinned like she’d won the lottery, foot nudging you again. “Yeah, why? Spill, dork. The listeners are gonna eat this up.”
The studio felt smaller, the vanilla scent thicker, the red light on the mixer glowing like it was in on the joke. You were caught between their teasing, Chelsea’s bright, relentless poking and Blake’s soft, insistent sweetness, and all you could do was let out another nervous giggle, shoulders curling in as the flush refused to fade and the words kept refusing to line up right.
The studio air had thickened with the low, steady whir of the mixer and the faint vanilla haze from the diffuser, but it felt heavier now, charged with the kind of playful electricity that made your skin prickle. Your cheeks burned hotter than before, the flush spreading in uneven patches that you could feel without even touching them, and you hunched a little further into the armchair, laptop balanced precariously on your knees like a shield that was doing absolutely nothing to hide you.
Chelsea’s eyes lit up with that signature wicked delight, the kind she usually saved for the messiest segments. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin cupped in her hands as if she were settling in for the best gossip of the year. “Wait, wait—did that little ‘not kissing and telling’ comment hit a nerve or something? Like, did it make you think of a story you might want to share with the class? Come on, babe, be honest. You been hiding a sneaky little hookup from us? Some secret wrestler fling we don’t know about?”
The words landed like a spark on dry tinder. Your stomach did a full, mortified flip, and the heat surged so fiercely it felt like your ears might actually combust. You straightened up too fast, nearly sending the laptop sliding off your lap, and clutched at the edges with both hands. “No—no, that’s not— God, Chels, all this isn’t about me,” you protested, the denial spilling out in a rushed, defensive tumble. Your voice cracked on the last word, pitching higher in that awkwardly endearing way that always gave you away. You gestured vaguely toward the mixer, desperate to steer the ship back on course. “Can we just—move on? There’s that question about the travel schedule, or the NXT pay-per-view stuff, or literally anything else—”
Chelsea dissolved into bright, unrestrained laughter, the sound bouncing off the studio walls and making the mic levels flicker. She slapped her knee once, head thrown back, blonde hair catching the light in a messy halo. “Oh my god, look at her trying to pivot. She’s deflecting so hard right now. Blake, are you seeing this? Actual panic mode activated.”
Blake’s response was softer, warmer, a gentle counterpoint that somehow made the teasing feel less like an ambush and more like being wrapped in something inviting. She had shifted closer on the couch again, one arm still draped along the back cushion, her body angled toward you with that effortless openness. Her expression stayed attentive and fond, the faint crinkle at the corners of her eyes deepening as she watched you fumble. “You’re still blushing, you know,” she said quietly, the British lilt threading through the words like a coaxing murmur. “And now you’re trying to change the subject entirely. It’s rather charming, actually.”
You risked a glance her way, barely a flicker, before your eyes darted back to the laptop screen, where the bullet points swam in useless blurs. Another nervous giggle escaped, short and helpless, as you shook your head. “I’m not—there’s nothing to share, okay? It’s not like that. You’re both just… making it a thing when it’s not a thing.” Your fingers tapped erratically against the trackpad, opening and closing the same note file twice without meaning to, the clicks loud in the sudden quiet between laughs.
Chelsea howled again, wiping at the corner of one eye. “Not a thing? Babe, you’re literally curling in on yourself like a startled hedgehog. Blake, tell her she’s doing the thing again—the whole not-making-eye-contact-and-pretending-to-read-her-notes routine.”
Blake hummed in soft agreement, the sound low and melodic, her head tilting just enough to catch your peripheral vision. She didn’t push with Chelsea’s volume; instead, her voice stayed gentle, almost intimate, carrying that faint flirtatious warmth that made the air between you feel charged. “Why the sudden subject change, hm? You went all pink the moment we touched on personal bits, and now you’re scrambling to talk about travel schedules.” She paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough for your pulse to stutter. “It’s adorable how flustered you get. Makes me wonder what’s really going on in that head of yours right now.”
The combination of Chelsea’s bright, relentless cackling and Blake’s quieter, sweeter prodding had you sinking deeper into the chair, knees drawing up instinctively as if you could disappear behind the laptop altogether. “It’s not—I don’t have anything hidden, I swear,” you mumbled, the words tripping over themselves again, defensive and small. A fresh wave of giggles bubbled up unbidden, nervous and endearing, as you pressed the heels of your hands to your temples for half a second. “This is the worst. You two are ganging up, and I’m just—over here trying to be professional, and now it’s all… sideways.”
Chelsea grinned like she’d struck gold, leaning across to nudge your foot again. “Professional? Honey, the mic caught that little squeak in your voice. Blake, she’s so defensive it’s precious.”
Blake’s laugh joined in, softer still, rich with genuine amusement but tempered by that same attentive sweetness. She leaned in a fraction more, the faint spiced-cedar scent of her drifting across the space. “You’re avoiding the question again,” she murmured, the tone light and coaxing, almost tender. “All that pink in your cheeks… and the way you keep looking anywhere but here. What’s got you so wonderfully rattled? Come on, you can tell us.”
You let out another fractured laugh, the sound muffled as you half-hid behind one hand, shoulders shaking with the awkward, lovable embarrassment that refused to let you rally. The red recording light glowed steadily on the mixer, capturing every stutter, every giggle, while Chelsea’s bright teasing and Blake’s soft, varied pokes wrapped around you like a perfectly orchestrated trap, hilarious to them, mortifying and electric to you. The episode had veered far off the loose script now, but the energy in the room crackled with it, alive and unpredictable, leaving you no choice but to ride the wave of their combined delight.
You cleared your throat, the sound a little too loud in the sudden lull, and shifted the laptop higher on your thighs as it might anchor you. The heat in your face refused to fade completely, but you leaned into the mic anyway, fingers tapping once against the trackpad to pull up the next bullet point. “Okay, okay—enough of that. Let’s actually get back to the questions before Chelsea turns this into her own personal roast session.” Your voice came out steadier than you expected, edged with a self-deprecating grin that you hoped the audio would catch as charming rather than panicked. “Blake, you’ve been putting in serious work down in NXT. Talk to us about the fitness side of things. How do you keep up with the physical demands when you’re traveling nonstop? Any routines that actually stick, or is it all just chaos and protein shakes?”
Chelsea shot you a quick, approving glance, her way of saying “nice save” without saying it out loud, and settled back into her chair, legs recrossing with a soft rustle of fabric. “Yeah, spill. I’m always looking for tips that don’t involve me crying in the hotel gym at 6 a.m.”
Blake’s laugh rolled out low and easy, the tension of the previous minutes dissolving as she picked up the thread without missing a beat. She stretched one arm along the back of the couch again, posture opening comfortably, and the faint shift of her jacket sent another subtle wave of that spiced-cedar scent across the space. “Routines are a battle, honestly. I try to keep it simple—bodyweight stuff in hotel rooms when I can, or finding a corner of the performance center before call time. Squats, push-ups, a bit of core work that doesn’t leave me wrecked for the actual match. The travel makes it tricky, though. Jet lag turns everything into a negotiation with your own muscles.”
The conversation flowed from there like a current finding its natural path, Chelsea chiming in with her own chaotic gym horror stories from the road, complete with dramatic reenactments of her attempting deadlifts in a cramped hotel fitness center that smelled like old socks and regret. Blake matched her energy with dry, understated humor, describing the time she’d tried to improvise a workout using resistance bands that snapped mid-rep and nearly took out a potted plant. Their rapport stayed effortless, the kind of back-and-forth that made the mics feel invisible and the episode feel like three friends actually hanging out rather than performing.
You kept your eyes on the laptop screen for the most part, scrolling occasionally to the next note, but the flush that had started to cool flared back up the moment they dove deeper into the physical specifics, Blake describing the way she focused on grip strength and shoulder mobility after a particularly brutal series of suplexes, her voice carrying that precise, melodic cadence as she gestured with one hand to demonstrate a form adjustment. You felt the warmth creep back across your cheeks, unmistakable, and you pressed the back of your fingers to one side of your face under the pretense of adjusting your hair. The laptop’s heat against your legs didn’t help, nor did the way the overhead light suddenly felt a fraction brighter on your skin. Still, it wasn’t the full-body spiral from before; you didn’t curl inward this time. You managed a small, genuine laugh at one of Chelsea’s exaggerated groans about burpees, even tossing in a quiet comment about how you’d once tried following a wrestler’s Instagram workout and lasted exactly seven minutes before tapping out.
The minutes slipped by in that comfortable rhythm. Chelsea steered them through a couple more loose questions, how Blake unwound after long travel days, what she missed most about a normal schedule back home, and Blake answered with the same unhurried warmth, her expressions shifting in small, telling ways; the subtle lift of her brows when she recounted a funny locker-room mishap, the way her shoulders relaxed further into the couch cushions as the conversation stayed light and surface-level. You chimed in more freely now, your notes guiding the flow without feeling like a lifeline, the nervous giggles from earlier replaced by easy interjections that drew soft chuckles from both of them.
By the time Chelsea glanced at the clock on the wall and wrapped things up with her usual bright sign-off “That’s it for this episode, folks—huge thanks to Blake for putting up with our nonsense”—the studio felt settled again, the earlier teasing nothing more than a warm afterglow in the air. The red light on the mixer clicked off with a final, satisfying snap, and you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, shoulders loosening as the familiar post-record quiet settled over the room.
Blake stretched lightly, the motion fluid and unselfconscious, and offered you both a genuine smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “That was brilliant. Far more fun than I expected, even with the ambush in the middle.” Her gaze lingered on you for a beat, soft and knowing but without any lingering pressure, the faint flirtation from earlier tucked away into something kinder, more companionable.
You returned the smile, the flush finally easing into something manageable, and closed the laptop with a quiet click. The episode had smoothed out beautifully after all, easy, engaging, the kind of recording that reminded you why you loved doing this in the first place. No more curling in on yourself. Just the three of you, the low hum of the equipment winding down, and the evening stretching ahead with the promise of wrapping up loose ends and maybe, just maybe, a little more of that easy camaraderie.
The mixer’s red light had long since gone dark, but the studio still hummed with the faint residual buzz of electronics cooling down, the air thick with the mingled scents of vanilla diffuser and the faint, spiced-cedar trace that seemed to cling to Blake’s presence like an afterthought. You pushed up from the armchair a little too quickly, laptop tucked under one arm, and busied your hands with the familiar post-episode ritual, coiling XLR cables into neat loops that clicked softly against each other, stacking the empty water glasses with a quiet clink, wiping down the low table with the edge of your sleeve. Anything to keep moving, to channel the leftover jitter of the recording into something useful, something that would let you slip out the door soon and drive home in blessed silence. There you could finally let yourself be the full dork: replay every soft lilt of her voice, every crinkle at the corners of her eyes, and pine in peace without an audience.
Chelsea was already on her feet, stretching with an exaggerated groan that echoed off the walls, but Blake lingered on the couch, one leg crossed loosely over the other, watching the tidying with that same unhurried attentiveness she’d had all evening. Her gaze followed the motion of your hands for a beat too long, the faint upward tilt at the corner of her mouth deepening into something warmer, more deliberate.
“You’re efficient with those cables,” she observed, voice low and carrying that precise British cadence, the words wrapped in a gentle tease that felt like fingertips brushing the edge of a secret. She leaned forward slightly, elbow resting on her knee, chin propped in her hand. “Makes me wonder if you’re always this composed after a bit of chaos. Or if it’s just for show.”
The comment landed soft, almost offhand, but the way her eyes held yours, steady, with a spark of something playful and inviting, sent a fresh flicker of heat across your cheeks. You fumbled the next cable, the coil slipping through your fingers before you caught it, and offered a short, self-deprecating laugh that came out breathier than you meant. “Composed? Hardly. I just like things in order before I bolt. Habit.” Your fingers worked faster, looping the cord tighter than necessary, the plastic insulation cool and smooth under your palms.
Blake hummed, the sound low and appreciative, her head tilting in that subtle way that made the overhead light catch along the line of her jaw. “Bolting already? Shame. I was hoping to hear more about that ‘natural pink complexion’ of yours. It suits you, by the way—especially when you’re pretending not to notice how closely I’m watching.” The flirtation was still understated, woven into the compliment like thread through fabric, but it carried a new warmth, the kind that lingered in the air between you and made the room feel a fraction smaller.
You straightened up a touch too fast, nearly knocking a mic stand, and busied yourself with the pop filters instead, cheeks burning hotter now. The faint rustle of fabric as you moved filled the quiet, your pulse a steady thrum beneath your skin. God, you needed to get out of here before the dorky internal monologue started leaking out your mouth.
Chelsea, who had been pretending to organize the snack remnants on the side table, suddenly perked up like a bloodhound catching a scent. Her grin sharpened, eyes darting between the two of you with unrestrained delight. She let out a bright little laugh, the kind that always signaled she was about to stir the pot. “Oh, I see how it is. Blake, you’re laying it on thick, and our resident dork here is about two seconds from short-circuiting again.” She paused, tapping her chin in mock thought, then snapped her fingers as if an idea had just occurred to her. “You know what? I completely forgot—I left my phone charger in the kitchenette earlier. Must’ve unplugged it when I was grabbing those waters. Be right back, you two. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do… which, let’s be honest, leaves the field pretty wide open.”
Before you could protest, or even form a coherent deflection, Chelsea was already slipping out the door with a cheeky wink tossed over her shoulder, the latch clicking shut behind her with a soft, decisive finality. The studio fell into a sudden, intimate quiet, just the low hum of the equipment and the faint creak of the couch as Blake shifted again, her attention now fully, unmistakably on you.
You kept tidying, or at least pretended to, straightening a notebook that didn’t need straightening, the pages whispering under your fingers, but your movements had slowed, self-conscious under the weight of her gaze. Blake’s smile curved a little deeper, softer, the flirtation threading more openly into her tone now that the buffer of Chelsea’s chaos had stepped away.
“Alone at last,” she murmured, the words light but laced with that gentle warmth, her eyes tracing the line of your shoulders as you fussed with the cables. “You don’t have to keep rearranging the entire room on my account, you know. Though I do enjoy watching you try.”
The door latch gave one final, decisive click behind Chelsea, and the studio shrank in an instant, the walls drawing inward until the space felt carved out just for the two of you. The low hum of the cooling equipment filled the quiet like a held breath, and the vanilla from the diffuser suddenly seemed heavier, sweeter, wrapping around the faint spiced-cedar that drifted from Blake’s direction every time she shifted on the couch.
You kept your hands busy, looping the last cable with fingers that refused to cooperate, the plastic slipping once before you caught it against your palm. “Yeah, um… alone at last,” you echoed, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to a squeak. The words tumbled out too fast, chased by a nervous laugh that made your shoulders hitch. You set the coil down on the table with exaggerated care, as if the exact placement might save you from whatever was happening behind your ribs. “She’s always doing that. Forgetting things. Or pretending to. It’s her whole… thing.”
Blake didn’t move to help. She stayed exactly where she was, one arm still draped along the back of the couch, posture loose and open like she had all the time in the world. Her gaze stayed on you, steady, patient, the corners of her mouth lifted in that soft, knowing curve that made the overhead light look warmer somehow. “She does seem the type,” Blake agreed, voice low and melodic, the British lilt wrapping around each syllable like it was meant to soothe rather than unsettle. “But I’m not complaining. Gives me a chance to actually talk to you without the whirlwind in the middle.”
You reached for the pop filter next, adjusting it on the mic stand even though it was already perfectly straight. Your hand lingered there a second too long, thumb tracing the mesh in a small, unconscious circle. “Oh—yeah. Talking. That’s… good. I mean, the episode went well, right? After the whole… middle part.” Another short laugh escaped, the kind that came out breathy and half-broken, and you immediately busied yourself with straightening the notebook that didn’t need straightening. The pages whispered under your fingers, but you couldn’t quite make yourself look up and meet her eyes. Not when her attention felt like this, focused, gentle, entirely too much.
Blake hummed, the sound soft and appreciative, like she was turning your awkward little reply over in her mind and finding it charming. She tilted her head, dark hair slipping over one shoulder, and the motion drew your gaze for half a second before you snapped it back to the table. “It did go well,” she said, tone attentive in that way that made every word feel like it was meant only for you. “You were brilliant, actually. The way you pulled us back on track after Chelsea decided to ambush you… very smooth. Though I have to admit, I was hoping you’d stay flustered a bit longer. It suits you.”
Heat flared fresh across your cheeks, and you fumbled the notebook, nearly knocking it off the edge before you caught it against your chest. “I wasn’t— I mean, I was, but not on purpose. It’s just… the lighting, and the questions, and you’re very—” The sentence fractured. You gestured vaguely with one hand, the other still clutching the notebook like a lifeline, then set it down too hard. The thud was embarrassingly loud in the quiet. “You’re very good at the whole podcast thing. Easy to listen to. Not that I was listening extra hard or anything. God, that sounds weird. I just mean—”
You trailed off, pressing your lips together and turning to fiddle with the mixer knobs instead, twisting one that didn’t need twisting. Your pulse hammered so loudly you were half-convinced she could hear it over the equipment’s hum. Every part of you felt too big for your skin, too aware of how close she was, how her eyes followed each clumsy movement without a trace of mockery.
Blake’s chuckle was barely more than a breath, warm and fond, and she leaned forward just enough that the couch cushion sighed under her. “You’re adorable when you’re trying not to be adorable,” she murmured, the flirtation gentle, almost tender, like she was sharing a secret rather than teasing. Her gaze never wavered, soft and unwavering, taking in the way your shoulders had drawn up tight and the faint tremor in your fingers as you pretended to check the gain settings. “I didn’t mean to make you nervous. Or—well. Maybe a little. But only because it’s rather lovely to watch you try to hold a conversation while rearranging the entire room.”
You let out another helpless giggle, the sound mortifyingly high, and finally risked a glance her way, only for your eyes to skitter away again when you caught the full weight of her expression: that quiet attentiveness, the small crinkle at the corners of her eyes, the way her mouth softened like she was committing every fumbling word to memory. “I’m not rearranging everything,” you protested weakly, voice cracking on the last syllable. Your hand found the edge of the table and gripped it, grounding yourself. “Just… tidying. It’s a process. Helps me think. Or not think. I don’t know. You’re very—attentive. It’s a lot. In a good way. Probably. I’m messing this up, aren’t I?”
Blake’s smile deepened, slow and genuine, and she shook her head once, the motion small and reassuring. “You’re not messing anything up,” she said softly, the words careful, like she was handling something fragile. “If anything, you’re making it rather difficult to remember I’m supposed to be the guest here. Keep going. I like listening to you try.”
The quiet stretched between you again, comfortable for her, electric for you, while your hands kept moving, small, pointless adjustments to things that were already perfect, because stopping felt impossible when every ounce of her focus was trained on you like this, soft and patient and entirely too kind.
The quiet between you stretched a beat longer than comfortable, the studio’s low hum of cooling fans the only steady sound while your hands kept up their pointless dance, fiddling with the edge of a notebook, nudging a water glass half an inch to the left, then back again. Blake watched it all without rushing, her posture still relaxed against the couch, one finger tracing idle patterns along the seam of the cushion like she was giving you time to settle. Her eyes held that same soft attentiveness, the kind that made the air feel thicker, warmer, every small movement of yours catalogued without judgment.
Then she tilted her head just slightly, the corner of her mouth curving upward in an almost conspiratorial way. “You know,” she said, voice dropping into that gentle, melodic lilt, “I actually saw the clip. The one from a few episodes back. Where you admitted—rather endearingly, I might add—that I’m probably your favourite star.”
The words landed like a quiet detonation. Your fingers froze mid-reach for the next cable, the plastic suddenly slick against your suddenly clammy palm. Heat surged back across your face in a full, merciless wave, crawling up from your collar to your ears in record time. You straightened too fast, nearly knocking the mic stand, and let out a short, mortified laugh that cracked right down the middle. “You—wait, what? No, that was… that was just me being stupid and loose-lipped on mic. Chelsea goaded me into it, and I was half-delirious from too much cold brew, and it wasn’t even that big of a deal—” The denial spilled out in a defensive tumble, words tripping over each other as you gestured vaguely with both hands, the notebook nearly slipping from your grip. You clutched it tighter, pressing it against your chest like armor. “It’s not like I talk about it constantly or anything. God, this is mortifying.”
Blake’s expression softened further, but there was a playful glint beneath the kindness, the faintest mock-disappointment pulling at her brows as she leaned forward a fraction. She rested her chin in her hand, eyes never leaving yours even as you tried desperately to find something, anything else to look at on the table. “Oh, come on now,” she murmured, tone sweet and teasing all at once, the British cadence wrapping around the words like a gentle prod. “A bit disappointed, if I’m honest. I was hoping you’d own it after all that blushing earlier. Here I thought we’d moved past the ‘it’s the lighting’ stage.”
You let out another helpless giggle, the sound high and awkward, shoulders hunching as you turned back to the table and started straightening the already-straight pop filters with frantic little adjustments. “I’m owning it. Sort of. In a very buried-and-never-speaking-of-it-again kind of way.” Your voice pitched up at the end, defensive and endearing in its clumsiness, and you risked one glance her direction only for your eyes to skitter away again when you caught the full warmth of her smile. “Can we—um. Where did Chelsea book you for the night, anyway? She mentioned something about a hotel earlier, right? The one off the highway?”
The pivot was abrupt, almost comically so, but you latched onto it like a lifeline, the words rushing out in a bid to steer the conversation anywhere but the clip, the crush, the way your face was still burning. Blake let the subject shift without protest, though her smile lingered, soft and knowing, as if she could see straight through the deflection and found it charming anyway.
“She did mention it,” Blake answered easily, the mock disappointment fading into something warmer, more indulgent. “Some place called The Orchard Inn, I believe. Said it was quiet and close enough to the studio that I wouldn’t have to deal with early-morning traffic tomorrow.”
Your hands stilled on the table. The Orchard Inn. Of course. The little boutique spot tucked just off the route you always took home, same exit, same stretch of quiet back roads lined with the same scattering of streetlights that blurred past your windshield every other night. Chelsea’s doing, no doubt; she had a knack for these convenient little coincidences when she smelled an opportunity. You swallowed, the motion audible in the quiet, and felt your shoulders settle into that familiar, polite instinct you could never quite override.
“That’s… literally on my drive home,” you said before you could stop yourself, the offer already forming on your tongue because refusing felt impossible when she was looking at you like that, attentive, patient, the faintest hint of flirtation still threading through her expression. “I mean, if you wanted a ride instead of calling a car. It’s no trouble at all. I’m heading that way anyway, and the traffic’s usually dead this time of night. I could drop you off, make sure you get settled. Only if you want, though. No pressure or anything.”
Blake’s chuckle was soft, almost fond, the sound low enough to feel intimate in the now-empty studio. She pushed up from the couch with that same fluid grace, suitcase already forgotten by the door, and closed the small distance between you until the spiced-cedar scent of her was closer, clearer. “You’re very sweet, you know that?” she said quietly, the words carrying just enough warmth to make your pulse stutter again. “I’d like that. Very much.”
You nodded too quickly, cheeks still flushed, hands fumbling for your keys in your pocket as the weight of the offer settled over you, polite to a fault, dorky heart hammering, already half-regretting how easily you’d walked right into it while the quiet hum of the studio wrapped around the moment like it was holding its breath.
The studio’s quiet had settled like a held breath, the low whir of the equipment the only sound besides the faint rustle of fabric every time you shifted your weight. Your fingers kept returning to the same cable, twisting and untwisting the coiled length even though it was already perfectly looped, the plastic insulation faintly tacky under your palms from how long you’d been worrying at it. The ride offer still hung in the air between you and Blake, warm and irreversible, and the knowledge that she’d said yes made your pulse feel too loud in the small space.
“Chels!” you called out suddenly, the word bursting louder than you meant it to, echoing down the short hallway toward the kitchenette. Your voice cracked at the edges with that familiar mix of impatience and sheepish affection. “You’re taking forever in there! Did you get lost or are you just reorganising the entire snack drawer again?”
A muffled laugh drifted back from the other room, Chelsea’s bright and unrepentant, but no immediate footsteps followed. You exhaled through your nose and went back to the cable, giving it one more pointless twist.
Blake watched you for another beat, the corner of her mouth lifting in that soft, knowing way that made the overhead light seem to soften around her. She pushed up from the couch with fluid ease, the cushions sighing as she stood, and closed the small distance until the spiced-cedar warmth of her was right there beside you. “You’ve been rearranging that same bit of cord for the last five minutes,” she said gently, the British lilt threading through the observation like a quiet tease. Her hand hovered near your elbow, not touching, just close enough that the air between you felt charged. “Come on. Let’s go see what she’s actually up to before you wear a hole in the equipment. I think the kitchen might be safer for all of us.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the easy decision in her tone, but your feet were already moving before your brain caught up, because of course they were. You were you; polite to the point of self-sabotage, incapable of saying no when someone looked at you with that particular brand of patient fondness. The notebook got tucked under your arm, the cable finally abandoned on the table, and you fell into step beside her as she led the way down the hall, her shoulder brushing yours once in the narrow space, sending a small spark straight up your spine.
The kitchenette glowed warmer under its pendant lights, the counter cluttered with the remnants of earlier snacks and the half-empty water glasses Chelsea had been pretending to deal with. She leaned against the edge, phone in hand, grinning like she’d been waiting for exactly this.
“Took you long enough,” Chelsea said, waggling her eyebrows as you both stepped in. “I was starting to think Blake had you tied up in there with all that lingering eye contact.”
You sank into one of the stools at the small island, the wood cool against the backs of your thighs, and offered a weak laugh that turned into your first involuntary yawn, jaw cracking wide, eyes watering at the corners before you could stifle it behind your hand. The long day, the nerves, the recording, the ride offer… everything caught up in one slow, bone-deep wave.
Blake slid onto the stool beside you, close enough that her knee nearly brushed yours under the counter, and tilted her head with that attentive softness again. “Long one, hm?”
Chelsea’s grin sharpened instantly, the familiar routine kicking in like clockwork. She set her phone down with a deliberate clack and leaned across the island, chin propped in her hands. “Are you tired?”
You shook your head too quickly, the motion sluggish, another yawn already threatening at the edges of your voice. “No. I’m fine. Totally awake.” The words came out slow and heavy, dragged down by the exact exhaustion you were denying, your eyelids heavier than they had any right to be. You rubbed at one eye with the heel of your hand, trying to look alert and failing spectacularly.
Chelsea’s laugh bubbled up bright and delighted, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls. “Oh my god, listen to you. That was the most exhausted ‘I’m fine’ I’ve ever heard in my life. You sound like you’re two seconds from face-planting into the countertop.”
“I’m not,” you insisted, the protest muffled around yet another yawn that refused to be swallowed down. Your shoulders slumped a fraction, the notebook sliding forgotten across the counter as you fought to keep your posture straight. “Just… end-of-day voice. Happens to everyone. I could go another three hours easy.”
Blake’s chuckle was quieter, warmer, the kind that wrapped around you like a low note held just for your ears. She rested her elbow on the counter, chin in her hand, watching the exchange with open fondness, the crinkle at the corners of her eyes deepening as she took in the way you were valiantly pretending not to be dead on your feet. “You’re very convincing,” she murmured, tone gentle and just a touch flirtatious, the accent softening the tease into something almost tender. “Though I have to say, the yawn gives you away spectacularly.”
Chelsea cackled again, reaching over to poke your arm. “See? Even Blake sees it. You’re done, babe. Admit it so we can stop pretending you’re not running on fumes and pure stubbornness.”
You groaned, the sound half-laugh, half-surrender, another yawn slipping out before you could catch it. The stool creaked faintly under you as another yawn cracked your jaw wide, the sound betraying every ounce of exhaustion you were still pretending didn’t exist. Your eyelids felt heavy, the kitchenette lights suddenly too bright against the warm haze of leftover vanilla and the faint citrus lingering on Chelsea’s skin. You rubbed at one eye again, muttering something about being “completely fine,” but the words came out slow and gravel-rough, more sigh than statement.
Blake’s chuckle was low and fond, the kind that wrapped around the quiet like a shared secret. She slid off her own stool with that effortless grace, the faint shift of her jacket brushing the counter’s edge, and before you could protest, or even register the intent, her hands found your waist. The contact was light, almost playful, palms warm through the fabric of your hoodie as she gave a gentle, decisive lift. You were on your feet in half a second, the stool scraping back across the tile with a soft grind, your sneakers finding the floor while your brain caught up somewhere behind.
“There we are,” she murmured, smile curving slow and genuine, the British lilt softening the words into something almost protective. Her hands lingered a beat longer than strictly necessary, steadying you as if you might sway. “Can’t have you falling asleep at the wheel and killing us both on the way home, can I?”
The casual plural landed like a spark. Chelsea’s head snapped up from where she’d been pretending to scroll on her phone, her grin splitting wide and delighted, eyes sparkling with unrestrained mischief. “Oh, you both?” she echoed, voice pitching up in that bright, singsong way she reserved for maximum teasing. She pushed off the counter, slinging her bag over one shoulder with exaggerated flair. “Listen to you two already. ‘Us.’ Like it’s a joint mission. I didn’t set this up at all, by the way. Totally organic.”
Heat flared fresh across your cheeks, but Blake only laughed softly, the sound warm and unhurried as she kept one hand at the small of your back, guiding you toward the hallway like it was the most natural thing in the world. You let her, because of course you did. Your steps a little clumsy from the sudden shift and the bone-deep tiredness, mumbling something incoherent about how you were “perfectly capable” while your shoulder brushed hers in the narrow space.
Chelsea trailed behind, her laughter bubbling ahead of you like a soundtrack as she herded you both toward the front door. “Don’t forget to text me when you get there, lovebirds. And Blake, make sure she actually keeps her eyes open. I’ve seen her try to drive after a long record day; she once narrated an entire episode of a nature documentary to herself at a red light.”
You groaned, the sound half-laugh, half-defensive, as Blake held the door for you, the cool evening air brushing your face in a welcome rush of pine and damp grass. The porch light cast long shadows across the driveway, the gravel crunching underfoot as the three of you made your way to your car. Chelsea kept up the gentle ribbing the whole way, promising to send you the unedited audio file so you could “relive your greatest flustered hits,” reminding Blake that you took your coffee with oat milk and a ridiculous amount of sugar, and extracting solemn vows that you’d both “behave” while somehow making it sound like the opposite.
By the time you reached the car, your yawns had turned into full-body stretches, but the teasing stayed light, affectionate, the kind that made the night feel less like an awkward handoff and more like the end of a perfectly chaotic day. “Coffee this week,” Chelsea called as she pulled you into a quick, squeezing hug, her voice muffled against your shoulder. “My treat. And you’re calling me tomorrow to spill every single detail, got it? Drive safe, dork. Love you.”
You nodded against her, muttering a tired but genuine “love you too” before she finally released you and waved Blake toward the passenger side with one last theatrical wink. The car door clicked shut behind you once you’d slid behind the wheel, the engine rumbling to life with a low, familiar purr. Chelsea stood on the porch, arms crossed, still grinning like she’d orchestrated the entire universe as you eased the car down the driveway, gravel popping softly under the tires.
The promise of coffee and a call lingered in the air between you and Blake as the house lights receded in the rearview, the road opening up ahead in quiet stretches of amber streetlamps and dark hedges. You kept your hands at ten and two, focus splintering between the yellow lines and the woman in the passenger seat, until Blake reached over and gave your leg a light, grounding tap, fingers brushing just above your knee, warm and brief.
“Eyes on the road,” she said softly, the words carrying that gentle, attentive lilt, the faint flirtation still threaded through like a secret. Her smile was small and private in the dashboard glow. “I’ve got nowhere to be but right here.”
You exhaled a quiet laugh, the flush returning softer this time, and let the quiet settle as the car carried you both homeward, the night wrapping around the moment like it had been waiting for exactly this.
The road unspooled ahead in long, lazy ribbons of asphalt under the streetlights, the kind of quiet suburban stretch that blurred at the edges after midnight. Your hands stayed steady on the wheel, ten and two out of sheer habit, but your pulse had other ideas, quick and bright beneath your skin, a private drumbeat that had nothing to do with the faint thrum of the engine and everything to do with Blake Monroe sitting in your passenger seat, close enough that the spiced-cedar warmth of her drifted across the console every time she shifted. Alone. Just the two of you and the low glow of the dashboard painting soft gold across the line of her jaw.
You swallowed once, then found your voice, surprised at how easily it came once the first words were out. “So… the episode really did go better than I expected after the whole ambush part,” you said, glancing sideways for half a second before fixing your eyes back on the yellow lines. The words felt like a tether, something to keep the car moving and your brain from short-circuiting entirely. “I mean, you and Chelsea together on mic? That’s gold for the listeners. They’re going to clip the hell out of it.”
Blake’s laugh was low, intimate in the small space, the kind that curled around you like warm smoke. She angled herself toward you, one knee drawn up slightly so her leg brushed the edge of the center console, and rested her elbow on the door. “It was gold,” she agreed, voice softer now without Chelsea’s bright chaos to bounce off. “But I think my favourite part was watching you try to steer us back on track. You’ve got this quietly brilliant way of pulling focus when things go sideways. It’s rather captivating, actually.” The compliment landed with a deliberate warmth, bolder than anything she’d said in the studio, and her gaze lingered on the side of your face, tracing the faint flush you could feel creeping up again.
You let out a short, self-conscious laugh, fingers tightening on the wheel as the car eased through a gentle curve. The headlights swept across a row of darkened hedges, and the motion helped, kept your hands occupied, your attention split between the road and the way her accent wrapped around every word like it was meant to linger. “Captivating is a strong word. I was mostly just trying not to combust on mic. But… thanks. That means a lot coming from you.” The smitten feeling sat heavy and sweet in your chest, making your next breath catch. She was here, in your car, talking to you like this. Alone. You grasped for the next thread of conversation like it was a lifeline. “What about the NXT stuff? You made the travel sound almost romantic when you were describing those sunrise flights. Do you ever get used to it, or is it still this constant push and pull?”
Blake hummed, the sound thoughtful and close, and you caught the faint shift of fabric as she settled deeper into the seat. Her fingers drummed once against her thigh, a small, unconscious rhythm that drew your peripheral vision before you forced it back to the road. “It’s still a push and pull,” she said, tone dipping into something more personal, more open. “But nights like this make it worth it. Quiet drives. Good company. Someone who blushes so prettily when you tell her she’s captivating.” The flirtation was clearer now, no Chelsea to buffer it, and she let the pause stretch just long enough for your breath to hitch. Then, softer, almost conspiratorial: “You’ve got this lovely habit of lighting up the whole room without even trying. I noticed it the second I walked into the studio. Hard to look away, honestly.”
Your cheeks burned hotter, the flush spreading down your neck as you adjusted your grip on the wheel, the leather warm and slightly damp under your palms. The compliment tangled up with the smitten flutter in your ribs, making the drive feel both endless and too short at once. You managed a nervous little laugh, the sound breathy and endearing even to your own ears, and pushed forward with another question to keep the current moving, anything to stay alert, to stay present. “I—uh, thanks. Again. You’re… you’re really easy to talk to, too. Like, the way you described those house shows earlier? I could’ve listened to that for hours. Do you ever miss the smaller crowds, or is the main roster energy already pulling you in?”
Blake’s smile was audible in her voice, warm and unhurried, and she reached over to give your leg another light tap, higher this time, just above the knee, fingers lingering a fraction longer before she pulled back. The contact sent a small spark straight up your spine. “I miss the intimacy of the smaller crowds sometimes,” she murmured, bolder still now that the road was empty and the night felt like it belonged to just the two of you. “But there’s something to be said for the bigger stage. More room to… play.” Her tone dipped on the last word, carrying the faintest suggestive edge, the kind of quiet innuendo that slipped past you entirely as you focused on the upcoming exit sign glowing ahead. “Though I have to admit, I wouldn’t mind finding more excuses to end up in cars like this one. Especially when the driver looks at me like I hung the moon and then pretends she isn’t.”
You blinked, processing the words as surface-level kindness rather than anything sharper, and let out another soft, awkward chuckle that dissolved into the quiet hum of the tires. “Hanging the moon is a bit much, but… yeah. This has been nice. Really nice.” The smitten rush kept your voice light, kept the conversation flowing even as your eyelids threatened to grow heavier again. The road curved gently, streetlights sliding across the windshield in rhythmic sweeps, and Blake’s presence beside you, warm, attentive, openly watching, made every mile feel charged and alive.
The road had narrowed into that familiar stretch of quiet back lanes, streetlights thinning out until they were little more than sporadic amber halos against the dark. Your hands stayed locked at ten and two, the wheel warm and slightly tacky under your palms from the long day, but the conversation kept rolling, easy enough on the surface that you could almost convince yourself you weren’t vibrating out of your skin with how smitten you felt. Blake was right there, knee brushing the console every so often, her profile lit soft by the dashboard glow, and every low laugh she gave at your clumsy replies made the flutter behind your ribs sharpen into something almost painful.
You kept your answers measured, careful not to tip too far into obvious territory. “I mean, the main roster energy does sound next-level,” you said, forcing a light laugh that came out steadier than you felt. “All those crowds and the travel. Must be a whole different world from NXT. You make it sound almost… effortless, though. Like you were built for it.” Safe. Complimentary but not *too* complimentary. You kept your eyes forward, watching the dashed lines blur under the headlights, hyper-aware of how close her voice felt in the enclosed space.
Blake was quiet for a beat longer than usual. You caught the subtle shift in her posture from the corner of your eye, the way she turned a fraction more toward you, elbow resting on the door, fingers pausing their idle tap against her thigh. Her gaze lingered, thoughtful, the faint crinkle at the corners of her eyes softening into something more deliberate. She’d been layering the compliments thicker since the studio, bolder now without Chelsea’s buffer, but you were so focused on not sounding like the hopeless dork with the crush that the signals kept slipping past you like smoke. Another soft hum from her, almost amused this time, and then her voice dropped lower, gentler, the British lilt wrapping around the words with quiet certainty.
“Pull over for a moment, would you?”
The request landed soft, almost conversational, but there was an undercurrent to it that made your stomach dip. You blinked, glancing sideways at her, confused, the tiredness pulling at the edges of your focus, but you didn’t argue. Of course you didn’t. Your foot eased onto the brake, signaling smoothly as you guided the car onto the wide shoulder where the road curved gently beside a line of shadowed hedges. Gravel crunched under the tires, the engine ticking down into a low idle as you shifted into park. The sudden quiet pressed in, just the faint rustle of leaves outside and the steady rhythm of your own pulse in your ears.
You turned toward her fully then, one hand still resting on the wheel, the dashboard light catching the tired softness of your expression, the slight droop at the corners of your eyes, the faint flush that hadn’t quite faded since the kitchenette. Your mouth opened, the start of a question already forming: “Everything okay? Did I miss a turn or—”
Blake cut you off without a word.
She leaned across the console in one fluid motion, her hand coming up to cup the side of your face, palm warm, fingers sliding gently into the hair at your temple. The kiss was soft at first, deliberate, her lips pressing to yours with a quiet sureness that stole the rest of your sentence and the breath right out of your lungs. It tasted faintly of the water she’d sipped earlier and something warmer, sweeter, the faint spiced-cedar of her skin close enough to fill the space between you. Your eyes fluttered shut on instinct, a small, startled sound escaping against her mouth before you could stop it, your free hand lifting halfway like you weren’t sure whether to pull her closer or check if this was actually happening.
When she drew back, only far enough to rest her forehead against yours, breath mingling warm and steady in the dim glow, she smiled, the expression slow and fond and just a touch wicked at the edges.
“I clearly have to be a bit more forward,” she murmured, voice low and intimate, thumb brushing once along your cheekbone, “or you just won’t get it, will you?”
The words hung there, soft and teasing, while your heart hammered loud enough you were sure she could feel it against her palm. The night outside felt suddenly distant, the car a small, private world wrapped around the two of you, and all you could do was stare at her, flushed, wide-eyed, and entirely, endearingly undone.
The quiet in the car thickened, heavy with the low idle of the engine and the faint rustle of leaves brushing the hedges outside. Your breath caught somewhere high in your throat, eyes wide and fixed on Blake as she pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against yours. The warmth of her palm still cradled the side of your face, thumb tracing one slow, absent circle along your cheekbone, and the flush that had been simmering under your skin since the studio roared back to life, hot, undeniable, spreading across your cheeks and down the column of your neck until you felt like you might actually combust right there in the driver’s seat.
You managed a small, mortified sound, half laugh, half helpless exhale, and your gaze dropped to the console between you, fingers twitching once against the wheel before you forced them still. “I—um. Yeah. Okay,” you whispered, the words barely more than breath, voice cracking on the last syllable in that endearingly awkward way you couldn’t seem to help. Your shoulders had drawn up tight, knees pressing together like you could make yourself smaller, and the blush refused to fade, only deepening under the dashboard’s soft amber glow.
Blake’s smile curved slow and genuine, the kind that reached all the way to the faint lines at the corners of her eyes and made the whole car feel warmer, smaller, safer. She let out a quiet, delighted little huff of laughter, thumb still stroking your cheek as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to stop. “God, you’re the cutest thing I’ve seen in ages,” she murmured, the British lilt soft and fond, almost reverent. “Look at you—properly pink and trying so hard not to fall apart. Are you all right? Tell me if I’ve gone too far. I can stop.”
You nodded too quickly, then shook your head, the motion jerky and uncertain, another breathless laugh escaping before you could catch it. “No—I mean, yes. I’m good. Really good. Just… surprised. In the best way.” Your eyes finally lifted to meet hers again, shy and wide and shining with that same lovable dorkiness that had been tripping you up all evening, and Blake’s expression softened further, something tender and delighted flickering across her face.
She didn’t wait for more words. Instead she leaned in again, slower this time, giving you the space to meet her halfway. The second kiss was deeper, unhurried, her lips pressing to yours with a quiet certainty that melted the last of your nervous tension. She tasted faintly of the water from earlier and something warmer, sweeter, the faint spice of her skin close enough to fill your senses. Her hand slid from your cheek to the nape of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair, and you let out a small, involuntary sound against her mouth as the kiss turned soft and lingering, mouths moving together in slow, exploratory strokes that made the rest of the world feel very far away.
Blake pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead still brushing yours, her breath warm and steady against your lips. “You make it rather difficult to behave myself, you know that?” she teased, voice low and husky with quiet amusement, the accent curling around the words like an invitation. Her thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate. “Sitting there all shy and lovely, blushing as you’ve never been kissed before. Makes a girl want to forget every polite intention she walked in with.”
You let out another soft, flustered laugh, the sound muffled as you leaned into her touch despite yourself, cheeks burning hotter under her gaze. Blake’s eyes sparkled with that same playful warmth, and she tilted her head, lips brushing the corner of your mouth once more, teasing, not quite a kiss.
“Though perhaps we should have a proper conversation,” she added, the suggestion slipping out light and suggestive, the faintest wicked edge to her smile. “Get to know each other a little better… in the back seat. If you’re not too tired for it.”
Before you could form anything resembling a coherent reply, she kissed you again, deeper this time, slower, the kind of soft, unhurried making out that turned the quiet night into something private and electric. Her fingers tightened gently in your hair, pulling you closer across the console, and the world narrowed to the warm press of her mouth, the quiet hitch of her breath, and the way your own hands finally lifted to rest against her sides, tentative and reverent, like you still couldn’t quite believe this was happening.
The car stayed pulled over on the shoulder, engine idling low, the hedges whispering outside while the two of you stayed tangled in the front seat—shy blushes and soft laughter giving way to something sweeter, bolder, and entirely yours.
The kiss stretched on, unhurried and deepening by slow degrees, until the world outside the car blurred into nothing more than distant background noise. Blake’s mouth moved against yours with a patient certainty, lips soft and warm, the faint taste of water and something sweeter lingering each time she tilted her head to catch a new angle. Her fingers stayed threaded in the hair at the nape of your neck, thumb brushing slow circles that sent little sparks racing down your spine, while your own hands had finally found purchase—resting tentatively at her waist, gripping the fabric of her jacket as it might ground you. Every small sound she made- a quiet hum of approval, the hitch of breath when your teeth grazed her lower lip by accident- made your cheeks burn hotter, the flush refusing to fade even as your body leaned into her across the console.
You were a mess of shy little noises and awkward eagerness, pulling back for air only to chase her mouth again a heartbeat later, your laugh breathless and self-conscious when your elbow bumped the gear shift. Blake didn’t seem to mind. If anything, the way you kept blushing and fumbling only made her smile against your lips, her free hand sliding down to rest at the curve of your ribs, thumb tracing the edge of your hoodie in a way that felt both reassuring and electric.
After long, hazy minutes, she drew back just far enough to breathe, forehead still pressed to yours, eyes half-lidded and dark in the dashboard glow. “Hold that thought,” she murmured, voice low and a touch rougher than before. With a soft click, she found the lever beside her seat and pushed it back in one smooth motion, the backrest reclining with a quiet mechanical whir. She glanced over her shoulder at the empty rear bench, then back at you, that playful spark returning to her expression.
Before you could form a single coherent question, she unbuckled, manoeuvred gracefully over the console, and slipped into the back seat. The car rocked faintly with the shift of her weight. She settled against the far door, legs parting just enough, and patted her lap once, deliberate, inviting, the corner of her mouth curving into a teasing half-smile that made your stomach flip.
“Come here,” she said softly, the British lilt wrapping around the words like an outstretched hand. “I promise I won’t bite… unless you ask very nicely.”
Your pulse stuttered hard. Heat flooded your face all over again, but your body moved before your brain could overthink it, because of course it did. You were you; hopelessly polite, endearingly eager, incapable of refusing when she looked at you like that. You fumbled your own seatbelt free, climbed awkwardly over the console with a short, mortified laugh when your knee caught on the armrest, and slid into the back seat beside her.
The moment your weight settled on the bench, Blake didn’t give you time to second-guess. She reached for you immediately, hands gentle but insistent at your waist, guiding you closer until you were half-straddling her lap. Her mouth found yours again in the same breath, deeper this time, hungrier, while one palm pressed flat between your shoulder blades and pushed you back against the seat with careful strength. The leather creaked softly beneath you as she followed, shifting her weight to loom over you just enough for a better angle, her dark hair falling forward like a curtain that blocked out the rest of the night.
You gasped quietly into the kiss, hands flying up to clutch at her shoulders, the fabric bunching under your fingers. Blake’s lips moved with purpose now, slow and thorough, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head so you didn’t knock it against the door. The new position changed everything, the press of her body, the warmth radiating through her clothes, the way she could tilt her head and kiss you like she had all the time in the world and still wanted more.
Between kisses she pulled back just far enough to murmur against your mouth, voice husky and amused. “There we go… much better.” Her thumb brushed your bottom lip, eyes flicking down to watch the way you breathed, flushed and wide-eyed and entirely undone beneath her. “You make it impossible to behave, you know that?”
Then she was kissing you again, deeper, slower, the quiet sounds of breath and fabric and the faint creak of the seat filling the small space while the car stayed pulled over on the dark shoulder, the hedges whispering outside like they were keeping watch.
The kisses stretched languid and unhurried in the back seat, the leather creaking softly beneath you each time one of you shifted for a better angle. Blake kept you pinned gently beneath her, her weight a warm, grounding pressure that made the narrow space feel intimate and endless all at once. Her mouth moved against yours with slow deliberation, lips parting, tongue brushing yours in teasing strokes that drew small, helpless sounds from your throat. You clutched at her shoulders, fingers twisting into the fabric of her jacket, your breaths coming shorter, more ragged, while the flush across your cheeks refused to cool.
After long minutes of that hazy, breathless tangle, Blake’s hands began to wander. One slid beneath the hem of your hoodie, palm flat and warm against the bare skin of your stomach, fingertips tracing idle patterns that made your muscles twitch. Her mouth left yours to trail along your jaw, then lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the side of your neck where your pulse beat fast and frantic. She nipped lightly at the sensitive spot just below your ear, the scrape of her teeth sending a shiver racing down your spine, and you arched into her without thinking, a quiet whimper slipping out before you could swallow it.
“God, I’ve been needing this,” she murmured against your skin, voice low and rough with want, the British cadence thicker now, almost reverent. Her breath ghosted hot over the damp trail her mouth had left. “All evening—watching you blush and fumble and try so hard to be professional. It’s been driving me mad.” Another kiss, slower, right at the hollow of your throat. “Tell me if it’s too much, darling. But right now… I need you.”
Who were you to deny her? The thought flickered through the haze in your mind, gorgeous, confident, impossibly attentive, and you nodded, the motion jerky, your hands sliding up to cup the back of her neck in silent encouragement. Your heart hammered against your ribs, loud enough you were sure she could feel it.
Blake’s smile curved against your collarbone. She shifted her weight, one knee pressing between your thighs to steady herself, and her hand drifted lower, graceful, unhurried, slipping beneath the waistband of your pants and then further, beneath the thin fabric of your underwear. The moment her fingers brushed against you, she let out a soft, appreciative hum that vibrated against your neck.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathed, the words warm and delighted against your flushed skin. “You’re absolutely dripping already.”
Heat exploded across your face, mortification crashing through you in a bright, searing wave. You tried to close your legs on instinct, a mortified little sound escaping as you turned your head to the side, eyes squeezing shut. “I—I’m sorry, that’s—God, it’s embarrassing, I didn’t mean to—”
Blake cut you off with a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, her fingers pausing but not retreating, staying warm and steady where they rested. She pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, her own dark and sparkling with open affection, the faintest teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Embarrassing?” she echoed softly, thumb brushing once over your clit in a slow, deliberate circle that made your hips twitch despite yourself. “No, love. It’s perfect. You’re perfect. So responsive… so ready for me already. I love it. I love how badly you want this too.”
Her mouth found yours again before you could protest further, kissing you deep and slow while her fingers began to move with gentle confidence, exploring, teasing, coaxing more of those quiet, needy sounds from you. The car stayed pulled over on the dark shoulder, the night pressing close outside the windows, but inside it was only the warmth of her body over yours, the low murmur of her voice against your skin, and the way she made every shy, overwhelmed part of you feel wanted.
Blake kept the pace torturously slow, her fingers gliding through slick heat with feather-light strokes that circled and teased without ever giving you what you were starting to ache for. She mapped every sensitive inch like she had all night to learn you, thumb brushing over your clit in lazy, deliberate passes that made your hips twitch and roll without permission. The back seat felt smaller with every breath, the leather warm beneath you, the faint creak of it mixing with the low, unsteady hitch of your own breathing.
She pressed open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat, teeth grazing just enough to pull a whimper from you, then soothed the spot with her tongue. “Easy, darling,” she murmured against your skin, voice husky and warm. “I can feel how restless you’re getting… how badly you need more. But I want to hear it first.”
You squirmed beneath her, thighs trying to press together around her hand only for her knee to keep them parted. A needy little sound escaped before you could bite it down, your fingers tightening in the fabric of her jacket. The ache had built into something sharp and insistent, hips lifting toward her touch in small, helpless movements you couldn’t quite control.
Blake lifted her head, eyes dark and glittering as she watched your face. She slowed her fingers even further, barely there, until you let out a frustrated whine that made her smile, soft, knowing, utterly delighted. “Is this what you want?” she asked, tone low and coaxing, thumb pressing just firm enough to make you gasp. “Tell me. Use your words, sweetheart. I need to hear you say it.”
Heat flooded your cheeks all over again, but the need won out. “Yes—please, Blake,” you managed, voice small and shaky, cracking on her name. “I want it. I want you inside me.”
Her expression melted into something impossibly fond, eyes crinkling at the corners as she rewarded you with a slow, deep kiss. “Good girl,” she breathed against your mouth, the praise warm and sincere. “Such a good, honest girl for me. Look at you—asking so sweetly. You’re doing so well.”
She slipped one finger in with aching delicacy, slow and careful, letting you feel every inch as she sank deeper. The stretch was perfect, gentle, and the quiet sound you made, half moan, half sigh, drew a low, appreciative hum from her throat. “There we are,” she cooed, voice soft and fawning, lips brushing your temple. “So warm… so wet for me already. You’re taking me so beautifully, love. Does that feel good? Tell me it feels good.”
You nodded frantically, face turning into the crook of her neck on instinct, trying to hide the way your eyes fluttered and your mouth fell open. Embarrassment and pleasure twisted together until you couldn’t tell which was stronger, your hands coming up to cover your burning cheeks.
Blake tsked gently, the sound fond rather than scolding. She caught your wrists in one hand, effortless, careful, and pinned them lightly above your head against the seat. “Uh uh,” she murmured, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, her finger still moving in slow, curling strokes that made your breath stutter. “None of that. I need to see you. Every pretty little expression, every blush… I want all of it. Don’t hide from me, darling. You’re far too lovely when you let go.”
She kissed you again, deeper this time, swallowing the next helpless sound you made while her finger kept its steady, devastating rhythm, praising you in soft, murmured affirmations between kisses, every word sinking straight into your chest and making the heat inside you burn even brighter.
Blake kept the pace achingly deliberate, her finger sliding in and out with the kind of slow, measured glide that felt less like movement and more like a lingering question. Each shallow thrust was drawn out until you felt every subtle shift, the gentle curl at the end, the way she lingered at the deepest point before easing back again, never rushing, never giving you enough to tip you over. The leather seat creaked faintly beneath your back with every small, involuntary roll of your hips, but she held you steady with the weight of her body and the firm but careful grip on your wrists above your head.
“Relax for me, sweetheart,” she whispered against the shell of your ear, breath warm and steady. Her lips brushed the sensitive skin there, then pressed a slow kiss just below it, as if she could taste the way your pulse fluttered. “That’s it… just breathe. I’ve got you. No need to chase anything right now. I want to feel every little reaction you give me.”
She pulled back just enough to watch your face, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, drinking you in like she was memorising every detail, the flush that stained your cheeks, the way your lashes fluttered when she angled her finger just so, the soft, parted shape of your mouth. A quiet sound of satisfaction slipped from her throat, low and pleased, and she let it linger between you like a secret.
“How does that feel?” she asked softly, her voice a warm curl of smoke. She curled her finger again, slow and precise, pressing against that spot inside you that made your breath hitch sharply. “Tell me. I want to hear it.”
A small, broken moan escaped before you could stop it, your thighs tensing around her hand. “Blake… fuck—it feels—” The words dissolved into another helpless sound as she repeated the motion, even slower this time, drawing it out until your back arched off the seat.
She hummed, the sound vibrating against your collarbone where her mouth had returned. “Mmm. There it is. That pretty little moan. You sound so sweet when you let go like that.” Her pace never quickened; she kept it torturously gentle, sliding in deep and staying there for long seconds before retreating again, only to start the whole cycle over. “You’re clenching around me so nicely already… like your body’s trying to keep me right here. Does it feel good when I stay deep like this? When I press right… here?”
Another deliberate curl, and this time a soft curse slipped out of you: “Shit—” raw and unguarded. Your head tipped back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before her thumb brushed your cheek, coaxing them open again.
Blake’s smile was slow and devastatingly fond. “Eyes on me, love. I told you—I need to see you.” She kept the rhythm the same, unhurried, almost reverent, her free hand releasing your wrists only to trail down your side, fingertips ghosting over your ribs like she was mapping every shiver. “Look at you… all flushed and needy and trying so hard to stay quiet. You don’t have to, you know. Let me hear those pretty sounds. Let me hear how much you’re enjoying my finger inside you.”
She leaned in to kiss you again, slow, deep, matching the pace of her hand, then pulled back to rest her forehead against yours, breath mingling hot between you. “That’s my good girl,” she murmured, voice thick with satisfaction as she felt you clench again at the praise. “Taking me so well… so beautifully wet and warm. I could do this for hours, just feeling you fall apart so sweetly under my hand. Tell me again—how does it feel when I move like this?”
She demonstrated with another languid stroke, drawing it out until you were trembling beneath her, another moan spilling free, louder this time, your fingers twisting into the fabric of her jacket like it was the only thing keeping you tethered. Blake’s eyes never left your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure, every shy little twitch of your brows, every bitten-back curse that slipped through anyway. She savoured it all, her own breathing steady and controlled while she kept you suspended in that gentle, endless tease, whispering soft affirmations and quiet questions against your skin, guiding you deeper into the haze with nothing but patience and the slow, deliberate curl of her finger.
“You’re doing so well for me,” she breathed, lips brushing your jaw. “So perfect. Just like this… let me take my time with you.”
Blake kept the rhythm exactly as it was, slow, almost lazy, her single finger sliding in and out of you with the same unhurried patience she might use turning the pages of a book she was in no rush to finish. Each withdrawal dragged against your walls until only the tip remained, lingering there for a heartbeat or two, before she eased back in just as deliberately, curling at the end to press against that spot that made your breath fracture. The leather beneath you had grown warmer, faintly damp from the slow build of it all, and the quiet creak of the seat mixed with the soft, wet sounds of her finger working you open.
She watched every flicker across your face like it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen, eyes half-lidded but sharp, drinking in the way your brows drew together, the way your lips parted on another shaky exhale. “That’s it,” she murmured, voice low and warm against your jaw as she kissed the corner of your mouth. “Just feel me, darling. No need to hurry. I love how you’re letting me take my time… how your body keeps pulling me deeper like it doesn’t want me to leave.”
Another long, curling stroke. You let out a soft, broken sound, half moan, half whimper, and your hips twitched upward without permission. Blake hummed in quiet satisfaction, thumb brushing once over your clit in a feather-light pass that only made the ache sharper.
“Does that feel good?” she asked sweetly, as if she didn’t already know. “When I stay right there… pressing against that spot until your thighs start to tremble?” She demonstrated again, holding the pressure for several long seconds before easing back, only to repeat the motion even slower. “Tell me, love. I want to hear how it’s making you feel.”
Another curse slipped out of you, quiet and raw, and Blake’s smile curved against your skin, pleased and indulgent.
After several more minutes of that gentle, relentless teasing, each stroke drawn out until you were shifting restlessly beneath her, small, needy sounds escaping despite yourself, she finally lifted her head. Her eyes met yours, dark and sparkling with affection, the faintest hint of playful mischief threading through.
“Do you need another, sweetheart?” she asked, voice soft and coaxing, like she was offering you something precious. Her finger continued its slow glide, never stopping, never speeding up. “I think you do… I can feel how much you’re clenching around me, trying to take more. Tell me if I’m right.”
You nodded before the words even formed, a desperate little “yes—please—” tumbling out, voice cracked and small.
Blake let out a low, satisfied sound, almost a purr, that vibrated against your collarbone. “Good girl,” she whispered, the praise warm and genuine. “Such a good, honest girl for me.”
She slipped the second finger in with the same exquisite care, stretching you open so gradually you felt every centimetre, every subtle shift as she sank deeper. The fullness drew a longer moan from your throat, and Blake’s eyes fluttered half-closed for a moment, like she was savouring it just as much as you were.
“There we go,” she breathed, the words thick with delight. “Look at you taking both so beautifully… so warm and wet and perfect around my fingers. You’re doing so well, love. So well.”
She didn’t rush into a faster rhythm. Instead she played, scissoring her fingers gently, spreading you open in small, experimental movements that tested the give of your body. She angled them just so, curling and uncurling, watching with quiet fascination for the exact spot that made your back arch or your breath catch on a curse. One slow twist had your hips jerking; she repeated it immediately, softer, cataloguing the reaction with a pleased hum. Another gentle spread had you whimpering, and she lingered there, holding you open while her thumb circled your clit in lazy strokes.
It was almost like she was entertaining herself, casual, unhurried, the way someone might idly toy with a favourite trinket while their mind wandered, except every ounce of her attention was fixed pleasantly, intently on you. Her gaze never left your face, drinking in every shy flutter of your lashes, every bitten lip, every flush that deepened across your cheeks. She kept murmuring soft praises between the slow, exploratory movements, voice low and fond.
“That’s my girl… feel how nicely you’re opening up for me? So responsive… I could play with you like this for ages and never get bored.” She scissored again, a touch wider this time, and smiled when your thighs trembled. “There—right there. You like that, don’t you? The way it stretches you just enough to make you whimper so prettily for me.”
Her fingers kept moving in that same languid, curious rhythm, testing, teasing, savouring, while she watched you fall apart beneath her with open, delighted satisfaction, every reaction pulling another soft affirmation from her lips like she couldn’t help herself.
Blake’s fingers continued their slow, deliberate exploration, scissoring gently, curling, testing every subtle shift in the way your body responded around her. The back seat had grown warmer, the air thicker with the faint, intimate sounds of her movements, soft, wet, rhythmic, and the occasional creak of leather as your hips twitched involuntarily beneath her. She watched you with that same unwavering focus, eyes dark and sparkling, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every bitten-off whimper, like she was committing the entire scene to memory.
You were restless now, thighs trembling faintly around her hand, small, needy rolls of your hips chasing the gentle friction she refused to give you more of. Blake noticed, of course she did. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips as she leaned down to press a lingering kiss just beneath your ear.
“I think you need it a little faster, don’t you?” she murmured, voice low and warm, the British lilt wrapping around the question like a promise. Her fingers kept their same unhurried pace, sliding deep and staying there for a long, teasing second before retreating again. “Look at the way you’re moving against me… so impatient already.”
You let out a soft, frustrated sound, head tipping back against the seat, and she hummed in quiet amusement, thumb brushing once over your clit in a feather-light circle that only made the ache sharper.
“Mmm. Yes, I definitely think you need it a little faster,” she said again, softer this time, almost coaxing, as if testing the words on her tongue. Her fingers curled once more, deliberate and slow, pressing against that spot inside you until your breath hitched sharply. “You’re clenching so sweetly around me… like your body’s begging for more. But I want to hear you say it again in that pretty voice of yours.”
Another long, languid stroke. Your fingers twisted tighter into her jacket, a quiet curse slipping free before you could swallow it down. Blake’s smile deepened, fond and delighted, and she kissed the corner of your mouth, lingering there as she repeated the question one last time, voice dropping into something huskier, more intimate.
“I think you need it a little faster, don’t you, darling?”
Then, finally, she gave it to you.
Her pace shifted gradually, not a sudden snap but a smooth, intentional quickening, still controlled, still attentive, but with a new rhythm that had her fingers sliding in and out with purpose. The wet sounds grew a fraction louder, more obscene in the quiet car, each thrust drawing a deeper moan from your throat before you could stop it. Blake’s eyes stayed locked on your face, drinking in every reaction, every arch of your back, every flutter of your lashes as she found the exact angle that made your voice crack on a particularly needy sound.
“There we are,” she breathed, the praise warm against your jaw as she kissed along the flushed line of it. “That’s much better, isn’t it? You were never going to come at that slow pace I was keeping before… and that just wouldn’t have been very nice of me, would it?” Her tone stayed soft, teasing, almost playful, but nothing was mocking in it, only affection, only the quiet delight of someone thoroughly enjoying the way you fell apart under her touch. “No, I couldn’t leave you hanging like that. Not when you’re being so good for me… so responsive and lovely.”
She curled her fingers again on the next thrust, faster now, and your hips jerked sharply, a louder moan spilling free. Blake’s free hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone as she held your gaze.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” she reassured gently, voice steady even as her pace continued its new, devastating rhythm. “You’re doing so well… taking everything I give you so beautifully. Just let it build, love. I want to feel you come apart like this—nice and steady, no rushing. You’re safe with me.”
Her fingers kept working you with that perfect, attentive focus, quick enough now to have you trembling, but still measured, still exploratory, searching for every little spot and motion that pulled the prettiest sounds from your lips. She watched it all with open satisfaction, murmuring soft affirmations between kisses, her own breathing a touch heavier now but never losing that gentle control.
“You’re perfect,” she whispered against your mouth, another deliberate thrust making your thighs shake. “Absolutely perfect. Just like this.”
Blake’s fingers picked up their rhythm in careful increments, each thrust a little deeper, a little firmer, the wet slide of them growing more insistent against the quiet creak of the leather seat. She never rushed it, just let the pace build like a slow tide, her wrist rolling with precise control so every stroke dragged perfectly along your walls. The air in the back seat had turned thick and warm, heavy with the faint musk of skin and want, and the hedges outside rustled faintly like they were trying not to listen too closely.
She felt it before you did.
Your thighs had started to tense around her hand in tiny, involuntary spasms, the muscles fluttering every time she curled just right. Your breathing had shifted too, shallower, quicker, catching on every exhale like it couldn’t quite decide whether to stay steady. Blake’s eyes narrowed with quiet satisfaction, the corner of her mouth lifting as she watched the telltale flush creep further down your neck.
“Mmm, there you are,” she murmured, voice low and intimate against your temple. She pressed a slow kiss there, lips lingering as her fingers kept that newly quickened pace. “Your thighs are starting to shake for me… and you’re clenching so tight around my fingers. You’re getting close, aren’t you, darling? You don’t even know it yet, but I can feel it.”
You let out a soft, broken moan, louder than before, and Blake’s smile widened, delighted.
“Oh, listen to that pretty sound,” she teased gently, thumb brushing once over your clit in a firm, deliberate circle that made your hips jerk sharply. “Getting a little louder for me now… I love it when you stop trying to hold them back. Let me hear you, love. Let me hear how good it feels when I fuck you like this.”
Her pace increased again, steady and relentless, fingers driving deeper with each stroke, curling harder against that spot that made sparks shoot up your spine. She kept talking, soft and coaxing, her free hand sliding up to cradle the side of your face, thumb stroking along your cheekbone as she held your gaze.
“You’re doing so well… so close already and you didn’t even realise. Look at you, flushed and trembling and making those sweet little noises every time I press right here.” She demonstrated with a particularly firm thrust, watching your face scrunch up with pleasure. She nodded slowly, eyes bright with affection. “Yes… just like that. Does it feel good, sweetheart? Tell me how good it feels when I speed up for you.”
Another moan slipped free, higher and needier, and Blake’s expression softened into something almost reverent. She kept the rhythm steady now, perfectly tuned to the way your body was tightening around her, the way your breathing had turned ragged and desperate. Her thumb circled your clit again, firmer, matching the pace of her fingers until the coil in your belly drew impossibly tight.
“Come on, darling,” she pleaded softly, voice husky and warm, her hand still gently but firmly holding your face so you couldn’t hide. “I want to see you come all pretty for me. Let it happen… let me watch you fall apart. You’re so close—right there, I can feel it. Please, love… cum for me. Cum nice and pretty just like this.”
She gave one last slow, deliberate nod when she felt you tip over the edge, when your walls clenched hard around her fingers, and your whole body arched into her hand. Her eyes stayed locked on yours, drinking in the way your face scrunched up, mouth falling open on a long, broken moan as the orgasm crashed through you.
“That’s it… there you are,” she cooed, nodding again, slow and encouraging, as your thighs shook and your breath stuttered. “Does it feel good? Yes… just like that. You’re doing so beautifully. Let it all out for me, sweetheart. I’ve got you… I’ve got you.”
Her fingers kept moving through it, gentle now, drawing the pleasure out in long, rolling waves, while she held your face steady, thumb brushing away the faint sheen of sweat at your temple, murmuring soft praises and quiet affirmations the whole way down. The night outside stayed dark and still, the car a warm, private cocoon around the two of you, and Blake watched every second of it like she never wanted to look away.
Blake kept her fingers moving through the last trembling waves of your orgasm, slow and gentle now, drawing out every lingering pulse until your thighs stopped their faint quivering and your breathing evened into something softer, less desperate. The back seat felt warmer, heavier, the air thick with the quiet sounds of your release and the faint creak of leather as you sank bonelessly against the cushions. She watched you the entire time, eyes soft and intent, thumb brushing lazy circles over your clit until the sensitivity ebbed and you let out one final, shaky exhale.
Only then did she lean in, capturing your mouth in a deep, unhurried kiss that tasted like shared breath and quiet triumph. Her tongue traced the seam of your lips, coaxing them open again as if she couldn’t quite let the moment end. At the same time, she eased her fingers free with the same careful patience she’d shown all night, sliding them out inch by inch, the loss of them pulling a small, reluctant whimper from your throat.
Blake broke the kiss just far enough to bring her hand to her mouth. She held your gaze, dark eyes gleaming with open hunger, and slipped both fingers between her lips. The indulgent moan that escaped her was low and rich, vibrating against her knuckles as she sucked them clean, savouring the taste with a slow, deliberate drag of her tongue. Her lashes fluttered once, almost lazily, like the flavour was something decadent she wanted to commit to memory.
“Fuck,” she breathed when she finally pulled them free, voice rougher at the edges, lips glistening. “You taste too good for me to stop here, darling. I need more.”
You were still flushed and dazed, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts, but the words cut through the haze and sent a fresh wave of shy heat rushing up your neck. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, a small, embarrassed laugh escaping as you tried to hide your face against her shoulder.
“I—I’m too wet,” you mumbled, the admission muffled and awkward, your voice cracking with that familiar dorky edge. “It’s… a lot. You don’t have to—”
Blake cut you off with a soft, delighted chuckle, the sound warm against the curve of your neck. She caught your chin gently between her fingers and tilted your face back up to hers, eyes sparkling with something brighter, hungrier.
“Too wet?” she echoed, the words laced with affectionate disbelief. “Love, that’s not a problem—that’s perfect. It’s turning me on even more, knowing I did that to you. Knowing how badly your body wants me.” She pressed a quick, reassuring kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your jaw, working her way lower with open intent. “I want to taste all of it. Every last drop. Let me.”
Her hands were already sliding down your sides, palms warm and steady as they hooked into the waistband of your pants and eased them lower, taking your underwear with them in one smooth motion. You lifted your hips without thinking, cheeks burning hotter, but Blake’s gaze never wavered from your face, soft, attentive, utterly unashamed.
She settled between your thighs with graceful ease, shoulders nudging your knees apart until she had the space she wanted. The first slow, deliberate lick dragged from your entrance all the way up, broad and thorough, and the low, satisfied groan she let out against you vibrated straight through your core.
“God, you’re even better like this,” she murmured, lips brushing slick skin as she spoke. “So sweet… so fucking perfect. Don’t you dare try to hide from me again, darling. I want all of you.”
Then her mouth was on you properly, warm, insistent, and completely devoted, like she had every intention of staying there until she’d wrung every last sound and shiver from your body.
Blake settled between your thighs as she belonged there, shoulders nudging your knees wider with gentle insistence until the angle opened you completely to her. The first broad, deliberate stroke of her tongue dragged from your entrance all the way up, slow and thorough, and the low, hungry sound she made against you vibrated straight through your core. It wasn’t rushed or frantic; there was a starving edge to it, yes, the kind that spoke of weeks of restrained want finally given permission, but she wielded it with the refined patience of someone savouring a rare, exquisite vintage or the final, perfect bite of an intricate dessert. Every movement was measured, intentional, like she meant to catalogue the exact flavour of you and commit it to memory.
She licked again, deeper this time, tongue flattening and pressing firm before curling at the end to catch the slickness gathering at your entrance. A quiet, indulgent hum rolled out of her, eyes fluttering half-closed for a moment as if the taste itself was something decadent she refused to waste. Then those dark eyes lifted, locking onto your face with unwavering focus, watching the way your breath stuttered and your cheeks burned hotter.
You tried to bite back the soft, overwhelmed whimper that escaped anyway, one hand flying up to cover your mouth out of pure, reflexive embarrassment. Blake noticed immediately. She pulled back just enough to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, teeth grazing lightly before soothing the spot with her tongue.
“None of that,” she murmured, voice husky and warm against your skin. “I want to see every single reaction. The way your brows draw together when I do this—” She licked a slow, precise stripe over your clit, eyes never leaving yours. “—or how your stomach flutters when I stay right here.” Another lingering pass, tongue circling deliberately, and your hips twitched hard, a broken little moan slipping free despite yourself.
Blake’s smile curved against you, satisfied and almost reverent. She took her time, exploring with the same unhurried intensity, alternating between long, dragging strokes that covered you entirely and smaller, focused flicks that zeroed in on the most sensitive spots once she found them. Every response was noted: the way your fingers clenched in her hair when she sucked gently on your clit, the sharp inhale when she dipped lower and pressed inside you with her tongue, the full-body shiver that ran through you when she hummed approval right against your core. She adjusted instantly, repeating whatever pulled the prettiest sounds from you, cataloguing it all like a connoisseur noting the perfect balance of sweetness and heat.
“God, you taste incredible,” she breathed between slow, thorough licks, the words warm and damp against slick skin. “So sweet… so fucking wet for me still. I could stay here for hours, just learning exactly what makes you fall apart like this.” Her hands slid under your thighs, palms warm and steady as she lifted you slightly, tilting your hips for an even better angle. The shift drew a louder moan from you, and Blake’s eyes sparkled with open delight. “There—right there. That sound. Do it again for me, darling. Let me hear how good it feels when I lick you just like this.”
She did exactly that, slow, deep, savouring, tongue working you with focused hunger that never tipped into roughness. The back seat felt smaller, the night outside more distant, reduced to nothing but the wet sounds of her mouth on you, the faint creak of leather, and the low, appreciative noises she kept making like she couldn’t help herself. You were a flushed, trembling mess beneath her, cheeks burning, thighs trying half-heartedly to close only for her shoulders to keep them spread, little embarrassed whimpers mixing with the moans you couldn’t hold back anymore.
Blake simply drank it all in, eyes lifting to watch your face again and again, that soft, attentive smile never fading even as her mouth continued its slow, devastating work. She was starving, yes, but she refused to rush a single second of it, treating every reaction, every taste, every helpless sound like something rare and worth lingering over for as long as she possibly could.
Blake’s mouth stayed on you with that same unhurried devotion, tongue moving in slow, luxurious strokes that mapped every slick inch like she was memorising the terrain of you. She licked deep and deliberate, then shallower, teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top with the flat of her tongue before dipping lower again, savouring the taste with quiet, appreciative hums that vibrated straight through your core. The back seat had grown warmer still, the air thick with the intimate sounds of her mouth working you open, wet, rhythmic, unashamed, and the faint creak of leather every time your body tried to shift.
You couldn’t help it. The slow build had you aching, hips rolling forward in a restless little grind against her face before you could stop yourself, chasing more friction, more pressure, anything to tip you back toward the edge.
Blake’s hands tightened gently on your thighs the instant she felt it. Not hard, just firm enough to still you, palms warm and steady as she pressed you back down against the seat with careful insistence. She lifted her head just far enough to meet your eyes, lips glistening, breath warm against your oversensitive skin.
“Uh uh,” she murmured, voice low and fond, the British lilt threading through the words like a gentle command. “None of that, darling. I’m not finished with you yet.” Her thumbs stroked slow circles over the soft skin of your inner thighs, soothing even as she held you in place. “You’re trying to rush me again. I can feel it—the way your hips keep twitching like you want to take control. But I don’t want you rushing. Not when I’m enjoying myself this much.”
She dipped her head again, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss right over your clit before dragging her tongue lower, licking into you with the same measured thoroughness. The motion was deliberate, almost lazy, like she had every intention of staying exactly where she was for as long as she pleased. Another soft hum of satisfaction rolled out of her, eyes flicking up to watch your face the entire time.
“You taste too good for me to let you hurry this along,” she continued between long, savoring strokes, lips brushing against you as she spoke. “I want to feel every little flutter… every tiny reaction when I do this—” She flattened her tongue and pressed firm, holding the pressure until your breath caught sharply. “—or when I stay right here and just taste you properly.” She repeated the motion, slower this time, drawing it out until your fingers twisted tighter into her hair.
You whimpered, hips straining once more on instinct, and Blake’s grip tightened again, gentle, unyielding, pinning you down with that effortless strength.
“Shh. I know, love,” she soothed, kissing the crease of your thigh in quiet apology for the denial. “You’re getting needy again already. I can feel how much you want to grind against my tongue… how badly you want to chase it. But no. Not yet.” Her eyes sparkled with open delight as she looked up at you, cheeks faintly flushed, mouth wet and shining. “I’m having far too much fun right here. Taking my time. Learning exactly what makes those pretty little sounds spill out of you. So you’re going to be good for me and let me enjoy this, aren’t you?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead she returned to her slow, devastating work, tongue circling your clit with precise, unhurried attention, then sliding lower to press inside you again, drawing out every slick inch of you as she could never get enough. Every time your hips twitched with the urge to move, her hands were there, gentle but firm, pressing you back down and reminding you without words that she was in no hurry at all.
She was enjoying herself too much to let you rush into another orgasm. And the way her eyes kept lifting to watch your face, dark, attentive, utterly satisfied, told you she had every intention of keeping it that way for as long as she possibly could.
Blake kept that same languid, devoted rhythm, her tongue working you open with the patience of someone who had nowhere else to be and no desire to be anywhere else. Long, dragging strokes alternated with smaller, focused circles, each one drawn out until the wet sounds of her mouth filled the quiet back seat like a private symphony. She hummed again, low and satisfied, the vibration rolling through you in slow waves that made your thighs tremble against her shoulders. Her hands stayed firm on your hips, holding you exactly where she wanted you, open, still, hers to savour.
When she finally pulled back, her lips were glossy, swollen, and shining, a faint sheen of you catching the dim dashboard glow that spilled over the seat. It streaked across her chin too, catching in the faint hollow there, and she made no move to wipe it away. Instead she looked up at you, eyes dark and gleaming with open hunger, the corner of her mouth curving into that soft, wicked little smile.
“Look at the mess you’ve made of me,” she murmured, voice husky and warm, one thumb still idly circling your clit in slow, teasing presses that kept the ache alive without letting it crest. “All glossy and slick just from tasting you. And you’re still trying so hard not to move… it’s adorable.” Her thumb pressed firmer, drawing a sharp little gasp from you. “Tell me, darling—would it feel good if you used my face a little? Fucked yourself against my tongue while I keep having my fun down here? I think you’d like that. I know I would.”
Your breath caught, heat flooding your cheeks all over again. You nodded quickly, the motion jerky and eager, hips twitching once under her hand before you caught yourself.
Blake’s smile deepened, patient and amused, thumb never stopping its lazy circles. “That’s sweet,” she said softly, tilting her head so a strand of hair fell across her forehead. “But I want to hear it. Use your words, like the polite girl you are. Ask me nicely if you can use my face. Tell me exactly what you want.”
The flush burned hotter, spreading down your neck, but the need won out, polite, endearing, helplessly compliant as always. “Please,” you managed, voice small and breathless, cracking just a little. “Can I… can I use your face? Fuck myself against you while you… while you keep going?”
Blake’s eyes fluttered half-closed for a moment, a low, pleased sound escaping her. “There’s my good girl,” she breathed, the praise warm and genuine. “So sweet when you ask properly.”
She dipped back down without another word, mouth sealing over you again, warm, wet, and utterly focused. One of her hands left your hip to catch your wrist, guiding it gently to the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair in silent invitation. The other stayed anchored on your thigh, steadying you as she let you test the movement.
You rolled your hips experimentally at first, tentative, shy little rocks that dragged your slick heat against her tongue. Blake hummed encouragement right against your clit, the sound vibrating through you like approval, and the sensation made you bolder. You found the rhythm soon enough, slow at first, then a little surer, grinding against her face with growing confidence while her tongue met every roll, lapping deep, circling, pressing firm exactly where you needed it.
Blake let you set the pace, eyes lifting whenever she could to watch your face, lips and chin growing even glossier with every deliberate movement you made against her. She was still savouring, still taking her time, but now she let you chase it, soft, attentive, utterly delighted by every shy little moan and every experimental roll of your hips that pulled another quiet groan from her throat.
The night outside stayed dark and still, the car a warm, private world wrapped around the two of you, and Blake simply let you use her, patient, hungry, and perfectly content to stay right there until you decided you were finished.
Blake kept her mouth on you with that same devoted hunger, tongue working in slow, thorough strokes that matched the rhythm you’d found, letting you roll your hips against her face while she savoured every slick glide. Her hands stayed anchored on your thighs, steady and warm, guiding rather than forcing as you grew bolder with each experimental rock. The wet sounds of it filled the back seat, obscene, intimate, the faint creak of leather underscoring every movement, and Blake’s low, appreciative hums vibrated straight through you, encouraging you to take what you needed.
You chased it faster now, hips grinding down in earnest little circles, the pressure building hotter and tighter with every drag of her tongue over your clit. Blake’s eyes flicked up whenever she could, dark and gleaming, watching the way your mouth fell open and your brows drew together in that pretty, overwhelmed expression she couldn’t seem to get enough of.
“That’s it, darling,” she murmured against you between licks, voice muffled and rough. “Use me. Take what feels good.”
The coil in your belly wound impossibly tighter, your thighs starting to shake around her shoulders. A soft, sweet moan slipped out of you, high and breathy, almost surprised, and Blake’s grip tightened in quiet delight. You came like that: pretty and open, back arching off the seat as the orgasm crashed through you in long, rolling waves. Your moans stayed sweet and unguarded, tumbling out in little broken gasps that made her groan against your core, the sound vibrating through the aftershocks like she was drinking them in too.
Blake didn’t stop.
Not even for a second.
The moment your hips stuttered and tried to pull away from the sudden sensitivity, her hands slid higher, palms pressing firmly against the backs of your thighs and spreading you wider, holding you open exactly where she wanted you. Her mouth stayed sealed to you, tongue still lapping slow and deep through the fresh rush of wetness, chasing every drop like she couldn’t bear to waste a single one.
You whimpered, oversensitive and shaky, one hand flying down to tug lightly at her hair. “Blake—fuck, I can’t—too much—”
She only hummed in response, the sound low and greedy, eyes lifting to meet yours with a look that was half-soft affection and half-ravenous need. Her lips and chin were even glossier now, shining with you, and she made no effort to clean them off. Instead she pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss right over your clit, then dragged her tongue lower again, licking into you with the same unhurried intensity, like she was starving and you were the only thing that could satisfy her.
“You taste too fucking good,” she breathed against your slick skin, voice thick and reverent. “I’m not stopping, love. Not when you come so sweetly for me… not when I can feel you still fluttering on my tongue.” Her hands held your legs open wider, thumbs stroking soothing circles even as her mouth worked you harder, deeper, like she was addicted to the taste of your release and already chasing the next one. “Just let me have this. Let me keep making you feel good. You’re so wet… so perfect. I could stay here all night.”
She was relentless in the gentlest way, tongue circling your clit with focused precision, then dipping inside you again to lap up every fresh wave of slickness, humming and moaning softly like she couldn’t help herself. Every time you squirmed or tried to close your thighs, she held you right there, patient but unyielding, eyes sparkling up at you with pure, unfiltered hunger.
You’d think she was an addict for your cum the way she behaved after tasting it properly, greedy, almost possessive, but still so soft and attentive, murmuring quiet praises between long, savoring licks.
“Good girl… that’s my good girl,” she whispered, lips brushing over your oversensitive folds. “Give me another one, darling. I’m not nearly done with you yet.”
And the way she dove back in, mouth hot and insistent, tongue working you like she never wanted to stop, made it very clear she meant every word.
Blake kept her mouth on you like she couldn’t bear to pull away, tongue moving in those same slow, worshipful strokes that treated every slick inch of you like something rare and impossibly delicate, expensive, almost sacred. She held your thighs open with steady palms, thumbs pressing gently into the soft flesh to keep you spread exactly how she wanted, and the low, needy moans she let out against your core vibrated straight through you. They weren’t loud or performative; they were quiet, almost involuntary, like the taste of you was pulling them from her throat whether she meant to or not.
You sounded absolutely gorgeous to her, soft, breathy moans spilling out unchecked now, higher and sweeter with every drag of her tongue. You weren’t thinking about how you looked or sounded anymore; the pleasure had swallowed you whole, leaving no room for the shy little worries that had clung to you earlier. Your head tipped back against the seat, lips parted, eyes half-lidded and unfocused as another helpless sound slipped free, raw and lovely.
Blake hummed in open delight, the sound turning into a soft, greedy moan of her own as she licked deeper, savouring the fresh rush of wetness like it was the finest thing she’d ever tasted. “That’s it,” she murmured against you, voice thick and warm, lips brushing slick skin. “God, listen to you… so pretty when you let go like this. You don’t even know how gorgeous you sound, do you?”
It didn’t take much to build you back up. Her tongue circled your clit with focused precision, then dipped lower to press inside you again, slow and thorough, while her hands kept your thighs pinned open. The pleasure coiled tight and fast, your hips twitching under her grip as the edge crept closer. Blake felt it, the way your walls fluttered, the way your breathing turned sharp and shallow, and her own sounds grew a little more desperate, a little more eager.
But when you hovered there, right on the brink, trembling and gasping without tipping over quite yet, Blake let out a soft, needy whine that sounded almost petulant. She pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips and chin shining, eyes dark and glassy with want.
“Come on, darling,” she breathed, the words edged with that spoiled little frustration, like a child who’d been promised something sweet and couldn’t understand why it wasn’t already in her hands. “I can feel you right there… so close, so ready for me. Why won’t you just give it to me?” Another soft, impatient whine escaped her as she dove back in, tongue working you harder now, almost petulant in its insistence. “Please… I want it. I want to feel you come on my tongue again. Don’t make me wait, love—I’ve been so good, haven’t I? Just let me have it.”
She moaned into you again, the sound needy and expectant, her grip on your thighs tightening as she held you open and kept licking, slow, deliberate, relentless, like she refused to accept anything less than exactly what she wanted, exactly when she wanted it. The spoiled little edge to her voice only made the pleasure sharper, the contrast between her graceful hunger and that almost childish impatience pulling you right to the precipice all over again.
And this time, with her whining softly against your clit and her tongue pressing just right, you felt yourself start to tip, sweet, overwhelming, and entirely at her mercy.
Blake’s tongue never faltered, even as your second orgasm crashed through you, sharp and blinding, a rush of heat that left your back bowing off the seat and your mouth falling open on a long, sweet moan that cracked halfway through. It felt so fucking good, the pleasure rolling out in thick, liquid waves that left your thighs quivering and your fingers tightening in her hair like it was the only thing tethering you to the earth. Blake looked up at you right then, eyes wide and almost desperate, like she needed this more than you did, like your release was something vital she couldn’t survive without. The expression ruined you completely: that raw, hungry need written across her flushed face, lips and chin glistening, dark strands of hair sticking to her forehead. Your composure shattered on the spot, a helpless sob slipping out as the sight of her sent another aftershock rippling through you.
She didn’t stop.
Not even for a breath.
Her hands clamped firmer on the backs of your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open like she refused to let a single drop escape her. A low, greedy whine vibrated against your oversensitive clit as she dove back in, tongue working you with the same starving devotion, licking through the fresh flood of slickness like she was chasing something she’d never get enough of. The overstimulation hit like a live wire, too much, too soon, too perfect, and you were already climbing again, faster this time, the edge rushing up to meet you before you could even catch your breath.
“Blake—fuck, I can’t—” The words broke off into another moan, loud and ragged, but it didn’t last. The third orgasm built mercilessly, coiling tighter and hotter until your voice simply gave out. Your mouth kept moving, shaping silent little O’s of pleasure, face scrunching up in that overwhelmed, almost pained expression, brows furrowed, eyes squeezing shut then fluttering open, lips trembling around sounds that never quite made it out. Your hand clawed at the fogged-up window beside you, fingers dragging down the glass in desperate streaks that left cloudy trails in their wake. Your whole body twitched and writhed beneath her, hips jerking helplessly, back arching in sharp, involuntary spasms.
One hand flew down to push at her shoulder, palm pressing weakly against her as if you could somehow ease the intensity, but there was no real strength behind it, only the frantic, conflicted instinct of something that felt far too good to endure. Your legs tried to close on instinct, knees knocking together only for Blake’s grip to keep them splayed apart; then they kicked out feebly, heels scraping against the seat, trying to pry her away and pull her closer all at once. You didn’t even know what you wanted anymore, only that the pleasure had become this overwhelming, white-hot thing that left you squirming and gasping and utterly undone beneath her mouth.
Blake moaned into you again, the sound needy and almost petulant, like she could sense you fighting it and refused to let you. Her tongue pressed firmer, circling your clit with relentless focus, then dipping lower to lick deep inside you, chasing every flutter and pulse like she was determined to drag this third one out of you whether you thought you could handle it or not. Her eyes stayed locked on your face the whole time, dark, desperate, utterly transfixed by the way you were falling apart so prettily for her.
“Come on, darling,” she gasped against your slick folds, voice rough and trembling with her own want. “One more. Just give me one more. I need it—need to feel you come on my tongue again. Please.”
And then it hit, harder than the last, a silent, shattering wave that left your mouth open in a soundless cry, body convulsing under her hands as you writhed and twitched and clawed at the fogged glass as it might anchor you. Blake held you through it all, moaning softly against your core like she was the one coming undone, refusing to pull away even as you shook and whimpered and tried half-heartedly to push her off.
I’m so sorry again for taking so long with posting at the moment, I think I’ll be able to get something done today I’m just not particularly going through the nicest time right now, and I’m not in the best mental place. I’m genuinely so sorry for keeping everyone waiting on things as I know it’s probably very irritating.. Ill try to post today and if not uhhh you can all throw rotten tomatoes at me like a medieval criminal
STOP THIS IS LITERALLY EVERYTHING I EVER NEEDED AND MORE YOU SPOIL ME SO MUCH… is it too on theme to say this set me off crying again… good tears I pinkie swear 😖🐰🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍
Hey guys, I’m trying to get at least two fics out today but I’ve genuinely had the worst day of my life in a very long time so it’s taking a bit longer than I expected… fuck being sensitive fr. I’m really sorry for making everyone wait so long I feel awful for it truly. Please don’t hate me guys I’m trying so hard I promise I’m really trying
@onlyangel4 just pointed out to me how similar we are to chels and maxx and I’m about to be so insufferable about this I canttttt. Like you all don’t understand how accurate this is I’m giggling and kicking my feet. Bruh wdym you think I’m like such an endearing cutie pie?! And chels is so everything this is the best thing to ever happen to me.
Just got told I’m very maxxine!! Guys my life is made I can clock out now.. I’m so happy I could cry you don’t understand how much this means to me 😖😖😖
