[Contest] Write in the Name of Love

[Sacai]

this story was kinda based on my real life experiences, so it was a bit emotional to write. i hope you guys enjoy

Spoiler: “A Lonely Eve”

We officially met on the coldest night of Christmas.

Just me and him, looking out towards the frozen lake. I don’t think anything was said at that moment, really. Just the sounds of our exhales filling the air between us. As our eyes twinkled under the moonlight, his breath radiating on my cheeks, and his arms wrapped around my waist—he stole my first kiss.

To this day, I still do not know his name.

But I remember how my impulse pulled me from the confines of my home and into the thickets of Central Park. How the snow engulfed the city and the chimneys brimmed with smoke. I remember how the people, hand in hand, cheered to the carols of the local choirs. Children laughed as their dogs wallowed in the snow.

And I especially remember how silly it was that instead of lazing within the warm comforts of my room, I was shuffling about in the cold like a penguin. I had no actual reason to, but I guess a part of me wanted to see the city in all of its merry glory a final time before I returned to my hometown.

As I staggered towards the clearing at the lake, eyes crusted with snow, he stood there, basking in the mellow light of the moon. The man who had always sat across from me on the train to work, somehow, he too was alone that night.

Maybe I needed someone to be by my side that eve, maybe it was just pure dumb naivety, but I approached him, no hesitation in the shuffles I took. Dawdling my way to his side, he turned his head towards me, smiling as puffs of cloud exhaled through his nose.

I never realized how sweet he looked until that night. Carrying a set of eyes the color of rainy skies, a jaw that could cut through stone, and a pair of black glasses to top everything off–he was like a fireplace to this cold, so warm and so inviting.

He signaled me over, giggling as my frigid legs waddled. Above us, the leaves danced as the wind swept across the canopies, gently showering us in snow. In the far distance, dozens of skaters glided on ice, laughing as they fell flat on their bellies. A handful of food carts were also scattered around, beckoning people to buy their goods.

It must have been hours just standing there as we watched the world move around us. Perhaps it was some mutual understanding that we both needed each other in that moment because neither of us had dared to move a step away from the other. Although we knew absolutely nothing about each other, the warmth that we shared was enough to ground both our feet into the snow.

Maybe it was him first or maybe it was me, but our hands finally intertwined. The heat alone sent waves of shivers through my body, goosebumps prickling on my chest. I turned to face him and I knew immediately where this was going to go because he had already faced me. His warm breath burning on my cheeks, our eyes locked in an unbreakable connection, he leaned in and it was as if fireworks had exploded in my body.

Despite the cold, his lips were somehow as soft as the petals of a lily. He pulled me into him, wrapping his arms around my back as his fingers traced the curve along my back. It felt like an eternity, and I wished it was, but as his face pulled away from mine, I noticed tears swelling in his eyes.

“Thank you.” He whispered.

I smiled, gingerly placing his cheeks into my palms.

“I needed that too.” I nod, releasing myself from the safety of his arms.

“I’ll see you tomorrow on the train?”

I pursed my lips, puffs of clouds dispersing as I sighed. I shook my head.

“It’s… my last day in the city, actually.”

“Your number then?”

My eyes pulled down into the ground, unable to continue holding his gaze. I could feel that familiar, painful hardness forming in the back of my throat, and I knew that this fleeting moment was finally escaping me. I shook my head again, this time with more fervor because those awful tears would form.

“My family… it’s complicated.”

“Why?”

“They would never accept me.” I mumbled, biting into my cheek to stop my eyes from flooding.

He nodded, fully realizing the weight of my situation. As his eyes turned away from me and back to the lake, it felt as if he were never there. That impossible, lonely feeling starting to creep on me, the warmth of his touch dissipating–I was cold again.

I shuffled away, arms buried in pockets, and turned back to my home. The soft, gentle weather that had lightly showered us in snow now a blizzard. Those cheering people now all but gone. And I returned back to the lonely confines of my room.

It would be several years until I returned to New York, but whenever I do, I always wait at that same clearing on Christmas’ eve, hoping to see him again no matter how slim the chances are. Because even through the long hours of begging and praying and crying, I know that eventually, this everlasting cold might end. I know that someday, I can see that same smile again. Might even feel the warmth of his arms. But what I really hope for is that on that day, I can finally learn his name.

 

[Azari]

Deadly Love

Back Story

There once was a little girl who grew up in a small town far from the city of Hebron. She did not have the best life growing up. Her parents were not the best role models and developed schizophrenia due to the abuse and neglection her parents caused.

20 years later...

As she got older the women met a man, found a deep connection with this sophisticated young man. They laughed, cried, went outside and have picnics at the small park just outside of town. The couple was thinking about having kids and dreamed of the white pickett fence. That one night changed forever because something happened.

Of the day of April 25, 1997, the couple were watching a movie in their apartment and having pop corn and one particular scene on that movie caused a disturbance in the womens mind and she snapped from past trauma. The man, the lover asked "What is wrong", she said "Nothing" but as the man kept asking her what is wrong, the women was getting this built anger from the pushing of the man and all her past trauma in her life. As she ran towards the bathroom with spinning visuals and over dramatic hallucinations, starring at the mirror and look at her reflection, wondering if life is worth it. As the women, panicking saying "stop, go away", the man comes responsively fast to the bathroom. Walking in to help and as the man walks in he sees her with a razor blade in her hands. The man "stop what are you doing" grabs her from side.

On this fatal night she could see what was real or fake. The women felt the touch of something and thought it was her mind. The man is dead on the bathroom floor, blood flowing from his neck. The women just did the one thing she would never do. She ran out of the door and ran out of the door.

3 days later...

Neighbor from the hall smelt something obtrusive and disgusting from his own apartment building, that was coming from the vents. Nieghbor walked to the door and knocked and found out the door was unlocked and gasped from the smell when he opened it. As he walked further on the apartment he saw the mans body lying on the floor. He rushed back to his apartment to call the police. Shortly after the police arrived and started the investigation.

The women was never to be found and seen.

-iDemon

This popped on 2 different AI checkers as being written by AI. You are disqualified from this contest.

 

[iDemon]

This popped on 2 different AI checkers as being written by AI. You are disqualified from this contest.

I wrote this without an AI???

 

[iDemon]

I wrote this without an AI???

Literally wrote it in my head and idek how to use an AI

 

[Aidoneus]

To my Darling.
I love movies and I look books and tv shows. But what I love is stories. The story I love most isn’t Aidon and Darling, Hades and Kore, it isn’t that gangster WEBTOON about love either .

It’s ours.

Through all the good days and the bad every page to me is full of purpose and wonder. The adventures seem endless and the new chapters always develop serious plots and character development.

The way the characters are in love and how they fight for it even when hurt. But when they are in harmony the passion and intensity, the intimacy and hunger is unmatched.

My favorite story is us because you’re the best character I’ve ever seen.

You’re sweet and loving. You’re so so precious and adorable to me, but you’re also a genuine genius when it comes to crafting and constantly memorize me.
No one sees the crafter I do. Working hard for hours on amazing cups. Resin works that would make even the most popular TikTokers or crafters take notice.

You’re beauty and your personality drive me to take on the universe and I never tire or bore of it. I never grow weary of waking to your face or falling asleep to you in my arms.

I am so madly and crazily in love with you I can’t even describe it.

Today is just about you sweetheart, and how much I love and want you. How much I crave and desire you. The passion to kiss and to love you. To hold and to take you passionately To protect and to cherish, to spoil and be safety. Above all to show love and give you my heart as you gave me yours.

The thing is. You’re sweeter then honey, and shine brighter then a diamond. Your personality and love or more vast than any ocean and if I was lost at sea your light would guide me home.

We love horror, so I wrote you a bloody Valentine today. Most would think it’s weird but you just laughed and smiled happy. I dressed up like ghost face and walked in after work just to see you full of joy.

When we lay down in bed at night, work being long kicking our butts and we are in pain and ready to sleep. Just being able to tell you a story, hearing you asking what happens next or waking up after falling asleep just asking for more. These are the things I cherish and love. The simple and the silly. The playful and the fun.


I wish the world could read your writings, and see all your amazing creations. You have talent and drive that rivals nobody and it’s hard to ever explain in words.


I don’t know this even existed and when you suggested I share my message of love I sent you and smiled and said sure why not. Truthfully to me it isn’t about some mod crates. I just want to show the world how special you are, how important you are to me.

I have added some to what I couldn’t say. There’s not enough characters in the world to express my love for you.

It seems I got a little off track so allow me to finish what I was sayi it.

I love stories, truly. I could read for hours.
When I think of all the stories we have wrote together it makes me smile, but not like the adventures we have shared together. From concerts to Jurassic park live to seeing, laser shows and sitting on the beach staring at the ocean on your birthday.

So many wonderful chapters and so many more to come.

I’m excited for each day because I never know what’s in store.

At the end of my life I know I will smile because I will have lived the greatest story ever wrote. But above all I’ll look to you and be happy and grateful for you changing my life forever.

I hope this post shows you just a fraction of what you mean because I plan to spend everyday showing you I love you with every fiber of my being.

Happy Valentines Day princess I hope it was a good one and I can’t wait to spoil you even more tomorrow

 

[-Cersei]

“Dense and Confused”

Victoria Hastings. Popular, talented, smart, and gorgeous. Despite having these traits, she'd rather be left alone however, it seemed like that was an impossible feat because someone just won't leave her alone no matter how hard she tried to get away. Someone who's bubbly, kind, and– if she'll be honest– way gorgeous as hell. Does she like her? She'll be lying if she said that she doesn't. 'Like' doesn't actually give justice to what she was feeling. She was head over heels in love to be exact and things like these are a trivial matter to her but when it comes to this person, her jaded perspective just disappears.

"Tori!" Came a voice behind her from a distance followed by rapid footsteps and she braced herself for impact.

"Oof." She softly let out as a body slammed behind her, wrapping their arms around her torso tight in the process. "Riley, I swear you'll be the reason for my future back problems."

"I just missed you." Riley whined as she rested her chin on Tori's shoulder. She held the urge to chuckle because Riley had to stand on a tiptoe in order for her to do that since she was a few inches taller than Riley.

She turned her head slightly to look at the other girl. "You've been away for, like, ten minutes!"

"Ten minutes is long enough." Her best friend says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world which made the corner of her lips quirk up a little.

"You're a dork, you know that?"

"I know." Riley answered then let her go just to walk in front of her and Tori could see the huge smile plastered on her best friend's face which she found really adorable. "But I'm YOUR dork."

Tori pursed her lips as her heart skipped a beat when she heard those words. It wasn't like Riley confessed to her or something yet, the effect was just the same. It was stupid, she knew that, but these sweet, little things Riley does just makes her fall more and more and it was scaring her like hell. She doesn't even know if Riley likes her back or if she was just doing these sweet gestures because they were best friends.

"You're ridiculous." Was all she said as she shook her head. She didn't miss the way how Riley's elated expression fell though, yet she didn't make any comment about it.

Yeah... it was just another thing added to the pile of her confused thoughts.

**

The next day, Tori and Riley were strolling on the campus grounds. They got bored sitting idly in their classroom so they decided to go for a walk. It wasn't like they had anything to do anyway since their teacher got called in for a meeting and they got dismissed early.

When they got to the school's track, they decided to sit on the bleachers and spend their time there. It was a lovely day after all. The sun wasn't glaring and the wind was cool. Add to the fact that there were only a few people that could be seen as it was still technically class hours and Tori pretty much preferred this. It was peaceful and quiet.

"Hey, Tori?" Riley softly uttered, breaking the silence.

She turned to look at her best friend. "Yeah?"

"What would you do if someone told you they liked you?" Riley asked then tilted her head slightly to the side, eyes slightly widening in curiosity. Tori suppressed the urge to squeal because one, she's not really the squealing type of person so that would be weird and two, she found Riley so adorable that it made her want to squeal.

She managed to compose herself, cleared her throat and just asked back, "Why?"

Riley shrugged. "I just wanna know, is all."

She paused for a moment, mulling her answer. Sure she gets several confessions here and there because of her looks, but to really, genuinely like her and her cynical arse? It made her laugh dryly. "Only an idiot would like me."

"Hey!" The shorter girl protested as she smacked Tori's arm.

"Ow!" She rubbed the arm where Riley had just smacked. It wasn't really that hard, honestly. She was more like shocked than hurt. "What?"

"I'm not an idiot." Riley stated with a frown and a furrowed brow. Tori could see that she was clearly irritated.

"I meant like me in a different way." Tori elaborated. "Not as a friend."

"I– you– gah!" Riley seemed unable to form coherent words and just threw her hands up in frustration.

"What's wrong?" She asked in utter confusion.

Riley covered her face with her palms as she heaved out a sigh. "You're so dense."

Her brow arched at this. "Care to explain then?"

Her best friend slightly shook her head, putting her hands away from her face and looked at her. "Wanna have a sleepover this weekend? Mom will be glad to see you."

Riley was obviously changing the topic but she was just gonna let it slide. She was confused as heck, sure. However, that doesn't mean that she was gonna push Riley to something that she didn't want to talk about anymore. So instead of questioning the other girl, she just nodded. "Sure. Come to think of it, it's been a while since we've had a sleepover."

Riley squealed in delight and hugged her which made her heart beat erratically. She was hesitant, but she hugged Riley back anyway, hoping that Riley couldn't hear– or feel– the pounding of her heart.

"I'm so excited that I can hardly wait for the weekend to come!" Riley said cheerfully with a giggle and hugged her a bit tighter.

Tori was starting to regret agreeing. If Riley could make her heart beat this fast, she might have a heart attack before the night ended on their said sleepover. They might have had sleepovers before, but that was before she realized that she had feelings towards her best friend.

'Oh, boy. It's going to be a long night.' She thought to herself, sighing internally.

**

Weekend came and Tori was a nervous wreck. She had been standing on the Stone residence’s porch– a.k.a. Riley’s house– for a solid ten minutes already. She was honestly thinking about bailing, but before she even got to make a decision, the door opened and she saw Riley’s mom.

“Tori, dear!” The older woman greeted in surprise. “Have you been standing there long?”

Tori shook her head and gave a smile. “Not really, Mrs. Stone. It’s great to see you again.”

“It’s great to see you again, as well. Come in, come in.” Mrs. Stone beckoned for her to come inside. She gave a small ‘thank you’ as she entered the house. “I have to do some last minute grocery shopping but Riley is upstairs.”

“Thanks again, Mrs. Stone.” She said, giving the older woman another smile and slowly went upstairs towards her best friend’s room.

When she reached Riley’s door, she took a deep breath and knocked tentatively. There was a muffled ‘come in’ and she slowly opened the door and entered the room. Yeah, she was definitely doing everything slow.

She wasn’t able to close the door properly yet when a body slammed against her, yet again as Riley always does, arms snaking around her torso, hugging tight. She felt warm and tingly and she would always feel nice whenever Riley does this which was probably why it was fine with her despite the air being knocked away from her lungs.

“You’re here.” Riley muttered behind her, head resting on her back. She felt guilty because she really was close to bailing out.

“Did you expect me not to show up?” She asked in what she had hoped to be amusement.

“Honestly?” Her best friend giggled softly as she let her go. “Yeah, I did.”

“Well…” She drawled as she turned to look at Riley completely and she was stunned by how the shorter girl looked. She knew Riley has always been gorgeous, but right now felt different… or maybe because she was seeing Riley differently than before.

“Are you okay?” The voice of Riley snapped her out of her thoughts.

“Yeah, I am.” Tori answered almost immediately, making her wince internally. “Why?”

“I dunno… You just kinda stood there and stared at me like I’ve grown another head.” Riley said with a chuckle and she felt her face heat up in embarrassment.

“Oh… D-did I?” She stuttered.

“You did.” Riley answered with a nod then grinned. “Not that I mind though.” She added with a wink and Tori swore that this girl was definitely going to be the death of her.

“Dork.” Was all she said then walked towards Riley’s bed and placed her bag down at the foot of the bed.

“I’m your dork though.” She swore she could hear affection on Riley’s voice but hey, she might just be delusional. So before she gets her hopes up, she’d rather just shatter them while it still wasn’t too late.

Sighing deeply, she turned towards Riley and uttered, “Seriously, Riley, quit that.”

“Why?” The shorter girl asked.

“’Cause it’s making me feel weird, okay?” Tori answered, crossing her arms as her brows furrowed.

“Weird in a bad way or in a good way?” Riley asked again and she doesn’t know what Riley was trying to get at.

“BOTH!” She exclaimed and both girls were shocked by her sudden raise of voice. She quickly recovered though and held out a sigh again. “It’s making me feel weird in a way that I don’t know what to do with you or with myself anymore. Like, what exactly are you doing, Riley?”

“Wow, you really are dense.” Riley said quite amused when she recovered from the shock and there was a playful smile on her face which made Tori even more confused. Was just Riley pulling her leg?

“Then make me understand.”

“Okay.” That was what Riley just said then all she knew was that she felt soft lips planted on hers. She was frozen, she felt like her brain short-circuit, and all she could hear was the pounding of her heart.

Riley kissed her… Riley was KISSING her. And she was just standing there like a goddamn statue!

Trying hard to gather her wits, she managed to grab Riley’s neck and started to kiss the other girl back and she heard Riley hummed in– content? Approval? Delight? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she had wanted this and Riley apparently wanted it, as well.

After a few minutes, air was needed and they reluctantly pulled away from each other but Tori kept her forehead rested on Riley’s. She then heard the other girl chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” She asked.

“I’m just happy.” Riley admitted as she wrapped her arms around her body again. “I’ve been wanting to do that for so long.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I waited for the right moment. You know… when you finally got your head out of your arse.”

“Hey!” She protested and Riley giggled at her reaction.

“In all seriousness though, I waited for the right moment.” Riley said when she stopped giggling and gazed at her eyes directly. It was like Riley was searching something in her eyes and had found something that made the other girl smile softly.

“Thank you.” She said, almost whispered to be exact.

“What for?” Her best friend asked.

“I would still have been scared if you didn’t do this. I wasn’t quite sure if you–“

“Dense.” Riley interjected.

“Stop that.” She whined then pouted. Riley gave her a peck on her lips and she could feel that she was blushing profusely yet again.

“Hey, Tori.” Riley called her suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“Wanna be my girlfriend?” The other girl asked, wiggling her brows which made her laugh.

Be Riley Stone’s girlfriend? This adorable human being which happened to be her best friend, the one that she had fallen for and apparently fell for her as well? Sign her the heck up. She would be an utter fool if she passed this opportunity. So with a smile on her face, she answered with a voice full of affection.

“I would love to.”

-----

Hoping I made it for the last minute entry. Haha. Happy Valentine's y'all.

 

[Azari]

To my Darling.
I love movies and I look books and tv shows. But what I love is stories. The story I love most isn’t Aidon and Darling, Hades and Kore, it isn’t that gangster WEBTOON about love either .

It’s ours.

Through all the good days and the bad every page to me is full of purpose and wonder. The adventures seem endless and the new chapters always develop serious plots and character development.

The way the characters are in love and how they fight for it even when hurt. But when they are in harmony the passion and intensity, the intimacy and hunger is unmatched.

My favorite story is us because you’re the best character I’ve ever seen.

You’re sweet and loving. You’re so so precious and adorable to me, but you’re also a genuine genius when it comes to crafting and constantly memorize me.
No one sees the crafter I do. Working hard for hours on amazing cups. Resin works that would make even the most popular TikTokers or crafters take notice.

You’re beauty and your personality drive me to take on the universe and I never tire or bore of it. I never grow weary of waking to your face or falling asleep to you in my arms.

I am so madly and crazily in love with you I can’t even describe it.

Today is just about you sweetheart, and how much I love and want you. How much I crave and desire you. The passion to kiss and to love you. To hold and to take you passionately To protect and to cherish, to spoil and be safety. Above all to show love and give you my heart as you gave me yours.

The thing is. You’re sweeter then honey, and shine brighter then a diamond. Your personality and love or more vast than any ocean and if I was lost at sea your light would guide me home.

We love horror, so I wrote you a bloody Valentine today. Most would think it’s weird but you just laughed and smiled happy. I dressed up like ghost face and walked in after work just to see you full of joy.

When we lay down in bed at night, work being long kicking our butts and we are in pain and ready to sleep. Just being able to tell you a story, hearing you asking what happens next or waking up after falling asleep just asking for more. These are the things I cherish and love. The simple and the silly. The playful and the fun.


I wish the world could read your writings, and see all your amazing creations. You have talent and drive that rivals nobody and it’s hard to ever explain in words.


I don’t know this even existed and when you suggested I share my message of love I sent you and smiled and said sure why not. Truthfully to me it isn’t about some mod crates. I just want to show the world how special you are, how important you are to me.

I have added some to what I couldn’t say. There’s not enough characters in the world to express my love for you.

It seems I got a little off track so allow me to finish what I was sayi it.

I love stories, truly. I could read for hours.
When I think of all the stories we have wrote together it makes me smile, but not like the adventures we have shared together. From concerts to Jurassic park live to seeing, laser shows and sitting on the beach staring at the ocean on your birthday.

So many wonderful chapters and so many more to come.

I’m excited for each day because I never know what’s in store.

At the end of my life I know I will smile because I will have lived the greatest story ever wrote. But above all I’ll look to you and be happy and grateful for you changing my life forever.

I hope this post shows you just a fraction of what you mean because I plan to spend everyday showing you I love you with every fiber of my being.

Happy Valentines Day princess I hope it was a good one and I can’t wait to spoil you even more tomorrow

while this is a very cute and loving letter it is not a story not really, but thank you for sharing and happy v-day to you both!

 

[iPad]

A Cheesy Love Story


Once upon a time there lived two 22 year olds that lived in New York City who couldn’t be more different than the other. Zarp was your average guy winging life as it came and he absolutely loved pizza. And not just any pizza, but a good ol fashioned slice of NYC melty cheese pizza. He had an uncanny ability to make pizza catered to the taste of the eater, typically limited to only friends and family, and he aspired to open his own pizza shop. But for now he was happy to work part time at a PIZZA HUTT (not to be confused with Pizza Hut - the owner ripped off the name in hopes of increasing business in the 50s and just kept the name since).


On the opposite side of the city, there was an affluent socialite named Brie who enjoyed all the finer things in life. Her American dad was a world renowned executive in the entertainment world and her mom was a former supermodel of Brazilian descent. She loves a simple charcuterie spread and practically has it daily due to a hectic schedule.


Coming from different walks of life, one winter night they cross paths by chance. Brie had been scrambling between back to back events, shows and parties as it was NY Fashion Week. It was a particularly taxing week as she was recovering from a recent breakup with a DJ… and although assured he wouldn’t be attending by the hosts, he just happened to walk into the same event.

Brie was used to being in the limelight, but this scandal hurt as they had been secretly dating since they were 18, long before he even was famous. By his request, they decided to go public last month and she had foolishly found it sweet he wanted his fans to know about her. That is, until she found her ex in bed with his manager who was linked to his arm at the current moment. Dumping him on the spot and refusing to forgive him, he tweeted that we had ended our relationship and made himself out to be the hopeless sweetheart while Brie became the fame chasing man eater. She tried to keep her composure and mingled with everyone while expertly avoiding the duo but she was starting to feel the wine and knew she had to get out of there before she embarrasses herself. She finished her last glass of wine and made her way to the exit, feeling light headed as she hadn’t eaten all day.


To escape rumors of her leaving like a diva, she chose a secret ally way exit free of the paparazzi. As she pulled the door open she breathed in a gulp of the piercing air and let the wind bite into her skin before wrapping her face with a scarf to conceal her identity. She heard steps behind her and worried it was a reporter she started to sprint and turned the corner,barreling right into the arms of Zarp, who was out finishing his last delivery.


*hrrk… bleghhh* Although he likely saved her from face planting into the pavement, the jerky movement was too much for Brie she pulled her scared down and threw up. Quickly the feelings of nausea turned into embarrassment as Brie realized she’d thrown up on her savior.


“I am so sorry! I must’ve been sick because I hadn’t eaten all day!” Brie exclaimed as she rips her scarf off to try and dab away at the stain on his grey coat, looking behind her in hopes she lost the person.


He chuckles without a hint of annoyance, “It’s fine, do you want to come inside the shop to clean up and rest for a bit? I’m closing anyways and I’m sure I can whip you up a fresh slice.” He pointed back to a set of stairs leading into a pizzeria. He wasn’t sure why he invited this total stranger in but the words were already out and he find himself hoping she said yes.


As for Bri, maybe it was Zarp’s disarming smile or the potential of a reporter tailing her, but the normally careful socialite agreed, pulling into the restaurant and dashing in. “My name is Bri by the way.”


“Nice to meet you my name is Zarp - the bathroom is that way,” he points to the right. “I think I have a special pizza in mind, so I’ll get started on that.”

Brie frowned, “I haven’t had pizza since I was 10.”

“Well… it is a pizza place. Let me try a recipe and just try it! You havent had a single meal today right?”


Not wanting to appear ungrateful, she agreed, promising to help after she cleaned up. By the time she got back however, the pizza was already in the oven.


“Wow you’re fast,” Brie said feeling slightly bad having now thrown up and not helping. In her line of business, there was no such thing as free kindness.


“Leave the pizza making to the professional,” he said dusting off his shoulders in mock superiority. “Actually we just have dough ready so I just threw some toppings on.”


“Oh so not a completely fresh slice,” Brie joked, her eyes twinkling in laughter. And the two unlikely pair started chatting about mundane things from the news to the weather but maybe it was the night but the attraction was sparking.


*BEEP* The oven timer goes off and Brie can smell crisp onions and a sweet breads order. Zarp pulls out his latest creation and cuts it into perfect triangles, “ Your Brie and Onion Pizza is served, inspired by the lady’s lovely name.”


Brie chuckled and took a bite felt her tastebuds sing and her inside melt. She didn’t know if she was hungry but it was the best thing she’d had in ages. “Wow, this is AH-Mazingg!”


“I told you!” Z smiled proudly And they spent the rest of their night chatting and completely taken with the stranger in front of them. Before they knew, it was morning and they had to part ways, with Zarp happy to found inspiration in an unlikely place with this mysterious and quick witted stranger and Brie thankful to be in the presence of someone so warm and welcoming for once. Neither thought to ask the other for a contact information and a year went by until…


~ A year later ~

Brie stepped out of her cab to the opening of one the most talked about restaurant openings. The owner, Chef Zarpiz apparently makes the most unique pizzas in the city as well as the best classics. Although she usually sticks to fashion events, after meeting Z, she had a newfound love for pizza and excited at the invitation. Though she wondered if she was at the right spot as she stepped inside since it was relatively dead for a hotspot.


“Welcome to Zarpiz Pizzeria,” came a familiar voice and Brie saw Z looking back at her.


“Z? You’re chef Zarpiz?” She felt emotional as she’d gone back a month later only to find he had quit and only thing she wished is to see him again.


“Yes that’s my full name! You inspired me to go chase my dream and I invited you to thank you as well as to get an exclusive tasting on all the menu items.


Brie laughed, “If it’s anything like that Brie Pizza, I’m ready! As long it comes with a pizza that ass,” Brie froze realizing she accidentally said that out loud.


“It could if you want,” Z smirked, much to her embarrassment. “You know, I don’t want to lose touch with you again. And i was going to do this after the event but …. Would you like to go on a date with me? ” Z asked with hopes in his eyes , Smiling Brie walked upto him and pulled him into a kiss that gave her answer.



Author Notes:

• To this day, the best selling item is the Brie onion Pizza.

• Brie is actually short for Brienna.

 

[Android]

(Please ignore previous post, my formatting didn’t transfer over)

The 14 Day Melody (v. 3)


Empty. Numb. Broken. It’s all that I feel after having my entire world ripped from me. If I knew what was to come I wonder if it would have changed anything? Loving you was inevitable and I got selfish.


Maybe with my final act i can right all the wrongs.


————-

~Day 1~

*AHHHHHHH* I slammed the snooze button on my phone to the sound of screaming goats blaring next to my left ear and pull my white down comforter over me to hide from the cool morning air.


Why the fuck did I set it so early, I curse to myself as a growing headache formed. At this point there was no way I was going back to sleep and vowed to change the stupid alarm tone to something slightly calmer. (Though I could’ve sworn I did…)


“Oi GIA! GIAAAAAA! ARE YOU UP? WE’RE LEAVING IN 10 MINUTES.”


Oh shit. I promised I’d wake up early to go see the city of Athens especially since it was my first time. I came to perform at a summer festival but that wasn’t until later that night. Lex would have my head as he had to cancel his date with a famous Dutch model named Romeo Strijid he met at a magazine photoshoot last year.


“YEAH I JUST NEED 5 minutes,” I shout back as I throw the covers off with no time to mourn the cocoon of warmth that is my bed or the feelings of deja vu. I quickly finger brushed my wild auburn waves into what i pray is a presentable messy bun and dragged my black eyeliner to bring out my otherwise glazed hazel eye still adjusting to the burn of the morning light streaming in. Pulling on my my black sweat set, I dashed down out of my hotel room under the 5 minutes as promised.


“Ready!!!” I beam at my self appointed life manager, best friend and advisor on all things fabulous, Alexandre Martins, aka Lex.


“Did you even brush your teeth…?” his usually clear warm blue eyes reflected horror.


“… be right back.”


*15 minutes later*


After appropriately getting ready, I had swapped my apparent “pajamas” for an evergreen sweater dress over sheer tights and pulled on my new white Stuart Weitzman boots in an attempt to appease my punctual best friend.


“Much better! Even though you are late,” said Lex, shooting me a mock glare and interrupting my thoughts, “you can’t go around looking like a zombie next to me. Although…”, he walked over and tugged at my messy bun to release my hip length waves and grinned his approval. I rolled my eyes as I didn’t see the point when we were just going to be tourists, but I knew fighting him was futile. fashion was a hallmark of his life - even at 7AM he came dressed sharp in a fitted velvet red suit with his shoulder length curly blonde locks styled in a bun.


“You look fabulous as usual Lex. I still am about your date,” I sheepishly add.


“Oh Gia baby… who said I canceled,” he licked his lips lasciviously, with a gleam in his eyes. “Saw him last night instead.”


“Lex! No wonder you aren’t nagging me. We didn’t even land till midnight. Did you even get any sleep?” I chuckle in amazement to how energized and alive he looked.


“A god does not need sleep!” I jokingly scoff at his self appointed title as god of love.


“How right you are Lex.” I jump, startled by the deep, ethereal voice behind me and spun to see lex’s brother, Luca. And this guy might as well be the god of beauty himself. Although Lex reminded me of an angel, his brother was his opposite: he had the most devilish looks with wavy jet black hair and mesmerizing golden eyes that were looking back at me just as… mesmerized?


Luca grinned knowingly, as if he could hear my thoughts. I blushed even though it was irrational and shook the thoughts away, composing myself and going in for a hug. “Wow! It’s been so long - you’re usually busy this time of year I thought?” It was normal for him to disappear for his mysteriously every summer and winter for the last 10 years I’ve known him and even during spring and fall. I’ve only seen him a handful of times during meeting during one of Lex’s mandatory celebrations. Even though we barely exchanged greetings even when we did meet, he was my first crush. I must’ve been drawn by how mysterious he was and his expressive eyes. It felt like love at first sight but I’m sure thats just me romanticizing my crush. It been years and I was definitely over it.


Although he kept smiling, the humor fell from his eyes. “I got out of my usual responsibilities for once.” Before I got to think that over I was suddenly enveloped by his unique smell of warmth and spice as he returned my hug and a dizzying wave of deja vu hit me. Though I might’ve lingered on the hug, i was thankful for the support. He didn’t seem to mind though, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say his eyes looked even sadder when I stepped away.


“So,” Lex leaned in using my shoulder as a support, “while I go get to know my new guy, my favorite brother is going to take you around in my place.” I froze.


“It was my idea!” Luca exclaimed, interrupting my thoughts. “I mean, It’s been awhile since I saw lex so happy with someone so I figured I’d offer to show you around… as they deepen their relationship….”


“I thought they just met,” I replied, looking between them quizzically as lex struggled to hold back his laughter.


“Pffft… oh yeah… haha.. it was love at first… sight? Anyways I really have to go meet my apparent future husband so you guys have fun!” With that he flounced out the door leaving me alone and confused and if the nerves and heart thumping was any indicator, definitely not over my crush. Composing myself, I turn to Luca and flash him the most what I hope is confident smile I could.

“Can I suggest we add a coffee shop as the first thing on our itinerary?”


“I already have one I know you’ll love.”


———————————

Day 14


Feb.14

Dear Diary,


What I expected to be a single day of adventure turned into something I could’ve never predicted. It feels like a fever dream, spending my days exploring Athens with my first crush. I feel guilty but I skipped my concert but I had to chase these feelings otherwise I felt I’d come to to regret it.


Although it was my first time really getting to know him, it all felt familiar somehow. He seemed to know all my favorite things and i always seemed to finish his thoughts. I’ve fallen madly in love with him.


I think he feels the same but he hasn’t said anything so today…


*knock knock*

My writing is interrupted with steady knocks at the door and I dash to open it to the familiar warm smell I’ve grown accustomed to. “You took forever!!! Did you bring the heart shaped cookies?”


Luca flashed a cheeky smile and pulled out cookies that were definitely sugar but…

“Why are they phallic shaped?” I tried looking stern but my failed attempt to suppress my smirk gave me away.


“Because you have the humor of a 13 year old boy. Aaaand they were 50% off.”


“You know I love a good deal,” I grabbed the box and made my way back into the hotel room. “Come to the balcony! I actually wanted to ask you something before we head out for lunch.


“Sure, what’s up?” He followed me out into the cool Athens air and lean over the stone balustrade.


“Why aren’t you spending Valentines Day with a girlfriend?” I ask teasingly but with intention. I see the forced smile again. It’s something I noticed over the week - anytime his job is mentioned or romance, I catch the look of hurt and pain in his eyes for a split second before he pulls on his upbeat mask to cover it. Lex had warned me against prying when I mentioned it, but I can’t help but worry.


“Dating is too much trouble - I’m going to be a bachelor for life,” though he had a playful smirk I didn’t miss the subtle dim in his eyes. Must be a past lover…who was she? Despite Lex’s warning I pressed on “Do you have anyone you like?”


“If myself counts…” he looks away and starts fidgeting with his large with every intention to avoid the topic.


“Really Luca… tell me what’s in your heart. I know we just got to know one another and I may sound crazy but I like you. A lot. And.. I would like to spend more time with you..” I whisper, my cheeks burning at the confession spoken out loud.


His golden eyes snapped up, reflecting longing and the last expression I expected to see: fear. His voice shook in pain as he whispered, “You can’t.”


“Why not?” I reply exasperated. I can’t have mistaken our chemistry but I can’t ignore the pain in his expressive eyes.


He kept silent and instead reaches and take my hands. Whatever was on his mind was tormenting him and I felt helpless, wanting to help but not understanding.


“I wish we had more time. I’m sorry.”


“Stop being so confusing and be honest! What is going on Luca?” I start to pull my hands back but he pulls me in till our foreheads touch and I’m sitting on his lap and can feel the tickle of his breath. He closes his eyes and suddenly kisses me. Instantly every fiber of my body feels electrocuted…. and with a wave of dread, I remember.


I’m dead. And with that final thought my mind blanks out.



—————————————————————


————-

~Day 1~

The sound of goats blaring. The chill morning air making me want to pull up my white comforters. A sense of loss and tears in my eyes. I must’ve had a really sad dream but why can’t I remember?


“Oi GIA! GIAAAAAA! ARE YOU UP? WE’RE LEAVING IN 10 MINUTES.”


Lex, the friend who ditched a date and came here with me to show me around Athens.


“YEAH I JUST NEED 5 minutes,” I say as I reach for the black sweat set, but opting for a casual long sleeve black dress and throwing on some light makeup and remembering to brush my teeth. Remembering?


“Ready!!!” I say 5 minutes later.


“No sweats? I’m surprised,” Lex smiled knowingly.


“You look fabulous as usual Lex. I still am sorry about your date.”


“Oh Gia baby… who said I canceled. Saw him last night instead.”


“Lex! No wonder you aren’t nagging me. We didn’t even land till midnight. Did you even get any sleep?” I say, confused at how familiar this all seems.


“A god does not need sleep!” A dull pang shoots through me at the mention of god and I wince. “It’ll be okay,” he says softly. I shoot him a confused look but he begins detailing his date from the night before as we walk out the door and I soon forget the cryptic reassurance and feelings.


“It was love at first sight,” gushed Lex and I listened wishing for my own “love at first sight” experience.

———————————————

Luca


I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being selfish one last time. Today I would have asked you to be mine and we would’ve spent 2 years together, another 3 years married. I have lived many vain lifetimes as an immortal but that little time with you was the first time I experienced true happiness in over a millennia.


Being selfish has a consequence and I paid the ultimate price. By ignoring my divine duties and dedicating my 5 years to you, I ignited the wrath of the jealous goddesses and snuffed your life sooner than fated. You had a full land happy life ahead of you if just stayed away.


A soul must pass the river of Styx, so I will trade my soul who has cheated death for centuries with nothing to show for. You have much to offer the world so move the hearts of the world as fated… like you did mine. My final act as an immortal is taking your memories of us with me so you can live this lifetime to spare you the pain.


Thank you for loving me my muse.


—————————



Synopsis: The ancient god of beauty, Adonis, fell in love with a human singer. They’’d been together for 5 years. Because he wanted to spend as much time with his lover, as she was human, he ignored his divine duties to spend Summer and Winter seasons with Aphrodite and Persephone, respectively. He unwittingly alters her destiny and not realizing the potential consequence, he finds his lover dead, murdered by the jealous goddesses. The ancient gods took pity on the tragedy and let him trade his immortality (and therefore life since becoming immortal doesn’t stop aging but removes you from the timeline) to turn back time to the weeks before Gia and Luca/Adonis’ fate altering meeting. The story above doesn’t actually happen in the real timeline and is the result of Luca removing Gia’s memories. For her, it felt like a dream/vision, while for Luca it was like lucid dreaming.

 

[Alexisfortnitegodcutie]

Spoiler: Mine

I love you so much, my whole heart is yours.


Those words ring in my head as I stare at his grey lips. The same soft lips that I woke up to everyday, are no longer there. Just a cold rough touch was left.


His lips are mine.


I look into his eyes, pupils fixed. Those hazel eyes turn foggy as there’s no one behind them. His stupid eyes I could still look into to find a feeling of home. He’s home.


His eyes are mine.


I felt a twitch in my hand before it goes numb. Smothered with blood, I hold my everything… his heart. It’s healthy, almost a vibrant crimson. It’s mine, and will always be mine.


I love you so much, my whole heart is yours.


“If you loved me why did you pay attention to her.” I said as I caressed his face, leaving streaks of blood overtop his lips.


His heart is mine.

 

[Ronnie]

I open my eyes to a bright light beaming over me wondering what's going on. I feel as if I'm on a table about to be operated on and my vision still has yet to truly clear up.I swear I was just in a car. Wasn't I? I faintly see a man who looks like a walking corpse running towards me. Is he my doctor?







Zombie Host: She's up guys she's finally up



Contestant#1: I've been waiting my whole death for this day



Me: Your Death?



Zombie Host: WELCOME TO LOVE AFTER DEATH! on this game show you find love after you die







I almost fall right out of the hot pink stool I'm sitting on. I realized I'm on a stage but how did I get here? My mind is racing.







(audience claps)



Zombie Host: Lets hear you say it now!



Audience: LOVE AFTER DEATH



Zombie Host: One more time because she clearly didn't hear you!



Audience: LOVE AFTER DEATH!! (Cheers)







Me: DEATH?! I'm dead? For how long? What happened?!







Zombie Host: Well we would ask your cheating boyfriend but he's not dead. (Game show laughter)







I'm still wearing the pink frilly dress I was wearing on valentines day only now its stained with blood and is that intestines in my buttons? I knew I shouldnt of smoked that bowl before bed or maybe I have a serious concussion. Last thing I remember is riding to McDonald's with Donavon. Did we even make it there?







Me: Cheating? We've been together for 3 years. He would never. This is news to me.







Zombie Host: Well let me give you a little recap sugar booger since you're acting as if this is the first time you you've been dead. (Crowd laughs) 1 year ago you died because....







The audience is staring with anticipation.







Zombie Host: Your stupid fleshie left you at McDonald's to get that gawk gawk 3000 from that girl he told you not to worry about! Then proceeded to make you walk home! But wait there's more!







The audience is at the edge of their seats waiting for what obnoxious thing leaves his dry chaped mouth next







Zombie Host: Youuuuuu (he points his bony rotting finger at me) you thought you were so cute and decided not to wear your glasses and BAM that semi did something for you that your boyfriend could never!







Me: Oh really what's that?







Zombie Host: IT RAILED YOU!







The audiences eats up every word he's laying down.







Zombie Host: *pops off his head and attempts to hand it to me* Bianca looks like you need to have a better head on your shoulders (unison laughs) but enough about your LIFE can we meet the lucky contestants that are fighting for the chance to show you why ghouls fall in love! Behind this box theres not 1, not 2, but 3 contesants wanting to be your new non sneaky link. Contestant #1 please state your name and what you're looking for in a partner







I look over to see the huge pink box covered with actual beating human hearts.Then I heard what sounded like a very deep voice.







Contestant #1: Hey I'm George aka George got the juice. I'm looking for a fresh body you know. I'm sick of talking to dead girls old enough to be my grandma. It would be nice to french kiss someone who still has their tongue attached.







-George aka George got the juice



-likes animals prefers them alive



-never made out with a hotdog



-has been dead for 482 days and counting







Zombie Host: George says he has the juice but it sounds like he needs some milk. Contestant #2 introduce yourself and tell me what you think is "semi" attractive in a woman.



(Audience laughs)







Contestant #2: (nerdy voice) umm yea I'm Paul. I actually love my grandma and what I find most attractive in a woman is that they are soft you know like kittens.



(Audience awws)







-Paul



-Never been kissed



-Favorite movie 40 year old virgin



-Technically still live with his grandma



-Death Unknown







Zombie Host: Good answer Paul comparing this rotting woman to a fluffy cat. Contestant #3 please state your name and how you're not like Biancas ex.







Contestant #3:



Yo yall didn't kill me for the ratings right? (Audience laughter) Naw I'm good boy Chase. You can call me Ace and I'm most unlike your ex because if I'm going to cheat why stop at the gawk right. I'm a man who likes to score touchdowns.







-Chase aka Ace



-Catchphrase: OMW2FYB



-Was shot cheating on girlfriend with her aunt



- "can see dead people"







Zombie Host: And there we have it ladies and gentlemen the contestants! Stay tuned to find out whose catching feelings on this episode of LOVE AFTER DEATH!







(Commercial Break/ To Be continued)

 

[Vis]

Spoiler

Wandering Soul


**Disclaimer: Kazuha and Diluc are both characters from Genshin Impact, and certain story elements are taken from their backstories. However, the two have never met in game. Other characters mentioned will also be from Genshin Impact, such as Beidou, Elzer, Kaeya, and Adelinde.


One tumultuous night was all it took for Kazuha to land himself, lost, in a wheelbarrow, on what appeared to be a farm that only harvested grapes. What were those called again? Orchards? No, those were for other fruits. Grapes had a specific name, the wanderer recalls. These grapes were clearly meant for wine, therefore, the land that occupied them must be a.. Winery…? A wineyard…?



“Vineyard,” he says under his breath. If he was in a vineyard, that meant he’d accidentally stumbled his way onto the Dawn Winery after Captain Beidou’s drinking competition. Naturally, he’d lost to the captain mere moments after the competition began, however, the samurai had never been the best at sitting still when there were entire lands to explore.


Especially when this was his first time in Mondstadt. How could he refuse the tantalizing breeze, calling him away from the safety of his crew, his family, and pushing him toward the mysterious lands that surrounded him. The land of freedom, Mondstadt, was nothing like Inazuma. In some ways, Inazuma was unforgiving. Beautiful, boundless, mysterious, and undoubtedly unforgiving. Inazuma was cold, but welcoming in the way familiarity will always be. Mondstadt, however, was welcoming in the way a warm bed was after a long day. Or, how it felt to finally lay in the arms of a loved one after a long day apart.

Mondstadt was comfortable. He was comfortable here. More than that, he was comfortable in the wheelbarrow he’d spent the last thirty minutes laying in. However, someone had disturbed the gentle breeze against his face, inevitably warning him of their presence. The sleepy samurai lifts his head, then his body, in a disjointed, uncoordinated manner. One bandaged hand rests against the body of the wheelbarrow as he examines his surroundings, ruby eyes scanning the heavy-hanging grapes. His eyes pause on a chest, and he’s forced to look up until he meets another pair of equally red eyes.


“You’re quite tall,” his voice is quiet, nearly blending with the very breeze he holds dear. The man he’d stumbled upon- rather, the man that had stumbled upon him- was quite handsome. Long red hair, deep red eyes. Handsome. Clearly brooding. Brooding about what? What did he already know about the Dawn Winery, really?


His thoughts are interrupted by a deep, yet polite voice. “You’re quite drunk.”


Kazuha laughs, bringing his unbandaged hand up to hide behind. “Yes, unfortunately. Would you like me to leave, Mr. Ragnvindr?”


He remembered something about the man after all. This was the Ragnvindr estate, home to Diluc Ragnvindr. The very man who owned the Dawn Winery and ran the business efficiently. The king of Mondstadt, as some claimed— and the most eligible bachelor, to others. He was as handsome as the rumors claimed. Those very same rumors left out something rather important, however. Diluc hadn’t seemed to fully escape his grief— The loss of his father, over four years ago now, still troubled him deeply. Kazuha only hoped that Diluc would allow himself to heal.


The wanderer watches as Diluc examines him in the moonlight, calculating his next move, before slowly offering a hand. Kazuha, puzzled, looks at the hand, before taking it in his own and using it as a means of balance. The world was shaking. He was shaking.

Diluc was steady.


“To remove you from my land would be an error of unimaginable proportion,” Diluc finally says, raising a brow carefully at the strange traveler before him. “I don’t know your name, I’m afraid.”

Kazuha’s surprised, not having expected such a gentle nature from a rather cold looking man. “Kaedehara Kazuha. I come from Inazuma. I’m a member of Captain Beidou’s crew, and a wandering Samurai that has long since lost his home.” He thanks the gods in Celestia for keeping his speech intact, despite the level of inebriation he’d fooled himself into.


Diluc’s features melt into the faintest of smiles. “Would you like me to walk you back to your crew, Kazuha?” He’s sure to steady the smaller man, surprised by his ability to balance despite being drink. To his surprise, Kazuha shakes his head.


“I’d like to sleep under the stars, in the very wheelbarrow you pulled me from,” he claims, reaching toward the wooden storage basin once again.

“Ah,” Diluc chuckles, “But if you were to sleep under the stars, as welcoming as they may be,” he gently guides Kazuha back onto the path, “You’d be attacked by a Hilichurl, or one of the Slimes near the winery. It’s not safe. May I accommodate you in a guest room?” The uncrowned king of Mondstadt looks at Kazuha carefully, checking for any signs of discomfort.


Kazuha nods. “You may.” He’d like to stay here, at the winery. With this man. It felt as though his years of wandering had led him here, to this man, on this very night. Had he wandered any other way, made any other choice, he still would have ended up stumbling into this Vineyard, whether he wanted to or not. That was the nature of his wandering, and he’d be a fool to deny it.


He finds his voice again, “If it isn’t too much… May I stay here for a short time, Diluc? I quite like it here.”


“You may,” Diluc replies confidently. “Dawn winery accommodates any wandering souls.” He opens the front door to the large home on the estate. The man then guides the wandering Inazuman toward Elzer, his butler, and allows the other to take Kazuha to one of the guest rooms. He knows his own behavior is out of the ordinary— far outside the frame of what he’s used to. Something in him pulls him toward the Inazuman in a way even he can’t explain.


Something in him feels fulfilled, when speaking to him.


Diluc slowly climbs the stairs and heads into his office, initially intending to work through the night, then wake up early enough to greet Kazuha. He stops just before he reaches the door. He turns, and he instead heads into his room. Even he was aware of his wandering mind, and he knew it would be a fruitless endeavor to attempt any work tonight. The Inazuman had stolen more than just his mind that night, he’d stolen his breath, his focus, and what little remained of his hubris.


There was something– rather, someone he felt compelled by. This would be his opportunity to pursue it.


________


Intentionally open ended! This is written to be a love at first sight piece, however, if that wasn’t clear until now, I clearly haven’t done my job. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed!

 

[Sev]

Spoiler: “Story”

February 13th

It was supposed to be the start of a happy ending. Their becoming of each others, their healing each other’s definition of a home, their everlasting embrace into the nights. Her as their sun, and them as her moon.

It was so easy for Riley to talk to Max about everything, her love for life was impeccable despite its hardships. The one friend you could call for anything, and spend hours on the phone talking to.

It was so easy that when Riley realized what was happening, they shut it off. Growing up, Riley's motto was to break your own heart first. That way, you won't need to regret anything.

Yet Riley’s tinge of regret came faster than gravity, as sudden as the car crash. As deadly as grief.

Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump.
The first time Max confessed to someone was in a handmade card to her sixth grade crush. When her entrusted friend delivered it to him, she was scared to report back his words. “What, her again?” Like it didn’t matter what was in the card, each word an immediate gag reflex from the opposite sex, turning their eyes away. It was worse than rejection. Max didn’t think that her feelings could be stomped on so soon. That her flowers were unwanted.

Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump.
In her mind’s eye, Max is living the alternate life of a happy-go-lucky woman. Choosing what to wear, what conversations to dig into, what personality to evoke for her upcoming dates. The scenes of possibility come to her like a haze. Do you choose those first fireworks, or a lukewarm peace? Trying to leave one meant sword clashing and questioning why she was giving up something the other thought was special. Consumed by images of love, she couldn’t explain herself, and yet she didn’t think of herself for days.

Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump.
It’s been a while since Max felt like she had closed her eyes. A memory of fatigue, or a reality? Time is unraveling. Doors opening and closing. Someone had been speaking to her in a warm and weary voice. What it’s like to wake up at 5AM for their morning bakery shift without her mint green tea, how much they miss their bike rides together, their first summer spent lounging by the lake and reading in the sun. The first time they realized they liked her after being in denial for so long.

The soft touch of hands, intertwined - their breath before a sob, caught in the air. “Come back to me please, when I’m asleep,” they whisper quietly into a kiss that feels familiar.

Ba-bump.
“Is there anything you can do?”

Ba-bump.
“I don’t know if I can do this.”

Ba-bump.
“See you until next time.”

Ba-bump, ba-bump.
Max is alarmed and her head in a blur. She can feel that there are people speaking indistinguishably, watching and examining. The bed is metal cold and naked. Lucid and afraid, she doesn’t want to open her eyes.

The next time she’s at the graveyard. She thinks she sees her mother, dressed in all black, asking questions about her partner before smiling and disappearing. Before Max can even answer, her mouth is filled with multi-colored roses.

Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-beep.

Beep. Beep.

Into the night, with moonlit tears, Riley rushed to the hospital where Max had been staying for over several months.

I’m sorry, I love you.

I’m sorry, I do.

 

[Nicewife]

love in a prank war
A/N: what has started with a very benign and innocent "hey haha wouldn’t it be funny if I wrote a shameless PIMD simp fic about you and entered it into the writing contest" has spiralled way out of control into a 17k word behemoth and a cautionary tale against letting your friends enable your bad decisions, so! without further ado. this is fake rs for stats to REAL rs (?!?!) OP/Gabriella fic with gratuitous sprinkles of bastardized references to this game and its dynamics. also no similarities to real life people or entities are intended outside of my wife Gab(riella) and her wife Kady, whose portrayal is 100% correct and true to canon. i dedicate this to the Fairies GC that forced me to write this instead of hitting invite party, who shall now be forced to read it in its entirety as punishment. kisses!

Spoiler: part 1: we meet OP, OP meets Gab

To be fair, when you had picked this university, it wasn't really for its extensive record of academic excellence.

The Penn Institute of Marketing and Design (PIMD), lovingly dubbed "PU" by rival college students and alumni alike, was exactly the sort of social-sciences-centric artistic escape from your studies-focused life that you've always craved. Most importantly, it was well known to be the country's premier destination for those interested in hosting parties, attending parties, crashing parties, and skipping lectures and classes in lieu of parties.

And parties, of course, were well known among the newly-adult population to be the premier avenue for finding love. The ultimate teenage dream— the playful flirting, the companionship, the knowledge you have your person somewhere out there for you. You wanted that, simple as.

So this brings you to the present moment: in the truly ridiculously oversized PIMD exhibition hall teeming with people, clutching a freshie goodie bag and your phone hard enough to dent the promotional brochures inside, praying someone will swoop in and tell you what on earth you're supposed to be doing in this congregation of thousands of people you don't know at all because, yeah, socializing? Not something you've ever been good at. Or got to do.

"We're hosting a pizza party afterwards for new joiners! C'mere, newbies, we don't bite," a senior coos from a table over, waving her hand vaguely in your direction — or maybe at the people behind you, you can never tell — as she sets a stack of red solo cups next to an elaborately designed club banner. Pizza Bikinis and Dirty Martinis, it reads. Her sharp grin lures you in, and you slink over obediently and accept a cup clutched between her equally red manicured nails. She pulls out a thick stack of stapled forms out from under the table and slaps them on the table in front of you.

"So here's the deal, freshie," she begins, with all the charisma of a professional car salesman. "Here at Pizza Kinis, as you can probably tell from the name, we love our pizza and our alcohol—the more the better, really—and we all pitch in to make it happen as often as we can. Since you're a newbie we seniors would be hosting for you at first, but we don't like freeloaders, you know?" She smiles at you in a strangely ominous way and slaps a pen down on top of the forms. "So all you have to do is sign this contract to pay a certain amount of dues every week, and—"

A firm arm wraps itself around your shoulders and halts your plan to crab scoot away from the scary Pizza Bikinis lady unnoticed in its tracks.

"Lay off, Josie," your knight in Under Armour says. "Stop trying to induct all the newbies into your weird pizza cult. Hey, kid. You into athletics by any chance?"
He lets you go, and you blink up at him as the pizza senior rolls her eyes in defeat and sets her sights on a group of freshies a table over.

"Jon," he grins, and sticks his thumb out to gesture at the club stand he’s just saved you from. "You can get better food than that at one of the cosplay club cat cafes, if that's your thing. But if you just wanna party without all the sign-your-soul-over bullcrap, we're always looking for—"

Your attention is stolen away as heels click in a determined but unhurried rhythm right behind you, and when you look over your breath leaves you in a rush.

She’s gorgeous. There’s no other adjective that comes to mind that tops it.
Her glittering mermaid-cut gown trails on the floor behind her, a shimmering blue contrast to the blood red of her nails and eyeshadow and cloak gathered around her upper arms. Her hair and eyes are coal-dark; it should look garish, ostentatious even, all your pre-university admittance exam vocabulary for too much at once, but the effect is striking. She looks like she should be on a movie set, not cutting smoothly across a group of party club members already starting on the beer in the middle of frosh week.

"Gabriella," Jon says, sounding subdued.

You glance over at him, curious.

"Conglomerate heiress, penultimate year business student, consistent feature in the top 10 student list and PU promotional material. My advice? She won’t even look at you until you’ve made a name for yourself." He pats you on the back once, heavily. "I’d stay out of her way."

You both watch as she sets an oversized purse down, a large white cat leaping out elegantly to stretch alongside a carefully arranged display. Even with the noise of hundreds of people speaking at once in the hall, her voice carries, low and melodic.

"Return her to me when you’re done with the welcome event," she says, and brushes a sweep of dark wavy hair over her shoulder with her perfectly manicured nails. "Remember not to accept anyone without at least one extracurricular on file. I’ll drop by later to meet the new pledges."

The plastic cup crinkles in your hands.
Secret Syndicate, the sign next to the cat reads. It blinks at you, long and slow, and looks away.

"I have an extracurricular on file," you say, to no one in particular.

Jon sighs. Somehow, he doesn’t sound surprised.

"You’ll need more than good luck, kid. But good luck."

He thumps you on the back again before he leaves, presumably to scout new members for his club.

You, on the other hand, leave frosh week a goodie bag of promotional materials richer — and with a Secret Syndicate business card etched with the club’s socials as your reward for filling out the freshie pledge application form.

---

The week after the introductory events passes in a blur of lecture timetables, getting used to the campus layout with its labyrinthine buildings—you swear there must be at least twenty separate dorms on campus alone—and getting a feel for the PIMD student body. It pushes all thoughts of the Secret Syndicate, and Gabriella, out of your mind until the evening of your first initiation meeting.

Your initiation email instructions take you to a large room in the western wing of campus. It’s somewhat cold from the air conditioning and the dim lighting. As the heavy door quietly swings shut behind you, you shiver. The walls are covered with multiple posters pinned to a corkboard; you spy pictures of Syndicate members, a roster of some kind, and several sheets of numbers. The only furniture is a long, dark table and several armchairs. The room is empty save for one figure at the head of the table: Gabriella.

She looks up as you enter, and fixes her intense gaze on you. Something about it makes you feel like she can see straight through you. Your heart stutters. You wipe your suddenly clammy hands on the hem of your shirt as discreetly as you can, wishing you had worn something warmer.

"Ah, you must be our new member," she says, the corner of her lips quirking up in a small smile. "Welcome. Please, come and sit."

You take a seat at the table, and Gabriella stands, her eyes not leaving your face. "The Secret Syndicate," she begins, her low voice carrying in a way that’s almost hypnotic, "is a group of students dedicated to making the most of our time here at PIMD. We are not bound by any particular rules or regulations, except that we shall remain loyal to each other and our cause." She pauses, gaze flickering above you in a way that seems almost wistful, before she continues. "By joining us, you are pledging to uphold the values and ideals of the Syndicate. You will be expected to attend meetings and events, and participate in activities that benefit the group as a whole. In return, we will provide you with the necessary resources and guidance to help you succeed."

She pauses again, and gives you another small smile. "One thing you should know — at PIMD, there are many who will go to any lengths necessary to attain success. If you are prepared to offer us your loyalty, we will repay it in kind. Our members are never abandoned unless they abandon us first."

You swallow, and nod. "I understand," you say, and she nods in return. She offers you her hand; her palm is surprisingly warm in the chill of the room as you shake on it.

"I’m sure you’re wondering where the rest of the members are," she says, a hint of humor glimmering in her dark eyes. "We regularly run events to provide our members with a chance to socialize and build connections, while at the same time expanding their skillset and giving them a chance to earn some money. Of these, the cosplay cafes we host are the most lucrative, though in a pinch an old-fashioned pizza party night can raise funds for small expenses. You are, of course, welcome to join us as a member; in fact, your presence is required at least once a week. We won’t ask you to pay, but we expect you to contribute your time or skillset as appropriate."

You nod again, and she tips her head to the side. "I think that’s all for now," she says, her voice suddenly distant. "I look forward to seeing you around, and I wish you the best of luck in your studies."

As you thank her and turn to leave, her voice rings out again, echoing in the empty room. "Oh, and one more thing — don’t forget your initiation homework." You pause, and look back at her. "We expect you to complete your first assignment by next week. Good luck." You nod in acceptance, and the door swings shut behind you with finality as you leave.

Spoiler: part 2: OP gets shrekt & signs a contract

A/N: mentions of violence in this one! OP gets lightly beaten up and also robbed. if you don’t like this you can skip from the "until a rude reminder in the form of an elbow to the face" line until the next line break!

Since your admission, time flies by. It’s been nearly a week since you’ve pledged to the Secret Syndicate, and the initiation assignment has turned out to be surprisingly easy to complete. It seemed to involve a complicated system of points awarded for participating in events hosted by the society, and attending a few in your first week was apparently more than enough. You’ve also met some of the other members — though at first you were sure you’d never be able to remember all their names, what with their tendency to show up sporadically at meetings and parties. Strangely, you’ve noticed that while most other clubs on campus frequently opened their events to other students, the Syndicate-hosted ones tended to be an exclusive affair. You’ve seen Gabriella show up once or twice, mostly to drop her cat off at yet another cosplay cat cafe. ("Can’t host a cat cafe without a cat, now can we?" you recall her musing while stroking along the cat’s creamy white ears.)

True to their word, you’ve not been expected to do much other than show up and help out where you can. The first time you’ve been handed an envelope containing your cut of the cafe earnings for the day, you’ve almost choked at the amount that was inside. The routine grew comfortable a couple weeks in, and as November bled into December in a whirl of assignments and pop quizzes and tactical doctor’s notes to stave off exhaustion and cram for last-minute deadlines, you’ve almost forgotten Gabriella’s warning remark about how some people would go to any lengths necessary.

Until a rude reminder in the form of an elbow to the face, that is.

It’s a Tuesday night, and you’ve been assigned to help out at the latest pizza party night. The week has been a particularly busy one, but you’ve still managed to eke out the time. You’re chatting with some of the newer members via text—though you’ve only known them for a couple weeks, all of you seem to be getting along alright—when suddenly there’s a sharp shove from behind, and you’re sent tumbling forward into the empty parking lot behind the dorms. You catch yourself, palms scraping on the gravel.

"What the f—" you start, and the words die in your throat as a figure looms into view in the streetlights above you. It’s not someone you recognize. The only thing you realize is that the mystery assailant is built, before they crouch to grab at the front of your zipped-up jacket and slam you back down into the gravel. Your next breath forcibly leaves your lungs as they jab at your stomach with a fist, twisting in as you gasp.

The back of your head hits the curb as your struggles are met with a swift uppercut, and you blink away the sudden flashing lights and dizziness to find your assailant rifling briskly though your wallet. They pull out a stack of bills, tucking it into their back pocket, and twist a hand in your jacket again.

"Welcome to the Syndicate," they say, voice distorted through a cloth mask of some kind they have on, but not distorted enough to conceal the heavy mockery. They are about to say something else, but then another voice cuts across the parking lot; this one commanding and furious.

"What the hell do you think you are doing," Gabriella says, heels already clicking on the gravel towards you, and the assailant scrambles off you immediately. They vanish into the night as you groan and blink against the nausea. Gabriella crouches to help you up with a surprisingly firm hand on your upper arm, still glaring in the direction of the assailant’s escape, before she turns her worried gaze on you.

"Are you alright?" she says, and you nod, pushing yourself up with a wince.

"I’ll be fine," you say, and you mean it. Gabriella sighs, and helps you to your feet. You both turn and head back towards the dorms, ignoring the throbbing in your stomach and the ache of your scraped palms.

"I think it’s time we had a little chat about what it means to be a part of the Syndicate," she says, and the words send a chill down your spine.

You’d thought you’d finally found an escape from the drudgery of exams and constant deadlines — but it seems like that comes with a price.

---

You sit at the long dark table again, but this time Gabriella takes a seat across from you. She pulls a stack of papers from a folder and slides it across the table. You realize, with a start, that it’s a contract.

"These are the rules we all abide by," she says, not breaking eye contact. "Read and deliberate them carefully. If you agree, sign at the bottom."

You look through the contract, and note the promises of protection, assistance and resources as well as the expectations of loyalty and participation in Syndicate activities. There’s also a clause regarding secrecy, which gives you pause.

"What would happen if I broke the secrecy clause?" you ask, and Gabriella’s gaze softens slightly.

"We take our privacy seriously," she says. "It’s in the name. If you break the clause, you will be expelled from the Syndicate and likely blacklisted from other clubs and societies on campus that have a relationship with us. It’s not something we do lightly, but to maintain the trust we have in our members, it must be done."

"And if I refuse?" you ask.

Gabriella smiles at you, and it doesn’t reach her eyes. "Then you’re on your own."

You think back on the few weeks of nonstop activities, all the new connections you’ve made, your first huge paycheck—even the members’ cats you’ve met alongside Gabriella’s, since there’s apparently a rotation—and look back down at the contract. "Alright," you say, slowly. "Explain to me how this works, please."

She sighs and folds her hands in front of her. "You may have noticed that even though we count many of the Institute’s star students among our ranks, few of them attend the Syndicate-only events. It’s for a good reason; many of us have ambitions of our own, and seek to expand our circles outside the one we have here. Not all of our relationships with those on campus and beyond are friendly, however."

Gabriella pauses, and taps her nails on the tabletop. "We have certain longstanding rivalries with several other clubs and individuals. Some represent interests that go beyond those they have as students at PIMD; for instance, there are students who are related to those whose interests are in opposition to my family’s business decisions. Some rivalries, on the other hand, are personal. Today you may have witnessed one such example."

"You know who that was?" you ask. "Why attack me? I’ve barely had time to make friends yet, much less enemies."

She sighs with irritation, but you can tell it’s not at you. Probably. "It’s likely you were targeted because you are a new member, and also coincidentally one of our weakest." Her voice gains a menacing edge. "I do know who attacked you, and I will take measures to ensure it does not happen again."

"Alright," you say, though you aren’t sure if it’s actually alright yet. "I suppose I’ll just avoid dark alleys and stop keeping all my cash in my wallet just in case, huh?"

The joke makes her smile, and that lightens the mood somewhat. "That would be wise, yes."

You look back at the contract on the table between you, and make your decision.
"Deal."

---

Because you aren’t totally a slave to Gabriella’s charms, you take the time to actually scout for information on the Syndicate’s various relationships outside of the group itself. You’ve been so focused on making friends and getting to know the people within, that you’ve completely neglected to tune into campus gossip. Thankfully, some stalking of social media pages and tactical eavesdropping yields a wealth of interesting revelations.

You learn that Gabriella has a surprisingly contentious reputation among the faculty, for one. You’d assumed that as a star student frequently at the top of her cohort would be the faculty’s darling, but it turns out that she is often in disagreement with RAs, building a reputation as a troublemaker who isn’t afraid of conflict and tends to get her way when push comes to shove.

You also learn that despite her high-ranking position in the Syndicate, her personal beef with other people rarely involves the Syndicate itself. You’ve already known she wasn’t the President; what surprises you is the sheer amount of rumors circulating about her if one cares to look. For instance, it’s apparently an open secret that her top student status is largely due to the fact she spends insane amounts on tutors and every study guide she can. Stalking some walls on Birdbook yields rumors of Gabriella bidding out every single tutor in the cohort for exclusivity rights, despite not actually needing lessons from them. You’re halfway into investigating how plausible those claims are, when you come across a video buried deep in someone’s media grid, and oh—

—you watch on in fascination as someone aims a sucker punch at someone who is undeniably Gabriella, who spins around on her heels and neatly flips them over her shoulder by the arm before slamming them into the floor. So that’s a thing.

Further stalking reveals that the entire incident ended in the college disciplinary board determining it was in self-defense, and in the subsequent expulsion of the other student involved, but you can’t stop replaying that little segment of video - the neutral, calm look on Gabriella’s face; the way her fingers wrapped so confidently around the forearm of her attacker, easily one and a half times her size. The way she manhandled them so effortlessly, a graceful one-two-three move that ended with her attacker sprawled on the floor next to the pointed tips of her tasteful heels.

Upon reflection, your tastes may be a little weird.

Spoiler: part 3: FAKE rs??? in MY pimd???

You see her in a different light after that.

Having signed the contract seems to have relaxed some kind of aversion the Syndicate members had to telling you what’s actually going on, and you find yourself splitting your time between parties—from informal events featuring copious alcohol and snacks, to high-scale luxury events at hotels—and taking part in an elaborate series of pranks. You sneak into dorms to shake itching powder into the laundry drawers and between the bedsheets of a rival club that has tried to snipe your cosplay cafe location by booking it at the last minute. You swap the answer key someone in the seniors’ cohort was going to sneak into an exam via a well-timed toilet break with a copy where half the answers are wrong. One time, memorably, you replace the gummy bears in an off-campus frat house’s candy bowl with their sugar-free equivalents as payback for stealing your Christmas decorations, and enjoy the subsequent tales of explosive fallout.

You aren’t the strongest physically, but you learn that you’re inventive, and you also learn that it brings out a side to Gabriella you didn’t think was there. For an heiress, she’s surprisingly willing to lend her time to helping you with your pranks. For someone with a reputation to protect, she’s very accommodating when it comes to risking her academic reputation on your behalf. You sneak a hidden camera into the classroom of the person who attacked you all those days back and get evidence of cheating; when you hand it over to Gabriella she uses it to blackmail them into handing over your stolen cash with a little extra, and then anonymously releases it to the ethics board anyway.

It’s when you’re crouched together in the bushes on a hill waiting for a signal from the rest of the Syndicate members who went to scout ahead, a basket of eggs between you, and then all hell breaks loose when you’re surrounded and pelted with eggs instead—you look at Gabriella wiping egg off her face and out of her eyelashes with her perfectly manicured nails, a wild grin on her face and laughing at the hilarity of the situation, and think: oh no.

"Oh my god, I’m sorry," you begin, and pat yourself down for something to offer to her as a rag, but she cuts you off with a snort that turns into another peal of laughter. She looks over at you, and you can’t believe you ever thought of her dark eyes as sharp or cold—and then she says, "I think I need your help with something."

That’s where the point of no return was, if you had to pinpoint it on hindsight.

---

"So," she says, looking incredibly incongruous perched on an armchair in the club room in a spare pajama set borrowed off a Syndicate member that stays in the dorms. "You may already be aware that I am single."

That’s quite the start to the conversation.

"Uh," you say, eloquently.

Your heartrate also doubles.

"And it’s currently January," she continues, tapping the carved arm of the armchair with a nail like that means something.

"Uh-huh," you agree. Indeed it is.

There’s some egg yolk under one of your fingernails your thorough cleaning didn’t catch. You busy yourself with getting rid of it.

She powers on. "In February, it’s a time-tested and well-known PIMD tradition to host a series of Valentine’s day events, which are invitation-only. At the end, a single ‘star couple’ gets immortalized in the yearbook." Her voice grows sardonic. "As it happens, the main contender for that title as things are right now is…"

You look up at her. It clicks. "Oh. Ew."

"Ew is right," she nods. A strand of her dark hair falls out of the loose bun she’s put it up in, still somehow curled perfectly despite the impromptu egg shower. "You can see why I wouldn’t want to let that happen, petty as it might be."

You squint a little, because she’s right and you agree, but you can’t quite figure out what she’s leading up to—

"Among less petty considerations, there’s also the fact that bringing a date to the numerous galas my family wants me to show my face at would at least somewhat slow the flood of pre-Valentine’s Day courtship requests I get," she adds. "However, as I’ve already said, I am single, and do not have any romantic interests at the moment. Which rather limits my options for a partner."

"And so…" you begin. ‘Do not have any romantic interests at the moment’ runs on a loop in your head.

"...and so, this is where you come in," she finishes for you, and taps the pads of her fingers together resolutely in a silent clap.

"Me?"

She nods, pointing her steepled hands at you as if to punctuate her point. "You. Admit it, you could benefit from it as well, if only in terms of reputation. I won’t ask you to actually date me, and I know we’re far from romantically compatible, but surely it can’t be that hard to put up a convincing front. You’re a decent actor from what I’ve seen."

You don’t want to ask, but you feel the question would eat you alive anyway if you don’t, so you do. "Why me?"

She thinks for a moment, and then smiles. "Because I trust you."

You’re still processing ‘do not have any romantic interests at the moment’ and ‘far from romantically compatible’, so it must be something else possesses you to open your mouth and say, "Okay."

Her smile grows wider, and she relaxes back into the armchair. "Glad to hear it."

"So let me get this straight… you’re fake asking me out?"

"Yes. Do we need another contract?" she counters, an amused twist to her lips.

You mull that one over, trying to decide if she’s serious.

"...I accept," you settle on in the end.
In a strange parody of your first meeting, she reaches over the club table to shake your hand on it. You squeeze back.

---

(& then the ‘i trust you’ hits.)

Spoiler: part 4: intel date +10m

All things considered, merging your schedules for your fake dating endeavour with Gabriella is surprisingly simple. She doesn’t demand many sacrifices; you have a month to ease into making the relationship look organic, anyway, so she starts by drifting over to your side at the events you both attend more often, instead of her usual tendency to chat briefly with the senior members and leave. Simple, however, doesn’t mean easy.

The members start giving you curious looks. You try to ignore them, nerves stirring uneasily in the pit of your stomach as you try not to think about how believable your conversations about your schedule and latest projects and extracurriculars are. Gabriella, to her credit, charitably turns up the charm and draws both your attention and everyone else’s along with the conversation. She listens attentively, responds where appropriate, volunteers small tidbits of information and anecdotes about the other members.

She also gets in the habit of touching your arm lightly to get your attention. That inspires many feelings you can’t yet name, and wisely ignore too.

The simplest and most plausible way to start spending time together, you’d agreed, was joint study sessions. You wouldn’t have to talk much; but you’d be seen together, and would get to get your own uninterrupted studying time in at the same time.

"Win-win," she’d told you with an amused twist of her lips that is rapidly becoming familiar.

That’s how you end up in the campus Library on a Thursday after your morning Financial Reporting and Control lecture. She’s easy to find—she’s somehow both unmistakably present and also left alone by the rest of the students. The large table she occupies is empty save for her, and covered with several stacks of neatly labelled files and a textbook with multiple colored tabs sticking out of it. As you approach, she looks up at you, and her expression shifts to something more playful.

"Ah, there you are," she says, and tilts her laptop screen halfway shut. "I was just about to text you where I am."
That’s yet another thing that’s new to you two. Apparently, it would be strange for would-be love interests to not have each other’s number, so Gabriella’s contact is now saved in your phone.

She watches you as you take a seat and pull your own stack of carefully stapled lecture notes and a pencil case out. When you look back at her, her gaze is still on you, chin propped up on her fist.

"I’m was wondering," she says. "Why business? I know we’re in the same faculty, but somehow you don’t give me the impression it’s your thing."

You wonder how you can tell her that, in fact, you don’t think you even have a ‘thing’. You’d picked business because you heard it was an easy-to-complete major that would give you plenty of time to focus on other pursuits - like building a social life, finding the love of your life, and the like - while still being somewhat practical and applicable to your eventual career. It had seemed sensible at the time, but sitting across from Gabriella, who excels in her studies and picks up seemingly every extracurricular she can get her hands on with the eventual goal of being on her family company’s board of directors, it seems somewhat… naive. A little childish, even.

A path you’d picked out of a lack of ambition. Which apparently never stopped one of the most ambitious people you’ve met so far.

She blinks as the silence drags on a beat too long, and then sits back to wave her hand as if to dismiss the question. "Never mind, you don’t have to tell me. I was just curious."

"I didn’t really know what I wanted," you say, and you have no idea why you’re admitting that to her of all people, but somehow silence feels like the worse alternative. "My college admission results were good enough I could probably go anywhere I wanted, but… by the time it got around to the exams, with all the nonstop cramming, I kind of didn’t want to go for more of that. That ruled out medicine and law, at least."

"And yet your grades here are still important to you," she muses, and tilts her head in consideration. "I rarely see you slack when it comes to academics."

"Well, I…"

"It’s good, though," she says, with that little mouth-corner-quirked-up smile. "I wouldn’t date someone who isn’t serious about what they do."

You’re not sure the approval is earned, but it makes you feel warmer inside anyway. You shuffle your notes, and she tilts her laptop back open, and the rest of the hour and a half passes in companionable silence punctuated by her manicured fingernails clacking softly on the keys and the shuffle of paper as you annotate the day’s lecture homework.
It’s comfortable. Somehow, you’re not surprised at that.

---

When you get a top grade on your FRC101 midterm, after a brief celebration in your group chat with your circle of acquaintances-turned-friends from the class, you decide to text Gabriella on a whim about it.
Her response comes surprisingly swift. Just a minute after you send the text, your phone chimes.
PU Gabriella (10:13): Good job. I’m proud of you Celebrate at the cafe after class?
Me (10:13): haha, thanks! ٩(*•͈ ꇴ •͈*)و ̑̑❀
Me (10:13): and sure!
Me (10:14): my last lecture ends at 2:30pm, so i’ll meet you there?
PU Gabriella (10:17): I’ll grab a table for us. See you there.
You’re a strange, excited kind of low-grade restless the rest of the day until then. The afternoon lecture flies by in a blur of scribbled notes and by the time you finally shut your textbook closed and glance at the time, you can’t even tell why you’re so nervous. It’s just Gabriella.
Just your fake girlfriend. Just a celebratory cafe date, because that’s a thing you do now.
It’s not what you planned on your romantic life looking like at the start of the term, that’s for sure, and you ponder that absently as you make your way three floors down to the campus cafe. It’s a charmingly open location, with glass walls leading to an outside deck with tables lined by the campus pond. Gabriella has snagged one of those tables for you, and when you arrive, she’s watching the koi fish cut figure-of-eight circles through the clear water.
There’s a slice of tiramisu cake in front of her.
As she hears you approach, she looks up, and smiles. "I took the liberty of getting your favourite, but if you’re not in the mood for it, I could grab you something else."
"Thanks," you say, and pull a chair out. "How did you know?"
"I do follow your Snapstagram, you know," she says around the straw of her drink. Somehow, she makes even that look elegant, matte red lipstick pristine as always. "I got you tea as well, but I didn’t want it to oversteep, so I guess they’ll be bringing it out for you now."
When a cafe employee comes over with a little steaming teapot and a cup for you, she thanks them, and pours before you can interrupt. She slides the cup over to you, carefully balanced on a saucer, and unwraps a muffin from a brown paper bag for herself.
"So," she begins, as you start in on the cake. "It’s been two weeks since our agreement."
You lick cocoa cream off your fork as you wait for her to go on, and she watches you. "Yeah."
"I’ve gotten a lot of questions about my sudden interest in you, so I guess we’re on the right track. Kim wouldn’t leave me alone last week about it, so it’s probably not going to be long until the rumors spread beyond what I could stifle myself."
Kimberly, your memory supplies. The elusive president of the Secret Syndicate, rarely seen during events, and only present at the important meetings. You’ve seen more of her in photos than in person, always poised and somehow stern. It’s strange to hear Gabriella talk about her with obvious familiarity.
"That’s good, isn’t it?"
"It’s a good time to back out now if you’ve changed your mind," she says. "From now on, there’ll be a lot more scrutiny, so if we continue this I’ll need your full dedication."
"I think I can handle it," you tell her. You’re seized with the sudden desire to tease, so you glance at her through your lashes briefly. "Unless you want to back out…?"
Amusement flashes in her eyes, and her tone dips to match yours as a slow smile tugs at her lips. "No. I want to get what I was promised from you."
In for a penny, in for a pound. You respond in kind. "What’s in it for me?"
"Our relationship will be public," she says, voice taking on a distinct businessperson-negotiating-terms edge. "When we eventually end our arrangement, having been involved with me would likely score points with potential partners." That’s… kind of arrogant, but she’s right. Association with her would boost your popularity considerably. "You will, naturally, be my plus one at any corporate events I am invited to, which would give you an invaluable chance to network." Also true. You don’t really have ambitions beyond doing well at your current responsibilities, but you’ve always been curious about the kind of luxury multi-billion-dollar businesses are associated with. "I will make sure that the time you dedicate to our arrangement is fully compensated, as well." Wow, that just makes you sound like a sugar baby of some kind. "Provided things go smoothly and I am satisfied with the conclusion of our arrangement, I am also willing to cover whatever tuition costs your scholarship does not."
…Definitely a sugar baby. You can’t help but wonder if you should be flattered or insulted.
"My scholarship covers my entire program," you tell her instead. "The rest of it sounds intriguing, but also… kind of stressful, to be honest."
Her expression softens, and she sets her muffin down on the paper bag in front of her. "I am aware. My lifestyle isn’t very relaxing even within the bounds of PIMD." She sighs, and continues. "Of course, if you were to agree to this I would do the best I can to shield you from any unwanted attention, and I’ll provide you with whatever you require that is within my power to provide. But if you choose to walk away, I will understand."
That alone almost convinces you, but you have one question remaining.
"I know I asked before, but why choose me?"
Your family is not exactly well known like hers is. Your grades may be good, supplemented by a copious amount of studying, but you’re not exactly close to her academic record either. Surely there are more impressive options to have on her arm if she really needs someone to be her partner, even a fake one—
"I feel comfortable spending time with you," she says. "I don’t care about your achievements. I care about the effort you put in. I care about trust and loyalty, and so far you haven’t failed me. I trust that you won’t, in the near future."
You look back down at your half-eaten cake, cheeks warm. Your heart pounds a little harder. Perhaps you’re a little weak for praise.
"Okay," you say, voice a little faint. "I’ll try not to disappoint."
She smiles, and sits back from where she was leaning towards you across the table. "I expected nothing less."
You eat your cake. The espresso-infused cream is very sweet.

Spoiler: part 5: str date +10m & ✨jealousy✨

With three weeks to go to Valentine’s Day, Gabriella takes it up a notch.
You get an influx of new followers on Snapstagram when she tags you in a photo captioned "Study date before midterms. ". You’re only halfway in the frame, face turned away as you frown absently at an open book, and you’re not sure when she’s snapped the picture - but you double tap it anyway, and set your phone screen side down.
It buzzes shortly after, and you flip it back over to a text from Gabriella.
PU Gabriella (19:01): I’m going to the gym with a friend tomorrow. I’d like for you to join us.
It’s a Sunday the following day, and her message isn’t phrased as a question, so your eyebrows rise slightly as you respond.
Me (19:01): the one on campus?
PU Gabriella (19:02): Our regular gym is about 10 minutes away, so I’ll drive you.
Me (19:02): well, as long as i don’t have to pay for gas…
Me (19:02): what time??
PU Gabriella (19:03): I’ll pick you up around two. I assume you have your own workout gear?
Me (19:03): yep! okay, see you tomorrow then
PU Gabriella (19:03): I’m looking forward to it.
Me (19:03): (🖒^^)🖒!
PU Gabriella (19:05):
Your Snapstagram notifications are still rolling in as you exit the conversation, and one catches your eye.
[19:00] @K4DYW4DY: @G4briella @storii.u …without me? hmph!!
[19:04] @G4briella: @K4DYW4DYaw, hush. I’ll see you tomorrow.
Something about the name is familiar, and Gabriella doesn’t often reply to her mentions, so you tap on the handle. Since you follow Gabriella, all mentions of her highlight themselves.
~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]
[Jan 03] WOO new season new reason to beat those rival colleges UP!! #PUcrushU #PIMDSports
~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]
[Jan 03] ] @G4briella you’ll be watching us, right?
~Gabriella @G4briella [Following]
[Jan 03] ]] @K4DYW4DY I won’t miss it Good luck!
~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]
[Jan 03] ]]] @G4briella good, because i got you the VIP tix!!
You scroll back in the timeline, and pause. There’s a picture of "K.wrd", grinning at the camera as she raises a water bottle to her lips, hair in a messy ponytail and a sports towel around her neck. Gabriella isn’t in the picture, but she’s tagged.
~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]
[Dec 24] (stsgrm.lnk/234234324.png) intras season prep with my fav gym buddy @G4briella! she’s a MEAN taskmaster & that’s why we love her #nopainnogain #PUBTprep
Gabriella hasn’t commented on it, though she’s liked the picture. There’s another right below. It shows K.wrd sprawled on the floor on what looks like a gym mat, pouting playfully at the camera.
~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]
[Dec 24] (stsgrm.lnk/234234323.png) went a round against @G4briella… never again!! #bjjmasterinherelement #jkjkrematchsoon #illwinSOMEday
~Gabriella @G4briella [Following]
[Dec 24] ] @K4DYW4DY Your footwork needs work Better luck next time!
~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]
[Dec 24] ]] @G4briella #gabisMEAN
Gab, huh. That’s interesting.
~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]
[Oct 13] (stsgrm.lnk/234234318.png) new college-level season record!!! we couldn’t have done it without you all!!! #PUBTistheBEST #PIMDSports
~Gabriella @G4briella [Following]
[Oct 13] ] @K4DYW4DY Congratulations! You worked hard!
~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]
[Oct 13] ]] @G4briella **couldn’t have done it without YOU!! #bestgympartnerever
You continue scrolling, not really paying attention. You haven’t seen this K.wrd mentioned on Gabriella’s profile before, but that’s probably because she rarely tags individual accounts in her own posts. Since Gabriella’s mentioned meeting tomorrow, you assume this is the "old friend" she was referring to—an old friend that calls her Gab, apparently.
Something about it is… confusing. There’s a murky feeling of unease in your throat, and you’re not sure why exactly you’re feeling so off. It could be because you’re caught off guard, you tell yourself. Gabriella has been nothing but cordial with you, but you’ve seen the air of distance she keeps with everyone else. Seeing someone you’ve never met address her so casually like they’re close friends, someone she’s never mentioned before… it’s surprising, is all.
You suppose you’re likely meeting ‘K.wrd’ tomorrow, anyway. You set an alarm for noon, and switch your phone to silent mode.
Gabriella picks you up at two, as promised, in her shiny black car-of-a-make-you-couldn’t-name. She’s thankfully alone, and some of the tension you didn’t realize you had leaves your shoulders.
She’s in a form-fitting tank top with a loose jacket draped over it, with her hair pulled up in an elegant twist. You slide into the buttery-smooth leather-upholstered seat next to her, and she smiles at you as you fasten your seatbelt.
The drive is short, as there isn’t much traffic in the college town on a Sunday afternoon, and you spend most of it in comfortable silence watching the buildings flicker by and examining the whorls in the lacquered wooden inlays on her dashboard. She parks and you both collect your bags from the backseat. The gym building is pretty unassuming; it looks just like any other office-slash-storefront, and Gabriella takes you past the glass-panelled doors to a front desk and greets the staffmember behind it.
"Day pass for one, please," she says, and slides a black card on the desk. You haven’t even thought to get out your wallet, and you’re momentarily embarrassed that you haven’t even considered you may need a membership, since the campus gym has always been open to students - but Gabriella doesn’t bat an eye, and several keyboard taps and a beep later, collects a card in a laminated pocket with a lanyard attached.
"All set," she glances at you, and steps in to slip the lanyard around your neck. She brushes your hair out of the way as she does it; her fingers brush the back of your neck - and you realize she must have cut her nails at some point, since you can’t feel her usual perfectly-manicured-points - but then the moment passes, and she steps away to assess her handiwork. "Shall we?"
You hoist your bag up in reply, and follow her inside the gym.
Gabriella’s friend is already waiting for you inside, crouched in a low stretch by the wall-length mirrors. She looks up as you enter.
"Gabby," she crows, and rises out of the crouch to stretch a hand towards Gabriella. "...and a friend!"
"Kady," Gabriella says, voice neutral. "Meet my clubmate." She turns to you, and gestures. "This is Kady, my gym partner and an old friend of mine."
Kady grins at you, but there’s something assessing in her gaze as she steps forward to shake your hand. It sets you on edge somewhat. Her grip is firm, but she squeezes a little too hard for your liking.
"Gabby doesn’t usually bring just anyone to train with her, so you must be something special," Kady says, and lets go of your hand.
You shake it out as discreetly as you can. Sportspeople, honestly. "I’m flattered."
Kady seems content with that answer, because she immediately turns her attention to Gabriella. "Since I pushed a bit too hard on the sets last week, I was thinking I’ll take it slow and focus on cardio today. I’ll still spot you if you want, though."
"That won’t be necessary," Gabriella tells her as she bends down to set her bag down by the bench along the mirror, and you try not to stare as she pulls her hair out of the bun it’s in and gathers it into a high ponytail. The way her hair looks runway-ready in every situation really is unfair. "I’ll take the sandbag today."
Gabriella pulls on a pair of boxing gloves as Kady hums assent and sinks back into her stretch, and then turns an expectant gaze on you. "Do you have your own training program?"
"I…what?" You don’t, really. All your extracurriculars have been focused towards intellectual pursuits rather than sports, and outside of the odd gym visit to run on the treadmill for a few minutes and lift some weights you’ve never, like, planned your workouts.
She sighs. "We’ll fix that. For now, let’s get you a pair of gloves."
You follow along best as you can as she tightens the velcro straps around your wrists. She taps her gloves together decisively like an old habit, and leads you over to a hanging sandbag in the corner. She taps the bag with a glove too, and then relaxes into a loose stance.
"The first thing you need to learn is how to throw a punch. It doesn’t matter how much muscle you have if you don’t know how to use it." She tilts her head to the side in a quick stretch, and then jabs at the sandbag at a speed you can barely follow. Your breath catches. The bag jerks away from her with the force of the blow, chain rattling, and Gabriella catches it easily on the return swing. "The most important thing is technique. Throw a punch wrong, and you could injure yourself, not your opponent." She demonstrates another punch, thudding heavily against the bag, and catches it with both hands this time.
"Not all punches will land," she says, a serious edge to her voice. "Your job is to make sure that the ones that do land hard. The less it takes to take down your opponent, the better."
You think back on that night in the parking lot, how pathetically easily you went down. Your palms itch with the memory.
"Understood," you say.
She nods, and gestures to the bag. "Give it a try."
You rub your gloves together and step up, winding your arm back to whap at the bag with all your strength. The chain rattles ominously. It swings around in a circle, and Gabriella catches the bag right before it can slam directly into you under its own weight.
"....Okay, we have our work cut out for us," she says with a sigh.
You think for a moment that it’s going to be a long day, and then she steps in to adjust your stance, front along your back, gloved hands gentle but firm where she nudges your arm into the right position.
When she speaks, she’s so close you can almost feel her breath. "Like this. Now try again."
Your fist hits the bag with a fraction of the power hers did, but it at least swings away from you this time, and she taps your shoulder with a glove in approval. "Good job. That’s much better. Again."
…A very long day, you mentally edit.
You almost forget Kady is there until Gabriella is finally done with you, having considered you decent enough to practice on your own and relegated you to another bag so she can focus on her own training. You’re not sure how long you’ve been doing the same motion, in a repetitive and somewhat hypnotic thunk-thunk-thunk, but when Gabriella finally motions you over to the bench you find you’re out of breath despite having mostly used your arms.
You pull off your gloves to rest your hands on your thighs and catch your breath, and when you look up Kady is handing Gabriella a towel. She drapes it around Gabriella’s shoulders as Gabriella snaps her water bottle open to take a drink, and her hand lingers on her shoulder in a friendly squeeze.
A little too friendly, you think.
Gabriella says something in a low voice thats makes Kady laugh out loud, and then they’re turning towards you.
"Gabby says that for a newbie you have some promise," Kady says, and her hand is still on Gabriella’s arm, fingers curled around her shoulder. "Congratulations. We’ll make an athlete out of you yet, huh?"
"As expected from my something special, don’t you think?" Gabriella says, raising an eyebrow as she takes another drink. She teases with the comfortable air of someone in close company, and your heart clenches for unknown reasons.
"You know I trust your judgement," Kady smirks, and finally removes her hand from Gabriella’s arm to zip her bag closed. "Seafood?"
"I’m driving back to the dorms," Gabriella says, a note of polite regret in her voice. "Raincheck?"
"I’ll text you," Kady agrees, and hoists her bag over her shoulder. She gives you a glance. "Pleasure to meet you, Gabby’s something special." With a little finger wave to you and Gabriella, she leaves.
You could take a cab back. At worst, it’s a half-hour walk. You don’t say this.
A quick rinse in the gym showers and an equally quick drive later, she drops you off outside the campus entrance closest to the dorms.
"Good job today," she says as you unbuckle your seatbelt. "We have a lot of work ahead of us, but you have potential."
Your heart squeezes. "Thanks," you say, but even to your own ears it sounds flat. "I really appreciate your help," you try again, with more excitement this time.
She quirks an eyebrow at you, but smiles that little smile that looks like a smirk. "I’m only holding up my end of the bargain. Goodnight."
"Goodnight," you echo, and watch her drive away.
She didn’t take a picture of you at the gym to post on Snapstagram, that’s for certain. Not like you wanted her to, anyway.
It bothers you. It shouldn’t bother you so much.
You lie back on your bed, staring up at the ceiling, feelings churning in your gut.
The memories are like a slideshow, little pieces of sentiment all leading up to something Suspiciously Uncomfortable at the center.
"No romantic interests at the moment." The casual, affectionate nickname. "that’s why we love her ". The way Kady’s hand has rested on Gabriella’s shoulder, with the easy confidence of someone who knows their touch wouldn’t be unwelcome. The way Gabriella didn’t even react to it. "Seafood?"
You close your eyes, and drop your hand over them.
It shouldn’t bother you.
It does.
You reach for your phone, and swipe over to your messaging app before you can reconsider. Gabriella’s chat is still open.
Me (17:34): i hate to ask this, but
Me (17:34): who exactly is kady to you??
Seven minutes pass before your phone chimes. Seven minutes you spend regretting your message more with every second.
PU Gabriella (17:41): You’re observant, aren’t you.
PU Gabriella (17:41): Kady is an ex of mine.
PU Gabriella (17:41): It isn’t common knowledge, but I don’t exactly hide it.
Your heart sinks with the confirmation in a way you didn’t think was possible.
An ex. They dated. They were together.
A few minutes pass, and then your phone chimes again.
PU Gabriella (17:46): Will this be an issue?
It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter at all, not in the context of your fake relationship, and you feel utterly stupid feeling, what — jealous? Of Gabriella’s ex, given that there is nothing romantic between you and her anyway? You don’t even like her that way, for hell’s sake, so why—
Me (17:48): no. i was just wondering
Me (17:49): you seemed close.
A heartbeat. Another heartbeat.
PU Gabriella (17:49): We were.
PU Gabriella (17:49): Let’s talk about this tomorrow.
PU Gabriella (17:50): Rest well.
You sigh. You have a paper due Wednesday, and absolutely no desire to drag yourself to your desk. You roll over instead, your sore muscles protesting, and bury your face in your pillow.
Me (17:51): you too
Me (17:51): goodnight.

Spoiler: part 6: all’s fair in love and (club) war

You wake the next morning feeling like a truck ran you over physically, and like a truck is about to run you over emotionally.
Whatever demons possessed you to send a jealousy-fueled text to Gabriella, you hope they come back soon to finish what they started, because your arms and conscience are killing you.
The prospect of a terribly awkward conversation looms over you and tempts you to take yet another doctor’s note and postpone the inevitable, but you figure that the sooner you can explain yourself, and the less time Gabriella has to think any deeper into why you’re suddenly insecure about her gym friends, the better.
By the time you arrive to your morning lecture, you even have an excuse ready.
You spend the hour and a half trying to convince yourself of it, because if you aren’t, she sure won’t be. You can’t go with "hey, I didn’t know you actually were close to anyone because you barely acknowledge anyone’s existence beyond the superficial, so it caught me really off guard when you turned out to have a hot gym friend who apparently calls you Gab and gets you VIP tickets to sports events, so why don’t we chalk this one down to my social ineptitude?", but you figure a modified version of the truth could work.
That your subconscious somehow sees Kady as a romantic threat does not matter. Even if the romance is fake, any threat to your fake relationship is a very real problem if people start asking questions. Surely you can’t have that, because the scandal of "Gabriella cheats on partner with hot gym babe!" would bury all your finely crafted plans to boost your popularity in the dust. Also, you have, like, ethics and stuff, so if there’s any chance there’s still any lingering romance there, you don’t want to be Gabriella’s beard for a relationship with someone else.
You repeat this over and over in your head, like a mantra, until your classmate jabs their elbow into your side to get you to pass the stack of lecture notes down the row. You do so absentmindedly — and then have to scramble to awkwardly get yourself a handout too because you’ve forgotten to take one from the stack you just passed, but you manage.
Gabriella texts you to let you know she’s off campus over your lunch break, so your conversation is postponed to after your respective afternoon classes. The class itself, at least, is fun; your Marketing teacher lets you into one of the labs used by the senior product design classes, and lets you design and print a unique sleeve for a drink can in some kind of lesson on product differentiation. Despite the challenge of coming up with something in the span of an hour, you’re pretty happy with the matte black can of "Secret Soda" you end up making from a can of a popular carbonated drink.
Printing makes the class run late, so it’s past three by the time you finally make your way over to the table Gabriella has taken at the cafe outside the library. She’s turned away from you, chin in her hand and nails of her other hand lazily tapping the table as you approach.
"Hey," you say, placing the can down carefully before you plop your bag on the seat opposite her with a sigh of relief because, man, your arms hurt. "Sorry I’m late."
She gives the Secret Soda can a glance and an amused eyebrow quirk. Then she turns her gaze on you.
"Please, sit."
You sit.
And open your mouth before she can. "Before you say anything, I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I know it was inappropriate of me to ask, and I know that your private life is none of my business."
She frowns at that. "To an extent, I would say it is your business if I was with anyone while in a relationship with you." She pauses. "Even if that relationship is fictitious."
Then her voice grows solemn. "However, I would never use you that way." She leans forward, pinning you in place with her gaze. You swallow. "I meant it when I said I have no romantic interests at the moment, and whatever I had with Kady lies firmly in the past."
You nod. "I understand. I didn’t mean to imply that-"
In an incredibly cliched twist of fate, her phone pings, interrupting whatever attempt you were about to make at defending yourself.
She ignores it, still giving you her full attention. It pings again, and again, and then begins to ring when the notifications go unacknowledged. You watch as she rolls her eyes and picks up the call.
"Gabriella speaking," she says, all cold businesslike neutrality. "Grace? Is there an emergency?"
She listens to whatever Grace is saying on the other end, and then her brow furrows. "...War?"
Whatever Grace is saying is so rapid and impassioned it sounds like a tinny buzz to you from Gabriella’s phone speaker, and you watch as she sighs. "Alright. How many more do you need?"
Grace buzzes something else at her. "Understood. We’ll be there in 15 minutes." She listens politely as Grace buzzes even more, and then hangs up.
When she looks back up at you, her expression softens with apology even as she gathers her laptop and wallet from the table. "It seems like we must have the rest of this conversation later. Someone has challenged the Syndicate to a paintball war, but it looks like not enough members were able to attend to meet the quota on our end. Thankfully, the opposing club has allowed us to do a swap-in, since the rental place won’t let two people from their team drop out."
She looks you over critically. "Are you in shape to take part? Unfortunately, the venue has already been booked and the deposit is non-refundable, so—"
"I’m fine," you say firmly, and shove the Secret Soda can into the side pocket of your bag. "Let’s do this."
Gabriella drives fast, fingers drumming over the steering wheel in the silence that falls between the two of you.
You crack the Secret Soda open nervously, just to have something to do, and immediately wonder if you should have asked first. Gabriella only glances at you, though, so you try to drink it as carefully as possible.
At a red light, she stretches a hand towards you.
"Give me a sip."
You hand it over, jolting a little when your fingers brush hers, and she takes a swig. "...Huh." She grimaces, but takes another sip of the warm Coke, before handing it back to you.
This leaves you with the quandary of: her lips were right there. Her matte red lipstick is still perfect despite it—you wonder how she does it—and you stare at the can surreptitiously because it’s better than staring at her mouth, feeling like a creep but also too guilty to drink from it. Also, apparently, too awkward to not drink from it, as she gives you another sideways glance and the lights turn green.
It just tastes like Coke.
Warm, flat Coke that you finish as she pulls into a parking lot and unbuckles her seatbelt.
"Ready?"
"Ready," you tell her, not feeling ready at all but following on her heels regardless as you make your way into the paintball arena building.
The rules are simple: only direct impacts count. Each team of 20 gets only 100 paintballs per player. Masks and vests are provided, and must be worn at all times. Headshots are not allowed, and are grounds for disqualification. Eliminations get more valuable as time passes, and eliminating players that have a high individual score nets more points. There’s a time limit, and making it to the end nets extra points, though eliminating all opposing players is an automatic win.
You mull this over as you tug on a pair of loaned gloves, and watch as Gabriella explains something to a harried-looking Grace, voice calm and low. She casts a critical eye over the other team, nodding in agreement at something Grace says, and then makes her way over to your side again.
"The losing team will bear the rental costs," she informs you as she adjusts your vest, hands deft and quick on the straps. "Though it won’t be a big deal if we do, I would prefer we win."
Your arms are still sore as you take the AR she hands you. You check your ammo, and she does the same. You’re already running past the booking start time, so you don’t have much time to discuss strategy; the arena is indoors, located in a huge two-floor building, and each team will be given time to position themselves at each respective end. Gabriella pats your shoulder, eyes dark behind her mask visor. "Good luck. Don’t get shot." Her lips quirk up, a silent tease. "Paintballs come out the pointy end, so aim it at the enemy."
"Loser buys dinner," you tell her, shamelessly faking bravado until it sticks.
Her eyes narrow in challenge, and her smile gains a vicious edge. "Deal."
You hold her gaze until the door opens in front of you, electronic countdown beginning, and Gabriella immediately vanishes into the maze-like obstacles between you and the enemy team.
Cursing, you give chase, and immediately have to dive behind a padded pillar as the countdown ends and a stray paintball whizzes an inch from your ear. You hear eliminations announced in rapid succession: one, two, three for your team. One for the enemy. The scoreboard buzzes, signifying a revenge elimination for your team, and there’s noise from all sides but you can’t really tell where it’s coming from over the pounding of your heart.
You shuffle along the pillar, hopefully staying covered, as five more eliminations roll in; this time three for the enemy team, and two for yours.
Find Gabriella, you think.
She’s nowhere to be seen as you pick your way across the obstacles. Heart in your throat, you almost yelp in surprise when you round a corner and immediately bump into someone’s retreating back; you press the trigger on reflex and the opposing team member gives an oof as the shot hits them square between the shoulderblades. They glare at you, but pull out the colored handkerchief from their pocket anyway to signal an elimination as the scoreboard buzzes for your team.
Six down, fourteen? to go.
Unfortunately, the commotion must have caught the attention of the enemy team, because the next moment you almost have to flatten yourself on the floor as you dive for cover and a volley of paintballs rains heavily over the spot you just stood. You scramble back up, and run in a low crouch in a direction that hopefully takes you away from active fire.
You check your ammo and reload. The scoreboard buzzes three more times.
Another player materializes ahead, and you jerk your gun up reflexively before you realize it’s a fellow Syndicate member. She gives you a brief nod and gestures in one direction with two fingers, so you figure you’ll be taking the other one as you nod in return and sneak off. Behind your back, you hear her reload and shoot twice; another buzz for your team.
You wonder if Gabriella’s been eliminated already. It’s entirely possible, given how she ran ahead, and yet… somehow, you can’t imagine her being taken out so easily. You shake your head, and try to focus.
You have to win this. Not for her, but for yourself.
You swallow, and take careful at a shadowed corner ahead of you where you could have sworn something moved just a second ago. The edge of a colored vest pops out, and you squeeze the trigger. The shadowed corner curses, and another colored handkerchief goes up.
Ten left.
Your arms are beginning to ache even worse holding the gun up, so you let it hang by its strap as you reload again, clammy hands slippery on the grip.
The next few minutes are uneventful. You have to duck and hide from a trio of enemy teammates who seemingly eliminate someone behind you—unfortunate, but sucks to be them—and a far-off scuffle resolves itself with another series of buzzes from the scoreboard.
Six left, presumably including the three behind you.
You finally notice Gabriella on the second floor, crouched just behind a pillar and sighting down the barrel of her gun. It glints in the dim light and for a moment you think she’s noticed you too, before she takes aim and fires off three clean shots. A chorus of curses from behind you signifies the elimination of three more enemies. When you glance back over, unpeeling yourself from the barrier you’ve glued yourself to, you think she’s smirking.
You can’t tell, of course, but it’s a feeling.
Three left. You haven’t realized how quiet the battlefield has become.
She’s easily gotten you beat with just those three shots, but somehow it just makes your competitive hackles rise. You’re not giving up so easily.
You move towards the corner you’ve seen her lurking in, eyes and ears peeled for any sign of movement. She seems to have the same idea, because you hear the quiet heavy tap-tap-tap of sneakers on metal as she easily swings over the railing and joins you behind a pillar. You don’t even need to speak—there’s no place for three enemies to hide on the second floor, not unless one of them has plastered themselves against a pillar directly opposite where she was. She reloads with a quiet click and leans in close, hair brushing your shoulder as she carefully peers along the wall.
Your heart pounds. You’re not sure if it’s from the proximity, or from the strange anxious anticipation building the longer the battlefield remains entirely silent.
She tugs you forward suddenly, and the next few moments pass in a blur:
Two buzzes sound—this time, two from your side eliminated, it’s just you and Gabriella left, you realize, right as she pulls you towards the sound of the commotion, gun already raised—and the three enemy teammates finally are in view, rushing at you from three separate directions at once, and your mind goes blank—
You dive over Gabriella on instinct, and she’s already shooting past you as you wrap your non-gun arm around her to soften the impact. Your back is immediately pelted with paintballs, splattering hard like a particularly vengeful hailstorm, and you don’t even register the pain or the three — four — buzzes of the scoreboard as she braces her arm on yours and keeps firing.
The room erupts into cheers, but you can’t see - or hear - anything besides her.
She grins up at you, hair in disarray and breathing hard. Your heart lurches.
"I think you won," you tell her.
"We won," she counters, with a smile so genuine your ribs hurt from it.
You drag yourself up from where you’re perched over her inelegantly, extricating your arm, and help her up. She’s glowing as she pulls the latch on the protective visor open and tugs it off, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed and somehow spotless despite the rain of paint you must’ve managed to block entirely.
Her hand is covered in paint from where she’s gripped your upper arm for balance. It leaves a smear on her cheek when she brushes her hair out of her face.
Then you’re engulfed in a sea of cheering teammates, eighteen bodies crowding into you and hands everywhere, noise and hollers and squeezed shoulders and pats on your back. It takes a beat before she looks away, and it feels like an eternity; you’re still drowning in her dark eyes, still overwhelmed, pulse rabbit-quick.
She may have won. You’re not sure if you have.

Spoiler: part 7: OP is (OP voice) NOT IN LOVE

The strange feeling lingers, making its home somewhere under your diaphragm and pointedly reminding you of its existence each time you see Gabriella — or even hear her name, in a stunningly disappointing new development of emotional weakness. You chalk that new phenomenon down to the spectre of the unfinished conversation hanging above you.
So if your heart jumps a bit every time you encounter her, half nervous anxiety and half something you can’t name yet, that’s perfectly understandable.
She weaves in and out of your life for another two weeks, via occasional study dates and—thankfully private to the two of you—gym sessions, until it’s just a week to the start of all the Valentine’s day shenanigans you signed up for.
You don’t think too hard about the logistics of ending your arrangement after it’s all over. That’s a problem for future you to ponder.
These strategies work very well for those two weeks, at least, until fate cruelly snatches away the veil of plausible deniability from you when it comes to unfinished conversations. Even more cruelly, it does so in the form of yet another intrusion into your very peaceful cafe study date where you were midway into finishing your finance assignment.
Gabriella picks up her phone immediately this time, brow already furrowed. "Hello."
She listens for a minute, and then her lips purse. "I see. I’ll be there."
Someone on the other end says something that sounds suspiciously like "....limousine", and Gabriella nods her assent absently. "That’ll be fine. Thank you."
She hangs up, and rubs her forehead with a perfectly manicured hand, casting a regretful glance at the papers spread across the table between you. "Unfortunately, I have to leave early today. My father has a last-minute engagement, and won’t be able to attend a gala this evening. I’ll be attending in his stead."
She shuffles her notes back into their folder as she stands. "Usually, my presence isn’t required at these events, and my parents tend to respect my academic schedule…but sometimes this does happen."
You don’t know what possesses you to say what you do next. "Can I come?"
Curse your newly developed impulsivity when it comes to Gabriella.
Her lips part in surprise, before she catches herself and gives you a coy smile. "Of course. It would be terribly boring for you, of course…but I suppose this is the best time for the two of us to make an official appearance together. Do you have something to wear?"
Thankfully, you did pack one set of formal wear, but you have no clue how fancy the event is going to be, and so you ask—"What’s the dress code like?"
She looks you over thoughtfully. "Formal. If you wear black, we can match."
So you do have something to wear. You tell her that.
"Perfect. I’ll pick you up at the school gate at five, then. It’s a long drive."
"Really? I could just take a cab, then—"
She gives you a cool once-over, and shakes her head once in dismissal. "No. I want to see you before we leave, and my father will be home."
You weren’t even offering to go to her house, but the rejection stings anyway. She catches your expression, and sighs. "My father… is a demanding man. I do not want to give him an opportunity to make you uncomfortable."
That sounds a lot like I don’t want to bring you home to disappoint my parents, but you hold your tongue.
"Okay. I’ll be ready by five."
She nods in agreement, and stands. "We will talk later, I promise. See you soon."
That promise hangs in the air between you as she leaves.
You shower and brush your teeth twice. Once with the minty breath toothpaste, and once with the shiny teeth toothpaste. You clip your fingernails, and then your toenails just in case. Then you get in the shower again to wash between your toes, and then it’s already half past four by the time you get around to tugging on your—mercifully still unwrinkled, thanks to the laundry bag—formal outfit.
You tap a sampler of eau de toilette that came with your roommate’s magazine subscription behind your ears, and check over your wallet, phone, and shoes. Your socks match. Gabriella texts you that she’s arrived and you take a deep fortifying breath and leave, smelling gently of vanilla.
You’re not sure why you thought she’d pick you up in her car again, but once she pulls open the shiny limousine door for you and you catch a glimpse of her outfit, you suddenly feel foolish for having expected something like that.
She’s stunning.
Her dark hair still falls in perfect waves around her shoulders, but she’s swapped her usual cool blue wardrobe for a wine-red gown with a corset bodice and a deep slit up the thigh that makes you lightheaded just to ponder. Her hand, now clad in a sheer black glove that goes up past her elbows, rests on the headrest in front of you as she leans over.
For a moment, you stare at her, and she stares back at you.
Mercifully, that moment does not last long. She casts an assessing gaze over your outfit, expression curiously blank, but seems to find it satisfactory. Her gown drapes around her against the cream leather of the interior as she settles back into her seat and motions for you to take yours as well.
Unlike the last drive you took with her, this one is significantly more tense. For one, neither of you is driving, and her attention isn’t stolen by the road. She’s too well-mannered to use her phone in front of you, and you don’t even have a convenient can of Secret Soda to crack open to defuse the tension.
You wonder why it’s there. Wondering doesn’t seem to help things much, and just leads your mind down unwise roads that all lead back to her.
It’s Gabriella that finally breaks the silence.
"You do clean up well. I was wondering what kind of outfit you would show up in, but now I see I shouldn’t have worried." That would sound almost insulting, if not for the almost hesitant note to her voice; a tint of approval that makes your breath catch. You do match.
You turn to her, and watch the streetlights flicker by through the tinted glass across from you. "I’m glad I won’t be too out of place, then."
It’s easily interpreted as ‘out of place next to the other people at the gala’. You wonder if she realizes that what you really mean is that you’re happy you’ll look good next to her. To her. Whatever.
She hums, and then segues seamlessly into a general briefing on the organization hosting the event of the night, pointing out specific distinguished guests that are expected to make an appearance and the significance of the venue it’s hosted at—apparently a large art gallery often repurposed as a venue for conferences and various dances. It’s a complicated social tug of war between the gallery owners and the socialite hosts, wherein the gallery owners allow it to be used ostensibly for free and in return reap the clout and connections from being named as a ‘generous sponsor’. Gabriella describes it to you with a twist of dry humor to her voice, and you find yourself smiling in response, right up until she mentions that Kady will be in attendance too.
She seems to notice your surprise (shock, really) and levels a knowing smile your way. "Our families are close. My parents have many expectations for me, but fortunately they do not extend into my personal life, so as long as I fulfil my obligations I’m free to do as I like." She looks past you out the window, and the smile turns wistful. "My parents liked her."
She must sense you still have questions, and glances back at you. "You’re probably wondering why I didn’t solicit her help for this." Now that she mentions it—you are wondering that. Her lips curl, lipstick blood red in the dim overhead light, and that smile is definitely a smirk when she says, "You’ll see for yourself quite soon."
Gabriella falls silent for the rest of the ride, and leaves you to ponder healthy and productive thoughts such as my parents liked her contrasted with her earlier reluctance to let you meet her family.
You keep pondering those healthy and productive thoughts for the better part of half an hour until the limousine finally rolls to a smooth stop outside a building surrounded by gorgeous winding stone paths. They’re lined with arches, vine creeping up clearly well-maintained marble, and gravel crunches underfoot as she exits via your side of the car and you hold an arm up to support her instinctively.
Her gloved hand curls around your elbow, surprisingly warm given the air conditioned interior you’ve just emerged from. She leans into you so easily you’re thrown for a moment—before you remember that that’s the entire point, that’s what you’re here to convincingly act out for the world, and resolve to do your best to get with the program.
Her grip is firm but gentle as she leads you past lamp-dotted flowering lawns towards the bright entrance of the gallery. The car rolls smoothly away behind you, tires crunching on gravel, and you take a deep breath as you step into the light.
The "quite soon" she mentioned turns out to be "practically immediately", since you’ve barely made an entrance before Kady accosts you, looking absolutely breathtaking in a complicated gown of pearls and shimmering fabric. What catches your eye more, though, is the man whose hand rests in the crook of her arm in a perfect mirror of Gabriella’s grip on you.
"Gabby’s something special," Kady greets you with a grin. It no longer feels as confrontational as it had before - maybe it’s the light, maybe it’s the drastically different look, but her expression is playful where it didn’t seem that way to you before. "Meet my boyfriend. I don’t think you’ve been introduced, so—" she waves a hand between you, "Something special, meet the love of my life. Love of my life, meet Gabby’s something special. Now that we’re all caught up, let’s find where they’ve set up the appetizers for tonight, because if I’m going to sit through all three hours of this thing I must have direct access—"
Kady’s boyfriend laughs, leaning against her with obvious affection, and they break away towards one of the corridors in search of the catering tables.
Gabriella turns to you, one dark eyebrow already arched. "So you see."
You do see. You also feel somewhat played, given that she could have mentioned this to you earlier. You don’t say that, though, because it would be an embarrassingly jealous thing to say. "They look happy together," you concede instead.
Gabriella smiles at their retreating backs, and tilts her head. Her golden earrings shift, catching the light. "They are. I’d say they’re a much better match than we could have hoped for in the circumstances."
"The circumstances?"
"Her family isn’t like mine," Gabriella says, and you feel like there’s a lot left unsaid there. "They wanted a very specific kind of partner for her, and those expectations strained our relationship."
That sounds a lot like homophobic parents, so you don’t press too hard. "And he qualifies?"
"He is the son of a board member regulating an industry her parents have been interested in investing in." She punctuates her point with a sly glance. "While his family is financially comfortable, their soft power holds a great deal of appeal. You can connect the rest of the dots."
"That seems…kinda transactional."
Gabriella shrugs. "Perhaps, but they’re happy, so does it really matter?"
You can’t argue with that, but there’s a question that’s been on your mind for ages now. "What about you?"
She blinks at you in surprise. "Me? In what sense?"
"Were you happy?"
She’s silent for a long moment before she replies. "I think that…until she left, I was. I won’t deny I was hurt when she did. For a long while, I thought our relationship would never recover from the betrayal." She sighs. "But, as you can see, we’re comfortable in our close friendship now."
She saves you from having to find an appropriately sympathetic answer to that revelation by sliding her hand back into the crook of your arm. "Alright, let’s stop loitering in the lobby. We have people to meet."
The rest of the night passes fairly uneventfully, with Gabriella taking the lead on introducing you to people and fielding most of the interest shown in you, and the social skills you’ve refined through countless Syndicate events picking up the rest of the slack. Kady whisks you away for a moment, even, hand firm around your wrist as she drags you away with great determination towards a table that holds what she says are ‘the best egg rolls, you have to try them’.
Gabriella barely bats an eyelash when you’re dragged away, leaning in almost absentmindedly to brush her lips against your cheek as a send-off.
Your cheek tingles for the rest of the night. All in all, you fare pretty well.

Spoiler: part 8: violence part 2 electric boogaloo

A/N: more violence in this one! skip the whole thing until "that was an incredibly bad idea" if you don’t wanna see OP get yote yet again and gabriella counter-yeet whoever yote OP <3
She insists on chaffeuring you back to the dorms instead of letting you take a cab, and it’s past midnight when her driver drops both of you off a few blocks away from the entrance so you can sneak in past curfew undetected.
It’s a surprisingly pleasant, if short, walk. Gabriella tilts her face up to the light, the deep golden eyeshadow she’s opted for instead of her usual red glinting in the glow of the streetlights.
She can’t go in with you, you realize, so you plan to say your goodbyes somewhere around the bushes lining the road leading up to the dorm gates, when a few things happen so rapidly you barely have time to process them all —she trips, heels catching on something and launching her into you with a winded oof — and the bushes rustle and come alive, several dark-clad figures emerging where before there was only the serene shuffle of leaves in the night — and someone yanks you away by the collar so hard you almost choke for air, driving a fist up into your side and sending pain radiating up your ribs.
Your assailant drops you immediately with a grunt just a moment later, and you clutch your side, trying to get your bearings as your vision swims and then sharpens.
Gabriella — and since when was she behind you? — drives the heel of one of her fashionable strappy sandals in a sharp crack against one assailant’s face, sending them careening into another while she whirls to face off the third figure and slam her gloved elbow neatly into the side of their head. The assailant she’s yeeten across the face clutches their nose, likely broken judging by the trickle of blood between their fingers, and launches themselves at her with a snarl, only to be reintroduced to the same heel driven viciously under their chin as she gracefully sidesteps and sweeps their legs under them in the same move.
You stumble to your feet, and she jerks her head up at you from her improvised headlock, eyes glinting in a way that looks almost feral. "I will deal with this. Run."
"Oh hell no," you counter, because like hell you’re leaving her there alone, and yank her along by the elbow. She’s clearly not expecting that, and the momentary surprise loosens her grip enough for you to pry the sandal from her hand and toss it with the best strength and accuracy you can muster directly at the face of the third figure with the unbroken nose.
Thankfully, it works to momentarily stun them too, and you pull Gabriella along into a wobbly run the remaining distance until the well-lit and student-card-restricted gate to the dorms.
You collapse against the first vertical surface you encounter after you frantically swipe your card for entrance, which happens to be the north side of the dorm building right next to that parking lot you got beaten up in all those days ago. It’s so darkly hilarious that you can’t hold back a snort, heart still racing a mile a minute from the adrenaline and the abrupt turn to your night. She’s shaking next to you and it takes you a moment to realize she’s laughing, shoulders shaking against the rough brick as she gasps for air.
There’s blood smeared across her cheekbone when she turns to you. It’s not hers, and there must be something incredibly wrong with you because you realize with a lurch that it’s sickeningly attractive.
"That," she finally makes out between gasps, "was an incredibly bad idea."
"They really should have planned it better," you say, just to watch her break into another helpless series of snorts.
You both try to catch your breath, and you stare at the moths circling one of the streetlights.
"My driver," she tells you, sounding far too amused for someone standing barefoot on asphalt you’re pretty sure you’ve seen people spit directly on, "is going to kill me." Something about her tone is so hilarious you can’t help but snort in laughter too, and it tugs at your aching side in the worst way with Gabriella goading you on. "I don’t even know where my other shoe is." She frowns in mock frustration at you as that cracks you up even harder, and adds, "those shoes cost several thousand, you know."
That sends you over the edge and you have to grab at the wall as you laugh so hard it nearly sends you to tears. "Okay, okay, stop, stop."
She magnanimously waits for you to collect yourself as she examines the skirt of her dress in the terrible light. "Alright, but you’re lending me a pair."
"Gabriella."
She looks up at you, letting go of the hem of her skirt, eyes glinting. "Gabby’s fine."
Your heart squeezes three beats into the span of one at the adrenaline jolt that gives you. "Are you hurt?"
She gives herself a pointed once-over, arms spread. "No. Are you?"
Your side still aches like hell from the impact and the run and the strain of your hysteric giggling, but nothing else seems to be permanently out of commission. "I don’t think so. They really should have planned it better, huh?"
She rolls her eyes and steps in close, hand ghosting over your side as you wince instinctively. "Get this checked out in the morning. I’d insist on looking at it myself, but people might get the wrong idea if I suddenly started stripping you in the parking lot."
There’s currently no one around you, and the idea of her stripping you in the parking lot raises your blood pressure a fair amount, but even your adrenaline-addled brain recognizes that as a bad idea.
"As for this…" she glances meaningfully at her state, "I suppose I’ll just have to tell my driver that our parting got a little too aggressive, shall I?"
"Uh," you say, reeling from too much imagery at once, and she takes pity on you yet again.
"I’ll take care of everything else later, but for now, I really do need to borrow some footwear." She raises an eyebrow at you and her tone dips into the teasing. "Unless you’d prefer to carry me back to the car..?"
You’d consider it, except the way back to the car goes past at least one person whose nose she probably broke, so you accept her plan with no contest.
Gabriella leaves a few minutes later in a pair of your most fashionable and least worn sandals, face blood-free thanks to a towel you dunked in the sink for her. You watch anxiously as she asks her driver to meet her outside the main gate of the university, wondering what she’d say to explain herself but even more invested in her getting into the car safe.
She texts you when she’s in the car, and again a few hours later that she’s safely home.
In spite of your wide-eyed staring up at the ceiling above your bed up to that point, falling asleep is surprisingly easy after that.

Spoiler: part 9: & FINALLY it is valentine’s day

In the last few days leading up to Valentine’s day, you’re inseparable.
You almost feel like you’re being babysat with how she doesn’t let you out of her sight, but it also works in your favour. Your side heals but your pride takes longer, though it really does help that Gabriella casually lets you know that incidentally three students have been suspended for an investigation into allegations of assault.
Turns out, she did break one of their noses. It’s only one more entry in the long, long list of things wrong with you that you find that hot too.
It also spurs you to make a resolution. While you’ve been stellar at denying and dodging your own traitorous feelingss up to that point, the looming deadline on your entire sham of a romance has made it progressively harder to deny that you’re definitely arse over heels for Gabriella, and you’ve moved on to the more defensible (if weaker) position that it’s okay to be arse over heels for Gabriella as long as you manage to both keep it to yourself and also not make it Gabriella’s problem to deal with.
Thus, your resolution: you will make the most of the remaining time you have together, and then when the time comes for your amicable separation, you will smile, thank her for the good time and the opportunity she gave you, and move on your merry way being arse over heels for Gabriella in private. You won’t do something as hideously embarrassing as hinting that you have feelings for her as a result of your entirely platonic mutually beneficial arrangement. You will take the extra 5k or so Snapstagram followers in the divorce, get your sandals back from Gabriella, and you will be happy about it.
Or, at least, you hope that if you repeat it enough times under your breath with clenched teeth, it will somehow manifest into reality.
Valentine’s day creeps home with the same cruel inevitability of your final exams. Gabriella leaves you at your locker with a huge zipped-up drycleaning bag containing your half of your matching wardrobe for the Valentine’s Ball that night, pressing a box of chocolate into your hand and graciously accepting a reciprocal box of chocolates she picked out but let you pay for, and you zone out for the half a day of lectures until you’re finally allowed to leave.
You shower, dry yourself, and tug on the outfit almost mechanically. It’s gorgeous, and you’d expect nothing less given Gabriella’s exacting taste. You’d look incredible together, you think. Her, resplendent in gold and red. You by her side, in midnight blue and silver, just the right shade to set her off when placed next to you. A single gorgeous picture that would surely make heads turn, fool everyone into believing in a perfect relationship built up over weeks of careful preparation, and you’re not bitter about it — you’re really not — but something about it does ring hollow now that you’re about to actually do it.
The same hall that had seemed so cavernous to you the first time you’ve entered PIMD feels entirely different when repurposed into a giant ballroom. It’s decorated with tasteful silver and cream and pale pink streamers and flowers everywhere — which must have cost a fortune — though it’s in part a charity event, so the lavishness is understandable given some of the overzealous alumni. Even in this, there’s an element of theatre; while the Ball may seem spontaneous to the ticket-holding attendee, you’ve personally witnessed the emcees practice their speeches over and over in one of the auditoriums in the week leading up to the day. Even the few couples on the voting lists, you included, have been drilled extensively on where to go and what to say and which direction to smile and wave in for the pictures.
It’s all a very beautiful spectacle starring a very beautiful Gabriella with her hair curled just so, and she smiles at you just so and performatively feeds you little bites of strawberry-topped cream cheesecake off her fork, and you are holding on very very hard to your resolution to be happy and normal and not at all heartbroken about it all.
She watches you carefully the entire evening, and when the song that is your cue to kick off the couple dance starts playing, she rises gracefully and offers you a hand.
You follow her to the dance floor, hand in unlovable hand.
Just as you have practiced countless times, you let her take the lead. You set a hand on her waist, other hand clasped in hers, and do your best to give the impression that you are gazing at her lovingly while avoiding any kind of actual gazing at all.
She seems to notice your tension, because she brushes a thumb across your shoulderblade and leans in close so that only you can catch her murmur. "Relax, please."
As the music swells, it’s easy to let her sweep you away, to get lost in her steady breathing and calm—gorgeous, always gorgeous—profile, and forget that there are hundreds of eyes on you that paid good money to have their eyes on you. You squeeze her hand instinctively, and she squeezes back, and you close your eyes against the suddenly sharp and relentless sadness.
Ballroom etiquette says that couples dancing slower should make their way towards the center of the room. As Gabriella, ever the etiquette-savvy heiress, slowly guides you into a dance that’s barely more than your body pressed against hers, you find yourself in the middle of all the couples by the time the music meanders to its eventual soft conclusion.
You’re struck with the realization that this is the one thing you didn’t actually practice.
This is where you’re supposed to kiss.
The hand she has on your shoulder slides up your neck as she cups your face, dark eyes unreadable as she brushes your hair out of your face with a careful sweep of her thumb. For a moment of blind, empty hope, you realize she is actually going to do it, actually going to kiss you — and right on the tails of that comes the guilt and the realization that you can’t do it.
Her eyes widen as you turn your head and press your face into her neck, suddenly on the verge of tears and trying desperately to hide it, but she holds you close anyway.
Cheers erupt from the audience. You’re only dimly aware of it as couples chatter and laugh around you, joined by everyone else as a much more upbeat track begins to play. You’re still frozen in that moment in her arms, trying to swallow down at least five different feelings too large for your body.
She gives you a few more very long moments to compose yourself and then extricates herself gracefully.
When you look up at her expression, it’s the most closed off you’ve ever seen her.
Someone taps her on the shoulder and whispers something to her animatedly; she nods, expression still flat, and the person melts back into the crowd. "We won," she tells you. The meaning takes a while to process, because she says it in the same way she would remark on the most boring of weather. "It will be announced officially later, but the votes have already been tallied. We are the top couple by a landslide."
"That’s…" you search for words. "Great."
She nods. "It’s what we worked for."
"Yay."
Her expression shutters more, but she doesn’t get a chance to reply to the world’s most unconvincing attempt at happiness as everyone is finally ushered off the dance floor and back to their seats, and you and Gabriella are herded to the front of the room next to the stage for the dramatic announcement.
When the room explodes in cheers and chants of Gabriella’s name, all you feel is empty. She guides you up to the stage with a careful hand on your back, smiles in all the right directions for the photos as instructed, accepts her bouquet and glows as a crown is settled on her head to match yours.
You’ve known her just long enough to recognize her media training smile, and do your best to emulate it.
(It’s still gorgeous enough to make your heart stop, even if it is fake.)
Then you’re ushered backstage for a few minutes to take a breather before you have to emerge and greet everyone, and she sets her bouquet down on the coffee table someone dragged in to keep props on hard enough some of the stems break.
For the first time, she doesn’t look at you when she speaks.
"I apologize."
The guilt and heartbreak that’s been brewing in your stomach sublimates instantly into panic and dread.
"H—?"
She’s realized. She must have realized.
You failed to act happy convincingly enough, and now she knows all about your stupid embarrassing unrequited feelings and hates you for it and wants nothing to do with you—
The line of her shoulders is tense, but she doesn’t turn around. "This was a bad idea on my part. I should have never proposed it."
She regrets it. She regrets that she trusted you to be normal and not fall for her while fake dating her, and you went and did just that and betrayed her trust and now she has to let you down gently—
"Oh," you finally force out.
She looks up at you then, and the air leaves your lungs when you realize how hurt and angry she looks.
"I understand I made an offer of a purely fictitious relationship with no romance involved," she says, low and determined, and that hurts, because you already know that, and she doesn’t have to rub it in — but what she says next throws you off guard entirely. "And I have failed to uphold my end of the bargain."
The paper around the bouquet rustles as she digs her nails into it. "For that, I apologize."
You stare at her, train of self-loathing entirely derailed, heart heavy and brain empty.
"?"
She sighs. The death grip on the flowers eases a little. "I did not mean to make you uncomfortable by asking for more than you can give."
You try to fit that into the puzzle of your ill-advised infatuation and almost manage to, but she isn’t done yet.
"I suppose I am selfish," she says, more to the flowers than to you. "But I’ve known that already."
"What are you talking about," you croak out in an attempt to get her to finally make sense.
She stares directly at you like she expects you to deck her and is fully ready to tank it. "You didn’t want to kiss me. You barely even looked at me all night."
That could not be simultaneously closer to and further from the truth. You have no idea how to communicate that.
Her eyes darken. "I almost did it anyway."
Time stops for a second, and then moves incredibly fast for a lot more seconds than that.
If someone hooked you up to a defibrillator, you think almost hysterically, it would probably detect a very shockable rhythm.
"Why didn’t you?"
The look she gives you is so incredulous it’s almost funny. "Are you… what do you—? Are you mocking me?"
"No," you immediately say, stumbling half a step towards her in your rush to reassure. "I just—"
"—Just?"
"Just thought that you would hate me and I don’t want you to hate me and I don’t want to have a stupid embarrassing crush on you when you said you have no romantic interest in anyone and we are supposed to be just friends who pretend to date for benefits," you say in one breath in the vague direction of her collarbones, and brace yourself for the inevitable. And then add, "and also I’m nothing like Kady."
"You," she begins, and pauses like she can’t even pick the words to respond to whatever it is you just word vomited all over her, "can be truly incredibly dense sometimes."
You hang your head because that’s basically it, isn’t it. In this circus you truly are the saddest clown.
She advances on you and grabs you by the shoulders and you think this is possibly the least sexy way imaginable to finally be beaten up by her, but when she pushes you backwards until your back is pressed against the dark cloth-covered wall she doesn’t do anything beyond staring at you so intently you think she’s probably cataloguing every neuron that has ever contributed to a dumb thought through your eyeballs.
Her eyes glint in the dim overhead lights. Her hand slides to cup your face, an exact mirror of the dance earlier. Your heart bounces like a yo-yo, also an exact mirror of the dance earlier. "Tell me you don’t want me to."
You blink at her like a cow in response, and she leans in and kisses you.
It’s not the best first kiss. It’s not even a particularly technically solid first kiss, what with you nearly suffering a heart attack in the first few seconds of it until you get with the program, but the hand she has on your cheek slides into your hair and she drags your head into a better position and presses deeper into you somehow, mouth soft and warm and insistent against yours, and your hands creep over her back into her hair on some ancient bone-deep instinct even as she presses your hips back into the wall—
—and then a door opens a few feet to your left and some harried staff member tells you you’re up in five, and Gabriella presses her forehead against yours with the most inelegant frustrated snort you’ve ever heard her make.
"We will," she breathes against your lips, "continue this conversation later."
You grab the semi-crushed flowers on the way out, lips still tingling.
You’re not sure if you’re allowed to feel happy yet. But if that was a conversation, you look forward to very thorough discourse once this Valentine’s Ball charade is finally over.

 

[Nicewife]

ohhhhh my god it completely borked up my line breaks past part 3 AHAH is there any way to fix that or-

 

[Sacai]

love in a prank war
A/N: what has started with a very benign and innocent "hey haha wouldn’t it be funny if I wrote a shameless PIMD simp fic about you and entered it into the writing contest" has spiralled way out of control into a 17k word behemoth and a cautionary tale against letting your friends enable your bad decisions, so! without further ado. this is fake rs for stats to REAL rs (?!?!) OP/Gabriella fic with gratuitous sprinkles of bastardized references to this game and its dynamics. also no similarities to real life people or entities are intended outside of my wife Gab(riella) and her wife Kady, whose portrayal is 100% correct and true to canon. i dedicate this to the Fairies GC that forced me to write this instead of hitting invite party, who shall now be forced to read it in its entirety as punishment. kisses!

Spoiler: part 1: we meet OP, OP meets Gab

To be fair, when you had picked this university, it wasn't really for its extensive record of academic excellence.

The Penn Institute of Marketing and Design (PIMD), lovingly dubbed "PU" by rival college students and alumni alike, was exactly the sort of social-sciences-centric artistic escape from your studies-focused life that you've always craved. Most importantly, it was well known to be the country's premier destination for those interested in hosting parties, attending parties, crashing parties, and skipping lectures and classes in lieu of parties.

And parties, of course, were well known among the newly-adult population to be the premier avenue for finding love. The ultimate teenage dream— the playful flirting, the companionship, the knowledge you have your person somewhere out there for you. You wanted that, simple as.

So this brings you to the present moment: in the truly ridiculously oversized PIMD exhibition hall teeming with people, clutching a freshie goodie bag and your phone hard enough to dent the promotional brochures inside, praying someone will swoop in and tell you what on earth you're supposed to be doing in this congregation of thousands of people you don't know at all because, yeah, socializing? Not something you've ever been good at. Or got to do.

"We're hosting a pizza party afterwards for new joiners! C'mere, newbies, we don't bite," a senior coos from a table over, waving her hand vaguely in your direction — or maybe at the people behind you, you can never tell — as she sets a stack of red solo cups next to an elaborately designed club banner. Pizza Bikinis and Dirty Martinis, it reads. Her sharp grin lures you in, and you slink over obediently and accept a cup clutched between her equally red manicured nails. She pulls out a thick stack of stapled forms out from under the table and slaps them on the table in front of you.

"So here's the deal, freshie," she begins, with all the charisma of a professional car salesman. "Here at Pizza Kinis, as you can probably tell from the name, we love our pizza and our alcohol—the more the better, really—and we all pitch in to make it happen as often as we can. Since you're a newbie we seniors would be hosting for you at first, but we don't like freeloaders, you know?" She smiles at you in a strangely ominous way and slaps a pen down on top of the forms. "So all you have to do is sign this contract to pay a certain amount of dues every week, and—"

A firm arm wraps itself around your shoulders and halts your plan to crab scoot away from the scary Pizza Bikinis lady unnoticed in its tracks.

"Lay off, Josie," your knight in Under Armour says. "Stop trying to induct all the newbies into your weird pizza cult. Hey, kid. You into athletics by any chance?"
He lets you go, and you blink up at him as the pizza senior rolls her eyes in defeat and sets her sights on a group of freshies a table over.

"Jon," he grins, and sticks his thumb out to gesture at the club stand he’s just saved you from. "You can get better food than that at one of the cosplay club cat cafes, if that's your thing. But if you just wanna party without all the sign-your-soul-over bullcrap, we're always looking for—"

Your attention is stolen away as heels click in a determined but unhurried rhythm right behind you, and when you look over your breath leaves you in a rush.

She’s gorgeous. There’s no other adjective that comes to mind that tops it.
Her glittering mermaid-cut gown trails on the floor behind her, a shimmering blue contrast to the blood red of her nails and eyeshadow and cloak gathered around her upper arms. Her hair and eyes are coal-dark; it should look garish, ostentatious even, all your pre-university admittance exam vocabulary for too much at once, but the effect is striking. She looks like she should be on a movie set, not cutting smoothly across a group of party club members already starting on the beer in the middle of frosh week.

"Gabriella," Jon says, sounding subdued.

You glance over at him, curious.

"Conglomerate heiress, penultimate year business student, consistent feature in the top 10 student list and PU promotional material. My advice? She won’t even look at you until you’ve made a name for yourself." He pats you on the back once, heavily. "I’d stay out of her way."

You both watch as she sets an oversized purse down, a large white cat leaping out elegantly to stretch alongside a carefully arranged display. Even with the noise of hundreds of people speaking at once in the hall, her voice carries, low and melodic.

"Return her to me when you’re done with the welcome event," she says, and brushes a sweep of dark wavy hair over her shoulder with her perfectly manicured nails. "Remember not to accept anyone without at least one extracurricular on file. I’ll drop by later to meet the new pledges."

The plastic cup crinkles in your hands.
Secret Syndicate, the sign next to the cat reads. It blinks at you, long and slow, and looks away.

"I have an extracurricular on file," you say, to no one in particular.

Jon sighs. Somehow, he doesn’t sound surprised.

"You’ll need more than good luck, kid. But good luck."

He thumps you on the back again before he leaves, presumably to scout new members for his club.

You, on the other hand, leave frosh week a goodie bag of promotional materials richer — and with a Secret Syndicate business card etched with the club’s socials as your reward for filling out the freshie pledge application form.

---

The week after the introductory events passes in a blur of lecture timetables, getting used to the campus layout with its labyrinthine buildings—you swear there must be at least twenty separate dorms on campus alone—and getting a feel for the PIMD student body. It pushes all thoughts of the Secret Syndicate, and Gabriella, out of your mind until the evening of your first initiation meeting.

Your initiation email instructions take you to a large room in the western wing of campus. It’s somewhat cold from the air conditioning and the dim lighting. As the heavy door quietly swings shut behind you, you shiver. The walls are covered with multiple posters pinned to a corkboard; you spy pictures of Syndicate members, a roster of some kind, and several sheets of numbers. The only furniture is a long, dark table and several armchairs. The room is empty save for one figure at the head of the table: Gabriella.

She looks up as you enter, and fixes her intense gaze on you. Something about it makes you feel like she can see straight through you. Your heart stutters. You wipe your suddenly clammy hands on the hem of your shirt as discreetly as you can, wishing you had worn something warmer.

"Ah, you must be our new member," she says, the corner of her lips quirking up in a small smile. "Welcome. Please, come and sit."

You take a seat at the table, and Gabriella stands, her eyes not leaving your face. "The Secret Syndicate," she begins, her low voice carrying in a way that’s almost hypnotic, "is a group of students dedicated to making the most of our time here at PIMD. We are not bound by any particular rules or regulations, except that we shall remain loyal to each other and our cause." She pauses, gaze flickering above you in a way that seems almost wistful, before she continues. "By joining us, you are pledging to uphold the values and ideals of the Syndicate. You will be expected to attend meetings and events, and participate in activities that benefit the group as a whole. In return, we will provide you with the necessary resources and guidance to help you succeed."

She pauses again, and gives you another small smile. "One thing you should know — at PIMD, there are many who will go to any lengths necessary to attain success. If you are prepared to offer us your loyalty, we will repay it in kind. Our members are never abandoned unless they abandon us first."

You swallow, and nod. "I understand," you say, and she nods in return. She offers you her hand; her palm is surprisingly warm in the chill of the room as you shake on it.

"I’m sure you’re wondering where the rest of the members are," she says, a hint of humor glimmering in her dark eyes. "We regularly run events to provide our members with a chance to socialize and build connections, while at the same time expanding their skillset and giving them a chance to earn some money. Of these, the cosplay cafes we host are the most lucrative, though in a pinch an old-fashioned pizza party night can raise funds for small expenses. You are, of course, welcome to join us as a member; in fact, your presence is required at least once a week. We won’t ask you to pay, but we expect you to contribute your time or skillset as appropriate."

You nod again, and she tips her head to the side. "I think that’s all for now," she says, her voice suddenly distant. "I look forward to seeing you around, and I wish you the best of luck in your studies."

As you thank her and turn to leave, her voice rings out again, echoing in the empty room. "Oh, and one more thing — don’t forget your initiation homework." You pause, and look back at her. "We expect you to complete your first assignment by next week. Good luck." You nod in acceptance, and the door swings shut behind you with finality as you leave.

Spoiler: part 2: OP gets shrekt & signs a contract

A/N: mentions of violence in this one! OP gets lightly beaten up and also robbed. if you don’t like this you can skip from the "until a rude reminder in the form of an elbow to the face" line until the next line break!

Since your admission, time flies by. It’s been nearly a week since you’ve pledged to the Secret Syndicate, and the initiation assignment has turned out to be surprisingly easy to complete. It seemed to involve a complicated system of points awarded for participating in events hosted by the society, and attending a few in your first week was apparently more than enough. You’ve also met some of the other members — though at first you were sure you’d never be able to remember all their names, what with their tendency to show up sporadically at meetings and parties. Strangely, you’ve noticed that while most other clubs on campus frequently opened their events to other students, the Syndicate-hosted ones tended to be an exclusive affair. You’ve seen Gabriella show up once or twice, mostly to drop her cat off at yet another cosplay cat cafe. ("Can’t host a cat cafe without a cat, now can we?" you recall her musing while stroking along the cat’s creamy white ears.)

True to their word, you’ve not been expected to do much other than show up and help out where you can. The first time you’ve been handed an envelope containing your cut of the cafe earnings for the day, you’ve almost choked at the amount that was inside. The routine grew comfortable a couple weeks in, and as November bled into December in a whirl of assignments and pop quizzes and tactical doctor’s notes to stave off exhaustion and cram for last-minute deadlines, you’ve almost forgotten Gabriella’s warning remark about how some people would go to any lengths necessary.

Until a rude reminder in the form of an elbow to the face, that is.

It’s a Tuesday night, and you’ve been assigned to help out at the latest pizza party night. The week has been a particularly busy one, but you’ve still managed to eke out the time. You’re chatting with some of the newer members via text—though you’ve only known them for a couple weeks, all of you seem to be getting along alright—when suddenly there’s a sharp shove from behind, and you’re sent tumbling forward into the empty parking lot behind the dorms. You catch yourself, palms scraping on the gravel.

"What the f—" you start, and the words die in your throat as a figure looms into view in the streetlights above you. It’s not someone you recognize. The only thing you realize is that the mystery assailant is built, before they crouch to grab at the front of your zipped-up jacket and slam you back down into the gravel. Your next breath forcibly leaves your lungs as they jab at your stomach with a fist, twisting in as you gasp.

The back of your head hits the curb as your struggles are met with a swift uppercut, and you blink away the sudden flashing lights and dizziness to find your assailant rifling briskly though your wallet. They pull out a stack of bills, tucking it into their back pocket, and twist a hand in your jacket again.

"Welcome to the Syndicate," they say, voice distorted through a cloth mask of some kind they have on, but not distorted enough to conceal the heavy mockery. They are about to say something else, but then another voice cuts across the parking lot; this one commanding and furious.

"What the hell do you think you are doing," Gabriella says, heels already clicking on the gravel towards you, and the assailant scrambles off you immediately. They vanish into the night as you groan and blink against the nausea. Gabriella crouches to help you up with a surprisingly firm hand on your upper arm, still glaring in the direction of the assailant’s escape, before she turns her worried gaze on you.

"Are you alright?" she says, and you nod, pushing yourself up with a wince.

"I’ll be fine," you say, and you mean it. Gabriella sighs, and helps you to your feet. You both turn and head back towards the dorms, ignoring the throbbing in your stomach and the ache of your scraped palms.

"I think it’s time we had a little chat about what it means to be a part of the Syndicate," she says, and the words send a chill down your spine.

You’d thought you’d finally found an escape from the drudgery of exams and constant deadlines — but it seems like that comes with a price.

---

You sit at the long dark table again, but this time Gabriella takes a seat across from you. She pulls a stack of papers from a folder and slides it across the table. You realize, with a start, that it’s a contract.

"These are the rules we all abide by," she says, not breaking eye contact. "Read and deliberate them carefully. If you agree, sign at the bottom."

You look through the contract, and note the promises of protection, assistance and resources as well as the expectations of loyalty and participation in Syndicate activities. There’s also a clause regarding secrecy, which gives you pause.

"What would happen if I broke the secrecy clause?" you ask, and Gabriella’s gaze softens slightly.

"We take our privacy seriously," she says. "It’s in the name. If you break the clause, you will be expelled from the Syndicate and likely blacklisted from other clubs and societies on campus that have a relationship with us. It’s not something we do lightly, but to maintain the trust we have in our members, it must be done."

"And if I refuse?" you ask.

Gabriella smiles at you, and it doesn’t reach her eyes. "Then you’re on your own."

You think back on the few weeks of nonstop activities, all the new connections you’ve made, your first huge paycheck—even the members’ cats you’ve met alongside Gabriella’s, since there’s apparently a rotation—and look back down at the contract. "Alright," you say, slowly. "Explain to me how this works, please."

She sighs and folds her hands in front of her. "You may have noticed that even though we count many of the Institute’s star students among our ranks, few of them attend the Syndicate-only events. It’s for a good reason; many of us have ambitions of our own, and seek to expand our circles outside the one we have here. Not all of our relationships with those on campus and beyond are friendly, however."

Gabriella pauses, and taps her nails on the tabletop. "We have certain longstanding rivalries with several other clubs and individuals. Some represent interests that go beyond those they have as students at PIMD; for instance, there are students who are related to those whose interests are in opposition to my family’s business decisions. Some rivalries, on the other hand, are personal. Today you may have witnessed one such example."

"You know who that was?" you ask. "Why attack me? I’ve barely had time to make friends yet, much less enemies."

She sighs with irritation, but you can tell it’s not at you. Probably. "It’s likely you were targeted because you are a new member, and also coincidentally one of our weakest." Her voice gains a menacing edge. "I do know who attacked you, and I will take measures to ensure it does not happen again."

"Alright," you say, though you aren’t sure if it’s actually alright yet. "I suppose I’ll just avoid dark alleys and stop keeping all my cash in my wallet just in case, huh?"

The joke makes her smile, and that lightens the mood somewhat. "That would be wise, yes."

You look back at the contract on the table between you, and make your decision.
"Deal."

---

Because you aren’t totally a slave to Gabriella’s charms, you take the time to actually scout for information on the Syndicate’s various relationships outside of the group itself. You’ve been so focused on making friends and getting to know the people within, that you’ve completely neglected to tune into campus gossip. Thankfully, some stalking of social media pages and tactical eavesdropping yields a wealth of interesting revelations.

You learn that Gabriella has a surprisingly contentious reputation among the faculty, for one. You’d assumed that as a star student frequently at the top of her cohort would be the faculty’s darling, but it turns out that she is often in disagreement with RAs, building a reputation as a troublemaker who isn’t afraid of conflict and tends to get her way when push comes to shove.

You also learn that despite her high-ranking position in the Syndicate, her personal beef with other people rarely involves the Syndicate itself. You’ve already known she wasn’t the President; what surprises you is the sheer amount of rumors circulating about her if one cares to look. For instance, it’s apparently an open secret that her top student status is largely due to the fact she spends insane amounts on tutors and every study guide she can. Stalking some walls on Birdbook yields rumors of Gabriella bidding out every single tutor in the cohort for exclusivity rights, despite not actually needing lessons from them. You’re halfway into investigating how plausible those claims are, when you come across a video buried deep in someone’s media grid, and oh—

—you watch on in fascination as someone aims a sucker punch at someone who is undeniably Gabriella, who spins around on her heels and neatly flips them over her shoulder by the arm before slamming them into the floor. So that’s a thing.

Further stalking reveals that the entire incident ended in the college disciplinary board determining it was in self-defense, and in the subsequent expulsion of the other student involved, but you can’t stop replaying that little segment of video - the neutral, calm look on Gabriella’s face; the way her fingers wrapped so confidently around the forearm of her attacker, easily one and a half times her size. The way she manhandled them so effortlessly, a graceful one-two-three move that ended with her attacker sprawled on the floor next to the pointed tips of her tasteful heels.

Upon reflection, your tastes may be a little weird.

Spoiler: part 3: FAKE rs??? in MY pimd???

You see her in a different light after that.

Having signed the contract seems to have relaxed some kind of aversion the Syndicate members had to telling you what’s actually going on, and you find yourself splitting your time between parties—from informal events featuring copious alcohol and snacks, to high-scale luxury events at hotels—and taking part in an elaborate series of pranks. You sneak into dorms to shake itching powder into the laundry drawers and between the bedsheets of a rival club that has tried to snipe your cosplay cafe location by booking it at the last minute. You swap the answer key someone in the seniors’ cohort was going to sneak into an exam via a well-timed toilet break with a copy where half the answers are wrong. One time, memorably, you replace the gummy bears in an off-campus frat house’s candy bowl with their sugar-free equivalents as payback for stealing your Christmas decorations, and enjoy the subsequent tales of explosive fallout.

You aren’t the strongest physically, but you learn that you’re inventive, and you also learn that it brings out a side to Gabriella you didn’t think was there. For an heiress, she’s surprisingly willing to lend her time to helping you with your pranks. For someone with a reputation to protect, she’s very accommodating when it comes to risking her academic reputation on your behalf. You sneak a hidden camera into the classroom of the person who attacked you all those days back and get evidence of cheating; when you hand it over to Gabriella she uses it to blackmail them into handing over your stolen cash with a little extra, and then anonymously releases it to the ethics board anyway.

It’s when you’re crouched together in the bushes on a hill waiting for a signal from the rest of the Syndicate members who went to scout ahead, a basket of eggs between you, and then all hell breaks loose when you’re surrounded and pelted with eggs instead—you look at Gabriella wiping egg off her face and out of her eyelashes with her perfectly manicured nails, a wild grin on her face and laughing at the hilarity of the situation, and think: oh no.

"Oh my god, I’m sorry," you begin, and pat yourself down for something to offer to her as a rag, but she cuts you off with a snort that turns into another peal of laughter. She looks over at you, and you can’t believe you ever thought of her dark eyes as sharp or cold—and then she says, "I think I need your help with something."

That’s where the point of no return was, if you had to pinpoint it on hindsight.

---

"So," she says, looking incredibly incongruous perched on an armchair in the club room in a spare pajama set borrowed off a Syndicate member that stays in the dorms. "You may already be aware that I am single."

That’s quite the start to the conversation.

"Uh," you say, eloquently.

Your heartrate also doubles.

"And it’s currently January," she continues, tapping the carved arm of the armchair with a nail like that means something.

"Uh-huh," you agree. Indeed it is.

There’s some egg yolk under one of your fingernails your thorough cleaning didn’t catch. You busy yourself with getting rid of it.

She powers on. "In February, it’s a time-tested and well-known PIMD tradition to host a series of Valentine’s day events, which are invitation-only. At the end, a single ‘star couple’ gets immortalized in the yearbook." Her voice grows sardonic. "As it happens, the main contender for that title as things are right now is…"

You look up at her. It clicks. "Oh. Ew."

"Ew is right," she nods. A strand of her dark hair falls out of the loose bun she’s put it up in, still somehow curled perfectly despite the impromptu egg shower. "You can see why I wouldn’t want to let that happen, petty as it might be."

You squint a little, because she’s right and you agree, but you can’t quite figure out what she’s leading up to—

"Among less petty considerations, there’s also the fact that bringing a date to the numerous galas my family wants me to show my face at would at least somewhat slow the flood of pre-Valentine’s Day courtship requests I get," she adds. "However, as I’ve already said, I am single, and do not have any romantic interests at the moment. Which rather limits my options for a partner."

"And so…" you begin. ‘Do not have any romantic interests at the moment’ runs on a loop in your head.

"...and so, this is where you come in," she finishes for you, and taps the pads of her fingers together resolutely in a silent clap.

"Me?"

She nods, pointing her steepled hands at you as if to punctuate her point. "You. Admit it, you could benefit from it as well, if only in terms of reputation. I won’t ask you to actually date me, and I know we’re far from romantically compatible, but surely it can’t be that hard to put up a convincing front. You’re a decent actor from what I’ve seen."

You don’t want to ask, but you feel the question would eat you alive anyway if you don’t, so you do. "Why me?"

She thinks for a moment, and then smiles. "Because I trust you."

You’re still processing ‘do not have any romantic interests at the moment’ and ‘far from romantically compatible’, so it must be something else possesses you to open your mouth and say, "Okay."

Her smile grows wider, and she relaxes back into the armchair. "Glad to hear it."

"So let me get this straight… you’re fake asking me out?"

"Yes. Do we need another contract?" she counters, an amused twist to her lips.

You mull that one over, trying to decide if she’s serious.

"...I accept," you settle on in the end.
In a strange parody of your first meeting, she reaches over the club table to shake your hand on it. You squeeze back.

---

(& then the ‘i trust you’ hits.)

Spoiler: part 4: intel date +10m

All things considered, merging your schedules for your fake dating endeavour with Gabriella is surprisingly simple. She doesn’t demand many sacrifices; you have a month to ease into making the relationship look organic, anyway, so she starts by drifting over to your side at the events you both attend more often, instead of her usual tendency to chat briefly with the senior members and leave. Simple, however, doesn’t mean easy.

The members start giving you curious looks. You try to ignore them, nerves stirring uneasily in the pit of your stomach as you try not to think about how believable your conversations about your schedule and latest projects and extracurriculars are. Gabriella, to her credit, charitably turns up the charm and draws both your attention and everyone else’s along with the conversation. She listens attentively, responds where appropriate, volunteers small tidbits of information and anecdotes about the other members.

She also gets in the habit of touching your arm lightly to get your attention. That inspires many feelings you can’t yet name, and wisely ignore too.

The simplest and most plausible way to start spending time together, you’d agreed, was joint study sessions. You wouldn’t have to talk much; but you’d be seen together, and would get to get your own uninterrupted studying time in at the same time.

"Win-win," she’d told you with an amused twist of her lips that is rapidly becoming familiar.

That’s how you end up in the campus Library on a Thursday after your morning Financial Reporting and Control lecture. She’s easy to find—she’s somehow both unmistakably present and also left alone by the rest of the students. The large table she occupies is empty save for her, and covered with several stacks of neatly labelled files and a textbook with multiple colored tabs sticking out of it. As you approach, she looks up at you, and her expression shifts to something more playful.

"Ah, there you are," she says, and tilts her laptop screen halfway shut. "I was just about to text you where I am."
That’s yet another thing that’s new to you two. Apparently, it would be strange for would-be love interests to not have each other’s number, so Gabriella’s contact is now saved in your phone.

She watches you as you take a seat and pull your own stack of carefully stapled lecture notes and a pencil case out. When you look back at her, her gaze is still on you, chin propped up on her fist.

"I’m was wondering," she says. "Why business? I know we’re in the same faculty, but somehow you don’t give me the impression it’s your thing."

You wonder how you can tell her that, in fact, you don’t think you even have a ‘thing’. You’d picked business because you heard it was an easy-to-complete major that would give you plenty of time to focus on other pursuits - like building a social life, finding the love of your life, and the like - while still being somewhat practical and applicable to your eventual career. It had seemed sensible at the time, but sitting across from Gabriella, who excels in her studies and picks up seemingly every extracurricular she can get her hands on with the eventual goal of being on her family company’s board of directors, it seems somewhat… naive. A little childish, even.

A path you’d picked out of a lack of ambition. Which apparently never stopped one of the most ambitious people you’ve met so far.

She blinks as the silence drags on a beat too long, and then sits back to wave her hand as if to dismiss the question. "Never mind, you don’t have to tell me. I was just curious."

"I didn’t really know what I wanted," you say, and you have no idea why you’re admitting that to her of all people, but somehow silence feels like the worse alternative. "My college admission results were good enough I could probably go anywhere I wanted, but… by the time it got around to the exams, with all the nonstop cramming, I kind of didn’t want to go for more of that. That ruled out medicine and law, at least."

"And yet your grades here are still important to you," she muses, and tilts her head in consideration. "I rarely see you slack when it comes to academics."

"Well, I…"

"It’s good, though," she says, with that little mouth-corner-quirked-up smile. "I wouldn’t date someone who isn’t serious about what they do."

You’re not sure the approval is earned, but it makes you feel warmer inside anyway. You shuffle your notes, and she tilts her laptop back open, and the rest of the hour and a half passes in companionable silence punctuated by her manicured fingernails clacking softly on the keys and the shuffle of paper as you annotate the day’s lecture homework.
It’s comfortable. Somehow, you’re not surprised at that.

---

When you get a top grade on your FRC101 midterm, after a brief celebration in your group chat with your circle of acquaintances-turned-friends from the class, you decide to text Gabriella on a whim about it.
Her response comes surprisingly swift. Just a minute after you send the text, your phone chimes.
PU Gabriella (10:13): Good job. I’m proud of you Celebrate at the cafe after class?
Me (10:13): haha, thanks! ٩(*•͈ ꇴ •͈*)و ̑̑❀
Me (10:13): and sure!
Me (10:14): my last lecture ends at 2:30pm, so i’ll meet you there?
PU Gabriella (10:17): I’ll grab a table for us. See you there.
You’re a strange, excited kind of low-grade restless the rest of the day until then. The afternoon lecture flies by in a blur of scribbled notes and by the time you finally shut your textbook closed and glance at the time, you can’t even tell why you’re so nervous. It’s just Gabriella.
Just your fake girlfriend. Just a celebratory cafe date, because that’s a thing you do now.
It’s not what you planned on your romantic life looking like at the start of the term, that’s for sure, and you ponder that absently as you make your way three floors down to the campus cafe. It’s a charmingly open location, with glass walls leading to an outside deck with tables lined by the campus pond. Gabriella has snagged one of those tables for you, and when you arrive, she’s watching the koi fish cut figure-of-eight circles through the clear water.
There’s a slice of tiramisu cake in front of her.
As she hears you approach, she looks up, and smiles. "I took the liberty of getting your favourite, but if you’re not in the mood for it, I could grab you something else."
"Thanks," you say, and pull a chair out. "How did you know?"
"I do follow your Snapstagram, you know," she says around the straw of her drink. Somehow, she makes even that look elegant, matte red lipstick pristine as always. "I got you tea as well, but I didn’t want it to oversteep, so I guess they’ll be bringing it out for you now."
When a cafe employee comes over with a little steaming teapot and a cup for you, she thanks them, and pours before you can interrupt. She slides the cup over to you, carefully balanced on a saucer, and unwraps a muffin from a brown paper bag for herself.
"So," she begins, as you start in on the cake. "It’s been two weeks since our agreement."
You lick cocoa cream off your fork as you wait for her to go on, and she watches you. "Yeah."
"I’ve gotten a lot of questions about my sudden interest in you, so I guess we’re on the right track. Kim wouldn’t leave me alone last week about it, so it’s probably not going to be long until the rumors spread beyond what I could stifle myself."
Kimberly, your memory supplies. The elusive president of the Secret Syndicate, rarely seen during events, and only present at the important meetings. You’ve seen more of her in photos than in person, always poised and somehow stern. It’s strange to hear Gabriella talk about her with obvious familiarity.
"That’s good, isn’t it?"
"It’s a good time to back out now if you’ve changed your mind," she says. "From now on, there’ll be a lot more scrutiny, so if we continue this I’ll need your full dedication."
"I think I can handle it," you tell her. You’re seized with the sudden desire to tease, so you glance at her through your lashes briefly. "Unless you want to back out…?"
Amusement flashes in her eyes, and her tone dips to match yours as a slow smile tugs at her lips. "No. I want to get what I was promised from you."
In for a penny, in for a pound. You respond in kind. "What’s in it for me?"
"Our relationship will be public," she says, voice taking on a distinct businessperson-negotiating-terms edge. "When we eventually end our arrangement, having been involved with me would likely score points with potential partners." That’s… kind of arrogant, but she’s right. Association with her would boost your popularity considerably. "You will, naturally, be my plus one at any corporate events I am invited to, which would give you an invaluable chance to network." Also true. You don’t really have ambitions beyond doing well at your current responsibilities, but you’ve always been curious about the kind of luxury multi-billion-dollar businesses are associated with. "I will make sure that the time you dedicate to our arrangement is fully compensated, as well." Wow, that just makes you sound like a sugar baby of some kind. "Provided things go smoothly and I am satisfied with the conclusion of our arrangement, I am also willing to cover whatever tuition costs your scholarship does not."
…Definitely a sugar baby. You can’t help but wonder if you should be flattered or insulted.
"My scholarship covers my entire program," you tell her instead. "The rest of it sounds intriguing, but also… kind of stressful, to be honest."
Her expression softens, and she sets her muffin down on the paper bag in front of her. "I am aware. My lifestyle isn’t very relaxing even within the bounds of PIMD." She sighs, and continues. "Of course, if you were to agree to this I would do the best I can to shield you from any unwanted attention, and I’ll provide you with whatever you require that is within my power to provide. But if you choose to walk away, I will understand."
That alone almost convinces you, but you have one question remaining.
"I know I asked before, but why choose me?"
Your family is not exactly well known like hers is. Your grades may be good, supplemented by a copious amount of studying, but you’re not exactly close to her academic record either. Surely there are more impressive options to have on her arm if she really needs someone to be her partner, even a fake one—
"I feel comfortable spending time with you," she says. "I don’t care about your achievements. I care about the effort you put in. I care about trust and loyalty, and so far you haven’t failed me. I trust that you won’t, in the near future."
You look back down at your half-eaten cake, cheeks warm. Your heart pounds a little harder. Perhaps you’re a little weak for praise.
"Okay," you say, voice a little faint. "I’ll try not to disappoint."
She smiles, and sits back from where she was leaning towards you across the table. "I expected nothing less."
You eat your cake. The espresso-infused cream is very sweet.

Spoiler: part 5: str date +10m & ✨jealousy✨

With three weeks to go to Valentine’s Day, Gabriella takes it up a notch.
You get an influx of new followers on Snapstagram when she tags you in a photo captioned "Study date before midterms. ". You’re only halfway in the frame, face turned away as you frown absently at an open book, and you’re not sure when she’s snapped the picture - but you double tap it anyway, and set your phone screen side down.
It buzzes shortly after, and you flip it back over to a text from Gabriella.
PU Gabriella (19:01): I’m going to the gym with a friend tomorrow. I’d like for you to join us.
It’s a Sunday the following day, and her message isn’t phrased as a question, so your eyebrows rise slightly as you respond.
Me (19:01): the one on campus?
PU Gabriella (19:02): Our regular gym is about 10 minutes away, so I’ll drive you.
Me (19:02): well, as long as i don’t have to pay for gas…
Me (19:02): what time??
PU Gabriella (19:03): I’ll pick you up around two. I assume you have your own workout gear?
Me (19:03): yep! okay, see you tomorrow then
PU Gabriella (19:03): I’m looking forward to it.
Me (19:03): (🖒^^)🖒!
PU Gabriella (19:05):
Your Snapstagram notifications are still rolling in as you exit the conversation, and one catches your eye.
[19:00] @K4DYW4DY: @G4briella @storii.u …without me? hmph!!
[19:04] @G4briella: @K4DYW4DYaw, hush. I’ll see you tomorrow.
Something about the name is familiar, and Gabriella doesn’t often reply to her mentions, so you tap on the handle. Since you follow Gabriella, all mentions of her highlight themselves.
~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]
[Jan 03] WOO new season new reason to beat those rival colleges UP!! #PUcrushU #PIMDSports
~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]
[Jan 03] ] @G4briella you’ll be watching us, right?
~Gabriella @G4briella [Following]
[Jan 03] ]] @K4DYW4DY I won’t miss it Good luck!
~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]
[Jan 03] ]]] @G4briella good, because i got you the VIP tix!!
You scroll back in the timeline, and pause. There’s a picture of "K.wrd", grinning at the camera as she raises a water bottle to her lips, hair in a messy ponytail and a sports towel around her neck. Gabriella isn’t in the picture, but she’s tagged.
~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]
[Dec 24] (stsgrm.lnk/234234324.png) intras season prep with my fav gym buddy @G4briella! she’s a MEAN taskmaster & that’s why we love her #nopainnogain #PUBTprep
Gabriella hasn’t commented on it, though she’s liked the picture. There’s another right below. It shows K.wrd sprawled on the floor on what looks like a gym mat, pouting playfully at the camera.
~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]
[Dec 24] (stsgrm.lnk/234234323.png) went a round against @G4briella… never again!! #bjjmasterinherelement #jkjkrematchsoon #illwinSOMEday
~Gabriella @G4briella [Following]
[Dec 24] ] @K4DYW4DY Your footwork needs work Better luck next time!
~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]
[Dec 24] ]] @G4briella #gabisMEAN
Gab, huh. That’s interesting.
~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]
[Oct 13] (stsgrm.lnk/234234318.png) new college-level season record!!! we couldn’t have done it without you all!!! #PUBTistheBEST #PIMDSports
~Gabriella @G4briella [Following]
[Oct 13] ] @K4DYW4DY Congratulations! You worked hard!
~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]
[Oct 13] ]] @G4briella **couldn’t have done it without YOU!! #bestgympartnerever
You continue scrolling, not really paying attention. You haven’t seen this K.wrd mentioned on Gabriella’s profile before, but that’s probably because she rarely tags individual accounts in her own posts. Since Gabriella’s mentioned meeting tomorrow, you assume this is the "old friend" she was referring to—an old friend that calls her Gab, apparently.
Something about it is… confusing. There’s a murky feeling of unease in your throat, and you’re not sure why exactly you’re feeling so off. It could be because you’re caught off guard, you tell yourself. Gabriella has been nothing but cordial with you, but you’ve seen the air of distance she keeps with everyone else. Seeing someone you’ve never met address her so casually like they’re close friends, someone she’s never mentioned before… it’s surprising, is all.
You suppose you’re likely meeting ‘K.wrd’ tomorrow, anyway. You set an alarm for noon, and switch your phone to silent mode.
Gabriella picks you up at two, as promised, in her shiny black car-of-a-make-you-couldn’t-name. She’s thankfully alone, and some of the tension you didn’t realize you had leaves your shoulders.
She’s in a form-fitting tank top with a loose jacket draped over it, with her hair pulled up in an elegant twist. You slide into the buttery-smooth leather-upholstered seat next to her, and she smiles at you as you fasten your seatbelt.
The drive is short, as there isn’t much traffic in the college town on a Sunday afternoon, and you spend most of it in comfortable silence watching the buildings flicker by and examining the whorls in the lacquered wooden inlays on her dashboard. She parks and you both collect your bags from the backseat. The gym building is pretty unassuming; it looks just like any other office-slash-storefront, and Gabriella takes you past the glass-panelled doors to a front desk and greets the staffmember behind it.
"Day pass for one, please," she says, and slides a black card on the desk. You haven’t even thought to get out your wallet, and you’re momentarily embarrassed that you haven’t even considered you may need a membership, since the campus gym has always been open to students - but Gabriella doesn’t bat an eye, and several keyboard taps and a beep later, collects a card in a laminated pocket with a lanyard attached.
"All set," she glances at you, and steps in to slip the lanyard around your neck. She brushes your hair out of the way as she does it; her fingers brush the back of your neck - and you realize she must have cut her nails at some point, since you can’t feel her usual perfectly-manicured-points - but then the moment passes, and she steps away to assess her handiwork. "Shall we?"
You hoist your bag up in reply, and follow her inside the gym.
Gabriella’s friend is already waiting for you inside, crouched in a low stretch by the wall-length mirrors. She looks up as you enter.
"Gabby," she crows, and rises out of the crouch to stretch a hand towards Gabriella. "...and a friend!"
"Kady," Gabriella says, voice neutral. "Meet my clubmate." She turns to you, and gestures. "This is Kady, my gym partner and an old friend of mine."
Kady grins at you, but there’s something assessing in her gaze as she steps forward to shake your hand. It sets you on edge somewhat. Her grip is firm, but she squeezes a little too hard for your liking.
"Gabby doesn’t usually bring just anyone to train with her, so you must be something special," Kady says, and lets go of your hand.
You shake it out as discreetly as you can. Sportspeople, honestly. "I’m flattered."
Kady seems content with that answer, because she immediately turns her attention to Gabriella. "Since I pushed a bit too hard on the sets last week, I was thinking I’ll take it slow and focus on cardio today. I’ll still spot you if you want, though."
"That won’t be necessary," Gabriella tells her as she bends down to set her bag down by the bench along the mirror, and you try not to stare as she pulls her hair out of the bun it’s in and gathers it into a high ponytail. The way her hair looks runway-ready in every situation really is unfair. "I’ll take the sandbag today."
Gabriella pulls on a pair of boxing gloves as Kady hums assent and sinks back into her stretch, and then turns an expectant gaze on you. "Do you have your own training program?"
"I…what?" You don’t, really. All your extracurriculars have been focused towards intellectual pursuits rather than sports, and outside of the odd gym visit to run on the treadmill for a few minutes and lift some weights you’ve never, like, planned your workouts.
She sighs. "We’ll fix that. For now, let’s get you a pair of gloves."
You follow along best as you can as she tightens the velcro straps around your wrists. She taps her gloves together decisively like an old habit, and leads you over to a hanging sandbag in the corner. She taps the bag with a glove too, and then relaxes into a loose stance.
"The first thing you need to learn is how to throw a punch. It doesn’t matter how much muscle you have if you don’t know how to use it." She tilts her head to the side in a quick stretch, and then jabs at the sandbag at a speed you can barely follow. Your breath catches. The bag jerks away from her with the force of the blow, chain rattling, and Gabriella catches it easily on the return swing. "The most important thing is technique. Throw a punch wrong, and you could injure yourself, not your opponent." She demonstrates another punch, thudding heavily against the bag, and catches it with both hands this time.
"Not all punches will land," she says, a serious edge to her voice. "Your job is to make sure that the ones that do land hard. The less it takes to take down your opponent, the better."
You think back on that night in the parking lot, how pathetically easily you went down. Your palms itch with the memory.
"Understood," you say.
She nods, and gestures to the bag. "Give it a try."
You rub your gloves together and step up, winding your arm back to whap at the bag with all your strength. The chain rattles ominously. It swings around in a circle, and Gabriella catches the bag right before it can slam directly into you under its own weight.
"....Okay, we have our work cut out for us," she says with a sigh.
You think for a moment that it’s going to be a long day, and then she steps in to adjust your stance, front along your back, gloved hands gentle but firm where she nudges your arm into the right position.
When she speaks, she’s so close you can almost feel her breath. "Like this. Now try again."
Your fist hits the bag with a fraction of the power hers did, but it at least swings away from you this time, and she taps your shoulder with a glove in approval. "Good job. That’s much better. Again."
…A very long day, you mentally edit.
You almost forget Kady is there until Gabriella is finally done with you, having considered you decent enough to practice on your own and relegated you to another bag so she can focus on her own training. You’re not sure how long you’ve been doing the same motion, in a repetitive and somewhat hypnotic thunk-thunk-thunk, but when Gabriella finally motions you over to the bench you find you’re out of breath despite having mostly used your arms.
You pull off your gloves to rest your hands on your thighs and catch your breath, and when you look up Kady is handing Gabriella a towel. She drapes it around Gabriella’s shoulders as Gabriella snaps her water bottle open to take a drink, and her hand lingers on her shoulder in a friendly squeeze.
A little too friendly, you think.
Gabriella says something in a low voice thats makes Kady laugh out loud, and then they’re turning towards you.
"Gabby says that for a newbie you have some promise," Kady says, and her hand is still on Gabriella’s arm, fingers curled around her shoulder. "Congratulations. We’ll make an athlete out of you yet, huh?"
"As expected from my something special, don’t you think?" Gabriella says, raising an eyebrow as she takes another drink. She teases with the comfortable air of someone in close company, and your heart clenches for unknown reasons.
"You know I trust your judgement," Kady smirks, and finally removes her hand from Gabriella’s arm to zip her bag closed. "Seafood?"
"I’m driving back to the dorms," Gabriella says, a note of polite regret in her voice. "Raincheck?"
"I’ll text you," Kady agrees, and hoists her bag over her shoulder. She gives you a glance. "Pleasure to meet you, Gabby’s something special." With a little finger wave to you and Gabriella, she leaves.
You could take a cab back. At worst, it’s a half-hour walk. You don’t say this.
A quick rinse in the gym showers and an equally quick drive later, she drops you off outside the campus entrance closest to the dorms.
"Good job today," she says as you unbuckle your seatbelt. "We have a lot of work ahead of us, but you have potential."
Your heart squeezes. "Thanks," you say, but even to your own ears it sounds flat. "I really appreciate your help," you try again, with more excitement this time.
She quirks an eyebrow at you, but smiles that little smile that looks like a smirk. "I’m only holding up my end of the bargain. Goodnight."
"Goodnight," you echo, and watch her drive away.
She didn’t take a picture of you at the gym to post on Snapstagram, that’s for certain. Not like you wanted her to, anyway.
It bothers you. It shouldn’t bother you so much.
You lie back on your bed, staring up at the ceiling, feelings churning in your gut.
The memories are like a slideshow, little pieces of sentiment all leading up to something Suspiciously Uncomfortable at the center.
"No romantic interests at the moment." The casual, affectionate nickname. "that’s why we love her ". The way Kady’s hand has rested on Gabriella’s shoulder, with the easy confidence of someone who knows their touch wouldn’t be unwelcome. The way Gabriella didn’t even react to it. "Seafood?"
You close your eyes, and drop your hand over them.
It shouldn’t bother you.
It does.
You reach for your phone, and swipe over to your messaging app before you can reconsider. Gabriella’s chat is still open.
Me (17:34): i hate to ask this, but
Me (17:34): who exactly is kady to you??
Seven minutes pass before your phone chimes. Seven minutes you spend regretting your message more with every second.
PU Gabriella (17:41): You’re observant, aren’t you.
PU Gabriella (17:41): Kady is an ex of mine.
PU Gabriella (17:41): It isn’t common knowledge, but I don’t exactly hide it.
Your heart sinks with the confirmation in a way you didn’t think was possible.
An ex. They dated. They were together.
A few minutes pass, and then your phone chimes again.
PU Gabriella (17:46): Will this be an issue?
It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter at all, not in the context of your fake relationship, and you feel utterly stupid feeling, what — jealous? Of Gabriella’s ex, given that there is nothing romantic between you and her anyway? You don’t even like her that way, for hell’s sake, so why—
Me (17:48): no. i was just wondering
Me (17:49): you seemed close.
A heartbeat. Another heartbeat.
PU Gabriella (17:49): We were.
PU Gabriella (17:49): Let’s talk about this tomorrow.
PU Gabriella (17:50): Rest well.
You sigh. You have a paper due Wednesday, and absolutely no desire to drag yourself to your desk. You roll over instead, your sore muscles protesting, and bury your face in your pillow.
Me (17:51): you too
Me (17:51): goodnight.

Spoiler: part 6: all’s fair in love and (club) war

You wake the next morning feeling like a truck ran you over physically, and like a truck is about to run you over emotionally.
Whatever demons possessed you to send a jealousy-fueled text to Gabriella, you hope they come back soon to finish what they started, because your arms and conscience are killing you.
The prospect of a terribly awkward conversation looms over you and tempts you to take yet another doctor’s note and postpone the inevitable, but you figure that the sooner you can explain yourself, and the less time Gabriella has to think any deeper into why you’re suddenly insecure about her gym friends, the better.
By the time you arrive to your morning lecture, you even have an excuse ready.
You spend the hour and a half trying to convince yourself of it, because if you aren’t, she sure won’t be. You can’t go with "hey, I didn’t know you actually were close to anyone because you barely acknowledge anyone’s existence beyond the superficial, so it caught me really off guard when you turned out to have a hot gym friend who apparently calls you Gab and gets you VIP tickets to sports events, so why don’t we chalk this one down to my social ineptitude?", but you figure a modified version of the truth could work.
That your subconscious somehow sees Kady as a romantic threat does not matter. Even if the romance is fake, any threat to your fake relationship is a very real problem if people start asking questions. Surely you can’t have that, because the scandal of "Gabriella cheats on partner with hot gym babe!" would bury all your finely crafted plans to boost your popularity in the dust. Also, you have, like, ethics and stuff, so if there’s any chance there’s still any lingering romance there, you don’t want to be Gabriella’s beard for a relationship with someone else.
You repeat this over and over in your head, like a mantra, until your classmate jabs their elbow into your side to get you to pass the stack of lecture notes down the row. You do so absentmindedly — and then have to scramble to awkwardly get yourself a handout too because you’ve forgotten to take one from the stack you just passed, but you manage.
Gabriella texts you to let you know she’s off campus over your lunch break, so your conversation is postponed to after your respective afternoon classes. The class itself, at least, is fun; your Marketing teacher lets you into one of the labs used by the senior product design classes, and lets you design and print a unique sleeve for a drink can in some kind of lesson on product differentiation. Despite the challenge of coming up with something in the span of an hour, you’re pretty happy with the matte black can of "Secret Soda" you end up making from a can of a popular carbonated drink.
Printing makes the class run late, so it’s past three by the time you finally make your way over to the table Gabriella has taken at the cafe outside the library. She’s turned away from you, chin in her hand and nails of her other hand lazily tapping the table as you approach.
"Hey," you say, placing the can down carefully before you plop your bag on the seat opposite her with a sigh of relief because, man, your arms hurt. "Sorry I’m late."
She gives the Secret Soda can a glance and an amused eyebrow quirk. Then she turns her gaze on you.
"Please, sit."
You sit.
And open your mouth before she can. "Before you say anything, I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I know it was inappropriate of me to ask, and I know that your private life is none of my business."
She frowns at that. "To an extent, I would say it is your business if I was with anyone while in a relationship with you." She pauses. "Even if that relationship is fictitious."
Then her voice grows solemn. "However, I would never use you that way." She leans forward, pinning you in place with her gaze. You swallow. "I meant it when I said I have no romantic interests at the moment, and whatever I had with Kady lies firmly in the past."
You nod. "I understand. I didn’t mean to imply that-"
In an incredibly cliched twist of fate, her phone pings, interrupting whatever attempt you were about to make at defending yourself.
She ignores it, still giving you her full attention. It pings again, and again, and then begins to ring when the notifications go unacknowledged. You watch as she rolls her eyes and picks up the call.
"Gabriella speaking," she says, all cold businesslike neutrality. "Grace? Is there an emergency?"
She listens to whatever Grace is saying on the other end, and then her brow furrows. "...War?"
Whatever Grace is saying is so rapid and impassioned it sounds like a tinny buzz to you from Gabriella’s phone speaker, and you watch as she sighs. "Alright. How many more do you need?"
Grace buzzes something else at her. "Understood. We’ll be there in 15 minutes." She listens politely as Grace buzzes even more, and then hangs up.
When she looks back up at you, her expression softens with apology even as she gathers her laptop and wallet from the table. "It seems like we must have the rest of this conversation later. Someone has challenged the Syndicate to a paintball war, but it looks like not enough members were able to attend to meet the quota on our end. Thankfully, the opposing club has allowed us to do a swap-in, since the rental place won’t let two people from their team drop out."
She looks you over critically. "Are you in shape to take part? Unfortunately, the venue has already been booked and the deposit is non-refundable, so—"
"I’m fine," you say firmly, and shove the Secret Soda can into the side pocket of your bag. "Let’s do this."
Gabriella drives fast, fingers drumming over the steering wheel in the silence that falls between the two of you.
You crack the Secret Soda open nervously, just to have something to do, and immediately wonder if you should have asked first. Gabriella only glances at you, though, so you try to drink it as carefully as possible.
At a red light, she stretches a hand towards you.
"Give me a sip."
You hand it over, jolting a little when your fingers brush hers, and she takes a swig. "...Huh." She grimaces, but takes another sip of the warm Coke, before handing it back to you.
This leaves you with the quandary of: her lips were right there. Her matte red lipstick is still perfect despite it—you wonder how she does it—and you stare at the can surreptitiously because it’s better than staring at her mouth, feeling like a creep but also too guilty to drink from it. Also, apparently, too awkward to not drink from it, as she gives you another sideways glance and the lights turn green.
It just tastes like Coke.
Warm, flat Coke that you finish as she pulls into a parking lot and unbuckles her seatbelt.
"Ready?"
"Ready," you tell her, not feeling ready at all but following on her heels regardless as you make your way into the paintball arena building.
The rules are simple: only direct impacts count. Each team of 20 gets only 100 paintballs per player. Masks and vests are provided, and must be worn at all times. Headshots are not allowed, and are grounds for disqualification. Eliminations get more valuable as time passes, and eliminating players that have a high individual score nets more points. There’s a time limit, and making it to the end nets extra points, though eliminating all opposing players is an automatic win.
You mull this over as you tug on a pair of loaned gloves, and watch as Gabriella explains something to a harried-looking Grace, voice calm and low. She casts a critical eye over the other team, nodding in agreement at something Grace says, and then makes her way over to your side again.
"The losing team will bear the rental costs," she informs you as she adjusts your vest, hands deft and quick on the straps. "Though it won’t be a big deal if we do, I would prefer we win."
Your arms are still sore as you take the AR she hands you. You check your ammo, and she does the same. You’re already running past the booking start time, so you don’t have much time to discuss strategy; the arena is indoors, located in a huge two-floor building, and each team will be given time to position themselves at each respective end. Gabriella pats your shoulder, eyes dark behind her mask visor. "Good luck. Don’t get shot." Her lips quirk up, a silent tease. "Paintballs come out the pointy end, so aim it at the enemy."
"Loser buys dinner," you tell her, shamelessly faking bravado until it sticks.
Her eyes narrow in challenge, and her smile gains a vicious edge. "Deal."
You hold her gaze until the door opens in front of you, electronic countdown beginning, and Gabriella immediately vanishes into the maze-like obstacles between you and the enemy team.
Cursing, you give chase, and immediately have to dive behind a padded pillar as the countdown ends and a stray paintball whizzes an inch from your ear. You hear eliminations announced in rapid succession: one, two, three for your team. One for the enemy. The scoreboard buzzes, signifying a revenge elimination for your team, and there’s noise from all sides but you can’t really tell where it’s coming from over the pounding of your heart.
You shuffle along the pillar, hopefully staying covered, as five more eliminations roll in; this time three for the enemy team, and two for yours.
Find Gabriella, you think.
She’s nowhere to be seen as you pick your way across the obstacles. Heart in your throat, you almost yelp in surprise when you round a corner and immediately bump into someone’s retreating back; you press the trigger on reflex and the opposing team member gives an oof as the shot hits them square between the shoulderblades. They glare at you, but pull out the colored handkerchief from their pocket anyway to signal an elimination as the scoreboard buzzes for your team.
Six down, fourteen? to go.
Unfortunately, the commotion must have caught the attention of the enemy team, because the next moment you almost have to flatten yourself on the floor as you dive for cover and a volley of paintballs rains heavily over the spot you just stood. You scramble back up, and run in a low crouch in a direction that hopefully takes you away from active fire.
You check your ammo and reload. The scoreboard buzzes three more times.
Another player materializes ahead, and you jerk your gun up reflexively before you realize it’s a fellow Syndicate member. She gives you a brief nod and gestures in one direction with two fingers, so you figure you’ll be taking the other one as you nod in return and sneak off. Behind your back, you hear her reload and shoot twice; another buzz for your team.
You wonder if Gabriella’s been eliminated already. It’s entirely possible, given how she ran ahead, and yet… somehow, you can’t imagine her being taken out so easily. You shake your head, and try to focus.
You have to win this. Not for her, but for yourself.
You swallow, and take careful at a shadowed corner ahead of you where you could have sworn something moved just a second ago. The edge of a colored vest pops out, and you squeeze the trigger. The shadowed corner curses, and another colored handkerchief goes up.
Ten left.
Your arms are beginning to ache even worse holding the gun up, so you let it hang by its strap as you reload again, clammy hands slippery on the grip.
The next few minutes are uneventful. You have to duck and hide from a trio of enemy teammates who seemingly eliminate someone behind you—unfortunate, but sucks to be them—and a far-off scuffle resolves itself with another series of buzzes from the scoreboard.
Six left, presumably including the three behind you.
You finally notice Gabriella on the second floor, crouched just behind a pillar and sighting down the barrel of her gun. It glints in the dim light and for a moment you think she’s noticed you too, before she takes aim and fires off three clean shots. A chorus of curses from behind you signifies the elimination of three more enemies. When you glance back over, unpeeling yourself from the barrier you’ve glued yourself to, you think she’s smirking.
You can’t tell, of course, but it’s a feeling.
Three left. You haven’t realized how quiet the battlefield has become.
She’s easily gotten you beat with just those three shots, but somehow it just makes your competitive hackles rise. You’re not giving up so easily.
You move towards the corner you’ve seen her lurking in, eyes and ears peeled for any sign of movement. She seems to have the same idea, because you hear the quiet heavy tap-tap-tap of sneakers on metal as she easily swings over the railing and joins you behind a pillar. You don’t even need to speak—there’s no place for three enemies to hide on the second floor, not unless one of them has plastered themselves against a pillar directly opposite where she was. She reloads with a quiet click and leans in close, hair brushing your shoulder as she carefully peers along the wall.
Your heart pounds. You’re not sure if it’s from the proximity, or from the strange anxious anticipation building the longer the battlefield remains entirely silent.
She tugs you forward suddenly, and the next few moments pass in a blur:
Two buzzes sound—this time, two from your side eliminated, it’s just you and Gabriella left, you realize, right as she pulls you towards the sound of the commotion, gun already raised—and the three enemy teammates finally are in view, rushing at you from three separate directions at once, and your mind goes blank—
You dive over Gabriella on instinct, and she’s already shooting past you as you wrap your non-gun arm around her to soften the impact. Your back is immediately pelted with paintballs, splattering hard like a particularly vengeful hailstorm, and you don’t even register the pain or the three — four — buzzes of the scoreboard as she braces her arm on yours and keeps firing.
The room erupts into cheers, but you can’t see - or hear - anything besides her.
She grins up at you, hair in disarray and breathing hard. Your heart lurches.
"I think you won," you tell her.
"We won," she counters, with a smile so genuine your ribs hurt from it.
You drag yourself up from where you’re perched over her inelegantly, extricating your arm, and help her up. She’s glowing as she pulls the latch on the protective visor open and tugs it off, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed and somehow spotless despite the rain of paint you must’ve managed to block entirely.
Her hand is covered in paint from where she’s gripped your upper arm for balance. It leaves a smear on her cheek when she brushes her hair out of her face.
Then you’re engulfed in a sea of cheering teammates, eighteen bodies crowding into you and hands everywhere, noise and hollers and squeezed shoulders and pats on your back. It takes a beat before she looks away, and it feels like an eternity; you’re still drowning in her dark eyes, still overwhelmed, pulse rabbit-quick.
She may have won. You’re not sure if you have.

Spoiler: part 7: OP is (OP voice) NOT IN LOVE

The strange feeling lingers, making its home somewhere under your diaphragm and pointedly reminding you of its existence each time you see Gabriella — or even hear her name, in a stunningly disappointing new development of emotional weakness. You chalk that new phenomenon down to the spectre of the unfinished conversation hanging above you.
So if your heart jumps a bit every time you encounter her, half nervous anxiety and half something you can’t name yet, that’s perfectly understandable.
She weaves in and out of your life for another two weeks, via occasional study dates and—thankfully private to the two of you—gym sessions, until it’s just a week to the start of all the Valentine’s day shenanigans you signed up for.
You don’t think too hard about the logistics of ending your arrangement after it’s all over. That’s a problem for future you to ponder.
These strategies work very well for those two weeks, at least, until fate cruelly snatches away the veil of plausible deniability from you when it comes to unfinished conversations. Even more cruelly, it does so in the form of yet another intrusion into your very peaceful cafe study date where you were midway into finishing your finance assignment.
Gabriella picks up her phone immediately this time, brow already furrowed. "Hello."
She listens for a minute, and then her lips purse. "I see. I’ll be there."
Someone on the other end says something that sounds suspiciously like "....limousine", and Gabriella nods her assent absently. "That’ll be fine. Thank you."
She hangs up, and rubs her forehead with a perfectly manicured hand, casting a regretful glance at the papers spread across the table between you. "Unfortunately, I have to leave early today. My father has a last-minute engagement, and won’t be able to attend a gala this evening. I’ll be attending in his stead."
She shuffles her notes back into their folder as she stands. "Usually, my presence isn’t required at these events, and my parents tend to respect my academic schedule…but sometimes this does happen."
You don’t know what possesses you to say what you do next. "Can I come?"
Curse your newly developed impulsivity when it comes to Gabriella.
Her lips part in surprise, before she catches herself and gives you a coy smile. "Of course. It would be terribly boring for you, of course…but I suppose this is the best time for the two of us to make an official appearance together. Do you have something to wear?"
Thankfully, you did pack one set of formal wear, but you have no clue how fancy the event is going to be, and so you ask—"What’s the dress code like?"
She looks you over thoughtfully. "Formal. If you wear black, we can match."
So you do have something to wear. You tell her that.
"Perfect. I’ll pick you up at the school gate at five, then. It’s a long drive."
"Really? I could just take a cab, then—"
She gives you a cool once-over, and shakes her head once in dismissal. "No. I want to see you before we leave, and my father will be home."
You weren’t even offering to go to her house, but the rejection stings anyway. She catches your expression, and sighs. "My father… is a demanding man. I do not want to give him an opportunity to make you uncomfortable."
That sounds a lot like I don’t want to bring you home to disappoint my parents, but you hold your tongue.
"Okay. I’ll be ready by five."
She nods in agreement, and stands. "We will talk later, I promise. See you soon."
That promise hangs in the air between you as she leaves.
You shower and brush your teeth twice. Once with the minty breath toothpaste, and once with the shiny teeth toothpaste. You clip your fingernails, and then your toenails just in case. Then you get in the shower again to wash between your toes, and then it’s already half past four by the time you get around to tugging on your—mercifully still unwrinkled, thanks to the laundry bag—formal outfit.
You tap a sampler of eau de toilette that came with your roommate’s magazine subscription behind your ears, and check over your wallet, phone, and shoes. Your socks match. Gabriella texts you that she’s arrived and you take a deep fortifying breath and leave, smelling gently of vanilla.
You’re not sure why you thought she’d pick you up in her car again, but once she pulls open the shiny limousine door for you and you catch a glimpse of her outfit, you suddenly feel foolish for having expected something like that.
She’s stunning.
Her dark hair still falls in perfect waves around her shoulders, but she’s swapped her usual cool blue wardrobe for a wine-red gown with a corset bodice and a deep slit up the thigh that makes you lightheaded just to ponder. Her hand, now clad in a sheer black glove that goes up past her elbows, rests on the headrest in front of you as she leans over.
For a moment, you stare at her, and she stares back at you.
Mercifully, that moment does not last long. She casts an assessing gaze over your outfit, expression curiously blank, but seems to find it satisfactory. Her gown drapes around her against the cream leather of the interior as she settles back into her seat and motions for you to take yours as well.
Unlike the last drive you took with her, this one is significantly more tense. For one, neither of you is driving, and her attention isn’t stolen by the road. She’s too well-mannered to use her phone in front of you, and you don’t even have a convenient can of Secret Soda to crack open to defuse the tension.
You wonder why it’s there. Wondering doesn’t seem to help things much, and just leads your mind down unwise roads that all lead back to her.
It’s Gabriella that finally breaks the silence.
"You do clean up well. I was wondering what kind of outfit you would show up in, but now I see I shouldn’t have worried." That would sound almost insulting, if not for the almost hesitant note to her voice; a tint of approval that makes your breath catch. You do match.
You turn to her, and watch the streetlights flicker by through the tinted glass across from you. "I’m glad I won’t be too out of place, then."
It’s easily interpreted as ‘out of place next to the other people at the gala’. You wonder if she realizes that what you really mean is that you’re happy you’ll look good next to her. To her. Whatever.
She hums, and then segues seamlessly into a general briefing on the organization hosting the event of the night, pointing out specific distinguished guests that are expected to make an appearance and the significance of the venue it’s hosted at—apparently a large art gallery often repurposed as a venue for conferences and various dances. It’s a complicated social tug of war between the gallery owners and the socialite hosts, wherein the gallery owners allow it to be used ostensibly for free and in return reap the clout and connections from being named as a ‘generous sponsor’. Gabriella describes it to you with a twist of dry humor to her voice, and you find yourself smiling in response, right up until she mentions that Kady will be in attendance too.
She seems to notice your surprise (shock, really) and levels a knowing smile your way. "Our families are close. My parents have many expectations for me, but fortunately they do not extend into my personal life, so as long as I fulfil my obligations I’m free to do as I like." She looks past you out the window, and the smile turns wistful. "My parents liked her."
She must sense you still have questions, and glances back at you. "You’re probably wondering why I didn’t solicit her help for this." Now that she mentions it—you are wondering that. Her lips curl, lipstick blood red in the dim overhead light, and that smile is definitely a smirk when she says, "You’ll see for yourself quite soon."
Gabriella falls silent for the rest of the ride, and leaves you to ponder healthy and productive thoughts such as my parents liked her contrasted with her earlier reluctance to let you meet her family.
You keep pondering those healthy and productive thoughts for the better part of half an hour until the limousine finally rolls to a smooth stop outside a building surrounded by gorgeous winding stone paths. They’re lined with arches, vine creeping up clearly well-maintained marble, and gravel crunches underfoot as she exits via your side of the car and you hold an arm up to support her instinctively.
Her gloved hand curls around your elbow, surprisingly warm given the air conditioned interior you’ve just emerged from. She leans into you so easily you’re thrown for a moment—before you remember that that’s the entire point, that’s what you’re here to convincingly act out for the world, and resolve to do your best to get with the program.
Her grip is firm but gentle as she leads you past lamp-dotted flowering lawns towards the bright entrance of the gallery. The car rolls smoothly away behind you, tires crunching on gravel, and you take a deep breath as you step into the light.
The "quite soon" she mentioned turns out to be "practically immediately", since you’ve barely made an entrance before Kady accosts you, looking absolutely breathtaking in a complicated gown of pearls and shimmering fabric. What catches your eye more, though, is the man whose hand rests in the crook of her arm in a perfect mirror of Gabriella’s grip on you.
"Gabby’s something special," Kady greets you with a grin. It no longer feels as confrontational as it had before - maybe it’s the light, maybe it’s the drastically different look, but her expression is playful where it didn’t seem that way to you before. "Meet my boyfriend. I don’t think you’ve been introduced, so—" she waves a hand between you, "Something special, meet the love of my life. Love of my life, meet Gabby’s something special. Now that we’re all caught up, let’s find where they’ve set up the appetizers for tonight, because if I’m going to sit through all three hours of this thing I must have direct access—"
Kady’s boyfriend laughs, leaning against her with obvious affection, and they break away towards one of the corridors in search of the catering tables.
Gabriella turns to you, one dark eyebrow already arched. "So you see."
You do see. You also feel somewhat played, given that she could have mentioned this to you earlier. You don’t say that, though, because it would be an embarrassingly jealous thing to say. "They look happy together," you concede instead.
Gabriella smiles at their retreating backs, and tilts her head. Her golden earrings shift, catching the light. "They are. I’d say they’re a much better match than we could have hoped for in the circumstances."
"The circumstances?"
"Her family isn’t like mine," Gabriella says, and you feel like there’s a lot left unsaid there. "They wanted a very specific kind of partner for her, and those expectations strained our relationship."
That sounds a lot like homophobic parents, so you don’t press too hard. "And he qualifies?"
"He is the son of a board member regulating an industry her parents have been interested in investing in." She punctuates her point with a sly glance. "While his family is financially comfortable, their soft power holds a great deal of appeal. You can connect the rest of the dots."
"That seems…kinda transactional."
Gabriella shrugs. "Perhaps, but they’re happy, so does it really matter?"
You can’t argue with that, but there’s a question that’s been on your mind for ages now. "What about you?"
She blinks at you in surprise. "Me? In what sense?"
"Were you happy?"
She’s silent for a long moment before she replies. "I think that…until she left, I was. I won’t deny I was hurt when she did. For a long while, I thought our relationship would never recover from the betrayal." She sighs. "But, as you can see, we’re comfortable in our close friendship now."
She saves you from having to find an appropriately sympathetic answer to that revelation by sliding her hand back into the crook of your arm. "Alright, let’s stop loitering in the lobby. We have people to meet."
The rest of the night passes fairly uneventfully, with Gabriella taking the lead on introducing you to people and fielding most of the interest shown in you, and the social skills you’ve refined through countless Syndicate events picking up the rest of the slack. Kady whisks you away for a moment, even, hand firm around your wrist as she drags you away with great determination towards a table that holds what she says are ‘the best egg rolls, you have to try them’.
Gabriella barely bats an eyelash when you’re dragged away, leaning in almost absentmindedly to brush her lips against your cheek as a send-off.
Your cheek tingles for the rest of the night. All in all, you fare pretty well.

Spoiler: part 8: violence part 2 electric boogaloo

A/N: more violence in this one! skip the whole thing until "that was an incredibly bad idea" if you don’t wanna see OP get yote yet again and gabriella counter-yeet whoever yote OP <3
She insists on chaffeuring you back to the dorms instead of letting you take a cab, and it’s past midnight when her driver drops both of you off a few blocks away from the entrance so you can sneak in past curfew undetected.
It’s a surprisingly pleasant, if short, walk. Gabriella tilts her face up to the light, the deep golden eyeshadow she’s opted for instead of her usual red glinting in the glow of the streetlights.
She can’t go in with you, you realize, so you plan to say your goodbyes somewhere around the bushes lining the road leading up to the dorm gates, when a few things happen so rapidly you barely have time to process them all —she trips, heels catching on something and launching her into you with a winded oof — and the bushes rustle and come alive, several dark-clad figures emerging where before there was only the serene shuffle of leaves in the night — and someone yanks you away by the collar so hard you almost choke for air, driving a fist up into your side and sending pain radiating up your ribs.
Your assailant drops you immediately with a grunt just a moment later, and you clutch your side, trying to get your bearings as your vision swims and then sharpens.
Gabriella — and since when was she behind you? — drives the heel of one of her fashionable strappy sandals in a sharp crack against one assailant’s face, sending them careening into another while she whirls to face off the third figure and slam her gloved elbow neatly into the side of their head. The assailant she’s yeeten across the face clutches their nose, likely broken judging by the trickle of blood between their fingers, and launches themselves at her with a snarl, only to be reintroduced to the same heel driven viciously under their chin as she gracefully sidesteps and sweeps their legs under them in the same move.
You stumble to your feet, and she jerks her head up at you from her improvised headlock, eyes glinting in a way that looks almost feral. "I will deal with this. Run."
"Oh hell no," you counter, because like hell you’re leaving her there alone, and yank her along by the elbow. She’s clearly not expecting that, and the momentary surprise loosens her grip enough for you to pry the sandal from her hand and toss it with the best strength and accuracy you can muster directly at the face of the third figure with the unbroken nose.
Thankfully, it works to momentarily stun them too, and you pull Gabriella along into a wobbly run the remaining distance until the well-lit and student-card-restricted gate to the dorms.
You collapse against the first vertical surface you encounter after you frantically swipe your card for entrance, which happens to be the north side of the dorm building right next to that parking lot you got beaten up in all those days ago. It’s so darkly hilarious that you can’t hold back a snort, heart still racing a mile a minute from the adrenaline and the abrupt turn to your night. She’s shaking next to you and it takes you a moment to realize she’s laughing, shoulders shaking against the rough brick as she gasps for air.
There’s blood smeared across her cheekbone when she turns to you. It’s not hers, and there must be something incredibly wrong with you because you realize with a lurch that it’s sickeningly attractive.
"That," she finally makes out between gasps, "was an incredibly bad idea."
"They really should have planned it better," you say, just to watch her break into another helpless series of snorts.
You both try to catch your breath, and you stare at the moths circling one of the streetlights.
"My driver," she tells you, sounding far too amused for someone standing barefoot on asphalt you’re pretty sure you’ve seen people spit directly on, "is going to kill me." Something about her tone is so hilarious you can’t help but snort in laughter too, and it tugs at your aching side in the worst way with Gabriella goading you on. "I don’t even know where my other shoe is." She frowns in mock frustration at you as that cracks you up even harder, and adds, "those shoes cost several thousand, you know."
That sends you over the edge and you have to grab at the wall as you laugh so hard it nearly sends you to tears. "Okay, okay, stop, stop."
She magnanimously waits for you to collect yourself as she examines the skirt of her dress in the terrible light. "Alright, but you’re lending me a pair."
"Gabriella."
She looks up at you, letting go of the hem of her skirt, eyes glinting. "Gabby’s fine."
Your heart squeezes three beats into the span of one at the adrenaline jolt that gives you. "Are you hurt?"
She gives herself a pointed once-over, arms spread. "No. Are you?"
Your side still aches like hell from the impact and the run and the strain of your hysteric giggling, but nothing else seems to be permanently out of commission. "I don’t think so. They really should have planned it better, huh?"
She rolls her eyes and steps in close, hand ghosting over your side as you wince instinctively. "Get this checked out in the morning. I’d insist on looking at it myself, but people might get the wrong idea if I suddenly started stripping you in the parking lot."
There’s currently no one around you, and the idea of her stripping you in the parking lot raises your blood pressure a fair amount, but even your adrenaline-addled brain recognizes that as a bad idea.
"As for this…" she glances meaningfully at her state, "I suppose I’ll just have to tell my driver that our parting got a little too aggressive, shall I?"
"Uh," you say, reeling from too much imagery at once, and she takes pity on you yet again.
"I’ll take care of everything else later, but for now, I really do need to borrow some footwear." She raises an eyebrow at you and her tone dips into the teasing. "Unless you’d prefer to carry me back to the car..?"
You’d consider it, except the way back to the car goes past at least one person whose nose she probably broke, so you accept her plan with no contest.
Gabriella leaves a few minutes later in a pair of your most fashionable and least worn sandals, face blood-free thanks to a towel you dunked in the sink for her. You watch anxiously as she asks her driver to meet her outside the main gate of the university, wondering what she’d say to explain herself but even more invested in her getting into the car safe.
She texts you when she’s in the car, and again a few hours later that she’s safely home.
In spite of your wide-eyed staring up at the ceiling above your bed up to that point, falling asleep is surprisingly easy after that.

Spoiler: part 9: & FINALLY it is valentine’s day

In the last few days leading up to Valentine’s day, you’re inseparable.
You almost feel like you’re being babysat with how she doesn’t let you out of her sight, but it also works in your favour. Your side heals but your pride takes longer, though it really does help that Gabriella casually lets you know that incidentally three students have been suspended for an investigation into allegations of assault.
Turns out, she did break one of their noses. It’s only one more entry in the long, long list of things wrong with you that you find that hot too.
It also spurs you to make a resolution. While you’ve been stellar at denying and dodging your own traitorous feelingss up to that point, the looming deadline on your entire sham of a romance has made it progressively harder to deny that you’re definitely arse over heels for Gabriella, and you’ve moved on to the more defensible (if weaker) position that it’s okay to be arse over heels for Gabriella as long as you manage to both keep it to yourself and also not make it Gabriella’s problem to deal with.
Thus, your resolution: you will make the most of the remaining time you have together, and then when the time comes for your amicable separation, you will smile, thank her for the good time and the opportunity she gave you, and move on your merry way being arse over heels for Gabriella in private. You won’t do something as hideously embarrassing as hinting that you have feelings for her as a result of your entirely platonic mutually beneficial arrangement. You will take the extra 5k or so Snapstagram followers in the divorce, get your sandals back from Gabriella, and you will be happy about it.
Or, at least, you hope that if you repeat it enough times under your breath with clenched teeth, it will somehow manifest into reality.
Valentine’s day creeps home with the same cruel inevitability of your final exams. Gabriella leaves you at your locker with a huge zipped-up drycleaning bag containing your half of your matching wardrobe for the Valentine’s Ball that night, pressing a box of chocolate into your hand and graciously accepting a reciprocal box of chocolates she picked out but let you pay for, and you zone out for the half a day of lectures until you’re finally allowed to leave.
You shower, dry yourself, and tug on the outfit almost mechanically. It’s gorgeous, and you’d expect nothing less given Gabriella’s exacting taste. You’d look incredible together, you think. Her, resplendent in gold and red. You by her side, in midnight blue and silver, just the right shade to set her off when placed next to you. A single gorgeous picture that would surely make heads turn, fool everyone into believing in a perfect relationship built up over weeks of careful preparation, and you’re not bitter about it — you’re really not — but something about it does ring hollow now that you’re about to actually do it.
The same hall that had seemed so cavernous to you the first time you’ve entered PIMD feels entirely different when repurposed into a giant ballroom. It’s decorated with tasteful silver and cream and pale pink streamers and flowers everywhere — which must have cost a fortune — though it’s in part a charity event, so the lavishness is understandable given some of the overzealous alumni. Even in this, there’s an element of theatre; while the Ball may seem spontaneous to the ticket-holding attendee, you’ve personally witnessed the emcees practice their speeches over and over in one of the auditoriums in the week leading up to the day. Even the few couples on the voting lists, you included, have been drilled extensively on where to go and what to say and which direction to smile and wave in for the pictures.
It’s all a very beautiful spectacle starring a very beautiful Gabriella with her hair curled just so, and she smiles at you just so and performatively feeds you little bites of strawberry-topped cream cheesecake off her fork, and you are holding on very very hard to your resolution to be happy and normal and not at all heartbroken about it all.
She watches you carefully the entire evening, and when the song that is your cue to kick off the couple dance starts playing, she rises gracefully and offers you a hand.
You follow her to the dance floor, hand in unlovable hand.
Just as you have practiced countless times, you let her take the lead. You set a hand on her waist, other hand clasped in hers, and do your best to give the impression that you are gazing at her lovingly while avoiding any kind of actual gazing at all.
She seems to notice your tension, because she brushes a thumb across your shoulderblade and leans in close so that only you can catch her murmur. "Relax, please."
As the music swells, it’s easy to let her sweep you away, to get lost in her steady breathing and calm—gorgeous, always gorgeous—profile, and forget that there are hundreds of eyes on you that paid good money to have their eyes on you. You squeeze her hand instinctively, and she squeezes back, and you close your eyes against the suddenly sharp and relentless sadness.
Ballroom etiquette says that couples dancing slower should make their way towards the center of the room. As Gabriella, ever the etiquette-savvy heiress, slowly guides you into a dance that’s barely more than your body pressed against hers, you find yourself in the middle of all the couples by the time the music meanders to its eventual soft conclusion.
You’re struck with the realization that this is the one thing you didn’t actually practice.
This is where you’re supposed to kiss.
The hand she has on your shoulder slides up your neck as she cups your face, dark eyes unreadable as she brushes your hair out of your face with a careful sweep of her thumb. For a moment of blind, empty hope, you realize she is actually going to do it, actually going to kiss you — and right on the tails of that comes the guilt and the realization that you can’t do it.
Her eyes widen as you turn your head and press your face into her neck, suddenly on the verge of tears and trying desperately to hide it, but she holds you close anyway.
Cheers erupt from the audience. You’re only dimly aware of it as couples chatter and laugh around you, joined by everyone else as a much more upbeat track begins to play. You’re still frozen in that moment in her arms, trying to swallow down at least five different feelings too large for your body.
She gives you a few more very long moments to compose yourself and then extricates herself gracefully.
When you look up at her expression, it’s the most closed off you’ve ever seen her.
Someone taps her on the shoulder and whispers something to her animatedly; she nods, expression still flat, and the person melts back into the crowd. "We won," she tells you. The meaning takes a while to process, because she says it in the same way she would remark on the most boring of weather. "It will be announced officially later, but the votes have already been tallied. We are the top couple by a landslide."
"That’s…" you search for words. "Great."
She nods. "It’s what we worked for."
"Yay."
Her expression shutters more, but she doesn’t get a chance to reply to the world’s most unconvincing attempt at happiness as everyone is finally ushered off the dance floor and back to their seats, and you and Gabriella are herded to the front of the room next to the stage for the dramatic announcement.
When the room explodes in cheers and chants of Gabriella’s name, all you feel is empty. She guides you up to the stage with a careful hand on your back, smiles in all the right directions for the photos as instructed, accepts her bouquet and glows as a crown is settled on her head to match yours.
You’ve known her just long enough to recognize her media training smile, and do your best to emulate it.
(It’s still gorgeous enough to make your heart stop, even if it is fake.)
Then you’re ushered backstage for a few minutes to take a breather before you have to emerge and greet everyone, and she sets her bouquet down on the coffee table someone dragged in to keep props on hard enough some of the stems break.
For the first time, she doesn’t look at you when she speaks.
"I apologize."
The guilt and heartbreak that’s been brewing in your stomach sublimates instantly into panic and dread.
"H—?"
She’s realized. She must have realized.
You failed to act happy convincingly enough, and now she knows all about your stupid embarrassing unrequited feelings and hates you for it and wants nothing to do with you—
The line of her shoulders is tense, but she doesn’t turn around. "This was a bad idea on my part. I should have never proposed it."
She regrets it. She regrets that she trusted you to be normal and not fall for her while fake dating her, and you went and did just that and betrayed her trust and now she has to let you down gently—
"Oh," you finally force out.
She looks up at you then, and the air leaves your lungs when you realize how hurt and angry she looks.
"I understand I made an offer of a purely fictitious relationship with no romance involved," she says, low and determined, and that hurts, because you already know that, and she doesn’t have to rub it in — but what she says next throws you off guard entirely. "And I have failed to uphold my end of the bargain."
The paper around the bouquet rustles as she digs her nails into it. "For that, I apologize."
You stare at her, train of self-loathing entirely derailed, heart heavy and brain empty.
"?"
She sighs. The death grip on the flowers eases a little. "I did not mean to make you uncomfortable by asking for more than you can give."
You try to fit that into the puzzle of your ill-advised infatuation and almost manage to, but she isn’t done yet.
"I suppose I am selfish," she says, more to the flowers than to you. "But I’ve known that already."
"What are you talking about," you croak out in an attempt to get her to finally make sense.
She stares directly at you like she expects you to deck her and is fully ready to tank it. "You didn’t want to kiss me. You barely even looked at me all night."
That could not be simultaneously closer to and further from the truth. You have no idea how to communicate that.
Her eyes darken. "I almost did it anyway."
Time stops for a second, and then moves incredibly fast for a lot more seconds than that.
If someone hooked you up to a defibrillator, you think almost hysterically, it would probably detect a very shockable rhythm.
"Why didn’t you?"
The look she gives you is so incredulous it’s almost funny. "Are you… what do you—? Are you mocking me?"
"No," you immediately say, stumbling half a step towards her in your rush to reassure. "I just—"
"—Just?"
"Just thought that you would hate me and I don’t want you to hate me and I don’t want to have a stupid embarrassing crush on you when you said you have no romantic interest in anyone and we are supposed to be just friends who pretend to date for benefits," you say in one breath in the vague direction of her collarbones, and brace yourself for the inevitable. And then add, "and also I’m nothing like Kady."
"You," she begins, and pauses like she can’t even pick the words to respond to whatever it is you just word vomited all over her, "can be truly incredibly dense sometimes."
You hang your head because that’s basically it, isn’t it. In this circus you truly are the saddest clown.
She advances on you and grabs you by the shoulders and you think this is possibly the least sexy way imaginable to finally be beaten up by her, but when she pushes you backwards until your back is pressed against the dark cloth-covered wall she doesn’t do anything beyond staring at you so intently you think she’s probably cataloguing every neuron that has ever contributed to a dumb thought through your eyeballs.
Her eyes glint in the dim overhead lights. Her hand slides to cup your face, an exact mirror of the dance earlier. Your heart bounces like a yo-yo, also an exact mirror of the dance earlier. "Tell me you don’t want me to."
You blink at her like a cow in response, and she leans in and kisses you.
It’s not the best first kiss. It’s not even a particularly technically solid first kiss, what with you nearly suffering a heart attack in the first few seconds of it until you get with the program, but the hand she has on your cheek slides into your hair and she drags your head into a better position and presses deeper into you somehow, mouth soft and warm and insistent against yours, and your hands creep over her back into her hair on some ancient bone-deep instinct even as she presses your hips back into the wall—
—and then a door opens a few feet to your left and some harried staff member tells you you’re up in five, and Gabriella presses her forehead against yours with the most inelegant frustrated snort you’ve ever heard her make.
"We will," she breathes against your lips, "continue this conversation later."
You grab the semi-crushed flowers on the way out, lips still tingling.
You’re not sure if you’re allowed to feel happy yet. But if that was a conversation, you look forward to very thorough discourse once this Valentine’s Ball charade is finally over.

PIMD FANFIC LMAOOOOO WE LOVE TO SEE IT. IMMA SAVE THIS FOR LATER BC THE FIRST FEW SENTENCES LOOK HELLA PROMISING

 

[Nicewife]

love in a prank war parts 4-9 (but this time, with line breaks! woww!)

literally the same as post above but now Readable and Not A Horrible Wall Of Text

Spoiler: part 4: intel date +10m

All things considered, merging your schedules for your fake dating endeavour with Gabriella is surprisingly simple. She doesn’t demand many sacrifices; you have a month to ease into making the relationship look organic, anyway, so she starts by drifting over to your side at the events you both attend more often, instead of her usual tendency to chat briefly with the senior members and leave. Simple, however, doesn’t mean easy.

The members start giving you curious looks. You try to ignore them, nerves stirring uneasily in the pit of your stomach as you try not to think about how believable your conversations about your schedule and latest projects and extracurriculars are. Gabriella, to her credit, charitably turns up the charm and draws both your attention and everyone else’s along with the conversation. She listens attentively, responds where appropriate, volunteers small tidbits of information and anecdotes about the other members.

She also gets in the habit of touching your arm lightly to get your attention. That inspires many feelings you can’t yet name, and wisely ignore too.

The simplest and most plausible way to start spending time together, you’d agreed, was joint study sessions. You wouldn’t have to talk much; but you’d be seen together, and would get to get your own uninterrupted studying time in at the same time.

"Win-win," she’d told you with an amused twist of her lips that is rapidly becoming familiar.

That’s how you end up in the campus Library on a Thursday after your morning Financial Reporting and Control lecture. She’s easy to find—she’s somehow both unmistakably present and also left alone by the rest of the students. The large table she occupies is empty save for her, and covered with several stacks of neatly labelled files and a textbook with multiple colored tabs sticking out of it. As you approach, she looks up at you, and her expression shifts to something more playful.

"Ah, there you are," she says, and tilts her laptop screen halfway shut. "I was just about to text you where I am."
That’s yet another thing that’s new to you two. Apparently, it would be strange for would-be love interests to not have each other’s number, so Gabriella’s contact is now saved in your phone.

She watches you as you take a seat and pull your own stack of carefully stapled lecture notes and a pencil case out. When you look back at her, her gaze is still on you, chin propped up on her fist.

"I’m was wondering," she says. "Why business? I know we’re in the same faculty, but somehow you don’t give me the impression it’s your thing."

You wonder how you can tell her that, in fact, you don’t think you even have a ‘thing’. You’d picked business because you heard it was an easy-to-complete major that would give you plenty of time to focus on other pursuits - like building a social life, finding the love of your life, and the like - while still being somewhat practical and applicable to your eventual career. It had seemed sensible at the time, but sitting across from Gabriella, who excels in her studies and picks up seemingly every extracurricular she can get her hands on with the eventual goal of being on her family company’s board of directors, it seems somewhat… naive. A little childish, even.

A path you’d picked out of a lack of ambition. Which apparently never stopped one of the most ambitious people you’ve met so far.

She blinks as the silence drags on a beat too long, and then sits back to wave her hand as if to dismiss the question. "Never mind, you don’t have to tell me. I was just curious."

"I didn’t really know what I wanted," you say, and you have no idea why you’re admitting that to her of all people, but somehow silence feels like the worse alternative. "My college admission results were good enough I could probably go anywhere I wanted, but… by the time it got around to the exams, with all the nonstop cramming, I kind of didn’t want to go for more of that. That ruled out medicine and law, at least."

"And yet your grades here are still important to you," she muses, and tilts her head in consideration. "I rarely see you slack when it comes to academics."

"Well, I…"

"It’s good, though," she says, with that little mouth-corner-quirked-up smile. "I wouldn’t date someone who isn’t serious about what they do."

You’re not sure the approval is earned, but it makes you feel warmer inside anyway. You shuffle your notes, and she tilts her laptop back open, and the rest of the hour and a half passes in companionable silence punctuated by her manicured fingernails clacking softly on the keys and the shuffle of paper as you annotate the day’s lecture homework.
It’s comfortable. Somehow, you’re not surprised at that.

---

When you get a top grade on your FRC101 midterm, after a brief celebration in your group chat with your circle of acquaintances-turned-friends from the class, you decide to text Gabriella on a whim about it.
Her response comes surprisingly swift. Just a minute after you send the text, your phone chimes.

PU Gabriella (10:13): Good job. I’m proud of you Celebrate at the cafe after class?
Me (10:13): haha, thanks! ٩(*•͈ ꇴ •͈*)و ̑̑❀
Me (10:13): and sure!
Me (10:14): my last lecture ends at 2:30pm, so i’ll meet you there?
PU Gabriella (10:17): I’ll grab a table for us. See you there.

You’re a strange, excited kind of low-grade restless the rest of the day until then. The afternoon lecture flies by in a blur of scribbled notes and by the time you finally shut your textbook closed and glance at the time, you can’t even tell why you’re so nervous. It’s just Gabriella.

Just your fake girlfriend. Just a celebratory cafe date, because that’s a thing you do now.

It’s not what you planned on your romantic life looking like at the start of the term, that’s for sure, and you ponder that absently as you make your way three floors down to the campus cafe. It’s a charmingly open location, with glass walls leading to an outside deck with tables lined by the campus pond. Gabriella has snagged one of those tables for you, and when you arrive, she’s watching the koi fish cut figure-of-eight circles through the clear water.

There’s a slice of tiramisu cake in front of her.
As she hears you approach, she looks up, and smiles. "I took the liberty of getting your favourite, but if you’re not in the mood for it, I could grab you something else."

"Thanks," you say, and pull a chair out. "How did you know?"

"I do follow your Snapstagram, you know," she says around the straw of her drink. Somehow, she makes even that look elegant, matte red lipstick pristine as always. "I got you tea as well, but I didn’t want it to oversteep, so I guess they’ll be bringing it out for you now."

When a cafe employee comes over with a little steaming teapot and a cup for you, she thanks them, and pours before you can interrupt. She slides the cup over to you, carefully balanced on a saucer, and unwraps a muffin from a brown paper bag for herself.

"So," she begins, as you start in on the cake. "It’s been two weeks since our agreement."

You lick cocoa cream off your fork as you wait for her to go on, and she watches you. "Yeah."

"I’ve gotten a lot of questions about my sudden interest in you, so I guess we’re on the right track. Kim wouldn’t leave me alone last week about it, so it’s probably not going to be long until the rumors spread beyond what I could stifle myself."

Kimberly, your memory supplies. The elusive president of the Secret Syndicate, rarely seen during events, and only present at the important meetings. You’ve seen more of her in photos than in person, always poised and somehow stern. It’s strange to hear Gabriella talk about her with obvious familiarity.

"That’s good, isn’t it?"

"It’s a good time to back out now if you’ve changed your mind," she says. "From now on, there’ll be a lot more scrutiny, so if we continue this I’ll need your full dedication."

"I think I can handle it," you tell her. You’re seized with the sudden desire to tease, so you glance at her through your lashes briefly. "Unless you want to back out…?"

Amusement flashes in her eyes, and her tone dips to match yours as a slow smile tugs at her lips. "No. I want to get what I was promised from you."

In for a penny, in for a pound. You respond in kind. "What’s in it for me?"

"Our relationship will be public," she says, voice taking on a distinct businessperson-negotiating-terms edge. "When we eventually end our arrangement, having been involved with me would likely score points with potential partners." That’s… kind of arrogant, but she’s right. Association with her would boost your popularity considerably. "You will, naturally, be my plus one at any corporate events I am invited to, which would give you an invaluable chance to network." Also true. You don’t really have ambitions beyond doing well at your current responsibilities, but you’ve always been curious about the kind of luxury multi-billion-dollar businesses are associated with. "I will make sure that the time you dedicate to our arrangement is fully compensated, as well." Wow, that just makes you sound like a sugar baby of some kind. "Provided things go smoothly and I am satisfied with the conclusion of our arrangement, I am also willing to cover whatever tuition costs your scholarship does not."

…Definitely a sugar baby. You can’t help but wonder if you should be flattered or insulted.

"My scholarship covers my entire program," you tell her instead. "The rest of it sounds intriguing, but also… kind of stressful, to be honest."

Her expression softens, and she sets her muffin down on the paper bag in front of her. "I am aware. My lifestyle isn’t very relaxing even within the bounds of PIMD." She sighs, and continues. "Of course, if you were to agree to this I would do the best I can to shield you from any unwanted attention, and I’ll provide you with whatever you require that is within my power to provide. But if you choose to walk away, I will understand."

That alone almost convinces you, but you have one question remaining.

"I know I asked before, but why choose me?"

Your family is not exactly well known like hers is. Your grades may be good, supplemented by a copious amount of studying, but you’re not exactly close to her academic record either. Surely there are more impressive options to have on her arm if she really needs someone to be her partner, even a fake one—

"I feel comfortable spending time with you," she says. "I don’t care about your achievements. I care about the effort you put in. I care about trust and loyalty, and so far you haven’t failed me. I trust that you won’t, in the near future."

You look back down at your half-eaten cake, cheeks warm. Your heart pounds a little harder. Perhaps you’re a little weak for praise.

"Okay," you say, voice a little faint. "I’ll try not to disappoint."

She smiles, and sits back from where she was leaning towards you across the table. "I expected nothing less."

You eat your cake. The espresso-infused cream is very sweet.

Spoiler: part 5: str date +10m & ✨jealousy✨

With three weeks to go to Valentine’s Day, Gabriella takes it up a notch.

You get an influx of new followers on Snapstagram when she tags you in a photo captioned "Study date before midterms. ". You’re only halfway in the frame, face turned away as you frown absently at an open book, and you’re not sure when she’s snapped the picture - but you double tap it anyway, and set your phone screen side down.

It buzzes shortly after, and you flip it back over to a text from Gabriella.

PU Gabriella (19:01): I’m going to the gym with a friend tomorrow. I’d like for you to join us.
It’s a Sunday the following day, and her message isn’t phrased as a question, so your eyebrows rise slightly as you respond.
Me (19:01): the one on campus?
PU Gabriella (19:02): Our regular gym is about 10 minutes away, so I’ll drive you.
Me (19:02): well, as long as i don’t have to pay for gas…
Me (19:02): what time??
PU Gabriella (19:03): [/b]I’ll pick you up around two. I assume you have your own workout gear?
Me (19:03): yep! okay, see you tomorrow then
PU Gabriella (19:03): I’m looking forward to it.
Me (19:03): (🖒^^)🖒!
PU Gabriella (19:05):

Your Snapstagram notifications are still rolling in as you exit the conversation, and one catches your eye.

[19:00] @K4DYW4DY: @G4briella @storii.u …without me? hmph!!
[19:04] @G4briella: @K4DYW4DYaw, hush. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Something about the name is familiar, and Gabriella doesn’t often reply to her mentions, so you tap on the handle. Since you follow Gabriella, all mentions of her highlight themselves.

~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]

[Jan 03] WOO new season new reason to beat those rival colleges UP!! #PUcrushU #PIMDSports

~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]

[Jan 03] ] @G4briella you’ll be watching us, right?

~Gabriella @G4briella [Following]

[Jan 03] ]] @K4DYW4DY I won’t miss it Good luck!

~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]

[Jan 03] ]]] @G4briella good, because i got you the VIP tix!!

You scroll back in the timeline, and pause. There’s a picture of "K.wrd", grinning at the camera as she raises a water bottle to her lips, hair in a messy ponytail and a sports towel around her neck. Gabriella isn’t in the picture, but she’s tagged.

~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]
[Dec 24] (stsgrm.lnk/234234324.png) intras season prep with my fav gym buddy @G4briella! she’s a MEAN taskmaster & that’s why we love her #nopainnogain #PUBTprep

Gabriella hasn’t commented on it, though she’s liked the picture. There’s another right below. It shows K.wrd sprawled on the floor on what looks like a gym mat, pouting playfully at the camera.

~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]

[Dec 24] (stsgrm.lnk/234234323.png) went a round against @G4briella… never again!! #bjjmasterinherelement #jkjkrematchsoon #illwinSOMEday

~Gabriella @G4briella [Following]

[Dec 24] ] @K4DYW4DY Your footwork needs work Better luck next time!

~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]

[Dec 24] ]] @G4briella #gabisMEAN

Gab, huh. That’s interesting.

~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]

[Oct 13] (stsgrm.lnk/234234318.png) new college-level season record!!! we couldn’t have done it without you all!!! #PUBTistheBEST #PIMDSports

~Gabriella @G4briella [Following]

[Oct 13] ] @K4DYW4DY Congratulations! You worked hard!

~K.wrd @K4DYW4DY [Follow]

[Oct 13] ]] @G4briella **couldn’t have done it without YOU!! #bestgympartnerever

You continue scrolling, not really paying attention. You haven’t seen this K.wrd mentioned on Gabriella’s profile before, but that’s probably because she rarely tags individual accounts in her own posts. Since Gabriella’s mentioned meeting tomorrow, you assume this is the "old friend" she was referring to—an old friend that calls her Gab, apparently.

Something about it is… confusing. There’s a murky feeling of unease in your throat, and you’re not sure why exactly you’re feeling so off. It could be because you’re caught off guard, you tell yourself. Gabriella has been nothing but cordial with you, but you’ve seen the air of distance she keeps with everyone else. Seeing someone you’ve never met address her so casually like they’re close friends, someone she’s never mentioned before… it’s surprising, is all.

You suppose you’re likely meeting ‘K.wrd’ tomorrow, anyway. You set an alarm for noon, and switch your phone to silent mode.

---

Gabriella picks you up at two, as promised, in her shiny black car-of-a-make-you-couldn’t-name. She’s thankfully alone, and some of the tension you didn’t realize you had leaves your shoulders.

She’s in a form-fitting tank top with a loose jacket draped over it, with her hair pulled up in an elegant twist. You slide into the buttery-smooth leather-upholstered seat next to her, and she smiles at you as you fasten your seatbelt.

The drive is short, as there isn’t much traffic in the college town on a Sunday afternoon, and you spend most of it in comfortable silence watching the buildings flicker by and examining the whorls in the lacquered wooden inlays on her dashboard. She parks and you both collect your bags from the backseat. The gym building is pretty unassuming; it looks just like any other office-slash-storefront, and Gabriella takes you past the glass-panelled doors to a front desk and greets the staffmember behind it.

"Day pass for one, please," she says, and slides a black card on the desk. You haven’t even thought to get out your wallet, and you’re momentarily embarrassed that you haven’t even considered you may need a membership, since the campus gym has always been open to students - but Gabriella doesn’t bat an eye, and several keyboard taps and a beep later, collects a card in a laminated pocket with a lanyard attached.

"All set," she glances at you, and steps in to slip the lanyard around your neck. She brushes your hair out of the way as she does it; her fingers brush the back of your neck - and you realize she must have cut her nails at some point, since you can’t feel her usual perfectly-manicured-points - but then the moment passes, and she steps away to assess her handiwork. "Shall we?"

You hoist your bag up in reply, and follow her inside the gym.

---

Gabriella’s friend is already waiting for you inside, crouched in a low stretch by the wall-length mirrors. She looks up as you enter.

"Gabby," she crows, and rises out of the crouch to stretch a hand towards Gabriella. "...and a friend!"

"Kady," Gabriella says, voice neutral. "Meet my clubmate." She turns to you, and gestures. "This is Kady, my gym partner and an old friend of mine."

Kady grins at you, but there’s something assessing in her gaze as she steps forward to shake your hand. It sets you on edge somewhat. Her grip is firm, but she squeezes a little too hard for your liking.

"Gabby doesn’t usually bring just anyone to train with her, so you must be something special," Kady says, and lets go of your hand.

You shake it out as discreetly as you can. Sportspeople, honestly. "I’m flattered."

Kady seems content with that answer, because she immediately turns her attention to Gabriella. "Since I pushed a bit too hard on the sets last week, I was thinking I’ll take it slow and focus on cardio today. I’ll still spot you if you want, though."

"That won’t be necessary," Gabriella tells her as she bends down to set her bag down by the bench along the mirror, and you try not to stare as she pulls her hair out of the bun it’s in and gathers it into a high ponytail. The way her hair looks runway-ready in every situation really is unfair. "I’ll take the sandbag today."

Gabriella pulls on a pair of boxing gloves as Kady hums assent and sinks back into her stretch, and then turns an expectant gaze on you. "Do you have your own training program?"

"I…what?" You don’t, really. All your extracurriculars have been focused towards intellectual pursuits rather than sports, and outside of the odd gym visit to run on the treadmill for a few minutes and lift some weights you’ve never, like, planned your workouts.

She sighs. "We’ll fix that. For now, let’s get you a pair of gloves."

You follow along best as you can as she tightens the velcro straps around your wrists. She taps her gloves together decisively like an old habit, and leads you over to a hanging sandbag in the corner. She taps the bag with a glove too, and then relaxes into a loose stance.

"The first thing you need to learn is how to throw a punch. It doesn’t matter how much muscle you have if you don’t know how to use it." She tilts her head to the side in a quick stretch, and then jabs at the sandbag at a speed you can barely follow. Your breath catches. The bag jerks away from her with the force of the blow, chain rattling, and Gabriella catches it easily on the return swing. "The most important thing is technique. Throw a punch wrong, and you could injure yourself, not your opponent." She demonstrates another punch, thudding heavily against the bag, and catches it with both hands this time.

"Not all punches will land," she says, a serious edge to her voice. "Your job is to make sure that the ones that do land hard. The less it takes to take down your opponent, the better."

You think back on that night in the parking lot, how pathetically easily you went down. Your palms itch with the memory.

"Understood," you say.

She nods, and gestures to the bag. "Give it a try."

You rub your gloves together and step up, winding your arm back to whap at the bag with all your strength. The chain rattles ominously. It swings around in a circle, and Gabriella catches the bag right before it can slam directly into you under its own weight.
"....Okay, we have our work cut out for us," she says with a sigh.

You think for a moment that it’s going to be a long day, and then she steps in to adjust your stance, front along your back, gloved hands gentle but firm where she nudges your arm into the right position.

When she speaks, she’s so close you can almost feel her breath. "Like this. Now try again."

Your fist hits the bag with a fraction of the power hers did, but it at least swings away from you this time, and she taps your shoulder with a glove in approval. "Good job. That’s much better. Again."

…A very long day, you mentally edit.

---

You almost forget Kady is there until Gabriella is finally done with you, having considered you decent enough to practice on your own and relegated you to another bag so she can focus on her own training. You’re not sure how long you’ve been doing the same motion, in a repetitive and somewhat hypnotic thunk-thunk-thunk, but when Gabriella finally motions you over to the bench you find you’re out of breath despite having mostly used your arms.

You pull off your gloves to rest your hands on your thighs and catch your breath, and when you look up Kady is handing Gabriella a towel. She drapes it around Gabriella’s shoulders as Gabriella snaps her water bottle open to take a drink, and her hand lingers on her shoulder in a friendly squeeze.

A little too friendly, you think.

Gabriella says something in a low voice thats makes Kady laugh out loud, and then they’re turning towards you.

"Gabby says that for a newbie you have some promise," Kady says, and her hand is still on Gabriella’s arm, fingers curled around her shoulder. "Congratulations. We’ll make an athlete out of you yet, huh?"

"As expected from my something special, don’t you think?" Gabriella says, raising an eyebrow as she takes another drink. She teases with the comfortable air of someone in close company, and your heart clenches for unknown reasons.

"You know I trust your judgement," Kady smirks, and finally removes her hand from Gabriella’s arm to zip her bag closed. "Seafood?"

"I’m driving back to the dorms," Gabriella says, a note of polite regret in her voice. "Raincheck?"

"I’ll text you," Kady agrees, and hoists her bag over her shoulder. She gives you a glance. "Pleasure to meet you, Gabby’s something special." With a little finger wave to you and Gabriella, she leaves.

You could take a cab back. At worst, it’s a half-hour walk. You don’t say this.

A quick rinse in the gym showers and an equally quick drive later, she drops you off outside the campus entrance closest to the dorms.

"Good job today," she says as you unbuckle your seatbelt. "We have a lot of work ahead of us, but you have potential."

Your heart squeezes. "Thanks," you say, but even to your own ears it sounds flat. "I really appreciate your help," you try again, with more excitement this time.

She quirks an eyebrow at you, but smiles that little smile that looks like a smirk. "I’m only holding up my end of the bargain. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," you echo, and watch her drive away.

She didn’t take a picture of you at the gym to post on Snapstagram, that’s for certain. Not like you wanted her to, anyway.

---

It bothers you. It shouldn’t bother you so much.

You lie back on your bed, staring up at the ceiling, feelings churning in your gut.

The memories are like a slideshow, little pieces of sentiment all leading up to something Suspiciously Uncomfortable at the center.

"No romantic interests at the moment." The casual, affectionate nickname. "that’s why we love her ". The way Kady’s hand has rested on Gabriella’s shoulder, with the easy confidence of someone who knows their touch wouldn’t be unwelcome. The way Gabriella didn’t even react to it. "Seafood?"

You close your eyes, and drop your hand over them.

It shouldn’t bother you.

It does.

You reach for your phone, and swipe over to your messaging app before you can reconsider. Gabriella’s chat is still open.

Me (17:34): i hate to ask this, but
Me (17:34): who exactly is kady to you??

Seven minutes pass before your phone chimes. Seven minutes you spend regretting your message more with every second.

PU Gabriella (17:41): You’re observant, aren’t you.
PU Gabriella (17:41): Kady is an ex of mine.
PU Gabriella (17:41): It isn’t common knowledge, but I don’t exactly hide it.

Your heart sinks with the confirmation in a way you didn’t think was possible.

An ex. They dated. They were together.

A few minutes pass, and then your phone chimes again.

PU Gabriella (17:46): Will this be an issue?

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter at all, not in the context of your fake relationship, and you feel utterly stupid feeling, what — jealous? Of Gabriella’s ex, given that there is nothing romantic between you and her anyway? You don’t even like her that way, for hell’s sake, so why—

Me (17:48): no. i was just wondering
Me (17:49): you seemed close.

A heartbeat. Another heartbeat.

PU Gabriella (17:49): We were.
PU Gabriella (17:49): Let’s talk about this tomorrow.
PU Gabriella (17:50): Rest well.

You sigh. You have a paper due Wednesday, and absolutely no desire to drag yourself to your desk. You roll over instead, your sore muscles protesting, and bury your face in your pillow.

Me (17:51): you too
Me (17:51): goodnight.

Spoiler: part 6: all’s fair in love and (club) war

You wake the next morning feeling like a truck ran you over physically, and like a truck is about to run you over emotionally.

Whatever demons possessed you to send a jealousy-fueled text to Gabriella, you hope they come back soon to finish what they started, because your arms and conscience are killing you.

The prospect of a terribly awkward conversation looms over you and tempts you to take yet another doctor’s note and postpone the inevitable, but you figure that the sooner you can explain yourself, and the less time Gabriella has to think any deeper into why you’re suddenly insecure about her gym friends, the better.

By the time you arrive to your morning lecture, you even have an excuse ready.

You spend the hour and a half trying to convince yourself of it, because if you aren’t, she sure won’t be. You can’t go with "hey, I didn’t know you actually were close to anyone because you barely acknowledge anyone’s existence beyond the superficial, so it caught me really off guard when you turned out to have a hot gym friend who apparently calls you Gab and gets you VIP tickets to sports events, so why don’t we chalk this one down to my social ineptitude?", but you figure a modified version of the truth could work.

That your subconscious somehow sees Kady as a romantic threat does not matter. Even if the romance is fake, any threat to your fake relationship is a very real problem if people start asking questions. Surely you can’t have that, because the scandal of "Gabriella cheats on partner with hot gym babe!" would bury all your finely crafted plans to boost your popularity in the dust. Also, you have, like, ethics and stuff, so if there’s any chance there’s still any lingering romance there, you don’t want to be Gabriella’s beard for a relationship with someone else.

You repeat this over and over in your head, like a mantra, until your classmate jabs their elbow into your side to get you to pass the stack of lecture notes down the row. You do so absentmindedly — and then have to scramble to awkwardly get yourself a handout too because you’ve forgotten to take one from the stack you just passed, but you manage.

Gabriella texts you to let you know she’s off campus over your lunch break, so your conversation is postponed to after your respective afternoon classes. The class itself, at least, is fun; your Marketing teacher lets you into one of the labs used by the senior product design classes, and lets you design and print a unique sleeve for a drink can in some kind of lesson on product differentiation. Despite the challenge of coming up with something in the span of an hour, you’re pretty happy with the matte black can of "Secret Soda" you end up making from a can of a popular carbonated drink.

Printing makes the class run late, so it’s past three by the time you finally make your way over to the table Gabriella has taken at the cafe outside the library. She’s turned away from you, chin in her hand and nails of her other hand lazily tapping the table as you approach.

"Hey," you say, placing the can down carefully before you plop your bag on the seat opposite her with a sigh of relief because, man, your arms hurt. "Sorry I’m late."

She gives the Secret Soda can a glance and an amused eyebrow quirk. Then she turns her gaze on you.

"Please, sit."

You sit.

And open your mouth before she can. "Before you say anything, I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I know it was inappropriate of me to ask, and I know that your private life is none of my business."

She frowns at that. "To an extent, I would say it is your business if I was with anyone while in a relationship with you." She pauses. "Even if that relationship is fictitious."

Then her voice grows solemn. "However, I would never use you that way." She leans forward, pinning you in place with her gaze. You swallow. "I meant it when I said I have no romantic interests at the moment, and whatever I had with Kady lies firmly in the past."

You nod. "I understand. I didn’t mean to imply that-"

In an incredibly cliched twist of fate, her phone pings, interrupting whatever attempt you were about to make at defending yourself.

She ignores it, still giving you her full attention. It pings again, and again, and then begins to ring when the notifications go unacknowledged. You watch as she rolls her eyes and picks up the call.

"Gabriella speaking," she says, all cold businesslike neutrality. "Grace? Is there an emergency?"

She listens to whatever Grace is saying on the other end, and then her brow furrows. "...War?"

Whatever Grace is saying is so rapid and impassioned it sounds like a tinny buzz to you from Gabriella’s phone speaker, and you watch as she sighs. "Alright. How many more do you need?"

Grace buzzes something else at her. "Understood. We’ll be there in 15 minutes." She listens politely as Grace buzzes even more, and then hangs up.

When she looks back up at you, her expression softens with apology even as she gathers her laptop and wallet from the table. "It seems like we must have the rest of this conversation later. Someone has challenged the Syndicate to a paintball war, but it looks like not enough members were able to attend to meet the quota on our end. Thankfully, the opposing club has allowed us to do a swap-in, since the rental place won’t let two people from their team drop out."

She looks you over critically. "Are you in shape to take part? Unfortunately, the venue has already been booked and the deposit is non-refundable, so—"

"I’m fine," you say firmly, and shove the Secret Soda can into the side pocket of your bag. "Let’s do this."

---

Gabriella drives fast, fingers drumming over the steering wheel in the silence that falls between the two of you.

You crack the Secret Soda open nervously, just to have something to do, and immediately wonder if you should have asked first. Gabriella only glances at you, though, so you try to drink it as carefully as possible.

At a red light, she stretches a hand towards you.

"Give me a sip."

You hand it over, jolting a little when your fingers brush hers, and she takes a swig. "...Huh." She grimaces, but takes another sip of the warm Coke, before handing it back to you.

This leaves you with the quandary of: her lips were right there. Her matte red lipstick is still perfect despite it—you wonder how she does it—and you stare at the can surreptitiously because it’s better than staring at her mouth, feeling like a creep but also too guilty to drink from it. Also, apparently, too awkward to not drink from it, as she gives you another sideways glance and the lights turn green.

It just tastes like Coke.

Warm, flat Coke that you finish as she pulls into a parking lot and unbuckles her seatbelt.

"Ready?"

"Ready," you tell her, not feeling ready at all but following on her heels regardless as you make your way into the paintball arena building.

---

The rules are simple: only direct impacts count. Each team of 20 gets only 100 paintballs per player. Masks and vests are provided, and must be worn at all times. Headshots are not allowed, and are grounds for disqualification. Eliminations get more valuable as time passes, and eliminating players that have a high individual score nets more points. There’s a time limit, and making it to the end nets extra points, though eliminating all opposing players is an automatic win.

You mull this over as you tug on a pair of loaned gloves, and watch as Gabriella explains something to a harried-looking Grace, voice calm and low. She casts a critical eye over the other team, nodding in agreement at something Grace says, and then makes her way over to your side again.

"The losing team will bear the rental costs," she informs you as she adjusts your vest, hands deft and quick on the straps. "Though it won’t be a big deal if we do, I would prefer we win."

Your arms are still sore as you take the AR she hands you. You check your ammo, and she does the same. You’re already running past the booking start time, so you don’t have much time to discuss strategy; the arena is indoors, located in a huge two-floor building, and each team will be given time to position themselves at each respective end. Gabriella pats your shoulder, eyes dark behind her mask visor. "Good luck. Don’t get shot." Her lips quirk up, a silent tease. "Paintballs come out the pointy end, so aim it at the enemy."

"Loser buys dinner," you tell her, shamelessly faking bravado until it sticks.

Her eyes narrow in challenge, and her smile gains a vicious edge. "Deal."

You hold her gaze until the door opens in front of you, electronic countdown beginning, and Gabriella immediately vanishes into the maze-like obstacles between you and the enemy team.

Cursing, you give chase, and immediately have to dive behind a padded pillar as the countdown ends and a stray paintball whizzes an inch from your ear. You hear eliminations announced in rapid succession: one, two, three for your team. One for the enemy. The scoreboard buzzes, signifying a revenge elimination for your team, and there’s noise from all sides but you can’t really tell where it’s coming from over the pounding of your heart.

You shuffle along the pillar, hopefully staying covered, as five more eliminations roll in; this time three for the enemy team, and two for yours.

Find Gabriella, you think.

She’s nowhere to be seen as you pick your way across the obstacles. Heart in your throat, you almost yelp in surprise when you round a corner and immediately bump into someone’s retreating back; you press the trigger on reflex and the opposing team member gives an oof as the shot hits them square between the shoulderblades. They glare at you, but pull out the colored handkerchief from their pocket anyway to signal an elimination as the scoreboard buzzes for your team.

Six down, fourteen? to go.

Unfortunately, the commotion must have caught the attention of the enemy team, because the next moment you almost have to flatten yourself on the floor as you dive for cover and a volley of paintballs rains heavily over the spot you just stood. You scramble back up, and run in a low crouch in a direction that hopefully takes you away from active fire.

You check your ammo and reload. The scoreboard buzzes three more times.

Another player materializes ahead, and you jerk your gun up reflexively before you realize it’s a fellow Syndicate member. She gives you a brief nod and gestures in one direction with two fingers, so you figure you’ll be taking the other one as you nod in return and sneak off. Behind your back, you hear her reload and shoot twice; another buzz for your team.

You wonder if Gabriella’s been eliminated already. It’s entirely possible, given how she ran ahead, and yet… somehow, you can’t imagine her being taken out so easily. You shake your head, and try to focus.

You have to win this. Not for her, but for yourself.

You swallow, and take careful at a shadowed corner ahead of you where you could have sworn something moved just a second ago. The edge of a colored vest pops out, and you squeeze the trigger. The shadowed corner curses, and another colored handkerchief goes up.

Ten left.

Your arms are beginning to ache even worse holding the gun up, so you let it hang by its strap as you reload again, clammy hands slippery on the grip.

The next few minutes are uneventful. You have to duck and hide from a trio of enemy teammates who seemingly eliminate someone behind you—unfortunate, but sucks to be them—and a far-off scuffle resolves itself with another series of buzzes from the scoreboard.

Six left, presumably including the three behind you.

You finally notice Gabriella on the second floor, crouched just behind a pillar and sighting down the barrel of her gun. It glints in the dim light and for a moment you think she’s noticed you too, before she takes aim and fires off three clean shots. A chorus of curses from behind you signifies the elimination of three more enemies. When you glance back over, unpeeling yourself from the barrier you’ve glued yourself to, you think she’s smirking.

You can’t tell, of course, but it’s a feeling.

Three left. You haven’t realized how quiet the battlefield has become.

She’s easily gotten you beat with just those three shots, but somehow it just makes your competitive hackles rise. You’re not giving up so easily.

You move towards the corner you’ve seen her lurking in, eyes and ears peeled for any sign of movement. She seems to have the same idea, because you hear the quiet heavy tap-tap-tap of sneakers on metal as she easily swings over the railing and joins you behind a pillar. You don’t even need to speak—there’s no place for three enemies to hide on the second floor, not unless one of them has plastered themselves against a pillar directly opposite where she was. She reloads with a quiet click and leans in close, hair brushing your shoulder as she carefully peers along the wall.

Your heart pounds. You’re not sure if it’s from the proximity, or from the strange anxious anticipation building the longer the battlefield remains entirely silent.

She tugs you forward suddenly, and the next few moments pass in a blur:

Two buzzes sound—this time, two from your side eliminated, it’s just you and Gabriella left, you realize, right as she pulls you towards the sound of the commotion, gun already raised—and the three enemy teammates finally are in view, rushing at you from three separate directions at once, and your mind goes blank—

You dive over Gabriella on instinct, and she’s already shooting past you as you wrap your non-gun arm around her to soften the impact. Your back is immediately pelted with paintballs, splattering hard like a particularly vengeful hailstorm, and you don’t even register the pain or the three — four — buzzes of the scoreboard as she braces her arm on yours and keeps firing.

The room erupts into cheers, but you can’t see - or hear - anything besides her.

She grins up at you, hair in disarray and breathing hard. Your heart lurches.

"I think you won," you tell her.

"We won," she counters, with a smile so genuine your ribs hurt from it.

You drag yourself up from where you’re perched over her inelegantly, extricating your arm, and help her up. She’s glowing as she pulls the latch on the protective visor open and tugs it off, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed and somehow spotless despite the rain of paint you must’ve managed to block entirely.

Her hand is covered in paint from where she’s gripped your upper arm for balance. It leaves a smear on her cheek when she brushes her hair out of her face.

Then you’re engulfed in a sea of cheering teammates, eighteen bodies crowding into you and hands everywhere, noise and hollers and squeezed shoulders and pats on your back. It takes a beat before she looks away, and it feels like an eternity; you’re still drowning in her dark eyes, still overwhelmed, pulse rabbit-quick.

She may have won. You’re not sure if you have.

Spoiler: part 7: OP is (OP voice) NOT IN LOVE

The strange feeling lingers, making its home somewhere under your diaphragm and pointedly reminding you of its existence each time you see Gabriella — or even hear her name, in a stunningly disappointing new development of emotional weakness. You chalk that new phenomenon down to the spectre of the unfinished conversation hanging above you.

So if your heart jumps a bit every time you encounter her, half nervous anxiety and half something you can’t name yet, that’s perfectly understandable.

She weaves in and out of your life for another two weeks, via occasional study dates and—thankfully private to the two of you—gym sessions, until it’s just a week to the start of all the Valentine’s day shenanigans you signed up for.

You don’t think too hard about the logistics of ending your arrangement after it’s all over. That’s a problem for future you to ponder.

These strategies work very well for those two weeks, at least, until fate cruelly snatches away the veil of plausible deniability from you when it comes to unfinished conversations. Even more cruelly, it does so in the form of yet another intrusion into your very peaceful cafe study date where you were midway into finishing your finance assignment.

Gabriella picks up her phone immediately this time, brow already furrowed. "Hello."
She listens for a minute, and then her lips purse. "I see. I’ll be there."

Someone on the other end says something that sounds suspiciously like "....limousine", and Gabriella nods her assent absently. "That’ll be fine. Thank you."

She hangs up, and rubs her forehead with a perfectly manicured hand, casting a regretful glance at the papers spread across the table between you. "Unfortunately, I have to leave early today. My father has a last-minute engagement, and won’t be able to attend a gala this evening. I’ll be attending in his stead."

She shuffles her notes back into their folder as she stands. "Usually, my presence isn’t required at these events, and my parents tend to respect my academic schedule…but sometimes this does happen."

You don’t know what possesses you to say what you do next. "Can I come?"

Curse your newly developed impulsivity when it comes to Gabriella.

Her lips part in surprise, before she catches herself and gives you a coy smile. "Of course. It would be terribly boring for you, of course…but I suppose this is the best time for the two of us to make an official appearance together. Do you have something to wear?"

Thankfully, you did pack one set of formal wear, but you have no clue how fancy the event is going to be, and so you ask—"What’s the dress code like?"

She looks you over thoughtfully. "Formal. If you wear black, we can match."

So you do have something to wear. You tell her that.

"Perfect. I’ll pick you up at the school gate at five, then. It’s a long drive."

"Really? I could just take a cab, then—"

She gives you a cool once-over, and shakes her head once in dismissal. "No. I want to see you before we leave, and my father will be home."

You weren’t even offering to go to her house, but the rejection stings anyway. She catches your expression, and sighs. "My father… is a demanding man. I do not want to give him an opportunity to make you uncomfortable."

That sounds a lot like I don’t want to bring you home to disappoint my parents, but you hold your tongue.

"Okay. I’ll be ready by five."

She nods in agreement, and stands. "We will talk later, I promise. See you soon."

That promise hangs in the air between you as she leaves.

---

You shower and brush your teeth twice. Once with the minty breath toothpaste, and once with the shiny teeth toothpaste. You clip your fingernails, and then your toenails just in case. Then you get in the shower again to wash between your toes, and then it’s already half past four by the time you get around to tugging on your—mercifully still unwrinkled, thanks to the laundry bag—formal outfit.

You tap a sampler of eau de toilette that came with your roommate’s magazine subscription behind your ears, and check over your wallet, phone, and shoes. Your socks match. Gabriella texts you that she’s arrived and you take a deep fortifying breath and leave, smelling gently of vanilla.

---

You’re not sure why you thought she’d pick you up in her car again, but once she pulls open the shiny limousine door for you and you catch a glimpse of her outfit, you suddenly feel foolish for having expected something like that.

She’s stunning.

Her dark hair still falls in perfect waves around her shoulders, but she’s swapped her usual cool blue wardrobe for a wine-red gown with a corset bodice and a deep slit up the thigh that makes you lightheaded just to ponder. Her hand, now clad in a sheer black glove that goes up past her elbows, rests on the headrest in front of you as she leans over.
For a moment, you stare at her, and she stares back at you.

Mercifully, that moment does not last long. She casts an assessing gaze over your outfit, expression curiously blank, but seems to find it satisfactory. Her gown drapes around her against the cream leather of the interior as she settles back into her seat and motions for you to take yours as well.

Unlike the last drive you took with her, this one is significantly more tense. For one, neither of you is driving, and her attention isn’t stolen by the road. She’s too well-mannered to use her phone in front of you, and you don’t even have a convenient can of Secret Soda to crack open to defuse the tension.

You wonder why it’s there. Wondering doesn’t seem to help things much, and just leads your mind down unwise roads that all lead back to her.

It’s Gabriella that finally breaks the silence.
"You do clean up well. I was wondering what kind of outfit you would show up in, but now I see I shouldn’t have worried." That would sound almost insulting, if not for the almost hesitant note to her voice; a tint of approval that makes your breath catch. You do match.

You turn to her, and watch the streetlights flicker by through the tinted glass across from you. "I’m glad I won’t be too out of place, then."

It’s easily interpreted as ‘out of place next to the other people at the gala’. You wonder if she realizes that what you really mean is that you’re happy you’ll look good next to her. To her. Whatever.

She hums, and then segues seamlessly into a general briefing on the organization hosting the event of the night, pointing out specific distinguished guests that are expected to make an appearance and the significance of the venue it’s hosted at—apparently a large art gallery often repurposed as a venue for conferences and various dances. It’s a complicated social tug of war between the gallery owners and the socialite hosts, wherein the gallery owners allow it to be used ostensibly for free and in return reap the clout and connections from being named as a ‘generous sponsor’. Gabriella describes it to you with a twist of dry humor to her voice, and you find yourself smiling in response, right up until she mentions that Kady will be in attendance too.

She seems to notice your surprise (shock, really) and levels a knowing smile your way. "Our families are close. My parents have many expectations for me, but fortunately they do not extend into my personal life, so as long as I fulfil my obligations I’m free to do as I like." She looks past you out the window, and the smile turns wistful. "My parents liked her."

She must sense you still have questions, and glances back at you. "You’re probably wondering why I didn’t solicit her help for this." Now that she mentions it—you are wondering that. Her lips curl, lipstick blood red in the dim overhead light, and that smile is definitely a smirk when she says, "You’ll see for yourself quite soon."

Gabriella falls silent for the rest of the ride, and leaves you to ponder healthy and productive thoughts such as my parents liked her contrasted with her earlier reluctance to let you meet her family.

You keep pondering those healthy and productive thoughts for the better part of half an hour until the limousine finally rolls to a smooth stop outside a building surrounded by gorgeous winding stone paths. They’re lined with arches, vine creeping up clearly well-maintained marble, and gravel crunches underfoot as she exits via your side of the car and you hold an arm up to support her instinctively.

Her gloved hand curls around your elbow, surprisingly warm given the air conditioned interior you’ve just emerged from. She leans into you so easily you’re thrown for a moment—before you remember that that’s the entire point, that’s what you’re here to convincingly act out for the world, and resolve to do your best to get with the program.

Her grip is firm but gentle as she leads you past lamp-dotted flowering lawns towards the bright entrance of the gallery. The car rolls smoothly away behind you, tires crunching on gravel, and you take a deep breath as you step into the light.

---

The "quite soon" she mentioned turns out to be "practically immediately", since you’ve barely made an entrance before Kady accosts you, looking absolutely breathtaking in a complicated gown of pearls and shimmering fabric. What catches your eye more, though, is the man whose hand rests in the crook of her arm in a perfect mirror of Gabriella’s grip on you.

"Gabby’s something special," Kady greets you with a grin. It no longer feels as confrontational as it had before - maybe it’s the light, maybe it’s the drastically different look, but her expression is playful where it didn’t seem that way to you before. "Meet my boyfriend. I don’t think you’ve been introduced, so—" she waves a hand between you, "Something special, meet the love of my life. Love of my life, meet Gabby’s something special. Now that we’re all caught up, let’s find where they’ve set up the appetizers for tonight, because if I’m going to sit through all three hours of this thing I must have direct access—"

Kady’s boyfriend laughs, leaning against her with obvious affection, and they break away towards one of the corridors in search of the catering tables.

Gabriella turns to you, one dark eyebrow already arched. "So you see."

You do see. You also feel somewhat played, given that she could have mentioned this to you earlier. You don’t say that, though, because it would be an embarrassingly jealous thing to say. "They look happy together," you concede instead.

Gabriella smiles at their retreating backs, and tilts her head. Her golden earrings shift, catching the light. "They are. I’d say they’re a much better match than we could have hoped for in the circumstances."

"The circumstances?"

"Her family isn’t like mine," Gabriella says, and you feel like there’s a lot left unsaid there. "They wanted a very specific kind of partner for her, and those expectations strained our relationship."

That sounds a lot like homophobic parents, so you don’t press too hard. "And he qualifies?"

"He is the son of a board member regulating an industry her parents have been interested in investing in." She punctuates her point with a sly glance. "While his family is financially comfortable, their soft power holds a great deal of appeal. You can connect the rest of the dots."

"That seems…kinda transactional."

Gabriella shrugs. "Perhaps, but they’re happy, so does it really matter?"

You can’t argue with that, but there’s a question that’s been on your mind for ages now. "What about you?"

She blinks at you in surprise. "Me? In what sense?"

"Were you happy?"

She’s silent for a long moment before she replies. "I think that…until she left, I was. I won’t deny I was hurt when she did. For a long while, I thought our relationship would never recover from the betrayal." She sighs. "But, as you can see, we’re comfortable in our close friendship now."

She saves you from having to find an appropriately sympathetic answer to that revelation by sliding her hand back into the crook of your arm. "Alright, let’s stop loitering in the lobby. We have people to meet."

The rest of the night passes fairly uneventfully, with Gabriella taking the lead on introducing you to people and fielding most of the interest shown in you, and the social skills you’ve refined through countless Syndicate events picking up the rest of the slack. Kady whisks you away for a moment, even, hand firm around your wrist as she drags you away with great determination towards a table that holds what she says are ‘the best egg rolls, you have to try them’.

Gabriella barely bats an eyelash when you’re dragged away, leaning in almost absentmindedly to brush her lips against your cheek as a send-off.

Your cheek tingles for the rest of the night.

All in all, you fare pretty well.

Spoiler: part 8: violence part 2 electric boogaloo

A/N: more violence in this one! skip the whole thing until "that was an incredibly bad idea" if you don’t wanna see OP get yote yet again and gabriella counter-yeet whoever yote OP <3

She insists on chaffeuring you back to the dorms instead of letting you take a cab, and it’s past midnight when her driver drops both of you off a few blocks away from the entrance so you can sneak in past curfew undetected.

It’s a surprisingly pleasant, if short, walk. Gabriella tilts her face up to the light, the deep golden eyeshadow she’s opted for instead of her usual red glinting in the glow of the streetlights.

She can’t go in with you, you realize, so you plan to say your goodbyes somewhere around the bushes lining the road leading up to the dorm gates, when a few things happen so rapidly you barely have time to process them all —she trips, heels catching on something and launching her into you with a winded oof — and the bushes rustle and come alive, several dark-clad figures emerging where before there was only the serene shuffle of leaves in the night — and someone yanks you away by the collar so hard you almost choke for air, driving a fist up into your side and sending pain radiating up your ribs.

Your assailant drops you immediately with a grunt just a moment later, and you clutch your side, trying to get your bearings as your vision swims and then sharpens.

Gabriella — and since when was she behind you? — drives the heel of one of her fashionable strappy sandals in a sharp crack against one assailant’s face, sending them careening into another while she whirls to face off the third figure and slam her gloved elbow neatly into the side of their head. The assailant she’s yeeten across the face clutches their nose, likely broken judging by the trickle of blood between their fingers, and launches themselves at her with a snarl, only to be reintroduced to the same heel driven viciously under their chin as she gracefully sidesteps and sweeps their legs under them in the same move.

You stumble to your feet, and she jerks her head up at you from her improvised headlock, eyes glinting in a way that looks almost feral. "I will deal with this. Run."

"Oh hell no," you counter, because like hell you’re leaving her there alone, and yank her along by the elbow. She’s clearly not expecting that, and the momentary surprise loosens her grip enough for you to pry the sandal from her hand and toss it with the best strength and accuracy you can muster directly at the face of the third figure with the unbroken nose.

Thankfully, it works to momentarily stun them too, and you pull Gabriella along into a wobbly run the remaining distance until the well-lit and student-card-restricted gate to the dorms.

You collapse against the first vertical surface you encounter after you frantically swipe your card for entrance, which happens to be the north side of the dorm building right next to that parking lot you got beaten up in all those days ago. It’s so darkly hilarious that you can’t hold back a snort, heart still racing a mile a minute from the adrenaline and the abrupt turn to your night. She’s shaking next to you and it takes you a moment to realize she’s laughing, shoulders shaking against the rough brick as she gasps for air.

There’s blood smeared across her cheekbone when she turns to you. It’s not hers, and there must be something incredibly wrong with you because you realize with a lurch that it’s sickeningly attractive.

"That," she finally makes out between gasps, "was an incredibly bad idea."

"They really should have planned it better," you say, just to watch her break into another helpless series of snorts.

You both try to catch your breath, and you stare at the moths circling one of the streetlights.

"My driver," she tells you, sounding far too amused for someone standing barefoot on asphalt you’re pretty sure you’ve seen people spit directly on, "is going to kill me." Something about her tone is so hilarious you can’t help but snort in laughter too, and it tugs at your aching side in the worst way with Gabriella goading you on. "I don’t even know where my other shoe is." She frowns in mock frustration at you as that cracks you up even harder, and adds, "those shoes cost several thousand, you know."

That sends you over the edge and you have to grab at the wall as you laugh so hard it nearly sends you to tears. "Okay, okay, stop, stop."

She magnanimously waits for you to collect yourself as she examines the skirt of her dress in the terrible light. "Alright, but you’re lending me a pair."

"Gabriella."

She looks up at you, letting go of the hem of her skirt, eyes glinting. "Gabby’s fine."

Your heart squeezes three beats into the span of one at the adrenaline jolt that gives you. "Are you hurt?"

She gives herself a pointed once-over, arms spread. "No. Are you?"

Your side still aches like hell from the impact and the run and the strain of your hysteric giggling, but nothing else seems to be permanently out of commission. "I don’t think so. They really should have planned it better, huh?"

She rolls her eyes and steps in close, hand ghosting over your side as you wince instinctively. "Get this checked out in the morning. I’d insist on looking at it myself, but people might get the wrong idea if I suddenly started stripping you in the parking lot."

There’s currently no one around you, and the idea of her stripping you in the parking lot raises your blood pressure a fair amount, but even your adrenaline-addled brain recognizes that as a bad idea.

"As for this…" she glances meaningfully at her state, "I suppose I’ll just have to tell my driver that our parting got a little too aggressive, shall I?"

"Uh," you say, reeling from too much imagery at once, and she takes pity on you yet again.

"I’ll take care of everything else later, but for now, I really do need to borrow some footwear." She raises an eyebrow at you and her tone dips into the teasing. "Unless you’d prefer to carry me back to the car..?"

You’d consider it, except the way back to the car goes past at least one person whose nose she probably broke, so you accept her plan with no contest.

Gabriella leaves a few minutes later in a pair of your most fashionable and least worn sandals, face blood-free thanks to a towel you dunked in the sink for her. You watch anxiously as she asks her driver to meet her outside the main gate of the university, wondering what she’d say to explain herself but even more invested in her getting into the car safe.

She texts you when she’s in the car, and again a few hours later that she’s safely home.

In spite of your wide-eyed staring up at the ceiling above your bed up to that point, falling asleep is surprisingly easy after that.

Spoiler: part 9: & FINALLY it is valentine’s day

In the last few days leading up to Valentine’s day, you’re inseparable.

You almost feel like you’re being babysat with how she doesn’t let you out of her sight, but it also works in your favour. Your side heals but your pride takes longer, though it really does help that Gabriella casually lets you know that incidentally three students have been suspended for an investigation into allegations of assault.

Turns out, she did break one of their noses. It’s only one more entry in the long, long list of things wrong with you that you find that hot too.

It also spurs you to make a resolution. While you’ve been stellar at denying and dodging your own traitorous feelingss up to that point, the looming deadline on your entire sham of a romance has made it progressively harder to deny that you’re definitely arse over heels for Gabriella, and you’ve moved on to the more defensible (if weaker) position that it’s okay to be arse over heels for Gabriella as long as you manage to both keep it to yourself and also not make it Gabriella’s problem to deal with.

Thus, your resolution: you will make the most of the remaining time you have together, and then when the time comes for your amicable separation, you will smile, thank her for the good time and the opportunity she gave you, and move on your merry way being arse over heels for Gabriella in private. You won’t do something as hideously embarrassing as hinting that you have feelings for her as a result of your entirely platonic mutually beneficial arrangement. You will take the extra 5k or so Snapstagram followers in the divorce, get your sandals back from Gabriella, and you will be happy about it.

Or, at least, you hope that if you repeat it enough times under your breath with clenched teeth, it will somehow manifest into reality.

---

Valentine’s day creeps home with the same cruel inevitability of your final exams. Gabriella leaves you at your locker with a huge zipped-up drycleaning bag containing your half of your matching wardrobe for the Valentine’s Ball that night, pressing a box of chocolate into your hand and graciously accepting a reciprocal box of chocolates she picked out but let you pay for, and you zone out for the half a day of lectures until you’re finally allowed to leave.

You shower, dry yourself, and tug on the outfit almost mechanically. It’s gorgeous, and you’d expect nothing less given Gabriella’s exacting taste. You’d look incredible together, you think. Her, resplendent in gold and red. You by her side, in midnight blue and silver, just the right shade to set her off when placed next to you. A single gorgeous picture that would surely make heads turn, fool everyone into believing in a perfect relationship built up over weeks of careful preparation, and you’re not bitter about it — you’re really not — but something about it does ring hollow now that you’re about to actually do it.

The same hall that had seemed so cavernous to you the first time you’ve entered PIMD feels entirely different when repurposed into a giant ballroom. It’s decorated with tasteful silver and cream and pale pink streamers and flowers everywhere — which must have cost a fortune — though it’s in part a charity event, so the lavishness is understandable given some of the overzealous alumni. Even in this, there’s an element of theatre; while the Ball may seem spontaneous to the ticket-holding attendee, you’ve personally witnessed the emcees practice their speeches over and over in one of the auditoriums in the week leading up to the day. Even the few couples on the voting lists, you included, have been drilled extensively on where to go and what to say and which direction to smile and wave in for the pictures.

It’s all a very beautiful spectacle starring a very beautiful Gabriella with her hair curled just so, and she smiles at you just so and performatively feeds you little bites of strawberry-topped cream cheesecake off her fork, and you are holding on very very hard to your resolution to be happy and normal and not at all heartbroken about it all.

She watches you carefully the entire evening, and when the song that is your cue to kick off the couple dance starts playing, she rises gracefully and offers you a hand.

You follow her to the dance floor, hand in unlovable hand.

Just as you have practiced countless times, you let her take the lead. You set a hand on her waist, other hand clasped in hers, and do your best to give the impression that you are gazing at her lovingly while avoiding any kind of actual gazing at all.

She seems to notice your tension, because she brushes a thumb across your shoulderblade and leans in close so that only you can catch her murmur. "Relax, please."

As the music swells, it’s easy to let her sweep you away, to get lost in her steady breathing and calm—gorgeous, always gorgeous—profile, and forget that there are hundreds of eyes on you that paid good money to have their eyes on you. You squeeze her hand instinctively, and she squeezes back, and you close your eyes against the suddenly sharp and relentless sadness.

Ballroom etiquette says that couples dancing slower should make their way towards the center of the room. As Gabriella, ever the etiquette-savvy heiress, slowly guides you into a dance that’s barely more than your body pressed against hers, you find yourself in the middle of all the couples by the time the music meanders to its eventual soft conclusion.

You’re struck with the realization that this is the one thing you didn’t actually practice.

This is where you’re supposed to kiss.

The hand she has on your shoulder slides up your neck as she cups your face, dark eyes unreadable as she brushes your hair out of your face with a careful sweep of her thumb. For a moment of blind, empty hope, you realize she is actually going to do it, actually going to kiss you — and right on the tails of that comes the guilt and the realization that you can’t do it.

Her eyes widen as you turn your head and press your face into her neck, suddenly on the verge of tears and trying desperately to hide it, but she holds you close anyway.

Cheers erupt from the audience. You’re only dimly aware of it as couples chatter and laugh around you, joined by everyone else as a much more upbeat track begins to play. You’re still frozen in that moment in her arms, trying to swallow down at least five different feelings too large for your body.

She gives you a few more very long moments to compose yourself and then extricates herself gracefully.

When you look up at her expression, it’s the most closed off you’ve ever seen her.

Someone taps her on the shoulder and whispers something to her animatedly; she nods, expression still flat, and the person melts back into the crowd. "We won," she tells you. The meaning takes a while to process, because she says it in the same way she would remark on the most boring of weather. "It will be announced officially later, but the votes have already been tallied. We are the top couple by a landslide."

"That’s…" you search for words. "Great."

She nods. "It’s what we worked for."

"Yay."

Her expression shutters more, but she doesn’t get a chance to reply to the world’s most unconvincing attempt at happiness as everyone is finally ushered off the dance floor and back to their seats, and you and Gabriella are herded to the front of the room next to the stage for the dramatic announcement.

When the room explodes in cheers and chants of Gabriella’s name, all you feel is empty. She guides you up to the stage with a careful hand on your back, smiles in all the right directions for the photos as instructed, accepts her bouquet and glows as a crown is settled on her head to match yours.

You’ve known her just long enough to recognize her media training smile, and do your best to emulate it.

(It’s still gorgeous enough to make your heart stop, even if it is fake.)

Then you’re ushered backstage for a few minutes to take a breather before you have to emerge and greet everyone, and she sets her bouquet down on the coffee table someone dragged in to keep props on hard enough some of the stems break.

For the first time, she doesn’t look at you when she speaks.

"I apologize."

The guilt and heartbreak that’s been brewing in your stomach sublimates instantly into panic and dread.

"H—?"

She’s realized. She must have realized.

You failed to act happy convincingly enough, and now she knows all about your stupid embarrassing unrequited feelings and hates you for it and wants nothing to do with you—

The line of her shoulders is tense, but she doesn’t turn around. "This was a bad idea on my part. I should have never proposed it."

She regrets it. She regrets that she trusted you to be normal and not fall for her while fake dating her, and you went and did just that and betrayed her trust and now she has to let you down gently—

"Oh," you finally force out.

She looks up at you then, and the air leaves your lungs when you realize how hurt and angry she looks.

"I understand I made an offer of a purely fictitious relationship with no romance involved," she says, low and determined, and that hurts, because you already know that, and she doesn’t have to rub it in — but what she says next throws you off guard entirely. "And I have failed to uphold my end of the bargain."

The paper around the bouquet rustles as she digs her nails into it. "For that, I apologize."

You stare at her, train of self-loathing entirely derailed, heart heavy and brain empty.

"?"

She sighs. The death grip on the flowers eases a little. "I did not mean to make you uncomfortable by asking for more than you can give."

You try to fit that into the puzzle of your ill-advised infatuation and almost manage to, but she isn’t done yet.

"I suppose I am selfish," she says, more to the flowers than to you. "But I’ve known that already."

"What are you talking about," you croak out in an attempt to get her to finally make sense.

She stares directly at you like she expects you to deck her and is fully ready to tank it. "You didn’t want to kiss me. You barely even looked at me all night."

That could not be simultaneously closer to and further from the truth. You have no idea how to communicate that.

Her eyes darken. "I almost did it anyway."

Time stops for a second, and then moves incredibly fast for a lot more seconds than that.

If someone hooked you up to a defibrillator, you think almost hysterically, it would probably detect a very shockable rhythm.

"Why didn’t you?"

The look she gives you is so incredulous it’s almost funny. "Are you… what do you—? Are you mocking me?"

"No," you immediately say, stumbling half a step towards her in your rush to reassure. "I just—"

"—Just?"

"Just thought that you would hate me and I don’t want you to hate me and I don’t want to have a stupid embarrassing crush on you when you said you have no romantic interest in anyone and we are supposed to be just friends who pretend to date for benefits," you say in one breath in the vague direction of her collarbones, and brace yourself for the inevitable. And then add, "and also I’m nothing like Kady."

"You," she begins, and pauses like she can’t even pick the words to respond to whatever it is you just word vomited all over her, "can be truly incredibly dense sometimes."

You hang your head because that’s basically it, isn’t it. In this circus you truly are the saddest clown.

She advances on you and grabs you by the shoulders and you think this is possibly the least sexy way imaginable to finally be beaten up by her, but when she pushes you backwards until your back is pressed against the dark cloth-covered wall she doesn’t do anything beyond staring at you so intently you think she’s probably cataloguing every neuron that has ever contributed to a dumb thought through your eyeballs.

Her eyes glint in the dim overhead lights. Her hand slides to cup your face, an exact mirror of the dance earlier. Your heart bounces like a yo-yo, also an exact mirror of the dance earlier. "Tell me you don’t want me to."

You blink at her like a cow in response, and she leans in and kisses you.

It’s not the best first kiss. It’s not even a particularly technically solid first kiss, what with you nearly suffering a heart attack in the first few seconds of it until you get with the program, but the hand she has on your cheek slides into your hair and she drags your head into a better position and presses deeper into you somehow, mouth soft and warm and insistent against yours, and your hands creep over her back into her hair on some ancient bone-deep instinct even as she presses your hips back into the wall—

—and then a door opens a few feet to your left and some harried staff member tells you you’re up in five, and Gabriella presses her forehead against yours with the most inelegant frustrated snort you’ve ever heard her make.

"We will," she breathes against your lips, "continue this conversation later."

You grab the semi-crushed flowers on the way out, lips still tingling.

You’re not sure if you’re allowed to feel happy yet. But if that was a conversation, you look forward to very thorough discourse once this Valentine’s Ball charade is finally over.

 

[Azari]

♡Write in the Name of Love♡

♡Winner's Will Be Announced 02/25/2023 at Change over ♡

 

[Azari]

♡Write in the Name of Love♡

♡Winner's Will Be Announced 02/25/2023 at Change over ♡

Hey all I am so sorry to announce we will be pushing back the announcement to tomorrow at change over due to the sheer volume of stories you all posted!