MORNINGSTAR (18+)
Sabrina Carpenter x Escort Fem!Reader
Synopsis: She wasn’t looking for anything—especially not tonight. Not after him, not after the way she was left. But then came velvet. Velvet voice, velvet hands, velvet rules. And suddenly, forgetting didn't seem so hard.
Warning(s): Heavy sensuality. Soft dom undertones. Implied G!P / Use of strap on. Strangers-to-Something. Implied club settings/mentions of escorts. MDNI!.
The heartbreak didn’t come with thunder.
It came with silence.
Not the poetic kind, either. Not the type you could romanticize into a bridge of a song.
It was a slow, crawling silence—the sort that filled the room like water, seeping into her bones, soaking the sheets, clinging to the back of her throat.
Sabrina lay on her stomach, wrapped like a corpse in her plush throw blanket. The room smelled like peach lotion, stale coffee, and grief. Her phone had buzzed a hundred times—Paloma had stopped sending texts hours ago and switched to passive-aggressive memes. Her sister Sarah had threatened to "kick the ghost of that man" if he ever dared show his face again.
Still, Sabrina didn’t move. Her mascara had dried into brittle wings at the corners of her eyes. Her Spotify queue looped the same three sad songs—two of them hers.
The breakup had been quiet (or so what ahe tells herself). No screaming. No dramatic exit.
Just a sentence. Just a shrug. Just… gone.
And it wasn’t even that he left—it was that he left so easily.
Her phone lit up again.
[Paloma 🐍]
"Final warning. Open the door or I’m coming in with Sarah and a taser."
She didn’t reply.
Ten seconds later, the door burst open like the gates of heaven during a midlife crisis.
“What the hell—oh my god,” Paloma groaned, covering her nose. “It smells like depression and dead dreams in here.”
Sarah followed close behind, arms full of shiny fabric and righteous fury. “Did you seriously not shower again? Brina, it’s been five days.”
“I Febrezed,” Sabrina muttered into her pillow.
“You Febrezed your armpits and think that’s hygiene?” Paloma snapped, already yanking the blankets off her. “Girl, we’re staging an intervention. This is a wellness raid.”
Sabrina blinked at the sudden light. “Can’t I just rot in peace? Or at least until Mercury’s out of retrograde?”
“No. We didn’t spend 300 bucks on this dress for you to rot.” Sarah threw the gold garment onto the bed like it was a weapon.
Sabrina squinted at it. The material shimmered like molten honey—thin straps, low back, slinky as sin.
“…That’s not my dress.”
“It is now,” Paloma chirped. “Courtesy of your emotional support chaos gremlins. It’s backless. It’s dangerous. It’s the ‘I’m hotter than the devil and single by choice’ dress.”
“I don’t even have anywhere to wear it.”
“Correction,” Sarah grinned, producing a small black envelope from her purse. “You do. And you're coming with us.”
Sabrina sat up warily. “Where?”
“It’s secret,” Paloma said with a mischievous glint. “You’re not allowed to know until you smell like vanilla, have both legs shaved, and look like you’d ruin lives in under six seconds.”
Sabrina stared at them. “Is this one of those weird crystal-moon orgies?”
“No. What the fuck? —no, this one has actual cocktails and no ugly men,” Sarah said.
“We’re taking you underground,” Paloma added. “Think: forbidden. Think: anonymous. Think... masked women who don’t ask for your name, only your attention.”
Sabrina arched an eyebrow, but her heart twitched—a tiny, dormant thing startled into motion.
“You want me to rebound?”
“We want you to remember who the hell you are,” Sarah said, serious now. “You’ve been his shadow for too long.”
“You’re not just his ex,” Paloma echoed, tugging her gently toward the bathroom. “You’re Sabrina freaking Carpenter. Starshine incarnate. Now go shave those legs, we’re leaving in an hour.”
Sabrina hesitated at the door, fingers brushing the fabric of the gold dress.
It gleamed at her like a promise.
Or a warning.
She took a breath. The kind that hurt a little, like breaking through the surface after nearly drowning.
“…Okay,” she said quietly. “But if this turns into a cult initiation, I’m blaming both of you.”
“Fair,” Paloma grinned. “Just make sure you moisturize.”
𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ
The bedroom door creaked open with the kind of hesitation that came after crying in the shower.
Sabrina stepped out—damp hair curling softly down her back, skin scrubbed raw and smooth, the faintest scent of sandalwood and honey clinging to her like a second skin. And wrapped around her like armor: the gold dress. Thin straps, deep V, backless, leg slit sharp enough to wound. She looked like a trophy someone would kill to keep—and she knew it.
Paloma sat cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through her phone with one hand and holding a champagne flute in the other. She looked up, blinked, and let out a low whistle.
“Well, fuck.”
Sarah, crouched at the floor mirror adjusting her earrings, turned and let out a quiet gasp. “Jesus. You look like you own an empire built entirely on broken hearts.”
Sabrina clutched the edge of the doorframe. “I feel like I just crawled out of a crypt.”
“You crawled out of that crypt in couture,” Paloma said, standing. “And that’s what matters.”
Sarah reached for her wrist and tugged her toward the vanity. “Sit. You’re about to get your face beat into high society.”
“I can do my own makeup, you know,” she mumbled, but she sat anyway.
“Not tonight, you can’t,” Sarah said, already reaching for the primer. “Tonight needs intention. Tonight needs narrative.”
“What narrative?” Sabrina asked, eyes fluttering shut as Sarah began patting product into her skin.
Paloma was behind her now, gently towel-drying her hair before twisting it up into a soft, voluminous half-up style. “The one where you’re reborn. Cleopatra core. Lilith energy. A girl so hot she stops healing and starts haunting.”
Sabrina snorted softly. “You two are on crack.”
“No, we’re on a mission,” Sarah said, beginning her wing. “You’ve spent the last few weeks in pajamas and silence, whispering to your plants and binge-watching period dramas.”
“I was mourning!”
“You were withering.” Paloma met her eyes in the mirror. “And we’re done with that. Tonight you rise.”
She looked at herself—foundation blending like silk, golden shadow sweeping across her lids like sunset, lashes fluttering like velvet lies. Her lips were lined, then filled in with a soft peachy-nude that made her look dangerous in a way that whispered innocent.
Sarah tilted her chin. “Open.”
Sabrina parted her lips slightly. Sarah applied gloss. The final step.
“She’s ready,” Paloma said, stepping back and clapping once like she’d just summoned a god. “Now stand up and twirl for us.”
Sabrina rolled her eyes but obeyed. The dress shifted around her like liquid light, the slit revealing just enough thigh to make it criminal. Gold on her skin. Gold on her eyes. Nothing on her neck—Paloma had taken the necklace away.
“Perfect,” Sarah whispered, almost reverent. “They won’t know what hit them.”
Sabrina glanced between them. “I still don’t know where we’re going.”
Paloma grabbed her clutch off the dresser and handed it to her. “That’s intentional.”
Sarah grabbed her jacket—black leather with a cinched waist—and handed it over with a wink. “Now shut up and let us escort you to your rebirth.”
𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ
The night had settled over the city like a black silk scarf. The windows of the car were tinted, the stereo humming with a bass-heavy R&B track. Sabrina sat in the backseat between Sarah and Paloma, her hands folded over her clutch, heart hammering against her ribs like it knew something she didn’t.
She glanced out at the blur of neon signs and quiet sidewalks, the occasional late-night pedestrian wrapped in shadows. The city felt unfamiliar. Like something was about to break open.
“So,” she tried, “are you guys going to tell me what kind of place this is?”
“Nope,” Sarah said, flipping through the car’s playlist. “But wear your mystery like perfume, babe.”
“You’re about to see something you’ve never seen before,” Paloma added from the front, her voice low. “But once you do... you’ll never forget it.”
Sabrina raised a brow. “That’s not ominous at all.”
Paloma caught her eye in the rearview mirror. Her smirk was slow, sharp, a little too pleased.
“Exactly.”
Sabrina’s reflection in the window shifted with every turn the car made, city lights streaking gold against the glass like molten ribbons. Paloma had switched the playlist to something low and sultry—more bass than lyrics, like the soundtrack of a scene she wasn’t fully aware she’d stepped into.
She didn’t ask where they were going again. Not when Sarah kept reapplying lip gloss like she was prepping her for war, and not when Paloma adjusted the rearview mirror just to check Sabrina’s highlight. It was the first time in weeks she’d seen herself look this... expensive.
The dress felt dangerous. The kind of gold that wasn’t yellow, wasn’t champagne—just skin-tight decadence. She couldn’t move without catching light. And with each breath, she became more aware of how intentional this whole thing was. The perfume. The hair. The shaved legs. The silence they weren’t filling.
Then came the turn.
The car glided into an entirely different part of the city. Gone were the warm storefronts, the street vendors, the distant sound of music and laughter. It was cleaner here. Darker. Every building seemed to hum with wealth, though none screamed for attention. No signs. No neon. Just architectural quiet and opulence that didn’t ask to be understood.
Paloma slowed to a crawl.
Sabrina leaned forward between the seats, brows twitching as her gaze flicked toward a building rising ahead.
If it even was a building.
It looked more like a shadow cast by the sky itself—sleek black stone wrapped in curved glass, like it had grown from the pavement by design of a secret god. There was a wide staircase flanked by low flames in gold bowls. And standing beneath the dim archway: two masked doormen in tailored black, motionless, heads tilted down as if already awaiting her.
“What… is this?” she murmured, voice barely audible.
Paloma smirked and shifted into park.
Sarah turned around fully and unbuckled her seatbelt, eyes gleaming. “Somewhere you won’t be sad anymore.”
“That’s not ominous at all,” Sabrina muttered, still staring out the window.
“You don’t need to know what it’s called,” Paloma said, twisting in her seat to hand over a black velvet clutch. “You just need to walk like you belong.”
Sabrina blinked. “What—"
“Phone inside. Lip gloss. No ID, no wallet,” Sarah added. “This place doesn’t do names. Just masks and rules.”
The car doors unlocked with a quiet click.
Outside, the air was cooler. Still. As she stepped out, her heels hit the stone with a crisp echo—like even the pavement here knew to listen.
And as she looked up at the looming structure—its windows dark, its entrance gleaming, its atmosphere charged—Sabrina suddenly understood.
She wasn’t going to a club.
She was walking into a secret.
𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ
Sabrina didn’t speak.
Not because she was scared—but because she couldn’t trust her voice not to give her away. The building’s silence was so thick, so immaculate, it felt sacrilegious to disturb it.
The front lobby resembled a five-star hotel at midnight—drenched in moody amber light, the air thick with a smoky rose scent. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined the walls like portals, and sleek black marble tiles gleamed beneath her heels. Every step echoed softly, absorbed instantly by the hush.
A single front desk stood across the vast space. It was minimalistic, draped in velvet-black and trimmed in gold, but elegant—like it didn’t serve guests, only secrets.
Behind it sat a woman with slicked-back hair, dressed in a blood-red suit, and a half-mask with gilded edges. Her mouth, painted deep mulberry, curled in a perfectly controlled smile as the group approached.
Without waiting for Sabrina to say a word, Paloma stepped forward and placed a sleek black card on the counter. The woman didn’t glance up. She ran a single black-lacquered nail over the surface, as if reading the energy, not the print.
“House Rubina,” the masked attendant said. Her voice was low and unhurried. “Guest acknowledged.”
She reached beneath the counter and retrieved a long black box wrapped in crimson ribbon. When she set it down in front of Sabrina, it made no sound.
With a glance at her sister and Paloma, Sabrina slowly untied the ribbon.
Inside lay a membership card in rich red, edged with soft black lines. Beside it, a folded slip of paper.
She picked it up.
“No names. No cameras. No men unless marked. You are not here to impress. Only to indulge.”
Her brows lifted slightly.
Before she could ask, the attendant simply tilted her head toward the side—where a tall, narrow elevator waited. It gleamed black and gold, entirely free of buttons. It hadn’t been there a moment ago.
Sabrina stepped toward it slowly, card in one hand, box pressed to her side.
The doors opened in complete silence.
She stepped inside.
Paloma and Sarah followed. The doors closed behind them.
No music. No floor numbers. No sense of direction.
Then the subtle shift.
Not up.
Down.
A smooth, quiet descent into something that didn’t exist above ground. Sabrina’s heart fluttered, her pulse ticking at her throat.
The air grew warmer.
Softer.
Then—
Ding.
The doors parted.
And the world… changed.
The club opened up before them like a forbidden theater of decadence.
Lit in rich reds and velvety shadows, it was unlike anything Sabrina had ever seen. Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling—black wrought iron tangled with glowing red crystal. Massive mirrors framed the walls in gold filigree, reflecting slow-moving figures, whispers of silk, the sheen of skin.
Two winding staircases curved out from the main floor, sweeping downward like arms welcoming them home. At the base: a grand circular lounge decked in crimson velvet couches and dark marble tables. Pillars lined the walls like silent sentinels, each wrapped with soft red lighting that pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
And the crowd…
It was all women.
Masked, stunning, radiating confidence and indulgence. Some leaned into one another in hushed conversation, others danced slowly near the center where the floor dropped into a subtle stage space, and some merely sipped champagne, eyes scanning. Some wore tuxedos. Others, silken lingerie under long coats. Nobody looked the same—but everyone looked intentional.
The only men visible stood silently along the edges—tall, broad, masked, and dressed in black suits, each with a sleek armband that glimmered under the red light.
A what seems to be an MLM flag.
Paloma leaned in to whisper near Sabrina’s ear, “It means they’re safe. Queer. Here to protect, not participate.”
Sabrina’s brows lifted slightly. A bouncer caught her eye—he nodded once. Gentle. Respectful. She looked away.
Her heels clicked against the red carpet as they walked forward.
Somewhere beneath the floor, a bassline began to breathe—low, seductive, not loud. Just enough to stir something in the chest.
And on the far end of the club, barely touched by light, stood a balcony with a velvet rope and two more bouncers. A staircase curved up behind them like a path to Olympus.
Sabrina didn’t know what was waiting up there.
But something—someone—was watching.
She felt it.
A pull.
A heat.
And every inch of her skin bloomed under it.
The velvet curtain whispered shut behind them.
Sabrina found herself inside a VIP booth that felt more like a private theatre box than a seating area—low red lighting, plush semicircle couches, obsidian table in the middle gleaming like still water, and subtle mirrors built into the wall, reflecting only what they were meant to. Music pulsed softly below their level, the kind that didn’t demand attention but wrapped around your ribcage like satin bondage.
A soft knock tapped at the wall.
A woman in a high-slit black qipao with cherry blossom embroidery stepped inside with a clipboard, greeted them with a smile that held many secrets, and placed a slim, black-leather menu on the table.
“Standard roster, madam?” she asked Sarah and Paloma with a practiced tone.
Paloma tilted her head, almost insulted.
“No, sweetie. We’re not here for fluff tonight.”
Sarah crossed her legs, already reaching into her clutch. “We’ll have the Crimson Menu.”
The hostess paused—subtly. Then nodded.
“Of course,” she said smoothly. “One moment.”
She returned moments later, holding something that didn’t even look like a menu.
It was a deep crimson envelope. Wax-sealed. No label. Just a single black emblem pressed into the wax: a falling star, split down the center.
The envelope was handed to Sarah with two gloved hands. She opened it carefully. Reverently.
Inside, there was no booklet. No listing of drinks. No roster of names and novelties.
Just a folded parchment sheet—thick, textured, and perfumed faintly with myrrh and smoke.
Sarah unfolded it slowly and laid it flat on the table between them.
Sabrina leaned in.
It wasn’t a menu.
It was more like… an invocation.
The names were listed in old-style serif lettering, each one spaced deliberately apart. Sparse. Intimate. The way art galleries displayed their most precious paintings.
There were only seven.
---
Artemis — Knife play. Discipline. Grace.
Épine — French. Thorns beneath silk.
Nova — Playful. Addictive. Gone by morning.
Saint Monday — Sweet sadist. Poetry kink.
Catalina Rex — You don’t choose her. You kneel.
Fallow — Voice like sin. Hands like home.
Morningstar — Price: Negotiable. Approval: Required.
---
Sabrina blinked.
Her throat felt suddenly dry.
Morningstar.
That name.
No description.
No clues.
Just power.
Price negotiable. Approval required.
It was the only name written in dark red ink. As if it had been bled onto the page.
“Who…” Sabrina whispered, not meaning to speak aloud. “Who’s that?”
Paloma smiled without looking up. “The one you don’t request.”
Sarah leaned forward, lips brushing the rim of her glass as she said, “She picks you.”
Sabrina frowned. “So what, she’s not real? Like an urban legend? A trick to upsell—”
“She’s real,” Paloma said, sharper now. “I’ve seen her once. Two years ago. She walked past my booth in red gloves and every woman in the club went quiet.”
“She’s not part of the rotation. Doesn’t come out for birthdays or bachelorettes. You don’t book Morningstar,” Sarah added. “You’re summoned.”
Sabrina looked down again.
The name stared back up at her.
Morningstar.
Suddenly the air in the booth felt warmer. The lights a little dimmer.
And then—without warning—the parchment lifted slightly at the edge.
No breeze.
No hand.
Just… moved.
As though something—or someone—was aware that her eyes had lingered too long.
Paloma’s grin widened. “Careful, babe,” she said lightly, “she bites.”
There was a silence between them—not awkward, but charged. The kind that lingered when something forbidden was suddenly within reach.
Sabrina stared at the name etched in ink and gold. MORNINGSTAR. No price. No details. Just an air of reverence on the page, as if even the menu dared not speak too much of her.
She licked her lips slowly, unsure whether it was the velvet-lined booth or the rising heat in her chest that made her feel cocooned.
Paloma leaned back, snapping the menu shut with a graceful flick. “We’re not rushing,” she said, reaching for the table button. “You need a drink first.”
“I don’t know if I should—”
“Which is exactly why you should,” Sarah cut in, already waving over the returning server. “Nothing that burns. Something flirty. Feminine. Dangerous in the second glass.”
Sabrina huffed out a soft laugh, finally allowing herself to lean into the cushions. “Alright. Surprise me.”
The server bowed slightly. “Might I suggest the Velvet Halo? It’s light, delicate. Lavender, prosecco, edible shimmer. Very… disarming.”
“Perfect,” Paloma purred. “And she’ll need another after the first. Something she won’t taste coming.”
Sarah lifted her menu. “And get me something that bites back.”
“As you wish.”
As the server disappeared, Sabrina let her fingers trail over the edge of the menu again. Her voice was quieter this time. “So... Morningstar. What is she?”
Paloma glanced toward the candlelight flickering on the mirrored wall. “An experience.”
Sarah smirked. “And you’re not allowed to be shy once you meet her.”
“I’m not—”
“Which is why we’re starting with drinks,” Sarah said, raising a brow just as the first round arrived on a silver tray.
Three glasses, each like a spell.
And Sabrina’s? Pale lilac with silver shimmer, a tiny sprig of lavender floating on top like a whispered dare.
She took the glass, cool to the touch, and let herself relax.
Just a little.
The night had only begun.
𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ
Inside the exclusive escort suite, a hush fell.
A word had gone around.
Someone requested the Crimson Menu.
That alone was enough to make all seven masks turn toward the glass.
Behind the tinted wall, they watched her—the blonde downstairs, tucked into a velvet booth, flanked by two women. Paloma and Sarah, if the whispers were right. Laughter played at their table, but her smile? It didn’t reach her eyes.
It never did when they asked for the crimson.
Most who did were cracked beneath the gloss. The heartbroken. The drained. The desperate. The ones who didn’t come to be touched—they came to be ruined just right.
She didn’t look like the usual type.
But maybe that was the point.
The escorts stood silently, observing. Each of them a symbol, a god carved from lust, chaos, and control. None moved. None spoke.
Until a chair slid back.
Morningstar.
She stood tall, dressed in a jet-black tailcoat tuxedo, white shirt open just enough to defy protocol. Her gloved hand reached for her signature mask—sleek matte black with crimson-edged detailing—and without a word, she pulled it over her face.
“You sure?” one of them asked quietly.
But Morningstar didn’t answer.
She didn’t wait.
She simply turned, walked out of the suite, and began to search.
Because something about that blonde—
The tilt of her head.
The way she held her glass.
The way she didn’t look up—like she was waiting for someone to find her first.
Morningstar intended to be that someone.
And tonight?
She was going to offer everything.
𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ
The Madame—the head was still reeling.
Mouth agape. One heel frozen mid-turn. Her gloved fingers clenched the railing, hard enough to make the pearls strain against their thread.
Because never—not in all the years Morningstar ruled that club like a phantom queen—had she made the first move.
She didn’t search. She didn’t step down from the suite until the clients were prepped, screened, tested, willing.
But now?
She beelined.
Past velvet drapes.
Past guarded ropes.
Through crowds that parted like she carried holy fire.
And it wasn’t the pace that shocked the room—it was the intent. The certainty. Morningstar walked like Sabrina had already chosen her. Like the whole damn world had already agreed.
The rest of the Crimson Seven were left behind in the suite, eyes narrowed behind masks of porcelain, bone, and glass. Some leaned forward. Some leaned back. But all of them watched.
And none followed.
Because when Morningstar made her move?
You let her.
Down below, Paloma was still mid-sentence when that towering figure reached the booth.
Sabrina barely had time to turn before Morningstar halted exactly one foot away from her.
No closer. No rush. Just—presence.
Like velvet steel.
Wrapped in scent of oud, ash, and forbidden devotion.
“Good evening,” came the low voice from behind the mask.
Unhurried. Deep. Laced with the kind of gentleness that didn’t belong in a place like this.
Sabrina blinked. “Uh… hi?”
Morningstar’s gloved hand reached forward—not to touch her. But to offer.
Palm up. Fingers relaxed. A gentleman’s gesture, dressed in death and desire.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” she murmured, “but I’d like to borrow your time. Only if you’ll allow.”
Paloma’s jaw dropped.
Sarah practically yanked her phone out.
And Sabrina? She just stared.
Because no one had ever asked her like that. Not here. Not in her life.
There was no expectation in the way Morningstar stood. No assumption. No arrogance. Just respectful stillness, like Sabrina was a saint behind glass and she—the devil—was asking for a prayer.
“You’re…” Sabrina began.
“The one you asked for,” Morningstar said simply. “Or the one who heard.”
The silence between them stretched.
But it wasn’t awkward. It was tense. Charged. Something ancient brushing the skin.
And finally—almost shyly—Sabrina’s fingers found the gloved hand. They didn’t grip. They just… fell into place.
Morningstar’s head dipped once. Like a knight. Like a promise.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
And then she turned to the girls.
To Paloma and Sarah. Who were gaping at her like she had descended from myth itself.
“I’ll return her safely,” Morningstar said, voice still warm, but with weight.
No wink.
No smirk.
Just assurance. A vow cloaked in heat.
And Paloma, confused and in over her head, just… nodded.
Because what else could you do when something like Morningstar spoke to you like that?
As she led Sabrina through the club, heads didn’t just turn—people shifted. Stepped aside. Lowered their eyes.
It wasn’t fear. It was reverence.
Not just because Morningstar was the most requested escort on the Crimson menu. Not because she had a six-month waiting list and a personal rule of one night only.
It was because of the way she held her client’s hand. Careful. Like it was borrowed. Like she was asking permission with every breath.
And it made people ache.
It made people watch.
Because power, when wrapped in restraint?
It’s unforgettable.
And tonight, it was walking hand-in-hand with a girl in heartache, toward something the club had never seen before—
Morningstar, moved.
Morningstar, choosing.
Morningstar, respectful. Terribly. Dangerously. Beautifully. So.
𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ
The hallway behind the main floor was quieter.
Not silent—but dimmed, like a sigh after a long confession. The heavy throb of bass was muffled behind plush red walls, and the lights here were soft gold, reflecting off Morningstar’s suit like warm oil.
They walked slow.
Not because Sabrina hesitated—but because Morningstar did.
Every step was deliberate, controlled. Her grip around Sabrina’s fingers was loose—light enough to let her go, tight enough to reassure.
Like she was guiding a dream she didn’t want to wake from.
Sabrina didn’t speak. She couldn’t, really. Her mind was still at the booth, her body somewhere between fantasy and velvet.
But her heart? Her heart was here.
She watched the way Morningstar moved. Like the suit was tailored onto her skin. Like the mask wasn’t hiding, but honoring something. Her profile caught the warm lights—sharp jaw, smooth lips, a throat that flexed when she swallowed once, quietly.
Sabrina didn’t realize she was staring until Morningstar finally stopped, just outside a velvet-curtained door.
And turned to face her.
Still holding her hand.
Still not letting go.
“Are you comfortable?” the voice came low again. Not low as in husky. But… private. Intimate. As if even here, Morningstar refused to speak to her the way she spoke to the world.
Sabrina’s brows lifted just a little. “You’re asking?”
“Always,” she said. “Consent isn’t just about entry. It’s about every moment after.”
The line shouldn’t have hit her like that.
But it did.
Because it wasn’t just romantic. It was intentional. Frighteningly so.
Sabrina’s throat tightened as she nodded. “Yeah. I’m… comfortable.”
A pause.
Then, Morningstar finally let go of her hand—but only so she could pull the curtain aside.
She didn’t step through.
She gestured first. Silently. Letting Sabrina walk in without being led.
Respectful. Terribly so.
And as Sabrina brushed past, the scent of her perfume clung to Morningstar’s suit. Sharp citrus. Peach blossom. A hint of heat.
The door clicked shut behind them.
And the room—
The room was not what she expected.
No red velvet. No chains. No fainting couches or dramatic lighting.
It was soft.
Cool blue walls. Candlelight flickering in enclosed shelves. A record player humming low in the corner, some kind of jazz that didn’t try too hard. A plush chaise lounge. A table with a glass pitcher of cucumber water. A folded towel. Lavender balm. A box of satin gloves.
And at the very center—
Nothing but space.
Breathable space.
As if she was the centerpiece.
Sabrina turned, halfway stunned. “This is…”
“Your room,” Morningstar answered, pulling the gloves off slowly—one finger at a time. “You don’t owe me anything here.”
She dropped the gloves gently on the side table. Her eyes behind the mask never left Sabrina’s face.
“You’re welcome to sit. To talk. To drink water. To cry.”
Sabrina’s lips parted.
“Or,” Morningstar stepped forward, close—but not close enough to touch. “If you allow it…”
She reached toward Sabrina’s temple, but stopped short—her fingers suspended in air.
“I can take your mind off the world.”
Silence again.
Heavy, golden, deliberate silence.
And Sabrina, with her pulse skipping and her dress still warm from the crowd, looked up and said only one thing:
“…Take your time.”
Morningstar smiled.
Not wide. Not flirtatious.
Just enough to show reverence.
Like Sabrina had offered her something sacred.
𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ
The drink was clear and calm in the glass—no dramatic colors, no ominous wisps of dry ice. It looked harmless, elegant even, with just a thin twist of citrus peel floating on top.
But halfway through her first glass, Sabrina blinked slow and deep. Like the alcohol had slipped past her defenses and whispered something wicked to her nervous system. She barely remembered finishing the second.
“I didn’t think it’d hit that hard,” she murmured, thumb rubbing the condensation off the side. “I drink… a lot. I should’ve seen it coming.”
Morningstar only smiled behind her mask, fingers coiled around her own glass without sipping. She hadn’t touched it once. “It’s designed to be deceiving,” she said smoothly. “That’s why we don’t serve it to just anyone.”
Sabrina looked up at her, eyes a little shinier than before, a flush blooming on her cheeks. “So I’m not just anyone?”
“You’re someone,” Morningstar replied, gentle, as if it were a sacred truth rather than a flirtation.
Sabrina breathed a quiet laugh. “You’re too composed for this job.”
“I’m paid to stay composed,” she replied. “But I’m not paid to lie.”
That earned a glance. A flicker of disbelief. A pause. And then—
“...He told me I was too much,” Sabrina said, out of nowhere. The words cracked open without warning. “Too emotional. Too needy. Too intense.”
Morningstar didn’t answer at first. Just gave her the space to exhale it all, eyes steady behind the black-and-red edge of her mask.
Sabrina’s shoulders slumped. “And then he ghosted me like a teenager. Left me halfway through a tour stop, because he couldn’t take the pressure.”
Silence lapped gently between them. Then Morningstar leaned in—not close enough to crowd, but enough to be heard without effort.
“Needing connection doesn’t make you too much,” she said. “It makes you human. He just wasn’t man enough to sit in that vulnerability with you.”
The warmth in Sabrina’s chest folded into something quieter. Something heavier. She didn’t know if it was the drink or the words or the velvety rhythm of Morningstar’s voice—but her limbs relaxed.
A hand brushed against Morningstar’s thigh—accidental, or maybe not—and her balance shifted before she realized it. One thigh swung over. Her other knee followed. She barely processed it before she was perched, soft and pliant, right on Morningstar’s lap.
“Oh,” she whispered, blinking.
“You alright?” Morningstar asked. No movement. No smirk. Just a low, steady pulse of presence.
“I didn’t mean to—” Sabrina started, words catching like taffy on her tongue.
“You can stay,” Morningstar said simply.
Sabrina didn’t get up; didn't even thought of it.
Didn’t shift or even flinch. Just stayed there like it was the most natural place to be. Draped across Morningstar’s lap, thighs angled, fingers lightly tugging at the lapel of her tailored coat like she’d known her for years.
And Morningstar? Still. Unmoving. Like she didn’t want to startle the moment. One gloved hand rested gently on the curve of Sabrina’s waist, fingers splayed in the most respectful way possible for a woman currently cradling a popstar in leather pants.
“You’re… very solid,” Sabrina said suddenly, eyes blinking a little slower than usual as she squinted at Morningstar’s chest like she was trying to figure out if it was armor or muscle. “Like. Unreasonably solid.”
“You say that like it’s a complaint,” Morningstar replied softly, the corner of her mouth barely quirking beneath the mask.
“No, no, it’s—good,” Sabrina said, tone sincere in the way only slightly buzzed girls can be. “Like you were carved. Or… hatched. No, not hatched. That’s weird. Forget that.”
She giggled—giggles, really—and leaned her head onto Morningstar’s shoulder, burying her face into the collar of her coat for half a second before turning back up to look at her.
“You smell like—like cloves and expensive regret,” she said, voice hushed like it was a compliment. “That’s your cologne, right? Or is it just natural villain musk?”
“I’m not a villain,” Morningstar said gently.
“Oh, sure,” Sabrina drawled, eyes glinting. “Tall, mysterious woman in a mask who speaks in calm riddles and carries people like they weigh nothing? Definitely not a villain. Nope.”
“You seem to be enjoying yourself, villain or not.”
“I am,” Sabrina admitted, hands now resting over Morningstar’s chest with zero shame. “Honestly, I think my drink was laced with trust issues repellent. Because I should not be this comfy on the lap of a stranger with veiny hands and a god complex.”
Morningstar huffed a quiet sound that might’ve been a chuckle. “You think I have a god complex?”
“Don’t play coy,” Sabrina said, lightly tapping her index finger against Morningstar’s mask. “You’re literally wearing a mask indoors and speaking in riddles while holding me like I’m a starlet fainting on a fainting couch.”
“You did climb onto me.”
“Semantics.”
Sabrina’s hand—brave now—smoothed over Morningstar’s shoulder, nails dragging faint lines over the sharp edge of her coat, then lingered near her collarbone. Soft. Flirty. All impulse.
“You’re very still,” she whispered, eyes darting between the mask and where her own fingers traced. “Is that a trained thing? Or are you always this composed even when there’s a girl basically making herself at home on you?”
Morningstar’s voice was velvet. “You’re not just any girl.”
Sabrina blinked slowly. “...That’s cheating.”
“No,” Morningstar murmured. “That’s honest.”
And god help her—Sabrina melted a little more into the hold. Her fingers rested now over Morningstar’s chest, her legs loosely tangled at the side, voice barely a breath when she said:
“...Don’t move, okay?”
“I won’t.”
She didn’t need to say thank you. The way she relaxed fully into her, head resting against her shoulder again, fingers still drawing faint, slow lines across fabric—that was enough.
The glass was long forgotten—abandoned somewhere on the nearby table, a halo of condensation still clinging to the wood. Sabrina didn’t even remember setting it down.
She’d been talking, she was sure. Rambling, more like—about her ex, about the manchild who never listened, who ghosted her feelings, who called her dramatic for asking for basic decency. And Morningstar had just listened. Not once interrupting. Not once making her feel small.
But at some point, maybe somewhere between the mention of “he wouldn’t even hold me after a panic attack” and “he kept calling my perfume ‘too loud,’” the conversation had shifted.
Not because Morningstar changed the subject.
But because the air did.
The drink did.
She did.
The heat wasn’t sudden. It had crept in like dusk. A warmth at the base of her spine. A pulse in her fingertips. A soft haze in her chest that made it harder to tell what time it was—or why she’d even brought up her ex in the first place.
“…what was I saying?” she blinked, voice quieter now, a faint slur of velvet behind her tongue.
“You were saying how he didn’t deserve the way you loved him,” Morningstar replied, her voice low, unhurried.
“Right,” Sabrina exhaled. Then frowned. “Wait—why was I talking about him again?”
Morningstar didn’t answer right away. Just let her thumb brush, feather-light, against Sabrina’s waist.
And Sabrina melted. Fully.
Her head sank back against the woman’s shoulder, cheek resting comfortably against the warm slope of muscle and silk. The heat climbed higher. Not overwhelming, not yet, but enough to make her acutely aware of the way Morningstar breathed. The way she hadn’t moved her hands. The way she let her exist like this—in her lap, in her space, without pressure. Without demand.
“God,” Sabrina laughed softly, eyes fluttering shut, “he would’ve made this all about him.”
“This?” Morningstar asked.
“This moment,” she said, voice lazy now, dragging. “Me being soft. Me wanting to sit like this. He’d call it needy. You call it… what do you call it?”
“Human,” Morningstar said simply.
Sabrina’s chest rose and fell, a quiet hush of breath. Her hands weren’t just wandering now—they were lingering. At the edge of Morningstar’s coat, tracing the buttons. The curve of her ribs. Her bicep. One hand slid up, over her chest, resting where the pulse beat slow and steady beneath her mask.
She blinked, then laughed again, cheeks flushed.
“I forgot about him,” she admitted, her voice a little higher, more playful. “Somewhere between drink number two and this exact spot on your chest—” her palm pressed lightly over it “—I just… stopped caring.”
“You didn’t forget him,” Morningstar said. “You just remembered yourself.”
That made her go still.
Then softer.
Then—fuck.
“Who are you?” she asked, turning her face just slightly toward the collar of Morningstar’s coat. “You smell like thunder and old songs and control. Like I’d let you ruin me if you asked nicely.”
Morningstar’s silence was enough of a reaction. Heavy. Anchored.
“You’re quiet,” Sabrina whispered.
“I’m waiting,” came the answer. Gentle. Steady. A slow flame instead of a spark.
“For what?”
“For you to realize you’re safe enough to let go.”
And that was what undid her.
Not the drink. Not the lap. Not the heat crawling up the insides of her thighs like warm breath on silk.
It was that.
Sabrina curled her fingers into Morningstar’s coat and breathed her in.
Then—without fanfare, without flirtation—whispered into the collar:
“Then don’t let go of me yet.”
And Morningstar didn’t.
If anything, her hands slowly made it's way on the side of Sabrina’s thighs and took a firm grip on it—a silent reassurance.
Her breath hitched first.
Something shifted. Something in the way her fingers had tightened just slightly on Sabrina’s thighs. Something in the way her own breath deepened beneath the collar of her coat, just enough for Sabrina to feel it—slow, thick, restrained.
It made Sabrina’s skin pull tight over her spine.
The alcohol had soaked into her limbs now, not enough to make her sloppy—just enough to strip her of hesitation. Inhibitions peeled back like a second skin. She could still think, still feel, but every thought was louder. Every feeling... closer to the surface.
“I don’t even know your real name,” she murmured against the woman’s throat, her lips grazing soft fabric. “But I feel like I’ve known your body since before I had mine.”
That earned a slow, careful inhale from Morningstar—one she tried to quiet, but Sabrina caught it.
Oh, she caught it.
A smirk played at her lips. “That flustered breath? That’s mine, right?”
Morningstar didn’t answer—but the tip of her finger drew one slow circle against the bare skin above the dip of Sabrina’s waistband. Featherlight. Testing. Almost reverent.
Sabrina’s breath stuttered.
“Okay,” she whispered, “this is getting unfair.”
“What is?” Morningstar finally asked, her voice now—lower. A bit more sandpaper. A bit more weight.
“You. Breathing like that. Looking like this. Touching like that. Not kissing me.”
The hand on her waist twitched. Just slightly. And Sabrina leaned in further, letting her thighs bracket the woman’s lap a little tighter. Her arms looped loosely around her neck, and her nose brushed the side of her jaw through the mask.
“I could still smell you when I was talking about him,” she said, fingers curling just above Morningstar’s collarbone. “That’s why I stopped. Couldn’t even remember what he looked like when you were right there. Breathing like a storm.”
Morningstar was holding herself back—Sabrina could feel it. The tension in her thighs, the restraint in her hands, the muscle that pulsed just once in her jaw. She hadn’t made a move, not a real one. Like she was giving her space. Like she was waiting.
Sabrina closed that space. Just a little.
“I’m not drunk,” she murmured. “I mean—I’m not sober. But I know what I want.”
Her lips ghosted the edge of the mask. Not kissing. Not yet. Just a tease of warmth.
“Do you?”
A beat passed. Then two.
“Yes,” came the answer, low and deadly quiet.
But the next movement wasn’t from Morningstar.
It was Sabrina.
A shift of her hips. A slow roll forward. Her core pressed flush against the taut lines of Morningstar’s abdomen, and it dragged something dark from the woman’s throat. A sound—barely-there—like a warning that never fully formed.
“Fuck,” Sabrina breathed, eyes fluttering shut. “That. That sound. You’re gonna wreck me, aren’t you?”
And finally—finally—Morningstar touched her back. Full palm. Flat. Possessive. Holding her there, right where she moved, where the heat between them was less suggestion and more friction.
“I’m not going to do anything you’re not begging for,” she said, calm and slow.
And that’s when Sabrina lost her composure completely.
Her fingers gripped the lapel of the coat like a lifeline. Her hips moved again—just barely—but enough to feel it. God, she felt it. The heat. The press. The tension coiled low and heavy between her legs.
One hand reached up, brushing Morningstar’s mask gently aside—not to remove it, not yet—but to rest her forehead against hers. Skin to skin. Barely. Just enough to feel her breath.
The silence between them had stretched—thick, slow, and humming with something unspoken.
Sabrina was still in her lap. Warm, flushed, the faintest daze in her eyes as her fingers toyed with the edge of Morningstar’s collar. Her lips were parted just slightly, like she was caught mid-thought. Or mid-want.
And Morningstar’s hands finally—finally—moved. Up her thighs. Around her waist. Holding her steady.
The glass on the table sat forgotten, half-full. That deceptively strong drink had done its work: melted whatever tension was left in her body, blurred the lines around her carefully kept composure.
“I haven’t thought about him in… minutes,” Sabrina murmured, gaze heavy-lidded as it dropped to Morningstar’s mouth. “That’s probably a record.”
Morningstar’s smile twitched upward, but her eyes never left hers. “Do I get a medal?”
Sabrina hummed, low and coy. “Depends. You want one around your neck, or do you prefer something more… memorable?”
There it was again. That shift in the air. Like static. Like the heat from a storm before it breaks.
Sabrina’s hand slid up—traced the edge of Morningstar’s jaw with her knuckles, slow and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world to decide what she wanted. But her thumb lingered just beneath her bottom lip.
“You’re not going to kiss me,” she said, almost a tease.
A challenge.
Morningstar’s jaw tensed beneath her touch. “Why’s that?”
“Because you’re careful,” Sabrina whispered, leaning in until their noses brushed. “Because you like to be asked. Because you don’t chase girls who’ve had too much to drink.”
“I don’t,” Morningstar murmured, the words trembling against her mouth. “But you don’t feel drunk.”
“I don’t,” Sabrina echoed, breath hitching. “I feel awake.”
Then she closed the last inch.
Not crashing. Not clumsy. Just… sure.
Their lips met in a slow press—soft, warm, electric. Morningstar inhaled sharply through her nose, a hand gripping the edge of the seat like it was the only thing anchoring her to earth. Sabrina tilted her head, deepening the kiss, tasting her with the kind of patience that screamed I’ve wanted this. I’ve imagined this.
And Morningstar? She melted. Right into her. Like the first hit of heat after a long winter.
They broke apart only barely, foreheads resting together, both of them breathing like something seismic had shifted.
Sabrina’s eyes fluttered open.
“There’s no going back now,” she whispered.
Morningstar’s hand cupped her cheek, thumb sweeping along her skin.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
Sabrina blinked slow, as if her soul had just been kissed awake. The corner of her mouth curled up—not in her usual sly, flirty way, but something softer. Sleepier. Like she’d finally exhaled something heavy she’d been carrying too long.
Still perched on Morningstar’s lap, she let her fingers roam absentmindedly: across the slope of her shoulder, down the line of her collarbone, occasionally brushing the skin peeking through that slightly undone shirt.
“…you know what’s weird?” she murmured, voice nearly a hum. “I don’t even remember what his mouth tasted like. Not really.”
Morningstar tilted her head slightly, her hand resting on the outside of Sabrina’s thigh—grounding, never pressing. “Want to forget more?”
That earned a breathy chuckle, Sabrina tipping her head back briefly before leaning in again—forehead to forehead, eyelashes kissing. “I think I already did.”
The drink was forgotten. The room was warm, but it was the slow-building heat between them that made Sabrina feel like her skin was glowing. She ran a hand through Morningstar’s curls, gently tugging one, as if curious to see how far she could go before the other woman lost her cool.
“Why do you smell so good?” she mumbled, lips brushing along Morningstar’s jaw, a barely-there graze. “Like… rain. And regret. But sexy.”
Morningstar huffed a soft laugh—her control hanging by a thread. “Because I knew you’d end up here.”
Sabrina snorted—cute and unexpected. “Confident.”
“No,” Morningstar corrected, fingers slowly grazing up Sabrina’s back under the hem of her shirt, not indecent but intimate. “Hopeful.”
Sabrina quieted, the joke caught in her throat. Her eyes found Morningstar’s again, wide and glassy, like she was suddenly being looked at for exactly who she was.
“You’re dangerous,” she whispered. “But you’re the safest I’ve felt in a long time.”
She kissed her again. Slower. Longer. Less heat—more ache.
And this time, she didn’t pull back.
She stayed right there—hands cupping Morningstar’s jaw like she was something precious, something worth learning slowly, one kiss at a time.
The kiss didn’t break—couldn’t.
Sabrina shifted in one smooth, liquid motion, lowering herself onto the velvet couch, legs folding beneath her, never letting go of Morningstar’s mouth. She pulled the masked woman down with her by the silk bowtie still clutched in her fingers. The soft fabric unraveled in her grip like it had been waiting for this moment—loose, effortless, inevitable.
Morningstar followed willingly, one hand bracing against the cushion beside Sabrina’s thigh, the other grazing the side of her waist as she hovered just above her, lips still tangled with hers, breath growing shallow.
Sabrina’s hand slipped from the undone tie to the collar it once held closed. Her fingers curled around it, tugging gently—not just to pull her closer, but to undo her, piece by piece. The small buttons gave way beneath her touch, careful but deliberate. The heat had crept in fully now, subtle and slow, but all-consuming—like a fever that made her forget everything but this: the weight above her, the heat radiating from her own skin, the way Morningstar’s mouth was beginning to move like she’d been holding back for too long.
The rhythm shifted. Hungrier. Deeper.
Sabrina exhaled sharply against her lips, voice breathy, hands slipping under the open hem of the shirt as she whispered, almost a dare, “You’re not nervous, are you?”
Morningstar’s lips curved slightly against hers, voice low and wrecked. “Should I be?”
Sabrina smiled against her mouth, thumbs grazing hot skin just under her ribs. “Only if you plan to stop me.”
She didn't even realize how deep she’d sunk until Morningstar's breath hit her collarbone.
Hot. Damp. Wanting.
Sabrina’s thighs instinctively parted under the weight of her, the pressure deliciously unbearable. Her back arched slightly into the couch, chasing the warmth above her, grounding herself with fingers still tangled in the undone remnants of that damned bowtie. Morningstar’s hand slid beneath her shirt, fingers splayed, claiming, teasing, respectful—until Sabrina rocked up in impatience.
“Mhm.” Morningstar’s lips curled as they dragged lower, trailing slow kisses along the edge of Sabrina’s jaw. “Bossy now, aren’t we?”
Sabrina tugged at her collar, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed, mouth red and kiss-swollen. “I’ve waited long enough,” she whispered, hips tilting with quiet purpose, lips brushing against Morningstar’s again—less like a kiss, more like a threat wrapped in silk. “Take it off.”
She didn’t have to ask twice.
The black shirt rustled as Morningstar unbuttoned her shirt and shrugged it off her shoulders. Her figure came into full view—broad, cut, sun-warmed skin sheened with a teasing flush. Her suspenders were halfway down her arms now, forgotten, slung low and swaying with her movements.
Sabrina exhaled like she was about to sin.
She pulled Morningstar back down, kissing her again—open-mouthed, slick with need—grinding up softly as their bodies finally met without fabric between. Her fingers curled into the dips of Morningstar’s back, pressing close, close, closer.
This wasn’t frantic. This wasn’t rushed.
It was slow. Controlled.
Like a fire deliberately set with intent to burn the whole house down.
Morningstar’s hand found Sabrina’s bare thigh, thumb stroking gently, reverent almost. But her eyes? Her eyes were a storm—daring her to keep going. Daring her to ask for more.
“Tell me,” Morningstar murmured, voice hoarse. “Where do you want me?”
Sabrina smiled, breathless.
“Everywhere.”
And Morningstar answered.
She dipped her head to kiss the corner of Sabrina’s mouth, trailing lower, slow, warm kisses brushing along her neck and down to her collarbone. Her hand slid higher, dragging up the back of Sabrina’s thigh to her inner parts. Drawing her dress upward in slow increments, revealing more and more as her lips mapped the path down to Sabrina’s shoulder.
Sabrina shifted again—this time straddling the very edge of the couch. Her back hit the cushions as she pulled Morningstar closer by the belt hanging loose at her hip. “You’re killing me,” she whispered, breath catching when Morningstar’s hand finally cupped her through the lace beneath the skirt. The moan she let out was soft—half-muffled against Morningstar’s shoulder—as her hips instinctively rolled into her touch.
Morningstar smirked, voice low, velvet and fire. “Not yet, baby.”
Her palm pressed firmer, dragging a slow circle that had Sabrina gasping. And still, her other hand cradled the back of Sabrina’s neck—anchoring her, steadying her. It wasn’t just lust—it was control wrapped in gentleness. A deliberate worship.
And Morningstar? She was losing it too. Beneath the self-control, her jaw was clenched, her breath uneven, her need barely restrained.
“Sabrina,” she whispered against her lips, “if I go further… I’m not stopping until you forget your name.”
Sabrina’s legs tightened around her hips.
“Then start with mine.”
She stared at Sabrina, lips parted, her pupils blown wide beneath the soft, golden mask.
And then she moved.
The kiss wasn’t just a kiss—it was a descent. A beautiful, dangerous surrender. Morningstar crushed their mouths together with a low, guttural sound that reverberated deep in her chest. Her hand slid under Sabrina’s thigh, lifting her effortlessly and guiding her further onto the couch with a slow, grounding strength.
“You’re so—” Sabrina whispered against her jaw, “—fucking beautiful.”
And Morningstar let her take in all of her.
She guided Sabrina back against the cushions, her body heavy but deliberate, slow, reverent—like she wasn’t just kissing her, she was memorizing her. Her hand trailed up Sabrina’s ribs, sliding beneath her cropped top, warm fingers brushing along skin until they found the lace of her bra.
Sabrina gasped. “Please…”
“I’ve got you,” Morningstar murmured, her voice low, burning. “You just stay right here.”
And then her mouth was on her chest, kissing over the lace, lips teasing at the swell, tongue flicking softly through the thin fabric. Her hands were firm on Sabrina’s hips, holding her still, grounding her. Every move felt like it had been thought out hours in advance.
Sabrina whimpered, tilting her hips upward, aching for more—her voice cracking slightly. “You keep… looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re starving.”
Morningstar met her eyes, face hovering just above her chest, the mask casting shadows that made her expression almost godly. “Because I am.”
And then she dipped her head again, lips traveling lower, teeth grazing softly just beneath her navel, dragging her panties down achingly slow while whispering her name like a prayer:
“Sabrina…”
Sabrina’s breath hitched the moment she felt Morningstar’s mouth on her—soft, deliberate, worshipful. It was a contrast she didn’t expect from the woman cloaked in power and danger, who walked like a sin and touched like salvation.
Her thighs tensed instinctively, one leg draped over Morningstar’s shoulder, the other twitching slightly at the first slow, warm stroke of tongue.
“F—fuck,” she whispered, the word slipping out like a sigh, her hand shooting down to tangle in Morningstar’s hair—ruining that perfectly slicked-back style without an ounce of remorse.
Morningstar groaned into her. The vibration made Sabrina’s hips buck, her back arching slightly off the couch. But the woman held her down with one strong arm wrapped around her thigh, keeping her grounded—anchored—like she had nowhere else to be but there, between her legs, tasting her like something holy.
And god, Sabrina couldn’t think.
Her head fell back with a soft thud against the cushion, breath coming fast, one hand in Morningstar’s hair, the other fisting at the couch.
"Look at me," came that voice, husky and low, muffled against her.
Sabrina forced herself to glance down—met by darkened eyes through the slits of the mask, and lips glistening with her.
"Watch what you do to me."
It destroyed her.
Sabrina whimpered, her thighs trembling now, her stomach tightening more and more with every stroke of tongue, every soft suck, every slow drag. She was being undone—not rushed, not wrecked violently—but unwrapped. Slowly. Methodically. Like Morningstar had every intention of tasting her until she begged her to stop.
And Sabrina? She didn’t want it to stop.
Her moans turned desperate, hands gripping harder, eyes fluttering shut, her hips beginning to roll with abandon.
“Morningstar— I—please, I—”
She didn’t need to finish.
Morningstar knew.
The way she flattened her tongue and pressed deeper, just right, sent Sabrina spiraling—shaking apart with a choked cry, thighs clamping tight around her head as she came hard, voice breathless and broken.
But Morningstar didn’t stop.
She slowed—only slightly—riding the waves with her, grounding her with kisses that were softer now. Gentle licks. A praise offered in every touch. A hand stroking over her hip like she’d just guided her through something sacred.
And when Sabrina’s body finally stilled, flushed and trembling, Morningstar kissed her inner thigh, whispered, “You’re divine,” and crawled up to her chest, arms caging her in, breath still warm against her cheek.
Sabrina, dazed and flushed, blinked up at her—hair a mess, lips parted. “You… you’re ridiculous.”
Morningstar smirked, eyes half-lidded. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Then she leaned in and kissed her—soft, slow, like she wasn’t done.
Like she never would be.
Sabrina was still catching her breath, chest rising and falling, a light sheen of sweat across her collarbones. Her legs remained lazily parted, twitching every now and then with the aftershocks. Morningstar was draped over her like a heavy secret—still dressed, still masked, but visibly flushed from the heat radiating between their bodies.
Then Sabrina’s hand, curious and slow, drifted down Morningstar’s abdomen…
…and paused.
Right over the growing bulge straining against her tailored slacks.
There was a beat of silence. Morningstar didn’t move. She just watched Sabrina carefully—waiting.
Sabrina’s lips curled into the laziest, cockiest smile.
She tilted her head, pupils dilated, lips kiss-swollen and chin glistening.
“Oh?” she hummed, palming her gently through the fabric. “What’s this?”
Morningstar let out a breath—sharp, strained. “A problem.”
Sabrina giggled—giggled, like she hadn’t just been turned inside out two minutes ago. “A problem, huh?” Her palm pressed harder, teasing. “Because I was just thinking…”
She sat up slightly, grabbing Morningstar by the suspenders and tugging her down until their foreheads bumped.
“…I could go again.”
That earned her a growl—a low, surprised one—right before Morningstar’s lips crashed back onto hers. This time with less restraint, all need. One hand slipped behind Sabrina’s thigh to lift it again, the other already working at her own belt like she’d been barely holding herself back.
"You sure?" Morningstar rasped, breath ghosting over her ear as her hips rolled forward—just enough for Sabrina to feel the pressure against her heat.
Sabrina moaned softly, hips arching to meet the motion. “You’re hard.”
Her nails dragged lightly along Morningstar’s back. “Would be a shame to let it go to waste.”
That was all the permission she needed.
The belt hit the floor with a soft thud.
The couch creaked.
And Sabrina?
Grinning, wrecked, insatiable.
She leaned in close and whispered—
“Ruin me properly this time.”
“Actually—No.” Sabrina suddenly added. Sitting up slightly with a groan.
“This one’s mine,” she whispered—pushing Morningstar on her back on the other side of the couch then climbed her hastily.
“Now lie back. I’m going to ride you until you’re the one begging.”
Sabrina’s hands were trembling now as they moved to undo the last few buttons of Morningstar’s slacks, whispering things between kisses that made the woman growl under her breath—things like “Want you,” and “I’m not thinking about anyone else anymore.”
Sabrina looked down, her hands making its way inside Morningstar’s boxers.
Her hands were soon wrapped around her shaft; alive, warm, heavy, and absolutely throbbing and hard.
She let out a shaky breath as the head of the cock teased her entrance—slick, warm, swollen from everything Morningstar had already done to her. Her thighs quivered slightly, muscles clenching in anticipation.
And when she finally sank down—slow, gasping, and steady—it was like the air left the room.
“Fuuuck,” Sabrina whimpered, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, mouth parted as her hips bottomed out. She sat there for a beat, completely full, adjusting, trembling—hands braced on Morningstar’s abs as she rode the wave of sensation.
Beneath her, the woman was frozen—jaw clenched behind the mask, one hand digging into the arm of the couch, the other twitching as if holding back from grabbing Sabrina outright.
But Sabrina was in control now.
She leaned forward, pressing a kiss just above Morningstar’s collarbones. Then another. Then—hot against her ear:
“You’re not allowed to touch me unless I say so.”
Morningstar let out a low grunt that made Sabrina clench involuntarily. That sound—that deep, nearly broken growl of restraint—only made her grind her hips downward again. Slow. Deliciously mean.
“Yeah?” Sabrina breathed, moving her hips in tight circles now, dragging herself over the thick shaft as Morningstar cursed beneath her. “Is this what it feels like to ruin someone? Because I’m starting to understand the appeal.”
Another thrust—harder this time. Morningstar’s back arched, a strained sound slipping out before she caught herself. Sabrina smirked.
“Don’t hold back,” she whispered, nails dragging lightly across Morningstar’s ribs. “I want to hear how much you want me.”
Still, the masked woman didn’t speak. Only heavy breaths. Only the way her hips jerked subtly up to meet Sabrina’s now-deepening rhythm. The tension was like a livewire—hot, frantic, about to snap.
Sabrina leaned forward again—mouth just at Morningstar’s jaw.
“You want to hear me beg?” she panted. “Too bad. I’m gonna ride you until you say it. Until you’re the one falling apart.”
Sabrina shifts slightly, hands firmly holding Morningstar’s chest as she started to pick up her pace.
“Fuck—! Morningst—”
Then—then—Morningstar did something she never should’ve done.
She broke a rule.
“No.”
The voice was low. Strained. And trembling.
Sabrina barely had time to process before Morningstar braced one arm beside her head, leaned in close, and said the one thing she never should’ve said.
“Y/N.”
It landed like thunder.
Her name. Her name.
Not Morningstar. Not the fantasy. Not the mask.
But Y/N—hot and cracked on her tongue, pulled from the darkest part of her chest like a secret she’d sworn never to give.
“I want to hear you say it,” she growled, thrusts slowing, deepening, her masked face hovering inches from Sabrina’s. “Say my name.”
Sabrina froze.
Just for a second—but it seared. Her hips faltered, stuttered against the steady push beneath her. That name—Y/N—ripped the ground out from under her and left her suspended in something terrifyingly real.
Not Morningstar.
Not the mystery.
But a person. A heartbeat. A name she'd never been supposed to know.
Her eyes locked onto the mask. It was still there. The same black gloss. The same polished restraint. But now it felt like a lie.
“Say it,” Y/N growled again, slower this time, one hand sliding up Sabrina’s back, palm firm between her shoulder blades like she needed her to stay, needed her to feel this. “Please.”
That last word cracked something open.
Because beneath all that control, that sharp power and teasing filth—Y/N was trembling. Sabrina could feel it in her hands, in her breath, in the way her voice faltered just slightly as though she'd just dropped the final weapon in her arsenal and stood there, exposed.
Sabrina’s hands curled tighter over her chest, her thighs squeezing Y/N’s waist as she picked up her pace again—this time slower, deeper, more intimate. Less rhythm. More ache.
She leaned in until her lips hovered right over the mask and whispered:
“Y/N.”
Y/N let out the softest gasp—almost a whimper. Her eyes fluttered shut behind the mask like it hurt in the most beautiful way.
Sabrina said it again. “Y/N.”
She meant it.
Not just as a name.
As a tether.
As a truth.
The sound of it—rough, reverent, dizzy on her tongue—made Y/N buck her hips up sharply, dragging a breathless cry from Sabrina as she threw her head back.
“god—fuck—”
She couldn’t stop now. Couldn’t stop saying it. Couldn’t stop loving the way it made Y/N unravel beneath her. The way the mask didn’t matter anymore.
The way she knew her now.
“Y/N—” Sabrina choked out, grinding harder, pace erratic and needy, hands splayed on her chest like she was anchoring herself.
Y/N’s hands gripped her waist hard, desperate, fighting restraint.
“You shouldn’t know that,” she groaned, voice raw and wrecked. “You shouldn’t—fuck—Sabrina—”
Sabrina leaned in and kissed the edge of the mask, right where her mouth might be, slow and shaking.
“But I do,” she whispered. “And I’m not giving it back.”
Y/N’s grip faltered—her whole body jerking up as she let out a sound that wasn’t words, just a guttural noise dragged from somewhere too deep to name.
“More, I'm close—just a little more, Please.” Sabrina whined—her hips slowly faltering, sliding up to Y/N's shoulder, and nails raking over the skin.
Y/N on the other hand wrapped her arms around Sabrina's waist—pulling her down before she thrust up to her.
Sabrina's face was soon buried on her shoulder. Holding onto her tightly as she feel the impending release.
“There—Right there, Y/N—FUCK—! Keep going.”
Y/N hissed as she felt Sabrina's teeth sunk on her collarbones; moans muffled as if restraining herself from letting louder sounds further.
A sharp gasp escaped Sabrina soon after with a right clench around Y/N. Practically crying out her name as Y/N soon followed, shuddering so hard her voice choked slightly.
Sabrina lifted her face to meet Y/N's gaze—closing the gap instantly in a rushed and orgasm-fueled kiss.
Y/N kissed back—swallowing Sabrina's moans and grunting back; feeling her clench around her tightly.
𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ
The silence afterward wasn’t heavy—it was sacred.
Their bodies still tangled on the couch, skin damp with effort and heat, Sabrina lay draped across Morningstar’s chest. Her ear rose and fell with each slow breath Y/N took beneath her, grounded by the soft thud of a heartbeat that shouldn’t have felt as comforting as it did. She didn’t know when her hand had found its way to rest against Y/N’s sternum, or when their fingers had laced together on the blanket she hadn’t noticed being draped over her back.
She blinked slowly, dazed, her voice hoarse. “You—didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” Y/N murmured, thumb brushing the curve of Sabrina’s hip in a rhythm so gentle it almost disappeared. “But I wanted to.”
There was no music now. No moaning bass. No pulse of the underground beneath them. Just warmth. Sweat cooling. Their breaths slowly syncing.
Y/N reached up and gently tucked a curl behind Sabrina’s ear. “Stay as long as you want. I’ll take you back when you’re ready.”
𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ
Eventually, Sabrina sat up. Her dress, wrinkled and half-off, felt like the last costume she wanted to wear, but she didn’t say anything as she adjusted it. Y/N helped without a word—zipping her up, smoothing the fabric where it clung. Then she reached for her own coat—dark, broad-shouldered—and wrapped it around Sabrina without asking.
The collar nearly swallowed her. She didn’t mind. It smelled like sandalwood and heat and trouble she would absolutely get into again.
Y/N held out a hand.
Sabrina took it.
𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ
The club hadn’t changed.
Paloma and Sarah were on the velvet benches near the main floor, drinks in hand, casually judging every escort who’d tried to flirt while they waited. They both looked up when Sabrina appeared, swallowed in a coat far too big for her.
Sarah blinked. “Oh thank god, she’s not dead.”
Paloma narrowed her eyes at Morningstar—Morningstar, all mask and midnight once again. “Didn’t eat her alive, did you?”
Y/N’s mouth twitched. “Just nibbled.”
Sabrina rolled her eyes and adjusted the collar to hide her face, already red.
“We’ll get her home safe,” Paloma added, tugging Sabrina toward her. “She’s had… a night.”
Y/N nodded. “I know.”
That was all. No lingering glances. No dramatic farewell.
Y/N turned. Faded back into the club’s shadows like she’d never left them.
𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ
At home, hours later, the coat still hung on the back of Sabrina’s bedroom chair. She hadn’t taken it off immediately—only when her sisters weren’t looking, only when she finally let the dress fall to the floor in silence.
Something weighed in the pocket. She reached in.
A card.
Black. Matte. Edges lined with red foil like blood glinting under candlelight.
MORNINGSTAR, bold in the center.
And just beneath it, in small handwritten print:
"Next time, ask for Y/N."
And below that, a number.
No name. No instructions. No strings.
Sabrina stared.
Then she smiled—small, crooked, private.
She pressed the card against her lips, heart traitorously full.
Next time.
Fin.
A/N: This pissed the hell out of me omg. god knows how many attempts I tried to edit this. Anyway. This one came out a little spicier than intended and i swear—this tested my vocabulary 😭 and a little fact, I had this idea ages ago (probably same time as 'All Eyes on You') and came across this one again.
And since I haven't had Bambi's plot fully figured out yet, I thought y'all should have this one first 😩
I HOPE Y'ALL ENJOYED THIS ONE as much as I had fun writing this. 😳🧡
