#“its okay take a break take care of yourself” until i actually do | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

valeisaslut · 10 days ago

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⭒࿐COLLIDE - c. eight

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑.

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

�� synopsis: Ellie leaves before sunrise, and with her goes every trace of the night you thought might save you both. You try to keep moving, caught in the glittering machinery of your own tour, singing songs that taste like ash. But the cracks spread faster than you can hide them. And in a world that never cared if either of you survived it, this part of your story cuts to the question no one ever wants to face—what do you do when love isn’t enough? 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 17,6k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: heavy angst, detailed violence, intense arguments, explicit language, sensitive themes, references to cigarettes, alcohol, and drug use, everyone here desperately needs a hug, AFAB!Reader, modern AU setting, multi-part series. MEN AND MINORS DNI. Likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated — thank you for supporting! 𖥔 ݁ ˖

Disclaimer: This chapter contains depictions of heavy drug use, addiction, and withdrawal. These are serious and sensitive topics, and while I’ve done my best to approach them with care and respect, I want to prioritize your well-being above all.

If you are sensitive to these themes or if reading about them could be harmful to you in any way, I strongly encourage you to proceed with caution or consider skipping. Please take care of yourself first.

The room was still, steeped in the bleary, gray light of morning—the kind that barely made it past the heavy hotel curtains but managed to cast everything in a soft, ghostly hush.

Nothing moved, yet everything felt like it might break if touched.

It wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind of quiet that comes when something’s been shattered, and the pieces haven’t yet decided where to fall.

The night before clung to the air like thick smoke. It didn’t feel real, more like a fever dream, too sharp and painful to be fiction, and too surreal to trust. Your throat still ached from screaming. Your eyes burned with a kind of tiredness that sleep can’t fix.

And Ellie looked like a version of herself you’d never seen before.

Not healed. Not ruined. Just…stripped down to something rawer. Fragile.

She was crouched beside her suitcase on the floor, hair damp from the shower and darker where it clung to her temples. Around her was the slow, distracted chaos of packing—half-folded shirts, tangled cords, a hairbrush missing its cap, a pair of socks curled beside an open toiletries bag. Her movements were slow, almost mechanical, as if afraid she might shatter if she moved too fast.

As if her body was full of glass and one wrong bend would make her bleed.

You sat on the bed, curled into yourself, knees tucked beneath her oversized shirt. It still smelled faintly of her. Smoke, cologne, something darker threaded underneath. Once, it would’ve been comforting. Now, it clung to you with a sour edge, a bitter aftertaste you couldn’t shake, a reminder that even the things you loved most could break when you held them too tightly.

You hadn’t spoken more than two words since the alarm split the heavy silence wide open. Since reality cut through the fragile hush and reminded you both that her jet to London wasn’t going to wait. Not for grief. Not for guilt. And much less for the slow, aching work of healing that still hung, unfinished, between you.

You cleared your throat, forcing the words out.

"You have to eat real food," you said, voice steady even though your heart was racing. "Not just whatever crap’s on the rider. I want actual meals. Protein. Vegetables. Something warm at least once a day."

Ellie let out a short snort. Dry, empty. Lacking that heat it always had.

"Okay, mom."

You didn’t laugh. Didn’t even flinch. Just stared at her, letting the silence fill the room until it started to press against your ribs.

"I’m serious."

The air shifted. Tightened. Ellie turned her head just enough that you caught the flicker of her jaw tightening, the way she ground her teeth together like she wanted to say something cruel but bit it back.

"Jesus fucking christ. I said okay." she snapped, not loud, but sharp enough to sting.

You didn’t back down. You leaned forward, voice cutting through the stale air.

"I'm doing this because I love you. Because I'm fucking terrified every second you’re not next to me. Because you’ve lost weight and you can’t sleep unless you’re high and you think I don’t notice, but I do."

She froze. Like you’d hit something she couldn’t defend.

For a second, everything was still. Her chest rose, shallow and slow, and then sank again, like the effort of breathing itself had turned into a negotiation. Her fingers twitched, then tightened around the deodorant in her hand until her knuckles went white. You saw the tremor—the way she clenched to hide it, to pretend she was still in control.

You swallowed down the lump in your throat. Pushed forward because if you didn’t say it all now, you never would.

"And you have to call me," you added, quieter. "Every day. Even if it’s just for five minutes. Even if you’ve had the worst day of your fucking life. I don’t care. I don't care if it’s 4 a.m, or if you're half dead from soundcheck or if you’re strung out or if you hate yourself that day—"

You paused, just long enough to breathe around the shaking in your chest.

"You still have to call. I’ll always pick up."

Ellie finally looked at you.

Her eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red at the edges. And you noticed. She'd cried in the shower. She'd cried before, during it, and after. She looked exhausted. Of the world, of her life, but mostly of herself.

And somehow, seeing that hurt worse than anything she could ever say.

She swallowed hard, jaw flexing, and then her voice came—rough, raw, barely above a whisper.

"Every day?" she said. "Even if I sound like shit?"

"Especially then."

Ellie dragged a hand through her hair, the movement jerky, like she wanted to tear it out by the roots. She stared at the floor for a long moment, her whole body tense, like she was fighting something no one else could see.

And then, finally, she muttered,

"Okay. I will."

You nodded, heart hammering.

"I spoke to Jesse. Dina. Your manager. Your assistant. Everyone’s in the loop now. If something happens��if you start slipping–they’ll tell me. You’re not alone in this, Ellie."

She crouched by her suitcase again, reaching for a boot with a hand that wasn’t quite steady. She turned it over in her palm, staring at the worn sole like it might somehow offer her a way out of this conversation. When she spoke, her voice was low and bitter again.

"So what, y’all made a fuckin' watchlist for me?"

Your heart twisted. "No. We made a net."

She shook her head, a sharp, disbelieving movement. "Feels the same."

"I’m not saying it because I think you’re a problem. I’m saying it because if you fall, I want someone there to catch you. And I need you to understand that. I need you to understand how I feel too."

She shoved the boot into the suitcase with a force that felt almost painful to watch. The thud of it loud in the stillness of the room.

And you saw it—the silent battle flickering behind her eyes. The part of her that wanted to thank you, to reach for you. And the part that wanted to slam the door, scream at you to stop looking at her like she was broken.

"You really think I can make it a month and a half?"

Her voice barely made it across the space between you, trembling and frayed at the edges, but still steady. Just like her.

You shifted forwards instinctively, closer now. Close enough to smell the faint citrus of her shampoo, the salt of dried sweat and something sharper still—something that clung to her like a second skin.

"I think you can make it one day," your voice sure, even if everything inside you trembled. "And then another. And another after that. That’s all I’m asking, Ellie. Just for you to try. Until the tour’s over and you can walk into rehab. Let someone help you. For real this time."

Ellie turned, slowly, until her eyes caught yours—and this time, she didn’t look away. Didn’t blink.

Didn’t hide.

"I’ve been doing this for years," she whispered, and it was a confession pulled from somewhere deep. "Touring high. Playing high. Recording shit I don’t even remember writing. That’s just how this works. It’s how I work."

"It’s how you survive," you corrected, your voice soft but unflinching. "But it doesn’t have to be the way you live."

She let out a breath—shaky, bitter. "I don’t even know who I am without it."

You leaned in closer to her, keeping your voice low and certain, because she needed certainty right now more than anything.

"Then we’ll figure it out. Together."

The words hovered in the air. Fragile. Brave. Naked.

Wordlessly, she shifted onto the bed beside you, the mattress not even making a sound beneath her light weight. Her thigh brushed yours—a ghost of a touch, but it anchored her there. Her hand found yours, and her fingers were freezing. She squeezed, like she was afraid you might pull away if she didn’t hold tight enough.

"...But what if I fuck it up again?" she asked, voice cracking.

You didn’t hesitate.

"Then you try again. And again. And again. Until you don’t."

She looked at you like the world had narrowed down to just this.

You could see it written all over her: the battle between the version of herself that believed she would never be enough and the tiny, desperate part that wanted—just this once—to be wrong about that.

And then, finally, she nodded. Once. And then again.

Her whole body moved with it, like she was learning how to believe it. How to believe you.

You reached up, took her face in your hands with the gentlest touch you could manage, thumbs brushing the sharp lines of her cheekbones. You leaned in until your foreheads touched. Careful. Careful. Like you were stepping towards a wounded animal.

"Promise me." you whispered, so quietly it was barely a sound. It was a prayer.

Ellie’s lips parted. You felt her breath catch against your skin. Her eyes shone, but she didn’t cry. She just breathed out, tremulous and trembling and real.

"I promise."

But even as she said it, you could hear it—the doubt coiled inside her voice, the quiet fear that even her best effort wouldn’t be enough to keep her from slipping.

Because she didn’t fully believe it. She was terrified she wouldn’t be able to keep it. But she wanted to. She desperately wanted to.

And for this fragile, this bleeding, desperate, exhausted morning.

You both thought that was enough.

The car ride to the tarmac felt both impossibly fast and excruciatingly slow at the same time—like the universe couldn’t make up its mind whether it wanted to prolong the moment or rip it from your hands.

Outside, the sky was a washed-out slate, the kind that promised rain but never delivered—just hung there heavy, unrelenting. As if It knew the ache in your chest and decided to match it.

Neither of you spoke much. Ellie sat beside you, hood up, fingers fiddling with the drawstrings of her sweatshirt. Every few seconds, your knees would brush, and each time it felt like the last thread tethering you to the night you’d just lived through.

The moment the SUV rolled to a stop beside the stairs of the jet, the weight of everything between you two finally caught up.

The world outside the windows blurred into a smear of flashing lights and eager, desperate voices. The sharp, mechanical clicking of cameras fractured the air, each snap a demand, a hunger that thickened until it was hard to breathe. The very atmosphere vibrated with it—the unspoken, clawing need of the public.

They had to devour her. Strip her down to an image, a headline, a possession they could pass around.

They couldn’t stand that she was still yours.

And now they would take her. Pry her from your hands until nothing was left but a story you wouldn’t recognize.

Ellie tensed beside you, her whole body coiling with something barely contained, barely holding itself together.

But then, in the same way she had done a thousand times before, she reached up and pulled the hood down low over her face, concealing herself just enough to give her some relief, even if it was just for a few seconds. But it didn’t stop the tremor in her hands as she pulled on her sunglasses, the lenses opaque enough to hide her eyes but not enough to hide the exhaustion in her bones.

It always amazed you—wrecked you, really—how quickly she could shift. How fast she could pull the armor back on.

One breath, she was yours. The one you knew, who rambled about her interests and kissed the hollow of your throat like it was sacred. The one who laughed so hard she cried, who pressed lyrics into your skin at four in the morning, who loved you so deeply it left fingerprints on your soul.

And in the next breath, she was Ellie Williams.

The untouchable. The myth. The most famous rockstar in the world.

The fire the world couldn't help but chase.

The version of her they all thought they knew—the one they could consume, distort, devour—and never once come close enough to touch.

The door cracked open, and the world outside poured in: flashing, ravenous, deafening. The roar of the cameras flooded the car, a tidal wave of need and greed and hunger that rattled the windows, the floor, the breath in your lungs. She just sat there, frozen, the silence between you tightening until it strangled. Like if she stayed still enough, maybe she wouldn't have to go. Maybe she wouldn't have to leave you.

But when she finally reached for the door, her fingers betrayed her again—trembling, small, broken.

“No, no—wait,” you whispered, the words slipping out without thinking, your hand darting forward, closing around her wrist.

Ellie turned. Through the hood pulled low, through the sunglasses that hid everything from everyone else but never from you—you saw it. The naked devastation swimming just beneath the surface of her mask when she caught your expression.

The shattered pleading of two people who didn't know how to let go without being destroyed.

You reached for your own sunglasses, shielding your eyes not from the flash, but from the truth of it—that no matter how tightly you held her wrist, you couldn't stop this from happening.

You couldn't save her from this life.

You couldn't even save yourself from this life.

Without a word, you climbed out of the car with her. It wasn’t a plan. It wasn’t a decision. It was instinct—the desperate ache to stay close, to pretend you could still protect her, somehow.

You walked beside her, step for step.

The distance between you wasn’t measured in inches. It was measured in all the things you couldn’t say. In the way she moved—slow, heavy—dragging the invisible weight that had been building for years.

Not just her fame. Not just her addiction. But the burden of being wanted by everyone but truly known by no one. And somehow, even now, even with you by her side, she still carried it alone.

Even with your hand brushing hers, even with your heart breaking open for her with every breath, she keeps carrying it alone.

At the foot of the stairs, Ellie paused.

You stepped closer, drawn to her like gravity itself had shifted. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin, the frayed edges of her panic, the battle waging in her chest. She leaned her forehead against yours, her breath brushing over your lips, shallow.

And for a single breath, a single heartbeat, the rest of the world melted away—the flashbulbs, the shouts, the crushing weight of expectation.

There was only her. Only you.

"...I don't know how to be away from you right now."

She said, barely audible over the wind slicing through the tarmac. Her voice trembled between you both, suspended in the frozen air.

You closed your eyes, feeling it all—her fear, her need, her love—so big it barely fit inside her anymore. Your hands rose, cupping her face gently, your thumbs brushing the corners of her lips.

"Then don't be," you whispered, your words falling between you like a vow. "Call me. Text me. Think about me so much it hurts. I'll feel it. I’ll do the same. I swear."

She let out a shaky sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, but wasn’t quite a sob. Something caught halfway in her throat.

"You always know what to say..." she murmured, her hands fisting the hem of your shirt, pulling you closer.

You shook your head, your forehead still pressed to hers.

"It's not about knowing," you whispered back. "It's because it's true. Every word."

Her fingers trembled where they gripped you. She sucked in a ragged breath like she was swallowing something too big to say, then finally choked it out.

"It scares the shit out of me," she admitted, voice cracking down the middle. "How much I love you."

Your chest seized. The words hit you in the softest, most breakable part of yourself, the part only she had ever touched.

"Good," you said, voice barely holding. "Then we’re even."

She kissed you then—hard, uncoordinated, desperate. There was no neatness to it, no sweet slow burn. It was a kiss that bruised, that begged, that tried to brand the memory of your mouth into hers.

She kissed you like she was trying to build a shelter out of you. Somewhere she could crawl into when the world outside turned too brutal to survive.

You kissed her back with everything you didn’t have words for. The panic. The ache. The bottomless, helpless love.

You tasted salt between your teeth and didn't know if it was her tears or yours.

When she finally pulled away, her breath hitched in shallow gasps. You could feel the shudder racing through her body, all the way down to her fingertips still twisted in your shirt.

"I love you," she whispered again, so quietly it almost didn’t make it past her lips. "God, I love you. I didn’t even know it was possible to love someone like this."

You pressed your palms flat against her chest, right over her pounding heart, willing her to feel it—I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. You're not alone.

"I love you too," you said, voice breaking wide open. "More than I know how to survive."

There was nothing else to say. No words could bridge the space that was about to open between you. No promises could stitch up the future fast enough.

So you didn’t say anything else. You just stood there, forehead to forehead, breathing the same shaky air, feeling her heart hammering against her ribs like it was trying to break out. Like it knew exactly where it belonged. In your hands.

Then she kissed you again—softer this time, sadder—and stepped back with a kind of reluctance you could feel in your flesh.

And you let her go because you had to.

But it didn't feel brave. It didn’t feel right.

She climbed the stairs, and with every step, it felt like she was taking a piece of you with her. At the top, she paused, just long enough to pull down her sunglasses. Just long enough for you to see her eyes, glassy and red, lashes clumped with tears she hadn’t wiped away. And in that one fleeting, aching look, she said everything. I’m sorry. Please wait for me. I love you.

And as it happened, an intrusive, cruel thought reminded you of the flashing lights from the paparazzi cameras still pulsating, snapping like the breath of a beast that had just caught it's perfect prey.

"The Most Famous Couple Of Music’s Sad Goodbye: Y/N and Ellie Williams Part After Madison Square Garden Triumph"

"Ellie Williams and Y/N: Love, Success, and One Last Kiss Before Parting Ways"

"From the Stage to the Skies: Y/N and Ellie’s Madison Square Garden Love Story Ends With a Goodbye"

"Pop’s and Rock’s Royalty Say Goodbye After a Night That Defined a Generation"

"One Last Kiss: Ellie Williams and Y/N's Break the Internet"

They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. They saw what they wanted to see—Ellie, the biggest rockstar on the planet, saying goodbye after making a surprise appearance at your sold-out concert, her presence at the top of your game fueling their fantasies of the perfect, untouchable love.

And as Ellie disappeared into the plane, as the door shut behind her and the frenzy around you raged on, you were left standing in the void—the chaos of the world still swirling around you, and you, too exhausted to even run from it.

Interviews blurred into interviews. Red carpets bled into flashing lights. And through it all, you both played your roles to perfection. The perfect couple. The fairytale. The love story that the world clung to with white-knuckled hands.

Smiling for cameras, brushing hands in the hallways, whispering promises into microphones meant for millions. She'd call you her muse. You'd call her the love of your life. And the headlines would lap it up—devoted, inseparable, the greatest love story in the music industry.

But the thing was—it was real. The love was real. Fierce, burning, gut-wrenching real.

Not curated for headlines. Not staged for camera flashes or chart positions. Not fake. Not anymore. It stopped being fake a long, long time ago, because somewhere along the way it became the only real thing you had left.

You loved her in a way that hollowed you out, made room for nothing else. She loved you in a way that made her think that, maybe, she could survive herself.

But love wasn't the whole story. And that was your curse.

There were still people behind the names. People who bled, people who broke, people who crumbled under the weight of everything they were supposed to be.

You sat on talk show couches and laughed when you were supposed to laugh, batted your eyelashes when you were supposed to blush. You said all the right things. You wore all the right outfits. You played the part so well that sometimes, for a moment, you almost believed it too—that if you smiled hard enough, no one would see the fractures spider webbing underneath.

Ellie squeezed your waist in photos, tugged you closer for the cameras. Not because she didn’t love you. Because she needed to remind herself you were still there. That there was still something solid in a world that spun faster than she could hold on to.

You kissed under spotlights. You whispered I love you at afterparties with whiskey on your breaths. You collapsed into hotel beds at four a.m., so tangled up in each other you couldn’t tell where she ended and you began.

But beneath the sequins and the designer suits and the perfectly lit portraits, the truth still breathed.

You were bone-tired. She was frayed at the edges.

You were both still human.

Aching, breaking, pieced together by hope and tape humans.

Far too human for the versions of yourselves they kept trying to capture through a camera lens.

They wanted the myth, the storybook ending. But what stood there, clinging to each other beneath a gray, unraveling sky, wasn't perfect.

It was just two humans clinging to something fragile, and praying the world wouldn’t crush it before it had the chance to heal.

The world would never see—maybe never wanted to—the cracks running beneath perfection.

They would never understand the way it hurt to live like this: a life built for spectacle, a love carrying more weight than either of you knew how to hold.

They would never catch a glimpse how it hollowed you out, loving each other in a way that was everything and nothing at once.

And you both knew it. Knew it even as you smiled for the next flash, even as you leaned closer, pretending—for just a little longer—that love alone could save you.

The crowd thinned. The cameras turned away.

But you didn’t move. Couldn’t. The wind tugged at your clothes, at your hair, trying to remind you that the world was still spinning, that time hadn’t stopped just because she’d left.

But for you, it had.

Because that goodbye hadn’t felt like just a goodbye. It felt like a cliff edge.

A moment suspended between who Ellie was now, and who she might become if the fall swallowed her whole.

Your phone buzzed in your back pocket.

You almost didn’t check it. You weren’t sure you could take it. But your hand moved anyway—blind, desperate—fumbling until the screen lit up.

Ells <3

i keep staring at the door like you’re about to walk through it

i don’t know how to do this without you

but i’m gonna try

i swear to god i’m gonna try

i love you. i love you. i love you.

please say it back

im scared im gonna forget what it feels like

Your hands trembled so badly you nearly dropped the phone.

You typed blindly, your breath catching, the world narrowing down to the glow of the screen and the ache inside your chest.

You:

i love you. i love you. i love you.

i don’t think ive ever loved anything the way i love you ellie

please don’t disappear on me

please come back to me sober

im begging you

please

try

and if cant do it for yourself, do it for me

for us

You hit send, every time feeling like tearing open a new wound.

The pause after was unbearable. Long enough you thought she might not answer. But then,

i swear i will

and i’m always gonna find my way back to you

always.

You didn’t cry. Not again. Not there. Not with the handlers and the cameras still prowling at the edge of the runway. Not with the world still watching.

But your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You stared up at the sky long after the jet had disappeared into the clouds, willing yourself to believe in something you couldn’t see, something you could only beg for.

Please be okay.

Please make it to the end of the tour.

Please keep your promise.

Please at least try to be sober.

Please come back to me.

Please.

Don’t break my heart.

For an entire month, the tour kept moving, but you didn’t.

City after city unfolded outside tinted windows, skyscrapers dissolving into farmland, farmland swallowed by freeways. You watched it all pass by in a haze of exhaustion so complete it felt cellular. Most of the time, you weren’t even sure if you were awake or dreaming. The applause each night rang through your skull like a memory you couldn’t place.

People screamed your name, held up glittering signs and screamed along to every word, but it was as though you were watching it all from underwater—muted, slow, unreal. Drowned.

You performed anyway. You always did. You had to.

But that tightness in your throat never left, a dull burn just beneath your voice, a phantom hand closing around your windpipe. It made every breath feel borrowed.

The crew never asked if you were okay. They praised your stamina, your professionalism. You looked flawless in photos. You hit every mark. You sold out every venue. But deep down, they knew the truth.

You were surviving, not living. Your body moved through life on autopilot, while your heart existed elsewhere entirely.

You barely even spoke anymore. Just to Rachel, when something needed handling. Just in your weekly family call, your mom saying she misses you in that voice that made you feel twelve again, your dad asking if you were sleeping because you looked even more worn down than last week. Just to say you were fine. Promising to send them something nice and way too expensive, like money could patch over the void. The rest was just interviews—fake smiles, rehearsed lines, saying just enough to keep the silence from swallowing you whole.

There was one interview—a glossy magazine spread, cameras flashing, stylist fussing with the sharp line of your dress—when the subject of Ellie came up.

“She’s on tour,” you said, and your voice came out thin, barely audible. “We’ve both been kind of… everywhere.”

The interviewer smiled, leaned forward like she knew the shape of your silence.

“I have to ask,” she said, tilting her head. “That photo—on the tarmac. Right before her jet took off. You two looked… intense.”

“Oh,” you said, then paused. The lights were too hot. Your dress itched. There was still eyelash glue clinging to the corner of your eye. “That moment…”

The words caught, then fell.

You saw it again, that second stretched into forever—the kiss she left on your lips like a bruise. The way she held your face and whispered I love you like a prayer, like something she hadn’t said out loud until that exact moment.

And the way you said it back. Like it was the only thing anchoring you to the world.

You looked back at the interviewer and smiled, soft and practiced.

“It was a hard goodbye. That’s all.”

She seemed satisfied. Moved on.

But your throat burned.

Because if you spoke even a word more, your vocal cords would give out. And who were you without your voice?

Just a ghost in sequins. A glittering silhouette. A thing built to be looked at, not heard.

Nobody.

And later, in the backseat of the car, you pressed your fingers to your lips and tried to remember exactly how she’d kissed you—afraid you were already starting to forget.

The exhaustion was a weight that pressed down on your bones, dragging you further and further into the ground, until it felt like you were standing on the edge of something far deeper than just a tour.

You were tired of being watched, criticized, picked apart like a product on display. Tired of the constant measuring—of never quite being enough or being too much.

And most of all, you were tired of looking in the mirror and not recognizing the person staring back.

Because not recognizing yourself is even worse than hating what you see.

It felt like all of it was on your shoulders—the pressure, the expectations, the unspoken demands. Like you were holding up something that was never meant to be this heavy. And doing it all in silence, with no one to lean on since you were a teenager.

The weight of being seen, always. Of loving someone who couldn’t stay near without the world sinking its teeth into her. Of carrying an image sculpted by strangers who never cared what it costs to keep the show going on.

You were the brightest star in the sky.

But even stars burn out. Especially the ones that shine too hard for too long.

Stil, she called every night.

No matter where you were—Milan, Toronto, Denver—there she was. Sitting on a bus bench with her hair tucked under a hoodie, or lying sideways on a hotel bed with her guitar resting against her ribs. Sometimes the signal cut out. Sometimes the lighting was too dark to see more than the outline of her face.

But she always called. And you always picked up.

She looked different lately. Not worse. Not better. Different. Tired in a way that didn’t show up under stage lights but crept in when her shoulders slouched between words, or when she forgot to smile after a joke. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

But in the beginning, the calls helped. You’d stumble into your dressing room after a show, breathless and dripping glitter, and there she’d be, propped up on the screen of your phone. Her voice would hit you like cold water—bracing and alive.

“Still the hottest person alive, even with mascara halfway to your collarbone,” she’d say, grinning.

And you’d laugh so hard you’d forget how much your body hurt.

But slowly, things changed. The calls became routine. Still necessary, but heavier. Less playful. Like something you owed each other. Like checking in for duty.

You found yourself asking the same questions every night: Did you eat today? How much sleep did you get? Was the crowd good? Are you still taking the magnesium stuff I gave you?

And even though Ellie always answered—sometimes with an eye-roll, sometimes with a sarcastic “Yes, Mom,”—you could feel the mood dimming. The bright, beautiful intimacy you’d built together was still there, but thinner now. Like the connection was stretched too tight over distance and fatigue and things neither of you wanted to say out loud.

She tried, though. God, she tried.

She always wanted to make you laugh. To keep things light. But even when you laughed, it felt off. Like you were both acting out a memory of how things used to be, hoping muscle memory would carry the rest.

And every night, when the call connected, you swore her face lit up a little slower.

You didn’t take it personally. You told yourself she was tired. Touring was brutal. You knew that better than anyone.

And tonight, you picked up on the first ring.

Your stage costume was still clinging to you like a second skin—sweat sticky under the sequins, eyeliner flaking at your temples, boots kicked off somewhere you wouldn’t remember until morning. You collapsed onto the couch in your dressing room, legs stretched out, hair wild, pulse jittery from the encore. You didn’t even had time to say hi before Ellie’s face filled the screen.

She was sprawled on her stomach, half off the hotel bed like she’d melted there, legs dangling like a bored teenager. A beat-up guitar rested across her back, threatening to slip off with every lazy breath. A cigarette clung to her bottom lip, the ember glowing as she exhaled a slow, spiraling stream of smoke that drifted up past her lashes. She had more than enough money to ignore the no-smoking fee taped to the nightstand—and the hotel knew better than to argue. Her shirt was wrinkled, probably from the floor, and the boxer briefs she had on? Definitely Jesse’s.

“Hey there, love,” she said immediately, voice low and hoarse from too many cigarettes or too little sleep. “You look like a disco ball that got mugged outside a rave.”

You snorted, dragging a hand through your tangled hair. “That’s rich coming from someone who looks like a raccoon that learned how to play guitar.”

Ellie smirked around the cigarette. “Yeah, but like…a hot raccoon.”

“Debatable.”

She grinned wider. It didn’t quite reach her eyes. But it tried to.

You tilted your head, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling.

“Are you smoking more?”

Ellie hesitated, just for a beat. “…Well, yes, but not thaaat much.”

You raised an eyebrow.

She exhaled slowly and turned her face toward the camera, taking the cigarette out with two fingers. “I got a pack, 'cause, ya’ know. Tour stress.”

“Mmhmm.”

She gave you that look—brows raised, that said drop it—and you did. For now.

“Where even are you guys?” you asked, reaching blindly for a makeup wipe and dragging it across your cheekbone.

“Phoenix. Technically. We had to pull over somewhere near a cactus farm last night because the bus smelled like melting plastic.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait, what? What the hell happened?”

“Jesse thinks it was Dina’s straightener. Dina says Jesse farted. I personally think it’s both.”

You wiped the last of your makeup off and leaned back against the couch, balancing your phone on your chest. “Are they with you?”

Ellie shifted on the bed. Looked away from you.

“...They got their own rooms tonight.”

“What? Again?” you asked, frowning.

“Said they just needed a little space. Being around each other every day gets… exhausting, I guess.”

You nodded slowly, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah. I get that.”

There was a pause. You could hear Ellie exhale, the sound scratchy through the phone mic.

“I really miss you,” she said, voice stripped of all the usual sarcasm.

You closed your eyes, the ache settling in behind your ribs. “I miss you too. So much.”

“I think about you all day," she flipped onto her back, the guitar now resting on her stomach, and tapped the ash from her cigarette into an empty coffee cup. "Wanna hear what I was working on?”

“Obviously.”

Ellie didn’t even glance at you. Just gave a small, tired smile, and started to play.

It was nothing showy—no solo, no bravado. Just a simple, slow melody that felt like the end of something. You recognized a few chords from something she’d hummed under her breath months ago, but this version had changed. It was moodier now. Melancholy. Like it was trying to tell you something it couldn’t say out loud.

You watched her carefully. She wasn’t performing. Not this time. Her brow furrowed just a little, her fingers moved almost absentmindedly, like they were remembering the shape of something that used to mean more. The shape of something lost.

When she finished, she didn’t say anything. Just let her hand rest on the frets and stared up at the ceiling, breathing through her nose.

You didn’t want to ruin the silence.

But still you asked, “…Does it have a name?”

“Yeah,” she said after a moment. “Through the Valley.”

You nodded slowly, though something tightened in your chest.

“Are you... okay?” you asked softly. “You’re kinda quiet.”

There was a pause. You could almost hear her jaw clench. She hated being read that easily.

“I’m just tired,” she said, but it came with a grimace, like it hurt to admit. “Don’t worry about it, babe.”

You didn’t push, but the silence lingered—long enough to feel heavy.

Then, as she brought the cigarette back to her lips, you noticed it—the smallest tremor. Her fingers, just barely. Holding it too tightly. Like she was trying to will them into stillness.

You narrowed your eyes. “Hey… what’s up with your hand?”

Ellie froze for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to notice.

Then, reluctantly, she lifted her hand and held it up to the camera. “Nothing. Just a little shake. No big deal.”

You leaned forward. It was subtle, but there. A twitch.

“How long’s it been like that?”

She dropped her hand fast. “Not long. It’s—whatever. Stress.”

You didn’t say anything. Just waited.

She sighed and rubbed a hand over her face, crushing out the cigarette. “It’s just been a weird couple days. Shit schedule. No food. No rest.”

You tilted your head. “Did you actually eat today?"

“Yeah,” she said, too casually. “A burger. And Jesse’s superfood sludge smoothie. He's in his gut health era. Again.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of smoothie?”

“Kale. Banana. Depression. Maybe grass clippings. Can’t confirm.”

You gave a tired laugh, sinking deeper into the couch. “That sounds fucking disgusting.”

“It was. I drank half and poured the rest into a succulent. Pretty sure it’s dead now.”

You smiled, but your chest still felt tight.

She was curled into herself, elbows tucked in too close, shoulders hunched like they didn’t know how to relax.

Her fingers kept fidgeting even after the guitar was set aside. Restless. Anxious. She wasn’t telling you everything. But she was trying.

She always tried.

Ellie yawned then, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand like a kid. She was so cute when she wasn’t trying to look hot in front of you—though, to be fair, even her exhausted gremlin mode was unfairly attractive.

“Let's stop talking about me” she murmured, voice gone quieter, “Are you okay?”

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just post-show crash. You know how it is.”

She hummed, but didn’t look away from you.

“You sure?” she asked. “You look kinda… I dunno. Tired. Haunted. Like someone insulted your shoes and you haven’t recovered.”

You gave a breathy laugh, trying to lighten it. “My shoes were perfect, thank you very much.”

“I didn’t say they weren’t. I said someone insulted them. Big difference.”

You smiled, but didn’t meet her gaze.

Then she added, softer now, “You can tell me if it’s something else.”

It’s you. I’m scared for you. You haven’t eaten. Your hands are shaking. You won’t talk to me and I’m a thousand miles away. I'm trying my best but it's not enough. I don’t know how to help you. I don’t even know how to help myself.

“It’s nothing, love. I’m okay. I swear.”

Ellie didn’t buy it. You could see it in the way her jaw shifted, how she picked at the fraying hem of her boxers like she needed something to do with her hands.

She looked back up, eyes narrowing just a little. “Are you eating?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Like… properly. Not just a granola bar and a prayer. Real food.”

“Yeah. I mean—I had, like, toast today. And some gummy bears.”

Ellie gave you a look. “Babe. That’s not food.”

“It was all I could stomach.”

There was a pause. Her voice dropped low, serious. “You gotta take care of yourself, alright? Stop worrying about me so much and focus on you.”

You stared at her. “I could say the same to you.”

She sighed, tugged her knees up and rested her chin on them, like a kid folding in on herself. “Yeah. I know.”

You both sat there in silence for a second, just watching each other—tired eyes, cracked voices, too much distance.

Neither of you said what you were really thinking.

But the silence didn’t feel empty. It felt like a warning.

Then, suddenly, she looked up and down at you and smirked faintly.

“Your tits are, like, really distracting me right now, by the way.”

“Ellie.”

“I’m just saying,” she shrugged, “it’s very hard to be hot and mysterious when your boobs are doing that.”

You burst out laughing, covering your face. “Jesus Christ.”

She looked pleased with herself. “You’re the one who answered facetime in a skin-tight corset.”

“It’s my stage fit!”

“Uh-huh. Sure. For the stage. Not for the little FaceTime with your rockstar girlfriend.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt lighter for a second. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Only for you.”

But even as she smiled, it faltered at the edges. She didn’t move from her spot. Her body hadn’t changed positions the whole time you’d been talking.

You told her about your afterparty plans, about the confetti cannon that misfired during your ballad and nearly took out your backup singer. Ellie laughed—really laughed—and for one bright minute, everything felt normal again. Easy.

But when the call ended and the screen went dark, you didn’t move. You didn’t peel off the stage armor or wipe off the remnants of the night.

You just sat there—still in the clothes the world expected to see you in, the fabric sticking to your skin, heavy with sweat and spotlight. Heart full with the kind of ache that doesn't scream, just settles deep and wounds.

The night you first noticed her silence, you were backstage in Chicago, your team swirling around you with clipboards and curling irons and half-shouted cues. You thumbed your phone awake, expecting to see her name.

Nothing.

The pit started forming in your stomach then. Not fully, not yet. Just a dull throb beneath the surface, the kind you could ignore.

You sent a message anyway. A casual one. A lifeline disguised as a joke.

You: miss uuuu call me when you can <3

You set your phone down, face-first on the vanity, and pulled your shoulders back. Shoved the dread deep, deep down where it couldn’t reach you.

You smiled sweetly for the meet-and-greet, signing programs and taking pictures, blinking through the flashbulbs until the colors behind your eyelids blurred. You touched shoulders, signed shirts, squeezed strangers' hands until your own went numb.

You hit every note onstage. You spun through every move of the choreo, your body muscle-memorizing its way through the songs you used to love singing. You kept time perfectly, even when your mind wasn’t in the room anymore.

You bowed to a screaming stadium, lights painting your sweat-slick skin gold, and convinced yourself—for just one breath, one heartbeat—that this was still making you happy.

But when you stumbled offstage, heart still rattling from the lights and noise, the first thing you did was flip your phone over with trembling fingers.

Nothing.

You slept badly that night, if you could call it sleep at all. You kept waking up every hour, eyes gritty, fingers reaching for the phone before you could even register why your chest was so tight.

Still nothing.

Day two.

The worry cracked into something uglier. You woke up in another sterile and expensive hotel room, the sun slashing through the blackout curtains like knives, and stared at the blank lockscreen until your vision blurred.

No missed calls. No texts.

Nothing.

You told yourself she was tired. She needed rest. You told yourself you were being crazy, selfish, obsessive. But by lunchtime, you couldn’t pretend anymore.

You texted Jesse.

You: heyyy, everything okay? havent heard from ellie

No answer.

You texted Dina two hours later.

You: d please just tell me she’s okay

No answer.

Hours passed. Interviews blurred together, a carousel of questions you’d answered a hundred times before. Crew members moved around you like surgeons—tugging, pinning, painting, sculpting you into the version they needed you to be.

At one point, your stylist measured your waist and frowned, quietly murmuring to someone else that you’d lost weight. No one asked if you were eating. Just noted it and moved on.

You convinced yourself that maybe if you kept smiling hard enough, singing loud enough, moving fast enough, no one would notice how hollow you felt inside.

How everything that mattered was slipping away, and you had no hands left free to catch it.

By night, your chest felt caved in. You canceled soundcheck with some excuse about a sore throat.

You locked yourself in your hotel suite, blackout curtains pulled tight, the television a muted hum in the background as you sat cross-legged on the carpet, phone in your hand, heart battering against your ribs.

You called her. Straight to voicemail.

You called again.

Straight to voicemail.

You stared at the screen, willing it to change, willing something—anything—to happen that would tether you back to her.

You sat there until your legs went numb. Until your throat ached from swallowing back everything you couldn’t say.

Day three.

The pit inside you turned cavernous. You still performed. Of course you did.

The machine didn’t stop just because your heart was breaking.

You hit your marks. You posed for cameras. You answered questions about your "unwavering dedication to your fans" with a hollow smile stitched into your face. You waved to crowds who chanted your name like it could stitch the holes inside you shut.

But afterward, backstage, alone, you cracked open. You checked your phone before you even took your mic off. Still. Nothing.

You sent another message. And another.

i’m scared

please answer

i just need to know you’re okay

im not mad

please

No read receipt. No reply.

You stared at the blinking cursor in the empty chat box, and for the first time in a long time, you felt something unspool inside you so violently that you had to press the heels of your hands into your eyes just to breathe.

And then—At three a.m., with the city outside your window swallowing itself whole—you got three texts. From her.

i’m fine

stop blowing up everyone’s phone

i just needed space, sorry babe

love you

You stared. The words blurred on the screen. Blurred in your mind.

Fine. Space. Love you.

Nothing real. Nothing you could hold onto.

Not when it was typed out so mechanically, so cold, the way someone apologizes for forgetting a dinner reservation, not for abandoning the only person who would have died before letting them go.

You pressed the phone against your chest like that would make it better. Like you could will her voice through the glass, back into your ears, back into your bloodstream where it belonged.

You typed a response. Erased it. Typed again. Erased it.

There were no words strong enough. There was no way to say I’m unraveling without you without sounding pathetic. No way to say I’m terrified the next time you need space, you won’t come back.

You didn’t sleep that night either. You just laid there, arms wrapped around your own body, breathing through the ache.

Day four.

You made it through rehearsal by pure muscle memory. You smiled through another radio interview, blinking dumbly while they asked about your "exciting upcoming projects" and "the inspiration behind your latest chart-topper."

You thought about telling them the truth. That the only thing you were writing about lately was grief. That your new songs tasted like blood and static. That every word you sang onstage felt like a lie you couldn't stop telling.

Instead, you laughed prettily and said something about growth. About love. About strength.

Afterwards, you stumbled into a dressing room, locked the door, and texted her manager. You didn't care about pride anymore. You didn't care about looking desperate. You just needed to know.

please just tell me if she’s okay

that’s all I need

please

The reply came quicker than you expected. Sharp. Impersonal.

she’s fine

You stared at it, rereading it a dozen times, hoping more words would appear. Some context. Some proof. Some small sign that "fine" meant anything close to the truth.

But the truth was, you knew better. You knew "fine" was the lie people told when the truth was too messy, too raw, too ugly to name.

You slid down the dressing room wall, knees folding tight to your chest, forehead pressed into your arms to muffle the broken sound clawing up your throat.

You didn’t cry for the cameras. You didn’t cry for your friends or family. You didn’t cry onstage or backstage or on the thousand fucking magazine covers that said you had it all.

But you cried now. For her. For yourself.

You whispered her name like a prayer into the silence until your voice went hoarse.

But names don't build bridges when someone's already halfway gone.

And prayers don’t reach the people who don't want to hear them.

You stayed there long after your team started knocking. Long after the show director started panicking about your late call time. Long after you stopped believing that love alone could save her.

Rachel found you then, her face pale, phone gripped so tight in her hand you thought the screen might crack. She didn’t say anything at first. Just held the phone out, thumb hovering above the play button.

You were too tired to ask questions. Too tired to brace yourself. You nodded once, a small, jerky thing, and took the phone from her.

The video was grainy, shot from somewhere in the pit at The Fireflies show in Boston the night before. For a moment, all you could see were flashing lights, a blur of stage smoke and screaming fans. Normal. Expected. Your chest ached with relief, for a heartbeat.

And then you saw her.

Ellie stumbled into frame, guitar slung low across her body. Her hair hung limp against her face, matted with sweat. Her skin looked wrong under the stage lights—too pale, too waxy, like all the color had been drained out of her.

She played, but it wasn’t playing the way you remembered. Her fingers moved stiffly, almost mechanically, dragging across the strings like they didn’t belong to her anymore. Her posture sagged, shoulders hunched like she was bearing some invisible, impossible weight. She looked smaller. Diminished.

There was a part of you that kept waiting—for the grin, the snarled joke into the mic, the way she usually teased Jesse mid-song, the way she would throw her head back and laugh with Dina when she missed a chord.

But there was none of that.

Jesse and Dina played almost six feet away from her, eyes trained on their instruments, movements sharp and isolated. They might as well have been in separate bands. There was no chemistry. No laughter. No pulse. No Fireflies.

You realized, with a sick drop of your stomach, that she was high. Not the buzzing, messy high she could hide behinf magic. This was worse. This was a body on autopilot, a body betrayed by whatever she’d taken just to survive the night.

The video blurred a little as the person recording jostled in the crowd. It caught one last, awful image: Ellie leaning against her mic stand, blinking into the lights like she couldn’t remember where she was.

And then it cut off.

You stared down at the black screen, your chest hollowing out, slow and deep and cruel. You felt it rip something from you, clean through, like peeling skin from muscle. Confirmation.

Rachel sat beside you silently, her hand resting on your shoulder in a useless attempt to steady you.

At first, you laughed.

Not because it was funny. God, no.

Because it was too much.

Because if you didn’t laugh, you were going to start screaming, and you didn’t know if you would ever stop.

Rachel watched you carefully, her body coiled, ready to catch you.

You rubbed at your face with your hand, laughing a thin, broken sound that didn’t even sound human. It punched straight from your ribs, helpless and mean.

"Jesus christ," you whispered. "Jesus fucking christ."

The sound of your own voice startled you. You hadn’t really spoken in days. Not about anything that mattered. Only smiled for cameras. Only nodded for interviews. Only sang until your throat dulled.

She didn't say anything. She just waited, as if afraid she might set you off by breathing wrong.

The truth of it—sharp and raw and final—was burning itself into your brain now. You couldn’t lie to yourself anymore.

You'd seen it with your own eyes. The way her body sagged onstage. The way her hands shook. The way Jesse and Dina didn’t even look at her, like they were too afraid to touch the wire she’d become, crackling and burning and ready to snap.

You dropped the phone and let your head fall into your hands, nails digging into your scalp hard enough to hurt.

"I can’t do this," you said, "I can't fucking do this anymore."

Rachel moved slowly, her hand tentative on your back, between your shoulder blades.

"You don’t have to," she said. Her voice was sturdy, a rope thrown across a canyon. "You can go."

You lifted your head, blinking through the tears stinging your eyes. "Go where?"

"To her," she said simply. "Take the jet. Leave tonight. I'll take care of the rest."

For one second, you almost said no. Almost said you couldn’t, that you had responsibilities, that there was a whole empire resting on your exhausted shoulders.

But something inside you—something feral and desperate and so deeply human it terrified you—snarled back.

Fuck the empire.

Fuck the perfect career.

Fuck the shiny love story the world wanted to believe in.

She needed you.

You stood up so fast your vision blurred, your whole body vibrating with adrenaline and terror.

"I need to fucking see her."

Rachel nodded, already pulling her phone out, already murmuring instructions to your security team, already moving faster than your grief could catch up to you.

She wasn’t surprised. She knew you.

Knew that you were the kind of person who would burn down the world for the people you loved.

You shoved a few things into a duffel bag without thinking, your hands shaking too hard to fold anything properly. Your stage makeup was still half-smeared down your face, your hair was still sticky with sweat, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t breathe until you saw her. You couldn’t live inside your own body for another second if you didn’t put your hands on her and make sure she was still real.

The car ride to the private airport was a blur. The city lights slashed past the windows in violent streaks. You sat stiff and silent in the backseat, your hands clasped so tightly in your lap that your knuckles ached. Rachel didn’t try to talk to you. She just sat beside you, solid and quiet, like a lighthouse.

When you boarded the jet, you barely noticed the luxury. You barely noticed anything. You pressed your forehead to the glass as the plane sliced into the sky, your breath fogging the window, your pulse hammering out a prayer that didn’t have words anymore.

Please don’t be too late.

Rachel hadn’t come with you. She'd offered, said she’d fly with you, sit with you, hold your hand if you needed it. But you’d said no.

This wasn’t something anyone could shield you from.

You stared out at the dark, endless stretch of stars, and for the first time since this all began, you realized something brutal.

This wasn’t about saving her anymore. It was about saying goodbye, if you had to. It was about being brave enough to find her wherever she was—whole, broken, or somewhere in between—and tell her, You can still come home.

Even if she didn’t know how to make her way back.

Because some promises are bigger than heartbreak. Some promises are bigger than pride. And loving her had never been about winning.

It had always been about staying.

You arrived at the venue just past midnight, drowning in a hoodie three sizes too big, sunglasses cutting sharp lines across your face despite the darkness.

The staff entrance was a mess—roadies dragging tangled cables across the concrete, stagehands shouting over radios, exhausted techs hunched over broken light boards. The heavy buzz of electricity and urgency pressed against your skin, but you barely noticed. You pulled your hood tighter, shoved your fists into the pocket, and moved through the chaos like you were invisible.

When you reached the checkpoint, a security guard—mid-thirties, arms folded over his chest, exhaustion written across his face—stepped into your path.

"No access, kid," he said, glancing at your shoes, your hoodie, your hunched posture, and deciding you didn’t belong here.

Your hands shook as you pulled your sunglasses off, jaw tightening so hard it hurt. You tilted your face up toward the dim overhead light.

The moment recognition hit, the man nearly stumbled backwards. His face went pale.

"Oh my god—I'm so sorry miss—I didn’t—I mean, you can—shit," he stammered, tripping over his own words, fumbling for the keycard at his belt.

You just nodded, sharp and silent, stepping past him before he could finish apologizing.

You moved faster, heart a dull, painful thud in your ears. Then you turned the corner—and stopped dead.

Voices.

Shouting.

Not the roar of fans. Not the pounding rhythm of drums. Real, furious, broken shouting.

You didn’t think. You walked fast towards it, the sound growing louder with every desperate step.

You rounded the corner and almost slammed into her.

Erin. Ellie’s assistant.

She was standing stiffly near the entrance to the backstage hallway, arms crossed, foot tapping against the floor with a restless, angry force. Her head jerked up when she saw you.

"Where's Ellie?" you demanded, breathless.

Erin looked at you —really looked at you—for a second too long. Then her mouth curled into something sharp and tired, her eyes flashing with something you couldn't name.

"Wouldn’t you like to know,"

You blinked, the words not registering. "What?"

She shrugged, the motion too casual, too dismissive.

"It’s been a shitshow for weeks. You’re just late to the party."

You shook your head, as if that could undo the words, as if that could change the way your stomach was folding in on itself.

"What do you mean?" you rasped.

"I mean they can barely stay in the same room without screaming at each other. I mean this tour’s been falling apart at the seams, and no one wanted to tell you because, what, you’re supposed to be the golden girl? The only one she listens to?"

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Her voice softened, almost pitying now. "And it all started when you left."

Erin just shrugged again, as if she'd already said too much, and walked away.

You were barely breathing as you crept closer to the door. The voices had been muffled at first, just angry shapes of sound—Dina’s sharp, furious tone cutting through like glass.

But now you were close enough to hear everything.

Then it hit—an explosion of glass. Loud, sharp, violent enough to rattle the wall.

“You can’t even fucking STAND right now!” she screamed. “You’re fucking high again, Ellie! Again! You think we’re all so fucking blind?!”

Then came Ellie’s voice. A guttural shout that cracked on its way out of her throat.

“Fuck you, Dina! Fuck you for acting like you’re fucking better than me!”

And you froze.

Because that didn’t sound like her.

It didn’t sound like Ellie.

It wasn’t the gravelly warmth that used to whisper songs against your skin, the dry humor that used to curl through your late-night phone calls, the hushed tremble that told you she loved you like it was a secret too sacred for the world to hear.

No. This voice was slurred and wrecked and wild, shattering under its own weight. Like it had been hollowed out, then filled with something dark and volatile. Something you didn’t recognize.

"I don’t have to be better to see what a fucking mess you are!" Dina roared back, so loud it rattled inside your chest. "You’re gonna blow this show! Twenty thousand people out there and you can’t even fucking walk straight!"

“I didn’t ask for this!” Ellie roared, and you heard something crash again—glass, maybe, or that heavy ashtray she always insisted on bringing. Whatever it was, it shattered loud against the floor. “I didn’t fucking ask to be the poster girl, you stupid fucking cunt!”

“I write the songs, I sing, I play, I am the fucking show!” she shouted again. “There wouldn’t be a fucking Fireflies without me! I bled for this. I sold my fucking soul for this band! And now I’m just some face?”

“Yes, you're the face!” Dina snapped back, her voice shaking, not from fear but fury. “You get the fans. You get the press. You get the fucking spotlight, Ellie. Whether you want it or not!”

Then Jesse tried to cut through, voice cracking under the pressure. "Can we not do this right now? We have a fucking show in thirty minutes—"

"Shut the fuck up, Jesse!" Dina spat, her words hitting like open hands. "You don’t get to lecture anyone when you showed up to rehearsal smelling like a goddamn brewery!"

"I wasn’t partying, you fucking bitch!" Jesse barked back, fury snapping through the walls. "I was blowing off steam because this goddamn shitshow is a death sentence!"

“You were off getting shitfaced!” Dina shrieked, her voice splintering with rage. “While I was the one dragging Ellie off the fucking bathroom floor, you fucking useless dickhead!”

Another crash. A bottle against the wall, the sound of glass exploding. You didn’t know who threw it—Jesse, Dina, Ellie—it didn’t matter. You flinched so hard your chest seized up, like the sound had reached in and bruised you.

“I’m tired of being the only one who shows the fuck up!” Dina spat, breath ragged. “At least when I’m here, I’m present! Not floating through the fucking room with my brain fried from whatever the fuck she’s been snorting!”

For a second, everything went quiet. Then Ellie spoke. Low, shaking with something close to animal anger

“Say that again.”

Dina didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch. “You’re a fucking junkie, Ellie.”

“You’re a goddamn drug addict,” she continued, her words cutting like a blade, “and you’re dragging us down with you. And I’m done. I’m fucking done picking up the pieces while you light everything on fire and call it a day!”

Her voice cracked then—not with weakness, but with fury sharpened by heartbreak.

“We have been bending over backwards for you for years, Ellie. YEARS. And all we get is lies and fucking excuses. WE ARE ALL FUCKING EXHAUSTED!”

Ellie growled, deep in her throat.

"Fuck you, Dina! You think you’re a fucking saint? You think your hands are clean?!"

"We don’t use before shows!" she spat so hard you could hear her almost choking on it. "We have the decency to wait! We have respect for the people who came to see us!"

Ellie laughed—a horrible sound, bitter and broken. "Respect? The only thing getting me through your fucking whining is being high enough to forget it!"

“You think that’s a fucking excuse?” Jesse snapped, his voice low but razor sharp. “You think you’re the only one hurting?”

He wasn’t yelling like Dina had been. He didn’t have to. His voice was steady in that terrifying way people get when they’re trying not to fall apart.

“You think you’ve got the monopoly on pain just because you're the one with the spotlight and the mic in your hand?”

There was a pause. A charged, electric silence.

“Ever since she left,” he said—and his voice cracked, just once, like it caught on something sharp on the way out—

“You’ve been fucking lost, Ellie.”

It hit the room like a hammer.

You pressed harder into the door, tears burning behind your eyes.

"Don’t bring her into this."

"You just won't tell her the truth!" Dina shouted. "You can't even talk to her!"

"YOU THINK I DON'T FUCKING KNOW THAT?!" Ellie exploded, the words ragged and shredded.

“Then act like it! Do something! Get help. Go to fucking rehab. Stop making excuses to get clean!”

Dina screamed, her voice cracking under the weight of everything she’d been holding back.

“You said after the tour. You promised. And then you packed the whole goddamn calendar like you were planning your own fucking overdose!”

Behind the door, you lowered yourself slowly, pressing your forehead against it.

That was what Ellie had told you. You had cupped her face like something fragile in that hotel bathroom, like something you could save, and you’d believed her.

Those words had held the broken remains of hope inside of you.

And they were lies.

The sob slipped out before you could stop it—full of something breaking. You covered your mouth with your hand, knuckles pressed hard against your lips, trying to hold it all in.

Inside, Ellie’s voice dropped to a growl, “Why would I? What the fuck do I have left?!”

The air changed. Turned bitter. Charged. Like lightning about to strike. Like something holy unraveling.

And then Dina twisted the knife.

“If you won’t get help for yourself,” she said, voice like ice, “then do it for the people you’re fucking destroying.”

Inside, she stepped forward, eyes locked on Ellie like she couldn’t recognize who she was looking at anymore.

“If you won’t take the blame for us, or for everything we bled to build, or for the fact that you're dragging this band into the fucking ground—”

She paused. Just for a second. Then landed the blow.

“Then at least blame yourself for y/n.”

There was a crash—something metal, slammed to the ground so hard it echoed off the walls like a gunshot.

Then Ellie’s voice exploded through the room—furious, slurred, incoherent.

“Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up about her! Shut the fuck up about everything!”

“You can’t even say her name!” Jesse shouted, voice low and bitter. “You love her so much and you can’t even say her name!”

That’s when Ellie snapped.

“Fuck you!” she screamed, voice cracked wide open. “Fuck both of you! You want me sober? You want me clean? Maybe if I wasn’t stuck with two judgmental, self-righteous ungrateful assholes who clearly fucking hate me, I wouldn’t need to be high just to fucking breathe!”

“We don’t hate you,” he said, not even above a whisper, and you barely heard it. “We’re just tired of you.”

And that—somehow—was worse. Worse than all the shouting. Worse than the lies.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she hissed. “You don’t fucking know. You don’t know what it feels like to be me! You don’t know what it’s like to write a song that saves someone’s life and still not be able to save your own!"

And then, after a long, shaking breath, Dina spoke. Her voice wasn’t angry anymore. It was soft. Sad.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes, Ellie,” she said quietly. “Fifteen minutes to pull yourself together. Or we lose everything. All of it.”

A heavy silence settled like ash.

Then Jesse added, voice hoarse with something like grief.

“There are twenty thousand people out there.”

Another pause.

“And they’re all waiting for you.”

And on the other side of the door—your hands clutched to your mouth, your face soaked with tears—you couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

You were shaking so violently you didn’t know if you’d ever stop again.

When the door finally burst open, the metal hinges shrieked under the force of it.

You instinctively stepped back, half-hidden in the narrow shadow of the hallway, heart hammering against your ribs.

Jesse came out first. Head down, jaw clenched, one hand raking violently through his hair while the other gripped his drumsticks in a death-hold—so tight his knuckles had gone bone white. His chest was rising and falling fast, like he hadn’t taken a full breath in hours. His face looked harder than you remembered—older, somehow. Sharpened by exhaustion.

Behind him, Dina stormed through the door and slammed it shut, not even glancing up. Her eyes burned holes into the floor, her lips a tight line of fury. Every step she took echoed—uneven, angry, deliberate. She vanished around the corner without a word.

Jesse didn’t see you. Not at first. His momentum carried him fast, like he was still riding the tail end of some internal explosion.

And then—his shoulder slammed into yours. Hard.

You staggered back, catching yourself against the wall.

He froze instantly.

His head whipped toward you, and for a second, he just stared. Like his brain was struggling to piece together the moment—who you were, why you were there, what he'd just done, what you just heard.

You watched it all flicker across his face: the shock, the confusion, then the guilt. Thick. Immediate. Ugly.

“Shit…” he breathed, eyes darting like he didn’t know where to look. His hands twitched, hovering uselessly at his sides like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or just disappear. “I didn’t… fuck, I didn’t see you.”

You straightened, forcing your voice to work.

"Jesse," you rasped, too raw, too desperate. "What’s going on?"

"You really shouldn’t be here," he said, "This is... it’s bad, okay? It’s really fucking bad."

"Then tell me," you responded, your voice breaking somewhere halfway through the sentence. "Why the fuck haven’t you answered me? Why didn’t any of you tell me what was happening?"

He shook his head, grimacing like it physically hurt.

"It’s not because we didn’t want to," he said, almost pleading. "We—fuck, we wanted to. Every time you called, every time you texted, it killed us not to pick up."

You stared at him, the words clawing at your throat.

"Then why?"

He swallowed, hard. You could see the guilt stitching him together and ripping him apart all at once.

"Because Ellie made us promise," he said. "She fucking made us swear not to tell you anything."

You blinked, stunned.

"What?"

"She threatened to fire Erin. Threatened to cut ties with me and Dina," Jesse said, voice shaking now. "Said if we even hinted to you how bad it was getting, if we even breathed about it, she’d be done with us. She said if you found out, it’d ruin everything. Said you deserved better than to be dragged into this fucking shitshow."

He laughed then—a dreadful sound that scraped the walls.

"And the worst part is?" he added, eyes glinting and wet. "She actually fucking believed she was protecting you."

You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes, trying to breathe around the sudden, crushing weight of betrayal and heartbreak and helpless, brutal understanding.

Because of course she did.

Of course Ellie would burn the whole world down to protect you, even if it was the last thing you wanted. Even if what she was protecting you from was herself.

Jesse was still watching you, something wrecked in his expression, but still, he began to walk away.

"I’m sorry you had to see it like this. I’m sorry we let it get this bad. We really fucking tried."

You dropped your hands from your face, blinking back the blur of tears.

"Is she really..."

You couldn’t even finish the sentence. Your throat closed around it.

Jesse shook his head, his jaw tightening. His voice dropped even lower, just a thread.

"She’s not okay."

The words hung between you, heavy as lead.

"And the truth?" almost whispering now, like it was too dangerous to say any louder, now even more far away from you.

"None of us fucking are."

The hallway around you stretched empty and endless, humming with the echoes of all the things that had been broken in just minutes.

You stood there, frozen. One hand hovering now inches from the doorknob, the other clenched tight at your side like it might keep you grounded. Your breath came shallow. Too loud in the silence she’d left behind.

And then Jesse turned.

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna give you a minute,” he said, running a hand through his hair again like it hurt to stand still. “She’s not listening to us anymore. Maybe she never was.”

He hesitated. Just long enough to let the pain show through the cracks.

“Maybe she’ll listen to you,” he said. “Maybe you’re the last person she might still want to be better for.”

The words sat between you like a goodbye.

And then he stepped back. Shoulders heavy with everything he wasn’t saying.

“I’ll be down the hall,” he added quietly. “Just... scream if you need anything.”

You nodded, though you weren’t sure you could speak.

Whatever had exploded in that room was now burning low, reduced to embers and ash. But the quiet that followed wasn’t peace. It was worse. Heavier. Like the moment before a storm shifts course and takes everything down with it.

You didn’t know what you’d find on the other side of the door.

Part of you didn’t want to know.

It was just you.

Just you, the door, and the girl on the other side who once swore she’d never hurt you.

But the door finally creaked open beneath your trembling hand, and for one long, suspended heartbeat, the world stopped breathing with you.

There she was.

Ellie.

Collapsed on the battered greenroom couch, folded inward like something destroyed beyond repair. Her sleeve was shoved carelessly past her right elbow, revealing tattooed pale skin washed ghostly white beneath the sickly, flickering yellow light. A disposable lighter jittered weakly between her trembling fingers. The coffee table in front of her was a war zone, and at its center, balanced on the edge of ruin, a single spoon.

Scorched. Charred black at its base.

The air was dense and stifling with the smell of burning metal, acrid vinegar, and something sickly-sweet, chemical, poisoned—something that made bile rise and burn at the back of your throat.

But none of it mattered. None of it struck you like it should’ve.

Because Ellie’s other hand held something worse.

Something undeniable. Something that sliced reality open with ruthless, devastating clarity.

A syringe.

Full. Loaded. Shaking.

The plunger trembled beneath the pad of her thumb; the needle glittered cruelly in the dim light, cold and sharp, glinting like the blade of a knife.

The realization detonated inside your chest, silent and annihilating, obliterating every fragile lie you'd told yourself about her being fine. Your body moved forward before your brain could catch up, legs weak and useless beneath you, stumbling toward her like something inside you was magnetized to the destruction.

She didn’t see you at first.

She was somewhere else—somewhere unreachable, trapped behind glass, drowning in a nightmare you couldn’t touch. Her head hung low over the pale crook of her elbow, bottom lip caught desperately between her teeth, muscles twitching with tiny spasms she couldn’t control. Her movements were clumsy, fumbling, heartbreakingly vulnerable—like a child lost in the dark, fighting an enemy she couldn’t see.

She was still so young. She was still so breakable. She was still a kid.

You opened your mouth to call her name, but your voice had vanished, robbed by the cruel weight of what you were seeing.

There was nothing—nothing but the panicked, shallow rasp of your own breath as it splintered apart inside your chest.

And then Ellie lifted her head.

The syringe almost slipped through her shaking fingers. Her entire body jerked backward violently, as if the mere sight of you standing in that doorway was a bullet tearing through her heart. Her lips parted, desperately sucking in air that never came, eyes wide and raw and impossibly wounded. Her face twisted into something far more harrowing than fear or surprise or pain.

It was shame. It was guilt.

It was devastation.

Those green eyes—eyes you knew so well, eyes that used to watch you across rooms, across stages, or close enough to catch every color of your irises, alway soft and sharp and warm and full of pure love—were empty now. Hollowed out. Ravaged. She stared at you like you were the last beautiful thing she’d ever touched with her hands, and now, somehow, she’d shattered you too.

Her mouth fumbled helplessly for words, excuses, apologies—frantic, silent pleas for forgiveness she knew she didn’t deserve.

And then finally, a ragged, broken sound escaped her throat, fractured with guilt, grief, and horror.

"What the fuck—what the fuck are you doing here?"

You finally managed to sneak out your trance and sprinted into the room, heart pounding so violently against your ribs it felt like it might shatter you from the inside out. Your vision blurred, your breath came too fast, too loud. You lurched forward, clipped the edge of the coffee table, and sent everything on it crashing to the ground.

“What the fuck am I doing here?!” you screamed, your voice already cracked, already splintering under the weight of it. “What the fuck are you doing, Ellie?!”

She jolted like she’d been shot. Scrambled back, messy, frantic—shoving the syringe behind her like a child caught red-handed, like it wasn’t already too late. Like her hands weren’t already soaked in everything she was trying to hide.

But you were on her in two steps.

You grabbed her wrist. Tight. Desperate. Trembling so hard it felt like your bones might shatter.

She thrashed. Clumsy. Uncoordinated. Weak in all the wrong places. She shoved at your chest, nails scraping, breath ragged, body shaking with too many toxins and not enough strength to fight you off–too light, too thin, too broken.

“Get off me!” she shrieked, “Get the fuck off me!”

“No!” you screamed back, eyes wild, throat raw. “No, no! you don’t get to do this! You don’t get to fucking leave me like this!”

It wasn’t a fight. It was a collapse.

A collision of love and terror and everything you’d both tried to pretend wasn’t happening.

You crashed into each other—limbs tangled, breaths colliding. You didn’t care how hard you hit the floor. You didn’t care that her elbow slammed into your ribs. You didn’t care that she was screaming.

You fought.

You fought for her. For the version of her who used to smile when you said her name. For the girl who promised she’d try. For the person you still believed was buried under the ash.

You fought for her the way she should’ve been fighting for herself.

You clawed. You begged. You cursed her. You loved her.

And in the middle of it all—caught between your hands, between the panic and the heartbreak and the grief—

The syringe broke clean in half, cracked against the edge of the table with a sound so sharp it rang through your chest like a bullet.

Everything stopped.

You stumbled back, breath jagged, heart racing.

Ellie staggered too, eyes wide, then collapsed—as if gravity had finally remembered she was made of bones and flesh. She slid down the wall, hands covering her face, shoulders curling in like she wanted to disappear inside herself.

And you just stood there.

Staring at the broken syringe on the floor. Dark, brown poisoned liquid all around it. It was a mirror. Those shattered pieces mirrored everything she’d promised you, everything she’d thrown away.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until the sob ripped its way out of you—ugly, gasping, human.

“…You’re a fucking liar,” you said, voice shaking so hard it barely made it out. “You lied to me.”

“You made me believe you were trying,” you whispered. “Like I was enough to make you try.”

And then, softer—barely audible through your grief.

“Why wasn’t I enough?”

Ellie lifted her head.

Her eyes were bloodshot, wild, barely hers anymore.

“I was trying!” she spat, voice ripping out of her like it had claws. “You think I wanted you to see this?! You think I wanted you to fucking see me like this?!”

“You treated me like I was a fucking idiot!” you screamed, the betrayal splitting you open. “You act like I wouldn’t notice you disappearing! Like I couldn’t see you falling apart!”

“I didn’t want you to!” she choked out—and then she broke.

The fight drained out of her all at once. Her shoulders collapsed, her spine bowed, like her body had given up the lie. She slumped against the wall, small and ruined, bones unable to bear the weight of the wreckage.

You were shaking. Shaking so hard your teeth clicked in your skull, your fingers curled into fists you couldn’t unclench. Like your own skin might split open and fall away from you.

“I believed you,” you whispered, barely able to hear yourself over the sound of your heart breaking. “I fucking believed you.”

Ellie pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes like she was trying to erase herself.

“I didn’t ask you to believe in me,” she muttered.

“You didn’t have to!”

You shot back, and your voice broke wide open.

“I loved you!”

She flinched like the word hit her in the face. It cracked something in her chest she’d tried to bury.

You stepped closer. Hands trembling. Voice trembling worse.

“Why did you make everyone swear not to tell me? Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you fucking call, Ellie?!”

She slid lower, curling in on herself until her forehead touched the floor, mumbling something you couldn’t make out—just noise, just static.

You dropped to your knees in front of her. Grabbed her shoulders. Shook her.

“Answer me!”

She just let you shake her like she deserved every punishment you wanted to give her.

“I don’t know,”

She whispered. And it wasn’t an excuse. It was a confession. It was the truth, raw and awful and useless.

You shook your head, tears blurring your vision, voice splintering into something sharp.

“You do know.”

She looked away.

“You fucking know.” You swallowed hard. Your voice dropped. “Don’t lie to me, Ellie. Not again.”

Finally, she dragged her hands down her face, slow like every movement hurt. When she looked up, her eyes were swollen, rimmed red, glassy with tears she hadn’t let fall.

And there it was.

That look.

Like she knew she’d killed something precious with her own hands.

“You left,” she said, voice trembling at the seams, barely holding. “You left and I didn’t know what the fuck to do.”

“I didn’t fucking leave you!” you shouted, the words erupting from your chest so violently they felt like they might tear your throat open. “We both had tours! We had contracts! You knew that—we knew what this life was when we chose it. When we chose each other!”

“I know!” she screamed, “But when you left—when you left—everything went fucking quiet. The world just—collapsed, and I didn’t know how to fucking stand in it!”

Her voice shattered halfway through, splitting clean down the middle.

“But you promised me!” you cried, and it didn’t even sound like your voice anymore—just a raw, splintered thing cracking. “You fucking promised you’d try! You said you’d call—you said you’d eat—you said—”

The last word caught in your throat, jagged and cruel.

“You said you wouldn’t disappear on me!”

Ellie dragged a shaking hand through her hair and yanked, like she wanted to rip something out of herself, and you winced at the sound it made—desperate, aching.

“I wanted to try,” she rasped. “I swear to God, I wanted to. But every time I opened my eyes, you were a thousand miles away, and I couldn’t—” Her voice cracked, then collapsed completely. “I couldn’t fucking breathe. Trying wasn’t enough. It was never enough!”

You stared at her.

At the girl who had whispered forever into your mouth. At the girl who once turned your love into songs.

And now she was here. Coming undone in front of you. And somehow, it still didn’t feel enough.

“…But you promised,” you said again, voice hollow now. Smaller. Fragile, as if saying it any louder it might crush you.

She looked at you—and the devastation in her eyes was the kind of thing you don’t walk away from.

Your chest was heaving. Your hands were fists so tight your nails cut into your skin. You didn’t even notice the sting.

Tears blurred the room, blurred her, blurred the syringe glittering in broken pieces on the floor. That smell—burnt metal and chemicals and pain—was in your mouth, in your lungs, pressed into your skin like a stain you’d never scrub out.

And she just layed there.

Breathing like every inhale was a damnation.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched you fall apart in front of her like it was the only thing left she knew how to do.

That silence was worse than any scream.

“You told me,” you gasped, voice hoarse and shaking, “You told me you were going to fight—for you, for me, for this—FOR US!”

And something inside you twisted. Curled in on itself. Hardened into something uglier than rage.

“And now you’re here! Using he—!”

You couldn’t finish. You physically couldn’t make your mouth shape the word.

So you folded. Bent at the waist, hands gripping your knees like you might fly apart without the pressure holding you down.

You didn’t want to scream. You wanted to vomit. You wanted to disappear.

You lifted your head, wild and desperate, and saw it—saw the way her face had crumpled in on itself, the way her shoulders hunched like she was trying to become smaller, disappear into the floor.

And then she whispered it.

So soft you almost didn’t hear it.

“...I didn’t want you to hate me.”

You shook your head before she even finished the sentence. Violently. Desperately. The tears flooded, hot and heavy and merciless, sliding down your cheeks in broken silence.

“I could never hate you,”

You choked, voice wrecked beyond recognition.

“Not for a fucking second. Not even when I want to. Not even when I tried. Not even for what you’re doing to yourself.”

You were sobbing now, hands trembling at your sides, fists curled like you were trying to hold in the pieces of yourself she hadn’t already broken.

“Not even for the way you’re breaking my heart right now.”

Your tears blurred your vision, but her silhouette stayed focused. Slid down the wall, slow, heavy, her legs folding like paper under her. Collapsing inward.

She looked unrecognizable. Not the rockstar. Not the legend. Not the girl the world screamed for. Just a broken kid in an old shirt on a dirty greenroom floor.

“But I hate myself,” she whispered.

And you felt it. Like a crack splitting down the center of the room. Down the center of yourself.

“I hate myself,” she said again, louder this time. Just flesh and guilt.

You moved towards her on instinct, like your body couldn’t bear the distance anymore. But she flinched—hard—like your love was fire and she was already burning.

Her breath hitched. Her throat worked around the words like they were made of glass.

“That’s why I didn’t call,” she rasped. “That’s why I—”

Her hands curled into fists against the floor, trembling with the force of holding it in.

“That’s why we shouldn’t be near each other.”

It landed like a death sentence.

You stared at her. Stared at the girl who once swore she’d never let go of you.

“What?”

You whispered, but the word was so broken, so small, it barely reached her.

The word barely had shape.

Because deep down, you already knew.

“I…” She choked on the word. Swallowed hard. Tried again. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

It hit like a fist to the chest—no warning, no air. Just pain. Just the sound of something splitting you open from the inside.

“I’m hurting you, every day. I see it. On your face.”

You shook your head. Hard. Desperate.

“No—you’re not—you’re not—”

“I am,” she cut in, the words cracked and sharp like dry wood splitting down the grain. “I’m killing you. And you keep pretending it’s fine, you keep smiling for the cameras like you're not rotting from the inside out. But it’s not fine. It’s eating you alive.”

You wanted to say she was wrong. You wanted to scream it. But you couldn’t.

Because you knew she wasn’t.

“You fell in love with someone who doesn’t exist,” Ellie whispered, her voice unraveling. Her nails scraped uselessly against the floor, desperate for something to hold. “You fell in love with the version of me that used to be. The one who was still holding it together. Who was still funny and brilliant and—fuck—still salvageable.”

“Please,” you breathed, tears burning your throat. “Please stop—”

But she shook her head like she couldn’t. As if stopping would mean drowning in it.

“You didn’t fall in love with this,” she spat with a bitter, hollow laugh. “Not this. Not a fucking addict who ghosts you for days because she’s too ashamed to even open your messages.”

“That’s not true, I—” you tried, but your voice crumbled halfway through.

“You deserve someone who doesn’t make you wonder every goddamn night if they’re still alive,” Ellie said, and now her voice was spinning out—fast, unfiltered, like she had to say it before she shattered completely. “You deserve someone who can walk beside you. Someone who isn’t dragging you into the dark.”

“Ellie—”

“I see it,” she said, and her voice broke again. “I see it every time you look at me. It’s not just love anymore. It’s pity.”

“No,” you gasped, stumbling forward, reaching— “No, I don’t—”

But she pulled back like your touch scalded her.

“This life is ruining us. I know you. I see it all over you. You’re pale. You’ve lost weight. You don’t sleep. You walk through rooms like you’re halfway gone. And I became another weight on your chest, and you don’t deserve that.”

She pressed her palms into her eyes, hard.

“I hate seeing you like this,” she rasped. “I hate what I’ve done to you. What I’m still doing.”

“You’re not—” you tried to say, but your voice faltered. Because even now, with every cell in your body screaming not to agree, you felt it.

You were tired.

Exhausted.

And she knew. She’d known for a long time.

“You have your career,” Ellie said, softer now. More broken. “You have this brilliant, impossible life that you built from nothing. You were shining before you even met me. And if you stay… I’ll dim that light. I’ll pull you under. And you know I will.”

She said it like a confession.

An apology to a god that never showed up.

“You were always too good to be true,” she whispered. “You taught me how to love when I didn’t think I could. You were the first thing I ever loved that scared me more than myself. And you tried. You tried harder than anyone ever has.”

Your knees gave in completely, collapsing in the ground beside her. You looked at her and barely recognized either of you.

“Then why are you leaving me?” you choked, voice cracked and bleeding.

She swallowed, and it buckled her whole body.

“Because love isn’t enough. It doesn’t fix this.”

It cracked something so deep inside you, you knew it would never heal.

“It doesn’t fix me.”

Your whole body was shaking, your breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls. Tears had soaked through your hoodie. The space between you felt endless—too wide, too broken to ever be stitched shut again.

“...But I need you.”

“I need you even more,” she said softly. “But I already made my decision. I’m doing this for you.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed.

A loud bang echoed down the hall—someone shouting “One minute to showtime!”—but it barely registered. The real countdown was already ticking inside your chest.

Ellie’s hands rose to your face. Clumsy. Like a kid leaning in for her first kiss. Shaking so bad it made your skin vibrate. She cradled you like something sacred—something already lost.

And then—

Then she kissed you.

Not like a lover. Like a goodbye.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t clean. It was everything.

And it wounded.

A kiss filled with sorrow so deep it tasted metallic, like blood in your mouth. A kiss that reeked of grief and devotion and everything she couldn’t find the words to say. A kiss that said I love you and I’m sorry and please remember me—all at once.

You kissed her back like you were drowning. As if you held her close enough, tight enough, the moment wouldn’t end. Your fingers dug into the fabric of her shirt, trying to anchor her, trying to anchor yourself.

But the clock didn’t stop.

The world didn’t wait.

It never had.

It didn’t pause for heartbreak, didn’t soften for grief, didn’t flinch at the sound of something beautiful breaking.

It just kept spinning—indifferent, relentless—dragging you both forwards whether you were ready or not.

There was no mercy in it.

No pity. No grace.

Just the cold, unyielding truth that time moved on.

She pulled back first, breathing hard, her forehead pressed to yours. Her chest heaved like she’d just run for miles. Then, slowly, like she had to force every little muscle and nerve, she pushed herself up.

You watched her walk away.

And when she spoke, her voice was so low you almost didn’t hear it.

“This was the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me,” she whispered. “You were the most beautiful thing I’ve ever called mine.”

Shaky. Careful. Final.

“And I can promise you, with everything I have left—I will love you until the day I die. Always.”

A whimper escaped your throat before you could stop it, a small, wrecked sound of someone being carved hollow.

“But you deserve to be happy,” she said, almost like it hurt to believe it. “And I have to let you go, even if it breaks me more than you’ll ever understand.”

She didn’t look at you again. Left you crying on the floor. Wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand—once, rough, angry—then turned her back before you could see her fall apart.

She crossed the room without a word. Grabbed her guitar from where it leaned against the desk.

But at the door, she paused.

And without turning around, she whispered,

“I’m sorry.”

Last thing you heard was boots pounding down the hallway. The bark of stage crew voices, the static crackle of walkies, someone shouting her name over the roar that was already building. The crowd was screaming for her.

And she chose the crowd.

You lay there—on the floor, knees drawn in, chest heaving—in the hollowed-out center of the wreckage she left behind.

Still. Silent. Utterly alone.

Like you always had been.

You don’t remember how you got out. Not the walk. Not the doors. Not the way the air felt outside the venue, sharp and full of things you didn’t want to breathe. You don’t remember the SUV waiting by the loading dock, or the way you collapsed into the leather seat like your bones had finally given up.

You don’t remember the plane. Or the sky. Or how Los Angeles looked from above—cold, glittering, vast.

A city that didn’t care your heart had just been carved out of your chest and left bleeding on a greenroom floor miles behind you.

You only remember her hands. Your face in her palms. Her mouth on yours, saying goodbye before she ever spoke the word.

And for the first time, you understood that there are some things even love can’t fix.

Some people you can’t save. No matter how much light you pour into them. No matter how tightly you hold on.

Some endings are already written. Etched into bone before the first kiss, folded into every soft I love you like a bruise waiting to bloom.

And you will spend the rest of your life learning how to survive it.

Or die trying.

And Ellie walked onto that stage having just let go of the only person she had ever truly loved.

Watched her fall apart and didn’t run after her. Didn’t fall to her knees and beg. Didn’t change a thing.

She stepped into the spotlight with her mouth still swollen from goodbye and her chest caving in on itself, hollow and echoing with the sound of your voice breaking.

Twenty thousand people waited. Their screams tore through the arena walls. They wanted a show. They wanted fire. They wanted the version of Ellie Williams that didn’t exist anymore.

Her ears rang. Her palms were slick. The guitar strap bit into her shoulder.

The first song started. Her hands moved. Her mouth opened.

But the voice didn’t come.

What came out was broken. Croaked. Barely human. A whisper dragged through a throat scraped raw by grief. The words were all wrong—slurred, cracked, drifting somewhere above her like distant smoke. Her chest burned. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The chords buzzed under her fingers, unfamiliar, unsteady.

She forgot the lyrics halfway through. Forgot what song it was.

Forgot who she was singing to.

When the crowd erupted after the chorus, she nearly collapsed.

She muttered something into the mic—she didn’t even know what. Something about needing a break. Then she turned and walked offstage, her boots heavy, her head down, shoulders caving inward.

She didn’t wait for Dina to yell in her earpiece. Didn’t wait for Jesse to catch her. Didn’t wait for the crowd to notice she wasn’t coming back.

She found the greenroom. Slammed the door. Locked it.

And then she destroyed everything.

The guitar was the first to go. It smashed against the wall, the neck snapping with a brutal crack.

Next came the mirror. Her reflection had been staring at her—dead-eyed, swollen-lipped, useless. Unworthy. So she shattered it. Watched her face break into a hundred pieces.

Then the table. The lamp. A chair. The shelves. Her own fists.

She didn’t stop until she couldn’t feel her hands.

Not when her skin split open. Not when blood dripped down her wrists and soaked into her jeans. Not when the room looked like a warzone and her chest still felt empty.

She crumpled to the floor in the center of it all, arms wrapped around her knees, forehead pressed to the tile. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts. Her whole body convulsed with sobs she couldn’t control. She felt sick. Cold. Dead.

And the worst part.

The world outside kept spinning. Kept demanding.

It didn’t matter that she’d left the love of her life sobbing on the floor. It didn’t matter that she’d torn her own heart out and handed it back in pieces. All anyone wanted was the next song. The next photo. The next headline.

They didn’t care that she was dying in here. They never had.

There were fists pounding on the door. Jesse shouting her name. Dina’s voice cracking wide open. A crew member begging her to just say something, anything. But it was all distant. Muffled. Pointless.

She’d made her choice.

She let you go. The one person who ever looked at her and didn’t see a myth or a front-page scandal. The only one who ever knew her and loved her anyway.

But she didn't let you go because she didn't love you.

She let you go because she did.

And now you were gone.

And she was just a girl in a locked room, surrounded by wreckage, bleeding into silence, with your name like a ghost in her mouth and nothing left worth singing.

The world did not mourn with you. It didn’t stop. It didn’t pause. It didn’t care.

You came back to a city that kept spinning—glittering, soulless, and utterly indifferent to the fact that your heart had been torn out somewhere backstage in a venue you’d never set foot in again. The sun still rose. The freeway still roared. Your name still trended in headlines you couldn’t bear to read. And none of it mattered.

You spent the first day in bed.

Then two.

Then seven.

No light. No sound. Curtains drawn. Phone silenced. You didn’t eat. You didn’t speak. You barely slept—just stared at the ceiling until your body ached from stillness.

Grief didn’t hit all at once. It unfolded, cell by cell, minute by bleeding minute. It wasn’t the kind of pain you could scream about—it was quieter than that. Heavier. It wrapped around your throat and made it hard to swallow. It lived in the base of your spine. In the unwashed dishes. In the unread texts. In the way you caught yourself still turning toward the door, still hoping to see her there, smirking, ruined, beautiful, yours.

You wore her hoodie. Slept in her shirt. Stared at her name on your phone like maybe if you pressed it hard enough, she’d feel it.

And one night—after six hours of lying on the kitchen floor with a glass of wine you hadn’t touched and your face pressed to the cold tile just to feel something—you checked the Fireflies’ tour page.

Not suspended. Not like yours.

Cancelled.

One by one, they were dropping like flies. Festival appearances, residencies, the arena dates she swore she would never reschedule. Scrubbed. Vanished.

You stared at the screen until your eyes blurred.

She was unraveling.

You’d known it when you saw the syringe in her hand. You knew it now.

And you knew—without a single doubt—that she wasn’t going to save herself.

So you did what people do when they’re out of options.

You did the last thing you could.

You went back to the beginning.

You texted Rachel at 2:07 a.m.

get me Joel Miller’s number

It took her three minutes to reply.

ARE YOU OKAY?

You can't just ghost me for a week and then ask me for Ellie's dad number. I called you 412 times.

I banged your door yesterday and you didn't even open it. you just yelled "im alive"

You can’t just keep suspending shows.

Im really worried for you.

You stared at the blinking cursor for a long time. And then:

just get me his number. i'll talk when im ready.

Ten minutes later, it appeared on your screen.

An unfamiliar area code. No name.

Just a number and the last ragged shred of hope.

You stared at it for nearly an hour, fingers hovering, not calling. Because once you made this call—once you said it out loud—it was real. It wasn’t a phase. It wasn’t a rough patch.

It was a life hanging by a thread you couldn’t hold onto anymore.

You pressed the call button with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. It rang.

Once. Twice. Three times.

“Yeah?”

Came the voice on the other end. Rough. Wary. Hoarse. Old. A little confused.

You couldn’t speak at first. Your lips were moving, but nothing came out.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” you said finally, your voice cracked and trembling. “Is this Joel Miller?”

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

You swallowed hard. Gripped the countertop to stay upright.

“My name is Y/N. I—I know we’ve never met, and I wouldn’t be calling if I wasn’t…”

You paused. Swallowed again.

“…completely out of options.”

There was a shift in his voice then—still guarded, but something alert under the surface.

“Y/N Y/L/N?” he asked. “You’re… Ellie’s girlfriend, right?”

“I—yeah.” You forced the word out. “I was.”

A beat of silence.

“…Are you okay? Is she okay? What’s going on?”

Your throat burned. Your chest hurt. The tears were already sliding down your cheeks again.

You pressed a hand over your mouth and tried not to break in half, before finally, muttering those words.

“She needs help.”

← 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 →

taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <333): @st0nerlesb0 @willurms @vahnilla @mancyw1214 @rxreaqia @laceyxrenee @antobooh @annoyingpersonxoxo @haithone @lofied @sunflowerwinds @xojunebugxo @reidairie @piscesthepoet @elliewilliamskisser2000 @pariiissssssss @mxquelo @elliesbabygirl @xx2849 @kiiramiz @mikellie @brooks-lin @lovely-wisteria @marscardigan @elliesanqel @lovelaymedown @gold-dustwomxn @ilovewomenfr @seraphicsentences @mascspleasegetmepregnant @raindroprose23 @creepyswag @elliesgffrfr @kirammanss @liztreez @catrapplesauces @livvietalks @furtherrawayy @thatchosen1 @kanadadryer @littlerosiesthings @eriiwaiii2 @nramv @redlightellie @elliepoems @sabrinathewitchh982 @shady-lemur @jubileexoxo @l0velylace @look-me @adoringanakin @daughterofthemoons-stuff @st4r-b3rries @liasxeatt @desiretolive @rios-st4rs @miajooz @hotpinkskitties

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ Damn… Collide Nation, are yall breathing...? I know this chapter might have felt intense — maybe even shocking or painfully raw. I just want to say I approached it with as much care and respect as I possibly could. I actually spent a lot of time researching the subject to make sure it felt grounded, realistic, and not exploitative in any way. This topic means a lot, and I wanted to do it justice.

And if you’re someone who’s sensitive to these themes: I really hope it didn’t reach you in a hurtful way. My DMs and inbox are always open if you need to talk. ♡

see ya'll soon, stay tuned ;)

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lightseoul · 8 months ago

Text

cw. gn!reader, worker!reader, prohero!katsuki, aged-up (25), pining (again, if you look extra closely), a lot of cussing (are we still surprised)

masterlist | part 1 (although ig this makes sense on its own), part 3 (i didn't plan this), part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9

“What.”

It’s less of a question and more of a statement—a statement sputtered in the typically demanding way characteristic of the one and only Bakugou Katsuki.

The Bakugou Katsuki who happens to be your boss for a good (debatable) three and a half years now, who you also have to spend overtime with until who knows what time to discuss what’s become rocky employee relations in the Ground Riot agency.

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion or irrational annoyance—both, really—before you quickly school your expression into a neutral one. You riffle through the documents rather absentmindedly, avoiding his gaze before shooting back with: “What do you mean what?”

“I meant,” he leans back on his office chair that you know he singlehandedly picked out for its superior ergonomic design because he’s meticulous like that, “what the fuck is wrong with your face.”

“Excuse me?”

Your retort is laced with more indignant anger than intended, but at this point in the night, you cannot for the life of you bring yourself to care about your tone. It’s been a long day, and you weren’t about to let your stupid boss make fun of your appearance, of all things.

Bakugou probably senses the significant change in your demeanor, because his eyes widen in surprise ever so slightly before he sits up and opens his mouth to explain himself.

“You’ve been looking like you accidentally drank spoiled milk for the past hour and the shit aftertaste isn’t going away.” He haughtily shakes his head, and it takes everything in you not to jump him and choke your boss.

To your disdain, however, he continues.

“It’s either you spit it out or I’m going to have to force you to tell me what’s wrong.”

You gape at him. Whatever you expected him to say, it wasn’t that.

As quickly as you can, however, you attempt to regain your bearings and at least try to seem nonchalant, clearing your throat as unbothered as possible to top it all off. “Well, working overtime to iron out office squabbles isn’t exactly my idea of a relaxing Friday night, thank you very much.”

He scoffs. “Bullshit.”

You almost get whiplash from how quickly you look at him. His brazen rudeness—which, right now, is worse than usual which is saying something, mind you—renders you incapable of saying anything aside from another winded: “Excuse me?”

He rolls his eyes. “Miss me with that bullshit, dumbass.”

You feel yourself heat up in irritation. “I thought I told you to stop calling me dumbass.”

“You’d rather I call you princess?”

At that, you break eye contact despite yourself, choosing to stare at his forehead instead. It’s still unnerving—looking at any part of his body, really—but it’s better than looking at him squarely and witnessing the smirk you know has taken over his unfairly handsome features.

Your voice is small, to your chagrin, when you reply. “That’s actually a lot worse.”

The man dares to bark out a laugh.

You continue to metaphorically choke him in your head.

“Okay then, dumbass,” he emphasizes the nickname and you are about 99% sure a pained expression is dancing across your face because Bakugou is observing you with even more amusement before his features settle into a look of seriousness.

“As I was saying before you missed the point entirely—I highly doubt you’re this bothered because of fucking overtime,” he eyes you cautiously before pressing on. “Something’s wrong.”

You don’t know if it’s the exhaustion of the week filled with workplace conflict, or the crushing news you received this morning in the mail, or the very fact that Bakugou, despite his roughness and the annoyingly persistent way he’s been poking at your mood like it’s an itchy scab, is looking at you with genuine concern—but you end up doing it.

You give in.

You feel the tears welling up in your eyes before you even get the chance to deny them permission to, and at the sight of them Bakugou sits up even straighter in alarm—and you don’t know what comes over you because you start laughing so hard, your hand shoots up to your stomach in an attempt to keep it from cramping.

“Oi.”

The expression on his face is so unbelievably baffled that you only end up cackling to yourself more.

It takes a few more minutes before the sillies are fully flushed out of your system and really, it only took you a glance at Bakugou to realize you probably looked demented just now.

Feeling self-conscious all of a sudden, you quickly wipe away the tears in your eyes and muster enough courage to flash him a genuine smile.

To your delight, he flashes you one right back, albeit tentatively—one that is boyish and charming under the rather dim lights of his corner office.

Although he seemingly reboots to his default state because it’s immediately replaced by a frown and followed by: “You’re so weird, you know that?”

You snort and, before you can stop yourself: “Not as weird as my ex.”

At that, Bakugou’s entire countenance changes—he visibly stiffens in his seat and his eyebrows furrow in what you believe is confusion at the sudden mention of your past lover.

Bakugou says nothing, however, and so you take that as a sign to continue.

“Remember that meeting we had last March with Chef Asahi about our collaboration with his restaurant where I was late and you gave me shit for it? And when you asked I told you it was because I just got dumped over the phone?”

He gives you a curt nod, lips tight.

“Well,” you chuckle nervously, feeling embarrassed at your upcoming revelation, “I just found out that that ex is getting married in two months, and I’m invited.”

Neither of you says anything for the next—what feels like—hour.

Until Bakugou takes a sharp inhale, leans forward on his desk, and stares you down straight in the eyes: “I’ll do it.”

“What?”

He scowls at you like you’ve got a pea for a brain. “Don’t make me say it twice, dumbass.”

You frown at his hostility, your own bewilderment chipping away at your already thinning patience. “You’re not saying anything.”

Bakugou sighs, and he looks like what he is about to say next physically pains him.

“I’ll be your fucking date to the wedding.”

tagging. @kitthepurplepotato @chelbyisbord @lovra974 @katsukis1wife @brunnetteiwik

special shoutout to @he3v4n for reading the prequel to this and following thereafter--inadvertently making me check out past writing and get inspired to write this <3

#again--we love an emotionally constipated bkg #i just realized #i feel pressured to tie my stories with a pretty bow at the end but really I enjoy reading and writing slow-burn cliffhangers more LMAO #i hope you guys do too #bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou imagines #mha imagines #bnha imagines #bnha scenarios #mha scenarios #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou imagine #bakugou drabble #bakugo x reader #bakugo x y/n

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sugarcoatedheartt · 1 month ago

Text

melting

“ when youre around, my insides turn inverted ”

parrings: nerd!downbad!sunghoon x fem!reader

synopsis: in which the school’s nerd is insanely down bad for the loved, well-know Y/N.

warnings: a little smutty at the end!!

genre: romance, fluff, smut, drabble/headcannons

bella/sugar’s notes: why is writing a synopsis harder than writing the actual fic smh😒

not proofread !

nerd!sunghoon who didnt believe you when you told him you liked him. you? THE y/n l/n? the girl on campus that everyone adores? the one that every guy wants a chance with? it cant be possible! youre sweet and perfect, like an angel gifted from above, so why him? well, you just cant help it. you love the way his face subtly flushes when you enter the room, the way he stutters in nervousness when interacting with you. its hard not to fall inlove with someone so endearing.

“w-what..?” he stutters, not knowing if what he heard was correct or if his mind was just playing tricks on him. “you heard me. i like you sunghoon, i really do.” you say with a soft, loving smile. he cant help but feel himself getting hot, even in the cool morning air inside the quiet, empty library. he stares up at you from his seat, searching for any signs of deception, except all he can see is your genuine smile and the way your eyes gleam down at him as if he’s the prettiest thing you’ve layed your eyes upon (he is). he continues looking up at you in silence as his mouth falls agape, his deep eyes almost doe-like through his glasses. “ill take that as a yes” you say, excitement etched in your voice before your place a gentle hand on his smooth cheek and give his forehead a soft, feather-light kiss. he swears he almost died on the spot from how hard the butterlies were banging against his ribs. “bye-bye hoonie!” you beam at him before skipping away as if youre the happiest girl alive.

nerd!sunghoon who follows you around campus like a lost puppy. he hates being away from you, even for a single second. during classes without him, you often receive texts about how much he misses you, and he smiles like an idiot at his phone when you tell him that you miss him too, and that you cant wait to see him. his friends tease him constantly but he doesnt care. wherever you are, he follows closely.

you sit at a table with your group of friends, talking to each other about anything and nothing. sunghoon sits close by your side, toying with your smaller hand until one of your friends asks something that makes him perk up. “hey y/n, why do you even like that nerd anyways?” she asks, looking at you with an air of confusion. “hey! dont say that about him,” you begin scolding, pointing a finger at her with your free hand, “hes my cutie” you coo, turning your head to look at him with a soft smile on your face. his heart warms at this, and he tries his hardest to stop the corners of his mouth from twitching upwards, looking down sheepishly with a flushed expression. “youre right, sorry” your friend apologises, noticing the way you look at him so lovingly. being the most responsible and nurturing in the group, your friends often find themselves listening to you like children listening to their mother. if you like him so much, they guess they can tolerate him (as the newfound father of the group).

nerd!sunghoon who will do anything you ask him to. whether it be giving you a pencil, buying food for you, holding your bag, or even playing with your hair, hes right there like a puppy waiting for instructions. he even insists on doing all of your homework for you, knowing you likely dont wanna do it. you tell him that its okay, and that you should be doing it yourself, but its hard to refuse his innocent, pleading eyes.

“hoonie, can you brush my hair for me please?” you ask him politely, handing him your hairbrush. “of course!” he beams, nodding profusely as he takes the brush out of your hands. after you face forward, he begins brushing your hair with the most gentle care, as if you would break of he were to be too rough. he puts his free hand on your shoulder, using his fingers to trace patterns across it in a way that soothes you. sunghoon keeps brushing through your soft locks, so gently that it almost tickles. “is this okay..?” he asks with uncertainty, unsure if he’s doing it right or not. “mhm” you hum in satisfaction, basking in the way his fingers glide against your shoulder and through your hair. this is like heaven to him, he just feels so privileged to be able to even breathe in the same direction as you, let alone brush your gorgeous, soft hair for you. after he finishes, he places the hairbrush down on the ground next to you before using his hands to delicately guide your head down into his lap. once its down, he starts threading his fingers through your hair, lightly scratching at your scalp in a way that makes your breathing slow and steady as you relax into him.

nerd!sunghoon who melts into your touches. you do something as simple as fixing his glasses for him during class and he finds himself subconsciously leaning into your hand, chasing the warmth it gives him.

upon noticing his glasses slipping down his face as he jots down notes in his book, you reach up to push them back into place. feeling the warmth of your hand close to his face, he immediately stops writing and looks at you, leaning in closer to your hand without even realising it. in seeing this, a smile makes its way onto your face as you place that hand on his cheek, using your thumb to gently caress his soft skin. his eyes lightly flutter at the sensation, feeling his heart beat a million miles per hour as he nuzzles into your hand. a content sigh leaves his pretty lips before he closes his eyes blissfully, basking in the feeling of your manicured hand against his cheek.

nerd!sunghoon who whines pathetically into your mouth as you kiss him, feeling completely weak and powerless at the way your fingers pull at his hair, guiding his head in the direction you want him to go.

he moans as you run a hand down his chest, giving you the perfect chance to slip your tongue inside. he whimpers as he feels your tongue exploring the inside of his mouth, digging his fingers into your hips to try and ground himself. you pull back for a moment to catch your breath, taking in his flushed face, glossy eyes, and hair sticking to his forehead. “please..” he whines, panting to get enough air back into his system. “please what, baby?” you ask, a smirk evident on your face. “please keep going.. d-dont stop” he pleads, on the verge of tears. he’s never felt anything like this before, and he cant help but want more. you lean in again, shoving your tongue back down his throat as he kisses you desperately, like he needs you. he can already feel a knot beginning to tighten in his stomach, whimpering into your mouth as he feels his release approaching. sunghoon lets out a loud moan into your mouth as he lets go, his whole body vibrating at the sensation. “please, please, please, please” he begs, moving his lips against yours more desperately. he’s not entirely sure what he’s begging for, but he knows he wants more. as you both finally part, you look up to sunghoon to see tears running down his cheeks in both bliss and embarrassment. “did you just..” you begin asking, moving your hands to his cheeks to wipe his tears. “i-im sorry.. i know im so patheti-” he begins before you cut him off, “shhh, its okay sweetie”. you hush him, giving his nose a quick peck before continuing, “go quickly clean yourself up so we can finish watching the movie, yeah?” you finish, at which he immediately nods at and goes to do what youve asked.

“ take one look at you, youre heaven’s incarnate ”

#enha #enhypen #sunghoon #enha fluff #enha imagines #enha x reader #enha smut #heeseung #jake sim #jay park #jungwon #kim sunoo

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hoshifighting · 4 months ago

Note

Hiiii !! First of all tysm for all the fics you’ve put out! I honestly don’t know how you write them so fast 😭 secondly, I’ve been thinking about this so much so when I saw your requests were open again I got so excited to see if you had any opinions! How do you think the Svt members would react if you told them to say “please”/ ask nicely before they could cum?

I know you have so many requests coming in so I hope you’re taking care of yourself and having fun writing these!

svt reaction to you telling them to say “please”/ask nicely before they could cum

WARNINGS: smut, begging, svt desperate to cum ❤️🩹🗣

seungcheol: his pride is imediatelly gone and its almost funny. he’s groaning “please, please, I’ll do anything, baby, just let me cum.” gripping the sheets, thrusting up into your hand, so fucking close that he’s almost whining. if you tease him a little more, he’ll actually beg louder “fuck, I’m begging you—please let me.”

jeonghan: at first, he’s trying to smirk through it, pretending he’s unaffected: “oh, you think I’ll beg for you?” (he will). the minute you slow down or stop, he’s groaning and grinding against you like, “fine, fuck, please—please let me cum, baby.”

joshua: he wants to keep his composure, but his body’s backstabbing him. he’s thrusting into your hand, breathing hard through his nose, trying to hold back, until he’s finally gasping “fine, fine, please, I’ll beg if that’s what you want—just let me cum.”

jun: he’s squirming like crazy, trying to resist. but you can see the moment he breaks—his whole body’s trembling, and he finally whispers “please, baby, I need it—please.”

hoshi: instant panic. he’s gasping out, “please, I’ll be so good, I’ll do anything you want—just let me.” he’s holding onto you for dear life, all wide-eyed and desperate. if you don’t let him right away, he’ll legit cry, moaning your name in between pleases like he’s praying to you.

wonwoo: the silent sufferer. he’s biting his lip so hard it might bleed, glaring at you like he’s daring you to make him beg. but when you edge him for the third time, his voice cracks “fuck, please—please just let me finish.”

woozi: this man is STUBBORN. at first, he’s glaring at you, biting his lip like he can hold out forever. but when you keep teasing him, he’s growling under his breath “haah—! fuck, okay—please, just let me finish, I can’t take it anymore.”

minghao: you’re testing his patience, and he hates losing. he’s shaking his head at first, lips tight, but when you keep teasing him, he’s hissing “you’re so cruel. fine—please, just let me cum.”

soekmin: likes it when you’re mean to him. he’s smiling through his whines, “please, baby, I know you wanna hear me beg—just let me cum, I’ll be so good for you.” if you keep teasing him, he’s GIGGLING because he lowkey loves it.

mingyu: he’s too whipped for you to pretend he wouldn’t enjoy being edged and begging for permission. he’d say please a hundred times if it meant you’d let him finish.

seungkwan: this man can talk, and it’s all spilling out at once. “please, I’m begging, I’ll be so good—fuck, I’ll never do anything to piss you off again, I promise, just let me cum, PLEASE.” he’s pulling out all the stops, saying whatever he thinks will convince you. 10/10, most affected.

vernon: he’s so conflicted. you can see the internal battle written all over his face. he starts off quiet, breathing hard, refusing to speak—until you slow down and he panics “wait, wait, okay—please, I’ll say whatever you want, just don’t stop.”

chan: his pride lasts for like… ten seconds. he’s trying to play it cool, but when he feels you tighten or slow down, he’s crying. bonus: if you’re extra mean, he’ll choke out an apology for being so stubborn.

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alikesical · 1 month ago

Text

one-sided academic rival! Dick Grayson × reader

Being in university was hard enough as it is. Now imagine that plus an annoying trust fund baby making it his life's mission to annoy the hell out of you.

trigger warnings: kissing, reader in deep denial, reader gets attacked, dick gets injured

word count: circa 8K

part 1 part 2

Going to university was a privilege you never thought you'd have.

Although now it feels more like a curse.

"What do you want?" you ask the man sitting in front of you, swirling a pen around his fingers without a care in the world. It's not like you had a midterm in a few days.

Only you did, and he was distracting you, "Your attention would suffice for now" he says, honey coating his words.

You exhale as you raise your head, squinting at the bright light behind him, "Can't you see I'm busy?" you ask, rolling your eyes.

But Dick Grayson ignores your blatant annoyance towards him, as he did every other time.

"Oh, come on," he smiles, sitting across from you, "You've been locked in here, for like what, a year?" he exaggerates, leaning towards the table, "You can take a break."

"Breaks are for those who are done studying." That's not true. You know that, he knows that. But he's just here to annoy you, so you don't care what's true or not, if you continue working he'll get bored and leave.

"It's doesn't have to be long, just a minute." he presses, now full-on laying on the table. Has he no shame?

Stupid question. Of course not, people like Dick Grayson don't know how to feel shame. Either because they are perfect at everything, always, or because they are trust fund babies, who never had anyone tell them to stop behaving like children.

"No." you repeat, voice flat.

Dick continues staring at you, a smirk plastered on his face as always. No wasn't gonna cut it. "This actually reminds me of the time, my brother, Jason-"

You exhale loudly as he starts telling you yet another story. After this many interactions with Bruce Wayne's ward, you know he won't stop talking until you give in.

You always considered yourself stubborn, and in all truth, you were. You never backed away until you got what you wanted. That's one of the reasons you are here in the first place.

Unfortunately, you had met you equal in these very halls, and you knew better than to hold your ground on a losing battle.

"Okay, stop. What do you want?" you give in, putting your pen down, turning to look at him, your arms crossed in front of you.

"You."

You're taken back by his words, a slight heat creeping up your neck, "Excuse me?"

Only then does he realise what he said, "Not like that!" Dick waves his hands around, feeling the heat on his cheeks increase tenfold, praying you dont notice how flustered he got, "I wanna be partners for the next assignment." he says, willing himself to calm down, a smile finding its way home on his lips.

"No way." your answer is immediate, and his smile falls in an instant.

"What?"

"Have you hit your head on a pole, Grayson?" you snort, revelling in the fact you had the upper hand even for a while, "I said no."

"But why?"

"Because." I won't be able to live with myself if you actually end up being a good student and not just lucky.

"But it's gonna-"

"No."

"Fine" he says "What about a bet then?"

"A bet?"

"Yeah, if I score higher than you on the next test, you become my partner-"

"No, I know when I'm set up for failure"

"Let me finish," "If you get a higher grade, I won't speak to you ever again."

"...Never again?" you raise an eyebrow, "You're capable of holding your tongue for that long? I'm surprised."

Wrong answer.

"Wanna see the other things my tongue can do?" he says smirking at you, tingling his eyebrows.

The heat that creeps up once again is very distinguishable.

This wasn't an issue of you having a crush - which you were not - but an issue of having eyes.

You'd be a liar to deny that Dick Grayson was a very attractive man.

"Youre disgusting." you shoot, face grimacing, you force your eyes back on your notebook.

You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing he got under your skin. Not today, not ever.

"I know it keeps me up at night." he leans back, "So what do you say?"

"To you showing me your skills?" you mutter flatly, a small smile still appearing on your lips, missing how this time around, he was the one feeling the familiar heat, "In your dreams, Grayson."

"Then I'll keep dreaming."

You can't believe this. This isn't real. It's not true.

"See, this sweetheart?" Dick shoves the paper in your face, "98%" he grins at your flabbergasted expression, "I win!"

"H-How..." you studied so much for this. How could he beat you yet again. You exhale in defeat.

You have a bet, you'll upkeep it. You're not sore loser.

"Fine." Dick grins, "We can do it over at my place." you offer.

He smiles at you, "Okay, let's go!" he grips the strap of his backpack entusiasticly, making you roll your eyes.

This isn't happening.

A bus ride later, you're back in your house, Dick Grayson in tow.

"Do you want water? Tea?" you ask, hearing him close the door as you head into the kitchen.

"Tea." he says, and you feel him moving around, snooping no doubt.

"Sugar?"

"Don't need any", you hear him say in the distance as you add three teaspoons in your cup -you know its not the healthiest habit but you can't help but indulge in your sweet tooth- "You're sweet enough." you hear him much closer to you this time.

You turn around, wanting to retort to his flirty comment, chastise him about you'd have none of it during the duration of your project. But you're left speechless, gasping lowly at the distance between you two. Dick was standing extremely close to you, to the point you could feel the heat radiating from his body - or maybe it was your own rising up rapidly at the proximity. You look in his eyes, glinting with mischief and something else you couldn't quite place.

"What?" he smirks, trapping you between himself and the counter, "Cat, got your tongue?" he whispers in your ear. You can only gulp at his words, feeling your skin prickle as he moves closer to your neck.

"Oh, shut up." you say and push him away lightly, feeling the difference in temperature immediately. "We have a project to do." you grab one of his arms and try to go to the living room. Away from him, away from whatever he had in mind.

"Not so quickly," he grabs your wrist with a quick motion, pulling you back at him. You feel yourself falling, yelping as you place your free hand on his chest trying to support yourself.

"Dick," you mutter, raising your head to look into his eyes, "Let go." you say, your voice steady, but heart thrumming inside your chest.

"You really want that?" he asks, raising your hand towards his mouth, placing a soft kiss on the inside of your wrist, all the while staring into your eyes. Were they always this blue?

"Your pulse is rising," he presses on your wrist as he lowers your hand, pressing it on his chest, covering it with his own, "Your pupils are blown..." he leans down.

You exhale shakily. You're staring, you know. But how can you not when he looks ethereal under this light. Like a dream come true.

"Stop me." he says, a breath away from you, leaning in slowly, steadily.

You don't make a noise. You don't move a single muscle, afraid to break the moment. You just stare in the sea of his eyes, willingly getting lost in them.

Next thing you know, you feel a pair of lips on yours.

He's kissing you. Dick Grayson is kissing you.

It is soft and tentative, as if he's scared you'll pull away. But you dont, not when it feels this right. This good.

You move against his lips, kissing him back in the same manner, and he immediately brings his free hand to your jaw, the other still holding your hand against his chest, as he leans in, deepening the kiss.

You feel so many things at once, slowly getting overstimulated. From Dicks lips rhythmically moving against your own, to his heart beating widely under your hand.

This feels like heaven. He feels like heaven.

"Dick," you exhale, and he pulls away just enough to let you breathe, forehead resting against your own.

You simply stare at him, before pulling your hands away from him, seeing his smile falter if only for the minute it takes you to throw them around his neck, whispering don't stop as you dive into his lips again, with more fervour than before.

You can feel him smile in the kiss, moving his hands to the small of your back, slowly reaching downwards -

You suddenly shoot up drenched in cold sweat, the room feeling hotter than usual. You're lying in your bed, looking at the ceiling above you, the room filled with the commotion caused by the traffic. You're alone...

"What the fuck."

"Hey!" you see a hand waving in front of you, pulling you out of your thoughts. You jump a bit, taken aback, "Rough night?" you look up and see the last person you wished to. The same person you were thinking about, despite your best efforts not to.

You turn red at his words, the dream still fresh in you head "Wh-What? No, no. Why would you say that?" you chuckle nervously, tearing your eyes away from him, "It was a totally normal night and I am fine!"

"Fine people don't get this jumpy when people talk to them." he chuckles lightly.

"Maybe I'm having an allergic reaction to you" you glare at him, trying to get yourself to calm down. "What is it you want anyway?"

"You still haven't given me an answer," he says, and you can see his mouth moving but can't hear a thing.

"You really want that?" he asks, raising your hand towards his mouth, placing a soft kiss on the inside of your wrist, all the while staring into your eyes. Were they always this blue?

You shake your head lowering you head. God damnit, why did he have to be here.

"Are you listening to me?"

"H-Huh? What?" why did you stutter? He's gonna realise. He's gonna realise and you'll be fucked.

"The bet," you can feel your cheeks flush at the sound of his voice. What is wrong with you?

"No." you answer quickly, wanting, needing him to go away.

"Why?" he presses.

"Cause I don't feel like it." you reply and get up. If he wasn't going to leave, you would.

But luck wasn't by your side, "Okay, if you don't wanna have a bet, just partner up with me!" he scrambled, following behind you. "I know you wanna do well, and I can help with that!" he exclaims, you shake your head trying to drown out the sound of his voice, "Plus I'm great company! I've been told I'm very charming-" you stop in your tracks and turn around annoyed, ready to give him a piece of your mind.

He wasn't as quick though, and ended up body slamming on you. You yelp as you feel yourself getting off balance, you close your eyes, waiting for the pain to hit any moment now.

But it never came.

Instead you feel a warm hand around your wrist. You open your eyes seeing Dick Grayson looking down at you.

Your breath is caught in your throat, getting dizzy.

"Are you okay?" he asks, and you feel your whole body burning up at the proximity. He's so close, too close.

"Okay, lets have that bet, whatever!" you end up exclaiming, pulling away from him, it was like if you'd stayed in his presence any longer, he would have burned you alive. And with that, you storm away, leaving him behind with a confused smile on his face.

He didn't know what was going on with you, but you agreed.

A win is a win, and he'd take it.

You wanted to say that falling asleep in the library wasn't a common occurrence.

And a few weeks ago you'd say that this is lie and you're not a liar.

But nowadays, lies are all you tell.

So, no falling asleep in the library, drool coating your chin wasn't common.

The same way your dream about Dick Grayson did not make you feel a certain way.

You shake your head as you tighten your coat around you. Gotham winters are brutal. The temperature was below freezing at this point, and the city was one rainstorm away from being coated in white, like a very depressed, very drunk bride to be.

God, you couldn't wait to get out of this hell hole. Go someplace warmer, safer, and welcoming. Metropolis sounds like a good choice. Maybe even leave the country? But then you'd had to learn a whole new language, and at this point, the only thing you can store in your brain is information for next weeks test. Maybe in the summer?

You could learn French, maybe Greek? What if you just went for it and learned Chinese? That could be fun.

You speed up, pulling your head out of your own daydreams, trying to get to the bus stop as quickly as you can.

Living this far away from the city centre is annoying for sure, but apartments aren't cheap anywhere, much less a nice apartment with no holes in the walls and no leaking ceilings, in a good neighborhood, close to the university. But that wasn't your apartment, and that wasn't your neighbourhood. So you speed walk towards the bus hoping the last bus of the day hasn't gone by while you slept.

You check the display on the bus stop. A quarter past one, fifteen minutes till the bus arrived. You exhale in relief at this, you'll be home soon enough, safe under the warm covers of your bed.

You sit on the bench, close your eyes, and let the cold air caress your face. This was a good time to do your mental journaling. This way, you can just head to bed without disrupting your carefully constructed routine.

And this was a good day all in all.

Your coffee was less watered down than usual. You arrived in class just in time. Dick Grayson looking like an angel- No. No Dick Grayson. No dream. That didn't happen.

Okay, let's start from the top. Your coffee was less watered down than usual. You arrived in class just in time. You got your American History test score back, which meant you wouldn't have to pair up with Grayson. They had pasta in the cafeteria. Dick Grayson smiling down at you with his perfect smile, his skin shining -

You open your eyes, exhaling in annoyance. "Jesus Christ..." you matter as you start pacing.

Ten minutes to go.

This didn't make any sense. You don't like the guy, not even as a friend, much less in any romantic or sexual way. All he does is annoy you, pulling your focus away from what is important. So why? Why the hell the only thing you can think of is that stupid dream you had, which by the way was nothing more than your brain using what he said to you, to conjure up these absurd images. If anything, this was his fault. Again.

It wasn't like- you stop at your tracks. There are footsteps closing in.

You turn forward and see a man approaching you. Shit. He was older than you and bigger.

Maybe he's just there for the bus. There's no reason you freak out, you think, but you still hold your bag tighter, just in case you needed to run or hit him or both at the same time.

"How long?" you hear him say, his voice low and gruff, slurring. God, you could smell the alcohol on his breath from here.

"Wh-What?" you stutter turning your head to look at him.

"Can't you hear? How long is the bus?" he yelled pulling his hands out of his pockets.

You felt nauseous in his presence, "O-Oh, it's gonna be here in," you check your phone, "seven minutes." he only grunts in response, you turn forward, hoping he'll stop asking questions.

But in no universe, you'd ever get what you want, "Tis very late for a young thing like you to be out in the cold," you only hum in response, "What are you? 21? 22?" you don't amswer.

He takes a step towards you, you shuffle to the side, "Don't be like that sweetheart-"

"Please stop!" you yell, shoulders jumping up ready for impact.

You feel the man stiffen next to you. And then, he starts laughing, "Oh, come on, I didn't even do anything!" he threw his hands up, the smell of alcohol getting stronger. Beer, you could now tell.

"All you women are like that! You just assume all men are pricks!" you feel his spit landing on your cheek and immediately fight the urge to recoil in disgust.

You slowly raise your trembling hand to wipe your cheek, not daring to look at the man. Too scared to. Of how close he is. Of what he could do to you. Of how even when you screamed for help, no one would come.

What is another is another grave in Gotham, but a number on a very long list.

Your actions seemed to have aggravated the man further as he began to shake in anger, "YOU FUCKING BITCH," you jump at the volume, grip tightening more, "I was," he forcibly lowered his voice, "just being nice to you! But you had to make me-"

"DONT TOUCH ME!" you scream the moment the man grabbed your arm, "LET GO OF ME!" you start pulling your arm to yourself, but his grip only tightens. Tears sting your eyes.

"LISTEN HERE YOU BITCH-" you close your eyes tightly, waiting for his next move.

This is it. This is where you die. Good God, you are going to die without having done anything with your life. You should have taken that gap year. You should have travelled more. Maybe find someone to marry and live a happy quiet life.

But no, now you'll be just a mention on tomorrows news. Maybe someone will shed a tear or two, but that's all. You'll be forgotten the moment the next big crime strikes Gotham, and this son of a bitch is gonna roam fr-

"I thought she asked you to let go?" you hear another voice with no one to belong to. You open your eyes quickly, trying to see who spoke. But no one seemed to be around.

"What?" the man lets go and turns around, slightly stumbling, "Who said that?" he asks, and you see a head appear from above you.

You hand shoots to your heart when you lock eyes with the owner of the voice, as he grins at you, holding a finger to his lips.

"I'm your conscience," he says, disappearing again as the man turns around and you're face to face with him again, "you shouldn't harass women."

"Come out, punk!" the man yells as you take more steps backwards.

"What? Are you too much of a pussy to face me like a man?" you see the mysterious voice drop behind him, getting a closer look only when he stood up straight.

Tight black costume. Blue accents. Domino mask. Nightwing, no doubt.

This was your first time ever to see one of Gotham's vigilantes in the flesh, and to be honest, you were surprised he was real. Practically, you knew he existed, he was all over the news, but it was different seeing him up close. He seemed... familiar? In a way you can't quite place...

"You insult me!" Nightwing joked as he moved behind his back undetected, without any particular difficulty, "I think dick suits me better." he says before smacking the man's neck, knocking him unconscious.

You look at him in awe, mouth hanging, eyes wide as saucers, as he turns to you, a shit eating grin on his face as if he said some great joke.

"Are you alright?" he asks you, his voice stable, although it had another layer to it, well hidden, "Did he hurt you?" he moves closer checking for any superficial injuries.

You stand there, staring at him with a blank expression.

You can still feel the blood rushing through your veins, your heartbeat distinct in your ears.

You're alive. You're still alive.

You can see the vigilante approach you slowly, his hands raised in front of him. He was saying something... What was he saying?

"Hey, it's okay..." Dick slowly approaches you, but you seem to be completely unresponsive. Probably in shock from what happened. "He's gone, you're safe." he says now in front of you.

He can hear the bus approaching, you must have been waiting for it, but you still remain still, even as the bus speeds by you both.

"Do you need a ride home?" he asks.

You hear the bus, you do. You know you should have gotten on it, but your legs are not moving. He's still talking.

You're broken out of your trance by Nightwings hand on your shoulder, you shake a bit at the gesture before you calm yourself.

He's a hero. He wouldn't do anything to you.

"I- I'm sorry, what?" you look at him, staring right in the whites of his domino mask. He looks concerned.

"Do you need a lift home?" he asks, his hand falling back to his side.

He looks at you, too. He notices the crease of your eyebrows, how you bite the inside of your cheek. Your knuckles are white, your eyes darting around checking for danger.

You're nervous, scared. Dick has never seen you like this, and he would never if you had anything to say about it.

You quickly wipe your cheeks, feeling the dry tears, "I would appreciate that, thank you." you say clearing your throat. He just nods, and starts talking to whoever it was on the other side of the intercom.

You close your eyes, sitting back on the bench, letting the cold winter air caress your face.

Today was a bad day.

Your coffee was less watered down than usual. You arrived in class just in time. You got your American History test score back, which meant you wouldn't have to pair up with Grayson. They had pasta in the cafeteria. You fell asleep in the library. You were attacked. And a man in spandex is taking you home.

It was a very shitty day all in all.

Dick was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, an arm behind his head.

He's been there for what, two hours? maybe three, he didn't know anymore, he didn't care to find out.

Last nights patrol has left him in shambles, seeing you like that. Crying. Helpless.

Sure, he had seen people cry before, people who had gone through her same thing as you. People who have gone through less or more.

But you? Crying? He never hoped to see you like that.

You were always so well put together. Confident. Assertive.

He's seen you annoyed, happy, stressed. He's seen you just exist. Although he supposes yesterday you were just existing too, until that asshole decided to assault you.

It felt... sort of intimate, seeing someone so confident, fall apart.

And he hated it.

He has imagined so many things with you in mind -plans he wanted to make true if only you didn't seem to hate the ground he walked on, all the while he worshipped the one you did in secret.

But his daydreams were always happy. First kisses, first dates, and peaceful days. Wedding days and kids running around. You were always smiling in them.

He knows it's strange and probably a bit creepy to think all that when you barely wasted a glance at him. But he had come to terms with it. It wasn't like he was the only one who did it. Or like he stalked you.

Yesterday was an eye-opener. He idealised you, thought you couldn't be anything aside from what he saw, what he thought.

He was wrong.

He felt ashamed to have thought that. Ashamed to have stripped you from the right of being human, just for you to fit his delusions.

Yesterday he saw you, not all of you but more than he had before. And it left him more determined to get to know everything.

First step was to get you to be his partner at the project, and with his score he was pretty sure has got that one in the bag.

Then he'd make you fall for his charms. Also easy.

Then, he'd hope you don't actually hate him too much. That one he didn't know how to make sure of.

He sighed and closed his eyes, his brain immediately conjuring up the image of your face last night. You seemed so out of it, crying, unresponsive. You seemed to have been pulled some place he couldn't understand or reach. There's so much he didn't know.

He wonders if you are doing better tonight, but he can't check on you in any way.

Except he could.

He knew where you lived. He could drop by and check on you.

Actually, Nightwing could. That wouldn't do much to further his plans, but it'd calm the tightness in his chest.

No.

That's too much.

Maybe he should stake out at the bus stop. Or maybe he could be normal for once in his life and leave you alone.

You feel chills walking at the bus station. You know statistically it isn't very likely you'll be attacked again, but still the fear of possibility lingers.

Its much earlier this time around -you made sure to not fall asleep in the library again, and quite frankly you wouldn't do it again.

But the cold and the darkness where the same. As did the fact you the the only person waiting for the bus.

But you had bought a pepper spray, that must account for something, right?

You sit on the bench, same as you did last time, and before you know youre spacing out again. This seemed to be the norm the last few days.

After the dream.

You hate that this is the only thing you can think of, that he seems to consume your every thought, working himself into the corners of your mind.

And he doesn't even know! He's walking around clueless of just how much he has thrown you off of your game.

Maybe he knows. Maybe he went to one of those witches and had the dream incepted in your brain because he wanted to mess with you. That's it.

There's no other explanation on why you'd-

"You'll get attacked again if you keep zoning you like this." a voice breaks you out of your thoughts6 turn your head and see the very same guy that saved you the other night, "Hello." he smiles at you, and you can only think about how he must have practiced for hours in the mirror to get it just right.

"Should I be afraid you're here again?" you ask him, holding the pepper spray tighter. Hero or not, he's a man.

He comes and sits next to you, like he knew you from yesterday, making you scoot a bit to the side, "Afraid I'm stalking you?" he asks, flashing that award winning smile of his again.

"Are you?" you raise an eyebrow, looking into the whites on his mask.

"What if I am?" he shoots back, like second nature. He's so weird.

You roll your eyes at him, "Then youre doing a terrible job at it." he just chuckles, "Why are you even here?" you ask him.

Of course it was possible that it was a coincidence, and that he was patrolling the area- "I wanted to check on you." he interrupts you.

Your eyebrows shoot up in a mix of surprise and confusion, why would he want to do that?

"You seemed very distraught," he continues when you dont answer him, "It seemed like you were traumatised." he says, fighting the urge to fidget.

He couldn't do that, he was Nightwing. What kind of impression would he give if he appeared anything but confident.

But this is you we we're talking about, how can he not be nervous. Especially how its the first time, he seems to having a conversation with you without you trying to get him to leave.

You stay quiet for another moment, "So you are stalking me." he say trying to hide a smile. He's caught off guard at your words. He had never expected that answer.

"You seem much too nonchalant about that." he says smirking, any ounce of anxiety he had leaving his body.

"Why shouldn't I be?" you turn forward, not looking at him, "You seem hardly dangerous," you say, "Besides, I can take care of myself."

Dicks eyes glint at your response, "Crime alley?" he asks, jumping at the chance to learn more about you.

"East End," you muse, and he smiles at you, humming, not saying another word, and you fall into a comfortable silence before he starts talking again, about what, you can't remember.

The only thing you know is that no matter how strange, you feel content with this stranger talking your ear off.

This is the worst moment in your life. Rock bottom.

"See, this sweetheart?" Dick shoves the paper in your face, "98%" he grins at your flabbergasted expression, "I win!"

You're having war flashbacks. How could this have happened.

"Only for a point!" you exclaim annoyed at how smug he looked.

Dick seems to be a silver away from jumping around and dancing, and honestly you'd prefer that, to his smug annoying smirk.

"Deal's a deal honey bunch!" he says stuffing his test back into his bag, "So when do we start?" he asks

What sins had you committed in your past life to deserve this?

Still, you weren't gonna go back on your word, even if you agreed out of desperation to get away from him.

"Fine," you exhale and his smiles widens, "We start tomorrow," you continue opening up your bag, pulling out a pen and your post-its, "Be there at 10," you scribble down your address, Dick stood patiently, his cheeks hurting from how wide he was smiling, "And don't be late." you say pointedly as you hand him the paper, which he took with a smile.

"Got it!" he nods, "See you tomorrow!" he walks away.

Was that a skip in his step?

You stare at his form getting smaller and smaller, your face slowly falling.

What have you done?

Never mind that, how would you make sure you would freak out while having him in your house?

After that day, every morning, you'd meet up with Dick to work on your project.

The first few sessions, were hell for you. You were always stepping on glass even in your own home, and he seemed to be oblivious to all of it.

Then, suddenly everything was fine!

Turns out he wasn't as bad as you thought he was - when his stuff wasn't taking over the whole room anyway. Contrary to what you thought of him, he was actually putting in effort in order to achieve the marks he did, and the whole reason he seemed so chill in class, was because he crammed all the material 4 days before the final by pulling all-nighter after all-nighter. You even got to witness that in person, when you both had a test and he decided that having a study buddy was beneficial for you both, and by extension crashed on your couch until the exam was over.

That put you a bit at ease at first, that you were on equal footing. That he wasn't somehow flying through university because of his father.

Then you simply realised, you were being a bitch to him for no reason. No matter how jealous you were, you had no reason to act like you did.

And now? You somehow had become friends.

You dont know when or how it had become a staple for Dick to come over so you could eat lunch together. But you didn't mind it one bit.

As much as you'd never admit it to him -in fear you'd boost his ego even more, God knows he didn't need it - he was great company. He had this talent of never letting the conversation die, which made him very entertaining to be around.

His affinity to talk endlessly, was especially helpful to you the first few times he came over to work for the project.

You were so afraid that your stupid dream wouldn't let you get any work done, especially with him sitting across from you, but as if he knew that you were nervous, he managed to talk the entire time he was there, whether it was about the project or not. And while you found that annoying, it also made you realise that you were fretting over nothing. Because the dream was just that, a dream.

You quickly learned that Dick Grayson was never gonna be as smooth as he was in that dream. At least not the Dick you knew.

The Dick you knew, banged his head on the table when he couldn't figure something out, and he'd show you pictures of his siblings any chance he got, and he would barge into your house and gush about Superman. He would drop by at the weirdest time, just to show you a new game he got, or to tell you about a book his brother recommended.

You're pulled back to reality at the sound of your door opening, Dick appearing in the kitchen soon enough.

"You'll never guess what happened before I got here," he said and you looked at him as he rambled on about how, his little brother, Damian, got a cow as a pet and how the cow somehow ended up in the manor.

You smiled as you hummed every once, acknowledging all that he said, all the while feeling a comfortable warmth spreading through your chest.

You had fallen into a comfortable routine with him, you've gotten so used to his presence, that it seemed wrong to you, how you used to avoid him like the plague.

Then at night, Nightwing would drop by, taking a break from patrol, basically forcing you to stop studying for a while - he said it's because it is mutually beneficial, you said he's full of shit and that he should just admit to missing you, which he didn't deny.

That was another thing you had grown accustomed too.

After the second time you saw him at the bus stop, he kept appearing. "I'd be a terrible stalker if I didn't" he said when you asked him why he' basically dropping you home every chance he gets.

You didn't know how you ended up becoming friends with the vigilante, but you did, and for a guy that wears a skin tight suit and calls himself Nightwing, he was great company. Although his ego was also somewhere amongst the clouds -probably hanging out with Dicks.

You're sitting on the desk in your room, studying, when you feel your skin tingle. Someone was in your room.

You immediately grab the cup you have next to you and throw it at the intruder, only to hear the familiar low chuckle of Nightwing.

"Really sweetheart?" he raising an eyebrow as your shoulders slump in relief, "I thought you'd know better by now." he tilts his head before, moving closer to place the cup back on your desk.

You roll your eyes at him, "You could have knocked idiot." you say as he moves and lays on the floor, relief flowing in his bones. He knows better that to lie on you bed in his 'grim, dirty suit' as you made sure to point out last time he did it.

"Where's the fun in that?" he smirks as you turn around to look at him. Your exhale as you look at him, noticing the small cuts on his cheek, immediately grabbing the small bottle of iodine you stored in your room for that exact reason

"Can't win either way," you mumble as you move next to him, opening up the cap. Nightwing sits up, laying his back on the bed post as you move closer.

You work in silence staring at his face, slowly applying it on his cuts, when you notice three distinct marks on his face shaped like a triangle.

Strange.

"This is funny," you say as you softly apply iodine on the cut at the side of his face

"What is?"

"My friend has the same three moles on his cheek."

Nightwing stills at your words. Do you know? How long have you known? Is this your way of telling him you do? Are you gonna hate him for not telling you?

He's such an idiot. He shouldn't have gotten this close. Now you'll know his identity and be in constant danger.

"A lot of people have moles," he says nonchalantly, muscles tense.

"But in the same pattern?"

"It's more common that you think,"

"I'm sure it is," you mutter, focused on not missing a cut.

You both stay quiet for a while. You seemed to not have made the connection, causing Dick to relax a bit. You didn't know.

You did, however, seem to notice the moles on his face in the time he spent with you as a civilian. You even called him a friend.

He hoped you couldn't feel his pulse rising at the revelation.

"What is your friend like?" he asks before he could stop himself.

"He's nice I suppose"

"You suppose?" he turns to look at you, but you move away, sitting across from him waiting for the medicine to dry.

"He's actually perfect, it's infuriating," you continue leaning back,

"He is very social. Everybody loves him. It's because he's fun to be around. And he's doing great academically too,

"I'm kind of a terrible person to admit this, but I couldn't stand him for the longest time because I was jealous," you chuckle, thinking how stupid that was of you, missing out on Dick Grayson for something as immature as the first spot in the class,

"He seemed to be able to do anything effortlessly when I couldn't. I know now that it was stupid to dislike him for that, but it was eating me away." you stop for a minute, lost in thought.

"It was unfair too, since all he did was be nice to me even when i was acting like a bitch."

It felt strange hearing you talk about him to him, but he couldn't help but pry.

"What made you change your mind?" he asks.

"Do you know how you have this idea of what people are like in your head? And then you find out they're nothing like that?" he knows because he did have one of what you'd be like, before the incident,

"Well, I thought he was a lucky trust fund baby who just messed around in class. But then I had to work with him, and it turns out he's actually very smart. He's also insufferably nice. That part is still annoying." you smile and he felt like his heart would burst

"One time, he went to deal with my neighbour because he kept knocking on my door and then disappearing, " Dick remembers that day, you were both sitting on your couch brainstorming for the project when a knock echoed through your house. He looks at the door, expecting you to go check, but you never did. Turns out one of your neighbours keeps knocking and disappearing. You told him not to worry about it, but he was having none of that and stop by the door for another hour, catching him red-handed the next time he knocked. Safe to say he didn't bother you again.

"He's... special. I'm glad he's in my life..."

Dick hums in understanding as you lean forward again and continue working, your touch hot against his skin.

A win is a win, he thought. You don't hate him anymore, and he'll take what he can get, so he stays silent, feeling you apply ointment on his cuts.

"I actually dreamt of him once..." you say, getting up from the floor to grab the band-aids. Nightwing stills staring intensively at you.

"You did?" he asks carefully. He didn't know this...

You chuckle lightly as you plop next to him again, holding a package of colourful band aids - he thought it was charming that you still used those for kids - "Yeah", you take a pink one out and start to peel it,

"I dreamt of kissing him in the kitchen," now you had him hanging from your lips more than he ever did before, "he had come over for the project, in my dream, in actual life I hadn't even agreed to do it with him," so this was before he saved you.

You chuckle again, pressing tightly the band aid over his cut, "I couldn't function for days, it was all I could think about..." you trail off, opening another band aid. "It's stupid..."

Dick speaks before you can even think of falling deeper into your thoughts, "Doesn't sound stupid to me," he says looking at you, "You seem to be in love with the guy," he self projects as you stare at him annoyed, he loved it when you did that, "Can't blame you since he's oh so charming and smart!" he teased

"Oh, shut up" you roll your eyes, slapping lightly his abdomen, causing him to wince.

"You are so mean," he whines, holding his abdomen in mock pain.

"You love me," you joke, getting up, moving everything back to its place, his eyes following your every move, a lovestruck expression painting his face.

He did.

You don't want to say that you feel disappointed that Nightwing didn't show up tonight. You know he's busy. Plus its not like you're entitled to his time.

He's a hero for Gods shake, he doesn't have time to drop by just because you feel lonely.

You could always call Dick... But it's late and he's probably getting his beaty sleep.

You exhale, as you stand up, stretching as you move the bathroom.

You mechanically grab your toothbrush, applying a generous amount of toothpaste on it. You can hear your mothers voice in your head, telling you not to be wasteful, but your teeth don't feel clean enough, if you don't look like your foaming at the mouth by the end of brushing.

You spit out the foam, "Sorry mom," you say as you rinse the rest out.

You feel like shed be proud to see where you are. Attending university, having friends, having a stable life.

You smile as you back hits your bed, ready to doze off until the morning.

And then you hear it. A knock on the glass of your window.

Your ears immediately perk up at the sound, "Nightwing?" you call out, seeing the familiar black and blue suit, the atmosphere in the room changing.

He knocked... He never knocks...

"Hey sweet cheeks," he says, sending a smile towards your way, voice weaker than you've ever heard before. Something was very wrong...

You scan over him. He's leaning his back against the windowsill, his lips is busted coating his chin with blood. His chest is heaving up and down, like he's having trouble breathing. And his hand is draped over his abdomen, pressing on them.

And then it hits you. The distinct metallic smell of blood.

You feel your stomach turn, staring in his eyes. With a quick move you open the window wider. "Get in and take off your suit." he say as calmly as you can.

But he feels like messing around, "Damn girl, take me out to dinner, at least." he says as he slowly climbs in, immediately sitting down groaning as he did. You were having none of his bullshit today.

"Take it off." you demand again and he slowly peels off the upper part.

Your hands fly to cover your mouth at the large gush on his abdomen. The blood seems to have stopped by the pressure the suit was adding to the skin. But everything around it was covered by a mixture of dried and new blood.

You're gonna throw up.

You stand up quickly, rushing to your bathroom, "What the hell is wrong with you!" you say, grabbing the first aid kit, "Waltzing in here, bleeding out, cracking jokes!" you yell at him as you wet a towel, trying to gather your scattered thoughts.

You need alcohol. And a needle with thread. You frantically move to your kitchen, trying to gather everything before he's gone.

"It's no big deal, just a-"

"Just a scratch?" you cut him off, "Just a scratch!" you storm back into your room, eyes wide, standing over him, "Of course! Just a scratch! A small scratch that extends through your torso!" you yell at him, tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

"It's okay-" he leans forward.

"Don't tell me it's okay! Not when you're bleeding out on my carpet! Not when you have a large fucking wound that needs stiches!" you sit by him, pushing him against the wall, before dousing the wet towel with alcohol, softly cleaning the wound despite your emotional state.

You stay silent if only for a moment, trying to calm yourself, "Why did you come here?" you ask him, staring into the whites of his domino mask, after he didn't speak.

He takes a second to answer, "I wanted to see you."

You gape at him, "Are you insane?" you exclaim dapping his skin with more pressure, causing him to wince, "You wanted to see me? Tomorrow is a day too, Nightwing! What on earth made you think that it was a good idea to come here in this state?" you throw the towel to the side, grabbing the needle, "What if I didn't know how to stitch you up? What then?" you pass the thread through, dipping the whole thing in alcohol. "What then?"

Dick lowers his eyes to look at you, chuckling lightly, "You're from the East End," he muses, trying to focus his vision on you, "Of course you'd know.."

"That's no reason-"

Nightwing winces as you drench his would with alcohol again, "It's not a big deal-" he begins to say, cutting you off, but you interrupt him.

"Not a big deal?" you say slowly now, a single tear falling from your eye, eyes trembling as you force the needle to pierce through his skin, "You are hurt! What if you bleed out in front of me and I can't help you?" you say, allowing more tears to break free. Dick could feel his heart breaking.

"What if you died?" you said slowly, trying to steady your hand, doing your best to keep that from happening.

"But I'm not-" he goes to lean closer to you again.

"You could!", you push him back, not daring to look up, focusing on your handiwork, tears falling like waterfalls, blurring your vision.

You just need to focus, a couple more to go. Just to keep him alive, until he can call someone to get him to an actual doctor. They dont have to be perfect. They just need to keep him here with you.

He doesn't dare break the silence, letting you do your work, regretting the moment he decided to come here.

He doesn't even know how he did, much less why.

He remembers fighting, and then the pain bleeding throughout his body. Next thing he knew, he was outside your house, holding his abdomen, trying to walk in a straight.

You sit back when youre done, staring at the badly patched up wound, ears ringing.

"I know I can be mean and-" you break the silence, voice low and hoarse, "and that I am a total bitch, and I know i dont say it often, but I care!" you exclaim, "I care so much and I- I don't wanna lose you..." you say softly, "You're my first friend here, and- and-" Dick watches you as sobs wreck your whole body, his hands instinctively move towards you, wanting to provide any semblance of comfort, even when pain radiates at every movement.

"It's okay," he says, pulling you against him despite the pain, "I'm okay, I'm here." he brushes his fingers through your hair, letting you get it all out, "I'm not dying."

"But you could be..." you say, pulling away, looking at him, "If not today, then tomorrow... I can’t do this again! I can’t watch you come in here hurt, pretending it’s all okay. I can’t-" you trail off, turning your gaze away from him.

But he doesn't, he looks at you, as he always did. He doesn't think he was able to see until he met you the first day of university, even if you shoot his suggestion of hanging out down. It was like the world was filled with all kinds of colours he didn't even know existed. He wanted to see more, he wanted to watch you forever.

Even like this, even if you're crying in his arms, even if it is his fault.

You take a deep breath, opening your mouth to speak again, but don't get a chance. His hand flies on the back of your neck, pulling you closer to him, slotting his lips against yours, before you get the chance to react.

You freeze at this, not leaning in, not backing out. Just sitting there frozen, brain short circuiting.

His kiss is soft. Slow, as if he's scared, you'll run away. But you don't. You lean into it, accepting whatever he was willing to give to you.

His lips are chapped against yours, but you don't mind because that is so entirely him.

You feel the tension in him, the hesitancy, the unspoken emotions swirling between you. His kiss deepens slightly, but it’s still gentle, tender-like he’s testing the waters, unsure if you’ll pull away or welcome him in.

And just like with everything else about him, you welcome this change of pace, wanting nothing more than to feel him close. Alive.

You slowly move your hand to rest over his heart, and he immediately covers it with his own, pressing it firmer on his chest, letting you feel the heartbeat against your skin.

He's here. He's alive.

After a moment, he pulls away, resting his forehead against yours. You can see the determination on his face.

"I can't promise," he says slowly, afraid he'll scare you away, "I can't promise you that I'll won't get hurt, that I won't be reckless..." you feel your heart tighten at his words, tears welling up again, "But I can promise to always come back..." he stares into your eyes, "You won't lose me."

Sobs break out of you once again as you throw yourself around his shoulders, hugging him tightly, his own arms snaking around your waist.

And you stay there, entangled in one another, even after you stop crying.

He keeps holding you close, afraid you'll disappear if he doesn't. Afraid that this is just a dream, he'll soon wake up from.

He holds you close until he feels your breath lower and your body giving away to exhaustion.

And even then, he doesn't leave. He sits by you for another hour before Bruce calls to check on him.

He knows he has to leave, to get his wound checked out.

But all that seemed insignificant when he held you.

okay! this was supposed to be waaaay longer but tumblr wouldn't let me add more dividers😭😭

I hope you'll enjoy it! :)))

#batfam #dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x you #dick grayson x y/n #nightwing #nightwing x reader #nightwing x y/n #nightwing x you #richard grayson #richard grayson x reader #richard grayson x you

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monster-disaster · 5 months ago

Note

For monsters would robots or mechs be considered under the umbrella? If so I'd love to see one of those

robot!2000 x human!Reader Good to know: smut, filming

A/N: I'm not sure they count as monsters, but we don't care about it here, so here it is:

"Are you sure it won't hurt me?"

"It'll be fine, Y/N," the director says, holding up a sleek, black remote. A tiny red light blinks at its center. "See? I can turn it off anytime. You've got nothing to worry about."

His words don’t entirely soothe the flutter of nerves tightening in your stomach, but you decide to let it slide. Instead, you take a steadying breath and let your gaze drift to the set. They've dressed it as a bedroom this time, with warm, earthy tones and fabrics that seem to glow under the studio lights. A plush comforter and layers of silky throws drape over the bed in the center. Their textures and hues are softened by the bright glow. It’s familiar and ordinary, yet there’s one aspect that pulls your gaze: the robot. Perched at the edge of the bed, it sits still and silent. Its steel-blue body catches the light in sharp reflections. Its hard lines and edges define a shape that’s more machine than man. Where eyes should be, two glassy lenses stare blankly ahead, they are more like headlights than anything else. There's no nose, no lips, just a featureless mask of metal. The craftsmanship is impressive, each seam welded with care, every surface polished to a mirror-like sheen, but despite the quality, it’s still unlike anything you’ve worked with before.

"It’s just a trial run, Y/N," the director assures you, a touch of seriousness entering his voice. He knows you are hesitating. "And remember, we can stop at any moment. You are in control."

"Yeah," you reply with a sigh. There's still a thread of doubt in your mind, but a spark of curiosity flickers to life as well. How would this even work? What would it feel like? Your imagination spirals through possibilities that feel both thrilling and unsettling.

“Think of it as a high-tech vibrator with some... extras," someone quips from the crew, breaking the tension. You let out a huff of laugh at the absurdity of it all but still feel yourself relax a little. Looking at it now, cold and mechanical, it’s actually easier to imagine it as an oversized toy than a person.

"Alright, let's begin," you finally say, shrugging the soft robe off your shoulders and letting it pool at your feet. Bare and exposed, you cross the set with slow, deliberate steps.

Though you've been on sets like this many times before, it feels strangely unfamiliar now. There’s an odd hollowness to the room; you’re acutely aware of being alone in front of the cameras. Each lens is trained intently on you, capturing your every movement. Before, there was always someone by your side to share the stage with.

But now, it’s just you and… it.

Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you can’t help but glance back and forth between the crew behind the lights and the motionless hulk of metal before you. It sits there, rigid and silent. You feel its presence but can’t shake how empty it seems.

After a moment, you call out, "What should I do?" You squint toward the lights, knowing the director is there, though you can’t make him out through the brightness.

"Get to know it better," he replies smoothly, his tone both encouraging and calm. "I won’t turn it on until you say so."

"Does it have a name?" you ask, stepping closer until your leg brushes his knees. It's cold against your skin.

"Two Thousand, for short."

"Still a mouthful," you mutter, earning a snort from somewhere off-set, and you roll your eyes with a chuckle of your own.

Turning your attention back to the robot, you take a cautious step forward, positioning yourself between its legs. The metal frame looms over you, so still that it feels both fragile and imposing. You shuffle carefully, aware of every inch of space, worried that a single misstep might send it toppling.

"Okay, 2K," you murmur, almost to yourself. Standing there, bare under the watchful eyes of the cameras, you feel a strange vulnerability with something that doesn’t even acknowledge your presence.

The lights catch the robot’s exterior, highlighting its metallic shell in shifting hues of steel and blue. With a slight tremble, you reach out, fingers brushing its cold face, feeling the smoothness of its mask-like surface. It doesn’t give under your touch; no warmth, no softness. Your fingertips trace along the hard lines and rigid contours, searching for something familiar, something human, or monster, that isn't there. Each feature is crafted with an almost unsettling precision, as though whoever designed it aimed to capture a form but left out the essence. One of your hands trails down from the robot’s face to touch its shoulder, feeling the ridges and seams where each piece of the outer shell connects.

"Alright, 2K," you whisper, inching closer. Your fingers explore further down, testing how it might feel to embrace this odd, unyielding body. Its chest is solid, a sleek, polished surface that feels strangely impersonal, and yet… as your hands slide over its torso, you can sense the immense complexity beneath the exterior, the intricate network of wires and mechanisms that make it tick. A part of you wants to press your ear to its chest, to see if you can hear something, a hum, a pulse, anything that might hint at life within this shell, but you know you would find nothing.

"I'm ready," you murmur, glancing up at the cameras and bright lamps surrounding you. The weight of their gaze feels heavier now as if just remembering that you are not alone. At least, not entirely. You give a small nod toward the lights. "You can turn it on."

A moment passes, and you catch a slight flicker behind the robot's eyes as the director presses a button on the remote. The room holds its breath, the silence thickening as you watch the lifeless machine come to life.

Slowly, there’s a shift. The machine’s joints emit a faint whirring sound as it adjusts its stance, trying to seem relaxed and comfortable. The blue lights in its eyes brighten, and its head lifts a little. Though you can't be sure, it feels like its unblinking gaze is fixed on you with a weight that wasn't there a moment ago. It’s subtle, but there’s a presence now, an awareness that sends a ripple through the air.

“Hello, 2K,” you say. Your voice is softer now, almost like a whisper. You reach out again, feeling the same cold metal under your fingertips, but this time, it’s as if the machine acknowledges your touch, its head tilting slightly in response.

"It can't speak yet," the director interjects, cutting through the charged atmosphere. "It can understand what you say, but we still need some programming before it's finished."

You nod, absorbing this information. "And what should we do?" Your voice is steady but laced with uncertainty. In any other filming scenario, you could rely on the other actor to take the lead, to help you navigate the scene if you feel lost, but right now, the only companion you have is the robot who merely sits on the bed, staring at you silently.

The director clears his throat, his gaze shifting from the monitor back to you. "Just engage with it. Think of it as a scene with a living character."

You nod slowly, but when you’re sure the cameras can’t capture your expression, you can’t help but grimace. It’s definitely easier said than done. The concept of treating this cold, unfeeling machine as if it were alive feels impossible.

You take a deep breath, trying to shake off the nervous energy buzzing in your veins. "Okay, 2K," you sigh again with a hint of determination in your voice. “Help me make this interesting.”

Your words seem to reach deeper than you thought they would because the next second, its, no, it doesn’t feel right anymore, his hands lift from his hard thighs, palms smoothing over your hips with a surprising gentleness.

"Oh," you gasp, taken aback by the shock and coldness of his touch.

“Told you it can understand you,” the director says with a hint of laughter dancing in his voice.

You blink, trying to process what just happened. “Yeah,” you breathe out. “Okay.”

The robot’s hands remain on your hips, steady and firm, yet the way they linger carries a strange tenderness. The cool metal against your skin becomes a focal point, heightening your senses, and making the world around you fade away just a little.

“Let’s see where this goes,” you say. “So, what now? Do you have a plan, or are we just improvising?” You mean it as a joke, but the robot reacts anyway.

The whirring sound grows louder, a mechanical hum resonating through the air as his grip on your hip tightens just enough to pull you onto his lap. Another shocked gasp escapes your lips as you feel the hard edges of his frame press against your own soft thighs. The contrast is startling yet strangely thrilling.

"We have to do something with the sound," some murmurs in the background.

Your hands instinctively find their place on his wide shoulders, fingers curling into the smooth surface of his metallic body. The way he holds you is surprisingly secure, his grip firm yet gentle, as if he’s navigating the balance between strength and caution.

“Okay, 2K,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, a playful challenge underlying your tone. “What’s your next move?”

His hand from your side slips up to your breast, gently exploring the softness of your flesh in his cold grip. The contrast of his metallic touch against your skin sends a ripple of sensation through you, hardening your nipple instantly. You hold your breath, the moment feeling both intimate and surreal as his fingertips glide over the underside, tracing the outline in careful exploration.

“Oh,” you murmur with a hint of chuckle. “You’re definitely more curious than I expected.”

You lean into him more, allowing yourself to embrace the moment. “Show me what you’ve got,” you say playfully.

Your heart races with anticipation, but his response is immediate. You feel his grip shift slightly, adjusting his hold around you so you sink more against him.

“What do you think of this?” you ask, cupping your breasts and pressing them together in a way that angles them for the cameras, ensuring they catch the moment. “Do you like it?” You try to shake off the awkwardness that comes from the robot’s silence, the lack of an audible answer hanging in the air tensely. Instead of words, 2K reaches out again. His movements are smooth and deliberate. His thumbs glide over your skin, brushing against your nipples. The coolness of his metal touch contrasts sharply with the warmth of your body.

“Wow,” you breathe out, caught off guard by how responsive he is, despite his silence. His exploration feels almost intimate as if he’s not just following instructions but genuinely interacting with you. You instinctively arch toward him, craving more of his curious touch.

The cameras continue to roll, capturing every word and every movement, but the watchful eyes are slipped to the back of your mind by now.

“Let’s move on,” the director says quietly. His voice cut through the haze of your focus. As usual, you want to follow his instruction without hesitation, but as you glance down between your bodies, you find… nothing. Your eyes widen in recognition, and confusion washes over you.

“Where- where is his dick?” you stammer, looking up at the bright lights as if they might offer some explanation for the sudden gap in your understanding, but before anyone can reply, the 2K reacts. With a smooth mechanical grace and a whirring sound, the plates beneath the sleek metal of its abdomen slide apart. His cock emerges, firm and gleaming. It juts out between your bodies, stealing your breath away for several seconds.

"This guy is full of surprises, isn't it?" You ask, almost laughing.

The director hums with a chuckle. "I believe you know what you have to do from now on."

A few silent seconds stretch out before you finally speak up again. “But how does it work? Does he need to consent? I mean-"

“Y/N, it’s a robot... he’s really just a giant vibrator."

“Yeah, but-" The longer you look at him, the more difficult it becomes to see him as just a hunk of metal, especially when his smooth, mechanical hands start to caress your bare skin. He draws delicate circles on your sides, the touch sending shivers up your spine, and gently pulls at your nipples with just the right amount of pressure to elicit a gasp from your lips. Each calculated movement blurs the lines between machine and human, igniting a flicker of warmth within you that makes it impossible to ignore the growing excitement.

"I think we can call it consent," somebody says in the background with a touch of surprise in his voice when the robot grips your hips firmly, lifting you slightly off his lap just enough to glide his cock across your damp folds. The cold touch on your heated center sends a ripple over your spine and your hands tighten on his shoulders with anticipation. You feel weightless in his strong grasp as he effortlessly supports your body, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he begins to ease you down onto his length. Each inch of him stretches you, testing your limits, and you can’t help but feel grateful for the preparation you did before filming. He slips inside you with surprising ease, filling you completely until every inch of his erection is enveloped within you. A soft gasp escapes your lips as you wiggle against him, seeking friction and fueled by a surge of curiosity. The coolness of his metallic form contrasts sharply with the warmth radiating from your center, creating a tantalizing sensation that dances between discomfort and pleasure.

"I want a close-up," the director says to someone.

As you adjust to the fullness, your body instinctively reacts, contracting around him, eager for more. With each subtle shift of your hips, your breath hitches in your throat. The robot responds to your movements, adapting to your rhythm with uncanny precision. His hands remain firmly on your hips, guiding you gently as you rock against him, drawing out moans that echo in the quiet room.

You can sense the curiosity of those watching, their eyes glued to the scene unfolding before them. It's new to them too.

You lean back slightly, arching your back for the camera as 2K's shaft glides in and out of you. Each thrust pushes you higher, and you can feel the pulse of desire building within you, throbbing and urging for more. You feel every subtle shift, every thrust, as he adapts to your movements. His body responds seamlessly to your desires. The sensation of him stretching you, filling you so completely, sends waves of pleasure radiating through your entire being. You feel like a raw nerve, perched on his lap with his arms around you, holding you and guiding you up and down on his cock. You rock your hips against him, half-delirious, seeking that perfect angle that sends your pleasure soaring. You feel him respond once again, adjusting his hold around you as his movements become more urgent, more insistent. He matches your rhythm, driving deeper into your bouncing heat.

In the back of your mind, you are still aware of the cameras filming you, and you try to do what you usually do for the right angles and records, but every fiber within you urges you to be selfish and chase your pleasure.

You bite your lip, stifling a moan as you feel the tension coiling tightly in your abdomen. Your breaths come in quick, shallow gasps, mingling with the soft, whirring sounds of the robot. The sensation is unlike anything you've ever felt before, a blend of raw human desire and robotic precision for your pleasure.

You grip his shoulders tighter. Your nails scratch over the smooth, metal surface. “I’m close,” you croak out. Urgency laces your voice, but before you can finish the sentence, something shifts. A high-pitched moan escapes your lips as you jolt on his length. The moment the robot's cock begins to vibrate, the world around you blurs, and all thought evaporates in your foggy mind.

The vibrations travel through you like a current, sending shockwaves of pleasure from your core. Each pulse ignites your senses, overwhelming you in the best possible way. Instinctively, you arch your back more, pressing down on him harder. The metal surface of his erection, once cool, now feels alive against your heated walls. The rhythmic buzz amplifies every movement, and with each thrust, you swear you can feel the vibration in your pussy on the tip of your fingers too.

You can’t hold back the sounds spilling from your lips in a maddening rhythm. It feels as if the entire world has narrowed down to this one electrifying moment. Your breaths come faster, more desperate, each gasp mingling with the mechanical hum of the robot.

You are teetering on the edge, and then, with one final surge of vibrations and powerful thrusts, you feel it. Your body trembles as the pleasure crashes through you like a tidal wave, leaving you breathless and blissfully adrift in your climax.

As your mind clears enough for you to lift your head from the robot’s shoulder, you gaze up at the director, noticing that the lights have dimmed slightly, casting a softer glow over the room. “How was it?” you ask breathlessly, still suspended in the remains of your incredible release. You can feel your pussy still fluttering around his rigid cock, instinctively trying to milk something more, craving that sweet sensation once again.

The man watching from his seat smirks with a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “I think it will work.”

#monster romance #monster smut #sweet asks #robot smut #robot x reader #robot x human #robophilia

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zozowrites · 2 months ago

Text

There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays

Paige Bueckers x ex!fem!reader (no Y/N)

Words: 3k

Synopsis: Blackout Wednesday rekindles some old flames.

All the shoes squeak on the sticky floor and the pungent, yeasty smell of beer floods the noses of any new patrons who enter the bar. The Paige-blonde hair is the last head of the newest group to enter, and you catch yourself doing a double take from the makeshift dance floor. Trying to convince yourself it’s just the alcohol coursing through your veins that’s making you see things. You hadn’t seen Paige since either of you left for college. It was better off like that.

But then on your third look towards the booth the group of girls had slid into, you catch the gleam of her blue eyes and there’s no denying Paige is here with her friends in the same bar you and your friends always frequented, and on blackout Wednesday of all nights.

You suppose it was sort of the purpose of blackout Wednesday, especially in a hometown as small as yours. Since it was your senior year of college, practically everyone from your high school’s graduating class that had a social life was out and about tonight. But Joe’s had always been your spot, so it felt weird that Paige would come in here.

The cold fingers of your best friend tap you on the shoulder and it pulls you out of your trance.

“Paige’s here,” You say to her, not quite sure the appropriate volume to be heard over the music but not across the room.

“I know,” She says, a sloppy smirk growing onto her face. “I tapped you so you’d stop staring at her.”

“But she was staring back,” You say, the words slipping out of your tipsy mouth before you even realized you were speaking. Before you even realized that what you had said was actually right.

“So it looks like you have some unfinished business to address then?” She asks, setting her drink down and reaching for yours in your hand. Instead of taking a sip like you thought she would, she sets it down next to hers.

“Oh no,” You scoff, reaching for the drink that she pushes further out of your reach. “Our business is plenty finished.”

“Well the fact that we still talked about it on a monthly basis until last year begs to differ,” She remarks. Of course she would bring this back up. Just because she was the only person you had genuinely felt attraction to before doesn’t mean you weren’t over her. Because you were. It just means whenever you have any sort of romantic prospect, they need to be compared to her. Naturally.

At the buzz of your phone in your pocket you slip it out clumsily and slide into a bar stool, keeping one leg on the ground.

Don’t answer, bitch!!: ur not subtle u know

Your best friend gives you a knowing look that also somehow says “just go and get it out of your system” so you disregard the warning of the contact name and respond.

You: its not like your’e not looking too

“You okay there, Ma? A typo’s not like you.” The beautifully deep and yet still very feminine voice asks and you look up from the white glow of your phone to find Paige standing pretty close, the scent of her baby blue t-shirt wafting into your personal space. You sigh as you take in her soft blonde hair she left down to fall into lazy waves. You push the memory of her head in your lap, of your fingers running through her hair. Or of sitting on the bleachers and braiding her hair before a game. Or of sitting next to her on the bus, leaning your heads on each other to sleep on the way back from an away game.

“Yo I said are you okay there Ma?” She asks again. You get an image of her guiding you back into this stool and you’re suddenly glad you were already sitting in it when she came over.

I should play nice, you think to yourself. There’s no reason to start a tif on Thanksgiving break. Everyone will be back at school and back into their own worlds in just a few short days.

“And why would you care?” You spat back, not able to control yourself. Then you decided to add the nickname to throw it back at her, “Ma?”

She just lets out a sigh and gestures to the seat next to you. “This seat taken?”

“Yeah my best friend is sitting there,” You respond, obviously lying. Paige sits anyways. She leans her forearms on the bar and you wonder to yourself how she managed to get hotter in the two years you haven’t talked. Well, more like the two years you hadn’t responded now. Someone had to make the change so the both of you could move on.

“Yeah I know you and I know her. And I know that she ‘left’ for the bathroom when I started walking over here because she wants me to talk to you. And no matter what you tell yourself, you wanted me to talk to you too.”

The glass leaves a line of condensation as you slide your dirty Shirley across the bar from in front of your best friends real seat to the one Paige had taken.

“You make too much sense. Drink something.” You say. It just earns a chuckle from the blonde. She takes a long sip of your pretty full drink obligingly.

“I came to apologize.” She says when she sets it back down. She keeps it in front of her, swirling the small black bar straw through the ice of the drink.

This makes you scoff.

“Do you even know for what?”

“Yes.” She says, the dead serious look in her eyes breaking through your haze of alcohol. You believe her. That’s not the problem. The problem is that you always do.

This makes you reach back out for your drink, but when you grab it to take a sip, Paige doesn’t let go. Instead she lets you guide her hand and the glass to your lips, and lets you slowly tip it back.

“Then tell me, what are you sorry for?”

“Everything.”

“Not good enough.”

“I know. I’m sorry especially for the last time. That I said I was going to be different and then acted the same. I’m sorry I never called to tell you I was feeling anxious about it again. I’m sorry I just stopped talking to you instead of saying something. I’m really genuinely sorry, you know. I wish I could take it back. I wish I never fucked it up so bad. I wish I could go back and do it all again differently.” She says to you, her blue eyes boring into yours.

You take a second before responding, not wanting to let the drinks influence your word choice. “Do you remember what I said on the first time you called me our freshman year in the spring?”

“That phone call was four hours long, I’m gonna need you to be a little more specific.”

“When you said you always disappear because you’re so afraid of messing it up and hurting me.”

“Yeah.” She says. “Which I realize now probably hurt you.”

“Well on that phone call I also said to stop trying to take responsibility for hurting me. I would never let you fucking hurt me Paige. I learned after the first time in the eighth grade that it wasn’t gonna work, so I learned to just have fun. I learned how to not let you hurt me.” The attitude was coming back out. You really had tried to keep the peace when starting this apparently pretty serious conversation. But this topic inevitably always came up every time you two started something new again.

“I’m sorry-“

“Shut up I’m talking now.” You say and she laughs. It makes you laugh. It’s familiar which is nice, but the niceness of it all makes your heart ache a little bit. The laughter reminds you of late night frozen yogurt runs after admitting you still had feelings for one another and kissing just out of sight of the Ring camera in your driveway. Of playing hide and seek from your best friend and laughing at nothing while shoved into a bathtub.

“Anyways, as I WAS saying, I was trying to bring up that I told you that I would always be here if you wanted to start something again. That I would say yes as many time as it took to get it right. That no matter how bad it went the last time, I probably wouldn’t be able to say no. So I stopped saying anything at all. That’s why I haven’t responded.”

“Do you still feel that way?”

“What way?”

“Would you still say yes if I asked?”

“If you asked what?” You responded, being coy with it. It wasn’t your responsibility to say her feelings for her. She can be a grown up just like you.

“I want to be a part of your life again. However much you’ll have me.”

Those were not the words you had expected her to say. If anything you would think she would want to ask if you wanted to try again, or if you wanted to sneak off to the bathroom to hit it just this once. But to ask to just simply be a part of your life? In whatever way you’ll have her?

How were you supposed to say no. Of course you missed her. Over the years the hole of her absence had shrunk, surely, but it never healed. “It’s not like it was with Paige” was always running through the back of your mind whenever you met someone new.

This sort of a proposition is a slippery slope. You two could go to from friends to something more to nothing at all in a blink of an eye. That’s actually what you’re best at together. This sort of opening, presenting as a tame and gentle re-connection is just the sort of thing you needed to actually avoid to not get hurt. A quick fuck in the bathroom wasn’t going to be an emotional rollercoaster.

“Don’t you just want to go fuck in the bathroom instead or something?”

She laughs, but this time you don’t.

“I have two answers to this. Both of which I probably shouldn’t say but will anyways. Yes, I will always want to fuck you in the bathroom. And no, I want to be not just a hook up this time. I want longevity.”

“Well, P boogers, for longevity you’ll have to earn my trust back. Text me tomorrow and let’s make plans for Friday.” You say since your best friend just returned from the bathroom, pointing to her mom on speaker phone.

“She’s here to pick us up,” She says and you slide out of your seat and into the chilly night air, not bothered enough to look back at Paige, whose gaze you could feel following your steps out.

The buzz of your phone had you on high alert all day. The first two were spam emails, and the third was a series of texts in your friend’s group chat. As you pulled your phone out of your sweatshirt pocket it was actually who you wanted to hear from this time. You stood and went into the kitchen under the guise of retrieving more snacks to avoid your siblings’ wandering gazes.

Don’t answer, bitch!!: how’s the parade this year?

Of course she remembered you and your family always watched the Macy’s day parade together after brunch. And of course she opened with that. It was only the first day and it was getting harder and harder not to keep hating her.

You: just as boring as it was last year

You: how’s football?

Paige immediately answers with a picture of Drew mid-griddy in their makeshift backyard end zone. You can’t help but smile at the sight of the kid in his happy place with his sister, half covered in mud.

Don't answer, bitch!!: tied 108-108

You: how long have you been playing?

Don't answer, bitch!!: both too long and yet still not long enough

You: typical

Don't answer, bitch!!: so Friday, I’ll pick you up at 10:15 if that’s chill

You: sure

You: are you going to tell me what we’re doing?

Don't answer, bitch!!: no

Don't answer, bitch!!: dress casual, don’t eat breakfast

You wait for another text but none comes. You simply like the message and slip your phone back into your pocket, trying to return your attention to the parade. It’s practically the same every year, but your parents still insist you watch the whole thing as a family each time. Some traditions never die, you guess.

On Friday morning, instead of the typical Paige pull into the driveway and honk pickup method, you’re actually greeted by her ringing your doorbell. You open the door to find her version of “dress casual” as camo cargo pants and a UConn bball hoodie. Yours was ripped jeans and a pink long sleeve, paired with a cutie vest you thrifted a few years ago.

You walk the six strides to her car in silence before Paige tries to open the door for you. You place your hand over hers and shut it.

“This isn’t a date, Bueckers.” You say.

“I know.” She responds, a cheeky grin on her face. You don’t have the brain space to think about what that means right now. “What if I’m just trying to be nice?”

“That ship has sailed for us.”

“Aight then” She says and goes around to the drivers side, letting you get situated on your own.

She starts to drive without putting anything in the maps, but you quickly know you’re going to your favorite breakfast spot in town, which is right across the street from the infamous fro-yo place.

The smell of pancakes and coffee overtakes you before you’re fully into the booth. Paige unsticks your menu from hers and passes it to you, and you thank her.

“So are we going to talk or what?” You ask.

She doesn’t look up from the menu. Instead she puts a finger to her lips and responds “Shhhh I’m thinking.”

“Oh well if you’re thinking then I’ll be quiet, I know it’s hard for you.”

“Hey!” She says looking up now, the same smile from when you were fifteen together on her face.

From there the conversation progresses naturally, her telling you about the season that’s just starting and you recapping your own soccer season for her. She makes a funny retirement joke and you spend a few minutes laughing at how the orange juice almost flew out of your nose. Then the conversation moves on to classes and futures, whereas she still wants to play in the WNBA, and she asks if you still want to be a graphic designer. You follow up about Azzi and her friends, and tell her about your own adventures in the last year. It’s good times. It’s good.

Since you’re both in agreement that it’s not a date, you split the bill and head across the street for frozen yogurt. You hip check each other out of the way so you can each get the toppings you want to the extent that you each want them, pushing each other back and forth between fits of giggles. This is what it was like, and you guess still is now, when you’re together.

You easily let the giddy feeling overtake you, and willingly forget about all the reasons this could be bad, and all the reasons why you shouldn’t watch the way her hair falls over her hood, pushed back by the sunglasses on her head. Why you shouldn’t let your gaze linger on her when she has her back turned. Why you shouldn’t feel excited when you can tell she’s “secretly” watching you too.

Back in the car you eat mostly in silence, except when she tries to take a bite of your yogurt from your bowl, attempting to dip her chocolatey spoon in your fruit-flavored concoction. You lean way out of the way and she follows, an almost messy impromptu game of half keep away half wrestling. There’s no giggles but only because you’re both so concentrated, and you each have a pretty big smile on your face. The magic is still there when you catch her eye.

Eventually she stops chasing after your bowl because you feed her a bite of your yogurt from your very own spoon. And you know what you want to happen next.

Placing your bowl on the dashboard, you know you have her attention. She sets hers aside the same way.

An inkling feeling tells you she won’t initiate it this time, because she’s “trying for longevity” or whatever. But the real tipping point is when you’re reminded of a late-night phone call admission, during an “on again” phase where she said she found it really hot when you were slightly more assertive.

So, you take your index finger and hook it around the collar of her sweatshirt, pulling her by the place where the sides of the hood meet until you faces are very close together, yet still feel distances apart. Looking into her blue eyes, you can sense the question. What will this mean? What do you want? Does this mean today fixed a lot of things? Will it ever happen again? Is this the last chance?

“Please?” You ask her, knowing she knows what you’re asking for.

“Whatever you want, Ma.” She replies. And you don’t hate the nickname. Slowly, you pull her face closer to yours until your lips meet. It’s soft and warm and slightly sticky from your dessert. Slow at first but it turns faster, and suddenly she’s rubbing circles into your hip with her thumb and you’re doing that thing with your teeth you know she likes. It familiar like when you were in high school but also a million times better.

She lets out a soft “mh” and you break apart slowly, moving only far enough away that your foreheads aren’t touching by a gap the size of a sheet of paper.

No questions anymore. It’s just eyes and a little happy exhale, shy smiles. You close your eyes, trying to cement the memory into your mind, just in case, and this time Paige is the one to kiss you.

#paige bueckers x fem!reader #Paige bueckers #Paige bueckers x reader #wcbb #uconn #huskies #uconn huskies #lesbian #queer #wlw #fanfic #fanfiction #wnba #x reader #y/n #basketball

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pineconepie · 2 months ago

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Platonic yandere doctor? Like he’s had his little for a while but he’s just fed up with them trying to leave so he uses a more permanent solution to the problem of them trying to run away (take that as you will)

I hope this is good!! Its slightly different than what you asked, but if people want I cand make a part two of them trying to escape!

TW: Platonic/parental yandere, drugging, gaslighting, kidnapping, infantilization, slight ableism(?), psychiatric wards

...

You've been seeing Dr. Warren as your doctor for... wow, how long has it been? Several years now. He's always been a kind guy, and sometimes he'd break past that overly polite, professional demeanor and let his soft spot for you shine through.

You liked that about him.

Sometimes, when there wasn't anybody in the waiting room but you two, he would kneel down to give you a little toy while you waited, usually one of those plastic eggs filled with surprise toys or jingling keys or something like that.

You always thought it was a little strange how the doctor was giving you children's toys, but you tried not to overthink it.

There were some other weird things you tried to overlook, but recently it was getting harder to do so.

Warren would always prescribe you medications for all kinds of things, and every single one of them made your mind feel numb. Like static, almost.

Your appointments became very regular, as well. At least once a week, even if nothing felt wrong.

And he'd give you a little plastic medicine bottle filled with gummy vitamins every time you went in.

You started to notice how instead of actually checking your health, he'd cuddle by your side and just ask how your day went, almost acting more like an over-caring therapist... which, he did technically have his degree in both psychology and medicine, but still, the lack of any medical care was suspicious, especially coming from the usually very professional doctor.

"Um, Doctor Warren?" you nervously ask, fiddling with the toy he gave you today, a little green caterpillar with bright colors on its back.

"Hm? What is it?" he asks while marking a few things off on his clipboard.

"Well, uh..." you swallow down a lump in your throat as you work up the courage to ask this. "I've noticed that our sessions lately haven't been productive. And the medications you give me make me worse. I wasn't even having a lot of issues until I started taking them. It's like they just make my mind foggy... and I always feel so sleepy, and my coordination is off..."

"Those are just the side effects," he reassures. "That's why I wanted you to come see me regularly; to track any changes or side effects."

"But I don't think the side effects are worth it. And these constant check-ups are annoying, no offense," you mutter.

"None taken," he says calmly. "The check-ups are for your benefit."

"Yeah, but..." You rub the nape of your neck. "I think I want to see a different doctor... if that's okay."

Suddenly, the warm aura radiating from him grows cold as the man glares at you, dark eyes sending a chill down your spine.

"Do you trust other doctors more than me?" His voice comes out icy, stinging you like cold water.

Your heart pounds. You open your mouth to speak, only to be interrupted again.

"(Y/n). You're mentally and physically ill. Your judgement is too clouded by your conditions that you can't recognize proper care. I'm trying to help you get better. Can't you see that?" He runs a hand through his hair. "You need constant monitoring, love. I'd consider yourself lucky I haven't put you in inpatient care." His expression changes, like a light bulb goes off in his head. "Actually, would you prefer that?"

"No, of course not!" you cry out. "Please don't-"

"Why shouldn't I? It's for your own safety," he says matter-of-factly. "You can't even tell what's good or bad for you. Your condition is worsening."

"Because of the medication," you retort.

"That's just the side effects. I explained this already."

"Why would medicine that's supposed to cure me make me worse?!" you yell. Tears well up in your eyes. "Why won't you listen to me?!"

He looks like a parent dealing with their crying toddler; confused yet confident they'll get over it eventually. "Hmm... I think you need a nap."

"A nap? What, am I in timeout now?" You fold your arms across your chest like a pouting child, realizing a little too late how funny the doctor probably finds the gesture.

Warren gets out some medical supplies: a needle and a vial. Filling the syringe with a clear liquid from the small container, he turns towards you and grins menacingly. "This'll only take a moment..."

Before you can stand up and try to run away, he plunges the needle into your arm.

You cry out and flinch away, but not before all of the syringe's contents empty inside you. He holds you against him, shushing softly in your ear as you sob until suddenly your eyelids grow heavy.

He keeps you firmly tucked in his grip, and you find that you're unable to move, paralyzed by whatever substance he injected into you.

As soon as he sees you drifting off, he lies you on the bed and rushes out, yelling something that sounds too far away to hear.

...

When you wake up, you see white walls all around you. Blinking your eyes, you look down at your clothes to see an outfit totally different from what you had been wearing when you were in Warren's office. This looks more like hospital garb.

Speaking of which, where was Warren?

Turning your head weakly to the right, you notice you're attached to a heart monitor, the wires running to sensors on your chest and fingers.

You struggle to prop yourself up and sit properly on the bed.

Warren walks into the room. "Good morning! Or, should I say good afternoon?" he smiles teasingly, closing the door behind him. "How are we feeling?"

"I'm feeling like you drugged me! What am I doing here?!" Your throat feels like its on fire, but you continue trying to speak regardless. "Can't you talk to me without having me admitted to a hospital?! Oh god- please don't tell me I'm in the psychiatric ward..."

"You are in the psychiatric ward, yes," he confirms smoothly. "But don't worry. I pulled a few strings to make sure you got the best care." His voice dips into something softer, almost affectionate. "I even had them set up a private room for you. No noisy roommates, no prying eyes—just me, looking out for you."

A chill runs down your spine. This isn't normal. This is too far.

"For what? Telling you I wanted to see a different doctor? For wanting to get off my meds?!" You glare.

He doesn't seem too bothered, pulling out a clipboard. "Well, it says on your chart you attacked me with scissors during our last meeting when I wouldn't give you prescription opioids. That's pretty serious."

"WHAT?!" Your jaw drops. "You liar! That never happened!"

Warren feigns worry. "Oh, sweetheart..." He caresses the side of your face. "You poor thing. Those delusions have you again, huh?" He shakes his head. "I don't know how to tell you this... but you have a problem. A very, very severe one. Which is why you need constant surveillance from someone trained to handle people with your particular condition."

You blink away tears blurring your vision. "This is crazy. You can't do this to me."

"Baby, I'm not 'doing' anything. This was all in your best interests." Warren moves closer to you, rubbing circles into your skin. "You're sick, (Y/n). I've been your doctor for multiple years now. Why would I lie about this?"

You sob harder. You want to believe him so bad.

You trust him, and it's always been easier to follow along with his suggestions rather than try to fight or argue back, but...

"You like treating me as if I'm a baby. Does that have anything to do with this? Or why the medications you've given me make me feel like I'm regressing into a toddler every day?" you spit out bitterly.

He sighs. "That's because you have the obvious mentality of one. The regression isn't a result of the drugs, (Y/n). It's your disorder acting up." He pushes some strands of hair out of your face. "If it helps any, I like taking care of you. Really, I do. I've never considered myself a parental person until I met you. You need me, just as much as I need to be needed by someone else. Like you."

"I'll tell everyone you basically kidnapped me," you threaten. "They can look on the security cameras for proof I didn't do anything!"

He clicks his tongue, chuckling. "I might have accidentally deleted the security footage from the day. Oops," he adds innocently. He kisses your forehead. "Now, get some rest, kiddo. Papa will check on you in an hour. And please don't try anything bad while I'm gone; otherwise, we'd have to add assaulting an orderly or nurse onto your file... We really don't want that, do we?"

All you can do is stare dumbly up at him as the words sink in.

Yes, Warren could definitely get in trouble for this... but who's going to believe you when you've been labeled a danger to yourself and others with a laundry list of mental health disorders, prescribed enough pills to tranquilize an elephant daily?

No one.

He leaves with a final, "Be good," shutting the door with a soft thump, leaving you alone, staring after him long after he's gone.

#answered ask #parental yandere #platonic yandere #familial yandere #forced age regression #yandere age regression #yandere #warren oc #tw infantilization #tw psych ward #tw gaslighting #tw kidnapping #tw ableist language #tw ableism

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meo-eiru · 3 months ago

Note

Hi hiiiiii!!! I just wanna say i love ur oc’s so much, they live rent free inside my head like a growing necrosis!! Ever since u dropped the character trivias for Lavi and Elias I cant stop thinking about an AU with the game Catherine for Elias and Lavi but like with a lil twist to itt (the twist being i cant properly remember the entire plot to Catherine, its been like a decade since i played it so i tweaked so much of the actual storyline to better fit the narrativeT-T) feel free to delete it if its too weird;;

TW: cheating, pregnancy, reader/mc is pregnant, ooc Lavi im sorry, Elias having a reasonable crashout, yandere behaviour, continuous affair, reader/Mc cheats, character death(?), misuse of commas and my terrible grammar really

—

Okay so Imagine this, whilst drinking out one day, trying to drown out the midlife crisis and potential worries about the future, you end up having a drunken one night stand with Lavi, this one night stand however snowballs into an affair as you end up sleeping with Lavi AGAIN.

You’re pregnant, and you’ve been in a relationship with Elias for 5 years, Elias is absolutely ECSTATIC to find out that you’re pregnant, and is even considering marrying you if you agree to it (you have no choice in the matter btw lol), so in order to plan for the baby (and wedding), Elias has been taking more and more modeling jobs to hopefully save enough for your future together.

This would’ve been a happy ending for both parties if you actually KNEW who the father was. Youve been rethinking your entire relationship with Elias for a while and whilst its good to feel loved and appreciated just for existing, Elias’ is just… he’s too much sometimes— well most times tbh.

Elias would kill you both, but he hasn’t suspected anything yet, and you plan to keep it that way because you’re thinking of ending things with Elias by the end of the month anyway,

until you can’t.

And you find yourself puking every morning, a worried Elias by your side at every step of the way, loving, understanding (?), pulling your hair back and dabbing away sweat from your face as you stay hunched over the toilet seat, and the guilt smashes into you like a truck, its debilitating—Elias loves you so much, cares for you (too) so much. The guilt should have set in sooner, you should be groveling at his feet begging for forgiveness, but you dont, instead you stay, and the affair continues, even when you don’t remember spending the night with Lavi (where they even at the bar last night?). Even when the test shows two lines. Even when Elias starts doing more work to provide for the two of you.

Maybe it’s guilt, maybe its your consciousness telling you you need to leave, to not subject Elias to a life chained up to someone who doesnt love them enough to stay faithful.

You end up having these weird nightmares where you have to fight for your life trying to escape a hellish landscape. You survive each night but always seem to end up waking up to Lavi on your bedside (you haven’t been outside, Elias hasn’t allowed you to go to work since the pregnancy test, you don’t remember telling Lavi your address either)

But one night, when you wake up from another nightmare, crying, shivering, Elias and Lavi nowhere in sight.

Impulsively, you end up calling Elias and tell him about the affair, how you don’t know who the father of the child is, how you’re sorry and how terrible you are and how it would be better if you just break up.

and as expected, he breaks down. asking you, demanding answers, crying, screaming, shouting, asking if you actually loved him, asking if the child is actually his, asking you why he wasn’t enough, how he knew you were acting weird, asking which fucker he has to kill to make everything work out. its guttural, the way he screams, shouts for answers.

You end up dropping the call. And Elias immediately spams your phone with missed calls until you end up blocking his number.

He’s coming for you, you know he will. And he does, not even an hour later, banging on the door. You worry about your neighbours hearing about all of this commotion, its 11pm, he should’ve been at home but he was still at work, should’ve spent this time relaxing and watching tv shows with you at saturday night, but instead he was still at work, working to support the both of you (even if a big part of you knew it wouldn’t have stopped him from coming anyway)

He’s banging on the door, and you have half a mind to grab the knife at the sink. He stops after what felt like an eternity, only to forcefully barge his way in by using his body to slam the door open.

Elias makes his way inside, immediately grabbing you by the shoulders, eyes red with tears as he looks at you with the most painstakingly hurt expression you’ve ever seen (you’ve seen it countless times before, but only this time its different, it’s it scarier, it feels like he might actually hurt you)

His eyes grows into slits, as you feel another arm snake behind you.

It’s Lavi.

You are so fucked.

Elias ends up lunging at Lavi, screaming, intent to kill, to get rid of the vermin homewrecker that ruined (whatever was left of) your relationship.

Lavi fights back, albeit without mentally damaging Elias in the process as he talks about how much time he spends with you, how he planned on taking you with him secretly behind his back, how the child is actually his and how he intends to take full accountability for it.

You watch as Elias screams reaching for something in the sink only for Lavi to laugh at him, taunting him, waving the knife in his hand hautily, simpering with a glint of malice in his eyes “Looking for this?”

You’re about as useful in this situation as a screen door to a submarine. And you know its in vain, but you scream at both of them to stop anyway. Crying as you fall to your feet, you feel like puking.

Elias freezes, breath hitching as he turns to you before the expression on his face falters, angered as Lavi continues, telling him that “he’s the reason you’re having such a hard time right now”, “how he has no business being a father when all he does is hurt you”.

Everything falls into a blur as the fighting continues,

it feels like forever but it does stop, and you hear someone slump on the floor.

and you find Elias on the floor, with the knife plunged into Lavi’s stomach.

——

I had to write it out the brainrot was killing me, had to write it out until the brain rot unrotted itself.

I do know i couldve done this darker and better but i cant write anymore i feel so rustyT-T if you see “them” instead “you” its because i originally wrote this with “Mc” and using “they/them” before changing it to explicit xreader

Rereading my writing realising it is so tellenovella coded oof

Holy shit anon I don't know how you did it but this might just be the most hellish possible scenario known to mankind. I'd honestly just end it right then and there, there's no getting out of this bermuda triangle ass dynamic we got going on here.

Like Lavi and Elias being in the same universe is already horrible, them liking the same person is even worse but darling CHEATING on one of them with the other??? I would just

#asks #elias #yandere pretty boyfriend #lavi #yandere incubus #fanfic #tw cheating #yandere x reader

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mygnolia · 1 year ago

Text

take care of him, sunghoon's sick!

or alt. the pt 2 no one asked for... LOL

pairing: sunghoon x gn!reader headcannons! | wc: 800 | cw: food, sunghoon as a SIMPPP lots of kisses and cuddling

—

sunghoon does his best not to get sick whatsoever

he’s an athlete and a student, if he gets sick he falls behind on a LOT

but when he saw you in his puffer jacket and a smile at his competition, ofc he had to kiss you

you were his one and only and he loves you to death

simphoon!

smiling ear to ear on the drive home as you tell him how cool he always looks on the ice

he gets SHY

wdym his baby is complimenting him profusely

you two make food together, and although you’re still congested, you promise sunghoon you feel much better.

makes soup and noodles

yes he hugs you from behind yes he rests his chin on the top of your head

the man is 5’11 (and i’m 5’4 mmmm how perfect)

one kiss leads to another kiss and suddenly you’re giggling from the ticklish feeling and how he’s annunciating every “mwah!”

kisses all over your face

he snuggles with you on the couch when you eat, and actually cuddles you this time

“Someone’s clingy,” you joke, and he buries his head in your neck. “But it’s okay. I like it.”

hoon is all blush blush

“It’s been a long time, I missed you,” HE’S SO POUTY AND BABIE

You two definitely fall asleep with a light on, his legs tangled with yours, his hand around your waist holding you close.

Uh oh!

Sore throat.

“I think you got me sick.” You apologize like crazy, rushing to make him some egg drop soup and tea

“Shhh, Hoon, go back to bed, let me take care of you”

oh the man is WHIPPED head over HEELS he’s like omg what did I do in my past life to get someone as caring as ____

He’s also whiny, and kind of quiet

he is a thinker and a listener so when he’s sick, he’s even less inclined to talk or be his usual rambunctious self

It makes you feel bad for putting your boyfriend in such a miserable position

But he promised you it’s not your fault (even though it is) and that it’s not as bad as you think it is

no more feeling bad! You have to make sure sunghoon recovers as quick as he can

You separate medicine into little containers and makes sure he always leaves with warm tea, cough drops, gloves, and any medication if he needs

You drive him whenever, 1. because he is ur passenger princess! and 2. because you don’t want him to be stuck in traffic when tired

Always Always getting him layers

and now it’s your turn to refuse his kisses and hugs.

“____ I want to cuddle.”

You shake your head, a smile threatening to break your stoicism. “You’re sick, baby. You don’t want to get me sick again, do you?”

“But I miss you :(“ oh he definitely is following you around the house like a puppy trying to get you to give him forehead kisses and that sweet sweet tlc.

He sends you voicemails when you’re busy telling you “hi baby i’m at home still are you still coming over today?” violent coughing “i mizz u and i wuv u”

AGH so whipped for this boy im…

you come over with more soup and cuddles and love

he falls asleep halfway through his movie and you have to check his forehead to make sure he’s not having a fever

dishes are CLEANED everything is put away and then you go sleep on the couch

now lets say the couch is huge and there is space for two

WELL sunghoon wakes up in the middle of the night and sees you’re not in bed :(( so he goes out to the living space with his blanket and then just falls asleep on you

and you wake up like wtf i cannot breathe???

but oh it’s just hoonie bb its okay

HES SOOOOO CUTEEE

messy hair covering his forehead and eyes as he sleeps on your shoulder, hot breath fanning your neck

you just stay there until the afternoon because you could not try to untangle yourself even if you tried

but he’s better! at least he says so

he feels a lot more energetic, is attending practice for longer periods of time and more frequently, and you see the sparkle in his eyes again

YAYYYY BB HOON IS RECOVEREDDDDDD

you still dote on him until he’s completely better because you truly want to make sure he’s not overworking himself

agh he WILL marry you he will put a ring on your finger and boom you two have a white picket fence and two dogs and a cat.

—

hello it’s me ren again 🤓 mmmwah i love hoon

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kdyq · 4 months ago

Note

based off of that last fic, hear me out — modern au w/ single mom!reader. she wasn't interested in dating until ambessa ofc, but then shes super nervous about ambessa finding out she has a kid, only for her to figure out ambessa does in fact have children!! and then they're kids meet n its rlly cute. bonus if reader's kid is young and ambessa takes care of them to give the reader a break or smth. like - i need ambessa reliving her infant or toddler days lol. hope this is okay to rq!!

Cheers to new beginnings

Ambessa AU! X fem!single mom AU reader

context: You a single mom meets Ambessa at an event she changes everything.

You hadn’t thought about dating in years. Between the pressure of being a single mom and your job the idea of love felt like a fever dream. You’d built a good life for yourself and your little one your days were filled with laughter bedtime stories and the occasional tantrum. But you weren’t lonely at least that’s what you told yourself.

Then Ambessa entered your life.

You met her at a fundraiser your family friend hosted but you almost didn’t attend. She’d been the keynote speaker for the fundraiser. When she introduced herself afterward you couldn’t stop staring her confident smile and the way her eyes seemed to see straight through you. By the time you left that night she’d already asked you to dinner and you’d said yes before your brain could catch up.

The dates were magical long conversations over candlelit meals make out sessions and the sense that she genuinely wanted to know you. But the fear lingered in the back of your mind. You’d been down this road before and your daughter had always been the dealbreaker. As much as you wanted to believe Ambessa was different you were terrified to find out.

One evening as you sat across from her at in her living room you decided it was time to tell her. But before you could work up the courage Ambessa leaned back in her chair a rare softness crossing her features.

“I want to share something with you” she began. Her voice usually so commanding was almost tender. “I have children.”

You blinked stunned. “You… you do?”

Ambessa smiled her gaze distant for a moment. “Two. Grown now. But I remember the chaos of their younger years well enough.” Her smile deepened as she added

“And the joy too.”

Relief flooded you and before you knew it you were telling her about your little one. Ambessa listened closely asking questions that made it clear she wasn’t just being polite she was actually interested. By the end of the night the weight on your chest had lifted and for the first time in years you felt like maybe just maybe this could work.

A few weeks later Ambessa suggested meeting your daughter. “I’d like to know the most important part of your life” she said her saying that made your heart ache in the best way. Nervous but hopeful you agreed.

The introduction happened at a park on a sunny afternoon. You watched from a bench as Ambessa approached your daughter crouching to her level and introducing herself with a warm smile. Your little one shy at first quickly warmed up to her especially after Ambessa offered to push her on the swings.

It was surreal watching someone so powerful be so sweet. you watch you giggling child around the playground her deep laugh blending with your daughter’s squeals of delight.

Later as you packed up to leave your daughter clung to Ambessa’s leg and demanded another playdate. Ambessa laughed ruffling her hair. “Anytime” she said and you knew she meant it.

One evening Ambessa insisted on giving you a break. “You deserve a night to yourself” she said firmly. Despite your protests she showed up at your door with a confident smile and a bag of toys and books she’d picked out herself.

“Are you sure about this?” you asked for the tenth time glancing nervously at your daughter who was already tugging on Ambessa’s hand.

Ambessa raised an eyebrow. “You’re not the only one who knows how to handle a toddler you know.”

You laughed “well you two have fun”

The night turned into a whirlwind of activity for Ambessa. There was a tea party complete with stuffed animal guests a dramatic retelling of The Very Hungry Caterpillar and a bath that turned into a small flood.

“Why do they make toys that squirt water?” Ambessa muttered wiping her face as your daughter giggled and splashed in the tub.

Later she found herself trying to assemble a castle out of blocks while answering rapid fire questions about her life.

“Do you have a dog?”

“No.”

“Do you like dinosaurs?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Can I have another cookie?”

“Only if you eat this carrot first.”

By the time your daughter’s eyelids started drooping Ambessa felt both exhausted and oddly happy she was on the verge of going to sleep. She carried her to bed humming a lullaby she hadn’t sung in years and stayed until the soft snores filled the room.

When you returned later that night you found Ambessa sitting on the couch your daughter fast asleep on her chest. Toys were scattered everywhere and a half eaten plate of cookies sat on the coffee table.

“She insisted on a tea party” Ambessa said softly not wanting to wake your daughter. “And then we read… I lost count of how many books.”

Your heart swelled as you took in the sight of them together. Ambessa who had always seemed so untouchable looked perfectly at home with your little girl snuggled against her.

You sat down beside them brushing a strand of hair from your daughter’s face. “Thank you” you whispered.

Ambessa met your gaze her expression warm. “For what?”

“For being here. For… everything.”

She smiled leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You don’t need to thank me. This is exactly where I want to be.”

As you rested your head on her shoulder the three of you together in the quiet glow of the evening you realized you hadn’t just found love you’d found a partner. Someone who saw all of you including the parts you thought would scare her away and embraced them fully.

The future no longer felt dreadful it felt like the start of a new chapter one filled with love laughter and the family you’d always dreamed of.

“THE END”

I hope I did your request the way you wanted 🫶🏾

#arcane #ambessa league of legends #ambessa medarda #ambessa x reader #arcane ambessa #arcane x reader #arcane x you #ambessa x you #mel and ambessa #ambessa the chosen of the wolf #arcane x female reader #lol ambessa #x fem!reader #x female reader #request

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mrsmangi · 4 months ago

Note

Freesia 🌸

secrets - luigi mangione

♡ flower prompt: freesia - telling a secret of which they've told no one else - meaning: during the victorian era, freesias were seen as a symbol of trust & used to send secret messages. ♡ w.c.: 980 ♡ a/n: thank you, faye! this one is short & sweet, just for you. 💋 hope you enjoy!

♡ send me a flower & i'll write a drabble based off the prompt ! (plz, i love flowers)

The room is quiet. Moonlight spills through your curtains, casting silvery patterns across the walls and sheets. You’re in bed, laying half-draped over Luigi, your skin warm where it presses against his. The heat of the summer night makes the minimal layers between you feel like too much.

He’s shirtless, chest rising and falling in a continuous rhythm beneath your hand. One arm is tucked behind his head, the other wrapped around your shoulders. You lay clad in only your bra and a pair of shorts, thin straps digging slightly into your shoulders as you shift closer to him. Your finger traces small, lazy stars across his chest, the motion absentminded.

The cool air from the open window brushes against the skin of your back, a deep contrast to the warmth radiating from his body. His skin is firm, but soft beneath your touch. Every so often, you feel the faint twitch of a muscle beneath your fingertips.

You love moments like these with him: quiet and intimate. They don’t need words to portray their significance. You feel no pressure to make conversation. His voice breaks the silence anyway, low and steady.

“Do you always do this?” he asks, his large hand brushing against the small of your back, settling at the curve of your waist. His touch is light and delicate. Luigi always has a way of treating you gently.

“Do what?” you murmur, not looking up.

“Draw stars on people,” he says, a teasing edge to his tone.

“Only on people I like,” you reply, your lips curving into a small smile. You prop yourself up on one arm, palm laying flat against your right cheek. Your left hand remains on his chest when you meet his eyes. They’re darker in the low light, but tender.

He mirrors a smile that matches your own, laughing quietly. His hand moves up to trail a lazy line along your spine. “Good to know.”

A comfortable silence falls over you both. You take advantage of the moment and lean forward to capture his lips on your own. He reciprocates the gesture immediately, hand laying flat on your back to push you closer. His lips are plush and moist, slowly ravishing the taste of your lips. His scent is filling your senses, making your head dizzy with pleasure. Oh, how you wish you could kiss this man forever and never run out of breath. When he pulls away, you pant softly–as does he.

As you catch your breath, you lean your forehead against his and close your eyes. He closes his own, silent until his breath is even.

“Can I tell you something?” he whispers.

When you open your eyes, his eyes are already open, gazing at your face.

“Anything.”

He stares at you for a long moment before sighing, head tilting. “I know I come across as,” he hesitates, thumb brushing against the curve of your hip nervously, “Contrarian. Opinionated. Maybe even arrogant.”

“Maybe?” you laugh quietly, fingertips stilling on his chest. “What ever gave you that idea, my dear?”

He rolls his eyes, but smiles faintly. “Okay, fine. Definitely, but the truth is…” His voice trails off, eyes wandering to the farthest wall in the room, pensive. Then, they flick back to yours. “I really don’t give a fuck if people agree with me. I just want to know they’re paying attention to me.”

Your fingers begin to move again, tracing a heart on his chest. “What makes you say that?”

His thumb resumes its movement, brushing beneath the fabric of your shorts, on your hip.

“I don’t know,” he says softly. “I was just thinking earlier today about the way you look at me when I talk. It’s like you’re not just hearing me. You’re listening. You actually care about what I have to say, even when I’m being…me.”

You laugh again, but it fades once you register his words. Your gaze drifts from his face to your hand on his chest, heart spiraling into a shape that’s less defined. “Isn’t that how everyone wants to be understood, Luigi?”

“Maybe,” he replies. “Not all people have the patience to do that for another person though.”

“You deserve it,” you say simply. It nearly comes out as a whisper.

“So do you,” he replies, immediately.

You smile, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. You lay your arm to rest, head falling back onto his chest. “Big bad Luigi isn’t as contrarian as he wants people to believe.”

He huffs a laugh, hand sliding up to cradle your upper back. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold..”

“Your secret is safe with me,” you whisper.

His hand shifts, sliding slowly from your upper back to your chin. His touch is firm as he tilts your face upward, guiding your stare to his. His fingers linger, brushing along your jawline, thumb resting just below your lips. Within a second, his other arm wraps around the back of your neck, hand cradling the curve where it meets your shoulder.

“C’mere,” he murmurs.

Then, his lips are on yours. The kiss is tender and unhurried, just as the one from minutes before, but it’s intensity leaves you breathless. You melt into him, heat of his body grounding you as his lips move against your own. If he keeps kissing you like this, you won’t be able to take much more without ending up between his legs. He pulls back, and you have to fight off a moan when his teeth graze your lower lip, tugging gently as he ends the kiss.

“Your secret is safe with me,” you echo in a daze.

He smiles. “I’m counting on it,” he mutters, voice just as tender as the kiss he’s given you.

Wrapped in the warmth of his arms, you know you’ll keep it for as long as you live.

#guys!! i wrote fluff!!!!!!#plz be proud this happens once in a blue moon #luigi mangione #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic #luigi mangione fanfiction #angst #real person fiction #luigi mangione imagine #luigi mangione x y/n #luigi mangione x yn #mrsmangiwrks #fanfiction #free luigi #luigi mangione fluff #fluff #flower prompt

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selfishdoll · 2 years ago

Text

❛ ..SO, SO MUCH.❜

I need you bad I can't take this pain | Boy I'm 'bout to go insane ⁺ 𓂋 𓈒 ♡ NEED U BAD.

ཐིཋྀ ⊹ 𓈒 SUMMARY.

you thought you were fine breaking up with your highschool sweetheart & avoiding him for a year. when, in actuality, you were not.

ཐིཋྀ ⊹ 𓈒 CONTENT WARNING.

angst (tiny amount), jaded reader (at first) exes to lovers, y’all were highschool sweethearts fr, tattoo artist! choso & college student reader (both 21+), “i missed you” type sex, choso being a sweetheart & very understanding, reconciling, multiple orgasms, oral sex (fem receiving ofc he’s a munch), soft dom choso, pet names & praise, excuse the amount of plot i got carried away, etc.

ཐིཋྀ ⊹ 𓈒 NOTE.

jasmine sullivan & yoci carrying most of my plot ideas. this took way too long omg. also, excuse any typos or grammar mistakes as this wasn’t proofread. also this is 4k+ words so yeah.

How did relationships work? How did love work? Relinquishing a part of yourself to someone, expecting them to cherish and take care of it; doing the same for them. It was something you found silly, maybe even a little arrogant. You’ve seen too many woman in your life give a part— even their entire selves to their partners, only for the relationship to fall apart. Cheating, lies, simply drifting away from one another; so many excuses, so many reasons on why you avoided relationships like the plague.

Until you met him, Kamo Choso.

You remember clearly as if it was yesterday. Freshman year, he was seated in the back of your shared English class. Boredly looking ahead as if he didn’t want to be there. He looked rugged, maybe even a little depressed; overall, you didn’t see yourself becoming friends.. let alone lovers.

Oh, how wrong you were.

Choso had somehow slipped into your life through your beloved shared friend Yuki Tsukumo. From then on things fell into place. You don’t know when or why you started falling for him.

Was it because he was so caring to his younger brother Yuji? Or maybe how sweet he was to you? Always asking if you were okay, always by your side when things got tough, always encouraging you..

You fell, and you fell hard. But Choso fell much harder.

To him, you were perfection. Carefully crafted with zero flaws. He wanted to get on his knees and thank your mother personally for creating you. That’s how much you meant to him.

The moment these thoughts entered his mind he acted fast, declaring his feelings for you sophomore year of highschool. Not even letting himself linger for a month. He wanted, no, needed you as his. And to his happiness, you returned the feelings. From that day, highschool was nothing more then a bliss-filled blur.

You two became known for your loving relationship, many believing you two would marry after highschool. It was silly, you two were teenagers— yet the thought did make you smile. Everything was just.. perfect. There was nothing more you could ask for.

Until, talk of the future entered the bond you two had.

You wanted to become a nurse, planning to attend a college that had an excellent reputation for its program. While Choso wished to become a tattoo artist in your city. One wanted to stay, and one wanted to go. Choso declared he could handle a long-distance relationship, but you couldn’t. As selfish as it was, you simply couldn’t bare the thought of being away from him for so long. What if he strayed? What if you did? You couldn’t bare it at all— something you tearfully confessed to him the week before you moved onto campus.

You vividly remember the scene, it burned into your mind with no chance of escaping. How Choso stood silently, patiently; listening to your concerns and worries— expressionless when you apologized and ended the relationship. And what did he do? He approached you, carefully wiping away your tears as he’s done for you before.

“Take care of yourself.. okay?” He spoke, taking your cheek in a gentle grasp and leaning down; kissing your forehead— sealing the deal.

That chapter in your life was over. You weren’t with Choso anymore, mind focused on your studies and nothing more. A relationship would drag you down anyway.. you didn’t need him.. you didn’t miss him.

“Shit..” You hissed softly, quickly pulling the wand away from your eye, blinking rapidly. It was your own fault; rushing to put mascara on. You should have better time management skills given you were in college and all— but no. Here you were, fighting against time while attempting to finish getting yourself ready for a block party. You hadn’t a clue who was throwing it, only told — or more like forced — to attend by Yuki.

You jolted in your seat when a loud honk come from outside your house, moving around your vanity to peer outside; spotting Yuki’s familiar car. You breathed softly, standing from your chair and fixing your attire. You wore a cute white ring halter top, along with blue jean shorts and black wedge sandals. Gathering your phone, keys, and purse; the gold chain around your ankle jingled as you exited your bedroom and soon house, locking the door behind you.

Yuki rolled down her window, grinning at you as you walked down your driveway. “Uber for (Y/N)?”

You playfully rolled your eyes at her shenanigans, opening the passenger side door and entering, shutting it behind you. You buckled up after placing your things down, sinking into the chair. “Thanks for picking me up.”

“No problem, I just wanted to see your face firsthand when I tell you Choso would be there.” The words came out of her so nonchalantly, messing with her radio for a moment all while you stared at her blankly.

You reached for your door, but the woman was much faster; locking and starting up the car. You whipped around to glare at her, “Tsukumo! You told me he would be working.”

“Guess the client cancelled..” She mused, taking the car out of park and beginning to drive away from your house. Yuki side glanced, catching your annoyed expression which caused her to sigh, rolling her eyes. “Look, there’s gonna be quite a few people there— maybe you two won’t speak.” She shrugged, raising her eyebrows in hopes you would relax. You only sucked your teeth, leaning into the car door.

An entire year, you’ve two been away from each other. Contact dwindling into nothing after the second month of college. You two were simply busy leading different lives, you told yourself.

But again, it didn’t matter it’s not like you, missed him anyways.

The rest of the car ride was filled with random radio music and brief chatter, Yuki catching you up on things. You had avoided coming back for any holidays, knowing it would be too much for you. Luckily, she was more than happy to tell you about all the dirt she had on your shared friends.

She soon slowed infront of an unfamiliar house, putting the car into park and soon shutting it off. You glanced around, feeling your anxiety lift when you realized you didn’t see Choso’s car. Good, you could somehow melt into the crowd without him noticing you.

Silently you grabbed your phone deciding to leave your purse and charger in the glove compartment, you exited the car and shut the door behind you. Following Yuki up the driveway, porch, and into the house; music quickly overtook you, with the sweet smell of the grill and alcohol. Some people were resting in the living room or crowding the dining room table, but most were in the backyard playing football, or simply shooting the shit.

You glanced around, eyes twinkling at the familiar faces and waltzing up to them. Laughter and hugs ensued, catching up on things given you haven’t seen each other in about a year.

Your arm was locked around Shoko’s waist, talking about nonsense whilst watching Gojo and Geto play beer pong. Or more like Gojo mocking his best friend for missing such an easy shot.

It was nice seeing everyone like this, the stress of seeing your highschool sweetheart leaving rather quickly. For now you were swept away in nostalgia, enjoying being around the people you cared for.

A cup in hand, you recalled the time you walked in on your dorm mate having sex, cheeks burning from the permanent smile etched onto your features. One that faltered the moment excited voices called out to the pink-haired male entering the backyard.

“You’re finally here, Yuji!” Nobara grinned at her close friend, walking over to him; Megumi close behind. The young man apologized, talking about traffic or what not. You weren’t too concerned about that, given your eyes settled on the person walking in behind him.

Anxiety spilled into you, heart thumping against your chest as you took him in, your ex— Kamo Choso. Nothing much had changed about him, still as rugged and handsome as ever; dressed in a simple black compression shirt and baggy pants. It seemed he decided to forgo his usual hairstyle, the black tresses resting on his shoulders in a messy fashion. One that suited him perfectly.

Your breath hitched, watching his eyes zone in on your instantly. You didn’t wait for a reaction, quickly turning away and busying yourself with your phone. Your eyes did lift a little however when the man passed you, the familiar cologne burning your nostrils and causing your stomach to stir. Before you could even think you were lifting yourself from the chair and waltzing back into the house.

Luckily no one noticed or either failed to comment on your disappearance.

You found yourself heading over to the kitchen, grasping ahold of the silver fridge door and opening it; eyes scanning for some water. You murmured to yourself while continuing to look, attempting to ignore the harsh beating of your heart. You sighed the moment you finally found one, grasping it from its place on the shelf and standing up, closing the door.

Taking the cap off you lifted the bottle to your lipgloss stained lips, taking a few sips whilst leaning against the counter— relishing in the cold beverage. Your eyes closed in thought, attempting to map out a perfect plan on how to avoid Choso.

The backyard was a medium size, yet he was bound to be around Yuji. So, as long as you avoided him, Nobara, and Megumi— you could avoid Choso too! It was foolproof and perfect, nearly bringing a smile to your face.

Leaning up you pulled the bottle from your lips, twisting the cap back on and lifting yourself from the counter, turning and freezing. Breaching the threshold of the kitchen was Choso in all his glory, face turning from talking to someone to stare in front of him, eyes landing on you.

A brief silence entered the kitchen, simply taking the other in. Finally, Choso was the first to speak; “Hey, (Y/N).”

“Hey..” You spoke, annoyed by how small you sounded. You watched as he opened the fridge, grabbing a water bottle and shutting it closed. The man leaned against the wall beside the kitchen’s opening, opening the bottle.

You glanced around, noticing there were no many exits. You were trapped.

“How’s college?”

“Huh—“ Your head snapped back to the man, spotting his raised eyebrows, awaiting your answer. You nervously licked your lips, leaning back against the counter. “It’s uh.. been good. Classes are a little hard but, ya know.” You shrugged, feeling a heat crawl from your cheeks to the back of your ears. You dragged your gaze from the ground to him, “How’s tattooing? I heard you got your own booth, congrats.”

Choso nodded slowly, a lazy smile pulling his lips. “Yeah, thanks.” He mused softly, placing the cap back onto his water bottle. “Clientele has been good. Been going to tattoo parties and special events.. and things.”

“That’s good.” You forced a little smile, gaze faltering the moment his eyes landed on you. You felt the way they carried down your form, a familar gaze, one that always made you feel far too warm.

Another silence entered the room, both of you refusing to speak.. or leave. You told yourself time and time again you hadn’t missed Choso, that you were done; stuck on the path you’ve chosen. Yet here you were, anxiously waiting for something, anything to happen. You just.. couldn’t let go.

You gripped the bottle you held, eyes drifting back to him, zoning in on the bracelet he wore. It had red and black beads, ones all to familar to you. Starboy, was the words etched onto seven of them. You knew this, given you had your own pink and white charm bracelet labeled Stargirl.

“You still wear that?” The words left you before you could think, Choso blinking from his thoughts and glancing at his wrist. The man breathed softly, nodding soon after. “Yeah. I do.”

“Why?”

Choso went silent, leaning his head back against the wall as his eyes turned up to the ceiling. Finally he shrugged, “I don’t know.” He spoke lowly, causing you to bite your lip. Feelings you had pushed to the back of your mind began to flood within you, flashes of memories you had kept locked away following after.

You turned, rapidly blinking to eliminate the tears threatening to tread down your face. You were kidding yourself for months, thinking you hadn’t missed him. Thinking you were better then the woman in your life, able to cut a man off without a second thought. Yet your heart betrayed you in the most painful way, wanting nothing more to leap into his arms and cry.

His cologne became stronger, a gentle, familiar hand hesitantly being placed onto the one that held your bottle. Your eyes drifted to his face, spotting the concerned look he wore. That was enough for you, tears spilling and traveling down your dark brown cheeks, mouth opening but unable to speak.

But Choso knew what you wanted to say, knew how you felt. The man gently grabbed the bottle from your hand, placing it off to the side whilst his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his chest. He ignored the wet feeling that tainted his shirt, resting his chin onto your head all while continuing to hold you. Choso breathed as your shaky hands reached around, grasping his shirt as your buried your face deeper into his chest.

“I’m so sorry Choso..” You managed to whimper out, sniffling shortly after. The words escaped you again, delving into a soft mantra that caused the man to pull you even closer, softly shushing and soothing you. You stood there in his arms, feeling every bit of resolve melt away.

You missed Choso so much, it hurt. The pain rendering your whole body limp, using him for stability.

It took a moment to calm yourself down, soon pulling away, warming as the man reached over to wipe your tears. Just like he did a year ago and so many years prior.

“Why are you apologizing?.. You don’t have to—“

“I didn’t compromise. I was so stuck on myself, running at the first sign of conflict.” You spoke softly, leaning into his palm the moment held your cheek. “I want to try again.. I want to be with you again, Choso. You don’t know how much I missed you.”

The words had barely left you before his lips were covering your own, taking your breath away easily. The familiar, wonderful feeling took over your mind, hands sliding up to wrap around his neck; fingers curling into his messy hair. The moment his tongue swiped across your bottom lip you were parting them, pressing your body into him as a needy sigh escaped you. His hands traveled to the underside of your thighs, lifting you up and placing you on the counter— all while continuing the kiss.

Your legs opened wide, locking around him the moment he stepped between them. The kiss deepened, his hands resting on your ass as soft moans and hisses entering the atmosphere. Sooner then you hoped the kiss ended, pulling away as soft pants fanned on each other’s skin.

“I missed you too.. so, so much.” Choso murmured softly, gripping your plush form as if you would disappear in thin air. No other words followed, the man capturing your lips with such intensity you were tugging at his tresses. Languidly moving his lips, leaving you breathless, threatening to devour you. Your legs tightened around his form, feeling hot beneath your clothes.

His name fell from your lips in a soft whimper, pulling back and resting your head against the cabinet— gasping the moment his lips attached to your neck. Your eyebrows knitted close together, biting your lip as his teeth gently grazed your skin. “Choso, Choso.. not here— we can’t..”

While his lips didn’t stop he listened to your warning, sliding his hands underneath you and lifting you off the counter. You tightened your arms around his neck, face hot with embarrassment as he walked you from the kitchen and towards the back of the house— everyone luckily none the wiser given they were all in the backyard now.

Moving towards a random bedroom he opened the door, shutting and locking it behind him. Waltzing over to the bed he sat down, placing in you in his lap all while his lips continued to press gentle kisses against your neck, collarbone, and throat. Your hands traveled, finding the edge of his shirt and tugging on it, feeling his hands fall from your body to his shirt— peeling it off for you. Tracing his skin, feeling his sculpted sink in the moment your feathery touches reached low— gasped as Choso gently bit your neck, pushing to lay you down on the soft blankets.

“Missed this.. missed your touch, smell, how you taste..” His words drifted, catching onto the the edge of your shirt and slowly pulling off your body. Choso breathed, taking in your naked chest, leaning down. The cool, silver chain he wore tickled your skin as his lips ghosted your chest, a warm hand grabbing your breast to gently squeeze.

You gasped as his tongue glided across your areola and slowly hardening nipple, feeling his free hand flicking the button on your shorts, entering them shortly after. Choso began to suck on your hardened bud, all while his fingers breached your panties, two fingers slowly circling your clit. Your legs rose, hips rising into his touch as your head leaned back against the mattress. Soft breaths of pleasure escaped you, gripping his hair as your eyes were pinched closed.

“You missed this, pretty girl? Missed how easily I could drive you crazy from just my fingers?..” He questioned softly, fingers lowering to push into you, hissing at the way your walls clung to his digits all while his thumb busied itself, rubbing tight circles onto your hard button.

You nodded, clinging onto him as his fingers thrusted and scissored inside of you. “Yes.. fuck— yes.. Missed this so much, Choso.” You gasped, whimpers escaping you as another finger came to stretch you. Wet muffled squelches carried with each thrust and curl into your pussy, bruised lips parted as melodic moans escaped you.

The man hummed softly in enjoyment, leaning down to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. Sweeter, softer then the way he was ruining you with his fingers, pushing against your gummy walls affectively leading you closer and closer to your orgasm. You whimpered in his mouth, nails dragging from his hair to his arm, feeling the muscles tense with each movement of his hand.

You legs tightened around him, pulling back to gasp, throwing a hand over your mouth the moment you came— muffling the moan that escaped you. Your mess soiled his fingers and your panties, legs shaking as you felt him slowly withdraw his fingers. You breathed into your palm, barely registering his hands latching onto your shorts and peeling them off your body, panties following.

There, his hands slid to the inside of your thighs, pushing them open to reveal the price between them. Choso moaned softly from the sight, hands rising to place his thumbs onto your soaked folds, spreading them. “So messy, princess.” The man teased softly, reaching to press his thumb against your sensitive clit, grinning at the way you whined.

“Choso, please..” You breathed, watching as his body lowered, breath hitching the moment his cool breath fanned across your wet cunt. You whimpered as his thick tongue dragged a stripe up to your clit, the tip circling the button. Your legs threatened to close, causing the man to pull you closer, legs stretched out and resting on his shoulders. Your fingers curled into his hair, crying out the moment his lips wrapped around your clit, sucking and running the flat of his tongue against it.

The man pulled back for a moment, hands sliding under your ass and gripping the warm globes, lifting you a little just to smother himself in your pussy. His tongue moved wickedly, gliding up and down your slit before dipping into your warm entrance, thrusting and curling against your walls.

Your fingers clung to his hair, free hand placed against your mouth as you bit your palm, covering the desperate moans that escaped you. Your hips moved, grinding into his face as little tears built within your eyes. Slurping and lapping, enjoying every single drop that dripped from your pussy, moans escaping him. His hips ground into the blankets, chasing your orgasm with such intensity.

Your stomach clenched, arching up off the bed as a muffled swear escaped you, creaming all over his face, feeling his hands tightened as he licked you clean. Your limp body fell back against the blankets, breathing heavily as your legs shook. Soon enough he released you, rising from his spot between your legs and dragging his hands from your ass to your thighs, soothing the warm flesh.

Pushing forward he leaned over your body, hand carrying to your throat and gently grabbing it, pressing his wet lips against your own; you softly moaning at your taste. Slowly, the two of you continued to kiss, his other hand drifting to his sweats to push down his body, boxers following.

Choso pulled away, placing his forehead against your own, sliding his cock between your slit— rubbing against you slowly. Your fingers locked around his wrist, desperate pleas escaping you as your hips rose, searching for more. The man gave a breathy chuckle, smoothing his thumb against your throat. “Needy aren’t we?” The man mused, leaning to kiss between your eyes, hearing you whine.

“Need you, Choso..”

“You need me so bad, put it in yourself.” The man spoke, watching you bashfully blink at him, grinning as you attempted to shy away from his gaze. His hand rose, grabbing your wrist and carrying it between the two of you. Your much smaller hand wrapped around his cock, a hiss escaping his lips from the touch. “Go on, princess..” Choso breathed, gripping the sheets beside him as your hips rose, adjusting to line him up with your entrance before slowly sinking inside.

You never got accustomed to how Choso stretched you— not the first time and definitely not now. Your lips parted, soft moans escaping you as your hips continued to slowly rise. A choked cry escaped you however the moment he flicked his hips forward, burying himself deep inside. “Ch—choso! You..” You whimpered, walls pulsing around his heavy length, feeling him kiss your cheeks.

“Guess I’m just as needy as you baby.” Choso spoke, lip twitching into a subtle smirk. He rose, releasing your throat and resting on his hutches. Hands found the back of your knees, a steady grip as he slowly pushed them down to your chest, watching you breath sharply. Pulling his hips back until the tip was inside, Choso thrusted forward, taking in the way your body jumped and the prettiest moan escaped you.

His rhythm stared quickly, hips snapping back and forth, reaching deep inside; pushing against a spot that caused you to see stars. Your fingers balled up the sheets underneath you, moans escaping you. You had long forgotten the party going on outside, long forgotten the fact you two were separated for an entire year— your mind only focused on how his cock so easily ruined you, toes curling and anklet jingling with each thrust.

The man leaned down, folding you even more as he pressed a hand against the bed, the other curling in your hair, lifting you into a messy kiss. Tongues curling, teeth bumping into each other, eating up the other’s moans as pleasure consumed you. His chain tickled your heated skin, dragging across each time he rutted into you.

“Fuck..” Choso gasped, pulling back to breath, hand moving to gently grabbing your cheeks. “Keep your eyes right here, princess.. that’s it.. look so pretty like this.” He spoke, feeling you clench with each praise that left his mouth.

You felt so damn good, hugging him close; sucking him in each time he pulled back. Your arousal dripped down his length, a sticky ring forming at the base of his cock. Just when your hand rose to cover your mouth again, Choso was snatching your wrist, pressing it against the bed.

“No, no— waited far too fucking long to have you covering your mouth.” He hissed harshly, intertwining your fingers as he buried himself deeper, hitting your cervix.

The pain was quickly washed away with pleasure, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you came around his cock— a high pitched cry escaping your throat. Tears trickled down your cheeks, other hand falling to his waist to push, and whine; the overstimulation becoming too much.

All for Choso to simply shake his head, pace quickening as he drilled you into the bed. “Know you got another in you.. come on (Y/N).”

You whimpered, head pressed into the blankets as sobs escaped you. “Cho—Choso! Hah.. Can..can’t think, fuck!”

“Then don’t.” The man chuckled in a breathy tone, leaning close as his lips ghosted your lips. “Let me fuck everything out of your mind except for how good I’m making you feel..” A groan escaped him shortly after, eyes glossing over as he felt himself getting close.

Thrusts became desperate, the two of you dissolving into pathetic fits of moans and whines, hands moving across the other’s skin to grip and mark up. Just when you felt your mind going blank you shook, convulsing as you came all over his cock again.

Choso was close behind, burying himself deep and coming; eyes pinched close as he gripped you tightly. His hips stilled, heavy pants escaping the two of you.

The man pulled out shortly after, rolling off your body and falling to your side. Choso didn’t leave you alone long, reaching for your waist and pulling you into his side, turning to place a feverish kiss to his forehead.

A blissful silence covered the silence, simply enjoying the other’s company and warm bodies. Soon though, you rose up slowly, ignoring the aching of your body as your hand found his cheek. “I love you, Choso.”

He smiled at you, thumb caressing your skin as he kissed you gently— mumbling the same on your lips. Moments passed before you two pulled away, you snuggling in his neck arm strewn across his body.

Until.. you blinked, glancing around the room. “Wait.. whose room is this?”

“It’s a guest room.” He murmured back, chuckling softly after. “Gojo might be a little pissed if he finds out about this.”

You shook your head a little, sighing softly. “Choso..”

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