#Between Illusions and Intrigues | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

missarchive · 4 months ago

Text

american jesus ☆

spencer reid

part one part two part three part four

summary; What starts as a seemingly innocent exchange quickly escalates into a game of trust, control, and desire. Spencer offers you more than just financial stability; he gives you attention, adoration, and a connection so intimate it leaves you breathless. From whispered words over the phone to moments of vulnerability, he knows exactly how to unravel you, guiding you to discover sides of yourself you never knew existed.

But with every dollar he deposits into your account and every command that leaves his lips, the boundaries between professionalism and pleasure blur. As you dive deeper into this intoxicating arrangement, you can’t help but wonder: are you just another outlet for his control, or has this brilliant man fallen for you just as deeply as you’ve begun to fall for him?

cw; +18 minors dni, masturbation (f), hints at masturbation (m), nudes, spencer calls reader "little girl" once, phone sex, sugar baby/daddy dynamics, inexperienced reader, pleasure dom spencer, fingering, dirty talk

an; this is the first part in my new series! as always, feedback is greatly appreciated. P.s. this is written with jesus reid in mind <3 xoxo

The idea had been absurd from the beginning—a drunken suggestion tossed out during a late-night study break, your friend’s cheeks flushed from the cheap wine you’d both been sipping.

“You should totally do it,” she’d said, her voice a mix of mischief and daring as she scrolled through her phone. “It’s not like you have to… do anything. Just talk. Flirt a little. Get someone to pay for your coffee—or your rent. What’s the harm?”

You’d laughed it off then, brushing aside her suggestion with a half-hearted joke about the kind of people who used those sites. But now, with your landlord’s polite but insistent emails piling up, along with the crushing weight of tuition bills and credit card debt, her words didn’t seem so laughable.

Desperation, you’d learned, had a way of reshaping your boundaries.

So, against every instinct that told you to slam the laptop shut and find another way, you clicked the link she’d jokingly sent that night.

The homepage was a garish blend of pink and gold, its polished glamour doing little to mask the transactional nature of it all. The tagline—"Where connections are made"—was a cruel euphemism for what this really was: a marketplace. A place where companionship, or at least the illusion of it, had a price tag.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long time before you finally typed in a username: laceandliterature.

The flood of messages came almost instantly.

@ hungandrich; Hey, beautiful 😘

@ olderseekingyounger; I can show you the world 🌍💎

@ MrNaughty4U; $5k a week to be my princess. No strings attached 💵

It was overwhelming, a cascade of propositions ranging from saccharine to predatory. Some were masked in politeness, others made no effort to conceal their intentions. Your stomach churned as you skimmed through them, the realisation sinking in that you were just another product on a shelf.

And then, just as you were about to close the browser and pretend this had never happened, a new message pinged.

It was short, direct—refreshingly so:

[new chat from: @ thefourthdoctor]

@ thefourthdoctor; Intriguing profile. Shall we talk?

No emojis, no extravagant promises. Just a simple, confident statement.

You hesitated, your heart racing as you clicked on the profile. The picture was blurry, as if taken in haste, but it revealed enough: dark, wavy hair that framed sharp, intelligent eyes behind a pair of glasses. His bio was sparse but intriguing, mentioning books, travel, and a keen interest in "meaningful conversations."

Something about it—about him—felt different. Not just the lack of overtly transactional language, but the quiet assurance in his words.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

This was a bad idea. You knew it was a bad idea. But against your better judgment, you typed out a response.

@ laceandliterature; I suppose that depends on what you want to talk about.

The reply came almost immediately, as if he’d been waiting.

@ thefourthdoctor; Anything but the obvious.

The words were simple, but the subtext was unmistakable: he wasn’t here for what everyone else seemed to want. Or maybe he was just better at hiding it. No sleazy innuendos. No dick pics. No hollow promises of private jets or weekend getaways. Not even the tired clichés of "Hey, gorgeous" or “What’s your body count?”—just a question.

It was startling in its simplicity, almost disarming. And for that exact reason, it made you pause. The absence of the usual vulgarity felt almost like a trick, a trap designed to lure you into a false sense of security. You had learned the hard way to be cautious online. Yet, despite yourself, you couldn’t help but be intrigued.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard as you glanced at his username again.

A click brought up his profile, your curiosity outweighing your skepticism. The photo was blurry, clearly taken without much thought to lighting or angles. It wasn’t like the polished, professional headshots some of the other profiles sported. Still, you could make out the basics: slightly messy, long curly dark hair, intelligent eyes framed by glasses, and an awkward sort of handsomeness that felt... real.

The bio was brief—almost frustratingly so.

"Bibliophile. Traveler. Interested in meaningful conversations and unconventional connections."

It lacked the arrogance and ostentation of the others you’d scrolled past, the ones who listed their wealth or their penchant for “petite brunettes.” Instead, it was vague, yet oddly specific in its sincerity.

Your chest tightened, a strange mix of apprehension and curiosity tugging at you. Was this calculated, or was it simply honest? And why did it feel more dangerous than the others?

Still, you typed.

Your heartbeat quickened as you debated your next move. The smart thing would be to leave it at that, maybe even block him. After all, you weren’t here for emotional entanglements. This was supposed to be transactional—a simple trade: your time and charm for their money and attention. A means to an end.

Yet, against your better judgment, you stayed.

@ laceandliterature; The obvious is easier to avoid than you think, but meaningful conversations? That’s a tall order here.

There was a long pause, long enough that you started to wonder if you’d misjudged him. But then, the reply came:

@ thefourthdoctor; It depends on who you’re talking to.

You stared at the screen, the simplicity of his words sending a ripple of unease through you. There was no bravado, no performance. He was direct, confident, and—most dangerously—intriguing.

The seconds stretched into minutes as you debated what to say next. This was different from the other messages. He wasn’t dangling wealth in front of you like a shiny object or trying to buy your interest with empty promises.

And yet, the very absence of those things made you wonder what he wanted. Because he wanted something—everyone on this site did. That was the nature of it.

@ laceandliterature; Okay. What do you want to talk about?

His reply was immediate, as if he’d been waiting for you to ask:

@ thefourthdoctor; Tell me what brought you here.

The question hit like a dart, sharp and precise. Your stomach tightened as you read it again, the blunt honesty of it stripping away the thin veil you’d been hiding behind. No one had asked that before—not like this.

Most of the messages you’d received had operated on unspoken rules: you pretend this is normal, and they pretend they’re just being generous. But this man wasn’t pretending. He was asking you to be real in a space built on pretense.

And for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, you felt compelled to answer.

Your fingers trembled slightly over the keyboard. What could you even say? The truth? That you were drowning under the weight of your bills, your student loans, your own stubborn pride? That desperation had led you here, to a website where relationships had price tags and intimacy was commodified?

But what stopped you wasn’t the shame of your situation—it was him. The way he asked, as if the answer mattered. As if you mattered.

The tension in your chest twisted tighter as you typed.

@ laceandliterature; The same thing that brings everyone here, I suppose. Necessity.

You hit send before you could overthink it, before you could soften the edges of the truth. The reply came quickly.

@ thefourthdoctor; Necessity takes many forms. Which is yours?

You stared at the screen, his words pulling something loose inside you. This wasn’t idle curiosity. He was pushing you, peeling back the layers you hadn’t even realized you were wearing. And damn it, you wanted to push back.

@ laceandliterature; Does it matter?

You wrote, the edge in your tone slipping into the words.

The pause before his reply was longer this time, long enough to make you wonder if you’d misstepped. But then it came, and it was nothing you expected.

@ thefourthdoctor; It matters if you want it to.

The simplicity of his words sent a jolt through you, more potent than any overture of wealth or charm could have been. There was no condescension, no judgment. Just quiet, unnerving confidence.

You leaned back in your chair, running a hand through your hair. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. These conversations were supposed to be easy—shallow exchanges where you could slip into a version of yourself that didn’t feel the weight of real life pressing down on her. But with him, there was no slipping into anything.

He wasn’t letting you.

@ laceandliterature; What about you?

You typed, throwing the question back at him, daring him to offer you the same vulnerability he was asking of you.

@ laceandliterature; Why are you here?

His reply was immediate, almost as if he’d been expecting the question.

@ thefourthdoctor; Curiosity.

You frowned at the screen, the single word both frustrating and enticing. It was vague but deliberate, leaving just enough room for interpretation to keep you hooked.

@ laceandliterature; Curiosity about what?

The next message sent a shiver through you:

@ thefourthdoctor; You.

Your breath caught. One word, and yet it felt like he’d reached through the screen, pulling you closer, tethering you to him in a way that was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

You hesitated, the heat rising in your cheeks as you considered how to respond. This wasn’t the typical transactional banter you’d anticipated when you signed up. He wasn’t offering money or promises of luxury. He wasn’t trying to seduce you with extravagance. Instead, he was drawing you in with something far more dangerous: attention.

And the worst part? You wanted it.

@ laceandliterature; Careful. That kind of curiosity can be expensive.

This time, the pause felt deliberate, a beat of silence meant to let your words settle. When his reply came, it was sharp, confident, and devastatingly effective.

@ thefourthdoctor; I don’t mind paying for what I value. Isn’t that what this is about, anyway?

Your breath hitched, the implications of his words hitting you like a shockwave. This wasn’t flirtation—it was a proposition. But not the kind you’d grown to expect on this site. He wasn’t offering to buy your time or affection outright; he was telling you that he saw something in you worth pursuing.

And that made him infinitely more dangerous.

Your heart raced as you stared at the screen, torn between the instinct to pull back and the magnetic pull of his presence. This wasn’t just about money anymore. This was about control, power, the careful dance of who would give and who would take.

You sat frozen, his last message glowing on the screen like an unspoken dare.

"I don’t mind paying for what I value."

The words reverberated through you, sharp and calculated, leaving no room for misinterpretation. This wasn’t a line meant to charm or impress. It was a statement of intent—a declaration of control.

And it was working.

Your chest tightened as you typed, your fingers moving before your brain caught up.

@ laceandliterature; Value is subjective.

The moment you hit send, you regretted it. It felt flippant, like you were trying to undermine the weight of his words. But maybe that was exactly what you needed to do—to wrest back some semblance of control in this conversation that was starting to feel far too intimate.

The reply came after a pause that felt excruciatingly long:

@ thefourthdoctor; It is. But I’m a man who knows how to discern.

Your throat tightened, the confidence in his words striking a chord deep within you. He wasn’t just playing the game—he was setting the rules. And despite yourself, you found it maddeningly enticing.

@ laceandliterature; Discernment is rare here.

You replied, leaning into the dynamic, testing the boundaries of this strange connection.

His next message came faster this time, as if he’d been waiting for you to lean in:

@ thefourthdoctor; So is honesty. Tell me, how rare are you?

Your breath hitched, your cheeks flushing as you stared at the question. It wasn’t what you expected—not here, not from someone you’d never met. And yet, it was the kind of question you couldn’t dismiss with a coy quip or vague answer.

@ laceandliterature; Enough to know my worth.

You typed, surprising even yourself with the boldness of your response.

His reply came swiftly.

@ thefourthdoctor; Good. Then you’ll understand why I won’t insult you with empty offers. Tell me what you want.

Your pulse quickened. There it was—the shift you’d been waiting for, the moment the conversation turned from hypothetical to concrete. But this was different from the others. He wasn’t throwing numbers at you, wasn’t dangling luxury in front of you like bait. He was putting the power in your hands, asking you to decide the terms.

It was intoxicating. And terrifying.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, a thousand thoughts racing through your mind. What did you want? Money was the obvious answer—wasn’t it? That was why you were here in the first place. But now, with him, it didn’t feel so simple.

@ laceandliterature; That depends… What are you offering?

The pause before his response was agonizing, each second stretching longer than the last. And then it came:

@ thefourthdoctor; Time. Money. Attention. Answers, if you’re brave enough to ask the right questions.

Your breath caught, the weight of his words settling over you like a heavy cloak. He wasn’t offering material things, at least not yet. He was offering something far more valuable—and far more dangerous.

You swallowed hard, your palms damp as you considered your next move. He’d shifted the power dynamic yet again, pulling you deeper into a game you weren’t entirely sure you knew how to play.

@ laceandliterature; And what do you want in return?

The question leaving you more vulnerable than you cared to admit.

His response was immediate, his words a quiet, commanding echo in your mind:

@ thefourthdoctor; Exactly what you’re willing to give me.

The simplicity of his answer hit you harder than any declaration of wealth or desire could have. It wasn’t just about money or power or control—it was about you. Your choices, your limits, your willingness to engage in this careful, intoxicating dance.

And that realisation sent a shiver down your spine.

For a moment, you stared at the screen, your pulse thrumming in your ears. You could walk away now. Close the laptop, block his profile, and pretend this never happened. But the truth was, you didn’t want to.

Because for the first time since you’d joined this site, you felt seen. Not as an object, not as a commodity, but as a person.

His words clung to you, each syllable daring you to define what you were prepared to offer. He was turning the mirror back on you, forcing you to confront not just the situation but yourself.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure of how to proceed. He wasn’t playing by the rules you expected, and that made him unpredictable. Dangerous. But it also made him irresistible.

@ laceandliterature; That’s a clever way of saying nothing. Ambiguity suits you.

The reply came quickly, almost as if he’d anticipated your deflection.

@ thefourthdoctor; Clarity can be earned, if you’re willing to play the game.

Your breath hitched. There it was again—that quiet, assured confidence that pulled you in despite every warning bell ringing in your head. He wasn’t offering platitudes or empty promises. He was offering a challenge, one that was as maddening as it was magnetic.

@ laceandliterature; And what game is that?

The pause before his answer felt deliberate, a calculated silence that only heightened your anticipation. When his message finally appeared, it sent a shiver through you:

@ laceandliterature; The one we’re already playing. You just haven’t realised it yet.

Your pulse quickened, your palms damp as you stared at the screen. He was toying with you, but not in the way you’d experienced before. This wasn’t about cheap thrills or transparent power plays. This was about control—subtle, seductive, and entirely in his hands.

@ laceandliterature; I don’t recall agreeing to any rules.

The sharpness of your words masking the unease curling in your chest.

His reply was swift, the confidence in his words cutting through the haze of your thoughts:

@ thefourthdoctor; You didn’t have to. You agreed the moment you responded.

The audacity of his statement left you momentarily breathless. He was right, of course, and that infuriated you. But it also thrilled you in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

@ laceandliterature; You’re awfully sure of yourself

You shot back, your fingers trembling as you hit send. The response came almost immediately.

@ thefourthdoctor; Confidence is the privilege of knowing what you want. Do you?

Your chest tightened, his words striking a nerve you hadn’t expected. What did you want? It was supposed to be simple—a means to an end, a way to solve your financial problems without complicating your life. But now, with him, it felt far from simple.

You hesitated, your mind racing. This wasn’t like the other conversations you’d had on this site. He wasn’t just offering money or gifts; he was offering an exchange of a different kind. One that blurred the lines between power and vulnerability, control and surrender.

@ laceandliterature; I think you already know the answer.

@ thefourthdoctor; Good. Then we’re getting somewhere.

You exhaled sharply, the tension in your chest both exhilarating and suffocating. He had you cornered, and he knew it. But the worst part? You didn’t want to leave.

@ laceandliterature; And where exactly is that?

The question both a challenge and a plea. His response sent a chill down your spine.

@ thefourthdoctor; Where we figure out if you’re ready to trust me.

The weight of his words settled over you, heavy and inescapable. Trust. It was a loaded word, especially here, in a space where every interaction felt transactional. But with him, it didn’t feel like a demand—it felt like an invitation.

You swallowed hard, your fingers trembling as you typed your response:

@ laceandliterature; Trust is earned, Doctor. How do you plan on earning mine?

The pause before his reply was excruciating, every second stretching longer than the last. And then, finally, his message appeared.

@ thefourthdoctor; Patience. Honesty. And just enough mystery to keep you coming back.

Your breath caught, the sheer confidence of his words leaving you momentarily speechless. He wasn’t just playing the game—he was rewriting the rules, pulling you deeper into his orbit with every word.

And despite the warning bells ringing in your head, you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting more.

@ laceandliterature; Then I suppose we’ll see how well you play.

@ thefourthdoctor; We already are.

The message lingered on the screen, a challenge and a promise all at once. And as you stared at it, your heart racing and your mind spinning, one thing became clear:

Here’s the continuation, intensifying the emotional and psychological stakes, as well as the power dynamics:

You could feel it in the way your heart raced, in the way your mind struggled to pull together coherent thoughts. It was maddening. Dangerous. And yet, some part of you craved the thrill of it.

@ laceandliterature; What makes you so sure of that?

@ thefourthdoctor; Because you’re still here.

Your lips parted in a soft exhale, the truth in his words sending a shiver down your spine. He was right—you were still here, still engaged, still drawn to him in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

@ laceandliterature; Maybe I’m just curious.

His response was immediate, his confidence unshaken.

@ thefourthdoctor; Curiosity is the first step to surrender. And you’re closer than you think.

Your pulse quickened, his words striking a nerve you hadn’t realized was exposed. Surrender. The word hung there, heavy and intoxicating, pulling you deeper into his web.

@ laceandliterature; Surrender isn’t in my vocabulary.

The sharpness of your reply more for your benefit than his.

@ thefourthdoctor; That’s because no one’s ever taught you how to do it properly.

The breath left your lungs in a quiet rush, your body betraying you with a thrill that raced down your spine. He wasn’t just confident—he was audacious, pushing boundaries you didn’t even know you had.

@ laceandliterature; And you think you’re the one to teach me?

@ thefourthdoctor; I know I am.

Your throat tightened, his certainty pulling you further into the undertow. There was no pretence with him, no fumbling for the right words to impress or seduce. He spoke with a quiet authority that was impossible to ignore—and even harder to resist.

@ laceandliterature; You’re awfully sure of yourself, Doctor.

You wrote, the name a deliberate choice, a way to remind yourself that he was still just a man on the other side of a screen.

But his next message stripped away any illusion of simplicity.

@ thefourthdoctor; Confidence is earned. You’ll see.

The promise in his words sent your mind reeling, the tension in your chest building with every passing second. He wasn’t offering wealth or gifts or superficial praise. He was offering himself—his attention, his intellect, his dominance—and it was unlike anything you’d ever encountered.

You leaned back in your chair, running a hand through your hair as you tried to steady your breathing. This wasn’t just a game anymore. It was a collision of wills, a power struggle where the stakes felt dangerously personal.

@ laceandliterature; And if I decide to stop playing?

His reply came slower this time, each word calculated, precise.

@ thefourthdoctor; Then I’ll let you go. But we both know you won’t.

Your breath caught, the quiet confidence in his message leaving you stunned. He wasn’t trying to trap you—he was daring you to walk away. And that made him even more dangerous.

@ laceandliterature; You seem very sure of my choices

@ thefourthdoctor; I’m sure of your curiosity. And that’s enough.

You stared at the screen, your heart pounding, your mind spinning. He was right—you were curious. About him, about this, about where it could lead. And that curiosity was already pulling you deeper, binding you to him in a way that felt both thrilling and terrifying.

And as you sat there, your fingers hovering over the keyboard, one thought echoed in your mind:

You weren’t just playing his game anymore.

You were losing.

His words were a masterstroke, the kind of deliberate confidence that didn’t demand submission but invited it, coaxed it out of you with unsettling precision. He wasn’t forcing you into anything. He didn’t have to.

You were leaning in all on your own.

@ laceandliterature; Curiosity is dangerous.

The words meant as both a warning and a defense. You weren’t sure if you were telling him or reminding yourself.

His reply came almost instantly, as if he’d anticipated your hesitation.

@ thefourthdoctor; It can be, in the wrong hands. But I think you know by now—I don’t intend to hurt you.

Your chest tightened, the unexpected gentleness in his response catching you off guard. It wasn’t a dismissal of your fears; it was an acknowledgment, a reassurance that felt disarmingly genuine.

@ laceandliterature; What do you intend to do, then?

The pause before his reply was deliberate, stretching just long enough to heighten the tension without breaking it.

@ thefourthdoctor; Challenge you. Teach you. Protect you, if you let me.

Your breath hitched, his words striking a chord deep within you. The power in his offer wasn’t in its force but in its certainty, its quiet promise of control without cruelty, dominance without destruction.

@ laceandliterature; That’s a tall order.

@ thefourthdoctor; I’ve never been afraid of a challenge.

The simplicity of his answer left you momentarily stunned. He wasn’t boasting, wasn’t trying to impress you. He was stating a fact, one that resonated with an authority you couldn’t ignore.

@ laceandliterature; And what do you get out of this?

@ thefourthdoctor; The pleasure of watching you grow. The satisfaction of knowing you’re safe. And maybe, if you’re willing, a connection worth more than either of us expected.

Your chest tightened, his words threading through the cracks in your defences with startling ease. He wasn’t just offering a transaction; he was offering something far deeper, something that terrified and intrigued you in equal measure.

@ laceandliterature; You make it sound so simple.

@ thefourthdoctor; It can be, if you trust me. But I won’t rush you. This is your choice.

Your breath caught, the weight of his words settling over you. He wasn’t demanding anything from you, wasn’t using manipulation or coercion. He was giving you the space to decide, to choose whether to step into the unknown or retreat to the safety of your walls.

@ laceandliterature; What if I don’t know how to trust someone like you?

@ thefourthdoctor; Then I’ll show you how, baby. Step by step. But only if you’re willing.

The kindness in his words was a stark contrast to the intensity of his presence, a reminder that his control wasn’t about overpowering you—it was about guiding you, supporting you, meeting you where you were and pulling you gently forward.

@ laceandliterature; And if I’m not?

@ thefourthdoctor; Then I’ll let you go. But I don’t think you want me to.

The truth in his words hit you like a jolt, your heart racing as you stared at the screen. He was right—you didn’t want to let him go. You didn’t want to retreat into the safety of solitude, not when he was offering something so intoxicatingly rare.

@ laceandliterature; You’re very sure of yourself

@ thefourthdoctor; I’m sure of you. And I’m willing to wait until you are too.

The words lingered on the screen, a challenge and a reassurance all at once. He wasn’t just pulling you into his world—he was offering to walk beside you, to guide you through the uncharted territory of trust and surrender.

And as you stared at his message, your pulse thrumming in your ears, one thing became abundantly clear. You wanted to see where this could lead.

Your fingers trembled as you typed your reply.

@ laceandliterature; I don’t know where this is going.

His response came swiftly, his dominance tempered by kindness:

@ thefourthdoctor; Then let me be the one to show you. One step at a time.

When the evening settled and the quiet of your room enveloped you, you found yourself sitting on the edge of your bed, staring at your phone. His last message still lingered there:

"Then let me be the one to show you. One step at a time."

Trust. The word had seemed so monumental when he’d said it, and now it felt even heavier in the quiet intimacy of your room.

Your eyes wandered to the package on your desk, the one that had arrived just days ago. The lingerie you’d bought with the money he’d sent—not something you’d ever imagined doing, much less showing anyone. But his insistence had stayed with you.

"This is for you," he’d written. "Because you deserve to feel special."

You’d laughed at the time, unsure how to process the sincerity in his words. But now, with the soft lace spread out in front of you, you felt the weight of his kindness.

On impulse, you slipped it on, the delicate fabric hugging your body in a way that felt both indulgent and empowering. It wasn’t something you’d ever have bought for yourself, but now, wearing it, you understood the quiet confidence it offered.

You caught your reflection in the mirror, your cheeks flushing as you adjusted the straps. The blush-colored lace was intricate and feminine, the perfect balance of modesty and allure. You hesitated, biting your lip as your phone buzzed in your hand.

Finally, you snapped a photo—nothing overly revealing, just the curve of your body hinted at in the soft light, the lace framing your figure. It felt daring, intimate, and, most of all, you felt like his.

With a shaky breath, you typed a caption for the image.

@ laceandliterature; Thank you. I thought you should see where your funds are going.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, your heart racing as the message left your screen.

@ thefourthdoctor; You’re so beautiful, my little angel.

Your breath caught at the simplicity of his words. There was no embellishment, no flourish—just a quiet, sincere acknowledgment that made your chest tighten.

Another message followed, slower this time, as if he’d chosen each word carefully.

@ thefourthdoctor; Thank you for trusting me with this. How does it make you feel?

His question sent a ripple of warmth through you. He wasn’t just admiring you; he cared about how you felt, ensuring that this moment wasn’t just for him.

@ laceandliterature; It feels… different. In a good way.

The dots danced on the screen before his next message appeared.

@ thefourthdoctor; Good. That’s exactly how it should feel. You deserve to feel confident and cared for.

You smiled despite yourself, the warmth of his words cutting through the lingering nerves. He had a way of making you feel seen, like every action, every choice you made mattered to him.

@ laceandliterature; I wasn’t sure about sending it, I’ve never done anything like that before.

You admitted, your honesty surprising even you.

@ thefourthdoctor; You don’t need to worry. You’re safe with me. Always.

The reassurance in his words settled something deep inside you. He wasn’t just saying it—he meant it, every word carrying the weight of his sincerity.

Before you could respond, your phone vibrated in your hand, his name lighting up the screen. You hadn't expected him to call so soon, but the smile that spread across your face at the sight of his name felt entirely natural.

Your throat pinched, the air suddenly feeling all too warm. Neither of you had ever initiated a call before, what would he sound like? Deciding to push your nerves to the side, you answer the call.

"I was thinking you might not pick up for a moment there," his voice was low and smooth, a hint of amusement dancing through his words. "I hope you know this isn’t just about the photo. It’s about you. What you need, what you want. If you’re ever unsure, tell me. I’ll always listen."

"I guess I just couldn’t help myself," you teased, a slight blush creeping up your cheeks at the memory of how vulnerable you'd felt.

"Yeah? Am I living up to the expectation?" he murmured, and you could hear the laughter in his voice. It wasn’t a mocking sort of amusement, just a quiet acknowledgment that you both knew where this conversation was heading. And that, he hoped, neither one of you would shy away from it.

You laughed, a softness you'd never known you were capable of settling into your chest. There had been something so unexpectedly freeing about the experience—about wearing it made you flush with warmth.

“You could say that…”

“What were you hoping for, when you sent me that photo?”

The thought sent an immediate ache through your body, the suggestion of his touch, of the things he might do to you, sending a wave of desire through you. Your mind raced with images of “him” above you, of his hands pinning your wrists to the bed as he thrust into you. The thought was enough to make you flush, the ache of need between your legs becoming almost unbearable.

"Nothing.” You couldn’t even pretend to feign nonchalance when his words had been so unflinchingly honest, when the promise of what lay ahead was so tantalisingly clear.

"I’ll make it easier for you, then. What are you thinking about right now?" he said bluntly, his words sending a rush of heat through your entire body. There was nothing ambiguous or hesitant about his command; he wanted this, and he expected you to do it. "Tell me what you want, angel. I can give you that."

You twist the fabric hem of the lingerie around your fingers nervously, chewing at the dry skin on the edge of your lips. “I- I don’t know how to do this.”

He chuckles softly, voice still full of kindness. “Then you don’t have to do anything, let me do all the work, baby.”

You’re quiet for a moment, pondering your options. Before nodding to yourself, deciding you’d have to let go of your nerves for the time being if you wanted this to continue.

“Okay.” You whisper, almost inaudibly. He wouldn’t have been able to hear it if he’d not been paying such close attention.

You took a deep breath, feeling a surge of boldness. "I... I've always had this fantasy of being guided by a man... someone who knows what he wants and can show me new pleasures. I’ve never had that chance before… I was hoping maybe that could be you."

"Oh, angel, you have no idea how much I want to fulfil those desires," He purred. "I can be your guide, your teacher, and your lover all in one."

His words sent a jolt of electricity through your body, and you felt your core tighten with anticipation. "I... I think I'd like that very much."

"I want you to relax and get comfortable for me, can you do that, baby?. Dim the lights, light a candle, whatever you need to do."

Obeying his instructions, you lit a scented candle, filling the room with a soft, flickering glow and a hint of vanilla. You kicked off your shoes and slid under the covers, your heart pounding in your chest.

"That's it, sweet girl," He whispered. "Now, I want you to imagine my hands on your body, caressing your skin, exploring every inch of you. Feel my touch, soft and gentle, as I trace your collarbone, down to the swell of your breasts."

As you listened, you closed your eyes, visualising his strong, masculine hands on your body. You imagined his fingers brushing against your sensitive nipples, causing them to harden in response. Soft whimpers escaping your lips as you reach up to cup your breasts, mimicking his touch.

"That's right, angel," he encouraged. "Touch yourself for me. Feel how soft you are, how sweet.”

Your fingers obeyed, teasing your nipples, rolling and tugging at the sensitive peaks. You arched your back, pressing your breasts into your palms, and let out a soft cry of pleasure.

"Do you like that, little girl?" He asked, his voice thick with desire. "I wish you could see what you do to me."

"Yes, Doctor," you breathed, your voice heavy with arousal. “It feels so good."

"Now, slide your hand down your stomach, past your navel, and into the heat between your thighs," he instructed, his voice a seductive command. "Feel how wet you are for me, how your body responds to my words."

Your hand trembled as you obeyed, slipping beneath the covers and finding your way to your core. Your fingers brushed against your wet folds, and you gasped at the sensation.

"Oh, god, baby. You're so wet, aren’t you? I can hear it," He growled. "Rub your fingers along your pussy, coat them with your sweetness.”

You did as he said, moaning as your fingers slipped into your tight cunt. You were so wet, so ready, and the sensation of filling yourself sent waves of pleasure through your body. Taking the phone down your body, you hold it in front of your dripping pussy. Your microphone picking up on the sounds as your fingers slip through your folds.

"What a noisy fucking pussy, that's it, that's my girl," he encouraged. "Fuck yourself with your fingers, slowly at first, imagine it's my cock inside you, claiming your tight little cunt."

Your fingers moved in and out, your pace increasing as your pleasure spiralled. You imagined Spencer's thick, hard length filling you, his powerful body driving into yours.

"Yeah, fuck yourself for me," he urged. "Let go, angel girl. Come for me, and let me hear your sweet cries."

Your fingers worked frantically, your body on the brink of ecstasy. His words, his deep, commanding voice, pushed you over the edge. With a cry of release, you climaxed, your body trembling as waves of pleasure washed over you.

"Oh, my sweet girl," he whispered, whispering soft praise over the phone, his voice filled with satisfaction. "That sounded like a lot, hm? You still with me, beautiful?."

"I know that wasn’t easy for you, but it was beautiful to hear." His voice was soft, filled with sincerity.

You lay there, breathless and sated, your body still humming with pleasure. "Y-yeah, m still here. Thank you."

"You did so good, such a well behaved girl. Check your phone for me, baby. Look what you did to me."

You froze for a moment, your mind struggling to process exactly what you were looking at. And then it registered—the smooth skin of his stomach, the slight curve of his hip. A moment later, you saw it; his cock, flushed pink tip, half-hard and resting against his stomach. A small pool of cum rested near his belly button.. You flushed all over at the thought, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the photo. There was something so undeniably intimate about the image; something that spoke to the fact that he'd been pleasuring himself while thinking of you.

With a final, breathless goodbye, you end the call. Your heart is still racing, your body tingling with the lingering aftershocks of pleasure. His voice still echoes in your ears, warm and commanding, and the weight of his presence seems to fill the room even though he's no longer on the line. You lean back against the soft cushions on your bed, eyes fluttering closed, letting the soft glow of the lamp wash over you.

You let out a slow exhale, your chest rising and falling in rhythm with the buzz still pulsing beneath your skin. There’s something thrilling, intoxicating about the way he’s able to draw you out, make you vulnerable and yet so sure of yourself all at once. But the moment feels almost too surreal, too indulgent, and you try to calm your racing thoughts when a ping breaks through the haze of your afterglow.

You glance down at your phone, blinking at the notification that has just popped up.

$500 has been deposited into your account.

-for my pretty girl

Your breath catches in your throat as your fingers instinctively swipe open the message. You freeze, your eyes scanning the details with a quickness that betrays your curiosity.

"Doctor Reid," it reads, alongside the substantial amount.

For a moment, time seems to stop, your gaze fixed on the screen as your pulse quickens once more. The money sits there, cool and impersonal, yet its presence is anything but. It’s a gesture—one that feels undeniably generous, but also loaded with unspoken meaning. This isn’t just a transaction. This is him, and everything that came with the promise of his control, his attention, his care.

You’ve known that he was willing to give, but this—this feels different. The amount is so much more than what you’d expected. What did he mean by it? What does he expect now?

You glance at the digits one more time, the weight of his name anchoring the moment. It feels strange to see it. So he was a doctor.

A tight knot forms in your chest, mixing nerves with something else—something like desire, maybe even gratitude. You bite your lip, unsure how to feel. It was just a phone call, just a moment of shared vulnerability between you. Yet the fact that he’s followed through with this kind of gesture makes everything feel so much more real, so much more complicated.

With a heavy sigh, you set your phone down and run your fingers through your hair, your mind racing as you try to reconcile the thrill of the moment with the heavy responsibility that now feels like it’s creeping in.

At least now you had his name, Doctor Reid.

next part

#missarchive #spencer reid x reader #bau x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid smut #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds

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theaawalker · 4 months ago

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Steps to Write a Cunning Femme Fatale

1. Establish Her Persona

Define Her Allure: Craft her as enigmatic, charming, and intelligent. She should draw people in with her charisma and mystique.

Give Her Depth: Avoid clichés by giving her a unique backstory, motivations, or vulnerabilities that shape her actions.

Choose Her Strengths: Highlight skills like manipulation, resourcefulness, or combat abilities that give her an edge.

2. Shape Her Role in the Plot

Decide Her Purpose: Determine if she’s an ally, antagonist, or morally gray character, and how her actions drive the story.

Design Power Dynamics: Show how she wields control or influence over other characters, often exploiting weaknesses.

Weave Intrigue: Keep her intentions ambiguous to maintain tension and mystery.

3. Build Her Relationships

Contrast With Others: Develop relationships that show how she contrasts with or complements other characters (e.g., a vulnerable hero or a rival villain).

Show Complexity: Explore the layers in her interactions, such as her ability to mix truth with deception.

Reveal Gradually: Unfold her true nature over time, leaving both characters and the audience guessing.

4. Create a Striking Appearance

Use Symbolism: Incorporate elements of her look that reflect her personality, like bold colors, sleek outfits, or unique accessories.

Convey Confidence: Show her self-assuredness in the way she moves, speaks, and holds herself.

Highlight Ambiguity: Blend qualities that make her both alluring and dangerous (e.g., a soft smile hiding sharp intent).

5. Show Her in Action

Establish Power Plays: Showcase her intelligence and cunning through strategic actions, manipulations, or daring risks.

Create High Stakes: Put her in situations where she must outwit others or face consequences.

Balance Strength and Vulnerability: Let her excel in some areas while occasionally exposing a flaw or fear to humanize her.

6. Develop a Satisfying Arc

Choose Her Outcome: Decide if she triumphs, meets her downfall, or remains ambiguous at the story’s end.

Reflect Growth or Decline: Show how her actions shape her destiny—whether she evolves, succumbs, or holds her ground.

Tie Back to Themes: Ensure her arc aligns with the overarching themes of the story, like betrayal, love, or revenge.

Examples of Femme Fatales in Stories

1. Film Examples

Phyllis Dietrichson (Double Indemnity): Uses charm and manipulation to pull others into her schemes, embodying the classic femme fatale archetype.

Mal Cobb (Inception): A tragic yet dangerous figure, her motivations blur the lines between reality and illusion.

Nikita (La Femme Nikita): Balances vulnerability and lethal skill, creating a layered and compelling character.

2. Literature Examples

Catherine Tramell (Basic Instinct): A brilliant, enigmatic writer whose intelligence and seduction make her a master manipulator.

Milady de Winter (The Three Musketeers): A cunning and ruthless antagonist, she uses her wits and charm to outmaneuver the heroes.

Amy Dunne (Gone Girl): Subverts the idea of victimhood with her calculated and chilling actions, redefining the femme fatale for modern audiences.

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thank you, i am farkle :)

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pukefactory · 2 months ago

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⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ DELIGHTFUL DOWNPOUR ☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

⏾⋆ Summary: Shadow Milk Cookie Tends To Your Wounds

⏾⋆ Character(s): Shadow Milk Cookie (Cookie Run)

⏾⋆ Genre: Headcannons, SFW

⏾⋆ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

⏾⋆ Image Credits: @pink-sugar & @sisterlucifergraphics

✶ “Ohhh, what’s this? A surprise performance? And I didn’t even hand you a script!” Shadow Milk Cookie’s voice laces the air like silk, but his hands tremble as they hover over your wounds. The stage was his to control, the players his to manipulate—but you? You had thrown yourself into the fray, unbidden, unscripted, unpredictable. He should be livid. Instead, he kneels beside you, a rare silence stretching between you both.

✶ For all his flamboyant showmanship, Shadow Milk Cookie’s touch is careful as he winds bandages around your wounds. He hums a tune under his breath, something eerily soft, yet the sharp glint in his mismatched eyes remains. “Ohhh, what a mess you’ve made! Ruining my perfect, perfect stage like this!” he chides, voice lilting with exaggerated disappointment. And yet, despite the theatrics, his hands do not waver.

✶ Shadow Milk Cookie thrives in illusion, in making others doubt their own senses, but he cannot lie to himself about this. He felt it—true fear. The moment you shielded him, the moment you crumpled to the ground, the moment your blood stained his harlequin attire… he had lost control. And oh, how he despised that feeling.

✶ “You’re hogging all the attention, y’know,” he pouts, tying off the last bandage with a dramatic flourish. “And here I thought I was the star!” His lips curl into a smirk, but there’s a tightness to it—something rehearsed, forced. The truth is, the mere idea of you fading from the scene unnerves him. What fun would the show be without its most intriguing audience member?

✶ Every time you wince, his grip on his staff tightens. Every time your breath hitches, the eyes hidden in his hair flicker erratically. But instead of acknowledging his concern, he laughs. Loud, sharp, grating. “My my my, such a tragic little protagonist we have here!” He claps his hands together. “Such devotion! Such foolhardy bravery! But tell me, dear, was it worth it?” He expects you to falter. Instead, you meet his gaze with steady resolve. “Yes,” you say. And for once, he has no clever retort.

✶ For all his love of deception, he hates the sight of you like this—broken, battered, bleeding. A pawn in a game he didn’t realize had begun. And worse? You’d played your part for him. Shadow Milk Cookie is no stranger to sacrifice, but yours unsettles him. Why? Why would you do this? For him? No, no, no. That’s not how the script is supposed to go.

✶ His fingers brush against your cheek, an absent-minded gesture—one he doesn’t even realize he’s doing. For a fleeting moment, the mischief in his gaze dims. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Absolutely absurd.” And yet, his hands linger, gripping yours with an intensity that betrays his usual nonchalance.

✶ The ones who harmed you? Oh, they will regret it. Shadow Milk Cookie is not the type to seek vengeance for others. He would sooner laugh at their misfortune than shed a tear. But for you? For you, he will rewrite the entire performance. And in this act, the antagonists will not make it to the final bow.

✶ “I’d say you owe me for this, but honestly?” He sighs, dramatically draping himself beside you. “I think I’m the one in debt here. How scandalous!” His grin is all teeth, all bravado, but his fingers curl slightly at his sides. He wants to tell you it was foolish, reckless, idiotic. But instead, he simply murmurs, “Don’t do it again.”

✶ Shadow Milk Cookie spins tales, crafts illusions, blurs the lines between reality and fiction with a flick of his wrist. But this? This moment, this raw, aching truth between you both—he cannot twist it. You, lying there, injured but alive. Him, at your side, guarding you with an intensity that terrifies even himself. “The show must go on,” he says softly, almost to himself. But for the first time in his existence, he does not want this act to end.

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valeisaslut · 2 months ago

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⭒࿐COLLIDE - c. four

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑

𝐒𝐇𝐄.

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝘩𝑟𝑒𝑒 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒𝑟 →

listen to the song linked for a better and more realistic experience, hope you like it and think it fits them as much as i did <3

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

⭒ synopsis: Trapped in a carefully crafted illusion, you and Ellie have spent the past month playing the perfect couple for the world to believe. But in the quiet of a hotel room, away from the world’s gaze, a song takes shape between you. A melody that feels too raw, too real, like something neither of you meant to reveal. And as the music flows, so does the unspoken truth—this isn’t just an act anymore. 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 7k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: fluff, LOTS of tension, nothing big acc happens but is SUPER important for the story and plot, shows my undying love for music, fake dating, cursing, modern au, mention of cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, afab!reader, multiple part series, MEN AND MINORS DNI, likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

The past month had been nothing short of chaos—an intoxicating, inescapable kind of madness. A whirlwind of flashing cameras, endless headlines, and a public that simply couldn’t get enough of you and Ellie.

The entire world crowned both of you as Hollywood’s latest and most interesting It Couple. Your names trended daily, your faces plastered across billboards, magazine covers, and endless Twitter threads dedicated to analyzing the tiniest details of your interactions. Every stolen glance, every accidental brush of fingers, even a single shared breath in the same frame was magnified, dissected, and spun into theories.

You expected the attention. The speculation. But what you hadn’t expected was for it to stick. To grow. To spiral into something much bigger than the both of you, something neither of you had full control over.

But Rachel was right—relationships, real or not, fueled careers. Publicity was a currency, and right now, you and Ellie were cashing in.

Overnight, you had become a rockstar’s girlfriend, an effortlessly cool counterpart to her reckless charm. Your name carried a new kind of weight—more intrigue, more edge. Meanwhile, Ellie’s past scandals and messy headlines were wiped clean, replaced with a precisely curated narrative of stability, of mistery wrapped in romance.

Both of you had the press wrapped around your fingers, feeding the public’s insatiable hunger, heightening the anticipation for your upcoming albums.

Everything was working perfectly.

Well, almost.

This romance was an act, a carefully crafted illusion designed to sell a story. But as more fake dates passed, as more carefully orchestrated appearances blurred into late nights, it stopped feeling like fiction. The teasing, the banter, the way she’d lean in just a little too close when she whispered in your ear, the way her fingers would slip under your clothes when no one was looking—it wasn’t just for the cameras anymore.

And the way she looked at you… that was the worst part. Because when the flashes faded and the crowds disappeared, when it was just the two of you slipping into the quiet of a hotel room, a dimly lit backstage greenroom, a late-night car ride with the city stretching out endlessly beyond the tinted windows, the lines blurred.

And the “rules”?

They weren’t just bending anymore.

They were begging to be broken.

Now, another morning. Another hotel room. The remnants of last night lay scattered like evidence—a familiar, beautiful kind of mess.

Whiskey glasses half-empty, a bottle of wine tipped over on the nightstand, clothes draped over furniture, carelessly discarded in the haze of lust. The air was heavy, thick with the remnants of cigarettes and the musk of sweat and sex that clung to the skin and the sheets.

Sunlight spilled through the massive windows, casting lazy golden streaks across the tangle of limbs and the mess of unruly hair. It traced the curve of bare shoulders, the rise and fall of slow, steady breaths—turning the remnants of the night into something almost soft, almost tender.

In the hush of the morning, it was easy to forget.

Easy to sink into the illusion that outside these four walls, the world wasn’t waiting with cameras and microphones, ready to twist something as simple as a glance into another headline.

Here, time moved slower, suspended in a half-conscious state between dreams and reality.

Just her.

Just you.

And whatever the hell this had become.

You stirred against the pillows, consciousness creeping in at the edges, reluctant to pull you from the weightless comfort of sleep. The bed was warm, the space beside you still faintly imprinted with Ellie’s shape, but empty.

A few feet away, perched at the edge of the mattress, she sat with one leg drawn up, the other resting on the floor, hoodie slung lazily over her shoulders, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. The loose fabric did nothing to conceal the way her tattooed back muscles flexed with each movement, her fingers untangling the mess of wires at her feet.

She hadn’t noticed you were awake yet.

Her auburn locks were an absolute mess, sticking up in odd places, and for just a fleeting moment, she looked younger, softer. There was something achingly familiar in the slope of her shoulders, in the easy way she just existed in the quiet.

As if this wasn’t a hotel room in some foreign city. As if you hadn’t spent the past month pretending this thing between you was just an act.

You watched her through heavy-lidded eyes, letting yourself look at her—really look at her. Before the world demanded smirks in place of softness, sharp words instead of silence, half-truths masked as teasing. Before the world could steal this version of her away from you.

And then, as if drawn by some unspoken force, she turned.

Her gaze found yours, soft with sleep, yet sharp in its awareness. Something flickered in those green eyes, quiet and unreadable. She didn’t smirk, didn’t tease. She just looked at you, studying your face like she was trying to etch every detail into memory.

Slowly, carefully, her fingers reached out. The backs of her knuckles ghosted over your cheek, featherlight, tracing the curve of your jaw before tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was barely there, but it sent a shiver down your spine, a warm sensation you tried—and failed—to ignore.

Her thumb lingered at your temple, just for a second. A hesitation. A silent question neither of you dared to voice.

And then, as quickly as she had touched you, she was gone.

She turned her attention back to the wires, fingers deft and practiced as she untangled them, as if the touch had never happened. As if she hadn’t just traced the shape of you like you were fragile, something worth remembering.

The spell broke. The world righted itself.

But your skin still burned where she had touched you.

The gentle clink of a guitar cable against the amp, the soft click of knobs turning. A second later, the first note filled the room—unhurried, each strum rolling into the next.

You groaned, cracking an eye open fully. "Really? First thing in the morning?"

Ellie barely spared you a glance, her fingers drifting into a slow, steady rhythm.

"Sorry babe…" she muttered, exhaling as if she had been holding her breath too long. "I just… have this fucking melody in my head. I don’t wanna lose it."

You made a noise of protest, throwing an arm over your face. "You’re insufferable."

She smirked at that, plucking another note, her voice dipping into something lower, amused.

"And yet…" she murmured, "you keep ending up in my bed."

Your lips parted for a retort, but you swallowed it down, pressing your arm further into your face instead. There was no point in denying it.

Because she was right.

You always did.

A few seconds later, you eased your arm to peek. Her head was tilted down, watching her hands move over the fretboard with effortless ease, like the chords were something she was pulling out of the air itself.

There was something intoxicating about watching her like this—completely lost in it, focused, unaware of how fucking good she looked in the lazy light of morning. The sound lingered, like the kind of melody that only existed somewhere between a dream and a memory, slow and hypnotic. Almost intimate.

Your brows pulled together.

"That’s… actually really good."

Ellie finally looked up, an eyebrow raised. "You think?"

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, hair falling into your face as you listened, really listened. The way the chords lingered, how she let the last note stretch a second longer than expected, the slight hesitation in how she moved between them—it felt intentional.

Words and lyrics began to swirl in your mind, floating effortlessly like they were born from the melody Ellie was playing. They felt right, like they belonged perfectly to the rhythm she’d found without even trying.

"Keep going." you murmured.

Reaching blindly for the notepad on the nightstand, your fingers brushed across the edge of the pages before curling around the pen Ellie stealed from god-knows-where.

Without thinking, the words spilled out, falling from your lips as if they had been waiting for this moment.

"She… she lives in daydreams with me…"

It was barely above a whisper, unpolished, something that shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

The moment it left your mouth, it did.

Ellie’s head snapped up, fingers pausing on the strings.

"She’s the first one that I see…" you continued, voice steadying, gaining weight. "And I don’t know why… I don’t know who she is…"

A slow grin spread across her face. Not her usual cocky smirk, not the teasing half-smile she threw when she was trying to get a rise out of you—something softer, something real.

"The fuck was that?"

You shrugged, heartbeat a little too fast, face warming up.

"I don’t know. It just… came."

Ellie nodded towards the notepad.

"Write it down."

Your stomach flipped. You bit your lip, then did exactly that.

Ellie’s eyes never left yours as she continued to play, her body moving instinctively with each chord. The muscles in her forearms flexed and relaxed as she adjusted the pressure on the fretboard, focusing entirely on the music.

You tapped the pen against your thigh, your gaze on her fingers, watching the way they moved. More lyrics began to unravel in your mind, slipping past your thoughts.

“Nine in the morning, the man drops his kids off at school...” you hummed, voice soft, testing the air around you as if searching for the right words.

Ellie snorted, fingers momentarily slipping on the strings. “What man?”

You blinked at her, confused.

She looked at you, brow raised, guitar still going. “The guy in the song. The fuck are you talking about?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to keep the irritation from your voice. “Just a random guy I saw across the street yesterday. But imagine this—this song isn’t about him. It’s about someone else entirely. A girl from a fantasy.”

Ellie paused for a second, considering your words, her expression softening with a thoughtful nod. “Huh. Alright. Go on, Shakespeare.”

You shot her a playful look before continuing to scribble words down, humming and trying to find the perfect ones to describe the concept you just found.

“And he’s thinking of you...”

“Like all of us do…”

Your last words were a whisper, barely audible, almost too honest. Like a confession.

"Sends his assistant for coffee in the afternoon," you murmured, scribbling the line down, "around one-thirty-two. He knows what to do"

Ellie groaned dramatically, shaking her head. “Fucking hell. You’re fast with those lyrics.”

You glanced up at her, raising an eyebrow. “What? It’s just how I work. Now keep playing.”

Ellie exhaled, a small, impressed grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Fine, ma’am,"

You let the words tumble out, the melody weaving itself around the lyrics in perfect harmony. Everything around you seemed to disappear, as if nothing else mattered but this—the music, the words, and the space you shared.

"She… she… she lives in daydreams with me…" The first line left your lips again, now fitting perfectly against Ellie’s steady melody.

You didn’t miss the way her gaze lingered, her fingers tightening around the neck of her guitar.

"She… she’s the first one that I see… and I don’t know why… I don’t know who she is…”

Ellie let the last note hang in the air for a moment, the room thick with the sound.

She hummed in approval, her gaze steady on you.

“That’s really sick”

Then, she tilted her head, her eyes narrowing playfully as she caught your gaze.

“But it’s kinda lesbophobic of you to write this about a man”

You groaned, covering your face with one hand in mock embarrassment. “Oh, shut up, it slaps. And i already told you, it’s about a girl.”

Ellie chuckled, setting the guitar down just long enough to stretch, her muscles shifting beneath the ink that covered her arms. The sight of it made your breath catch, just for a second. She glanced over at you, her voice a little lower now, as if the air between you had thickened.

“Gotta admit…” she murmured, her eyes dark with something unreadable “your raw singing voice is amazing.”

You swallowed, heart thudding against your ribs as you forced out a casual, "Yeah, well… don't get used to it."

Ellie huffed a quiet laugh, but there was something else there now, heavier. Her fingers flexed against the body of the guitar, like she wasn’t sure whether to pick it back up or let the silence settle in.

You looked down at the lyrics scribbled across the notepad, the ink slightly smudged from where your palm had rested against the page. The song was unfinished, hanging in the air between you, waiting.

Waiting for who?

Waiting for what?

Ellie broke the silence first.

"This fantasy girl… who is she?"

Your hand stilled over the notepad.

Ellie tilted her head, something sharp—knowing—lurking behind her curiosity.

You swallowed. "I don't know."

A lie.

Ellie didn’t know what the hell was happening to her.

She’d looked at you a thousand times before—across dimly lit restaurants, over the neck of her guitar, through the haze of cigarette smoke and exhaustion after a long night in the studio.

But this? This was different.

The weight of her gaze settled in your chest, thick and pressing, making it hard to breathe. You weren’t used to her looking at you like this—open, unguarded, as if she was actually seeing you.

Not just the version of you she joked with, not just the version of you that the world saw, but the real you. The one who wrote in hotel rooms at ungodly hours. The one who overthought everything. The one who kept getting tangled in something she didn’t have the words for.

And maybe that was what scared her the most. That you—this raw, unfiltered version of you—had somehow become the thing she kept chasing. The thing that was lingering in every corner of her mind, bleeding into every song she played, every lyric she wrote, every melody that lived rent-free in her head.

You shifted slightly, the fabric of her shirt slipping further down your shoulder, exposing warm skin to the low light. And for some reason, that was the thing that made her stomach twist. Not in the way she was used to. Not in the way that ended in tangled sheets and careless goodbyes.

No, this was something else.

Something quieter. Something that had been building, slow and unrelenting, creeping in through the cracks she hadn’t even realized you’d left in her.

And then Ellie moved again, fingers finding the guitar with effortless familiarity. The melody resounded again, but now softer, like she was testing the waters.

She could feel it in her hands before she even processed the thought—fingers moving, plucking at the strings without hesitation, as if the melody had been there all along, waiting to be carved out.

It came effortlessly this morning, guided by something unspoken, something just out of reach. The way you looked at her, the way you bit your lip absentmindedly, the way the light caught on your cheekbone. It was music. You were music.

And before she could stop herself, before she could even think, it was spilling out of her again.

"She… she… she lives in daydreams with me…"

Her voice humming your lyrics—low, raspy, barely more than a whisper—wrapped around the words like a confession, rough yet impossibly gentle. It sent something sharp curling low in your stomach, dangerously close to longing.

"She… she’s the first one that I see… and I don’t know why… I don’t know who she is."

The song lingered in the space between you, settling into the quiet like a secret neither of you were ready to confess.

But in that moment, you didn’t have to.

Mid-strum, she let out a slow breath and rolled her shoulders.

Then, almost out of nowhere, she said, "I told you that I learned to play guitar from Joel, right?"

You nodded, surprised by the shift in topic and feeling the weight of the legendary name. "...Yeah, you did"

She nodded, her fingers still idly plucking at the strings, like she needed something to anchor herself.

“He never cared about playing things the ‘right’ way. Wasn’t about that for him.” She exhaled, gaze distant, like she was somewhere else. “He always said music wasn’t just about the notes—it was about feeling it. Living it. That if you played it right, it could make sense of things that didn’t.”

You watched Ellie carefully, seeing a side of her you hadn’t expected. The way she spoke of Joel, the way her fingers tightened on the guitar like it was a lifeline.

“You ever miss it?” you asked softly, not even sure what it meant—Joel, music, or something else entirely.

Ellie let out a breath, tilting her head to the ceiling before shrugging. But it wasn’t casual—it was heavy.

"...Yeah" she admitted, voice quieter than before. "I’ve been kind of a dick to him, honestly."

You didn’t say anything, just let her talk.

"He made everything feel easier. Even the shit that wasn’t." She huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head. "When we played together, it was like... I don’t know, like none of the bullshit mattered for a little while."

Her fingers stilled on the strings.

"He used to tell me, ‘There’s no wrong way to play a song, Ellie. Just how you feel about it.’" She smirked, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Guess that’s why I never cared about music theory or technique or whatever. Just wanted to feel it."

You nodded, understanding more than you expected to.

The weight of the moment settled between you, pressing into the space where words didn’t need to be. For a second, it wasn’t about the song you were working on—it was about the simplicity of what music meant to both of you.

“Guess that’s how this song came out, huh?” you said, your voice almost teasing but with a note of sincerity. “No wrong way. Just… feeling it.”

“Yeah, exactly. You just... you just let it happen.” Ellie caught your eye and grinned, a mischievous glint in her gaze. “Pretty deep for a song we wrote in a hotel room, huh?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting this to turn into some big existential moment, but here we are.” You chuckled, shifting on the bed to get a more comfortable spot. “Maybe it's the afterglow”

Ellie let out a short laugh, shaking her head. "Oh yeah? That what we’re calling it now?"

"I mean, think about it—" You gestured vaguely, a teasing edge to your voice. "The post-song haze, the melody and lyrics basically coming out of nowhere. It’s the artistic equivalent of afterglow."

Ellie hummed in consideration, tapping her fingers against the body of her guitar. "Okay, fine, I’ll give you that one. But music’s kinda like that, y'know? It creeps up on you. You think you’re just messing around, and then suddenly—bam—you’re confronting shit you didn’t even realize was still in your head."

You felt the weight of her words settle, the vulnerability that was so rare for her, but so real in that moment.

“Yeah, it does. Like, maybe this song wasn’t meant for me to write by myself. Sometimes, it’s just... the right person at the right time that makes it all click.”

Your words resounded in her head.

The right person at the right time that makes it all click.

You were that person.

Ellie tilted her head, murmuring low as her fingers never stopped their movement on the guitar.

“Maybe it was meant to be something we did together.”

A silence fell between you again, but it wasn’t awkward—it was comfortable, filled with the understanding of something bigger than both of you. Something beyond.

Like it had a life of its own.

Ellie broke the silence, her voice light but knowing. “You know, I never thought I’d be sitting here, writing a song like this with anyone.”

“Why’s that?” you asked, genuinely curious.

She shrugged again, her gaze flickering to you, then back down to her guitar. “I don’t know. I guess I thought I’d just write songs with Jesse, Dina, and nobody else. But it’s... it’s amazing, doing this. With you.”

You reached for the notepad again, feeling the weight of the next line coming to you. “Then let’s make it count. Let’s finish it.”

Ellie smiled, the familiar spark returning to her eyes. “You got it.”

And with that, the room once again filled with the sounds of the song, both of you lost in the music, pushing and pulling at the notes, the chords, and each other—creating something new.

The next hour, the room was still filled with the soft hum of Ellie’s guitar strings, each note careful as she played the song you two had crafted over and over. It was still raw, still finding its final form, but with every repetition, it felt more real. More polished. And it was really good.

You sat cross-legged on the bed as Ellie played, her fingers moving over the strings with more confidence each time. But you couldn’t help but watch her and wonder what the hell was going through that unreadable mind of hers.

She shifted, sitting back slightly, guitar still resting on her lap, letting out a long, almost frustrated sigh.

“Alright, so we make this entire song in the span of an hour, and now what? Do we just let it die here?” She nudged the notepad towards you with her foot, the corner of her mouth pulling up in that mischievous grin you’d come to know far too well.

“We don’t have to record it,” you said, your voice a little too steady. “I mean, we didn’t even plan to write it, right? It was just… something that happened.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Something that happened?”

She leaned forward, eyes narrowing slightly, still holding that knowing look. “Come on. You’re telling me you’re not at least a little curious about how this sounds with some actual production? Not just… us in a hotel room?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just better left as a thing we did for ourselves,” you said, attempting to sound casual. "Not everything needs to be recorded."

Ellie clicked her tongue, clearly not impressed. She tapped the neck of her guitar rhythmically, glancing over at you. “That’s a nice idea, but you and I both know you’re lying to yourself right now.”

You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah. You're not the first person to get all deep and philosophical about a song only to end up recording it.”

You stared at her, then laughed despite yourself. “You really think I can’t just not record it?”

“Please,” she scoffed. “You’re itching for this to be out there. You wanna hear how it sounds with a full band behind it, don’t you?”

You shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether you were more frustrated with her or with the fact that she was right.

“Maybe…” You trailed off, giving her a small smile. “But it’s not like it has to be something big.”

“Big, small, whatever. The point is—" She paused, leaning in just a little closer, the air between you crackling with tension. "We’re making something that feels real, something that’s ours, and it deserves to be heard.”

“I don’t know…” You exhaled slowly, looking away for a moment. “This is very different from my music. I’m not sure how it’ll translate.”

“It’s very different from my music too, but it’s just that fucking good.” She was almost daring you to argue, like she was waiting for you to backpedal.

“I’m not arguing that it’s really good. But it’s… soft. You know?”

Ellie chuckled, crossing her arms. “Soft, huh? That’s how you’re gonna describe it?” She shook her head, almost in disbelief.

You crossed your arms, matching her defiance. “It’s just not what I’m used to. I don’t usually write this kind of stuff.”

Ellie tilted forward, her gaze steady. “Look, I get it. You’re afraid of doing something different. It’s not a big, loud anthem. It’s a quiet, real song that means something.”

You couldn’t argue with that. Not completely.

You fell silent, feeling a mix of dread and anticipation building in your chest. This was it. It wasn’t just the song anymore—it was you, stepping into something new.

“So what, we just go into the studio and see what happens?”

“I mean, yeah. Why not? What’s the worst that could happen? We both make a hit? Break the internet with your beautiful voice and my amazing solo?” She said, grinning like she’d already won. “Or maybe we just have fun. Either way, I’m in.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “God, you’re relentless.”

“Yeah,” she said, eyes glinting with something you couldn’t quite place. A challenge? A plea? Or maybe deeper, but you weren’t ready to name it.

“We’ve been through a hell of a month—don’t you think it’s time to do something that actually has meaning? Something that’s actually real?”

The words hit harder than you expected.

Because she was right.

Nothing in your life was real. Your smile, your image, your carefully curated personality that just existed for the cameras. Every interview rehearsed, every appearance staged. Even this so-called relationship was nothing more than another performance.

But music?

Music was the only thing that had ever been real. The one unshakable, non-negotiable truth of your existence. The thing that kept you tethered when everything else felt hollow. The one part of yourself that hadn’t been twisted, edited, and repackaged for consumption.

And Ellie knew it.

She saw through all of it. Past the script, past the headlines, past the bullshit. And maybe that was what scared you the most.

Your breath hitched, something inside you shifting, clicking into place like a puzzle piece you hadn’t realized was missing. It was time to stop caring about how the world wanted to frame you.

Because if nothing else, at least this—whatever the hell this thing between you was—could create something real. Something honest. Something that actually mattered.

“Alright. Fine. Let’s do it,” you muttered, exhaling like you were about to regret it. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when it turns out all weird and experimental.”

Ellie let out a sharp, triumphant laugh, her fingers already tapping an impatient rhythm against her knee. “Hell yeah. That’s the spirit.”

You shot her a look. “And don’t get any ideas—I’m not doing this for you.”

“Oh, please.” Ellie’s grin was all teeth, smug and satisfied. “You totally are.”

You rolled your eyes, but the truth was, it didn’t really matter anymore. Because the second the words left your mouth, you knew it was already done.

And as much as you told yourself you should be careful—as much as you tried to ignore the feeling curling low in your stomach—something inside you, quiet and reckless, was already looking forward to whatever came next.

The studio was alive with a hum of anticipation, the faint buzz of equipment and the subtle echo of footsteps as you adjusted the mic stand, your fingers brushing the cool metal. The engineers had already set everything up, the recording equipment primed and ready.

It was just you and Ellie now, standing on the edge of something that felt too personal yet impossible to keep hidden.

You took a steadying breath, rolling your shoulders as you positioned yourself in front of the mic. Ellie sat off to the side, her guitar resting against her knee.

She had already laid down the instrumentals, the soft hum of her melody wrapping around the space like a thread holding it all together.

Now, it was your turn.

You inhaled slowly, eyes closing as you began to sing. The words of the song slipped past your lips effortlessly. It was the kind of moment where it felt like the music was taking control of you, and everything else melted away.

Your voice stretched into the space, the words slipping into the quiet between notes. There was something raw in it, something that cracked through your usual performance.

You could feel Ellie’s gaze on you, her focus unwavering, but her usual teasing smile was nowhere to be found. She was listening—absorbing the emotion you were putting into the song.

You held the notes a little longer, the emotion building as you sang. It was simple, something you had done a million times, but in this moment, it felt different.

You kept singing, the lyrics still scrawled messily across the notepad in handwriting so illegible only you and a pharmacist could decipher it. As the final note hung in the air, fading into the quiet of the room, you exhaled, fingers loosening on the mic.

Almost instinctively, you turned to Ellie, searching her face for something—anything—that would tell you what she was thinking.

Her eyes were wide, mouth slightly open, her expression unreadable. For a moment, she didn’t speak. Didn’t move. It was like she was trapped somewhere else, still feeling the weight of it.

And then, without a word, she reached for her guitar.

The familiar chords rang out softly at first, her fingers moving over the strings like a whisper, hesitant yet sure. She played softly at first, almost as if testing the waters, letting the sound of her guitar blend with the tail end of your last note. The rhythm was soothing, a gentle echo.

But then, just as you thought she was going to ease into it, Ellie’s fingers shifted, and the solo erupted into the room. Like she just got a divine inspiration.

It wasn’t just music. It was something alive, untamed, filled with unspoken emotions. Her hands flew across the fretboard with the kind of precision that only came from knowing exactly how to make an instrument sing.

Knowing exactly how to make an instrument say something she couldn't.

The sound built around you, sharp and electric, filling every inch of the space like a storm breaking loose.

The engineers behind the glass exchanged glances, nodding along, clearly impressed. But you couldn’t look away from her. She was just so lost in it, eyes half-closed, completely in sync with the music, her body moving with each note.

The final note rang out, vibrating in the air before fading into silence. Ellie exhaled, letting her hands drop from the strings, her chest rising and falling from the energy of it. The studio was still, the only sound the distant hum of equipment and your own uneven breath.

You stilled there for a moment, breathless, still processing what had just happened. Ellie looked at you, a small, satisfied grin tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Well…" Ellie murmured, voice still slightly hushed, as if she didn’t want to break whatever was left of the moment, "that felt pretty damn good."

You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head. "You weren’t kidding about that solo."

"Told you. Guitar’s like a second language."

The night had settled in by the time you and Ellie finally sat back, the last echoes of the song still lingering in the quiet of the studio. The rest of the team had packed up and gone home hours ago, leaving just the two of you in the dimly lit space, surrounded by empty coffee cups, the lingering scent of guitar polish, and the faint hum of the amplifiers still cooling down.

Ellie stretched her arms over her head before slumping back into the couch with a groan. “Jesus, I think I just aged ten years.”

She let her head tip back against the cushions, exhaling loudly. “If this shit doesn’t at least get us a Grammy nom, I’m gonna start throwing hands. Nominations drop in a month—let’s just drop it next week and shake things up.”

You smirked, rubbing your tired eyes. “Oh yeah, because that’s why we did this. For the awards. Not for, you know, the love of music or whatever.”

Ellie scoffed, lifting her head just enough to shoot you a look. “Hey, I love music. I also love validation. Sue me.”

You smirked, stretching your arms over your head. “So we just randomly drop this track like we’re Beyoncé?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, because you and my band are exactly like Beyoncé.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I’m just saying, the timing is perfect. This song hits, it gets people talking, then—boom—albums drop next month, and we ride the wave.”

You hummed, pretending to consider it. “Or we just look like we’re trying too hard.”

Ellie scoffed, sitting up straighter. “Okay, first of all? Rude. Second? That’s the game, babe. Build hype, get streams, make money, and do it all over again.”

She smirked. “You know, the thing we’re really fucking good at.”

You couldn’t argue with that. “Guess we’re really doing this, huh?”

“We always were. We just finally caught up to it.”

Your gaze flickered to her, but she wasn’t looking at you. Instead, she reached for the remote, pointing it at the soundboard. “Anyway. Let’s hear it again.”

With a lazy press of a button, the track began to play through the speakers. The first soft notes filled the room, wrapping around you like a familiar embrace, yet somehow new. You exhaled slowly, sinking into the sound.

Your voice wove through the melody, steady yet raw, laced with something unspoken. Then came Ellie’s guitar—rich, electric, sharp in all the right places. The solo hit, wild and untamed, yet perfectly in sync with everything else.

But Ellie suddenly frowned.

“Nope. No, no, no. I need to fix that part.” she muttered, already reaching for her guitar. “That transition into the bridge? It’s good, but it could be better.”

“Ellie, we’ve been at this for hours. It sounds perfect.” you protested, but she was already plugging back in, tuning absentmindedly as she muttered to herself.

“Just one more take,” she insisted, brushing her fingers over the strings, testing the sound. “I swear, just one. Then I’ll be done.”

You sighed, shaking your head with a tired smile. “Fine.”

She started playing again, her fingers moving effortlessly over the fretboard, chasing perfection. The solo filled the space between you, between the rise and fall of your breath, between the erratic thrum of your heartbeat and the tightening in your chest.

But the music wasn’t what had you frozen in place.

It was her.

Ellie played like she always did, because she didn’t just know the guitar—she was a part of it. Every note came effortlessly, pouring from her like something inevitable, a feeling too strong to hold back.

And you watched her, not just in passing, not just because she was there, but because you couldn’t not look. Because something about this moment, about her, held you captive.

The way her eyes fluttered shut as she let herself get lost in the music, the soft crease in her brow when she leaned into the heavier notes, the way her fingers moved—confident, sure.

The way the muscles in her forearms flexed with each shift, veins peeking through the skin as she held down the chords, calloused fingertips plucking the strings like she was pulling something straight out of your ribs.

Like this whole song was about you.

Like she had done this for you.

Something inside you twisted, sharp and breathless. A flicker of recognition sparked at the edges of your mind, something old and undeniable, that had always been there but had never made itself known.

Your throat went dry. Your heart stuttered. Your hands felt too still, too heavy in your lap. And you panicked.

Because this wasn’t new. This wasn’t sudden.

This had been there all along.

It had been buried under layers of denial, tucked beneath every sarcastic remark, hidden behind every casual touch and lustful night, sitting between the lines of late-night high conversations. It had been lurking in every stolen glance, every fleeting moment where the world felt just a little too small when she was near.

You had fallen for her.

And really fucking hard.

From the very beginning, and you hadn’t even realized it. From the first time you saw her, slouched in that goddamn booth, whiskey glass hanging lazily between her fingers, looking at you like she already knew something you didn’t.

From the first time she whispered in your ear, voice low and teasing, meant to make you squirm—and it did. From the first time her fingers grazed your skin, casual but charged, a warning and a promise all at once.

From the first time you went to that damn hotel room with her.

You had told yourself it was just sex. That it was nothing. A transaction between two people who found temporary relief in the heat of a moment and then walked away unscathed.

But that was a lie.

Because that first night? That first night ruined you.

You still remembered the way she kissed you, rough and desperate, like she was trying to drink you all at once. The way she had stripped you down, piece by piece, until there was nothing left between you but the raw, undeniable truth of it all.

You pretended it didn't mean anything. You got up. You got dressed—in her clothes—and then walked out of that hotel room like you hadn’t just left a piece of yourself behind. Like you weren’t already unraveling at the seams.

And you didn’t know, couldn’t have known, that decision would alter everything. That it would pull you into something much bigger than the both of you—a whirlwind of blurred camera flashes and endless headlines, of fake emotions that didn’t feel so fake, of rehearsed appearances that started to feel too real.

That morning, you thought you were walking away.

But really, you were stepping straight into something you’d never be able to escape.

Straight into her.

Because it was just that easy to get lost in her. In the way she moved, the way she touched you, the way she made you feel like the only thing that mattered in the world for just a little while. And the more you gave in, the harder it became to pretend you weren’t already gone.

But that wasn’t supposed to happen.

Not with her.

Ellie was untouchable. A heartbreaker. A groupie-fucker. She burned through people like cheap lighters, flicked them open, used them until they ran out, and tossed them aside without a second thought.

She didn’t do love. She barely did attachment. You’d heard about it. Hell, you’d even seen it.

She was reckless and shameless and easy with her affections—until she wasn’t. Until she got bored. Until she found someone else to light up and burn out just as fast.

And somehow, without even trying, she had done the same to you.

And now, sitting across from her, watching her get lost in the music, feeling the weight of everything that had led you here, it all slammed into you so hard it made your head spin.

Ellie struck the final note and let it ring out, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Okay,” she breathed. “Now it’s perfect.”

She turned to you, eyes shining with that stupid, infuriating confidence of hers, and it made your stomach drop. Because she had no idea what she’d just done to you. No idea that in fixing one tiny flaw in the song, she had broken something irreparable in you.

With a casual press of the button, she played the song again. And this time, it was different.

Not because the notes had changed. Not because the mix was better. But because you knew. Because there was no turning back from this. Because suddenly, every lyric felt heavier, every chord sharper, every second more fragile.

She leaned back, kicking her boots onto the table, stretching like a lazy cat. “Alright, verdict?”

You forced yourself to speak, to pretend like your entire world hadn’t just tilted on its axis. “Eh. Could be worse.”

She gasped, scandalized. “Excuse me? Could be worse?”

“I mean, I dunno. Feels like the guitar is a little… show-offy.”

Ellie looked genuinely offended. “Show-offy?”

You shrugged. “Just saying, it’s a lot of wailing.”

“Babe, that was one of my best solos. That was—you know what, you don’t deserve to hear my genius ever again.”

You kicked her lightly with your foot. “I’m kidding, relax. Your little wailing session was nice.”

“Nice?” Ellie clutched her chest like you had physically wounded her. “Unbelievable. I pour my heart and soul into this song, and all I get is ‘nice’?”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, okay, fine. It was—what's the word? Transcendent?”

She narrowed her eyes at you suspiciously. “Damn right it was.”

Then she smirked, reaching for her drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass. And you let yourself laugh—let yourself sink into the moment, into the ease of it. Let yourself pretend, just for a little longer, that everything was exactly as it should be.

Pretend you weren’t drowning in something you were never supposed to feel.

But there was no escaping it now. No undoing the realization that had cracked through you like lightning splitting the sky. No unknowing the way your heart beat differently when she looked at you, no taking back the way her presence had rewired something fundamental in you.

This was the point of no return. A moment so sharp, so irreversible, that it changed everything in its wake.

Because from the very start, you and Ellie had been heading straight for impact—drawn together by something neither of you could fight, totally inevitable.

And It had all begun the moment you collided.

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝘩𝑟𝑒𝑒 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒𝑟 →

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 @kaykeryyy @lovely-wisteria @marscardigan @elliesanqel @lovelaymedown @gold-dustwomxn @ilovewomenfr @seraphicsentences @mascspleasegetmepregnant @raindroprose23 @creepyswag @jujueilish @elliesgffrfr @kirammanss @liztreez @catrapplesauces @livvietalks @furtherrawayy @thatchosen1 @kanadadryer @littlerosiesthings @eriiwaii @firefly-ace @redlightellie @elliepoems @sabrinathewitchh982 @shady-lemur @jubileexoxo

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ OMFG GUYS. THIS DUMBASSES FINALLY FUCKING REALIZED WHAT WE AAAALLLL KNEW SINCE THE BEGINNING!!! GOD SAKE NOT EVEN MYSELF CAN WAIT FOR CHAPTER FIVE. I did like 30 proofreads, but there might still be a few grammar mistakes here and there—sorry in advance, english isn't my first language and I will be happy to receive constructive criticism!.

Please leave a comment if you’re interested in being on the permanent taglist for this series!

see ya'll soon, stay tuned ;)

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verridaiya · 3 months ago

Text

—Dream Blooms

"I've seen you there, before."

This fic was born from watching Sylus's Abyssal Blossom card and watching my heart break into a million pieces. It hurt, but then I realized you know who hasn't been hurt by it? Sylus.

Based on the prevailing theory/my headcannons that the Abyssal Blossom card was just a dream, brought on by MC's yearning for a normal, quiet life after the events of Beyond Cloudfall chapter 7.

Synopsis: Sylus invites himself over to take care of you while you're sick. You tell him about a pleasant dream of yours and proceed to break his heart. (Or, you dream of something you've dreamt before, and Sylus hears about it for the first time.)

Contains: Spoilers for Sylus's Beyond Cloudfall myth and the Abyssal Blossom card, Sylus x MC/reader, gender neutral MC/reader, angst/hurt (the comfort will come later), current timeline Sylus & MC

Word Count: 1.7k

start | Part 2 >

“I had a strange dream again.”

“Another one, sweetheart?”

Sylus’s voice is a soft murmur above you. You open your blurry eyes to a darkened room and a pleasantly warm body under you, wrapped around you. Your head feels as hazy as the moonlight filtering in from the cloudy night sky through the window. Half-awake and half asleep, you can still feel the sensations of your dream like phantom memories. You hum an affirmation, shaking off the vestiges of a medicine-induced sleepiness.

You’re not quite sure how you found yourself in this position: sprawled out on your couch, nestled between a warm blanket and an even warmer Sylus, breathing in the scent of him through your admittedly stuffy nose. The last thing you remember was you laying collapsed on your bed, trying to convince yourself that you’re not sick, you’re just tired from a long week at the Hunter’s Association, and to muster up the energy to find something to eat. And then, suddenly, there was Sylus, filling your doorway as he had filled every part of your life, your thoughts, and now your dreams.

You’ve been having more of those recently, ever since you absorbed the power of another Aether Core almost a year ago. Reality intertwining with illusions, the people in your life woven intricately into a tapestry of dreams. Fragments of memories, glimpses of things that could never be, or never was. Flashing scales underneath glistening waves. Zayne, in a flowing robe you’ve never seen on him before, but looked so right on him. A silent forest, illuminated by starlight. You would wake up yearning for something just out of reach, hands outstretched to capture the essence of something that slips, incorporeal, through your fingers.

This dream was gentle, though. And this time, your hands didn’t need to reach far to grasp the heart of your dreams.

“You were in it this time, Sylus.”

“Oh?” he says, sounding intrigued. “Do tell, kitten.”

You hear him place something on the coffee table—his phone, probably—his attention shifting solely to you. He carefully moves to his side, extricating himself from under you, a large hand propping his head up so he can fully face you.

The soft moonlight illuminates on his face, throwing it into relief. Silvery hair threaded with shadow, a pale complexion half shrouded in darkness, eyes like banked hearths warming you with its glow. Through the haze of your fever, you can almost envision what you saw in your dream. You lift a hand pat his soft hair, as if searching for something that wasn’t there, before trailing your fingers down the side of his face.

“You had something on your head.” No, not exactly on his head. You can’t quite remember. The you in the dream was certain that the something was more a part of him than anything else. You frown slightly. The more you strain to remember the details of it, the more awake you became, and the more it danced out of your grasp. “Something sharp and twisting. Rough. It was beautiful, though. You were beautiful.”

Sylus stares at you with wide eyes you couldn’t decipher in your current state. There’s a spark of something foreign in his eyes.

“And?” he urges on, his deep voice uncharacteristically eager to your ears. He reaches to grab the hand that was holding his face, pressing it gently to him. His thumb rubs against the back of it in small soothing motions. “Can you tell me more about this dream of yours, kitten?”

You grasp at the cotton inside your head, stuffy from sleep and sickness. It takes so much effort, to tease apart the strands and find the wisps of fading dreams. It doesn’t help that you were also fighting off the drowsiness. You try, though, to give him what he’s asking for, as he always does for you.

“We were standing in a lovely field of flowers. They were breathtaking, Sylus. Such a vivid, dazzling red. There was a black spire in the distance, I think.” The spire had stood tucked away in the backdrop of rolling hills, but it was a small detail your mind was stuck on for some reason.

Thinking about that spire again, your mind can almost conjure a clear image of your dream. A lingering feeling of déjà vu washes over you, settling heavy on your chest. You’ve dreamt this before; you feel this with every bone in your body as an unshakeable fact. You’ve seen this obsidian spire before, this sprawling flower field. You know with startling certainty that you’ve had this exact dream before. But when you try to recall when, the feeling dissipates and leaves behind only a phantom sensation and an absence in your memory you cannot comprehend.

Sylus watches as you shake away the remnants of déjà vu. Your brow furrows. You’ve come to be accustomed to his intense stares through the months you’ve known him, but this one was… strange. It was as if he was trying to look deep into the fabric of your soul, even without the use of the Aether Core in his eye. His face remains a blank and indecipherable mask, leaving you with no indication of what he’s thinking of. You wanted to know what was going on in that unfathomable mind of his.

Longing. Trepidation. Yearning, a yearning that aches and makes you want to answer its call. You become distantly aware of emotions trickling into you that weren’t your own. You didn’t realize you were resonating with Sylus until he severed it, the hand holding yours shifting to catch your wrist instead. He leans down to brush his soft lips against it before letting your hand rest gently on your stomach.

“How about you recover from your fever first before you use your evol, sweetie.” He laughs softly, the red-gold brilliance of your evols intertwined fading from your hands.

“Oh, sorry.”

His presence in your mind and by your side was so natural that you weren’t even aware of when you began resonating with him. It seemed like your body responded to your desires even while your mind lagged behind. That brief glimpse into him enabled you to decipher that emotion in his eyes, though you struggle to make sense of it.

It was hope.

“Never apologize to me. What else do you remember?” he asks quietly, before you can puzzle over it further.

You close your eyes, willing the memories of the fleeing dream forward. The golden light of a setting sun. The crisp cold of mountainous air. The feeling of being the only two creatures in the world. And, inexplicably, the feeling of home.

“We were up in the air flying, somehow, before we landed in that blossoming valley. It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. I felt like I was in a whole other world. When I turned around to look at you, I saw you sitting there amongst the flowers. Red, like shining rubies. Red like-” you pause, the words at the tip of your tongue. A silhouette appears in your mind’s eye, before it sinks back into the void.

“Red, like rich wine,” you finish, though you know that’s not what you had wanted to say.

When he said nothing, you continued on. “I decorated you with those flowers. We were so carefree, unworried and relaxed. It was just us, no one else, in the valley that was our playground. I think I was teasing you, or maybe you were teasing me. You said something about seeing the other side of things, something taunting. We ended up play-fighting, rolling around and sending petals up in the air.”

You smile, the warmth of the dream enveloping you.

“It felt so real.” You wanted it to be real, this lovely lush field and this gorgeous, monstrous Sylus.

Monstrous?

Startled out of your reverie, you blink open your eyes. No, there is nothing monstrous about Sylus. Not anymore, not since those first few nights that you’ve met him so long ago. Shaking your head slightly to dispel the thought, you turn your head to glance at him, realizing he hasn’t spoken in a while.

His eyes are closed, brows furrowed and drawn tightly together. You’ve seen this expression on his face before, briefly, when he struggles to heal a particularly nasty wound. His body is so tense when you reach out to him, muscles taut and rigid beneath your fingers. You’re not quite sure he’s even breathing.

“Sylus?”

At your prompting, Sylus sucks in a breath through his teeth and exhales. He opens his eyes and your breath catches. Rich garnet eyes glow in the darkness, twin wine-dark seas drowning in sorrow, regret. Agony.

It is so at odds to the sweetness of your recounted dream that alarm shot through you, temporarily driving away the sleepiness. Seeing the pain in his eyes unsettled you; it didn’t belong on his face at all. Your sluggish brain tries to make sense of what you could have said to have garnered this reaction. Did you say something wrong? Your chest tightens at the thought of hurting him with your words, somehow. You begin to prop yourself up.

Sylus stops you with one gentle hand, pushing you to lay back down. He silently regards you, the silence between you stretching into something delicate.

There are so many things you want to say, to ask and to comfort. Sylus was never one to let his emotions show as openly as they are right now. You want to ask what was wrong, take back your silly little story if all it gave him was pain, even if you didn’t understand why.

But through the jumble of your fever, all that came out of your tired mouth was, “It was just a dream, Sylus.”

He quietly watches you for a few breaths longer. Slowly, he lifts a hand to gently caresses your cheek, holding you as if you were something as fragile as a memory. Leaning down, he brushes his lips against your forehead, soft as a butterfly’s wings, as the petals of a phantom flower.

“You’re right,” he says, with a grief you cannot fathom.

“It was just a dream, sweetheart.” His voice is barely a whisper. “It can be nothing more than a dream.”

#love and deepspace #lads sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x mc #verridaiya's writing -#yay I did it wooo #second ever fic 🎉#time to write the other parts! which I'm so excited for #there will be comfort I swear #after... one more hurt. just one #I can't help myself #this fic is once again brought to you by: the emotional devastation of beyond cloudfall

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dee-writes-anime · 4 months ago

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Queen of Curses

Ryomen Sukuna x Witch!Reader

In the Heian era, where curses reign and fear festers, one woman stands accused of causing death and despair. Dragged before the King of Curses, Ryomen Sukuna, her defiance and quiet ruthlessness captivate him in a way no other ever has. What begins as an act of survival becomes a battle of power, strength, and control as she rises to claim her place by his side—not as a victim, but as his equal. In a world ruled by chaos, she is the queen destined to match his reign of terror. -IN PROGRESS

Leave a comment if you want to be added to the tag list! And here's a playlist for those interested <3

Content Warning: This story contains dark themes, including graphic depictions of violence, death, destruction, and power dynamics that may be unsettling to some readers. It is intended for mature audiences and explores morally gray characters in a high-stakes, brutal setting. Reader discretion is advised.

dividers by @strangergraphics

Chapter 1: The Witch Accused

“Fear is a flame that consumes the weak and forges the strong.”

🩸- In a village consumed by sickness and fear, you, an accused witch, are captured by a desperate mob and dragged to face judgment before the King of Curses, Sukuna.

Chapter 2: A Caged Beast

“The eyes of the defiant are sharper than any blade.”

🩸 - The King of Curses sits upon a throne carved from fear and death, his gaze sharp enough to unravel the soul. In the labyrinthine halls of his estate, survival is not granted—it is earned, one calculated step at a time.

Chapter 3: The Witch’s Craft

“True power lies in control, not chaos.”

🩸- As you carve out a fragile sense of routine within Sukuna’s estate, your quiet defiance begins to catch the King of Curses’ attention. The concubines, quick to notice the shift, sow seeds of jealousy.

Chapter 4: Claiming Her Place

“A queen does not ask for a throne; she commands it.”

🩸- While you navigate the shifting dynamics of the estate, your presence stirs dangerous envy among the concubines, culminating in an ominous change to your routine: a lavish display of gifts and a chilling note from Sukuna. The stakes rise as you learn that your defiance has earned you not just his attention, but a test that could determine your survival.

Chapter 5: A Test of Worth

“The fire that burns can also temper steel.”

🩸- You face the most grueling challenge yet as Sukuna’s labyrinth tests your wit, strength, and resolve. Confronting illusions, traps, and your deepest fears, you prove your worth with ruthless determination. As the night ends, Sukuna’s growing intrigue leads to a charged, intimate encounter, leaving you to question not only your place at his side but also the dangerous pull between you.

Chapter 6: The Queen Rises

“The crown is not given; it is taken, bloodied and unbowed.”

🩸 - As Sukuna’s court gathers under the watchful skies of his domain, you find yourself thrust into a stage where loyalty is tested, strength is questioned, and whispers of rebellion threaten to crack the fragile balance of power. Facing scorn from lords and a direct challenge from a menacing curse user, you must prove your place at Sukuna’s side is not a weakness but a declaration of your unyielding will.

Chapter 7: The King’s Consort

“Power is greatest when shared between those who can wield it without fear.”

🩸- On the battlefield, you unleash your full power, a force of precision and ruthlessness that silences any remaining doubts among Sukuna’s court. Back at the estate, the celebration is a stark contrast to the chaos of war, but it’s not the feasting that defines the night. When Sukuna leads you to his chambers, the tension that has simmered between you finally erupts. What begins as a battle of wills becomes a surrender—not to him, but to the undeniable connection that binds you both. Together, you are unstoppable.

Chapter 8: A Reign of Terror

“To rule without fear, one must become the fear.”

🩸 - As you and Sukuna solidify your reign as the King and Queen of Curses, your fiery relationship deepens amidst power struggles and lingering doubts. However, the celebration is short-lived as an ominous storm heralds the arrival of a new, ancient threat. The chapter ends with a foreboding confrontation in the throne room, setting the stage for a battle that could shake Sukuna’s reign to its core.

Chapter 9: The Queen’s Will

“When the king falters, the queen’s hand steadies the throne.”

Chapter 10: Eternally Bound

“Together, they are the storm that no force can withstand.”

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heliosunny · 3 months ago

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would you do something with jade from hsr or is this a Yandere male x fem reader only blog?

MYSTERY PLANT

Yandere!Jade x Reader

The little plant had been an impulse buy. Something about its dark green leaves and faintly glowing veins had caught your eye at the market stall. The vendor had given you a knowing smile, murmuring something about it being "a rare find" before you left with it in your arms.

For weeks, you nurtured it. Watered it. Whispered to it absentmindedly, mostly about your day, your grievances, your stress. You didn’t expect much, but the plant seemed to thrive under your care. It grew faster than expected, twisting into intricate patterns, its leaves shimmering in the moonlight. Then, one morning, you awoke to something entirely different.

A woman. A breathtakingly elegant woman stood where the plant had been. She was tall, with fair skin, long wavy pink hair cascading down her back, and pastel blue eyes with snake-like slitted pupils. She was adorned in outfit with intricate embroidery reminiscent of the vines that once grew in her place. And she was watching you.

“Good morning, my dear gardener” she purred, tilting her head. “You’ve taken such good care of me… I thought it was time to repay the favor.”

Jade, that was the name she insisted upon, integrated into your life effortlessly. You barely had time to process her arrival before she had already taken control of things. Your home was spotless, meals prepared before you could even think about cooking, your clothes arranged to fit your schedule. She anticipated your needs before you spoke them aloud. It was unnerving, but undeniably… helpful.

Then you came home from work one evening to find her seated at your desk, your laptop open in front of her. The sight alone sent a chill down your spine.

“I took the liberty of handling your deadlines” she said without looking up, fingers gliding across the keyboard with eerie precision. “Your company’s security is laughably weak. It was simple to access everything.”

You blanched. “Jade, that’s illegal—”

She stood, approaching you slowly, her fingers brushing along your wrist as she smiled. “What’s illegal is them overworking you. But don’t worry, my dear… You won’t have to lift a finger anymore.”

“Jade…”

You stared at her, surprised by everything she had done for you, but that was enough. You insisted on handling things yourself and promised you would ask for her help when things got tough. Seeing no room for argument, she relented—though the glint in her eyes told you she would still keep a watchful gaze over your affairs.

As a gesture of goodwill, you decided to treat her to a meal. The two of you shared a pleasant dinner, the tension between you easing ever so slightly. As the night stretched on, the warmth of the alcohol made you both a little looser, your laughter coming more easily.

Walking home together, the cool night air sobering you slightly, you found yourself stopping in front of a small vendor stall. A fortune teller sat behind a velvet-draped table, beckoning with a knowing smile.

Jade glanced at you, amusement flickering in her pastel blue eyes. “Shall we see what fate has in store for us?”

You agreed.

And you both went in.

The interior of the tent was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of incense. Shadows flickered against the fabric walls as a hooded figure sat before a small, circular table. Their face was obscured, but their presence was palpable.

“No cards” the figure spoke. “No crystal ball. No illusions.” They gestured toward the empty tabletop. “Only truth.”

Jade remained silent beside you, her eyes gleaming with intrigue. You swallowed, unsure whether to sit or run.

The figure continued. “You seek answers, yet you walk a path where certainty is a curse.” Their fingers traced a slow circle on the table’s surface. “Know this: What is given cannot be taken. What is lost will not return the same.”

Jade’s gaze never wavered. “And what of choice?” she asked, voice deceptively light.

The figure chuckled. “Choice is an illusion for those who believe they have it.”

As you stepped out of the tent, the night air felt colder, the streets less familiar. A subtle shift had taken place, though you couldn’t name what had changed. Jade’s hand found yours, fingers cool and steady. “Are you afraid?” she asked.

You weren’t sure how to answer.

But as the days passed, the weight of the fortune teller’s words settled into your reality. Small, inexplicable things began to shift—meetings canceled before you arrived, messages deleted before you read them.

Jade, however, watched it all unfold with a knowing smile.

The night after your company party, you stumbled into your home, the scent of alcohol lingering on your breath. Jade was already waiting, her eyes immediately locking onto you with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“You’re drunk,” she observed, standing gracefully from her seat. “Did something happen?”

You slumped onto the couch, letting out a bitter chuckle. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe it, Jade.” You hiccupped, running a hand through your disheveled hair. “They… they dumped all their work on me again. I stayed late trying to finish it, but that wasn’t enough for them. And you know what else?”

Jade knelt beside you, her delicate fingers brushing against your wrist, as if grounding you. “Tell me” she urged, her voice softer now, controlled yet deadly calm.

You swallowed, your throat tight with frustration. “Some jerk—ugh, one of those self-important bastards—he poured water all over my computer. On purpose.” Your voice cracked. “I had to do everything all over again. Everything. And they laughed, Jade. They laughed at me.”

Her grip on your wrist tightened ever so slightly. “They… laughed at you?” Her voice dropped to an eerily low whisper, her usually composed face betraying a flash of something dark.

You nodded, pressing your hands over your face. “I—I don’t even know why I put up with it. Maybe I should just quit. Just… let them win.”

Jade’s fingers trailed up to cup your cheek, forcing you to meet her gaze. There was something different in her expression now—her usual poised demeanor cracked just enough for you to see the fury simmering beneath.

“You should never have to suffer like this.” she murmured, her thumb brushing gently over your cheekbone. “They have no right to treat you this way.”

You laughed again, but this time it was hollow. “That’s just how it is.”

Jade’s eyes narrowed, her grip turning just firm enough to keep your attention. “No. It isn’t.” A cold finality settled in her tone, something that sent an odd shiver down your spine. “No one hurts what belongs to me.”

You were too tired, too inebriated to fully process her words. Instead, you let your head rest against her shoulder, sighing. “You always say the weirdest things…”

She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, her fingers gently traced down your arm, her touch lingering with quiet intensity.

“Sleep,” she finally whispered, a softness returning to her tone. “Rest now. I’ll take care of everything.”

Somewhere in the haze of exhaustion and alcohol, you swore you heard her murmur something else.

“They’ll regret it.”

You woke up with a pounding headache, the aftereffects of last night’s drinking weighing heavily on your body. Blinking at the harsh morning light, you groggily reached for your phone—only to realize something was off.

You were late.

Panic surged through you as you shot up from the bed, only to freeze. Jade was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a neatly folded note sat on your nightstand.

You picked it up, your fingers trembling slightly as you unfolded the paper.

Rest, my dear. I’ll handle everything.

Jade had your company access card.

Across town, "you" walked into the office with an eerie grace, a knowing smirk playing at the edges of "your" lips. Colleagues barely looked up at first, expecting the same exhausted, overworked figure they had grown used to tormenting. But something was different today.

"You" moved with absolute confidence, eyes sharp, calculating. The first target: the one who had poured water over the laptop.

Jade—wearing your face—strode to their desk and loomed over them, forcing them to look up. "Good morning" she said, voice deceptively even.

"Oh, hey, you finally—"

Before they could finish, Jade picked up their coffee and tipped it over their desk. The liquid seeped into their keyboard, short-circuiting the machine instantly.

A gasp. A choking sound of disbelief.

"Oops," Jade murmured, tilting her head as if genuinely puzzled. "Careless of me, isn’t it?"

She leaned down, voice dropping to a whisper only they could hear. "Imagine losing all your work because of something so trivial. Must be frustrating."

The blood drained from their face.

Jade didn’t stop there. Slipping into the secluded office of your superior, she shifted—her form twisting seamlessly, posture straightening, voice deepening. Within seconds, she was no longer you.

She was your boss.

She called in every single employee who had wronged you, one by one, her expression unreadable, her voice laced with disappointment and authority.

“Do you think incompetence like this is acceptable?” she asked coolly, watching them squirm in their seats.

“B-but—”

“No excuses.”

With a wave of her hand, termination notices were signed, security was called, and within the hour, the office was noticeably emptier.

By the time the day ended, whispers filled the office.

Something had changed.

And "you" had never looked more terrifying.

When the door to your apartment finally opened, you turned, expecting Jade. But when she stepped inside, the sight of her still sent a jolt through you.

Her expression was calm, serene even, as if she had merely run errands. She approached you, the same graceful, poised presence she always had.

“Welcome home” you murmured, uncertain.

She smiled, reaching up to brush her fingers against your cheek. “Everything is taken care of.”

You didn’t know how.

You didn’t know what, exactly, she had done.

But you knew the lengths she would go for you.

Swallowing, you hesitated before speaking. "Is there... anything I can do for you?"

Jade’s smile widened just slightly. She tilted her head, considering your words before brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’re already doing enough” she murmured. “Just stay by my side.”

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #jade hsr #jade x reader #heliosmysplant

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lecsainz · 2 years ago

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Hope you're doing amazing! I love your blog so much! I come here almost every other day to day dream about my favourites and read your pieces again and again. Could i request Carlos x reader fic where Carlos comforts the reader after some reporters prod into their private life and the reader feels overwhelmed... Angst to fluff and maybe smut in the end?

SHE’S A BAD BAD GIRL

parings: carlos sainz x famous!reader

authors note: I gotta say, mixing a bit of AU with regular fanfic, can I just say I love doing magazine features?

summary: that one where the media makes up stuff about your relationship with carlos but he ain't gonna let that shake our relationship.

☆. . . masterlist !

Exclusive Source Reveals Startling Insights Into the Relationship of F1's Rising Star and the Elusive Heiress

The Power Couple: Carlos Sainz and Y/N Y/L/N's Love Story or PR Masterpiece?

By TMZ Magazine - September 2023

In the glitzy world of fame and fortune, where the line between reality and illusion often blurs, power couples are born just as swiftly as they fade away.

None have captured the public's attention quite like that of Formula 1 sensation Carlos Sainz Jr. and the enigmatic heiress Y/N Y/L/N. This power couple's whirlwind romance has been the subject of intense speculation, with many questioning the authenticity of their love. In a TMZ exclusive, we delve into the inner workings of their seemingly sensational union, revealing what lies beneath the surface.

It's no secret that the world of celebrity romance often blurs the lines between genuine affection and calculated publicity. In the case of Carlos Sainz Jr. and Y/N Y/L/N, sources close to the couple suggest that their relationship might be more PR strategy than a heartfelt connection. Our exclusive source, a close friend of the couple, disclosed that the pair has carefully orchestrated their romance to maximize benefits on both ends.

"They both know that being in the spotlight can help boost their respective careers," our source shared. "They decided it's a mutually beneficial arrangement. Carlos gets more media coverage, and Y/N can use his popularity to her advantage."

Y/N Y/L/N, the elusive heiress whose life has been shrouded in mystery, has raised eyebrows with her numerous high-profile relationships over the years. It's no secret that she's been romantically linked to at least eight A-list celebrities, including musicians, actors, and even fellow heirs. Despite her apparent aversion to fame and the media circus that surrounds it, Y/N has consistently found herself in the headlines due to her high-profile affairs.

"The irony is that Y/N has always claimed to hate the attention that comes with dating famous people," our source revealed. "Yet, she's continued to choose partners from the same world she professes to despise."

As the couple's relationship has garnered more attention, their PR teams have been working tirelessly to manage the narrative. They've employed tactics such as carefully timed public appearances, social media posts, and interviews to keep the public intrigued and invested in their romance. This calculated approach, however, has led many to question the authenticity of their connection.

"Their teams are skilled at using the media to their advantage," our source admitted. "It's all about perception and maintaining their status as a 'power couple.'"

As the world continues to watch this captivating couple's every move, one question lingers: Is their love story genuine, or is it a calculated maneuver to seize the attention of the masses and advance their respective careers? Are Carlos and Y/N truly in love, or are they orchestrating a well-choreographed PR campaign for mutual benefit?

Stay tuned for more exclusive updates and revelations from TMZ Magazine.

Y/N lay sprawled across the plush sofa in the cozy living room of her shared home with Carlos in Spain. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, casting warm rays of light across the room. She'd been catching up on some reading when her phone buzzed incessantly, drawing her attention away from the book.

The headline on her screen was impossible to miss: "The Power Couple: Carlos Sainz and Y/N Y/L/N's Love Story or PR Masterpiece?" The TMZ article had surfaced online, and her heart sank as she read through the scandalous claims about their relationship. It was a relentless invasion of their privacy, dissecting their love as if it were a staged performance.

Tears welled up in Y/N's eyes, and she felt overwhelmed by the intrusion into their lives. She knew she had to confront this with Carlos, who had always been her rock in times of turmoil.

Carlos entered the room, sensing the tension in the air. "Y/N, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice filled with concern as he sat down beside her.

She handed him her phone, unable to speak the words herself. Carlos read through the article, his expression growing darker with every word. He clenched his jaw, his protective instincts kicking in. "This is complete nonsense," he muttered angrily.

Carlos's anger simmered as he continued to read the invasive article. His protective instincts flared, and he couldn't fathom how anyone could twist their love into something so far from the truth.

"They have no idea what they're talking about," Carlos said, his voice low but filled with determination. "This is just trash journalism trying to stir up controversy."

Y/N looked up at Carlos, her eyes filled with gratitude. She'd always admired his strength and resilience. "I know, Carlos, but it still stings. I hate how they're trying to make our love seem fake."

Carlos's expression softened as he turned to her. "Mi sol," he whispered, using the affectionate term he had for her. "Our love is as real as the sun streaming through those windows. Don't ever doubt that."

Y/N managed a faint smile, her heart aching a little less with his reassuring words. "I just wish we could shut them up, Carlos."

A mischievous glint flickered in Carlos's eyes as he looked at her. "Well, maybe we can," he said cryptically.

Before Y/N could ask what he meant, Carlos swept her into his arms and stood up. She laughed in surprise, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Carlos, what are you doing?" she asked, her laughter mixing with curiosity.

He grinned down at her, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I'm taking my sunshine to our room," he said, "away from all this nonsense."

Y/N couldn't help but giggle as Carlos carried her bridal style down the hallway to their bedroom. His laughter joined hers, and it echoed through their home, drowning out the noise of the world outside.

In that moment, as Carlos playfully carried her, Y/N realized that their love was a sanctuary, a refuge from the chaos of fame and gossip. It didn't matter what others said or wrote about them. What they had was real, unbreakable, and filled with a kind of love that could weather any storm.

As they reached their bedroom, Carlos gently set Y/N down, and they both burst into laughter. He pulled her into a tender kiss, sealing their promise to protect their love from the prying eyes of the world.

As Carlos set Y/N down in their bedroom, their laughter filled the air like a sweet melody, banishing the remnants of unease brought on by the intrusive article. With a loving smile, Carlos cupped her face in his hands, his gaze locked onto hers.

"You know," he whispered, his voice laced with desire, "there's one thing those journalists will never understand."

Y/N's breath hitched as she met his intense gaze. "What's that?" she asked, her voice barely more than a soft murmur.

Carlos leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a teasing, tantalizing kiss. "That our love," he murmured, his voice husky, "is the real deal."

Their kisses deepened, their passion igniting like a flame. Carlos's hands slid from her face down to the small of her back, pulling her closer. Y/N's fingers tangled in his hair, and she moaned softly against his lips.

Their love was a fire burning brightly, an unbreakable bond that no amount of gossip or scrutiny could diminish. As their clothes fell to the floor, they reveled in the intimacy that was entirely their own, a celebration of their genuine love.

In the quiet of their bedroom, away from the prying eyes of the world, Carlos and Y/N proved that their love wasn't just a masterpiece of public relations. It was a passionate, fiery, and deeply genuine connection that left no room for doubt.

As their bodies entwined and their moans of pleasure filled the room, they knew that their love was their most cherished secret, a sanctuary where they could be their true selves, far away from the judgmental eyes of the world.

liked by charlesleclerc , taylorswift , and 13.657.473 others

carlossainz55 just had the best night of my life! thanks, gossipmongers, for the motivation.

tag: yourusername

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doveywovy · 2 months ago

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i think it would be interesting to explore tobirama as the golden child in the senju family.

i think there's something really intriguing about the idea that tobirama figured out so young how to manipulate his father, and how to play along with him to make sure he and his brothers are safe- and it's difficult, when he's that young, to completely separate himself from the part he's playing.

He picks up some stuff from always having to see Butsuma's viewpoint, it's inevitable. But not nearly as much as everyone else seems to think. Maybe it makes him more pragmatic, more cruel. Maybe he trusts the Uchiha less then he otherwise would, even with all their clans history. He learns to hide as much of himself as possible, especially anything Butsuma would disapprove of. He learns to be proactive about managing Hashirama, because if he reprimands his older brother first Butsuma usually doesn't see a reason to get physically violent to enforce the lesson.

He's also so very isolated. nobody confides in him- they're too worried it might get back to Butsuma. there is nobody he can confide in- he has to maintain the illusion of perfection for is father. all of this and yet he is still beloved to the clan, in the way an idol is beloved. He's succeeding at the impossible, he seemingly has no flaws, he's the ideal shinobi.

Butsuma is the worst man alive, and Tobirama is his favorite child.

When Butsuma dies, Tobirama is relieved, but he's also bereft of purpose. He's built his entire life around managing this man. Now Butsuma's gone, and Tobirama is missing everything.

Maybe he tries to slot into that same role with Hashirama. For a while, he seems like a classic manipulative advisor. Why is he always trying to control Hashirama, why is he always hiding things, only presenting them when he's strategized how to do it in the most favorable way? it's the only way he knows how to live, but it comes across as sinister.

so eventually Tobirama marries out- arranged marriage for the peace treaty. It's a strategic move for the Senju (get this manipulative freak out of here) and a strategic move for the Uchiha (get this manipulative freak under our thumb) and a strategic move for Tobirama (get this manipulative freak a person obligated to at least try to understand him, and hopefully eventually maybe like him).

He's married off to izuna and moves in with him, where his natural deference and fear of Madara is easily explained by the lifetime of war between their clans and the very real threat Madara once posed to him. His instinctive attempts to manipulate Madara are viewed as par for the course and completely ignored.

Izuna is the only person around him enough (and paying enough attention) to notice he holds Hashirama in the exact same regard. It's good he never pries into it, because Tobirama is unsure how to explain that Hashirama has never threatened his safety nor demanded his extreme dedication to hashirama's causes. That his behavior towards his older brother comes from an inherited fear that was originally born from a desire to protect that same brother. the closest he could get is this, if he ever tried:

Hashirama knows he inherited Butsuma's looks when it comes to his anger.

They furrow their brows the same, their mouths twist on the same side, and their eyes go pitch-black when they yell. Because of this, he buries it- he turns to weeping dramatics or teasing playacting at anoyance. He's ashamed of his anger, and the outbursts of it he has with more frequency than most know.

What Hashirama does not know- because Tobirama will never tell him- is that Tobirama is the only one out of all his brothers to have ever seen Butsuma smile.

Hashirama's smile is identical.

#i am always thinking about how insane all of tobiramas relationships are. truly ridiculous.

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kathaelipwse · 1 month ago

Text

Guarded By You - C.Seungcheol

Chapter 4: Miami scandal

Series Masterlist <<< previous chapter ; next chapter >>>

Warnings: Public scandal, implied intimacy, sleepwalking, risk blur professional lines. Word Count: 1810 words ; Reading Time: 10-ish mins

A/N: request's are open!! Taglist is open!! Its a rushed chapter I feel. Welp TT

-- Next Morning The Miami sun, a relentless, voyeuristic eye, beat down on the beachfront, transforming the BVLGARI photoshoot into a spectacle of orchestrated glamour and frenzied media attention. The air buzzed with the electric energy of flashing cameras, the murmur of excited fans, and the clipped commands of the production crew, a symphony of manufactured perfection.

You, the face of BVLGARI, were a radiant beacon, a carefully curated image for the world to consume, a digital goddess bathed in the harsh light of public scrutiny.

Cheol, ever-present, ever-vigilant, was your shadow, a dark, imposing figure against the vibrant backdrop, his presence a constant reminder of the thin line between security and the burgeoning chaos, a silent guardian in a world of manufactured illusions, a fortress of composure in a storm of fabricated realities.

The tension between you was a tangible force, a silent dialogue that crackled beneath the surface of professional courtesy. Playful banter, a dangerous dance of flirtation and denial, masked the unspoken desires that simmered beneath the surface.

You teased, he deflected; you challenged, he retreated. It was a game you both seemed determined to play, a dangerous dance on the edge of something forbidden, a silent battle of wills played out in the harsh glare of the public eye, a constant push and pull that threatened to shatter the carefully constructed walls between you, a silent war fought with words and glances, a battleground of unspoken emotions.

"You look like you're about to apprehend someone for unauthorized sandcastle construction, or perhaps a rogue hermit crab attempting to steal a diamond," you quipped, adjusting the diamond necklace around your throat, your voice laced with amusement. "Or maybe you're waiting for the signal from your seagull informants? I heard they're running a very sophisticated surveillance operation."

"Professionalism is not negotiable," he replied, his gaze scanning the crowd, his voice tight, his posture rigid, his eyes constantly moving, a silent sentinel on high alert. "Especially in this environment, where every glance is scrutinized and every action is recorded. We are under constant observation, and any lapse in judgment could be catastrophic."

"Oh, come on," you countered, a mischievous glint in your eyes, stepping closer, the scent of his cologne a heady mix of spice and something undeniably masculine, a dangerous allure that both intrigued and unsettled you. "Loosen the tie. Let the sand get between your toes. Live a little. Or are you afraid of getting your pristine shoes dirty? Or are you afraid of what might happen if you let go of control? Are you afraid of the feeling of something other than duty?"

"My priorities are clear," he stated, his jaw set, his voice unwavering, his gaze unwavering. "Your safety. And maintaining the integrity of this operation. Nothing more. Personal feelings are irrelevant."

"And what about your sanity?" you teased, your voice dropping to a low, sultry murmur, a dangerous whisper that hung in the air. "This whole 'stoic bodyguard' act is getting a little… predictable. Don't you ever want to break the rules? Don't you ever want to feel something other than duty? Don't you ever want to feel… human? Like yesterday?"

A flicker of something, perhaps amusement, perhaps annoyance, perhaps something else entirely, a raw, unguarded emotion that made your heart skip a beat, crossed his features, a fleeting glimpse of the man beneath the mask, but he quickly masked it, his expression returning to its usual impenetrable mask, a fortress of composure that guarded a hidden vulnerability. "My sanity is perfectly intact. And I have no desire to break the rules. Rules exist for a reason."

Then, the chaos erupted. A jealous fan more likely an obbsesive one, emboldened by the electric atmosphere, surged forward, breaching the security perimeter, a desperate attempt to touch the untouchable. Or a light stand, loosened by the wind, threatened to topple, a sudden, unpredictable danger. It didn’t matter. Cheol’s reflexes were lightning-fast, his hand a swift, decisive barrier between you and the perceived threat.

The moment, captured by a dozen cameras, was a blur of motion, a split-second of close physical contact that the world would dissect and misinterpret, turning a protective gesture into a romantic embrace, a carefully constructed narrative for the masses, a digital fairytale that would soon become a viral sensation.

The internet exploded. Social media platforms erupted with a frenzy of speculation, fueled by blurry photos and breathless conjecture. "Secret Romance!" screamed the headlines, accompanied by fabricated narratives and carefully edited videos. Fan theories dissected every glance, every gesture, transforming a professional relationship into a scandalous affair. "The Bodyguard's Obsession," "Forbidden Love on the Miami Sands," "BVLGARI's Secret Affair" – the hashtags trended worldwide, a digital wildfire that spread with alarming speed, consuming everything in its path, turning your lives into a digital soap opera.

You and Cheol were bombarded with questions, forced to navigate the treacherous waters of public perception, while trying to maintain the illusion of composure. Every interview, every public appearance, was a minefield of loaded questions and suggestive innuendo. The lines between reality and fiction blurred, the manufactured narrative threatening to consume you both, turning your lives into a reality show for the masses, a digital spectacle for the world to devour, a constant barrage of invasive questions and fabricated stories.

Back at the beach house, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension. The once-luxurious sanctuary felt like a gilded cage, the constant scrutiny a suffocating weight. You were amused, frustrated, and increasingly claustrophobic, the loss of privacy a bitter pill to swallow. Cheol, his stoic facade unwavering, was a study in controlled discomfort, the situation clearly grating on his nerves, yet he remained silent, like a tightly coiled spring, his emotions locked away behind an impenetrable wall, a silent sentinel guarding a secret he couldn't reveal, a man trapped between duty and desire.

"They're saying we're planning a secret elopement to the Bahamas," you announced, scrolling through the endless stream of fabricated news articles, your voice laced with wry amusement. "Apparently, we're going to have a beach wedding, with synchronized swimming dolphins as our bridesmaids. And the crabs? They are the best men. They also have a detailed plan for the honeymoon, which involves a submarine, a treasure chest filled with pearls, and a secret island owned by a pirate ghost."

Cheol’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek, his eyes dark with concern. "This is absurd. This is dangerous. This is a complete invasion of your privacy. This is getting out of control."

"Absurd?" you echoed, a wry smile twisting your lips, your voice laced with a hint of exasperation. "It's a digital circus, Cheol. We're the main attraction. And the clowns are having a field day. They are writing fan fiction at this point. They are saying we are childhood sweethearts, reunited by fate on a sun-kissed beach. They even have a detailed backstory about our time in the orphanage."

A flicker of something, a shadow of a memory, a flicker of pain, crossed Cheol’s features, a fleeting glimpse of a past he seemed determined to bury, but he quickly masked it, his expression returning to its usual impassive mask, a fortress of composure that guarded a hidden vulnerability. You noticed this reaction, this brief moment of vulnerability, and wondered why he reacted that way, what secrets lay hidden beneath his carefully constructed facade, what echoes of the past haunted his present.

The constant attention, the relentless scrutiny, began to take its toll. You found yourself retreating into the quiet corners of the beach house, seeking a moment of respite from the relentless onslaught. Sleep, when it finally came, was fitful and disturbed, plagued by vivid dreams and a constant sense of being watched. The lingering unease from the stalker threat, a phantom menace that refused to dissipate, added another layer of anxiety to your already frayed nerves, a constant reminder of the vulnerability that lurked beneath the surface, a chilling undercurrent in the digital tempest, a silent threat that hung in the air like a dark cloud.

That night, the stress reached a crescendo. You tossed and turned, the images of flashing cameras and invasive questions swirling in your mind. The rhythmic crashing of the waves outside seemed to mock your restless state, a constant, rhythmic reminder of the chaos that surrounded you, a relentless symphony of the digital age, a constant barrage on your senses.

Unbeknownst to you, the overwhelming stress triggered a rare episode of sleepwalking. You rose from your bed, your movements slow and deliberate, your eyes glazed and unfocused. Drawn by an unconscious sense of security, you wandered through the darkened beach house, your bare feet silent on the cool tile, your subconscious seeking a refuge from the storm, a place of safety in the midst of the digital tempest.

Cheol, ever vigilant, had been running on minimal sleep, his focus unwavering as he monitored security and anticipated potential threats. The lack of sleep had made him more vulnerable than usual, his guard momentarily lowered. He had finally succumbed to exhaustion, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep, his body finally surrendering to the relentless fatigue, his mind finally at peace.

You entered his room, your movements guided by an unseen force. He lay on his bed, his dark hair tousled, his breathing deep and even. Quietly, you lay down beside him, your body seeking the warmth and comfort of his presence, a subconscious desire for solace in the midst of chaos, a silent plea for protection in a world gone mad.

Your peaceful, sleeping face inches from Cheol’s, the intimacy of the moment heightened by the knowledge that it was unintentional, and the public scandal that had made the situation so complicated. A soft exhale escaped Cheol's lips as he shifted slightly in his sleep, his hand instinctively reaching out, almost touching your hair.

The air in the room was thick with unspoken desires, a dangerous proximity that threatened to shatter the fragile boundaries between duty and longing, a silent conversation in the language of touch and proximity, a dangerous dance on the edge of something forbidden.

The algorithm of attraction, it seemed, was rewriting the rules of engagement, while the echoes of a forgotten past threatened to resurface, adding another layer of complexity to the tangled tides of desire, a dangerous game played out in the harsh glare of the digital tempest, a silent battle fought in the shadows of fabricated narratives and unspoken emotions.

...To be continued

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a/n: Btw, The stuff done during sleepwalking can't be remembered by the one who is in that phase the next time they wake up ~

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