#Hollywood should know better

[numilani]

Tech Person™️ titles explained for writers

Nobody would write a plumber who fixes people’s washing machine, or an architect who checks for termites. Just because a plumber works on pipes doesn’t mean they know about every machine that uses water, and just because an architect builds buildings doesn’t mean they know the intricacies of maintaining them. That’s not their job.

Yet often times, I see TV shows and books that portray anyone who works on computers as someone who knows everything there is to know about anything that has a circuit board. Sadly, as much as most of us wish that was the case (we tend to be naturally curious), techies are often highly specialized.

To remedy this, I’m going to make a brief, broad, and slightly over-generalized list of common tech positions you might encounter. This is not conclusive, it’s just to help loosely guide you to the type of tech person who can best fit your niche. This also should come in handy if you need tech help in real life too - rather than getting bounced around between “tech people”, you can ask for the specific person/role that handles your problem. To illustrate, I’m going to use the concept of saving a document and how each role would be involved.

IT Technician / Helpdesk

The front lines of tech. Often just starting to learn the ropes, these folks often don’t know much yet beyond a preset list of requests. Even if they’re more experienced and actually DO know the answer, they probably aren’t allowed to fix any unusual problems themselves, either due to regulations or their own access to systems being limited.

If you can’t even get to the save button, because you forgot your login password and need it reset, you should talk to an IT technician.

Network Engineer

These folks handle more than the title suggests. It has less to do with connecting you to the internet (IT technicians can probably help if you can’t get online) and more to do with securing the network you’re on. They regulate access control, making sure you can get to what you need, and others can’t snoop on your private stuff. These are the people TV shows put in rooms full of rack-mounted equipment with a monstrous amount of cables.

If you need to save a file to a folder you don’t have access to(in a business/corporate setting), you should probably submit a ticket to a network engineer.

Front-End Developer

Front-end devs are the ones who write the pretty user interfaces for the programs you use. They’re the ones who put the buttons where they need to go, make them colorful and pretty, and then wire them up to the code bits that do the things you want. They often also work with a graphic designer (possibly called a front-end designer) who does the actual artistic things that then get wired up.

If you can’t click the save button because it disappeared, or because it’s half-way hanging off the screen, or you can’t tell what button is the save button because the buttons lost their icons, that’s a front-end developer thing.

Back-end Developer

These guys write all the weird, esoteric code spells that make stuff Just Work ™️. When you see people in movies with screens full of green text and they’re typing furiously, then they walk out 2 days later with a Monster in one hand and declare that they just created sentient software, that’s a back-end dev.

If you clicked the save button and nothing happened, or the file you saved yesterday opened as garbage today, that’s a back-end dev’s problem.

(Do be aware, you probably won’t interact with developers directly very often - usually the help desk people direct your issue to whomever they think can solve the problem. But, if you wonder why your back-end dev gets annoyed when people call him asking to change the color of a button…this is why)

BONUS 1: Hacker (derogatory)

This is what Hollywood loves to portray all techies as - guys wearing fedoras sitting in dark rooms with 14 monitors being asked to hack the CIA, typing furiously and then ominously declaring “I’m in” after about 5 minutes of screen time.

These people exist, sort of, but the term “hacker” is a stupid name for them. That term within tech circles, is usually reserved for something else. A better term would be “cybersecurity specialist” if they’re a good guy, or “cyber criminal” if they’re a bad guy.

Also, it doesn’t take 5 minutes. It NEVER takes 5 minutes. 5 days, maybe. 5 weeks more likely. The only thing a “hacker” is gonna do in 5 minutes is fetch data from a system they were already sitting in.

These guys, when they occasionally actually exist, are the ones who will steal your data as soon as you click the save button and then sell it online, causing you to get endless spam calls and ruining your credit score.

BONUS 2: Hacker (complimentary)

Real “hackers” are what in a fantasy setting might be known as an tinker, or maybe an artificer - someone who likes to fiddle with things, break them and put them together into something new, someone who loves the craft in all its forms. These folks are often interdisciplinary and defy the specializations I just listed above - they probably know a little bit about everything. Not necessarily enough to fix your problem, but enough to get curious about why the save button gets so many complaints, disappear for a month, and come back with an overblown solution that fixes the problem you listed, the three problems they found other people talking about online, and the dozen or so issues they found on their own as they were working.

Hope this helps!

[mariocki]

Donald Sutherland guest stars as the appropriately named Philip Guest, a less appropriately unbalanced kidnapper, in Gideon's Way: The Millionaire's Daughter (1.21, ITC, 1966)

[pulquedeguayaba]

Was chatting with this other guy that works for my boss about Dan Brown and reccomended him Angels and Demons and was about to spill all of my lust for Stellan cos he appears in that one too

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Actor

The Golden Age of Hollywood. Stars are born every day and you're desperate to become one. Thanks to @laboodanda for requesting this!

Yandere! Actor who's well established in the industry - his name on the Walk of Fame, his face on all the posters, his agents calling day and night with new offers.

Yandere! Actor who meets you on the set of his latest movie. You're barely even part of the main cast - just a side character with a few lines. But you sparkle.

You have that razzle dazzle in you that makes a true star.

Yandere! Actor who knows it's just a matter of time before you make it big. You've already got your foot in the door and all it takes is a lucky break.

Yandere! Actor who comes up to talk to you during lunch, winks at you and grins at the way you blush. You're in awe of him and it takes a second before you can answer his questions.

Yandere! Actor who's used to starstruck fans, to women who shriek when he looks their way. But, it's somehow new and endearing when you're the one looking at him like that.

He can hear the other extras rushing to your side when he leaves, babbling about how lucky you are that he talked to you, the big stars never notice the little fish.

On the final day of filming, he congratulates you on your first ever role and invites you to dinner to celebrate.

Yandere! Actor who takes you to a cozy restaurant in a quiet seaside neighbourhood. He doesn't want to be interrupted by fans, but he also doesn't want to be seen in public with you. At least not yet.

You really impress him. You know quite a lot about acting techniques, about getting into and maintaining character, about catering to the camera.

But it's clear you're still a rookie. There's a slight nervousness to you that veteran starletts don't have. It's alright - he'll train it out of you in no time.

Yandere! Actor who shares he milkshake with you and offers you his jacket when the sea wind starts to nip.

When he drops you off, he squeezes your thigh and says he'll talk to his agent about you, that there might be a role in his next movie for such a pretty little thing.

Yandere! Actor who sees the innocent, love struck look in your eyes and revels in it.

Pretty soon he calls you and tells you about a private audition with some studio execs.

"Keep your hair loose and wear that short sundress you wore on our date."

It should be friendly advice, so why does it sound like an order?

The audition is in one of the studio's offices. A room filled with big shot executives and egotistical directors. Men in suits who are high on their own power, their own genius. They've seen a thousand hopeful girls and to them you're no different.

The way they look at you makes you feel like dirt, like the most untalented person in the whole world. You would have walked out then and there if it wasn't for him.

Yandere! Actor who volunteers to read the lines with you. He winks and smiles at you and by just being there makes you feel so much better. And a few sentences in, you find your stride. Immerse yourself in the scene.

You're playing the part of a jilted lover, a woman who gave everything to her man and has her heart shattered when he leaves. In the final act, you grab his collar and look up at him with tears in your eyes, your voice shaking.

"Please, please don't go. I love you. I need you."

You raise one hand to his cheek, your fingers trembling. "Don't you love me too?"

Yandere! Actor who actually forgets his line.

You're looking up at him so weak, so vulnerable that his mind goes blank. His director calls out the line and he repeats it blankly.

"And...End scene!"

Yandere! Actor who doesn't look away from you even when the directors start clapping and you turn to give them a bow. You were so raw that it didn't feel like a performance. The tears, the desperate way you pulled at him... It felt so real.

It's only when his agent slaps him on the back that he manages to snap out of it.

The director is already grabbing your arm and insisting to the studio executives that he needs you in his next movie.

Yandere! Actor who comes up behind you and drapes his arms around your shoulders. You don't realise it but he's staking his claim, showing all these rich and powerful men that anything to do with you has to go through him. He grins at his agent.

"She's perfect, isn't she?"

The man lowers his shades and drags his eyes across your body.

"You need to clean up her look a little, but you were right. She's the perfect girl for you."

You feel like there's more behind their conversation, things they've discussed that you aren't privy to. But you don't have the nerve to ask.

On your way out of the studio, Yandere! Actor curls his arm around your waist.

"You're gonna be a lead actress soon baby. The execs want you in a few supporting roles first, just to get you used to the camera, but the director has his mind set on you."

You smile at him, a megawatt grin filled with the thrill of having your dream come true. It makes him feel like the centre of your world, makes him feel like a man.

You throw your arms around his neck and hug him. "I owe you! Thank you thank you thank you thank -"

He cuts you off with a kiss. And in that moment you really do feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

Yandere! Actor who slowly takes over your beauty routine. Who tells your hairdresser exactly what shade to tint your hair, exactly what shape to thread your eyebrows. Who buys you new clothes and tells you exactly how to style them.

You don't realise it, but he's shaping your look into something that compliments his own.

Yandere! Actor who almost invites you to his movie premiere until his agent advises against it. Who kisses you and apologises and says he'll bring you to the next one.

You understand, you really do. You're still relatively unknown and having you on his arm would just invite gossip. But it still stings watching him go to the premier on his own, his arm around his beautiful co-star. You go to bed that night with doubts nagging at your mind.

It's only when you hear him knocking at your door at three in the morning that your insecurities go silent.

Yandere! Actor who's still wearing his tuxedo from the red carpet. His hair falling out of its slicked back style as he dangles a bottle of champagne in front of you.

"Gotta celebrate with my girl."

He's barely three steps into your apartment before he's kissing you, his hands on your waist and dropping lower.

You try and push him away. Tell him it's your first time.

Yandere! Actor who nips at your neck. "Don't worry, 'm gonna be so gentle."

When you still try and slip away, he pulls back to look in your eyes. Despite the haze of alcohol, there's something piercing about the way he looks at you.

"How many girls can say their first time was with a Hollywood star?"

Yandere! Actor who let's his fingers climb higher up your thighs.

"I've been workin' so hard to make you an actress. Don't I get a reward?"

How are you supposed to say no to a man who holds your future in his palm? You nod your head just the slightest and he's back to kissing you, back to drawing you hands to his belt, back to growling in your ear.

Yandere! Actor who's a shameless liar. He isn't gentle with you at all.

Yandere! Actor who wakes up all groggy and hungover the next morning. Who pulls you closer to him and falls asleep again with his head on your chest. You look down at his dark hair and his chiseled features and for a little while, it doesn't feel like such a bad deal. Love him in exchange for a career.

And he is so easy to love.

Yandere! Actor who encourages the director to start filming your movie as soon as possible. A romance between a thief (you, in your very first lead role) and a jaded detective with a heart of gold (him, who's had so many lead roles he's lost count).

The schedule is gruelling and the director is a tyrant, but this is your big break. You give it everything you have. You learn the script inside and out, badger the screen writer until she discusses your character arc with you, follow the director around and beg him for tips.

Yandere! Actor who adores working with you. You're sweet and pliable and the chemistry between you is sizzling. Every scene with you makes him need a cold shower and a priestly intervention.

Yandere! Actor who pulls you into his trailer every chance he gets to "read lines." But it always ends with him holding you down and kissing you, claiming it's good practice for the camera.

"Character building," he pants from between your legs. "Just getting into the mindset."

Yandere! Actor who watches with satisfaction as the movie comes along. You remind him of himself when he just started, raw talent and a burning desire to please.

Yandere! Actor who is next to you every moment he isn't needed on set. Who gives you endless advice and makes you laugh with his stories about bad takes and wardrobe malfunctions.

Part of it is to keep an eye on you - there's a jealous bit inside him that thinks of you as his creation, your talent a reflection of his training - and part of it is to spark rumours.

It works exactly as he intends. Pretty soon the magazines and radio hosts are blabbering about a possible romance between him and his relatively unknown co-star.

Yandere! Actor who's determined to make this movie a success. On the premier night, he walks down the red carpet with his arm around your waist. When the cameras are at the height of their flashing, he takes your chin in his hand and kisses you.

The next morning, the papers are raving about it and the theatres are sold out before midday.

It's a critical and commercial success. Yandere! Actor who's high on the thrill of it. Who loves driving down Hollywood Boulevard and seeing you on the billboards, who loves having Hollywood's newest darling on his arm and in his bed.

But then the letters start coming.

Yandere! Actor who snarls at the piles and piles of fan mail you receive. Maybe, if it was all innocent praise, he could have accepted it. But most of the letters are absolutely filthy.

Men writing to you from all over the country, all over the world. Describing in detail all the things they want to do to you, all the ways they want you speared on their cocks. Men who promise to treat you so sweet you'd never want to leave them and men who threaten to whip you over their knee if you don't learn to say please when they fuck you.

Yandere! Actor who's never received mail with such perversion. His fans are mostly sweet young girls who timidly describe how nice it would be to find a man like him, to get taken to prom and courted.

Yandere! Actor who becomes suspicious of every man he sees. The gaffer that looks at you too long becomes the guy who promised to find you and fill your cunt with his come. The driver who holds your hand when you climb out of the car becomes the stalker who followed you home the other night.

Yandere! Actor who keeps his arm around you whenever you're outside. Who starts keeping his gun in the glove box of his car.

It's not only strangers he needs to worry about either. The studio executives keep pressuring you with stricter and stricter contract offers. The director wants you starring in a romance role with another man. Two dozen talent agencies are crawling over glass to try and sign you.

Yandere! Actor who tells you to let him handle the contracts and paper work.

"The bastards will try and trick you out of your money and your clothes. Trust me baby, I've had to deal with plenty of shitty deals. I don't want that for you."

Yandere! Actor who knows exactly how tightly binding a contract is. And it's no coincidence that the one he has you sign binds your career almost entirely to his. It ensures that the bulk of your roles are alongside him, that he has the final say in studio disputes, that he owns the rights to your name.

The studio executives might normally never sign a deal like that, but they're desperate to get you under contract. You're a blazing star and they aren't going to lose you to a competitor.

Yandere! Actor who drinks a toast to your success and kisses you infront of all those high flying executives. Despite all the attention and awards you've earned, you still look up at him with a blind sort of hero worship. He's the goal you've always aimed for, the standard you've tried to reach. To be his girl is still so dizzying you almost can't believe it.

In bed that night, Yandere! Actor thinks about proposing, about wifing you up. The wedding would be huge, generate massive press. His next big project with you is scheduled for half a year away. Maybe do a proposal during opening night? Or better yet, at the Academy Awards? Yeah, that would get cinemas sold out even faster than kissing you on the red carpet did.

Save the wedding for a few years down the line. When your career is more established and your image might need an upgrade.

You curl against his side and moan in your sleep, brow scrunched. Cute, naive little thing, aren't you? Hollywood would swallow you up and spit you out if it wasn't for him.

Yandere! Actor who kisses your forehead as you dream about cameras and lights and action.

"Don't worry baby, I'll take extra good care of you."

Yandere! Actor who's curated his image so carefully. Who wants a girlfriend who's light and talent make him shine all the brighter.

And who better than someone who owes him her career?

Extra!! Here's a short drabble I wrote when I was brainstorming the idea with @laboodanda

[luna-azzurra]

Character Careers That Aren't Clichés

(because fictional economies deserve better too)

Look. I get it. I do. A hot CEO. A dreamy small-town baker. A moody artist who somehow lives in a massive Brooklyn loft despite only selling two paintings a year. Those characters have their place.

But if you want your story to feel fresh, real, alive — sometimes you’ve gotta ditch the Insta-ready jobs and actually think: What does this person do at 9 a.m. on a Wednesday? What would they complain about after a garbage day at work?

Here’s how to get careers that feel like they belong to an actual human, not a catalog model...

❥ The "Unexpected But Perfect" Career Pick something that makes your reader go, wait, what? and then oh my god, that's so them. Like:

A chaotic, disaster character who’s actually a surprisingly competent funeral director. (Yes, it’s messy. Yes, it’s weirdly perfect.)

The quiet, overlooked character who’s a locksmith. Always helping people get inside things. Always a little lonely themselves.

The job should reflect the character’s secret self.

❥ The “Soul-Crushing Job They’re Too Good For” Reality Check Not everybody is their Dream Job Self yet. Some characters are stuck. Flipping burgers, filing invoices, answering phones for screaming Karens named Marge. And you know what? There’s story gold there. Give me the character who’s quietly making art out of coffee foam because it’s the only creative outlet they’ve got. Give me the character who’s wasting in a job they hate, but who hums with what could be underneath.

Failure and frustration? Delicious character fuel.

❥ The "Job That Messes With Their Brain" Career Certain jobs change you. Make you hard in weird places and soft in weirder ones. Lean into that.

A paramedic who's numb to blood but cries at dog food commercials.

A social worker who can’t listen to their friends' minor drama without tuning out completely.

A vet tech who talks to animals better than people.

The job should bruise them in little invisible ways.

❥ The “Work Family or Work Frenemies” Setup Office dynamics are like nuclear reactors: volatile, ridiculous, and perfect for drama.

Give them the boss who’s a passive-aggressive nightmare in group emails but buys everyone surprise cupcakes on Fridays.

Give them the coworker they want to strangle and defend to death when someone outside the office talks crap.

Make their work life messy. (Because it IS messy.)

❥ Actual Career Ideas You Can Steal Because I Love You (yes, you have my blessing, take 'em, twist 'em, make them yours)

Travel nurse who secretly dreams of putting down roots

Archivist in a creepy, half-forgotten library wing

Theme park mascot who has existential crises inside the costume

Home inspector who lowkey loves snooping through strangers' houses

Court stenographer who writes fanfiction on the side during boring trials

Aquarium maintenance tech (yes, it’s a thing, yes, it’s hilarious and tragic)

Disaster clean-up specialist (like post-floods, fires, crime scenes , very spicy potential)

Final Truth Bomb: Your character’s job doesn't have to be their whole identity. (Shocking, I know, Hollywood.)

But it should still touch them somehow. It should rub off on the way they move through the world, the way they talk, the way they size up a stranger in five seconds flat. Because we are all shaped by how we spend our hours, whether we mean to be or not.

[lisired]

love jones

pairing: photographer!haechan x (f) reader

genre/warnings: smut, angst, strangers to lovers, hollywood!au, photographer!haechan, model!reader, unprotected sex (don’t be silly wr- [gets hit by a car])

summary: After breaking off your engagement to your fiance, you move to Los Angeles to pursue a modeling career. There in the fairytale land where stars go to shine you meet Haechan, an aspiring photographer with a penchant for mischief and flirtation.

word count: 12.4k (/25.5k)

a/n: inspired by love jones; the song by leon thomas featuring ty dolla $ign and the movie by theodore witcher. this is a repost of an old fic that i will be publishing in 2 installments; it is also the prequel to supermodel, which you do not have to read. installment two will be linked here when posted. as always, feedback is appreciated!

The air was different in California. 

“The land of make-believe,” you sighed, holding the cold metal bar in your hands. This was your new home. Sine die. 

Better than New York City, you muttered crankily to yourself. Everything there reminded you of him. Every street, every scent. You would rather not think of the asshole that cheated on you with another woman while you gave him everything. California, on the other hand, was a brand new slate. Free of assholes that showed other girls their penises while being months away from vowing forever to you. You had let out a massive sigh of relief when your doctor confirmed that you didn’t have any infections.

Still, you fondled the engagement band on your finger. 

“I know you’re not out here thinking about he who shall not be named,” Chaewon chided in disapproval, hands on her hips. 

You turned around. You hadn’t heard the door open. When she came beside you, you turned around again, facing the busy street just below of you. 

“No. I’m not thinking about him,” you lied through your teeth. “I’m just brooding.”

“Same damn thing.”

You rolled your eyes. 

Chaewon back-hugged you and wrapped her arms around your waist snugly, making you giggle. “I forbid you from thinking about that asshole any longer. The whole point of you coming here was to forget about him.”

“And the new opportunities,” you added. 

“Exactly. He was holding you back. He wanted to be the man and bring home the bacon, and couldn’t stand the thought of you being a successful independent woman perfectly capable of taking care of her damn self,” Chaewon said without taking a single breath. 

You mulled it over. That was a little too true. Your ex-boyfriend always talked about having kids and taking care of you and them, but you hated to think that your independence might’ve driven him away. “But you don’t just forget about the life and broken promises of the future you made,” you whispered sadly. 

Chaewon let out a little sigh. She was sad for you. Her heart, too. 

Then, she backed off and said, “You know what? We’re going to the club.”

You gawked and did a one-eighty. Full speed. “What?”

“You heard me. And put that ring up, girl. You’re not gonna get any dick if a man sees that on your finger. I don’t know why you haven’t given it back to him yet. Better yet, you should throw it off a mountain. We have plenty.”

“Oh, please,” you replied boredly. “I know these Los Angeles boys don’t give a damn. They would fuck the hole between the ring if their dicks were small enough.”

“Oh, don’t bring your Manhattan bullshit over here. The boys I know have decorum,” Chaewon replied matter-of-factly. 

“I’m sure,” you deadpanned. 

Chaewon cocked her head at you and planted her hands on her hips. “When you’re done being a drama queen, you need to go change into something risqué. I’ll be back in an hour to pick you up.”

“Yes, Mother,” you said coolly, in spite of not being even the least bit inclined to bump and grind at a club tonight. 

“I’m serious. If that ring’s not off your finger by the time I get back, I’m kicking some ass.” Then, she went back inside. You shook your head. Los Angeles, you thought. What am I going to do with you?

The club was packed with people, which was to be expected given that it was a Friday night. You paid them no attention, sticking close to Chaewon like a toddler kept close to their mother’s bosom. 

“And I told her, ‘but that doesn’t make any sense. Gladys Presley popped Elvis Presley out of her coochie eighty-six years ago. There’s no way you could be his mother.’”

The group laughed at Jeno. 

Jaemin hurled back a shot of vodka and added, “Gladys Presley didn’t look happy in a single picture I’ve seen of her.”

“Shit. If my son was Elvis Presley, I wouldn’t exactly be exhilarated either,” Ryujin quipped. 

Mark covered her mouth. “Lower your voice. You cannot say that too loud out here.”

Ryujin shoved him off. “Get your hands off me, freak,” she hissed, narrowing her eyes at him. 

The group laughed again. Except for Mark. 

And Haechan. 

Winter casted a glance at Haechan. “What’s up with the sun man?”

Jaemin, who was to the left of Haechan, nudged him and asked, “What’s wrong, my man?”

Haechan didn’t even blink. He was too busy staring past the tables. Something had evidently caught his eye. 

Jeno followed his gaze and snickered. He spotted you, sitting at the bar with Chaewon. “I know what’s got my boy’s attention.”

Everyone glanced where Jeno was looking. There you were, obliviously laughing and chattering with your best friend. You were wearing a flimsy black dress now in lieu of the dolphin shorts you’d worn while moving the last of your stuff inside your new condo. 

“Damn, she’s bad,” Jaemin murmured under his breath. 

Winter angrily hit him. 

Jaemin immediately stammered, “I mean, you’re badder. She’s nothing compared to you. I’m just saying she’s a little cute. For someone like Haechan, maybe.”

The table erupted in laughter. 

“Mm-hm,” Winter hummed doubtfully, crossing her arms. 

“Come on, baby. You know I’ve only got eyes for you,” Jaemin said, giving Winter a smooch to the cheek. “Billions of girls in the world and I still choose you. You’re the only one I want.”

Mark deadpanned, “He’s so smooth.” 

“He must get it from you,” Ryujin shot, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

Mark shot her a glare. 

Jeno draped an arm around Haechan’s shoulder. “Come on, man. You just gonna sit and stare at her or what? You gotta make a move.”

Ryujin quipped, “And what do you know about making moves?” 

“August twelfth, two years ago.” 

Ryujin narrowed her eyes at him. “Only losers who get little play remember the exact date they fucked somebody.”

“Well, that says a lot more about you than it does about me, doesn’t it? I could have been talking about anything,” Jeno quipped, smirking. 

The boys, especially Mark, laughed. Winter fought a chuckle in female solidarity. 

“I pieced it together,” Ryujin mumbled. 

“It’s okay to admit you’re a little lonely, Ryujin. I mean, after Sunwoo fled to Chicago, I can only imagine it’s been a long minute since you’ve gotten any attention downstairs,” Mark crooned like potent venom. 

There were a couple of ‘ooh’s from the boys. 

“You guys are annoying,” Haechan finally said after having not spoken for the past few minutes. Which was unusual for someone like him. “I’m going to go get her number. Watch this.”

The table whooped and hollered, cheering him on. Meanwhile, he approached you stealthily, popping a stick of gum. 

Haechan sat at the available seat to your left (because Chaewon was to your right) and greeted, “Hello, ladies.”

Chaewon took one glance at the handsome stranger to your left and had raging heart eyes. You, on the other hand, were wishing you would have ignored her and brought your ring to deter any unwanted visitors. The one thing he was good for, you grumbled to yourself. But if you were being honest with yourself, the stranger was pretty cute. Pretty brown eyes, like your ex-fiancé. Smooth skin. And he had the cutest, most kissable lips. If you hadn’t already written him off as bad news, you would have let yourself be interested. 

“Hi, handsome,” Chaewon flirted, giggling like an idiot. You stiffened. You knew your way around men, but you weren’t in the mood. 

Haechan smiled, but he was all eyes for you. Ironically, you were wishing he would disappear. He asked, “Can I have your name?”

“You haven’t done anything to deserve it,” you replied with complete disinterest. 

“Hard to get. I fuck with it,” Haechan noted. “What do you want me to do?”

You pretended to be in thought. “You can start by removing yourself from my vicinity. Please and thank you.”

Chaewon winced and told him your name.

“Chae,” you groaned.  

Haechan repeated after her. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

“Oh, could you be any more original?” you deadpanned. “By the way, I’m engaged.”

Haechan laughed. “You are definitely not engaged. I know that and I know nothing about you.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “And how would you know that?” 

“Because engaged people have engaged people vibes. You have painfully strong ‘I hate anything that has to do with love and romance’ vibes,” Haechan answered slickly, then leaned close to sing for only your ears, “And I don’t see an engagement ring on your finger.”

Chaewon was having a laugh at your expense. Meanwhile, this stranger pulled back and smirked at you, reading your thoughts. You wanted to be mad that he was right, but you kind of liked his voice in your ear.

“She’s single,” Chaewon added, as if it were necessary. “Maybe not ready to mingle though.”

You were fighting the most irritated groan at this point. 

Haechan raised his hands and backed off, taking the mean scowl on your face as a firm ‘no’ and the rejection coolly. “That’s cool. Look, I’ll leave you ladies alone. Have a good night.”

“You, too,” Chaewon said, waving him goodbye as he stepped off the barstool. 

When he was finally gone, you let out a breath of relief. 

Chaewon gave you a look. “He’s so into you. I’m not even mad. You fumbled so bad. He’s fine as hell.”

“You’re forgetting that I didn’t ask to be dragged to this club in the first place. I don’t want to get dicked down by some dude whose name I don’t even know,” you grumbled, finishing what was left in your cup. 

“I’m sure he would have given it to you if you asked,” she replied teasingly. 

You rolled your eyes. “He can keep it to himself. I don’t want to fuck and forget.”

“Ugh, lame,” Chaewon groaned. “Fuck and forget is every young model’s motto.”

“Well, not mine,” you huffed, vexed. With a smidge of attitude. 

Chaewon noticed your tone and frowned. “Okay, timeout. Babe, listen. I’m not trying to pressure you into doing anything you don’t wanna do. If you don’t wanna fuck around then don’t. I was just suggesting it might be nice to get to know somebody else. See where it goes.”

“I know,” you sighed, squeezing her hand. “Tonight’s just not a good night.”

Chaewon bobbed her head. “I understand. Take your time. You’ll know when you’re ready.”

You gave her a weak smile.

Meanwhile, Haechan was doing something adjacent to the walk of shame as he approached his clique’s table, empty-handed.

Jeno immediately taunted, “What a snag, man.”

“Shut the fuck up, Jeno,” Haechan hissed, throwing Jeno his middle finger. 

Mark gave Haechan a compassionate look. “You get an ‘E’ for effort, dude.”

“L for loss,” Jeno murmured under his breath none too quietly.

“She looked like she wanted to kill you with her bare hands,” Jaemin retorted, holding Winter’s hand under the table.

Winter snickered. “And how would you know what that looks like?”

“Because I see Ryujin look at Mark like that everyday,” Jaemin quipped, earning a couple laughs around the table. 

“Whatever,” Haechan said, feigning nonchalance. “You win some, you lose some.”

Jaemin braced his hand on Haechan’s shoulder. “This is just the trials and tribulations, buddy. You’ll get her next time.”

Haechan downed a shot of liquor. “We’ll see.”

When Tuesday morning arrived, you were up bright and early. You slipped on a minimalist outfit and got a taxi to the record store. 

Ryujin was working the cash register when you walked inside. You didn’t recognize her, but she recognized you, smirking in amusement. “Good morning. Can I help you with anything?”

“Yeah, I’m looking for a Michael Jackson vinyl,” you replied, holding your purse. 

“Vinyls are back that way,” Ryujin said, pointing her finger. “Good luck. He still sells fast.”

You thanked her and headed straight for the back shelves. Your record collection was a vinyl away from being finished after a number of years spent putting it together and you were desperately on the hunt for the finishing piece. Not a second later, Haechan meandered inside clad in denim jeans and black leather. He looked like nothing short of any parent’s worst nightmare. 

Ryujin beckoned him over and whispered, “Aren’t you the king of good timing? Your girl’s in the back.”

Haechan furrowed his brows. “My…” Then, he faced the back of the store and saw you carefully sifting through records, trying your absolute hardest to find the one you were looking for. From the looks of it, however, your efforts were in vain. 

Haechan glanced back at Ryujin in shock. “Shit. Should I shoot my shot?”

“I mean, the last time you shot your shot, you missed,” Ryujin replied, propping her pretty face up on the counter. “Like Michael Jordan against the Toronto Raptors in 2002 missed.”

“And he still won. So, watch it,” Haechan shot back. 

Ryujin rolled her eyes. “Whatever. But don’t make me get the buff Johnny guy from next door to escort you out of the building. The cute one that’s pretty tall.”

“Everyone knows who Johnny is, Ryu,” Haechan muttered, making his way towards you. Again. 

You didn’t even give Haechan the chance to speak when you noticed him. Your face scrunched up and you droned, “You again.”

Haechan lifted his hands. “You know, most people usually greet others with a ‘hey’ or a ‘good morning.’”

“Not in New York City.”

Haechan gave you a curious stare. “You’re from New York City?”

You grimaced. You didn’t mean to let that slip. “I’ve already said too much.”

“You’ve said just enough, girl,” Haechan replied with a smirk. “Whatchu looking for?”

“A Michael Jackson Thriller vinyl. It’s for my record collection,” you answered absentmindedly, ransacking the shelves for the record to no avail. Which was irritating. It’s like his most popular album, you grumbled to yourself.  

That certainly got Haechan’s attention. “Oh,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets. “I have a signed Thriller vinyl at my crib.”

You scoffed. “Please. As if.”

“I’m deadass,” Haechan insisted, but the untamed twinkle in his eyes made him hard to believe. 

“Right,” you droned. “And I’m guessing this is the part where you invite me back to your crib and try to persuade me to hook up with you.”

“Hey, I’m not that type of guy. Scout’s honor,” Haechan said, though sensing your raging skepticism, he called out, “Look. Hey, Ryu! Don’t I have a signed Michael Jackson vinyl?”

“It’s like you won’t let us forget,” Ryujin shouted back, annoyed. Then, she leaned over the counter, noticing the reluctance all over your face. “Yeah, he’s got one. It’s legit. I’d tell you if this punk was bullshitting.”

For whatever reason, Ryujin’s words of confirmation finally pushed you to believe him. You badgered, “How in the hell did you get your hands on a signed Michael Jackson vinyl? He couldn’t have given it to you. You were how old when he died?”

“Legends never die, baby,” was Haechan’s witty reply. 

You almost rolled your eyes, but settled for stubbornly folding your arms instead. “Okay. What do I have to do for it?”

“Go out on a date with me.”

That didn’t surprise you at all. Haechan had been trying to ask you out from the get-go. He was nothing if not persistent as ever. “A date,” you repeated with a smidge of boredom. 

Haechan bobbed his head. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be a date-date. My friends and I are having this get-together tomorrow night. You should come. Ryujin has been bitching about how there’s an uneven boy-to-girl ratio.”

You arched a brow. “And you want me to even things out?”

“Well, with you we’d have four boys to three girls, but if you find me worthwhile you can start bringing your friend and then we’ll be as even as a figure eight.”

You mulled it over. One date wouldn’t be so bad, you contemplated. It wasn’t as if you would be alone with this boy. There would be five other people in the room with you. Not to mention Haechan truly didn’t seem that bad. And if you were being honest, under better circumstances, you probably would’ve already taken him to bed. 

Besides, after spending most of your dating life with a cheating bastard, you definitely deserved to move on. Something fresh. If you decided that you didn’t like Haechan after this date, you could cut him off. Matter of fact, you could cut him off afterwards whether you liked him or not. Anything for the vinyl. 

Haechan watched your lip tuck out in thought and thought it was the cutest thing ever. He could tell you were really mulling it over. The gears in your brain were spinning quicker than ever before. 

“Fine,” you finally said after a while. “I’ll go on a date with you.”

In his head, Haechan was doing a very, very strange victory dance. But instead, he played it cool, and said, “Sweet.”

“Cool.”

Haechan pointed to the vinyls behind him with his thumb. “Can I play you something?”

You shrugged. “Sure.”

Haechan did a smooth one-eighty and grabbed a Michael Jackson Bad vinyl before popping it into the record player beside you. You watched him skillfully set the needle, as if he had done it a thousand times before. A song you knew very well started to play. 

“I just can’t stop loving you,” you exhaled, noting the song name. You knew every word. 

Haechan nodded and smiled at you. Then, he stretched out his hand. “May I have a dance?”

You giggled and took his hand in yours, putting your other behind his shoulder as he wrapped his around your waist. You wanted to be mad that you liked how his hands felt on your body. Ironically, you couldn’t remember the last time you had felt the touch of a man. 

In little to no time, you were slow dancing in the back of a record store with a stranger. A very handsome stranger at that. You locked eyes and it was enough to make you hold your breath. 

Neither of you took your eyes off of each other afterwards. You were just swaying to the rhythm, breathing in the sweet, titillating scent of him. Sharing the warmth of your bodies as they touched. 

It was almost romantic. Then, a thought struck you. “I never got your name.”

“My friends call me Haechan,” he replied, flashing a smile. “But you can call me ‘baby.’”

“Haechan,” you said, tasting his name on your tongue. And ignoring his attempts at flirting.

Haechan’s face faltered for half a second, but he was quick to recover. “Because I like the way it rolls off your tongue, I’ll let it slide.”

You snickered. 

That sound was music to his ears. “So,” Haechan started. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at seven. Sound good?”

“Sounds great,” you chirped. “I’ll give you my number.”

“I hope you like motorcycles,” Haechan replied with a chuckle. 

“You drive a motorcycle?”

Haechan pointed to the entrance with his shoulder. “Parked right outside. She’s my baby.”

You stared over his shoulder and right through the glass window, spotting his motorcycle parked directly out front. It was a sleek, black motorbike that coupled perfectly with his mischievous attire. 

Oh, boy. 

For an entire hour, you carefully planned your date night outfit with Chaewon (who after loudly celebrating your secured date agreed to assist with the wardrobe assembling prep) over FaceTime. 

Not that it was a fancy date. Which was exactly why you were conflicted. You wanted to dress to impress, but you also didn’t want to seem like a try-hard. Like hell you were trying to impress Haechan, but you knew men like him perceived the slightest things as sexual advances.

You went for jeans and a crop top with a cute puffer jacket in the end, and called it a night. Just in case it got chilly, which was unpredictable in bitter Los Angeles evenings. Over the night and throughout your day, you caught yourself thinking about the handsome stranger that liked motorcycles. 

The slow dancing in the record store. The eye contact. The warmth of his body beside yours and his perfect scent throttling you. And you found yourself smiling. When Chaewon asked you how the dance was after you confided in her about the little event at the back of the record store, you’d replied, “It was magical.”

You were standing on the fence. Haechan was cute and could be an excellent distraction from your mess of a love life. But you weren’t exactly ready to risk getting your heart broken again. 

So, you decided you wouldn’t be getting your heart involved. Haechan was harmless fun.   

But you were still counting down the hours until he arrived at your front door. 

Haechan arrived punctually at your front door with two minutes left to spare. You grabbed your phone off the charger and dropped it in your purse before racing to open the front door. “Hi,” you said. 

Haechan waved. “‘Sup, baby.”

“You’re on time,” you commented, maybe slightly surprised.

Haechan chuckled at that. Seemingly not offended. “Yeah, I am.” He cocked his head.  “Should I have stood you up?”

A part of you somewhat expected him to and you would be lying if you said it hadn’t. Sue you for being cynical. After all, your last relationship had taught you to be a little more careful with your heart. Deciding you wouldn’t be answering that question, you gave him a quick scan and concluded that you liked what you saw. “You clean up nice.”

“Is that your way of saying I’m handsome?”

“It means you dress up well. Take the compliment before I retract it,” you replied, crossing your arms. 

“You already said it. No take-backs,” Haechan teased, grinning all smug-like. “You look pretty. But you’re always gorgeous.”

His flirting was going to be the death of you. “You’ve seen me three times and not once without makeup.”

“Take the compliment before I retract it,” Haechan mocked, giving an impersonation of however your voice sounded in his head. 

You gawked. “I do not sound like that!” 

Haechan snickered and grabbed your hand, shutting the door behind you with his other. “Listen, baby,” he started. “While I would love to get on your nerves, we’re going to be late.”

Realizing he was right, you dropped it. For now. “Okay,” you sighed. “Well, let’s go.”

Haechan led you outside to where his motorcycle was parked, making small talk with you along the way to fill the silence in the air. You didn’t talk about anything special - most of it turned into him being endearingly aggravating - but you noted that you liked his voice. 

When you got there, Haechan passed you a pretty pink helmet and told you, “I bought this for you. I hope you like pink. You gave me a pink girl vibe.”

“Because you’re just so good at knowing what vibes I give off,” you deadpanned, realizing this was the second time he had told you what vibes you gave him. And had been correct. 

Haechan didn't do shit but smirk. “Well?”

You sighed. “I love pink,” you admitted, attempting to put it on. 

Your confession made him grin even broader, but instead of teasing you, Haechan opted to help you put the helmet on correctly. “You a virgin?”

The use of that word made you shudder a little bit in surprise, but you quickly realized what he meant. 

Your faltering didn’t go unnoticed by Haechan, no matter how brief. “I meant a motorcycle virgin,” he added.

“I know,” you replied, chuckling. “And yup. Nobody has ever taken me for a spin on a daredevil before.”

“I’m glad to have taken your motorcycle virginity,” replied Haechan, stepping back after clasping your helmet. “Ready, babe?”

Your voice wavered, “Sort of.”

Haechan mounted his bike and gestured for you to mimic him. When you were straddling the seat, he gently steered your hands around his waist. “Don’t be scared. You’ll be fine as long as you hold onto me really, really tight.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And you liking me touching you has nothing to do with it?”

“Those are the pros.”

“And what else are the pros?”

“On a motorcycle, we get to dodge all the traffic,” Haechan replied with a grin, securing his own helmet. “Now, like I said, hold on tight.”

You did as told, tightly clasping your arms around his waist and holding on for dear life when you felt the motorcycle jerk alive underneath your shared weight. 

And it was exhilarating, flying past the city lights at the speed of light itself and watching splashes of color bleed into each other. You could feel the wind on your face and whip through your hair. You found yourself laughing as Haechan quite literally took you on the ride of your life. 

He weaved in and out of lanes adroitly, avoiding stationary cars with a technique only years of training could upskill. Which was reassuring. You weren’t sitting on the back of the bike of a total amateur. 

Hearing your noises of excitement made Haechan crack a broad smile. She likes it, he thought smugly. It was a step up from the night he met you and he would gladly take any tiny accomplishment. He couldn’t wait to see the look on the boys faces when he popped up with you in tow. No one believed him when he said he’d scored a date with you. 

Well, of course Ryujin did, because she saw the whole thing go down. But she wouldn’t support him nor deny that he had snagged you. So it would be a huge surprise. 

With some minutes of driving out of the way, you and Haechan finally dismounted his bike, arriving just shy of Jaemin’s house. You both caught your breath for a second, leaving your helmets behind. When you knocked on the door, a man you obviously had never seen before answered, a cup in hand. He saw you and his features instantly twisted with surprise. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered under his breath. 

“I told you so,” were the first words to leave Haechan’s mouth. 

Jeno stepped aside, making room for you. And ignoring his friend. “Come on in, beautiful. The party’s just getting started.”

You weren’t wooed by the pet name, which made Haechan snicker as he walked inside the party, arm locked with yours. 

The look of surprise on everyone’s faces did not go unnoticed by you and you quickly turned to Haechan, asking, “Did you not tell your friends I was coming?”

“Oh, he wouldn’t shut up about it. We just didn’t believe him,” Jaemin answered for your date, shock promptly fading into amusement. He held out his hand for you to shake. “I’m Jaemin. The host of this shitshow.”

You kindly shook hands with him and told him your name. “Nice to meet you.”

Haechan took over from there and pointed to his friends in the order that they appeared on the couch as he introduced, “Winter, Ryujin, Mark. And I guess the fuckward that opened the door for you is Jeno.”

Jeno lifted his middle finger. “Oh, fuck you, Haechan.”

“Love you too, man,” Haechan replied smugly, ushering you to the couch. 

In little to no time, you were socializing with Haechan’s clique as if you’d been good friends for ages. None of them made you feel like an imposter, which you appreciated. Jaemin and his girlfriend Winter, who was sitting squarely on his lap, encouraged you to get comfortable. You felt right at home, laughing at their shenanigans. Many of which were Haechan’s, who was quite the shit-stirrer and troublemaker. You weren’t at all surprised. He screamed chaos. 

His friends had a noteworthy amount of individuality and magnetism too. Jeno was everything you thought Haechan would be, but hilarious. Maybe even charming depending on who you asked. He liked taking turns hurling insults with Haechan. They were like brothers. 

Jaemin and Winter were absolutely smitten with each other and were insufferable when apart, but grossly cute together. She was glued to his lap most of the time, but added a unique sense of humor to the conversation in between kisses. 

Ryujin and Mark were mortal enemies and couldn’t go a half second without bickering and endless banter, but they were a killer Spades duo and gave you and Haechan a run for your money. Their similarities to an old married couple were reminiscent of your grandparents and you made a mental note to check on your grandmother later.

“Talking to yourself is not weird,” Mark whined some hours later. 

Ryujin shot, “Maybe on whatever planet you come from.”

The pack (and you admittedly) let out a laugh at poor Mark’s expense. 

Jaemin set down his drink and took a hit from the joint you had all started to pass around not too long ago. Everybody was at least a little buzzed by now except for Haechan, which surprised you. You didn’t expect him to be responsible. “Okay, okay. Chill. Every man deserves to give himself a good pep talk in the mirror.”

“Okay, so are we talking pep talks or having full-blown conversations with yourself?” asked Jeno. 

Winter turned to Jaemin and asked, “You give yourself pep talks?”

Jaemin bobbed his head. “Sometimes,” he said. “Like when I asked you out. I gave myself a long speech of encouragement.”

Ryujin furrowed her brows. “Didn’t she say ‘no’ the first time you asked her out?”

Everybody laughed. 

Haechan turned to you and explained, “Jaemin asked Winter out in our freshman year of college in the courtyard. He pulled out all the stops - flowers, chocolates, the whole nine. She rejected him and the whole campus talked about it for weeks.”

“I thought he was so weird!” Winter exclaimed. 

“She thought Jaemin was weird. Jaemin talked to himself. I’m connecting the dots,” quipped Ryujin, passing the joint.  

Mark hissed, “You didn’t connect shit.”

“I’m connecting them.”

Jeno pointed to you with his drink. “What about you? Do you talk to yourself?”

“Sometimes,” you admitted. 

Mark leapt up and exclaimed, “Yes!”

“But only when I’m self-deprecating.”

“Oh,” Mark replied darkly. Ryujin had to tug him back down. 

Haechan grabbed your hand and said sweetly, “Never talk to yourself.”

You rolled your eyes. He was such a flirt. Maybe you were starting to like it. 

Some more colorful banter later, Haechan decided to connect his phone to Jaemin’s bluetooth speaker and everybody got up to bust a move to his wonderful music selection. He volunteered his hand and you took it gladly, in a world of your own as you each danced. 

Haechan quickly became talented at making you laugh. He shimmied his hips in a very, very unattractive way and you almost snorted. “You know,” Haechan started a couple minutes later, your bodies much closer. “I can’t shake the feeling that you’re really familiar. Like I’ve seen you before.”

You shrugged. “Maybe. I do modeling.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hm,” you hummed. Your faces were dangerously close. One wrong move and your lips would be touching. “Mainly in New York, but I’ve decided to come here for a fresh start.”

Surprise was Haechan’s initial reaction, but he quickly responded, “That checks out. You are breathtaking, after all.”

You groaned. “It’s like you have some compulsion to flirt with me.”

“I do,” Haechan replied with a grin. “I’ll keel over and die if I don’t flirt with you.”

That checks out, you were tempted to mock, but instead you mimicked monotonously, “Must flirt. Will self-destruct if I don’t flirt.”

Haechan laughed loudly and you smiled at the sound of him. As the night carried on, you were finding less and less to dislike about him. He also only got even handsomer at this range. You could see every little detail on his pretty boy face. 

Needless to say, Haechan was also hyper aware of the lack of distance between your faces and bodies. His eyes kept flitting to your plump lips and all he could think about was how kissable they were. “I think it’s really interesting that you’re a model,” he began. 

You casted him a glance. “Why?”

“Because I’m a photographer.”

“Really?” you asked, somewhat shocked. 

Haechan bobbed his head. “Mm-hm. My whole life kinda. It’s my passion.”

“Interesting,” you replied, though it wasn’t a lie. You were thinking over his admission. He was splurging your assumptions of him, dime by fucking dime. Haechan screamed spoiled rich kid at first glance and you’d doubted that he even had a job. 

“Tell me something else about you,” Haechan said, locking eyes with you and doing his best to keep them there. You tested the limits of his self-control and he didn’t know whether he liked it or not. 

“Like what?”

Haechan shrugged. “Anything.”

You thought long and hard about it. His weighty stare didn’t help in the slightest. After a minute you confessed, “I like cheesy movies.”

His eyes flickered with surprise. “Seriously?”

You smiled coyly and replied, “Yes. It’s a character flaw, I know.”

“Wow,” he said, shaking his head. “The model with an attitude that collects vinyls as a hobby likes cheesy movies. You amaze me, you know.”

You gasped. “I do not have an attitude!”

“You have lots of attitude, baby. Snark for days. And I love every minute of it,” flirted Haechan for the umpteenth time this night alone. 

You were tempted to roll your eyes, but you kept them on his face, realizing again how good-looking he was. His lips were calling your name and you wondered if they were as soft as they looked. “Relax,” you said, feeling your hold on the reins slacken. You didn’t like it not one bit. “I’m only going out with you because I want that Michael vinyl.”

Haechan seemingly didn’t take offense to that and replied, “I know, but I thought that maybe if we went out on a date you would realize there’s actually a lot to like about me.”

You had already reached that conclusion on your own, feeling yourself become attracted to Haechan the longer you spent time with him, but your heart had intricate security and you were in no way inclined to let your guard down. 

“Like what?”

Haechan didn’t waste a second on hesitation. “We have similar music tastes. We both like cheesy movies. I’m a photographer. You’re a model. I mean, come on. We go together like pancakes and syrup, baby.”

Him likening you both to pancakes and syrup made you snort. “Is that the best analogy you could come up with?” you asked. 

“Cut me some slack,” Haechan groaned. “The last time I ate was ten this morning. I’m starving.”

You laughed. 

He squeezed your hand affectionately and said, “Speaking of which, there’s a diner down the block that serves really good pancakes. I can vouch. Wanna go grab some?”

You pretended to mull it over and eventually replied, “I would like that.”

Haechan sported a victorious grin before disclosing to his clique that the two of you would be seeing yourselves out. Ryujin bid you goodnight and Winter pouted, asking when she would see you again. You and your date barely managed to escape the party, slipping outside into the cold after a solid five minutes. 

The sky looked a little darker now, the city a little brighter. Time really did fly by when you were having fun. Among other things. “C’mon,” Haechan said, grabbing your hand. And you both held hands as he walked you to his parked bike. 

The diner was bare, given the early hour as the clock transcended past midnight, but the food was delightful as promised. Only a pair of employees were working their shifts, but you and Haechan tried to keep it down as you talked over an early breakfast in the booth. 

Which failed tremendously. Haechan was just so hilarious. Your laughter rang out through the breakfast joint in spite of how much you constantly reminded yourself to be quiet. You weren’t even paying attention to the pair of co-workers increasingly losing the will to live. You and Haechan talked about everything under the sun. The city and its shallow. Work and speeding vehicles. The best spots in the entire city. Your heart sped like how it did when you were speeding on his bike. 

“Your friends are cool,” you told him after a while. 

“But I’m cooler, right?” Haechan asked jokingly, earning a roll of your eyes. 

You picked up your coffee and droned, “Very.”

Haechan laughed playfully but sobered a little to confess, “I’m glad I met them. It’s kill or be killed in this city. It’s hard to find people that don’t share the same three superficial personalities.”

“Oh?”

He bobbed his head. “Yeah. It’s brutal.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Shit, where do I even start?” Haechan said, chuckling a little, but soon finding the answer to his question. “Jaemin is a complete geek. Don’t be fooled by his looks. There’s a reason Winter turned him down the first time, but he’s a chill dude that doesn’t bother anybody. He’s studying to be an engineer.”

That surprised you and tempted you to laugh. “Really?”

“Yup. Ironically, he’s probably the most regular person out of all of us. He doesn’t like to draw attention to himself,” Haechan ranted, pausing to sip from his drink. “Winter is the complete opposite. She’s a model, like you. Been in Vogue. When she’s not feeling up Jaemin, she loves to tend to her garden.”

So that explained the abundance of flowers in their front yard. It was vibrant plant galore. They looked nurtured, obviously a lot of love was being put into taking care of them and keeping them healthy. 

Haechan continued, “Ryujin is a unique blend of art kid and debate club survivor. She works part-time at the record store obviously, but she has big hopes for her paintings. She’s really talented.”

You were genuinely intrigued. “Wow. I would love to see her art.”

“That painting in Jaemin and Winter’s living room is hers. It was a housewarming gift when they moved in together,” Haechan told you like he was giving you the inside scoop. “Mark is a single pringle with way too much time on his hands, but he makes great music. He wants to be a famous rapper.”

“Mark and Ryujin aren’t boning?”

Haechan snickered loudly, shaking his head. “Nope. They’re like brother and sister. Ryujin has a boyfriend, but they’re dating long distance. He lives in Chicago or something like that.”

You made a face. “Commitment. That’s impressive. I respect it.”

“Yeah, same. I couldn’t handle it. I need too much stimulation for that shit,” Haechan said. 

“Hypothetically, you wouldn’t be willing to make it work for me?”

Haechan thought over his answer, chewing over his words. “I would at least try,” he told you admittedly. “But I can’t say for sure I could make it work.”

You admired his bluntness. His ability to be straightforward was something you genuinely respected. You knew he wanted to impress you, but on top of all that and his acute need for humor, Haechan was incredibly honest. Unlike somebody you knew. 

Curiously, you cocked your head, realizing you were missing somebody. “What about Jeno?” you asked. 

“What about him?”

You cocked a brow. “You were telling me about your friends?”

Haechan made a face of remembrance. “Oh, right. Jeno is single, but Giacomo Casanova reincarnated. He could have been written by Shakespeare. Another aspiring model.”

Why aren’t you a model? You took one good goddamn look at Haechan and not very subtly licked your lips until they were dry. He was so breathtaking. You couldn’t believe he was the man behind the camera. “You’re kinda handsome, you know,” you admitted. 

Haechan snickered. He hadn’t expected those words to come out of your mouth, but with how you were unabashedly checking him out, it was no secret you found him attractive. “Is that what you gathered from what I said?”

“No. I gathered that you’re fine enough to be a model and yet you are not. I think you even have the charisma,” you told him blatantly. “Why stand behind the camera?”

Haechan shrugged. Feigning nonchalance. “That’s just who I am,” he said. 

“Do you like it?”

“I love it,” he replied with zero hesitation. 

You shot him a smile. “Then, I guess that’s all that matters.”

Haechan nodded in agreement. He wouldn’t trade his job for the world. He liked being able to do his favorite hobby for a living. Not everybody had that luxury. You were the same way, but damn it you couldn’t take it off your mind how Haechan looked straight out of a magazine. You had seen hundreds of handsome men in your lifetime, far and up close, but he took the cake.

It was hard to believe Haechan was anything but a casanova himself, considering your first impression of him was that he was a player trying to get into your pants. Which was fair because he was, and he couldn’t deny that. But in spite of his good looks, magnetic personality and charisma, Haechan had some admirable personality traits. 

You narrowed your eyes at him, accusing, and asked, “What do you think about debauchery?”

There you went with the random statements and questions again. Haechan snorted, leaned back in his seat, and replied silkily, “I am quite the debaucher.” 

“You mean debauchee,” you corrected. 

Haechan groaned, “Who gives a fuck? I love pussy.”

You snorted back a laugh. Again, honesty. Noted. 

Haechan finished what was left of his pancakes in one final bite and chewed without any particular rush. “Listen, if you’re asking me this because you think I’m a player, you’ve got the wrong guy,” he said eventually.

Your mind was racing. You were plagued by doubts. “Do I?”

“You do.” Haechan dropped his fork, reaching for a napkin. Then, he added, “I fuck. I fool around. I’m not gonna lie and act like I’m a fucking prude. But when I’m tied down, I get tunnel vision.”

“Something tells me you’re not tied down often,” you remarked, never taking your eyes off of him. 

Haechan met your stare and shot back, “Something tells me you don’t like being tied down.”

He caught you there. You wanted to be upset, but you couldn’t. Not when he was so right about you already. “I don’t mind being in a relationship but… I don’t like it when men act as if a woman being in a relationship should deprive her of her individuality. I want to be independent.”

“Then, we’re the same in that regard,” he replied, grinning at you. “I would never try to control you or anything like that. You’re a grown ass woman and I’m a grown ass man. I just hate feeling stagnant and I need constant stimulation. Hypothetically, could you handle that?”

You pretended to mull it over. “Yeah.” You nodded your head. “I could.”

Haechan grinned wildly. He was liking where this was going. And he definitely wanted to see you again. Little did he know, you felt the exact same way.

Haechan checked his watch and frowned. “It’s late. I should take you back home.”

You quipped, “What kind of grown ass man has a curfew?”

Haechan snickered and started to tidy up his things. 

You left the diner a couple minutes later, hopping back on Haechan’s sexy motorbike. He drove you through the city, besotted with how your arms felt wrapped so tightly around his waist as he sped through the night. 

When he dropped you off at your doorstep, fingers laced through yours the entire trip there, something bittersweet came over you. You didn’t want the night to be over. Haechan had won you over in just one night alone. 

“I guess this is goodbye,” you said when you’d reached your door. 

“Goodbye for now,” Haechan corrected you, smirking. He could hear the sadness in your tone you tried to veil. “By the way, I’m free tomorrow. You can swing by my place to pick up the vinyl. I’ll text you my address.”

Confusion twisted your features for the briefest second before you remembered the reason you’d even agreed to go out on a date with him in the first place. You had forgotten all about your record collection. “Sounds great,” you chirped, reluctantly taking your keys from your purse. You were glad you would finally get your hands on the vinyl, though still crestfallen that he had to leave. 

Haechan didn’t want to leave until he was certain you were safely inside your condo and he heard the door lock, but you surprised him when you unlocked your door and turned around to say, “I had a really great time tonight.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m glad.”

You pointed inside your place with your thumb. “Do you… wanna come inside?”

It was no secret what that meant. You wanted to fool around with him, there was no doubt. “I shouldn’t,” Haechan said. 

Not that he didn’t want to. But it was the first date and he didn’t want to seem like he was only after one thing.

The disappointment on your face was noticeable, but you forced a smile. “Right. You probably shouldn’t.”

Something told Haechan to bid you goodnight and leave it at that, but then he thought, Who the fuck am I kidding? And with all his self-restraint parked squarely beside his bike, he smashed his lips against yours. 

Your first instinct was to be surprised, but then you kissed him back just as hard. Fuck, you had been resisting the urge the whole evening. It was so satisfying to finally know what his lips felt like pressed to yours like a mold. You lost your mind a little at how romantic his kisses were. They were hard, but slow. You met him halfway, feeling something shift in your body as the kiss steadily grew more and more heated. And you couldn’t fight the heat that wafted over you as his hands kneaded your hips. 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’s a great kisser, you screamed internally. It drove you mad. It made you crazy with burning ache. 

Naturally, Haechan ultimately ended up slipping past your doorway, locking it shut behind him and kissing you through the hallways. “Bedroom?” he asked between kisses. 

You pointed, although you were losing your sense of direction as you became drunk with the taste of him. You panted, “Over there.”

Each of you were both half-naked by the time you charged through your bedroom door. You were reduced to your underwear, your clothes scattered across the hallway in your wake. Haechan pulled you towards your bed, collapsing over you as your lips synced messily. 

His warmth made you moan, little noises escaping you at the meeting of your bodies, skin to skin. Then, his lips attached to your throat, sinking lower and lower until you could feel his breath at your abdomen. “Can I taste this wet fucking pussy?” Haechan growled while flitting his gaze to your eyes. 

One look at him between your thighs and you were tightening around nothing. There was no reason that should have been as attractive as it was. Please, your body begged. “Are you any good?” you asked. 

Haechan cocked a brow at you and chuckled, reaching for some pillows to hand over to you. “Get comfortable,” were his only words. 

You tucked the pillows he passed you underneath your elbows obediently and lifted your hips. Haechan started to slip your panties off, pulling them right down your ankles before they were tossed into oblivion. All it took was a single glance at your bare cunt for Haechan to dive between your legs. He gripped your thighs, spreading them apart and holding them in place. Your thighs were plush and it was no doubt he liked the way they fit in his palms. 

Haechan spent a moment wandering, just getting a feel for what made you tick. Not a bunch of time was wasted idly and he caught on quickly, reducing you to moans and squirming quicker than anybody before him. It was infuriating. His hold on your thighs tightened, keeping you rooted and still. You bit your lip, trying to smother the sound of your soft sounds in an endeavor to wipe the smug look off his wet lips, but to no avail.

Haechan was eating you out like he just couldn’t get enough of you. Which wasn’t far from the truth at all. Your moans were pornographic and made him crazy with a burning, all-consuming flavor of lust. You covered your mouth flat with your palm, tense when he sucked your clit, moaning, “Fuck,” into your own hand. 

You were already unbelievably sensitive. Maybe because it had been a while since you’d had sex. I’m so busy, you thought. Work had taken priority in your life. In between being pursued by Haechan, you were also becoming high-demand in shoots. None of that changed the fact you’d been maybe subconsciously hoping that this would happen though. You even shaved in the shower just before throwing on your clothes. 

Your whole body was unstill. You clenched your hands into fists, over and over again, before finally letting yourself run your fingers through his dark hair. His lips felt so good, tracing the skin around your thigh. He was disarming you. Slowly but surely. Or maybe not that slowly at all. 

“Haechan, shit. Fuck,” you cursed, your tongue tied in knots. Nothing could articulate how he was making you feel, how the walls of ice around you were collapsing in on themselves.

Haechan merely groaned against your cunt with a mouthful of pussy and the noise was powerful enough to kill you. You were already seeing god. 

Your back arched off the mattress, your hips driving into his face. You couldn’t get enough either. He was making you greedy and you didn’t even understand what for. All you knew was that you wanted him and the attraction was so fervent it was undeniable now. The boy between your thighs had a mutual thought. The room was a hundred degrees hotter than it had been before, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t feel the heat from the outside, too engrossed with how besotted and hot for you he was internally.

He was going to get you to climax even if it was the last thing he did, not that you were far from finishing. And when you thought things couldn’t possibly get any better, he stuffed a pair of fingers inside your pussy. 

The bedroom was too hot to breathe in. You kept panting, kept crying out Haechan’s name, pulling at his locks of hair as you pleased. And he let you. Your body was so indecisive, arching into him but flexing away involuntarily, as if it couldn’t decide what it wanted. 

“Don’t stop. Please,” you cried out. 

Your body only knew him right now, on the verge of going numb because of how sensitive and swollen your clit was. Haechan did the opposite of slow down. He was undeterred and absolutely nothing would stop him from bringing you to climax while he went down on you like a madman. You could feel the heat gathering in your thigh, like it would consume you at any given moment. 

It was practically over for you when he continued to finger your sweet spot, dragging his fingers in and out of your perfect cunt. You were a whirlwind of excitement, less and less able to keep still the longer he sucked and fucked, and touched on you. You could feel sweat on your back and chest. “I’m gonna cum,” you warned. 

“Cum,” Haechan told you, voice a little deeper. “I want you to cum, baby.”

The pressure was building. And it kept coming. There were no peaks, no limits. Like steady rainfall in the forest. 

You cried out his name one last time before your orgasm got the best of you, making you shudder and shake, and tangle your fingers deeper into his head of hair. The whole world stopped for a second. But Haechan kept tasting you through your climax, not stopping until it was over. You arched off the bed, too many sensations hitting you at once. 

When the last of your high faded your back hit the mattress with a thud. You were completely out of breath, a couple of tears forming a shroud in your eyes while they gathered at your lashes. You were finally broken. 

But with your permission, Haechan went down on you one final time after that. For safe measure. Haechan finally pulled back once you’d cum for a second time, meeting your stare, but the eye contact only lasted for a couple of seconds because you couldn’t take yours off of his slick lips. He licked your release nonchalantly and something primal took over you. You were feeling less and less like a woman. More like a beast.

Haechan, grinning to himself as he took notice of how defeated you looked, cocked his brow at you expectantly. “So?” 

Ah. You had asked him if he was any good. “Mind numb,” you panted. “Can’t think.”

Haechan laughed. Feeling a little less lethargic than before, you clambered over to him, tugging at his boxers. You could see the print of his hard dick against it. 

“Someone’s impatient,” Haechan teased. 

“Someone’s not moving fast enough,” you shot back, pulling them down for him to step out of. You gawked, licking your lips at the sight. Fuck, he was huge. You should’ve known. 

You glanced up at him with a little glimmer in your eyes, asking, “Can I suck you off?” 

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” you replied, your lips dry from how much your tongue passed over them. He was just so fucking mouth-watering. You wanted a taste badly. 

There was no way Haechan could tell you no when you looked at him with that sexy gleam in your eyes. Plus he wasn’t at all against feeling your mouth on his dick. “Alright,” he said, playing nonchalant. 

Haechan moved to sit on your bed and you crept between his thighs, sitting on your knees. You spat in your hand and grabbed his dick, only pumping him in your fist for the meanwhile. 

Then, you slowly transitioned into swirling your tongue around his dick, though not yet drawing him inside your mouth. You were toying with him, trying to see how much he could take, and Haechan realized very quickly that you were pushing his buttons. Which was strange. That was his thing. But he kinda liked it. 

A high-pitched moan left him when you finally - fucking finally - started to take him past your lips, hollowing your cheeks, and he fisted your hair behind you. Giving you a full scan, Haechan realized how sexy you looked sucking him off, kneeled between his legs with that sexy ass stare in your eyes gazing up at him. You must have known it was his kryptonite. 

And you did. Meeting his stare, you could read him just by looking at his handsome face. It was your time to be a smug little bitch. You wanted to break him, just like he had broken you. “Fuck, baby. Like that,” Haechan grunted, throwing his head back. Which meant you must have been doing something right.

You were feeling benevolent and took him deeper inside your mouth while wrapping your fist around whatever was still available. There were many sensations on his dick and it was doing something inexplicably unhinged to his brain. 

One look at his face made you feel extremely accomplished. His features were tensed and his lips were parted. I’ll suck the soul outta that dick any day to see that face, you thought very amusedly to yourself, resisting a chuckle. 

You pried yourself away for a while, still looking into his eyes, and taunted, “Too much for you, baby boy?”

“Never,” Haechan retorted, voice airy and light. Like he was on some fucking cloud. 

You lifted a brow, amused, though in that case, decided it was time to up the stakes. You sucked him a little faster, taking him a little further until he hit the back of your throat. Very eager and deliberate. 

Haechan was losing whatever was left of his goddamn mind. His thighs trembled, cock twitching inside your mouth. You were doing unspeakable things to him right now and he was absolutely obsessed. Your tongue touched the base of his dick and your free hand squeezed his bare thigh. God-fucking-damn, was all Haechan could think. Literally. His mind was numb, thanks to you. In a matter of minutes, his legs would probably be as well.  

A couple of tears gathered in your eyes, but you willed yourself to power through. You couldn’t be finished until he was finished. You were way too resolved to make him unravel. At the sensation of your warm mouth, Haechan whimpered, “Fuck,” grabbing and using your hair. 

His sounds were just so fucking hot. You wanted to record them so that you could put them on loop. Arousal seeped between your thighs, but you ignored it, just for his sake. 

Some time had passed since your last blowjob. It was good to know that your mouth was still spectacular, if his sensitive movements and high-pitched moans were any indicator. You squeezed your thighs together. There was throbbing between your legs. Mutual chaos. Mutual destruction. The two of you were a very, very unlikely duo.

Haechan was warm to the touch everywhere you touched him, blood circulating through him swiftly like a Shanghai maglev. You traced your fingers up and down his thighs, giving them a little pinch, and were surprised to find he was incredibly pliant. You little freak, you thought teasingly. You jotted down a mental note to playfully scold him later, too concentrated on stringing him to climax. 

The male before you looked a total of seconds away from malfunctioning altogether. You were making short work of him like no other girl and it was giving him much to think about.

Your nails found purchase in his thigh, dragging your nails down the flesh and leaving little red lines, just before you brought one of your hands to his cock again. You’d been pulling out all the stops to chase him closer to the finish. Every other thought on your mind vanished as you fixed all of your attention on making him cum. Haechan had the same thought, involuntarily bucking his hips as he tried to fuck your mouth.

You let him control the pace, let him do whatever he needed to finish. You moaned around his shaft again, sending vibrations that shook him. A little longer and he wouldn’t last. 

“I’m coming. Shit, babe. Keep going…,” he mumbled, winding his fingers through your scalp again. His pace was erratic. It was all you could do not to choke, giving him permission to use you to get himself off. And it was too fucking hot. You were in disbelief. 

Haechan tried to be careful, not wanting to trouble you, but you knew what you were doing and he couldn’t exactly control his impulses. His impulses controlled him. You sucked and swallowed, all good and pliant. 

Seconds later, Haechan was orgasming, painting the back of your throat with cum. His thighs shook and you could physically feel his dick twitch inside your mouth as he released. He moaned your name loud enough to wake the neighbors. 

You took as much of his load as you could fit inside your mouth, but as it turned out, Haechan came a lot. Some dripped from your chin and you wiped it with the back of your hand. When he let go of your hair, you pulled back, just watching your handiwork smugly. You mocked, “So?”

Haechan blinked, like it would clear the invisible haze. He was barely handling the stimulation. You were undoubtedly one of the best he’d ever had and he was officially sprung with you. “High fucking hell,” he groaned. 

You giggled. That was answer enough. 

For an uncertain amount of hours (nobody was counting), you and Haechan took turns finishing each other, even sixty-nining once or twice till you needed a break. 

“Okay, timeout. I can’t feel my dick,” Haechan sighed after a while, surprising himself. Usually, he wore other people out. Not the other way around, but the two of you were in a competition to see who could exhaust the other first. Haechan realized then and there that you were matching his energy and it shocked the hell out of him, because that was a first. He was even more interested in you now. 

You chortled and collapsed on the bed. You were also having some revelations, but you kept them to yourself. He hasn’t even asked to put his dick in me, you realized after a moment. He was definitely a pussy fiend, but he hadn’t even fucked you and it’d been ages. 

That was a first. 

You held your chin in your face while staring at him. “Are you busy tomorrow?”

Haechan looked high as hell and he hadn’t done a single drug in your presence. “Not as we speak,” he replied quietly. “Other than playing pool with Jaemin later and giving you that vinyl, I don’t exactly have plans.”

“You should still rest,” you told him assertively. “Do you wanna stay the night?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

You smiled, resisting a squeal to contain your excitement. You patted the spot beside you, gesturing for him to come over. Which he did. “Goodnight,” you whispered.

“Goodnight, beautiful,” Haechan said, blowing a kiss your way.

You rolled your eyes, but quickly devolved into giggles and tangled yourself in his arms. 

Sleep came easy for you that night and had you not forgotten to turn off your alarm, you would have slept past noon. You could feel the sunlight on your face and flipped over, desperate to escape its brightness. 

That was when the memories of last night slammed into you like an eighteen-wheeler. Haechan’s fingers tangled in your hair and his mouth between your legs. Sleep had sobered you, the inebriety of lust distant, save for the ache that lingered in your thigh. Your heart fluttered for a second, but it was gone the second you noticed the man you’d spent all night with had disappeared, his arms no longer thrown around your waist. 

You started to worry then. There was no note on your nightstand. You immediately grabbed your phone from your bedside table, hopeful of finding some sort of message, but Haechan didn’t even have the courtesy to leave a text or voicemail. Bitterness seeped into your chest as you assumed the worst. He’s had his fun and now he’s done, you thought disdainfully. Why you expected him to be any different was beyond you. 

You threw on your robe and slipped on your slippers before stomping downstairs, full of attitude in large quantities. Maybe it was for the better that you didn’t exactly let him hit. But you still felt stupid, because you would have. If he would have asked. 

But he didn’t. 

Thoughts of hunger broke your reverie when you smelled eggs from the kitchen, which was strange, because you were certain that nobody was there. You grabbed a vase off a nearby table and approached the kitchen with slow, cautious strides. 

A part of you hoped it was only Haechan, but surely enough, you were taken aback when you got an amazing view of his back while he faced your stove. 

Haechan is here - and he’s cooking? 

You shook your head. This man was full of surprises. 

Haechan was none the wiser, humming to himself, and didn’t even realize you were present until he turned around to grab something from the island. “Good morning,” he said sweetly. He pointed to the vase in your hands. “Thought I was a killer?”

“You scared the shit out of me,” you sighed, walking over to the island and sitting the vase down. 

Haechan grinned. “Why - you didn’t think I was gonna still be here?”

You didn’t have to answer that question. And you wouldn’t be. You didn’t like that he saw through you so clearly, it made you feel transparent. Changing the topic, you asked, “What you cooking?”

“Omelets,” he replied nonchalantly, fixed to the stove again. “I know we technically had breakfast not too long ago, but I saw how much you liked omelets.”

Something fluttered in your chest. It was sweet, dare you say. 

“That’s really thoughtful of you,” you whispered, getting comfortable at the island. 

“I’m a thoughtful guy.”

“That you are.”

Comfortable silence enveloped you in its wholeness. For the first time since you met him, if it was worth noting. Neither of you liked the quiet very much - silence gave too much room for thinking - but you didn’t mind it right now.

Haechan slipped a steaming omelet from the pan to your plate masterfully, handing you a knife and fork. You opened your mouth to thank him, but he beat you, finally starting, “Speaking of thinking, I been, well, thinking. And I need you to not go ghost on me after this.”

Your eyes flickered, but you glanced at your plate to hide your surprise, cutting off a morsel. “Why would I do that?” you asked. 

Haechan shrugged his shoulders, but ranted, “I just hate when you think shit tight with a girl, and then after you hook up, they don’t wanna keep in touch anymore.”

“Huh,” you mumbled. “Funny. I feel the same way.”

Haechan took the seat beside you. His eyes met yours, something sober in them. “I say all of this to say that I like where this is going and I want to see you again. But if you’re not on the same page, let me know right now.”

“I’m on the same page.”

He pressed, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Haechan,” you replied, setting down your knife. “If I didn’t want to keep seeing you after this, I would tell you in no uncertain terms. I’m having fun.”

Haechan nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay,” you repeated. “This is really, really good, by the way. Where’d you learn to cook?”

The boyish smile was back on Haechan’s handsome face. “Everything I know I owe to my parents,” he said. “This particularly to my mother.”

You taunted, “Ah. You a Momma’s boy?”

Haechan chuckled. “Something like that, yeah.”

Almost endearing. You got a mental picture of a tiny Haechan peaking around the corner, watching his mother cook, and it brought a smile to your lips. 

Both of you talked over breakfast. You got orange juice out of the fridge for you to drink and spent what was left of the morning chattering incessantly. You finally accepted that you liked Haechan. Maybe unconsciously, you’d been fighting it because of your ex. 

As of now, you were playing tug-of-war with your heart. On the one hand, there was a part of you that lingered over him and it still felt forbidden to be interested in other men. But one swift reminder that he was interested in other girls while apparently being interested in you, and all the feelings you had for him dissolved into resentment. 

Plus you weren’t exactly ready for another relationship, nor did you completely trust Haechan yet, but on the other hand, he made you forget all about the bastard that hurt you. And how it felt to be hurt. 

Needless to say, you would be seeing him again. Haechan made you feel something you hadn’t felt in a long, long time. 

You were sad when he had to leave, picking up his clothes that were scattered across your entire condo and redressing himself, but gladly kissed him goodbye. On the cheek. For various reasons.

Besides, you would be seeing him later on that day anyways. You both had things to take care of. 

Chaewon was sporting the biggest smile you’d ever seen when you climbed into the back of the taxi with her. You expected a stern reprimanding, given that you hadn’t returned any of her calls or texts since last night, but somehow this was worse.

“Don’t even,” was the first thing you said when you entered the backseat. 

Chaewon grinned mischievously, singing, “You’re glowing.”

“Yes. There’s this cool thing called a skin care routine. You may have heard of it,” you deadpanned. 

Chaewon wriggled her eyebrows. “Does this skin care routine consist of Lee Haechan’s semen?”

You grimaced. “Gross.”

“You guys totally boned, didn’t you?” she asked. Though it was less of a question and more of a declaration. You hoped the driver was tuning both of you out.

“Jesus, Chae. Good morning to you, too,” you replied boredly. 

“Good morning, bestie. Now did you or did not you bone Haechan?”

You just rolled your eyes. She was relentless. “Okay, fine,” you started, sighing out a little. “We hooked up.”

“I fucking knew it,” Chaewon exclaimed. 

You added sharply, “But we didn’t have sex. It was strictly head.”

Chaewon gave you a look. “Girl, seriously? How was it?”

You pretended to think about it. Memories of last night plagued you. You couldn’t get the image of Haechan strumming you to climax out of your head. You admitted quietly, “He made me see a star or two. Maybe a galaxy. Maybe another universe.”

Chaewon clasped her hands together and made a squealing noise of excitement. 

All you could do was shake your head. But you couldn’t deny that all of your doubts and hesitations about Haechan had been converted into an inexplicable will to see him again. You had an impulse to smile and faced the window so that she couldn’t see. 

“You’re smiling,” Chaewon teased, watching your reflection. 

“I’m not.”

Chaewon nudged you with her elbow. “Come on, girl. You deserve this. You deserve to be happy.”

“I am happy. And I don’t need a man to be happy,” you quickly replied. 

Chaewon frowned. “You know that’s not what I meant. You’ve obviously been down in the dumps since you called off the engagement and I think it’s a good thing you’re letting yourself be a little more lax.”

You let out a disgruntled groan.

Chaewon slipped her fingers through yours and continued, “No one’s saying that you’ve gotta jump the broom. With how hard you’ve worked all these years, you deserve to play.”

“I know, and that’s all he is. We’re just playing around,” you assured her in spite of the fact that nobody questioned it in the first place. “We’re just kickin’ it.”

Chaewon squeezed your hand. 

Meanwhile, Haechan was across town with a friend of his own. 

“I’ve got a question for you, man,” Haechan started after a total of three minutes of silence. 

Jaemin slung his head back and whined, “Oh, brother.”

He had seen it coming from a mile away. Haechan treated silence like the black plague and when he wasn’t chatting his friends ears off for every second of every minute, he was thinking. Of course, Jaemin knew his friend well enough, so it was no doubt he had a question. 

Truth be told, Haechan hadn’t stopped thinking about you since he left your condo. The endless hours of chatter, you dancing in his arms, the sex. All of it was giving him a lot of shit to ponder. 

“It’s been weighing on my mind for a while,” he continued, choosing his words carefully. “Do you think you’re with the someone you’re meant to be with?”

“You mean like my soulmate?”

Haechan gave him a nod, although Jaemin was too busy resting the cue between his fingers. “Yeah, like your other half or some shit like that. The one you’ll live for and die with.”

Sparing his friend a couple seconds worth of a glance, Jaemin paused his endeavors and mulled the question over. “You know, not everybody wants to be in love. But everybody wants to be loved,” he began. “People who get in relationships solely to feel loved don’t know what love is.”

“What’s that gotta do with my question?”

Jaemin shrugged his shoulders. “I wouldn’t trade the love Winter and I share with each other for the world, but what nobody tells you about love is that it has its fair share of ups and downs. There’s bad days and disagreements. Not everybody wants to deal with that.”

“That’s some profound shit, brother,” Haechan teased. 

“Whatever, man. I’m just saying that the idea that love has no bounds is false. I’d give my life for Winter and I wanna marry her someday, but we’ve both got boundaries because love is mutual respect.”

Haechan’s mind was adrift again. He was thinking.

Jaemin connected the dots, blocking the corner pocket with his hand. “Now wait just a second. Don’t tell me this is about that girl.”

Haechan groaned, “What are you doing, man? Can I get my shot?”

“No, no, no. This is about that girl you brought over last night, isn’t it?” Jaemin asked. 

Now, Haechan was officially caught. He heaved a breath, stood to his full height, and said, “You just don’t get it, man. We were talking for hours and she could actually keep up with my bullshit. Not only that, but she understood. Then, I get her in the sheets, and man.”

Jaemin snickered. “I’m guessing it was good?”

“Understatement of the year,” Haechan sighed loudly. “I mean, we didn’t even fuck. She volunteered to suck me off. She left me mind-blown, you hear me? Mind-blown. I can still feel my thighs shaking.”

Jaemin whistled. “Goddamn. So, you think she’s your soulmate?”

“Nah, man,” Haechan replied nonchalantly, setting his cue back on the table. “She’s impressive. That’s all. We’re just kickin’ it. You know I don’t do the whole love thing anymore.”

Jaemin could sniff bullshit from a mile away but shifted his hand. “Alright, man. But when those jones come down,” he started, blunt. “It’s a motherfucker.”

Haechan’s eyes flickered.

[honeytonedhottie]

how to keep a dolly mind⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🧁

this post is inspired by @arielleslipgloss's post about dolly mindset and i just wanna make my own post about keeping a doll mindset so i hope that u enjoy…💬🎀

WHATS IN UR MIND ;

whats in ur mind manifests. what u think consistently everyday is what u will experience, thats just how the brain works. so if ur thinking positive thoughts, you'll experience positive things but the same is true if u think negative thoughts.

BE POSITIVE ;

affirm. affirm. affirm. if u dont want to experience it, then dont dwell on it. when u spend so much time dwelling on negativity you'll only perpetuate that into ur reality so can we not? be POSITIVE and dwell only on things that u want to manifest and experience.

DONT THINK TOO MUCH ;

with that being said, DONT THINK TOO MUCH. sometimes its good to get out of ur own head and just affirm positively on autopilot. dont spend so much time pondering things that upset you. ofc its important to ponder things that you struggle with because thats how u overcome them, but if u dwell on them too much you'll only perpetuate it. make ur mind a good place to be. dont worry about a thing ♡

dont give others the power to make u uncomfortable in ur own mind. dont dwell on other people's negative opinions or criticism, dont be consumed by a situationship. the center of ur universe should be you, you and YOU.

HOW TO MAKE UR OWN DOLLHOUSE (IN UR MIND) ;

this section is inspired by something that i read about in the book pyscho cybernetics and essentially the idea is that u create a space in ur mind that is completely and wholly yours. a place that u can go when u need a breather and i though it was just ADORABLE.

so create ur own dollhouse in ur mind. how i did this was i focused on my 5 senses and i imagined myself creating a space for myself. once i was done imagining it, i imagined myself walking into it and just relaxing in it.

♡ i imagine a cute room (pretty large) with baby pink wallpaper

♡ i imagine a balcony with fresh flowers and a cute pink chair

♡ pink drapes DUH

♡ plush couches with leopard print throw pillows and cashmere blankets

♡ very 90's hollywood mansion inspired with cute dolly music playing softly in the background

and whenever i want to i just imagine myself walking into this space and relaxing on the couch. painting my nails, doing a face mask or just talking to myself and its so soothing…💬🎀

WHAT SHOULD CONSUME UR THOUGHTS ;

♡ shopping

♡ glitter

♡ self pampering

♡ your education

♡ YOUR FUTURE (the most important one btw)

♡ urself and ur future

WHAT SHOULDN'T CONSUME UR THOUGHTS ;

♡ toxicity from any source (bad friends, social media etc)

♡ the past

♡ jealousy

♡ and anything that u DONT want to manifest

THINGS THAT CAN HELP UR MIND ;

if u find it particularly difficult to stay positive or ur just going through a hard time, first of all know that ur NOT alone and things will always get better 💗 some things that can help ur state of mind can include ->

getting a full 8-10 hours of sleep every night, staying hydrated and eating a balanced diet, getting sunlight and fresh air everyday, journalling and other forms of self expression. and to finish off this post i wanna leave u guys with some dolly affirmations to live ur best dolly life 💗

🧁 i am so flawless from head to toe

🎀 i am absolutely in love with myself, and why WOULDN'T i be?

🧁 i manifest instantly

🎀 i am more than capable of anything that i want to do

🧁 i am gorgeous on the inside and on the outside

🎀 im just SUCH a ray of sunshine and beauty to everything and everyone

[arcadia-smith]

New romance?

Hockey AU Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Pairing: Hockey player Simon Riley x girlfriend!Reader.

Summary: After an event, Simon's name gazes the tabloids.

Word count: 630

You weren’t the jealous type. You and Simon had been together long enough for that. You knew exactly where you stood with him—right in the center of his world, even if he wasn’t the best at putting it into words.

The TV in your shared apartment was on, muted, while you scrolled through your phone. You already knew what was blowing up online, but curiosity got the better of you. A sports gossip account had posted a grainy, over-zoomed picture of Simon standing on a red carpet next to some actress—tall, blonde, stunning. They were mid-conversation, Simon leaning slightly toward her to hear her better over the event noise. The headline? NHL’s Simon Riley Spotted Getting Cozy with Hollywood Starlet!

You snorted. "Cozy, huh?"

You heard Simon before you saw him, his heavy steps echoing down the hall. He was fresh out of the shower, a towel slung around his neck, wearing a pair of sweats low on his hips. When he spotted you eyeing your phone, he let out a deep sigh.

“So, should I start packing my bags now, or…?” you asked before he could say anything.

"Don't tell me you're readin' that shite."

You scrolled down dramatically, reading aloud, “‘Riley and Hollywood star Mila spotted together in what can only be described as undeniable chemistry—’”

Simon groaned, “For fuck’s sake.”

“‘Sources say—’”

“Bloody who?”

“‘—that the pair looked rather intimate during their conversation, leaving many to speculate that—’”

You turned the screen toward him, the article still open. "Should I be worried?"

Simon rolled his eyes and plopped down beside you on the couch. "Yeah, love. Absolutely terrified. She's already picked out wedding colors."

You smacked his arm lightly. "Don't be an ass."

He chuckled, voice low and raspy. "Y’know, they really like stirrin’ up drama, don’t they?"

"Oh, for sure," you agreed. "They could’ve just said NHL player has a conversation like a normal human being, but where’s the fun in that?"

Simon stretched his legs out, tilting his head toward you. "If I was gonna cheat, d’you really think I’d do it in front of cameras?"

"Wow, what a convincing defense," you teased. "So what did you talk about?"

"Her brother plays hockey. Big fan of the team." He shrugged. "She asked for an autograph."

Your lips twitched. "And you gave her one?"

"Of course. Thought about signin’ it as someone else’s name, just to see what she'd do."

You shook your head with a laugh. "You're impossible."

Simon smirked, reaching over to pull you into his lap. His arms looped around your waist, warm and solid. "You worried, love?"

You played along, tapping your chin in mock contemplation. "I mean… she is gorgeous. And famous. And—"

Simon cut you off by pressing his lips against yours, a slow, lazy kiss. "Not my type," he murmured against your mouth.

You raised a brow. "No?"

He kissed you again, this time with a little more heat. "No," he muttered, fingers trailing up your spine. "My type's sittin’ in my lap, talkin’ nonsense."

You melted just a little, even as you rolled your eyes. "Smooth."

He grinned. "Worked, didn’t it?"

"Maybe."

Simon nipped at your jaw, voice softer now. "Y’know I only have eyes for you, yeah?"

Your fingers carded through his damp hair, the familiar weight of him grounding you. "Yeah, I know."

"Good." He smirked again. "Now, c’mon, let’s give ‘em somethin’ else to talk about."

Before you could ask what he meant, Simon grabbed the phone and snapped a picture of you both—your legs tangled together, his arm wrapped possessively around you, lips grazing your temple. Then, with a shit-eating grin, he posted it.

Within seconds, notifications flooded in. You groaned. "Simon!"

"Oops." He didn’t look sorry at all. "Guess the world knows who I’m really cozy with now."

[burreauxoxo]

people magazines new hollywood dads! - joe burrow

dad!joe x fem!reader

summary: in which, joe is featured in people magazines “new hollywood dads” section of the upcoming issue. take a look at how you two are handling bringing her home, the newborn stage, and the initial announcement!

warnings: mentions of pregnancy, babies, joe being a girl dad

word count: 2.9k

authors note: this is lightly inspired by the “hollywood dads” or even “hollywood moms” section in US Weekly’s magazine. i am not sure which issue i seen it in or if its a regular coverage topic, i just wanted to do my own twist on it which explains why i chose people magazine because it has a better ring to it haha.

let me know if you want the readers version for “hollywood moms” or even more about you two with baby girl!

divider below and pictures above are not mine! all credits go to the rightful owners!

~

your guys’ baby girl sat in her swing next to you as it made figure-eight motions to keep her asleep. she was the perfect bundle of joy and she sat at just two weeks old. she was fragile like the porcelain that sat in the cabinets, tiny like the football her father threw for a living, and just as cute as the angel everyone called her. she was the definition of perfect in your eyes.

“people magazine wants to feature the baby and i this month. are we ready for that?” joe asks you over a cup of coffee as you two sat at the kitchen table, eating breakfast and admiring your baby while doing so.

she eats good, she sleeps like her father (for long durations), and her little smile she does in her sleep is worth melting over.

these tiny, personal details weighed against the idea of releasing her to the public eye.

this magazine would be in an archive for someone to look at over one hundred years from now. she very well could be a part of history. this magazine could sit in a random doctor’s office for years, maybe even taken home by a patient. her debut in a magazine was coming a lot sooner than you and joe both had anticipated.

“i think… as long as we keep her face out of the public eye for a while, you should be okay.” you suggest.

“it’s for their ‘new hollywood dads’ section so that’s their explanation for contacting us so early.” joe adds and you nod your head.

“maybe we should post something about her on instagram so we aren’t hard-launching her through a magazine.” you reason.

“we shouldn’t have to launch her at all. i wonder if we would have been able to pull off having her without saying anything.” joe shrugs.

“i don’t want her to grow up and think we wanted her to be a secret though.”

“yeah, it’s her privacy and safety. that’s all.”

“you know, i adore that you are respecting that and take it as a priority. you are already such a great father, so it doesn’t surprise me.” you say as joe stands up and walks around the table.

he stops right in front of her swing and squats down to be at her level; even though she’s sleeping.

“her cheeks are growing.” joe points out.

he runs his finger over her chubby cheek, letting the soft baby skin fulfill his touch.

“the more i feed her, the faster she is going to get all chunky.” you say and it makes joe laugh.

“at her rate, she’s going to have croissants for legs in no time.”

eventually, joe submitted one photo to the publisher. it was a simple one. baby girl was dressed in a plain white onesie and joe had her on his knee as he burped her.

he was also going to post the photo on instagram. even though joe was reluctant, he decided to share the moment.

~

view all 323 comments…

lahjay_10 making it big time man. much love 💪❤️

↳ joeyb_9 thanks man ❤️

teehiggins someone’s been busy…

↳ joeyb_9 and someone has too much time on their hands…

y/n.burrow baby daddy is baby daddy-ing 😩

↳ joeyb_9 relax…

fanpage.one WHAT

fanpage.two SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP

user.five didn’t even know he was married, let alone a father. congrats burrow!

gkittle sending our love to you! congrats dude!

↳ joeyb_9 thanks man, stay healthy this season!

justinherbert congratulations man!

user.four now go win a ring to complete the collection!

~

it’s been a dream for joe to be able to see not only your progress throughout this journey, but his mental progress as well.

you had your baby girl during the off season which you thanked any lord above for. the last thing you wanted as soon as you seen those two pink lines was for joe to be gone, leading to this possibility of him missing the whole labor and delivery process. but he was with you for the last couple weeks of pregnancy and the moment you realized you were in labor.

no emergency calls to anyone while he was out playing on the field, indicating that he needed to put the ball in the backup quarterbacks hands as he flew home as fast as he could. it would have been a race to see who got there first; joe or the baby.

none of that needed to happen though. he was there to line newborn sized diapers into the babies changing table that stood proudly in her nursery. he sat in the living room with you as you watched movies and folded baby clothes, each of you holding up various outfits and saying “i can’t wait for her to wear this!” throughout these last couple weeks, a major revelation was unfolding in joe’s head.

this wasn’t something small you two were preparing for. yeah, baby girl was small weight and height wise. but in the grand scheme of things, she was about to become his whole world; and that took some preparation.

as soon as he heard her first cry, his tears started flowing. as he sat there, holding her skin-to-skin while you took your first nap after many hours of labor, he felt a love he had never felt before. it made his chest tighten and he was unable to explain just how happy he was.

when he helped you load her into her car seat, a little bundle all scrunched up in a big mechanism compared to her size, he realized just how fragile she was. yeah, he was petrified the first time he changed her diaper, but there was something different. this car seat was going to instill her safety while they were in the car; everything needed to be placed and clicked-in correctly.

as you were discharged from the hospital, you were dressed in a black button-down pajama set, joe was wearing his blue seinfeld pants with a white hoodie, and baby girl was wearing a pink, knitted onesie with her name sewn on the front of it. she also wore some white, knitted socks to match.

you were ready to go home as you were sick of the hospital setting. you were excited to be bringing her home, you knew being home was where everyone was meant to be.

jim and robin were there to greet you. it was a bit later in the day and robin knew you were going to be hungry after the events of the last couple days. with that being said, she had dinner ready and set out. she had gotten a text from her son saying that they were getting ready to be discharged from the hospital and would be on their way home soon. as soon as robin got the text, she put all the food in the oven or on the stove to heat up.

she had also placed a small basket of necessities for a new mom on the couch where she knew you would be during parts of your resting period.

joe was quick to shut the car off and circle around the car to help you out. you sat in the back with the new baby. as you grabbed one of his hands, his other hand went to your back to help stabilize you.

“you want to grab her?” you ask.

“yeah, i’ll get her.”

joe had the most practice with the car seat and you were drained, you didn’t feel like fighting with it at that exact moment.

the door was already unlocked when you approached it. as soon as you opened it, the most delicious smell filled the air. joe was right behind you, car seat with baby girl sleeping in it in hand.

“hi, you two!” robin says kind of quietly.

you met robin with a hug.

“i’m so proud of you! you did it!” she says and kisses your forehead. you were the daughter she never had and she was like your second mom; even before you and joe got married. while your parents were states away, she was there to temporarily fill that missing place in your heart and she loved doing so.

joe then steps in and turns the car seat so his parents could take their first looks at the baby.

“oh my gosh, she looks just like you.” robin says as she looks up to her son.

“her features will change and that was a whole topic we discussed in the hospital.” joe says as he looks over at you.

“i was a little sad because she really looks like i had no part in making her but, i’ve come to terms with the fact that her and her father are just perfect so how could i be mad?” you say and robin laughs.

“let’s get you to the couch and we will plate you up some dinner.” jim says as he helps guide you to the living room.

joe walks with you to the living room, setting the car seat on the ottoman that sat in front of you. he reaches in and carefully clicks the button to release the straps that were holding your daughter in. really slowly and extremely careful, he took her out of the car seat and handed her to you.

“feeding time, right?” he asks and you look at your watch.

“right on time.” you smile up at your husband.

“let me run out and get your bags and pillows, i’ll be back.” joe says and jogs back to the car.

“so, how are you feeling?” robin asks as she sits a couple spots down on the couch.

“a bit tired, sore of course. otherwise, i think really good.” you say and she smiles.

“was he a good help for you while you were in labor? i know he isn’t exactly the best in fast and serious situations like that. on the field, yes. otherwise, maybe not.” robin jokes about her son.

“he was great. he was there if i needed water or a hand to squeeze. i couldn’t have asked for a better person to go through this with.” you say and robin smiles.

“what was her weight? she’s so tiny.” jim asks.

“seven pounds, nine ounces and she’s eighteen inches long.” you say as joe comes back into the house.

“she’s a tiny thing, isn’t she?” joe says.

“she’s not even a ten pound weight!” jim says.

once baby girl had eaten, you tested out her swing for the first time while you two ate. you knew that you had a couple minutes between feedings and diaper changes to eat so you took advantage of it.

but the second joe noticed that she was squirming, sticking her tongue out, and slowly blinking her eyes, she was awake and awaiting a change. he wanted her in something warmer now so he let you eat while he took her up to her nursery for the first time to change her.

“here you are baby girl, this is your room.” he whispers to her as he tries his best to show her around. her eyes are trying to take in everything as they slowly open and close. she was making a squeaky, grunting noise as joe talked to her. whether she was making a mess of her diaper or she was just making noises, joe knew she was still the cutest little thing he’d ever seen.

joe lies her down on the changing table and makes sure she is okay on it. he leans down to grab a diaper and a pack of wipes, cracking open a brand new pack.

while taking off her onesie, he is careful of her slowly shriveling umbilical cord.

“you’re going to be cold for a second but i’ll warm you back up as soon as i can, i promise.” joe says as he is focusing on being as careful as possible.

his suspicions on her noises earlier were correct. that’s what happens when you feed a baby though.

eventually, joe cleans her up perfectly and gets her dressed in a pink, long-sleeved onesie that had tiny purple flowers covering it. he grabbed a tiny pair of purple pants to match and he slides them on her. stepping over to a different section on the changing table, he grabs a swaddle and swaddles her.

he admired the work he has officially done all on his own for the first time and smiles.

“all done my little girl.” joe says and picks her up and holds her close to him.

he turns the light off and closes the door behind him. making his way down stairs, his mom was there to check on him.

“everything go okay?” she asks.

“couldn’t have been better.” joe says with a smile.

“she hasn’t cried once since being home.” robin says as she watches her son as he slowly descends the stairs.

“i think we’ve only heard her cry like four times these last couple days.” you say and robin looks in your direction.

“were you an easy baby? this one here cried any chance he got, even if he was just bored.” jim says.

“i’m not too sure. i never heard much of me being trouble but hey, you never know.” you say and he laughs.

“can i hold her?” robin finally asks as joe was now on flat ground and not paranoid of flying down the stairs with a newborn in his arms.

“of course. all i ask is for anyone who holds her, is to wash their hands before they touch her.” you say and robin immediately agrees.

“got it.” robin says and goes to the kitchen to wash her hands.

she was there for a good second, thoroughly washing her hands. behind her stood jim who was also ready to wash his hands.

this was how the next couple days went. lots of handwashing, lots of cuddling, plenty of naps, and tons of help from joe’s parents.

“we did the same when the other grand-babies were born, it’s only right to continue the tradition.” jim says as they were packing up their things to let the new parents enjoy themselves.

reality really hit when baby girl was experiencing her first bout of gas. you and joe came to conclusion that her burping sessions needed to be longer and if that wasn’t helping, then they needed to speak to her pediatrician. they had an appointment coming up soon anyways.

but when joe had pulled a tip from one of the many books he read, they started feeding her at a different angle and thoroughly burping her, then massaging her stomach. the gas worries soon slipped away and she was relaxed any time either one of you did the routine with her.

~

view all 265 comments…

bengals what size does she want her jersey in?

↳ joeyb_9 0-3 months is her go to. she might want it baggy though so maybe 3-6

↳ bengals new baby jerseys on the way 🫡

y/n.burrow baby fingers! 🥲

user.nine is that lyrics from “little bird” 😭

↳user.twelve OMG I THINK IT IS

lahjay_10 i think she should be our team captain the way she screams at certain plays

↳ joeyb_9 you’re right, i’m booking an appointment with the front office right now

~

GIRL TALK!

>>> With this being his first born, Joe Burrow, Quarterback for the Cincinnati Bengals, was even more excited to welcome in the new family member once him and his wife found out they were having a little girl.

Burrow’s wife, Y/N Burrow, was the first one to announce the news through an Instagram post of the two holding up a miniature version of her husbands jersey. She captioned the post, ‘The Cincinnati Bengals select… Baby Girl Burrow, due in 2026, Newborn University.”

We sat down with Burrow himself to ask him some adorable questions about their new addition!

Q: What is your favorite memory from the last few weeks?

A: “Probably bringing her home. It made the whole journey feel real. The feeling of having her home is very special and the joy between all three of us is immense.”

Q: How has the team adapted to you bringing on a new member?

A: “They all love her and I am so thankful that she has the chance to experience such a unique type of love from them. She is definitely a key to our motivation and a special type of thanks to those who find her screaming cute- she’s definitely a talkative baby.”

Q: Would you want her playing sports like you did growing up? If so, which sport would best suit her?

A: “Maybe. Only if she wants to. I think the social aspect would be good for her as it is for anyone else. I see her playing some basketball. if she picks up my height and her mom’s precision, we might just have a star on our hands. even if she doesn’t play any sports, she’s still a star in our eyes.”

Q: Lastly, if you were in need of a babysitter so you and your wife could go baby-free for the night, who would you call first?

A: “Probably Ja’Marr. He has that instinct and experience. If he’s busy or even going out with us, then probably Mike or Trey. If we need to, I’d call Tee and they can “Three Men and a Baby” it for the night.”

i feel like joe would be way more self kept when it comes to big things like having a baby so this is way out of the norm lol. i still thought the idea was cute and if you want a part two for the readers version, just let me know :)

[mountainsandmayhem]

BDSMaid - Chapter 1

Masterlist || AO3

Pairing: Millionaire Joel Miller x Female Reader Rating: 18+ Chapter Summary: To save money for law school, you accept a job at Maid Discretely; a high end, anonymous cleaning service. You aren’t supposed to know whose home you’re cleaning, but your curiosity is peaked by your first client, and when the two of you have a shocking and surprising run in, more than just your curiosity peaks.  CW: Author chooses not to use warnings in this chapter in order to avoid spoilers. While I never want to trigger anyone, you are solely responsible for the content you consume. AN: Oh boy, here we go! I'm in a straight PANIC getting ready to post this. I hope it meets all your expectations, I was not at all expecting that reaction to the teaser post. Love you all and thank you for all your support. Please share or comment, I have a praise kink LOL. Follow @mountainsandmayhem-updates and turn on notifications for future chapters. Dividers and support banners by @saradika-graphics. Thank you @mermaidgirl30, @littlevenicebitch69, @joelmillerisapunk and @burntheedges for being my little cheerleaders over this, ily!! Chapter Word Count: 4.4k

You stare down at the very intimidating legal document you have clasped in your clammy hands. There are so many big legal sounding words that seem to be mocking you with their importance. Somehow there are clauses that have sub clauses that are then further broken down into sub-subclauses. It feels heavy to be handed this on a Monday morning. Truthfully, this doesn’t seem like something a soon-to-be twenty-one year old woman who literally just graduated college, albeit a semester early, should be allowed to sign without parents and a lawyer present. 

This is just supposed to be a simple job working part time as a maid for your best friend's family’s cleaning company. A job where she promised easy money and part time hours that you set for yourself. The perfect opportunity for you to be able to save money AND set aside lots of study time for your upcoming LSAT rewrite. You passed it a few months ago and applied to a bunch of law schools, but you aren’t going to waste these next few months waiting around. You know how competitive law schools can be, so you’re preparing to be better just in case you don’t get in.

Your eyes scan words that your brain can’t seem to comprehend. The internal panic starts to bubble in your chest, someone who has law aspirations should know what these words mean.

This is just supposed to be easy. Cleaning. Vacuuming. Washing floors. Simple things. 

But now, as you sit in this shiny, fancy downtown office building looking at your full legal name typed beside a bunch of ‘initial here’ and ‘sign here’ lines on a nondisclosure agreement you’re starting to feel like this is anything but simple. 

“Our clientele is VERY exclusive,” your childhood best friend Jamie says. She looks very professional and grown up sitting behind her glass desk. Her long, toned legs are crossed, the slit along the side of her crisp, white pencil skirt showing off her tanned upper thigh. She’s paired her white skirt with a baby pink silky blouse that's perfectly tucked into the high waist of the skirt. Her long, dark silky hair is twisted into a jeweled claw clip. Even though you’re the same age she has an air of sophistication and grace, even with winged eyeliner, a matte pink lip, and a slender rose gold septum ring that sits tight to her little button nose. She almost screams old Hollywood in the middle of Austin, Texas. 

She continues, “You won’t know the names of the clients and they will never be home. If they do come home, leave immediately, and try your best not to be seen or heard. Then you can fill out in the company app what you did and didn’t manage to get done.” 

You put the paper down on her perfect desk so she can’t see your hands shaking. How can you work at that desk all day and not get a single fingerprint or smudge on it? There’s a very good chance that I am not cut out for this. This is fancy. And expensive. I’m neither of those things. 

“What am I gonna be walking in on at these houses, Jamie?” You ask, swallowing the fiberglass that’s suddenly prickling at your throat. 

Jamie shakes her head and laughs, saying your name through her melodic giggles. “Most likely nothing. We’ve never had an encounter or run in with a client. They pick times for cleaners to come when they aren’t home.” She leans back in her high backed chair and continues, “But the clients are big deals. Politicians. Judges. Athletes. The odd celebrity. They don’t want anyone in their home that will snoop or snap pictures. Hence the NDA.” 

“Well, why didn’t you start with that!” You laugh. “Jesus, I thought I’d be walking into like a virginal sacrifice or some shit!” 

“Well, there was that one time…” Your face drops and she immediately starts laughing again. “I’m kidding. Relax. Look, you’ll probably get three homes a week, each house will take six to eight hours. The hourly pay is twenty dollars plus whatever tip they’ll leave you in these black envelopes.” 

She puts a perfectly polished finger on a stack of black envelopes with a red ‘Maid Discretely’ logo on it and continues, “In my experience, the tips are around five hundred, completely tax free. This is a good gig! You’ll be in law school becoming smarter than all of us in no time. Fuck, you’ll be writing insane contracts like those before we know it.” 

She stands, one hand resting on the desk while the other slides the paper towards you with a closed pen. She drops the writing apparatus on top of it, the metal casing of the pen clanging loudly on her glass desk. You let out an exasperated sigh, dramatically clicking the pen before signing the NDA. Jamie claps her hands excitedly then snatches the contract away before you can rip it up and says, “Let’s get your uniform and supplies!”

She hands you a few fitted white polo style t-shirts, black dress pants, white Keds (that she scolds are for inside the houses only), a caddy full of high end cleaning supplies, a top of the line Dyson vacuum and everything else you’ll need.

She ends your meeting with instructions on how the company's scheduling and tracking app works. "Essentially, you set the days and times you’re available and it will populate for you. You’ll have addresses, dates and times, as well as tasks to be done, all nicely laid out for you. If a client likes you, they can request you for additional shifts, but for continuity purposes you should get the same couple houses that you’ll rotate through throughout the month."

You nod along, mostly surprised to hear the girl who did a keg stand just a few days ago sound so professional, using words like 'continuity purposes'.

The next day you have your first official shift. Tuesday from nine to three and you’re scheduled at a mansion in a neighborhood you’ve never heard of and you most definitely wouldn’t fit in to. Jamie is already waiting there for you when you pull up. She explained yesterday that she’d help you with the first one and then you are on your own after that. Well, not completely alone. Your iPhone is loaded full of smutty audio books, murder podcasts, and law books to listen to as you clean. 

Jamie was right, you think to yourself as you scroll to the latest romance novel you’ve downloaded and grab your AirPods, this is a good gig.

The house is absolutely massive, and you highly doubt you’ll be done in six hours. You gather all your stuff and head up to the house. Jamie shows you where the company supplied key box is and how to open it from the app. As you grab the key Jamie excitedly says, “This used to be my client. He always leaves a huge tip!”

You unlock the large front glass door and enter into a white marble foyer. The windows on the first floor are easily ten feet tall and allow in so much natural light. Gold and obsidian swirls in the marble reflect along the walls, dancing in the sunlight. To the left of the front door is a large open kitchen that might be bigger than your entire apartment. The marble of the expansive countertop is the same colour as the foyer. All the cabinetry is matte black with brushed gold handles. The kitchen opens into a lavish living room, a massive fireplace and TV sits on the far back left wall, encompassed by a very cozy looking white sectional. 

To the right of the front door, starting furthest away from where you stand in awe, is a door to a huge half bathroom, followed by a long table with a bowl for keys and mail, and then the door that leads to the garage. About fifty feet in front of you is a grand staircase that branches out to the left and right. Beyond the staircase you can see into the backyard. This is by far the nicest house you’ve ever been in.

As both you and Jamie slip into your keds she says, “Upstairs to the left are a few bedrooms and the office. I usually started there and then went to the right side where he has a huge entertainment area. Then I would clean down here since he doesn’t cook very often and it’s usually just a quick wipe down.”

Just as you start to panic over how you’re supposed to remember all this she nudges you and adds, “But that’s all in the app for you, most of the clients are very particular so they’ll lay out exactly what order you should be cleaning in, as well as any other extra things they need done.” 

She helps you carry all your stuff upstairs and then watches you work. Sure enough, the app says to start in the office so you do just that. Careful not to disturb the few piles of paperwork you dust the desk and shelves and then wipe down the windows and computer screen. You vacuum the hardwood and plush rug last and after Jamie gives you an approving nod, you move onto the next room.

You continue like that, going from room to room, your friend, and now boss, occasionally giving feedback or leaving to answer a phone call or respond to an email. The job is easy enough; repeating the same steps in each room over and over again. It’s the exact type of work you exceed at. You enjoy having clear sets of instructions and expectations, and a prioritized list where you can start at the top and work down. You’ve always excelled at following meticulous directions in school. Your life maybe not so much. When it comes to dating or your parents you aren’t one to do what you’re told.

When one o’clock rolls around you just have one bathroom upstairs and the already pristine downstairs to tend to, but Jamie coaxes you into taking your break, which is another thing you’re bad at. You were raised not to take breaks, taking a break or doing nothing means you're lazy. You should be working all the time, and pushing yourself to accomplish things. As a child you’d push and push yourself to be the best, honor roll ceremonies were the only time your dad would show up. He’d smile and brag about you to whoever was around.

“It’s important that you take all your supplies to your car with you when you eat your lunch. Never eat in their homes and never park on their driveways.” You nod and hoist all your stuff to the front step. “Make sure you lock up like you’re leaving too.” 

“How am I doing so far?” You ask as you lock the door, your stomach growling loudly as if it needs to prove to her how hard you’re working. You hadn’t realized how much of an appetite you’d gain just from cleaning. The few stale crackers and small can of tuna you managed to find in your cupboard this morning doesn’t seem like it’s going to be enough. 

“Really well! I actually think I might leave you to finish up. Don’t forget to take whatever he left for you out of the black envelope on the kitchen counter.” She doesn’t look up at you, her fingers tapping out an email on her shiny iphone screen. She doesn’t have her phone in a case and you can only imagine the level of self confidence you have to have to carry around an expensive item unprotected like that.

“Is it weird that there’s no pictures or anything of the family that lives here?” You say curiously as you both walk towards your parked vehicles. 

“No,” she says flatly. “I think it’s just one person here and that’s pretty normal for the houses you’ll be cleaning. Lots of them are rarely home or only home to sleep.” 

You gawk at the massive house from across the street as you throw all your supplies in the back of your used and rusted SUV. One person lives here. Alone. How is this possible? He’s clearly doing well for himself. Either he’s really lonely or a complete asshole. 

After you eat, you head back inside to finish up cleaning. The entire house looks like a show home. Not a single thing out of place. The kitchen seems staged, void of life aside from a tiny droplet of coffee on the countertop beside the Italian coffee maker, and a tiny brown stegosaurus toy that sits on top of it. Two minutes before the end of your shift you do a final sweep to make sure you haven’t left anything behind and then slip open the black envelope. Inside you find seven one hundred dollars and a note that just says ‘TY - JM’.

As you log your day in the company app you can’t believe you just made seven hundred freaking dollars to clean up after a man who makes no messes. You excitedly check your upcoming schedule and it looks like you’ll be back here in two more weeks. You could potentially be getting fourteen hundred dollars a month from this elusive “JM”. A man with no pictures or personal touches in his shiny white, black and gold mansion.

It’s been almost two weeks since your first clean at JM’s house. Your other clients were good tippers, usually between four to five hundred, but you’ve been looking forward to going back. You know you’re not supposed to know who the clients are, but you couldn’t help but google JM to try to figure out who he is and how he has so much money. In hindsight, you guess all your clients have money, but something about him has alerted your curiosity. He seems like smoke, or a ghost, in his own home. Your other clients had some sort of semblance of life in their houses. A dent in the pillow. An open newspaper on the kitchen table. A coffee cup dropped in the sink before they headed off to whatever fancy job they have to afford such a massive house. A toilet seat left up or a smudge of toothpaste on the mirror. 

But not JM. 

No, the only thing JM left was a tiny droplet of coffee. Coffee that was probably imported straight from Italy. You’re almost ashamed of the amount of times you’ve wondered about that stegosaurus toy. It seems so out of place in his house of clean lines and sterility. 

You’re just settling in to enjoy a Sunday night of sushi, rosé and Bridgerton with your roommate when your phone bings, a little red notification bubble popping up on the Maid Discretely app. You have an added shift request for JM tomorrow. Instead of one six hour shift on Tuesday you now have two six hour shifts. You accept the request and scroll through the tasks. He’s requested you to wipe the baseboards and lightswitches on the main floor, a deep scrub of every bathroom, as well as doing the inside of the fridge, stove and microwave. There are also instructions for washing the sheets in the main bedroom, and spraying down the patio furniture around the pool.

Only a millionaire in Texas would ask for his pool furniture to be cleaned in February. 

Shortly after you accept the shift you get a text from Jamie:

Saw you accepted the shift. The client asked for the normal clean on the first day, please. Extras the next day. Thanks.

The following morning you head to the large, bright mansion. Parking across the street and hauling all your stuff in. It feels a bit weird to be here on a Monday and you have a feeling you’ll be reminding yourself all day that it is indeed Monday and not Tuesday.

You get all your stuff together, change into your indoor company issued keds and head up the stairs. The pink and orange hues of the sunrise glitters off the white marble tiles, glints of gold and sparkling black reflecting off of it. You take a second to look down from the landing as you pop in your airpods. It really is a beautiful home, and it’s too bad that whoever lives here is either lonely or an asshole, but for a split second you let yourself pretend that you and JM just finished making love and he’s now in the kitchen making you an espresso or a latte with that insanely fancy coffee machine in the kitchen. You shake your head at yourself. You didn’t find anything when googling, which isn’t surprising since two letters aren’t much to go on, but this house seems to draw you in, like it’s calling to you. It’s strange, it’s almost like you have a crush on this house and you couldn’t help but make a whole persona for whoever lives here. Even with its clean lines and lack of life, something about it settles in your gut, it feels like home. 

You scroll your podcast app trying to pick what episode you want to listen to and head down the hall, you can’t seem to decide so you pocket your phone without starting anything and reach for the matte black handle of the office door. You’re expecting to see JM’s tidy office with a few stacks of paperwork in one corner, but the sight you find before you has all the blood rush from your head and your stomach dropping right out of your body. Your jaw drops and you freeze in utter shock and fear.  

Instead of the usual stacks of paper, there’s an icy blond haired woman tied to the desk. She’s completely naked and on her back with her legs spread wide. Her ankles are tied to the legs of the desk with a scratchy looking rope, her wrists wrapped in matching rope and resting above her head. Her nipples are almost purple underneath the clothespin attached to them. You freeze, just the lewd wet noises of her pussy being worked furiously by the mysterious, fully clothed JM. His deep, commanding, gravel filled voice reverberates through the office. “Little fuckin' slut. Gonna split you in two.”

The woman lets out an unashamed cry of pleasure. Your entire body seems to go numb as your caddy falls from your hand, crashing loudly against the hardwood flooring. His head whips to the side, the icy blonde woman letting out a scream and trying to cover herself up. Your hands cover your mouth and even though you can’t feel your legs you spin and run for the stairs.

“Fuck. Fuck. Wait,” JM calls after you.

One of your AirPods falls from your ear as you run, you’re tempted to stop and grab it but you need to get out of here. Jamie’s voice echoes through your skull, ‘try your hardest not to be seen or heard’. 

He catches up to you as you reach the front entryway, his strong hand pushing the door closed. You can feel the heat of his body against your back. You’re shaking - both from being terrified and embarrassed. You have so many thoughts running through your mind. This will get you fired, or worse, you could have just possibly lost the company a client. Fuck. You aren’t supposed to know who lives here and you certainly aren’t supposed to see them doing that. 

“Please wait,” he says softly behind you and the heat of his broad body sends a chill down your spine.

The blood is rushing through your ears as your heart pounds in your throat. You don’t like confrontation and even with the softness in his voice, you’re sure he’s about to scream at you. You feel sick, and when you replay the words he said to the woman upstairs, and the sound of her moan that made you drop your caddy you start to feel dizzy and nervous.

Your hand falls from the handle of the front door and the brick wall of a man behind you steps back. You spin slowly to face him but keep your eyes on the floor. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, linking your fingers in front of you and focusing all your attention on the cuticle of your right thumb.

“No, please. This is my fault.” You trail your eyes from the floor to him. He's in perfectly pressed black dress pants paired with a white dress shirt. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms and he’s holding his hands up in front of himself as if to show you he isn’t armed or as a way to say 'you’re safe here'. 

You flick your eyes up to his face and he’s looking at you softly, the morning sunrise lighting up his tanned face and salt and pepper hair. JM is probably twice your age, but he is incredibly handsome. 

“I am so sorry. I must’a got my days mixed up when I booked you.” He says, a soft southern accent sneaking out. 

“I’m going to get fired,” you respond shakily.

“No,” he says stepping forward, you subsequently take a step back, pressing your body against the glass front door. Something about this man makes you nervous, but not in the same way women are trained to be nervous of strange men that are almost twice their size. “No. This is my fault. Please, let me explain. I jus’ gotta - well, can I go deal with…” his head cocks towards the stairs, “And then let me explain. Please?” 

You look at him, his handsome face all soft and apologetic. His dark brown and amber eyes dance around your face and without realizing you're even doing it, you nod your head. 

“Thank you,” he drops his hands at his side, visibly relaxing at your decision not to run. “Sit at the island for me. I’ll be back.” 

He watches you as you pad over to the island. The tall bar chair squeaks on the tile floor as you pull it out. He peels his eyes from you and heads upstairs. When you sit you have to stop from moaning out, the pressure of your body weight there sends a wave of rolling pleasure through you.

What the fuck? 

It’s a dull, throbbing ache followed by a small gush of thick wetness. Did you mistake a feeling of arousal for dizziness and nervousness upstairs? Were you turned on by what you just witnessed? 

Certainly not. There’s no way! He was, well, he wasn’t being nice to that woman. 

Soon you hear footsteps coming down the stairs and towards the foyer, his body blocks her from your view as they talk at the front door. They speak in hushed voices, all you’re able to make out is her saying thank you followed by the sound of a soft kiss and then she’s gone. 

She thanked him? It seems like he should be thanking her. 

He wanders into the kitchen and your throat goes impossibly dry. As if he can read your every need, he grabs a glass from the cabinet, puts it under the water dispenser on his fridge door and then slides the glass across the large island to you. You have to lift off the chair to reach it, whispering a thank you before taking a sip. 

JM leans against the countertop beside the fridge and watches you take a long drink. You put the glass down with a quiet clink and then fold your hands in your lap. His eye contact is intense, not in a creepy way, it’s almost like he’s assessing you. You find it hard to look at him so you avert your gaze to the glass. 

He clears his throat gently before he starts. “I jus’ want to say how sorry I am. You didn’t consent to seein’ any of that and I can’t imagine how awful that was for you.” His voice is so calm and soft. 

You flick your eyes up to him, “No, this is my fault. I am not suppose-“

JM shakes his head and holds up one hand, signaling you to stop. “No. This was me. I got my days mixed up. Meant to book ya for next week. This ain’t on you. This was my mistake. If it’s ok for me to ask, what’s your name?” 

You mumble your name into your glass and down the rest of your water. You figure you’re probably fired either way so who cares if he knows who you are. His face ticks up slightly, almost like he’s proud of you for drinking, and says your name back to you. 

“I ain’t gonna say anythin’ to your boss and I understand if you want to leave for the day. I’ll pay ya either way. I also understand if you say somethin’ to them and I can’t be a client anymore. It was unacceptable for me to be doin’ that when you’re supposed to be here. There ain’t any other way to word it. I was inappropriate and wrong.” He steps forward and holds his hand out so you slide the glass across to him. 

He refills it and puts it back for you to grab. “No,” you say, your voice cracking. After clearing your throat you continue, “No, I appreciate your apology but I’m not going to say anything.” 

He watches you again as you drain the glass, the same look of pride flashes across his eyes, “I’ll - umm - I’ll be in my office. You can uh,” he runs a hand through his scruff, “You just do whatever you need. I’ll stay outta your way.” 

He disappears before you can say anything else. You head up the stairs after a few minutes to find your cleaning caddy sitting in the hall with everything placed neatly where it belongs. His office door is closed and you can hear the deep rumble of his voice while he’s on a call. You grab your things, head into the master bedroom and begin cleaning. 

A few hours later while you’re sitting in your car eating lunch, the garage door opens and JM goes whipping past you in the sexiest blacked out sports car you’ve ever seen. He doesn’t even look over you as he speeds by. Your heart sinks, it's unexplainable but being in that house with him there, even after what you witnessed, felt more comfortable than being alone. JM must have some sort of magic touch, how you went from nervous and embarrassed to calm and comforted with just the look on his face and few words is beyond you.

After wiping down the kitchen you are all done for the day. You grab the black and red envelope off the kitchen counter and open it, peering in nervously. There’s a piece of matte black paper on top. You slide it out gently, the paper feels expensive between your fingers. As you unfold it you reveal a shiny black JMK logo at the top. In neat gold lettering is his writing.

‘Please know how sorry I am. Your consent is more important than anything. I broke that. Just hope I didn't break your trust. -Joel Miller.’

At the bottom of the envelope are ten crisp one hundred dollar bills. 

Next Chapter

[skyguytoast]

𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐚𝐲𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧’𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞...

warning: some of the headcanons are +18 and explicit

a/n: hii, i really should finish my college essay, but this idea popped into my head and i couldn't help but write... it got a little poetic in some parts, but i hope you enjoy it ;)

• At first, Hayden fought his feelings for you tooth and nail. He was a man of strong morals, someone who always prided himself on doing the right thing. Falling for someone significantly younger than him? That wasn't part of the plan. But then you appeared—carefree, confident, and completely unlike anyone he’d ever met before. You turned his world upside down, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stay away.

• There was no way Hayden was going to make the first move. He convinced himself over and over that what he felt was nothing more than admiration, curiosity at best. But you? You saw right through him. When you asked him out, he tried to laugh it off, say something about just being friends, but he couldn’t resist you. The first few times, it really was just friendly meetups—until one day, it wasn’t.

• When Hayden finally asked you to be his girlfriend, he did it in the most ridiculously romantic way. He had spent weeks planting your favorite flowers in a small garden, waking up early to tend to them himself, getting dirt under his nails, just to make sure they bloomed perfectly. When the moment came, he took your hand and walked you through the rows of blossoms, his voice quiet but sure as he finally admitted, "I don’t want to pretend anymore. I love you."

• He was always building things for you. A bookshelf when he noticed your books piling up, a handmade chair just because he wanted you to have something crafted with his hands. He’d spent hours sanding and staining the wood, never once complaining because he knew how much it would mean to you. Seeing your face light up when you saw what he made? That was his favorite part.

• Late at night, when the world quieted down, Hayden loved nothing more than wrapping his arms around you from behind. Standing out on the balcony, watching the stars, he’d rest his chin on your head and murmur, "You know you’ve completely ruined me, right?" And yet, he wouldn’t change a thing.

• Forget fancy Hollywood outings—Hayden preferred the simple moments. Trips to the farmers’ market where he’d pick out fresh fruit for you, afternoons spent browsing old bookstores, lazy beach days where he’d carry you over the hot sand so you wouldn’t burn your feet. Life was slower, sweeter, and infinitely better with you by his side.

• Bringing you into his world meant bringing you into his daughter’s world too. Blair adored you from the start, and before long, the three of you became inseparable. Family outings to the park, movie nights with popcorn fights, and trips to Disney where Blair would completely ignore Darth Vader because meeting Princess Aurora was way more important.

• At your insistence, Hayden finally made an Instagram. It was supposed to be just for checking out Star Wars fan pages and keeping up with you, but somehow, it turned into something else. His entire feed was filled with you—candid shots he took when you weren’t looking, blurry pictures of your smile, videos of you laughing until you cried. It was less of an Instagram account and more of a personal love letter.

• Hayden was endlessly patient when it came to the public scrutiny. He knew people had opinions—about the age gap, about him dating someone so much younger—but he didn’t care. Every time a snide comment surfaced online, he’d just look at you, smile, and say, "Let them talk. I know what we have."

• And when the world got too loud, he always had a way of making you feel safe. Whether it was holding your hand under the table during interviews, pulling you into a slow dance in the kitchen just to see you smile, or whispering against your skin at night, "I love you, and I’m not going anywhere." Because at the end of the day, you were his peace, and he was yours.

+𝟏𝟖 (𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒)

• Hayden transformed each intimate encounter into a loving tribute, a sacred ritual dedicated solely to you. It was never merely about physical pleasure, but an act of deep devotion and adoration. As he explored your body with tender, reverent hands, he marveled at your beauty, murmuring awestruck words of love and gratitude. Each discovery, from the curve of your hip to the way your skin flushed beneath his touch, filled him with wonder and humility. Hayden knew he was the luckiest man alive to call you his.

• You had the power to make Hayden feel invincible, like a king surveying his kingdom as you took him into the warm, silken depths of your mouth. Your lips and tongue worshipped him with an enthusiasm and affection that set his very soul ablaze. You made his cock jump and throb with renewed vigor, painting him harder than anything. Hayden was no longer a resilient youth, but his desire for you was timeless and unyielding, a force of nature. With every swirl of your tongue and bob of your head, you made him feel like the only man in existence, the center of your universe.

• As your shared climax approached, Hayden's forehead pressed against yours, your breaths mingling, your hearts pounding as one. In the charged silence between gasps and sighs, a thousand unspoken words passed between you - a telepathic dance of love, lust, and ecstasy. Pleasure built upon pleasure, cresting in a tidal wave that crashed over you, binding you in its foaming embrace. In those blissful, electrifying moments, you were not two separate beings, but a single, wonderful sensation.

• Hayden's head lolled back, eyes squeezing shut as your lips enveloped his sensitive flesh, your warm mouth a heavenly cocoon. The feeling of your tongue, your breath, your worshipful suckling - it set his blood alight, making his heart carwheel wildly in his chest. A symphony of masculine cries, low and guttural, filled the air as Hayden surrendered himself to your oral attentions. His fingers tangled almost desperately in your hair, anchoring himself to this earth as you pushed him towards the heavens. Moans and whimpers tumbled from his lips, a fervent, instinctive plea for you to keep going, to never stop, his body trembling with the intensity of his pleasure. The sound of your name fell from his lips like a prayer, a benediction, a desperate entreaty. In that moment, you were his religion, his reason for worship, his everything.

• Though the years had begun to etch their subtle lines upon Hayden's handsome face and his body no longer sprang back to rigid attention as readily as in his youth, his desire for you remained undiminished, a relentless force that laid siege to your senses. He may not match your youthful vigor in speed, but he more than made up for it in skill and ardent devotion. Hayden's tongue, a masterful instrument honed by years, could bring you to the brink of rapture with a single, languid caress. He took his time, savoring every flush, every fold, his lips painting a roadmap of pleasure upon your silken flesh. He feasted on your pussy as if it were the nectar of the gods, his blue eyes flickering up to drink in the sight of your abandon, your back arched, your fingers fisted in his blonde hair. He reveled in the taste, the scent, the very essence of your arousal, losing himself in the act of loving you, of worshipping you with every skillful sweep of his tongue. Slow and steady, he stoked the flames of your desire, his own lust burning hotter with each throaty moan he drew from your lips. Age had not cooled Hayden's passion, but only refined his technique, honing him into a connoisseur of your every fleeting taste and texture. He was a maestro at the podium, orchestrating your pleasure with the singular obsession of a man who knew he was playing for an audience of one - you. And as he pleasured you, he made it his personal mission to grow hard again, to rise to the occasion until he filled you once more, his body a testament to his bottomless, enduring love.

[fluentmoviequoter]

The Better, Hidden Half

Requested Here!

Part 2 Here >

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!wife!reader (takes place in The Rookie 1x20-2x1)

Summary: Tim doesn't tell just anyone that he's married. When he's quarantined and his life is threatened by a fatal virus, he asks Lucy to call you, and ends up showing everyone what you mean to him.

Warnings: angst, fluffy comfort at the end, spoilers for episodes 1x20 and 2x1 (this is basically a rewrite, but still includes a brief reference to the suicide line from Tim). reader stress cleans?

A/N: The anxiety/stress cleaning bit is completely self-indulgent; sorry. I tried to manipulate Tim's conversations with Lucy to make them sound more platonic (I don't know if it worked though). I absolutely love this idea and had a ton of fun writing it!🤍

Word Count: 3.9k+ words

Tim Bradford is a man of few words, and he keeps his life separated into two distinct areas: work life and personal life. He tried to bring the two together once, but hated the constant worry that someone from his work life would threaten to hurt people in his personal life or worse, act on their threats. For that reason, for his family’s safety, Tim keeps his life separated, and only a choice few have been chosen to be trusted with a glimpse of both sides of Tim. Angela, Wade, and on occasion, Bishop, see a side of Tim that doesn't exist when he's at work.

✯✯✯✯✯

“How is she?” Angela asks, sitting beside Tim for roll call.

Tim rolls his eyes, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. “I trained her, I’m sure she did fine. Better than your golden boy boot, anyway.”

Angela smiles and leans in to whisper, “Didn’t mean Chen.” She turns her attention to Jackson, calling, “80 might be the passing grade, boot, but if you don’t get at least a 90, you should turn in your badge on general principle.”

Tim leans forward to add, “Officer Chen, I will take it as a personal insult if you get anything less than a 93.”

“Yes, sir,” Lucy answers. “Have you figured out what you’re going to do with all your new free time? Might I suggest a book club?”

Angela elbows Tim under the table, and he glances at her quickly, giving her a displeased stare which only makes her work harder to hide her smile.

“What are you talking about?” Tim asks.

“You know, after I pass, there won’t be any more daily evaluations to write.”

“Whether I evaluate you daily or weekly, I will continue to judge you every minute. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

As Grey enters, Lucy turns to Nolan, who whispers, “I can’t believe he’s single.”

“Tell me about it,” Lucy replies, rolling her eyes. “Evaluating a wife daily would cut into his ‘man of honor’ time.”

They silence as Wade directs the TOs to only take easy calls while the rookies finish their last shift before their exams. When Tim assures that he follows direct orders, he keeps his eyes straight ahead, knowing that Angela and Bishop are ready to tease him the moment he looks in their direction.

✯✯✯✯✯

7-Adam-19, silent hold-up alarm activated at Madame Megan’s psychic shop. 2417 Vine. Code 3.

Tim and Lucy enter the back room, taking control of the situation quickly, and he dials in once again to being a cop. Not a family man or anything of the sort. Just a police officer.

As Lucy walks out, and the (fake) psychic hits on Tim, he can only think of one thing. Excusing himself from the room, with a lack of grace that is unlike him, Tim lets his mind wander for just a moment. He thinks of a promise he made, a vow he took, and then his focus is back on his new case, a missing person discovered by a phony Hollywood psychic.

✯✯✯✯✯

Miles away, you are trying to focus on work, though you find it much harder than Tim to simply push your family and your personal life from your mind at a moment’s notice. Fiddling with your necklace, you refrain from grabbing your phone, wanting to text the only person on your mind. Oblivious to the dangers Tim is learning about from the CDC and Homeland Security, you sigh and clench your hands into fists before attempting to focus again.

Before you make any progress on starting the project awaiting your attention, your phone rings. Tim’s name appears on your screen, and you rush to answer, dread filling you. He never calls while he’s working, and you immediately expect the worst. Surely if it were something terrible, Angela or Wade would call you. If Tim is calling, that means he is okay, he is alive.

“Hello?” you ask, releasing a sigh when Tim says your name.

“Are you alone?” he adds, his voice strained.

“Yes. What’s going on?”

“I need you to stay where you are or go straight home. There’s a terror cell with a biological weapon; we’re doing everything we can to find them, but I need to know you’re safe.”

“Tim- yeah, of course. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I- I really can’t say anything else. Not about what we’re doing. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all, okay?”

“I will. Be careful, Tim. I love you.”

“I love you.”

Your phone beeps as the call ends, and your hand finds your necklace again, one finger slipping into Tim’s wedding ring. He leaves it with you each morning, taking it back with gentle touches and loving kisses when he returns each night. Today, all you can do is trust that he is good at his job and that he will protect you and the rest of LA, and then come back to you.

✯✯✯✯✯

Tim and Lucy approach one of the possible addresses in the search for newly discovered members of the terror cell.

“Man. And here I thought that test was gonna be the hardest part of my day,” Lucy muses.

“Best case scenario, it’s tomorrow’s problem,” Tim points out. His thoughts, however, are stuck on you, especially when Lucy asks what the worst case is.

“Took you long enough,” the man, Peter Langston, says as he opens the door. “Bag’s in here.”

“Sir, we’re here about the bus you took from Phoenix,” Tim explains.

“No kidding. I called you about the bag.”

“And what bag is that?”

“I thought it was mine on the bus. I picked it up by accident.” Tim follows Langston into a bedroom as he continues, “Noticed as soon as I got home. Called right away. Still took you guys like six hours to get here.”

“Uh, sir, we’re not here about a bag.”

“So, you don’t have mine? My computer’s in there… I went through this one for an address, and all I found was some weird science equipment.”

Tim glances back at Lucy, who calls for the task force at the mention of ‘weird science equipment.’

“Sir, did you touch anything in there?” Tim asks, pulling gloves on.

“Yeah, I cut my finger going through it looking for an address. Some kind of broken vial.”

Tim’s eyes widen and his breath catches as the man raises his bloodied finger, adding that it hasn’t stopped bleeding since it was cut. Hemorrhaging, Tim knows.

“Everything okay in there?” Lucy calls.

“Yeah. Just stay out there,” Tim demands.

The man coughs, and Tim flinches as blood lands on his neck and up onto his jaw. Looking down at the blood on the man’s shirt, Tim’s mind forgets the divide between work and personal life. He takes the initiative to lock Lucy out, slamming the door on her to keep her safe, but his true concern is you. If something happens to him, who will look out for you? Who will be your shoulder to cry on? In a moment, as the reality of the situation dawns on him, Tim thinks like a husband, and he begins to regret keeping you, his wife, hidden for so long.

“Tim, no!” Lucy yells, but she steps forward too late.

Tim is on the other side of the door, a new division created as others are dissolved.

✯✯✯✯✯

Tim finds baby wipes on a nearby changing table, wiping the blood from his skin as he lies to Langston, telling him it will be okay and distracting him with meaningless treatments to combat the “bad case of the flu the police were warned about this morning at roll call.”

Langston disappears into the bathroom in search of cold medicine, and Tim walks to the door to ask Lucy, “Everything all right out there, Chen?”

“Uh, yeah. The CDC’s on their way,” she responds. “Hey, you need to come out of there.”

“That’s not gonna happen. Got to keep this contained.”

“Tim-“

“It’s gonna be alright, boot.”

Tim knows that Lucy is concerned about him, and he is similarly concerned for her. He feels responsible for her safety as his rookie, but his thoughts toward her are completely and totally different from his fears concerning you, driven by love rather than mutual respect and duty.

“You keep your head in the game, okay?” Tim encourages Lucy. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”

As Tim looks at the blood-covered wipe in his hand, he thinks of you, and how you’ll respond to the potential notification that he didn’t make it, taken from you by the very thing he tried to protect you from. He turns his attention back to the sick man feet away from him before his thoughts spiral. Tim needs you, so he needs to focus and survive.

✯✯✯✯✯

While the CDC is arriving at the house and quarantining Tim and the infected man, you are pacing in your shared bedroom. Memories of you and Tim exist in every inch of this house, and every moment that goes by without an update increases your worry. Walking into the closet, you find one of Tim’s recently worn shirts, changing into it before picking up the remote to distract yourself. With Tim’s pillow clutched to your chest, you try to laugh at the ridiculous sitcom on the screen, but it doesn’t work as well as you hoped.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Officer Chen, you want to tell me what happened?” Dr. Morgan asks, dressed in full hazmat gear as she enters.

“Yeah, uh, the bus passenger mistakenly grabbed the wrong bag, and the virus must have been in it because he coughed up blood on Tim,” Lucy explains.

“Did you get any blood on you?”

“Uh, no. I was out here. Tim immediately closed the door.”

“Smart man.”

Tim hears Dr. Morgan’s comment and clenches his jaw, knowing you would disagree entirely. At least in this case.

“Hey, doc,” Tim greets, standing against the door.

“How you doing?” Dr. Morgan inquires.

“Fine. But Mr. Langston’s struggling a little.”

“Can you describe his condition?”

“Yeah. He, uh, started coughing blood about 20 minutes ago. Now he’s got a pretty wicked nosebleed.”

“Why aren’t they coming in? Where’s my ambulance?” Langston asks.

“It’ll be here any minute. Just… stay put. Save your energy.”

Lucy interrupts to ask, “Where’s the vaccine?”

“Still in the air,” Dr. Morgan says. “Should land in the next hour or so.”

Scoffing, Lucy argues, “You can’t make Tim wait in there. He might not be infected.”

“Sorry. Quarantine rules exist for a reason.” Dr. Morgan turns to the door and asks Tim, “Officer Bradford, do you mind if I put you to work while you wait?”

“You want to know what’s in the bag?” Tim knows digging through the contents is dangerous, but waiting without doing anything won’t increase his chances of getting home to you.

“Yes, I do.”

“Copy that. Chen, I’m gonna turn on my body cam. You can monitor it from out there.”

“Okay. Please be careful,” she responds.

Tim hears your voice in his mind, telling him the same thing. He trusts himself to listen to you more than his rookie.

“All right. Here we go,” Tim says, using his baton to open the bag.

“Wait. Wait. What is that bottle?” Dr. Morgan wonders.

“Looks like the delivery device,” Tim guesses, raising it carefully from the bag. “It’s a misting fan.”

Dr. Morgan calls Homeland Security with the new information on how the terrorists are planning to spread the virus. As Tim continues searching the bag, failing to find identification or target information, Lucy sees Langston raising a chair in the mirror and yells for Tim just before he is knocked unconscious.

✯✯✯✯✯

Your house is as clean as it has ever been. Using your nervous energy and anxiety-fueled need to move, you clean each room in an attempt to keep your mind from worrying about Tim. You could call someone and ask for an update, but they probably can’t tell you anything. The only comfort you have is knowing that Angela and Wade would call you if you needed to know something. The silence is deafening, but it’s also a good sign.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Tim? Tim!” Lucy continues, growing concerned at the lack of reply.

Tim opens his eyes, moving backward quickly when he sees a puddle of blood running toward his face. He sees Langston standing across the room, mumbling about needing to get out as he tries to break the window. Tim tases him as he stands, and Lucy’s concerned yells continue. Covering his face with his shirt, Tim handcuffs Langston to the bed, shuffling backward as Lucy demands his answer.

“I’m okay! I’m okay!” he replies, breathing heavily. “Well, that was fun.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Tim chuckles. “Kind of depends on your definition of the word.”

While Lucy tells Dr. Morgan to get the vaccine, and the LAPD sends patrol units out to find the other terrorist, Tim keeps his eyes on Langston, but his mind is on you. He should ask someone to tell you and find a way to let you know what is going on, but part of him knows that you are separate from this for a reason. You’re likely worried enough without knowing that Tim’s chance of being infected rises with each moment.

✯✯✯✯✯

Tim watches Langston die, unable to do anything as he begs for help and convulses. Imagining himself in Langston’s place, Tim decides that he has to do something. He can’t go out like that, he won’t, but more importantly, he can’t leave you wondering. If Tim dies today, he is not dying without talking to you one last time, showing everyone around him that you are the best part of him.

He leans against the door in silence until Lucy says, “Hey, I, uh- I just checked with Dr. Morgan. The vaccine’s minutes away.”

“You know, you’re good at a lot of things – lying isn’t one of them,” Tim replies.

“You think I’m good at things? Can I get that in writing? … How are you doing? Are there any symptoms yet?"

"I’m sweating like a pig. But it’s probably because it’s 100 degrees in this room.”

Tim sighs just before Lucy assures, “It’s gonna be okay. I really believe that.”

“I’m sure you do. But if it isn’t-“

“Don’t think like that. It’s-“

“If it isn’t,” Tim repeats. “I’m not going out the way my man Pete here just did.”

“What are you saying?”

Tim sighs again, realizing what he said. He would never leave you like that; he’s a fighter. “I need you to do something for me, Chen.”

“Anything.”

“My- my wife is probably worrying herself sick right now. If this doesn’t end like you think it will, can you tell her that I fought to get home to her? Just- just keep an eye on her if anything happens. Wade and Angela, too.”

“Wife?” Lucy asks softly.

Tim smiles, glad to talk about something other than himself or the virus released in the room with him.

“Yeah. We eloped a while back; Grey, Lopez, and Bishop were there.”

“You’ve never mentioned her.”

“I keep her separated. She - everything in my personal life – would be at risk if there wasn’t a divide there.”

“I get that. What’s she like?”

Tim says your name, closing his eyes and picturing you as he tells Lucy how beautiful, kind, and loving you are. “She’s my better half. I don’t- can’t imagine not going home to her.”

“I promise, Tim. I’m confident you will go home to her, but… I promise.”

“Thank you,” Tim says quietly.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Please tell me that’s the vaccine,” Lucy says when Dr. Morgan returns.

“It is,” she answers quickly, walking toward the door quarantining Tim. “Stand back, Officer Chen. You’re not wearing protective gear.”

“Yeah.” Lucy steps back, hoping Tim is okay, and that he gets to go home to you.

“Officer Bradford, it’s time to let me in,” Dr. Morgan calls.

Tim opens the door, greeting Dr. Morgan before answering that he’s not feeling too bad. She tells him that she’s going to administer the vaccine. “It’s experimental, right?” Tim asks.

“That’s correct. So, we’re just going to have to wait and see what happens. Maybe nothing. Maybe you grow horns. But for now, I’d say you might’ve dodged a bullet.”

Tim looks at Lucy to ask, “Can you get Lopez? Ask her to call for me?”

Lucy nods, pulling her radio out to contact Angela. She knows that Tim will need you, no matter how the vaccine works… or doesn’t.

“Lopez,” she says, sighing before saying, “Tim wants to know if you can call his wife.”

“Of course,” Angela answers. “She’ll be at his side, even if I have to go get her in the shop.”

Lucy smiles at Tim, and he sighs as Dr. Morgan administers the vaccine. There’s more hope surrounding Tim now, but the fight may not be over yet.

✯✯✯✯✯

When you see Angela’s name on your phone, you consider not answering. Biting your bottom lip to hold your tears in, you answer.

“He’s okay,” Angela begins.

You sigh in relief, a few tears breaking free anyway. “Thank you, Angela.”

“The vaccine is experimental, so they’re taking him to the CDC for observation; you can visit with the proper protective gear. Do you want me to come pick you up?”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“See you in a few. And, just so you know, he didn’t call me.”

“Who did?”

“His rookie.”

Angela reminds you that she’s happy to pick you up if you want before ending the call. Tim mentioned me, you think. Then you wonder whether or not that’s a good thing.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Hey, I heard you guys saved the day,” Lucy says, exiting Langston’s house to meet Nolan, Jackson, Lopez, and Bishop.

“It was a group effort,” Jackson corrects.

“Glad you’re okay,” Nolan expresses.

“Me too,” Lucy sighs. “I- I mean that you’re okay, too.”

“How’s Tim?” Angela asks.

“I think he’s gonna be all right. Now, 24-hour observation at the CDC.”

“I’ll bet my pension he just told doctors Tim Bradford does not ride in a wheelchair,” Angela jokes as Tim walks out.

“Only way I’m leavin’ out of here is on my own two feet,” Bishop imitates.

“Don’t you guys have paperwork to finish?” Tim retorts.

Tim looks at Lucy, nodding his thanks before continuing to walk toward the car waiting to transport him to the CDC. He stops suddenly in the yard, growing dizzy before he falls backward onto the grass.

“Officer Bradford!” Dr. Morgan yells.

Lucy, Angela, Bishop, and Jackson run toward him before the CDC holds them back. Someone calls for an ambulance, and Angela backs away to make a call.

✯✯✯✯✯

“What happened?” you ask, answering Angela’s second call.

“Meet us at Shaw instead of the CDC,” she says.

You can hear yelling in the background, and repeat, “What happened?”

Angela says your name, unyielding as she says, “Shaw. I’ll meet you there.”

You inhale deeply, turning toward Shaw. Knowing that you have no chance of beating an ambulance escorted by police cars, you grip the steering wheel, hoping that Los Angeles traffic has grace on you, and you make it to Tim’s side quickly.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Tim better make it,” Jackson says.

“He will.” Angela knows that he’s a fighter, but she also knows that losing him will destroy you. He has to make it for himself, for the police department, and most importantly, for you.

In the ambulance ahead, Tim goes into anaphylactic shock. Lucy helps the paramedics and glances at Tim’s left hand. The line where his wedding ring sits is barely visible, but she whispers for him to keep his promise, to keep fighting.

Once the ambulance and the police cars enter into the hospital parking lot, Nolan notices a woman with a gun, alerting the officers surrounding the ambulance before the firefight starts.

Lucy covers Tim in the ambulance as the paramedics assist him as well as the injured medics. Nolan shoots the woman in the shoulder, but his gun jams as he moves closer to her.

Tim opens the ambulance door, downing the armed woman on a surge of adrenaline. Stepping onto the ambulance driveway, he asks Nolan if he’s okay.

“I should have reloaded on the move,” Nolan mutters. “You?”

“I should’ve taken yesterday off,” Tim answers.

“Alright, Officer Bradford, let’s go,” a nurse says, pushing a wheelchair to his side.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Angela!” you call, jogging to her side.

“Don’t freak out,” she begins, but your eyes widen when you see the bullet holes covering, well, everything.

“Where is he?”

She nods, leading you around her shop. Tim is standing beside Nolan, arguing with a nurse.

“I can walk. Clearly, I’m fine,” Tim argues.

You don’t think about how many people are watching as you walk to Tim’s side. He turns toward you, his eyes softening when he sees you.

“Get in the wheelchair,” you demand.

Tim sighs but does as you say. Nolan and Jackson look at each other in shock, and Lucy smiles as she says, “His wife.”

✯✯✯✯✯

When you walk into Tim’s hospital room, he looks like he’s been waiting for you.

“I’m sorry,” he begins.

“For what? Not listening to the nurse?”

Tim chuckles as he raises his left hand, pulling you to his side. “No. I’m sorry for not showing you off more, for never telling people about us. I worried you; I know I did, and you don’t deserve any of it.”

You lean forward, running your fingers across Tim’s jawline as you smile. “You don’t have to show me off. I know why you do it, Tim. Being a secret, being separated and safe, I get it. What I don’t like is not knowing if you’re okay.”

“I don’t want the separation anymore. You are my entire life, and- I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, but I’m not risking this again. The idea of not making it home, leaving you alone, with no one knowing you or how much you mean to me… that was terrible, and I’m sorry.”

Pursing your lips, you lean toward Tim and look into his eyes before scanning your eyes over his face.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Trying to figure out where the Tim I know went.”

Tim smiles, moving over in the bed and tugging you against his side. He taps your necklace before raising your hair away from your neck. You unclasp your necklace, sliding Tim’s wedding ring off the chain. Tim lays his left hand in your lap, and you put his ring on slowly before kissing his hand.

“I love you,” Tim says.

“I love you. And I accept your apology, even though I didn’t need it.”

“Ready to meet the rest of my-“

“Friends?” you fill in, smiling.

“Colleagues,” Tim finishes, shaking his head as his arm tightens around your waist.

“Thank you for making sure Angela called me.”

“How clean is the house?”

You laugh, pressing your face against Tim’s shoulder. He knows you well, and though you didn't know what was truly at stake over the last few hours, you did miss him.

“Hey, Mrs. Bradford,” Wade greets, smiling as he leads a small crowd of officers into the room. “I have some rookies here who don’t believe someone would marry Tim.”

“I changed my mind,” Tim replies. “Get out.”

You elbow him gently, smiling as you stand. “It's much easier when he doesn’t tell people. No association to him.”

Tim laughs behind you, and after shaking hands and introducing yourself, you return to Tim’s side: where nothing can hurt you, everything is safe, and you’re the most important thing in the world.

[cloudyluun]

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑶𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓 𝑮𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝑻𝒐𝒐… | (𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒔!𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒙 𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒔!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓)

Summary: It’s Y/N’s first real award season, and tonight she’s headed to the Oscars—nominated for Best Actress (!!) and all dolled up like an actual goddess. With Harry Styles as her boyfriend and #1 hype man, the night should be magical… and it is, especially when she wins. But while the cameras capture joy, champagne, and golden statues, the internet tells a different story. Insecure and hurting, Y/N finds herself drowning in criticism—until Harry reminds her why none of that matters. This is a soft, emotional comfort fic with forehead kisses, whispered affirmations, and a very sparkly dress.

A/N: This fic is based on the cutest request from @dipmeinhoneyh (thank you, angel!!). I saw the ask and immediately went full ✨Oscar glam✨ in my head. It’s soft, it’s sparkly, it’s got just the right amount of angst, and of course… our boy Harry being the most supportive, sweet, temple-kissing, back-rubbing dreamboat of a boyfriend ever.

That said… I don’t actually think this is my best writing 😭 I’ve been in my head a bit and totally overthinking every sentence—like does this metaphor even make sense? and is this dramatic or just cringe?? But I still love the heart of it. So if you’re in the mood for something sweet, sad, and healing, I hope it brings you comfort. I promise the next one will be even better. Plus I haven’t really proofread since I didn’t really like it all that much; so if there are any mistakes lemme know!❤️‍🩹

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: 

Soft Angst (emotional hurt/comfort)

Public scrutiny / social media hate

Insecurity and imposter syndrome

Supportive partner Harry Styles

Kisses, cuddles, and affirmations

Glittering dresses and red carpet glamor

Mention of alcohol/champagne (mild)

Mild swearing

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The sun rose with a gentle persistence over Los Angeles, casting a soft, golden light through the floor-to-ceiling windows of their home in the Hollywood Hills. It was still early—barely 7 a.m.—but the energy in the house was already quietly humming. Today wasn’t just any Sunday. It was the Sunday. The Oscars.

Y/N stirred in bed, tucked deep beneath the plush white duvet, reluctant to leave the cocoon of warmth and quiet that had settled around her during the night. Despite the buzzing anticipation that had followed her into sleep, she’d managed to rest—though now, with the day officially begun, her nerves were waking up right along with her.

The door creaked open softly.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Harry’s voice came, gentle and low, already laced with amusement. The smell of coffee preceded him—rich, freshly brewed, and perfectly timed.

She cracked one eye open to see him leaning in the doorway, a tray balanced in one hand: her favorite oat milk latte, a small bowl of strawberries and cream, and a folded linen napkin. He wore one of his silk robes loosely tied at the waist, his curls still slightly damp from a shower.

“Big day, darling,” he murmured, walking over and placing the tray on the bedside table. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

Y/N groaned softly, pulling the covers over her head. “Why does it feel like a big day already? It’s barely even light out.”

Harry chuckled, slipping into bed beside her, careful not to spill the coffee. “Because you’re about to knock every single person dead on that red carpet. And maybe win an Oscar while you’re at it.”

She peeked out from under the duvet, eyes still sleepy but soft. “You’re too confident in me.”

“No such thing,” he replied, passing her the latte. “Drink up. You’ve got a team of glam fairies arriving in thirty minutes.”

From there, the day began in earnest.

Y/N sat in a tall makeup chair in the sun-drenched guest room that had been converted into a makeshift dressing suite. Mirrors lined one wall, surrounded by globe lights. Racks of gowns in garment bags stood nearby, and a team of stylists, makeup artists, and assistants bustled quietly, respectful of the sacred, slightly frantic energy of the morning.

A playlist pulsed low in the background—early Beyoncé, a touch of Fleetwood Mac, something mellow to keep the mood steady.

Her stylist, Lena, was crouched beside a hanging gown: an ethereal floor-length number in deep emerald satin with a plunging neckline and a daring backless silhouette. The kind of dress that whispered elegance but screamed power when worn with the right attitude. The kind of dress that required exactly the kind of confidence Y/N was still trying to summon.

Meanwhile, her hair was being sectioned off and curled by a stylist named Ramon, who moved with the ease of someone who’d done a thousand of these before. Every so often, he’d step back and tilt his head, studying her like a sculpture in progress.

“You’re going classic tonight, babe,” he said. “Hollywood waves, little volume at the crown. Timeless. You’ll look like you walked off a 1950s movie poster.”

She gave a half-smile, eyes flicking toward the reflection in the mirror. “Just make sure I don’t look like I’m in costume.”

Ramon met her eyes in the mirror. “Trust me. You’re not going to look like anything other than the main event.”

As the hours slipped by, there were brief interludes. Harry, dressed down in a crisp white T-shirt and grey sweatpants, would peek in between tasks—whether it was a meeting with his own team or finalizing details about their arrival time. Every time, without fail, he brought her something: a bottle of water, a calming lavender mist spray, a slice of toast she forgot she asked for. Or sometimes, he brought nothing but himself—a quiet hand resting on her shoulder, a whispered, “How are you doing?” pressed into her ear.

Once, while Lena zipped her into the gown for the final fitting, Harry wandered in, paused, and let out a slow exhale.

“You’re joking,” he said under his breath, his eyes raking over her. “You’re absolutely joking.”

Y/N blushed but stood tall, arms slightly outstretched as Lena adjusted the hem. “Good joking or bad joking?”

Harry walked over, placed his hands on her hips gently, and kissed her bare shoulder. “Devastating joking. I can’t let you out of the house like this.”

She rolled her eyes, biting back a smile. “You’ll be in a tux. You’ll survive.”

“I’ll barely survive,” he said dramatically, then leaned in to kiss her again—this time, on the lips. “You’re stunning, Y/N.”

By late afternoon, the house was empty again except for the two of them. The glam team had left, Lena was already at the venue making sure everything was set for their arrival, and all that remained was the car outside, waiting to take them to the Dolby Theatre.

The SUV’s interior was sleek and black, the windows deeply tinted to block out the chaos of paparazzi that had already begun to gather on the outskirts of the route. Y/N sat stiffly, trying not to wrinkle the delicate folds of her dress, but her nerves had returned—stronger than they’d been in the morning.

She bounced her knee unconsciously, fingers fidgeting in her lap. Harry, seated beside her in a perfectly tailored black tux with a velvet lapel and a custom silver pin on the lapel—something small and symbolic just for her—reached over and covered her hand with his.

“Hey,” he said softly, grounding her. “You’re good.”

She turned to look at him. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

He squeezed her hand, thumb brushing across her knuckles. “That’s how you know it matters.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath and leaned her head back against the seat. “What if I trip getting out of the car? What if I say something dumb in an interview? What if—”

“Then I’ll laugh, and everyone else will laugh, and you’ll still be the most brilliant person on that carpet,” he said, eyes never leaving hers.

She studied him for a moment, the way his calm energy seemed to bleed into hers just by proximity. “How do you always know what to say?”

“Because I know you,” he replied. “And because I believe in you more than anyone else on this planet.”

The car turned a corner, and they caught their first glimpse of the towering Oscars signage outside the theater. Flashes from cameras sparked like a distant lightning storm. The energy in the air shifted again—thicker, more electric.

Y/N took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Harry smiled, brushing a stray hair from her cheek. “Let’s go make some history.”

Y/N could feel the thrum of energy through the car door.

She didn’t move yet. Her fingers curled tighter around Harry’s hand, her eyes scanning the flashes beyond the glass like they were lightning bolts about to strike.

Harry glanced at her. “Ready?”

“No.”

He smiled, turning slightly in his seat. “Good. That means you're present. And present means powerful.”

She shot him a look. “Did you just come up with that?”

“Maybe.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against her cheek. “Let them see what I see. You don’t need to try anything. Just exist. They’ll fall in love.”

Y/N laughed under her breath, nervous and grateful all at once. “God, you’re annoying when you’re poetic.”

The door opened.

A handler appeared on her side, extending a hand to help her step out. As she emerged, the first wave of camera flashes hit like a tidal surge—rapid-fire strobes accompanied by a sudden swell of shouting.

“Y/N! Over here!”

“Look left! Y/N, to your left!”

“Harry! Y/N and Harry, can we get one together?”

Her heels hit the carpet with a soft click, the weight of the dress trailing behind her in elegant folds. The emerald green gown shimmered under the lights, catching the lenses at just the right angle. Her posture snapped into place like a reflex—shoulders back, chin slightly tilted, lips parting in that calm, camera-ready smile she’d practiced but never quite perfected.

Harry stepped out right behind her, tall and confident in his tux, the subtle gleam of his shoes catching under the lights. As soon as he was beside her, his hand found the small of her back. He leaned in to say something that didn’t carry over the noise.

Y/N gave a small laugh, genuine and involuntary, and the cameras clicked even faster.

They moved slowly along the carpet, pausing when called, posing at marked spots where publicists and assistants gently guided them with earpieces and hand gestures. Harry kept one hand loosely entwined with hers, the other occasionally adjusting the train of her dress when it caught on the carpet. It didn’t matter how many stylists had prepped it—once she started walking, the real test began.

She glanced down, saw it bunched slightly at her heel, and before she could bend down, Harry was already there, crouching gracefully to sweep it back into place.

“Got it,” he said, brushing invisible lint off her hip with practiced ease.

“You’re like a well-dressed stagehand,” she joked under her breath.

“Happy to be your personal crew.”

Another camera flash. Another shout. Another round of her name echoing across the fan barricade. She heard her name interspersed with his—sometimes chanted together, sometimes in waves.

“Harry! Y/N! We love you!”

Someone screamed, “Y/N, you look stunning!”

And someone else, “Marry him already!”

They both laughed at that one.

He leaned toward her and said, “I mean, it is good advice.”

She rolled her eyes and whispered back, “Focus. This is your Oscar-wife-in-the-making’s moment.”

He raised his eyebrows in mock awe. “Oscar-wife. I like that. Very regal.”

They paused before the press line, where the velvet ropes gave way to a gauntlet of microphones, cameras, and media crews from around the world. It was the most intense stretch of the carpet—the part where charm, poise, and grace mattered more than the couture itself. One wrong answer, and you'd trend for all the wrong reasons.

Y/N took a breath, nerves coiling again.

Harry felt it.

He turned to her, gently tugging her hand so she’d face him fully.

She looked up at him.

“Hey,” he said, barely audible over the buzz. “Look at me.”

She did.

“You’ve got this.”

She blinked, her eyes shining just slightly. Not from tears—yet—but from the sheer pressure of everything. From the weight of the moment. The stakes. The past months of award season, interviews, photo shoots, critics, dresses, rehearsed speeches, and that one role that had changed everything.

He didn’t need to say anything more. He just squeezed her hand—once, firmly.

That was all. I’m here. I believe in you. You’ve already won, whatever happens.

And she nodded. Just once. That was all she needed too.

A reporter from Entertainment Weekly waved them over, her laminated credentials swinging around her neck and a microphone already raised. Her eyes sparkled with recognition and excitement.

“Y/N! Harry! You both look incredible tonight. Can I steal you for a quick one?”

They stepped up, the camera behind the reporter going live.

Y/N smiled, adjusted her stance, and waited for the question she knew was coming.

“So Y/N,” the reporter began, cheerful and polished, “congratulations on your nomination. This is your first Oscar night—and you’re up for Best Actress. How does it feel to be here right now?”

There was a half-second pause.

Y/N’s mouth opened slightly. The question was expected, but somehow her mind still spun. The noise behind them, the adrenaline, the surreal glow of it all. She blinked, trying to find the perfect response, something articulate and meaningful—

But Harry stepped in, smoothly and warmly.

“She’s incredible,” he said, not stealing the spotlight, just grounding it. “No matter what happens tonight, she’s already won in my book. What she did in that role—what she poured into it—it changed people. And I’ve seen firsthand how hard she worked. How much heart she gave. This nomination’s just catching up to what the rest of us already know.”

Y/N turned to look at him, caught off guard by the depth in his voice, the sincerity. It wasn’t a sound bite. He wasn’t performing. He meant every word.

The reporter lit up. “Oh my god. Are you two trying to end us on this carpet?”

Y/N laughed softly, cheeks warm. “I swear I didn’t pay him to say that.”

Harry gave her a look, playfully serious. “You can, though. I’m open to bribery.”

The moment was perfect—genuine and golden. The camera caught the laugh, the subtle glance between them, the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the crowd.

And the fans ate it up. Social media would have the clip trending before the show even started.

As they wrapped the interview, they moved toward the entrance of the theater. The crowd was even thicker near the doors, the press giving way to fans, seat fillers, and the final frenzy of arrivals.

Security held the gates, and the calls of their names grew louder, more impassioned.

A girl near the barricade waved a sign: Y/N DESERVES THE OSCAR.

Another had painted her nails with tiny pictures of the film’s poster.

Y/N turned, smiled, and waved. Harry nudged her gently, nodding toward one young fan in the front who was visibly trembling, holding a poster with her face on it.

Y/N walked over.

Security parted just enough for her to sign the poster, say a quick thank you, and take a selfie. The fan gasped, crying before Y/N even stepped back.

As they rejoined the path toward the theater doors, Harry looked over. “You just made her whole year.”

Y/N exhaled, her eyes misty now. “This is wild.”

“You earned it.”

They paused at the top of the short staircase leading into the venue. One last look back at the storm of lights and color. One more deep breath.

Then they stepped inside.

Y/N sat beside Harry, both of them just left of center in the third row. Prime placement. Visible. Important. Close enough to the stage that the nerves felt like heat waves.

As the show began, hosts made their jokes, montages played, musical numbers dazzled. But for Y/N, everything was blurry around the edges. Every laugh, every applause line, every standing ovation—it all felt like static until her category approached. Until that moment came.

The show was nearly two hours in when it happened.

The presenter for Best Actress in a Leading Role was introduced. A hush rippled through the room—not silence, exactly, but a collective holding of breath. Y/N’s stomach twisted into a slow, tight knot.

The presenter—a respected actress with decades of gravitas in her voice—stepped up to the microphone with a glint of joy in her eyes. She held the envelope delicately, as if it contained a spell.

Y/N could feel her pulse in her throat.

Harry’s hand tightened around hers. She glanced at him. He didn’t look nervous—he looked steady. Focused. He leaned slightly toward her, their shoulders brushing. His thumb moved slowly over the back of her hand in the rhythm they both knew well. Comfort. Presence. I’m here.

She wanted to breathe, but her chest felt too full.

The camera panned to the nominees. She caught the shift of the lens in the corner of her eye as the image was cast live to millions of screens around the world. Her face—composed but pale—flashed on screen. She gave the tight, polite smile expected of a nominee, but her fingers clung to Harry’s like she was gripping a lifeline.

“And the nominees for Best Actress are…”

The presenter began listing them, one by one, and Y/N heard the first name like it was underwater. Applause. Another name. Louder applause. Then hers.

“Y/N Y/L/N, for The Last Garden.”

The room responded with a round of strong, respectful clapping. The sound struck her ears like a wave but didn’t quite reach her. All she could hear was her heart. All she could feel was Harry’s thumb, steady on her hand, anchoring her to the moment.

She blinked slowly, trying to commit the feeling to memory. This was it. This was the peak she’d dreamed about as a teenager watching old Oscar clips on YouTube, half-believing this kind of thing was for other people. Famous people. Not her. Not really.

She caught her breath, realizing she hadn’t even been listening to the rest of the names.

Then the envelope.

The presenter smiled. There was that little pause. The iconic pause. The weight of anticipation, curated over decades of cinematic tradition.

She unfolded the envelope with deliberate care.

“And the Oscar goes to…”

Everything went still. Y/N’s vision tunneled. Her ears rang.

Harry’s grip tightened, just slightly.

In the silence, she swore she heard her own name before it was even said. A strange premonition. A gut scream. But maybe it was just hope masquerading as instinct.

Then—

Let’s rewind a little.

Even before the envelope was opened, the weight of the entire journey was pressing down on her shoulders. She remembered the first table read for The Last Garden. The gritty rehearsal room in downtown L.A., the dim yellow lighting, the folding chairs. She remembered sitting with the script in her lap, dog-eared and covered in notes, fingers trembling as she read her lines for the first time. She remembered how she doubted herself at first—wondered if the role was too heavy for her, too exposed.

And then the shoot—months in cold weather, brutal emotional scenes, sixteen-hour days, moments when she thought she was completely spent only to find more inside her. Moments she didn’t think the camera could possibly capture. But it had. It had captured everything.

Harry had been there through it all. In every phone call. Every wrap-day. Every night when she came home exhausted, unsure of whether she was enough.

And now she was here.

She glanced sideways at him again.

He wasn’t looking at the stage. He was looking at her.

Like he was taking a mental photograph of this moment, this version of her—nervous, radiant, right on the edge of history.

He smiled slightly. Nothing big. Just for her.

It grounded her more than any deep breath could have.

Around them, the theater shifted in micro-expressions. Cameras zoomed in. Other nominees sat poised. Their loved ones gripped their hands. Publicists prayed behind curtains. Somewhere, the world paused.

The presenter cleared her throat slightly, unfolding the card, her eyes scanning the name.

Harry squeezed Y/N’s hand again.

She didn’t look at him this time.

She couldn’t.

She was trying to hold herself together in that two-second eternity between the words “And the Oscar goes to…” and the name that would follow.

Her entire body felt electrified. Her palms were cold, but her face burned. The air seemed too thick to swallow.

She was inside the moment—and floating just above it.

The presenter inhaled.

Y/N braced.

The card was lifted. The envelope unfolded. The air inside the Dolby Theatre was thick with anticipation. Even the orchestra seemed to pause mid-breath, violins poised, trumpets silenced. The presenter’s voice carried clearly, impossibly loud in the stillness:

“And the Oscar goes to… Y/N Y/L/N!”

For one full second, there was no reaction.

Not from her.

Not because she didn’t hear it—she did.

But her brain simply refused to compute it.

It was like her name echoed down a long corridor, bouncing between disbelief and dream. Her hands flew to her mouth instinctively, fingers trembling as they pressed against her lips. Her eyes widened, glassy with shock, and her breath caught in her throat like it didn’t know where to go.

She didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Then the room erupted.

Applause thundered around her. Cheering, clapping, laughter, the swell of people rising to their feet. The orchestra hit a triumphant chord and she blinked hard, trying to keep her vision clear as her name flashed across the massive screen behind the stage.

Y/N Y/L/N – Best Actress

Harry was already on his feet, hands raised in celebration. His face lit up with joy—not surprise, not pride, not even awe. Just pure, visceral joy. Like every molecule in his body was exhaling at once.

He turned to her, pulled her up, wrapping her in a fierce hug.

Her hands still covered her mouth as she collapsed against his chest, overwhelmed, trembling.

He pressed his lips to her ear. “Go get what’s yours, my love.”

She nodded blindly against his shoulder.

A producer was already motioning from the aisle. People around her were smiling, clapping her back, congratulating her in a blur she couldn’t fully absorb. She stepped into the aisle on shaky legs, heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the music. The hem of her dress caught under her heel and she nearly stumbled, but caught herself just in time.

Harry’s voice followed gently from behind: “Take your time. Own it.”

She did.

It was the longest, shortest walk of her life.

The aisle stretched before her, flanked by rows of glittering nominees and movie royalty. The stage felt impossibly far away and somehow already beneath her feet. Every step was a battle against the tears threatening to spill over.

She passed familiar faces—fellow actors, directors, crew—some of whom had hugged her backstage earlier in the season, win or lose. Some of whom she admired from afar. All of them were on their feet.

She didn’t look at any of them.

Her eyes were locked on the podium. On the golden statue waiting patiently for her. The symbol of everything she’d fought for.

Her heart pounded.

She could feel her pulse in her wrists, in her ribs, behind her eyes.

She reached the stairs.

Someone offered a hand—she wasn’t even sure who, maybe a stage manager or the presenter. She took it blindly, half-aware, as she climbed the steps in her heels, praying her legs wouldn’t give out beneath her.

Then she was there.

Standing in front of the microphone.

The applause was still going. The house was still on its feet. The lights blinded her slightly—hot and white, isolating her from the crowd but also making her the sole focus. The Oscar was placed in her hands. It was heavier than she’d imagined. Cold and solid and real.

She looked down at it for a moment, stunned.

Then she looked out at the audience.

And for the first time since her name was called, she exhaled.

It was happening.

This was real.

The applause began to die down slowly, people settling into their seats, the room hushed once more. The orchestra faded.

She stepped to the mic.

She opened her mouth—and for a second, nothing came out.

She laughed, just once, breathless and disbelieving.

“I—wow,” she said, voice shaking. “I… I don’t even know where to start.”

Laughter echoed softly through the room, warm and encouraging.

She swallowed hard, gripping the Oscar with both hands.

“I’ve dreamed about this moment since I was a teenager, watching from my couch with my mom, hoping—praying—that maybe, someday, somehow, this could be me. And now I’m standing here… and I still don’t believe it.”

Her voice cracked slightly. She took a moment, blinking fast. The prompter was blank—this part wasn’t rehearsed. This was all instinct.

“I want to thank the Academy… my fellow nominees, who I admire so deeply… and my incredible director, who trusted me with this role before I even trusted myself. You believed in what I could bring to this character, and you never stopped pushing me to go deeper.”

Applause.

She shifted slightly, breath catching.

“To my cast—thank you for your generosity, your brilliance, your friendship. You made every day on set something special. To our crew, who worked harder than anyone ever saw—this is yours too.”

She paused. Her fingers curled around the statue, knuckles white.

“And to my family,” she said, voice quieter now, thick with emotion. “You were the first ones to believe I had something. Even when it was small, and scared, and messy. You told me to go for it. You never let me quit.”

A pause.

Then she looked out into the crowd.

Her eyes found Harry, like magnets locking.

He was standing now, hands clasped in front of him, a quiet smile on his lips, eyes shining with pride and something deeper. Something unshakable.

She took a breath.

“And to my Harry…” she said softly.

The room seemed to still again, leaning in.

“…who has been my anchor through this all. Who saw this version of me—this strong, brave, relentless version—before I ever did. You’ve held me up through every doubt, every hard day, every ‘I can’t do this.’ You reminded me I could. And I did.”

A pause. Her lip quivered, but she smiled through it.

“Thank you for believing in me, even when I didn’t.”

The camera cut to Harry.

And his face—his face—said it all.

He wasn’t just proud. He wasn’t just emotional.

He was in awe. Looking at her like she had hung the stars in the sky and lit each one with her bare hands. His expression was soft and unguarded, as if he was seeing her for the first time all over again.

A beat.

She looked back at the mic.

“And lastly—thank you to everyone who’s ever dared to tell their story. This role changed me, and I hope it reaches someone out there who needs to know they’re not alone.”

More applause.

The orchestra swelled again, gently this time—cueing her to wrap up, but respectfully, giving her a few more seconds to breathe.

She nodded once more, eyes wet but clear, voice stronger now.

“This means everything. Thank you.”

She turned to exit, holding the statue close to her chest. Backstage staff welcomed her with congratulations, flashbulbs from press flickering again—but it was all a blur.

She just wanted to get back to him.

And when she stepped off the stage and rounded the corner, there he was.

Harry, waiting just past the curtain.

Before she could say anything, he wrapped her in his arms, lifting her slightly off the ground in a crushing hug.

“You did it,” he murmured into her hair. “You fucking did it.”

She held on tight, burying her face into his shoulder.

“I can’t believe it,” she whispered.

“I can,” he said simply. “I never doubted it for a second.”

They stood like that for a while. Her award between them, clutched awkwardly between the fabric of her dress and the lapel of his tux, but neither one caring.

Just the two of them, suspended in a perfect, golden moment.

She could barely make it two steps before someone stopped her with wide arms and a glass of champagne, cheeks flushed with joy or alcohol or both. Someone else pulled her in for a hug. A famous director whose movies she grew up worshiping leaned in to say how stunning her performance was. A fellow actress, nominated in a different category, clinked glasses with her, grinning, eyes shining. There was confetti somewhere. Music swelling from a DJ booth set up by the balcony. The night was alive and on fire, and she was at the center of it.

And yet, none of it felt quite real. The noise, the faces, the cameras clicking in staccato bursts. Everyone saying her name—her name—with that reverent kind of awe like it belonged to a myth now. She could barely hold onto a thought. Everything felt like a dream, hazy and lit from behind, like an old film reel playing too fast.

But Harry was real. His hand was real, warm and grounding in hers. Every time she looked at him, she was brought back down to earth. He never let her go far. Not for long. Even when she got pulled into conversations or introduced to people she’d only ever seen on screens, he stayed within reach, close enough to lock eyes with her when she needed a moment to breathe. Every time she looked overwhelmed, he caught her gaze and gave her that little nod—the same one he gave her in the car before they arrived, the same one he gave her right before her name was called. You’ve got this.

At some point, someone tugged the Oscar out of her hands to set it down for safekeeping—someone on her team, smiling gently, promising it would be watched like a crown jewel. She let it go without protest, her arms immediately finding their way back around Harry’s waist.

A photographer called their names from across the room, gesturing toward the backdrop. They obliged, standing side by side as flashes lit up around them. She was still beaming, cheeks sore from smiling, but it didn’t stop. She leaned her head on Harry’s shoulder for a few shots, and he kissed the top of her head in another. One photo caught her looking up at him, totally lost in him, while he looked right at the camera like he knew exactly how good he had it.

“Do you want to sneak away for a second?” he murmured near her ear when the photographer finally lowered the camera.

She nodded instantly.

They weaved their way out of the ballroom and down a quiet hallway lined with closed doors, the party still a low thump behind them. The air here was cooler. Quieter. She leaned against the wall, catching her breath, finally able to hear her own thoughts. Harry stepped in front of her, one hand braced on the wall beside her head, the other resting on her hip.

He looked at her like he didn’t quite believe her. Like he was still processing what had just happened. “Oscar-winning actress,” he said softly, almost to himself.

She laughed, the sound light, delighted, bubbling up without control. “Don’t start with that.”

“Oh, I’m going to be insufferable,” he said, leaning in, pressing a kiss just below her jaw. “I’ve been sitting on this line all night.”

She arched a brow, breath catching. “What line?”

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his grin slow and crooked. “I always knew I was dating an Oscar winner. I’m honestly kind of surprised it took the Academy this long to catch up.”

She snorted, smacking his chest. “You’re such a menace.”

“And you’re incredible.” His voice shifted then—less teasing, more tender. “You were so beautiful up there. Brave. You held it together like a pro.”

“I almost tripped.”

“You didn’t, though. You floated.”

She shook her head, overwhelmed again, and his hand moved up to her cheek, thumb brushing beneath her eye. She didn’t realize she was tearing up until then.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer, crowding her gently against the wall, “look at me.”

She did.

His eyes searched hers, tender and sure.

“I’m so proud of you, baby. So, so proud.”

She swallowed hard, nodded, resting her forehead against his. “I don’t know how to come down from this.”

“You don’t have to. Just ride it for a little while.”

Then he kissed her.

Slow. Deep. Like the world had stopped again, like time bent just for them. His hand curled around her waist and her fingers slipped into the curls at the nape of his neck. It wasn’t a rushed kiss, or one for show, or even one born of adrenaline. It was something else—steady, grounding. Like a reset. Like home.

When they pulled apart, she blinked slowly, dazed.

“That helped,” she whispered.

He smiled, brushing his nose against hers. “Good.”

They stayed in that quiet hallway a little longer, just the two of them. No cameras. No crowds. Just quiet breath, soft smiles, a moment to recalibrate.

Eventually, the party pulled them back. The night wasn’t done celebrating her yet.

More glasses were raised. More toasts. A few actors she idolized gave her hugs that lingered, offering real praise. A veteran screenwriter told her she’d made him cry. She tried to keep up, tried to stay in every moment, but it was hard to grasp the edges of something so surreal. Every time she needed to recenter, Harry was there. A hand on her back. A whisper in her ear. A smirk from across the room that made her bite back a grin.

They danced for a while, the two of them swaying in the middle of a crowd that couldn’t stop buzzing. Someone had switched the playlist to a retro mix—Fleetwood Mac, Queen, a little Bowie. She had her arms around Harry’s neck, his hands at her waist, the hem of her dress brushing his shoes.

“I can’t feel my feet,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I’ll carry you home.”

She laughed. “I believe you would.”

“Course I would.” He pulled back just enough to look at her again. “I’d carry you to the ends of the earth if you asked.”

“You really do like the Oscar-winner lines, huh?”

“Can’t help it. You make me dramatic.”

She kissed him again, this time quick and giddy, a burst of affection she couldn’t contain. He tasted like champagne. She probably did too.

Eventually, the party began to thin. The most chaotic of the press disappeared, and even the most energetic guests started slipping out. But she stayed until the end, still barefoot by then, heels dangling from one hand, Harry’s jacket draped over her shoulders. The Oscar was back in her grasp, solid and surreal.

It was sometime around four in the morning when they finally left, stepping out into the cool early air. The streets outside were quiet. The night had shifted, a slow descent from euphoria into something softer. Calmer.

They slipped into the back of a black SUV, the Oscar carefully nestled between them. Her head dropped onto Harry’s shoulder, and he laced their fingers together, resting their hands in her lap.

“I’m scared this is all a dream,” she murmured.

“If it is,” he said, kissing the top of her head, “we’re having the same one.”

She smiled against his jacket. Her lashes fluttered. Her limbs ached. Her chest was full.

Everything shimmered.

Everything felt impossibly light.

And even though something unnamed hovered just on the edge—some strange weight she couldn’t place yet—she didn’t reach for it. Not yet.

Not tonight.

Tonight, she had the gold in her hands, the man she loved beside her, and a sky full of stars blinking down in quiet approval.

The city was quieter now. Even in the early-morning buzz of LA, there was a strange hush, like the world itself had fallen asleep while they kept dreaming. The SUV moved through the near-empty streets with a steady hum, headlights painting soft gold across pavement and palm trees. Her head was still resting on Harry’s shoulder, his fingers drawing slow, absent-minded circles on her hand. She could hear his heartbeat. Could feel the steady rhythm of his breath.

She hadn’t wanted the night to end. Not really. But exhaustion had started to crawl in, soft and slow, the way it does after the adrenaline wears off. Her body ached in places she didn’t expect—from the heels, the tightness of the gown, the constant tension of smiling, posing, holding herself together. Still, beneath the tiredness, she felt full. Like she was carrying something sacred.

The Oscar sat on the seat between them, catching the faintest bit of light every now and then, flashing gold like it was winking at her. Every time she looked at it, she half-expected it to disappear.

She didn’t remember pulling her phone out—just that, at some point, her fingers had found their way to her clutch. Maybe it was habit. Maybe she just wanted to see the love. The posts from friends. Her team. Maybe even some fan edits or Tweets with her name in all caps, exclamation marks trailing like confetti. She wasn’t looking for anything specific—just something to hold onto. Something to make the moment last a little longer.

But the second the screen lit up, the illusion cracked.

At first, it was what she expected—photos of her on the carpet, snippets of her acceptance speech, her name trending at the top. But then she scrolled. And scrolled. And there it was.

“She didn’t deserve it.”

“She just cried and looked pretty.”

“Should’ve gone to [insert other nominee].”

“She was fine, but not Oscar-worthy.”

“Nepotism at its finest.”

The words were sharp and cold, almost clinical in how efficiently they cut through her. There were dozens. Hundreds. Her stomach dropped like a stone. Her fingers tightened slightly around the phone. The air in the car seemed thinner suddenly, the buzz in her ears louder.

She blinked. Read them again. As if they might change the second time.

They didn’t.

She tried to pull back, to remind herself that it didn’t matter. That people were always going to have opinions. That this was part of it. But those thoughts were flimsy armor. The words still slipped through.

The high of the night didn’t just fade—it crashed, hard and fast, like a glass falling off a shelf and shattering on tile. She could still hear the echoes of applause in her head, but now it felt like a mockery. Her speech replayed in flashes—her shaking voice, the tears in her eyes—and now all she could think about was how many people were sitting behind screens, tearing it apart.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at her screen, the scrolling continuing on autopilot even though every swipe made it worse.

Harry noticed the shift almost immediately. He always did.

“Hey,” he said softly, “what’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer at first. Didn’t know how to. Her throat felt tight.

He gently tugged the phone out of her hands, and she didn’t stop him.

He looked at the screen. Scrolled once. Twice. His expression didn’t change much, but his jaw tensed.

“Babe,” he said, “don’t read this shit.”

She stared out the window. “I didn’t mean to. I was just—checking. Seeing what people were saying.”

Harry sighed and slid her phone into his coat pocket. “People are always going to talk. Doesn’t mean they’re right.”

She nodded. But it didn’t help.

Because she knew, logically, that online hate was inevitable. Especially now. Especially at this level. She’d seen it happen to others. Seen people torn apart over performances, over speeches, over dresses and facial expressions and literally anything. She wasn’t naive. But it was different when it was you.

It was different when you’d just had the biggest night of your life and now, here you were, staring at a comment that casually dismissed your entire career like it was nothing. Like it was handed to you.

The SUV pulled up to their place and she got out slowly, the air even colder now. Her dress dragged slightly as she walked, and Harry had to remind her not to forget the Oscar in the backseat. She carried it in with both hands, but it felt heavier now.

Inside, the silence was thicker. Their place was dark, still. The quiet was usually comforting. Tonight it just made the buzz in her head louder.

She set the statue down on the kitchen counter, stared at it for a long moment.

“I shouldn’t have looked,” she said finally.

Harry walked up behind her, slid his arms around her waist, rested his chin on her shoulder. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

“It’s just—” She paused, then turned in his arms so she could see his face. “They’re saying I didn’t deserve it. That I only got it because of who I’m dating or who my mom is or whatever bullshit they think matters more than the work.”

Harry didn’t look away. “You do deserve it.”

“But what if they’re right?”

“They’re not.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can,” he said, voice low but firm. “Because I watched you build this. Brick by brick. I saw you bust your ass for that role. I saw the nights you didn’t sleep, the days you pushed through when you were ready to quit. I saw what it cost you. I know what it took.”

She felt the tears building again, slow and helpless. She hated that she was crying. Hated that people she didn’t even know could get under her skin like this.

Harry cupped her face. “Baby, this doesn’t change anything. Those people on the internet? They didn’t watch you become her. They didn’t see the work. They just want something to be mad about. Don’t let them take this from you.”

She leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering shut.

“I just wanted to feel proud,” she whispered. “Even if just for a night.”

“You can be proud. You should be.”

He pulled her in then, held her tight against him, his arms wrapped around her like armor. She let herself sink into him, eyes burning, chest aching.

“I know it’s hard,” he murmured. “I know it hurts. But you can’t let strangers dim what you’ve done. Not after tonight. Not ever.”

She didn’t respond, just let herself be held.

Eventually, they moved to the couch. She curled up beside him, his hoodie now draped over her, the TV on low but ignored. Her phone stayed where he left it—out of sight. She didn’t ask for it again.

The Oscar stayed on the counter, catching the first hints of morning light.

And somewhere, beneath all the noise, she knew he was right.

She just couldn’t feel it yet.

It lingered in her bones—something invisible and heavy, dulling the edges of everything. No matter how many times Harry told her she deserved it, no matter how many friends texted congratulations or sent voice notes filled with giddy excitement, the comments still lived just beneath the surface of her thoughts. And when the sun finally rose, burning through the fog of the sleepless night, she felt like she hadn’t won anything at all.

They had booked a hotel suite for the night of the ceremony, a quiet place tucked above the city skyline with blackout curtains and room service. It had seemed luxurious yesterday—something special, celebratory. Now, it felt sterile. A holding cell between the high of last night and whatever came next.

She hadn’t even changed out of her dress.

The sequins that had once felt like magic now clung to her like armor she couldn’t peel off. Her hair was half undone, pins slipping loose. Her makeup was smeared, but she hadn’t looked in the mirror to check how bad. She didn’t want to see herself.

She sat on the edge of the bed, knees tucked up, her bare feet curled beneath her. Her phone glowed in the dim room, casting harsh light across her face. She scrolled.

And scrolled.

And scrolled.

It wasn’t all bad. That was the hardest part—there was love in there. Kindness. Genuine joy. Fans posting her speech with heart emojis. A little girl in a homemade dress pretending to accept an Oscar “just like Y/N.” Colleagues praising her performance. Friends defending her in threads already riddled with hate. There were bright spots, but they were few and far between the barbed wire.

She kept tapping.

“She’s mid.”

“Can’t believe she cried like that—so performative.”

“She got it because she’s pretty.”

“This is why the Oscars don’t matter anymore.”

Every comment was a little pinprick, barely noticeable on its own, but bleeding her dry in slow drops. Her breath started to catch. She told herself to stop. To just stop. But the part of her that needed to see the worst—so she could maybe stop fearing it—kept scrolling anyway.

It was like digging your nails into a bruise.

When the tears came, they were sudden and angry. She didn’t even realize she was crying until her vision blurred and a hot tear rolled down the curve of her cheek, dropping onto her phone screen. She blinked hard, wiped her face, only for more to follow.

She set the phone down.

Then she picked it up again.

Locked it. Unlocked it.

Read the same comment for the third time just to be sure it stung as bad.

And then she threw it.

Not violently. Not dramatically. Just enough to get it away from her. The phone skidded across the bedspread and landed with a dull thud on the floor.

She sat there, hands trembling in her lap, chest tight, as the sobs built behind her teeth like a tidal wave waiting to crash. She didn’t want Harry to see her like this. Not after last night. Not after everything he’d said. He was still asleep, or so she thought—curled up in the other room, letting her have space. He’d offered to stay, to talk, but she’d told him she was fine. Lied through her teeth because it felt like the only way to not fall apart in front of him.

But now the tears wouldn’t stop.

Now her shoulders were shaking and her breaths came out in broken little gasps and she couldn’t tell if she was upset because of the comments, or because she believed them. Maybe both.

Because what if they were right?

What if she hadn’t been the best?

What if the role wasn’t as impressive as they’d made it seem? What if she’d just been lucky, caught in the swell of good PR and timing and a famous boyfriend by her side?

The gold statue felt a million miles away now, like it belonged to someone else.

Her hands came up to cover her face as the sob broke through her throat, loud and ugly and desperate. And that’s when she heard the door open.

“Y/N?”

Harry’s voice, groggy and low but instantly alert.

She didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

She felt the bed shift as he crossed the room, footsteps fast but quiet. He crouched in front of her without asking, his hands already reaching for hers, gently pulling them down from her face.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered. His thumb brushed under her eyes, catching a tear. “No. What happened?”

She tried to speak. Shook her head instead.

But he could see it—see the truth in the way her body was curled in on itself, the way her face was crumpled, eyes swollen and red. He glanced down and saw the phone on the floor.

“Is this about the comments?”

She nodded once, miserably.

“Fuck.” He sighed, ran a hand through his curls. “I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone with that damn thing.”

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, voice raw and paper-thin.

He looked up, startled. “What the hell are you sorry for?”

“I just… I should be happy. I want to be. But I can’t stop thinking that maybe they’re right.”

“Stop.”

She looked up at him, eyes blurry.

“I mean it,” he said, voice firmer now. “Stop. You’re allowed to have feelings, but don’t you dare say they’re right. Not about this. Not about you.”

She sniffled. “You don’t get it—”

“Then make me get it. Talk to me.”

She tried. She tried to form the words. To make sense of the mess in her head. But all that came out was a broken whisper: “I feel like a fraud.”

His heart cracked at the sound of it. He cupped her cheeks, holding her steady, grounding her.

“You’re not a fraud. You’re the realest thing in this whole fucking industry. I’ve watched you doubt yourself, question every move, pour your whole heart into every scene. You didn’t get lucky. You got good.”

She swallowed hard, tears still spilling.

“I don’t know how to believe that right now.”

“I’ll believe it for both of us, then.”

His hands moved to her back, guiding her into his chest. She folded into him, clinging like he was the only solid thing left. And maybe he was. He didn’t speak right away, just held her while her shoulders heaved with the force of her grief. Let her sob into his shirt, into the quiet.

When her breathing finally slowed, when her tears ran dry, he kissed her temple and said, “We’re going to get through this, yeah? One comment, one panic spiral, one deep breath at a time.”

She didn’t answer, but she nodded. And for now, that was enough.

They stayed like that for a long time, the sun crawling higher behind the curtains. The dress still clung to her, uncomfortable and stiff, but she didn’t have the energy to take it off. Not yet.

Eventually, Harry shifted, his voice gentler now. “Let me run you a bath.”

She hesitated, then nodded again. He kissed her forehead and disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water filling the space soon after. She leaned back against the headboard, eyes closed, trying to remember how the night had felt when everything was still perfect.

She still didn’t feel it.

But maybe she would. Eventually.

Maybe this was just the fall before the rise.

Maybe, in time, she’d find her way back to the version of herself who stood on that stage, gold in hand, voice shaking but steady, thanking the man she loved and the person she was becoming.

But right now, she let herself be small. Let herself be held. Let herself fall apart.

Because tomorrow was another day.

And she’d need all her strength to begin again.

She stayed curled in the safety of his arms, the room dim around them, muted and quiet except for the faint hum of traffic outside and the occasional creak of old floorboards settling. She didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Her body said everything. The tightness in her shoulders, the exhaustion radiating off her in waves. Harry felt it the second she walked in, her face crumpling the moment the door closed behind her. He didn’t need an explanation. He already knew.

He said nothing, just opened his arms and waited. She stepped into him like muscle memory, like this was the only place in the world that made sense right now. And when her body gave out—when her knees buckled from the weight of it all—he caught her without hesitation. No questions, no demands. Just held her against his chest, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other wrapping tight around her waist, anchoring her.

“Don’t do this, baby,” he whispered, voice low and rough, lips close to her temple. “Don’t let them take this from you.”

She shook her head, barely. A few stray tears clung to her lashes before falling, soaking into the collar of his shirt. Harry didn’t flinch. Just kept holding her like she was something sacred, something that couldn’t break as long as he had her.

His fingers moved in slow, soothing circles across her back. Sometimes he pressed a kiss to her forehead, other times he just breathed her in, grounding her in his steady presence. She didn’t know how long they stayed like that—minutes, maybe longer. Time bent weirdly when pain was involved.

“They weren’t there,” he said quietly, when her breathing started to even out. “Not when you spent months pouring yourself into this role. Not for the late nights, the rejections, the silence between auditions that made you question everything. They weren’t there for the nights you couldn’t sleep because your mind wouldn’t stop picking apart every scene you did. But I was. And I saw every second of it.”

Her grip on his shirt tightened. Her voice cracked as she whispered, “I just… I thought I’d feel different. I thought winning would make it all worth it.”

Harry leaned back just enough to see her face. She avoided his eyes at first, but he gently tilted her chin up until she had no choice.

“It is worth it,” he said, firm but tender. “You just have to believe it.”

She blinked, and another tear slipped down her cheek. He brushed it away with his thumb, slow and soft.

“I don’t know how to believe that,” she said. “Not when everything still feels so—empty.”

He nodded like he understood. Because he did.

“You’ve been running on fumes for months,” he said. “Running so fast you didn’t stop to feel anything. Now it’s over and you finally have a second to breathe, and all of it—the stress, the pressure, the fear—it's crashing down. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it. It just means you're human.”

She pressed her forehead to his. Closed her eyes. Let herself stay there.

“You didn’t do this for the validation,” he murmured. “Not really. You did it because it mattered to you. Because you had something to say and this was your way of saying it. And you did. You did.”

Her lips quivered, but she stayed silent.

“And maybe right now it doesn’t feel like enough. That’s okay. You don’t have to feel grateful or proud tonight. You just have to let yourself feel whatever the hell this is.”

He paused, then added, quieter, “Just don’t let them convince you it wasn’t real.”

She opened her eyes. Met his gaze. There was no judgment there. Just love. Steady and quiet and patient.

“I don’t want to be this person,” she said. “The one who breaks down after everything goes right.”

Harry gave a soft laugh—not mocking, just real.

“Babe, if you didn’t break down after all that, I’d be worried. You’ve been holding it all in for so long. Letting go doesn’t make you weak. It means you're still here. Still trying.”

Her breath hitched again. But this time, it wasn’t a sob. It was something closer to relief.

“Remember when you almost quit last year?” he asked.

She nodded, slowly.

“You told me, ‘If I walk away now, I’ll regret it forever.’ And you were right. You didn’t walk away. You stayed. You fought. And you fucking won.”

His voice cracked just slightly on that last word. Like he was feeling it too.

She laughed through a tear. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”

“Good,” he said, kissing her forehead again. “You need it.”

For a moment, they just sat there—her curled against him, his hand in her hair, their breaths syncing up in the quiet. It was the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled. The kind that said: I’ve got you.

She shifted, not away from him, just enough to rest her head on his shoulder.

“Sometimes I feel like they’re waiting for me to mess up,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

“They probably are,” he said honestly. “That’s what people do. They build you up, then wait for you to fall. But screw them. You don’t owe anyone your peace.”

She nodded slowly, like she was letting the words settle somewhere deeper than her mind.

“You’re not a product,” he continued. “You’re not a headline or a photo op or whatever bullshit story they’re trying to spin. You’re a person. An artist. You don’t have to carry their expectations.”

“I want to enjoy this,” she said. “I want to be proud without second-guessing everything.”

“And you will,” he said. “Not tonight, maybe. But soon.”

They fell quiet again, the weight between them not gone but easier to hold now that it was shared. Eventually, she pulled back just enough to look at him, really look.

“I don’t say it enough,” she said.

“You don’t have to,” he replied.

“No, I do.” She took a breath. “Thank you. For always seeing me. Even when I can’t see myself.”

Harry didn’t say anything at first. Just reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, his eyes soft.

“Always,” he said simply. “I’ve got you. No matter what.”

She leaned in, resting her forehead against his again.

“I think I just need tonight to fall apart,” she said.

“Then fall,” he whispered. “I’ll catch you.”

And she did.

No performance, no poise, no pressure to be anything other than exactly who she was in that moment. Messy. Tired. Raw.

He held her through it all.

And when her breathing finally slowed, when the sobs turned to sighs and her muscles stopped shaking, he didn’t let go. Just sat there with her in the dark, rubbing slow circles on her back, anchoring her to the here and now.

Because tomorrow, she’d get up again.

Tomorrow, she’d face it all with the strength she’d rebuilt in his arms tonight.

But tonight—tonight was hers to fall apart.

And his to hold her together.

Tomorrow, she’d face it all with the strength she’d rebuilt in his arms tonight.

But tonight—tonight was hers to fall apart.

And his to hold her together.

And she’d need all her strength to begin again.

She stayed pressed against him, the rise and fall of his chest steady under her cheek. The storm inside her had softened—not gone, not yet, but no longer spinning out of control. Just quiet enough to think. To breathe.

She let out a slow, shaky breath. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as she nodded once, against the warmth of him.

Harry didn’t rush her. Just kissed the top of her head and said softly, “C’mon. Let’s get you out of this dress and into something comfy.”

She managed a small hum of agreement, the words too heavy to speak just yet. Her limbs were sluggish as she moved, like wading through the aftermath of a tidal wave. He helped her to her feet with quiet care, hands on her waist steadying her as she stood.

The dress felt heavier now, weighed down by everything it had come to represent—expectation, perfection, performance. She peeled it off slowly, letting it slip to the floor in a pool of satin and silence. And when Harry handed her one of his oversized shirts, she didn’t hesitate.

It smelled like him. Safe. Familiar. Like home.

She tugged it over her head and sank onto the edge of the bed, her bare legs curled up beneath her. The award sat on the nightstand where Harry had placed it earlier. Her name gleamed on the plaque, etched into gold, definitive and real.

She stared at it for a long moment. Then, without really thinking, reached out and ran her fingers over the engraving.

Her name.

Not a character’s. Not a role. Hers.

A breath caught in her throat—not from pain, but something quieter. Something close to pride.

It didn’t crash over her all at once. It came in fragments. The way the room had gone still when they’d called her name. The walk to the stage she barely remembered. The weight of the statue in her hand. The applause that had felt both thunderous and far away. And the silence afterward, when the noise faded and doubt tried to creep in.

But now, in this quiet, with the weight of the moment behind her and the warmth of him beside her, something shifted.

She let herself smile. Just a little. Just enough.

Harry crawled into bed behind her, pulling the covers up and wrapping himself around her. One arm slid around her waist, his hand finding hers. He laced their fingers together like he always did when he needed her to know she wasn’t alone.

“You deserved this,” he whispered. “And nothing they say can change that.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just let the words sink into her. Not like before, when she heard them but couldn’t feel them. This time, they landed differently. This time, they stayed.

“I know,” she whispered back, surprised by how much she meant it.

It wasn’t total belief yet. Not full, not unwavering. But it was a start. A crack of light in a door she’d kept locked for too long.

Harry kissed the back of her shoulder, soft and lingering. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

She smiled again, this time a little fuller. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

She turned her head, just enough to look at him over her shoulder. His eyes were half-lidded, tired but still full of that same quiet conviction. The kind that never asked her to be anything more than exactly who she was.

“Thanks for staying,” she said.

“I always will.”

They didn’t need to say more. He pulled her closer, and she let him. Their bodies molded together under the covers, legs tangled, his breath brushing the back of her neck.

Outside, the city kept buzzing. Somewhere out there, people were already dissecting the night. The speeches, the dresses, the wins, the losses. Her name would be in headlines tomorrow—already was, probably. But that noise felt far away now. Muted.

In here, in this room, there was only warmth. Only quiet.

Her eyes flicked to the award one last time. The way the light caught on its edges. The way it stood there—solid and still and real.

She’d earned it.

No matter what anyone said. No matter how loud the voices got.

She closed her eyes with a slow breath.

And for the first time that night, she let herself believe it.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

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[edenprime]

Garrus' character arc is incredibly interesting in that, in my opinion, it's a sort of deconstruction of the bad cop trope. You know, the typical Hollywood detective who justifies any means to catch the perp, your run-of-the-mill copaganda guy.

He starts just like that. He joins Shepard because by running with a spectre he can avoid C-Sec regulations. He wants to endanger Dr Saleon's hostages because he thinks catching him is more important than their lives. He wants to catch Saren and kill him, period. He went off the rails, so he needs to be punished, and in his mind that means he should die, so thats why he expects Shepard to do just that, why he's got trouble understanding why a more paragon Shepard would want to capture and arrest him, instead of killing him. In his own words, he sees the world in black and white, and he decides what's good and what's bad. If it's good, fine. If it's bad, it should die. At this point, he ignores the gray, or maybe he doesn't even see it.

After the battle of the Citadel and Shepard's death, as the Council keeps burying their heads in the sand about the reapers, he realizes his objective (killing bad people so they don't hurt good people, mainly, since "stopping the reapers" at the time probably felt to him like something that was not going to happen) cannot be completed on the Citadel.

This leads him to become a vigilante on Omega. This is ideal for him. As he tells Shepard (and I'm paraphrasing), if he wants to find someone bad to kill he just has to point his gun. He does the Archangel thing for a while, and then he fails. Spectacularly. The sort of traumatic failure that stays with you for a long damn while. There's a reason, in my opinion, that he's got so little unique dialogue on the Normandy. Three conversations after his loyalty mission, and how many? 3 more at most before it? Poor man's got a shit ton of survivor's guilt to work through. He channels it into anger at Sidonis, into trying to avenge them, but still: he was responsible for their lives (in his mind), and they all, 100% of them, died.

He has all the time in ME2 to come to terms with the fact that he was wrong. To understand why he was wrong and how he failed. I'm pretty sure that by the time Shepard goes back to the alliance, he's learned his lesson: vigilante work, revenge, killing bad guys to save good guys, avoiding the law... all of that won't lead to a better galaxy. Sure, he and his team did good work in Omega, for as long as they lasted, but they weren't going to turn the tables. Archangel was good in concept, he changed lives for the better, but he wasn't going to save the galaxy.

So what does he do, when he sees his methods have failed and shit's about to hit the fan? He finally turns to the official channels. He goes to his ex-C-Sec father, with whom he "did not see eye to eye", and he asks him for his help, in what is, in my opinion, the narrative showing his changed attitude towards formal authority, that which made him a "bad turian".

He gets official government help, he gets his task force, and he gets recognition for his work. He helps the turians' chances against the reapers. He gets formal recognition for his work, as even generals are saluting him.

He learns that there's value in following procedure. He finally starts seeing that gray, a little at least. He outgrows the "bad cop" persona.

[therealcocoshady]

Hi, coco!

You could make a third part of Eminem x Young Actress Reader, where the reader accompanies him to a game in Detroit and the cameras can't stop focusing on them because Em has never been seen so smiling and affectionate with someone. For the rest you can add what you want. By the way, I love your work and I love that you write about Eminem since almost no one does.<3

Family Game

Eminem x Younger Actress Reader

Part 1 : Daddy’s Spaghetti

Part 2 : Red Carpet Appearance

AN : thank you for your request ! I hope you liked it. I added my own little twist to it 🥰

Ever since your remarked outing at the Oscars, everyone knew you and Marshall were dating, much to your delight. Sure, you would gladly do without the press coverage, but you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t a tiny bit satisfying to have everyone know that Eminem, hip hop’s most eligible bachelor was spoken for, by yours truly, no less. After all, you were not the first (nor the last) public figure to thirst over him and it felt nice to have the “competition” know that they should back off. Especially when you were in a long distance relationship : him in Detroit, you in LA. Sure, you trusted each other and often traveled to make it work but, still, it’s easy to get jealous, especially when both parties are public figures. Marshall was well aware of your status as Hollywood’s rising star and, since he had been your crush for years, you knew for a fact that he has tons of ladies throwing themselves at him. 

In spite of the distance and a couple of jealousy episodes, the two of you managed to make your relationship work, however. Marshall frequently flew out to LA to record with Dr Dre and other artists and to visit you and, whenever you weren’t shooting a movie, you joined him in Michigan. Your relationship was now in the serious state of « we’re both hope at each other’s place ». Your living room table was full of CDs and notepads and his living room was made cozy with your favorite crystals (which he always made fun of), scented candles (which he secretly loved) and fuzzy blankets (which he stole whenever you weren’t around). The whole relationship, despite trials, felt cozy and domestic. And it was made even better by the fact that Marshall had finally managed to ease up. You tended to blame it on the good critical reception after the Oscars : as soon as the two of you had been spotted together, holding hands, Marshall happily gushing about you to the press, both your fans and his had showered you with love and showed nothing but support. Whenever you were positing, fans (most of the time, respectfully) asked about him and they seemed truly overjoyed by the relationship. From what you gathered in the social media comments, they were also dying for the two of you to be spotted together again. Marshall was pretty much an hermit and not the kind to go out and about when he knew he might be spotted but, on one occasion, he had to oblige the fans. 

His beloved Detroit Lions were playing your Los Angeles Rams at Detroit’s Ford Field Stadium and there was no way in hell you would miss the occasion to attend. Knowing how protective of your relationship he could be, you made plans to attend on your own, with a couple of friends who would fly in for the occasion, but Marshall surprised you by actually requesting your presence. 

Don’t you want to go with me ? He asked. 

You mean… on a date ? You clarified. 

I mean there would be other people around, like family, friends and shit but we could be together, he said with a smile. 

You mean you would agree to being spotted with me ?! You asked jokingly. You know I wouldn’t be caught dead in Lions apparel ! 

What I mean is that I’d be proud to hold your hand, even if you’re wearing that stupid Rams hoodie, he grinned. 

Ok, you giggled. As long as I’m not forced to cheer for your team ! 

You ended up attending the event in a private suite with a lot of other people. Of course, his children were in attendance, as well as a couple of D12 friends. You had met everyone previously. A couple of months into the relationship, Marshall had organized a dinner for you to officially meet his daughters and everything had gone smoothly. You absolutely loved them, and same went for the friends he had introduced to you on different occasions. At the game, you were also joined by a couple of your friends, that you not so secretly planned on setting up with some of his. In your mind, there was no doubt that Alicia and Porter were meant to be and the Game seemed like the perfect occasion. It was joyful and everyone was really happy to be here. You were donning your favorite Rams apparel, much to Marshall’s dismay, but that didn’t prevent him from casually holding your hand. 

For how much would you wear Lions apparel ? Your friend jokingly asked. 

Nobody in this room can afford it, you replied with a grin. 

Oh really ? Marshall asked with a smirk. 

How about if you guys get married ? Porter asked. Would you be willing to support the Lions ? 

That would require a HUGE rock, you giggled. But yeah, sure, if we ever get married, I’ll wear Lions gear for all games, except the ones against the Rams. 

Your friends erupted in « oooohs » and « aaaahs ». The rivalry between your two teams was enough to fuel a dozen of conversations but, other than that, everyone around you had to agree that you were kind of the perfect couple. Your best friends always pointed out that Marshall was good at keeping you grounded and reminding you of the things that mattered - besides all the LA glitz and glamour - and Marshall’s circle seemed happy that you encouraged him to go out of his comfort zone. 

He was usually stressed out whenever there were tons of cameras around. It was unsettling to you, at first, because it was part of the job, but as your relationship progressed and he came with you to some events, he seemed to ease up. Still, he wasn’t big on public displays of affection, but you didn’t mind. You enjoyed his company nonetheless and you didn’t need him to kiss you in public or even hold your hand to be happy to be with him. In settings like football games, though, he was himself - the man you knew and loved in everyday life. He could be seen clapping, shouting, cheering… a far cry from the stoic face he arbored on red carpets and magazine covers. And you absolutely loved to see him enjoy himself and have fun. You were enamored with his smile and happy demeanor and you didn’t care too much about the 60 000 other people, you only had eyes for him. Obviously, though, as a Detroit native and global superstar, he was one of the centres of attention when Lose Yourself started playing before the game and everyone started singing/rapping along to the lyrics. Everyone in your group watched Marshall, who was definitely in a good mood. So were you, to be honest, and you couldn’t help but rap along, this song being one of your favorites ever. As the song ended, you could see Marshall sitting right next to you, trying not to laugh. 

You’re adorable, he chuckled. 

What ? You asked with a giggle. It’s the ultimate stadium song ! And my boyfriend is the one who wrote it !!! 

I love you, he simply said before cupping your face and placing a chaste kiss on your lips. 

That was the last tender moment the two of you shared before the end of the game. When your two favorite teams played each other, there was no romantic involvement anymore. It was all betting, taunting and calling each other names. For the first two quarters, the Rams seemed to dominate, which you gladly shoved in your boyfriend’s face, but when the Lions ended up winning, you knew you wouldn’t hear the end of it. Despite it all, and in spite of you being a sore loser, Marshall behaved like the perfect boyfriend and pecked you on the cheek, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you exited your suite. His team winning always put him in a celebratory mood and he was more affectionate than usual, not giving a damn what people would see or think. He even went so far as to kiss your lips. 

Of course, in the following hours, the Internet went absolutely crazy over the pictures of the two of you at the stadium. While some accounts were raving about your outfit (because you did put some effort into making that Sports apparel work !), most of them were gushing about Marshall’s display of affection and how in love the two of you looked. 

« Look at his smile 🥰 » commented one, or « Look how in love he looks when she’s rapping his song 😭❤️ » were a few of the comments you could see under the videos of the event. It was extremely cute and, in moments like these, you felt like the luckiest woman on earth. However, a swarm of other comments started to appear, focusing on… Marshall’s daughters. The three of them were sitting on the row just behind you and they could be seen laughing at your nonexistent rapping skills (all fair, really) and mocking their father’s display of affection. You didn’t take offense at all - you’d been there yourself and you knew how icky it could feel, seeing your parent being affectionate with someone in public, but the press and social media accounts seemed to turn it into a family feud. If the headlines were to be believed, neither Alaina, Stevie or Hailie approved of the relationship and thought you were too young for Marshall. They apparently despised you and saw you as the most evil and wicked stepmother who was more than likely after their Dad’s fortune. Of course, reality couldn’t be further from the truth. Whenever you were in Detroit, you spent a great deal of time with Marshall’s daughters and you considered as friends. So much so that you even made plans of your own, that did not include him. It wasn’t rare for the four of you to have dinner or go shopping. On occasion, they even visited you in California and you soon planned to go on a girls’ trip in Morocco. So, when Hailie showed you the headline on your phone, everyone burst out laughing. 

« Evil stepmother », Stevie chortled. That’s hilarious. 

Is that because of the face you made, Hailie ? When Y/N was rapping ? Alaina chimed in. 

I was making a face because they were corny ! She laughed. Look at Dad’s face on the video. He’s all cute and lovey dovey. Of course I wanted to puke ! 

Marshall rolled his eyes. He was no stranger to his kids making fun of how in love with you he was but, honestly, he didn’t care. For the first time in forever, he was happy and thriving in a relationship. A healthy one, at that. Whenever you were around, he could barely contain his joy and good mood and he often thought he would do anything to make you smile. He hated public attention but he simply loved showing you off and enjoying life with you. However, he had to admit he was a little annoyed by the comments involving your relationship with his daughters. He knew there was no truth to it whatsoever but that didn’t make it less annoying. First of all, he hated seeing his kids’ names in the media, especially if it was negative and, secondly, he hated the idea of lies involving all of you, the people he loved the most on this earth. However, the four of you were grown women and he knew better than to say something so he figured it would be best to wait for it to die down. 

Unfortunately, though, the rumors did not die down and the whole thing got blown out of proportion. It wasn’t only on social media : press and other media outlets got ahold of the story and even dug up some obscure social media posts and took them out of context. They really made it seem like there was hatred between the girls and you were a mean gold-digger who wanted to estrange Marshall from his children. Nothing could be further for the truth though, and you even celebrated the holidays together. After years spent in the public eye, you tried not to let it get to you but it was hard. Even if some of your past relationships had been publicized, this one was on a whole other level and you had a hard time dealing with the scrutiny. Especially when some people were starting to wish for the end of your career with comments like « What a b****. Hope no one casts her ever again 🙄 » or « Hope she enjoys her Oscar because she won’t last much longer in Hollywood 💀 ». You tried not to let your feelings show. Marshall was already annoyed and you didn’t want things to get worse. After all, you knew how overprotective he could get over the people he loved. 

A few weeks went by and the attention seemed to die down around the holidays. You had been with Marshall for a year and a half and it was your first time celebrating together. You would spend the days leading up to Christmas in Michigan, go back to your family in California for the holidays and then jet off to a private Island lent by a friend for some vacation time just the two of you. Marshall would even join you in LA to spend some time with your family who was definitely approving of him. They absolutely adored him and considered him a part of the family. 

In the week leading up to Christmas, you were on Christmas tree decoration duty with the girls while Marshall was letting you do your thing. Hailie had come up with some ornaments as merch for her podcast and you thought it would be cute and funny to take a selfie with one of them that said « Shady or Nice ». You posted it to your Instagram account with some cheesy caption and didn’t pay it too much attention. When you checked the comments, a day or so later, you were surprised at the reaction. What you thought would be a cute nod to your boyfriend and his daughter’s podcast ended up in a shitstorm, with people basically accusing you on sucking up to Hailie to get to Marshall. In their mind, you were a master manipulator. Of course, these were just a bunch of people commenting and the rest seemed rather supportive and happy to see you acknowledging your relationship, something you rarely did on your social media account. Still, you were a little bugged off when you went to bed. 

What’s up, babygirl ? Marshall asked as he laid next to you. 

Nothing, you shrugged. Just these mean trolls. 

What are they saying now ? 

That your daughters hate me, you summed up. And that I’m trying to suck up to them. 

That’s stupid, he scoffed. The girls love you and you know it. 

And I love them too, you know ? You replied. But I don’t know… I don’t like people getting the wrong idea. And I see people commenting about me in their posts and it breaks my heart. 

It’s not your fault, he said before kissing your forehead. Let’s not think about that, ok ? Just focus on the holidays and the great time we’re going to have. 

I’m going to miss you for Christmas, you pointed out. 

Three days, he chuckled. And then I’m joining you in California. And after that… you, me, a private island and your tiniest bikinis. 

You nuzzled his neck and enjoyed the warmth of his embrace, making you forget all of your worries. The next day, you were set to hop on the jet to go back to California and enjoy some family time with your brother and your parents. Before that, you enjoyed one last brunch at Marshall’s place, with his daughters. Hailie got everyone matching ugly Christmas sweaters and you were absolutely moved that she got one for you. You took corny pictures in front of the Christmas tree posing with your boyfriend’s daughters while he was rolling his eyes at your dumb poses. You even got Marshall to pose with you. He wasn’t big on taking pictures but he knew how important these were for you and the girls so he obliged with a smile on his face. A few hours later, you were on the jet, scrolling social media and noticed that Alaina had posted the picture of you, her and her sisters in front of the Christmas Tree with the caption : « Happy holidays from our FAMILY to yours 💕 ». You thought it was the sweetest thing ever that she considered you as family. Of course, trolls were still in the comments, but you tried to stay positive. A few hours later, Hailie updated her last podcast episode of the year, with Stevie as guest. 

So, before we begin this episode, we wanted to address something, she began. 

Family matters, Stevie specified. 

Right, Hailie nodded. You guys have been commenting a lot on last episode’s video and on my Instagram account…

All our accounts, her sister corrected.

Yes. Everyone’s account. It seems like Internet is going crazy about a certain video that was taken at the last Lions Game, so I thought… we thought we should clear things up, Hailie said. I understand that there are always going to be rumors about our family, and we can’t help it at this point, but it’s the Holidays and I don’t my mood to be ruined by negative attention and lies. So… Stevie, do you want to comment on the video ? 

Basically, we were at the game, enjoying some family time and people filmed our reaction to Y/N… our Dad’s girlfriend, rapping Lose Yourself, Stevie explained. And kissing afterwards. And what really sparked the whole thing is the face Hailie made. 

Yeah, I pretended to puke, Hailie giggled. And no, guys, it’s not because I hate Y/N or anything like that, it’s just… we’re a normal family, guys. Whenever you see your parents being cheesy and corny, you want to puke, right ? 

Right, Stevie giggled. So, let’s not dwell on this but for the record : we love Y/N and she is not what people make her to be. We see her as family, you know ? 

Yes ! It’s the Holidays, it’s a family time and we all know I love Shady stories but… nothing Shady here. It’s all love, Hailie chuckled. 

Too much love, Stevie joked. 

This warmed your heart even more. The girls absolutely didn’t have to jump to your defense but the fact that they did warmed your heart and you couldn’t wait to spend some time with them again. You sent texts to thank them and wished them happy holidays, saying you were looking forward to seeing them soon. You also texted your boyfriend, telling him how amazing his kids were and that you loved him and his family. 

MARSHALL’S POV 

Marshall was eating dinner with his daughters when he got a text from Y/N that immediately put a smile on his face. 

You girls are amazing, he said with a smile. 

No idea what you’re talking about, Alaina said with feigned innocence. 

I think you do, he replied with a grin. Seriously, you didn’t have to do that but… thank you. It means a lot to me. 

We weren’t going to let people think we hate her, Stevie said.

Not when she is actually about to become our stepmother, Hailie said with a smirk. 

Marshall immediately let his fork fall on his plate, a look of surprise on his face. 

I… erm… wanted to talk to you about it first, he said. How do you even know… ? 

I found the ring sketches in your office last time I went there, Stevie said. I was searching for one of your old CDs. 

And you had to go yapping to your sisters about that ? He asked with a raised eyebrow. 

Are you really going to propose ? Hailie said with excitement. 

I mean… I’ve been thinking about it, yeah, he admitted. I wanted to make sure you girls were ok with it first but, if that’s fine with you, I’d like to propose to her over the holidays. 

The girls erupted in cheers and immediately gave their blessings, commenting on how they never thought this day would come. Of course, they quizzed him about his plans. 

Were spending a couple of days with her family before going on vacation for NYE, so I was planning on asking for her father’s blessing, he explained. 

Isn’t he like… almost your age, though ? Stevie chuckled. 

It’s a matter of respect, he shrugged. I appreciated when Matt and Evan asked for my blessing so I thought I’d do the same. Can’t hurt to have your future father-in-law on your side. 

And… as for the proposal ? Alaina asked. 

I know it’s not super original but I was thinking of doing it on the private island, over a nice dinner on the beach, at sunset or something like that, he said. 

It’s so cute ! Alaina said. I love it. 

I think my Dad’s gone corny, Hailie joked. 

You think it’s corny ? He asked with his eyebrows furrowed. 

Oh definitely. But she’s just as corny so she is going to love it ! 

One question though, Stevie said. If you guys get married, she’ll move to Detroit, right ? 

That’s sort of the plan, yeah, Marshall said. She’d move for work quite a bit, depending on where movies are shot, but she’d live with me. Why ? 

So… she’d have to turn into a Lions fan eventually, right ? 

I’m counting on it, he said with a smirk. 

Is that why you’re proposing ? Alaina joked. 

Maybe, he chuckled. I swear to God, I’m putting a ban on Rams apparel in the prenup. 

[endless-ineffabilities]

chemical override (10)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: as dictated by the results of poll #6, this chapter will include stunt training, clubbing, and an accident. Plus, you've got tub anon to thank for... well... the tub scene :) Oh, and this is kind of 18+. Just a tad.

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

Matt and the reader eagerly explore the uncharted waters of their budding relationship. Ewan is booked and busy with the preparation for his new franchise. Will Ewan and his darling even find time for each other, or should they just take this opportunity to let go?

The internet, ever so informative, lets you know that Ewan and Jenna’s arrangement is in its initial stages before he even calls to tell you. 

Their first interview with Josh Horowitz is immediately followed by another feature on the movie set, with the two talking about the pre-production, what they liked about the script, and their chemistry, which according to them, came naturally and did not require much work at all. It was practically the thing they had to work on the least. How lucky. 

A lighthearted reprieve came in the form of a meme that started circulating not long after their interview with Josh. In it, Ewan is caught looking like he's either malfunctioning or deep in a philosophical crisis. The internet ran with it, with captions like, ‘When you realise you left the oven on at home’, to comparing him to an NPC glitching out.

When you asked him about it, he quickly stammered that he simply spaced out. Sure. It was hilarious, nonetheless.

Your publicist Mallory had commented that soon Ewan and Jenna would be obliged to go on pap walks, something that would appear casual and separate from the confines of the project that they’re working on. Something that signals that their relationship is making it into the real world.

“That whole casual ‘just friends hanging out’ vibe they’re gonna push? It’s all part of the gig,” Mallory shared. “Next thing you know, they’ll be taking long walks on the beach or grabbing coffee in some trendy LA spot.”

You’d be lying if you said it didn’t sting. Even just a little. Sure, you know what the business is like. You’ve been on the same end of that deal just recently, with your own film’s PR efforts. But this arrangement that Ewan has doesn’t seem like the usual short-term fling to drum up buzz. It feels… heavy, like something that might actually stick.

“I’d be lying if I say I don’t find it all annoying, darling, but I try to look at it now as part of the job, you know?” he had said, when he phoned you one evening – his afternoon – to let you know that his stay in LA would be much longer than expected. 

You responded with, “Oh, yeah, I completely understand.” What else can you do? You aren’t together – you don’t have a claim to him, and vice versa. You thought that would make things better – easier – but you’re still waiting for that sense of comfort to kick in.

This is for the best, you would remind yourself every time a new headline surfaces. 

It’s only been a month since you last properly saw Ewan, since that night on the rooftop. In the early days, he messaged every day, called whenever he had a spare moment. But slowly, the calls have become shorter, more sporadic – chalked up to his increasingly busy schedule. Your tones have become more dispassionate – he blames it on his exhaustion, profusely swearing that he misses you so fucking much, but something feels different. 

Your job keeps you busy, with your commitments related to the new season of House of the Dragon, event appearances, and gearing up for the release of your film with Jacob. You are even invited to the upcoming Vanity Fair Young Hollywood Ball, an exclusive party to be held in New York.

And Matt is a more than welcome distraction. 

Matt, who has begun spending more time in your apartment after Ewan’s temporary move to LA. Matt, who brings you flowers that are apparently ‘beautiful, but pales in comparison to you’. Matt, who is unfailingly a gentleman, respecting your boundaries and not making a move since that time on your couch after your first date, when you told him to wait. 

He sits with you by your kitchen counter, in a disarmingly tight white shirt that leaves little to the imagination, one sturdy hand nursing a cup of coffee and the other on the small of your back to support you as you sit on the high stool, and you suddenly don’t want him to wait anymore. 

“Have you decided on what you’ll be wearing to the screening tonight, love?” he asks. 

“Why? Does it have to be pre-approved?” you playfully quip, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Ah,” he nods, smiling, playing along, “of course, of course. You think I’m an easy man to date? You’ve got to keep up with my standards, as beautiful as you already are.”

You laugh, playfully mussing his hair, and he catches your wrist before it drops back on the counter. He says, “I ask because I wanted to match you, so to speak. We’d be like two peas in a pod.”

“Oh,” you snort softly, “or you know, like Tweedledee and Tweedledum?”

“Funny girl,” he muses, before leaning forward and capturing your lips in a soft kiss, caffeinated and warm and Matty. You notice that his hand on your back is pressed firmer – he didn’t want you to slip when you leaned in. 

Charming bastard. He isn’t making things any easier… or maybe he is. 

Maybe he’s it. 

But the moment’s broken by a loud, offended-sounding meow. You look down to see Sansa, staring at Matt like he’s personally responsible for all the world’s problems.

“Hey, babygirl,” Matt croons, extending a hand toward her. Sansa, the biggest diva of a kitten, just gives him a slow blink before trotting off, clearly unimpressed.

“Calling her babygirl isn’t going to make her warm up to you,” you tease.

“She already doesn’t seem to like me,” he replies, scoffing. “Which is a shock, pretty much, how can she not?”

“So humble, Matthew.” You smile at his effortless charm, his easy personality. That’s all you seem to be doing nowadays. Matt is like your personal ray of sunshine. 

“I’ll win her over,” he declares confidently, sitting upright. “Anything for my lady.”

You roll your eyes. “How very Daemon of you.”

“Actually,” he laughs, “Daemon would probably feed her to Caraxes for being difficult.”

“Matthew!”

“I’m kidding!”

Sansa meows even louder, bounding away towards your bedroom. 

“Leave my Sansa alone,” you say, pointing at him accusingly.

He gives you a sly grin. “I will… if you come here and give me another kiss.”

Before you can respond, he slides your stool closer to his with a smooth movement, catching you off guard. You find yourself practically in his lap, his thighs pressing against yours as he waits, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Okay,” you sigh deeply, narrowing your eyes, unable to mask the smile that graces your lips. “One kiss, but only for Sansa.”

“Oh, shush and kiss me already, love.”

The film screening had been a private event, by invitation only from those who worked on the film. Edward Bluemel, Matt’s good friend, is a fellow actor marking his directorial debut with this film. For a first go, it was impressive, gripping from start to finish. Almost as much as Matt’s hand resting just above your knee, his thumb absentmindedly tracing soft circles into your skin.

Your cheeks had flushed when a particularly steamy scene came on the screen, and it might have been the nervous gremlins in your mind, but you swore Matt’s hand inched higher up your leg.

Now, on your couch, his hand is even higher. He hovers over you, his breath heavy and uneven as his fingers tease at the warmth between your thighs, so close to where you’re already aching for him. 

Maybe it was all the dirty martinis you drank at the open bar after the screening, or maybe this was a long time coming. Either way, you want him, and from the way his lips move urgently against yours, he wants you too.

It dawns on you that the tension is no longer something you can talk yourself out of.

He pulls away, and you protest with a mewling whine, your body arching into him. He nearly growls in frustration, the unspeakable sound you just made having a direct line to his hardened cock. With a gentle tug at the nape of his neck, you pull him back down to your lips, but he resists. 

“We have to slow down,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “Because we’re about to cross a line that I won’t be able to hold back from, love.”

“Matt – ”

“I understand – ” He licks his lips, letting out a slow and controlled breath. “ – that you want to wait – ”

Your confession comes out slow and measured, letting him know that this is what you really want. “Maybe I don’t want… to wait anymore.”

“Say that again,” he says slowly, his eyes darkening in lust. 

“Maybe I… I want you to fuck me.”

“Maybe?” he whispers, his voice rough, practically pleading.

“Oh, just fuck me.”

That’s all it takes for him to snap.

He undresses you in record time, ripping off every item of clothing from your body with an eagerness that betrays just how hungry he is for you.

Neither of you even bother to travel to your bedroom. At some point, your entwined naked bodies slip off the couch and onto your plush carpet. 

And you have a heated… What was it called again? 

Oh right – a damn good roll in the hay. 

The water is still warm in your deep clawfoot tub, steam rising gently from the surface. You lean back, head resting against the porcelain, that blissful post-sex daze settling over you. 

Matt slides into the water opposite you, his movements slow, deliberate. His eyes haven’t left you since he stepped in, and you can feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your skin. It isn’t just the remnants of your earlier intimacy – though that heat still hummed in the air between you – it’s something more. Something you can’t name and maybe you’re afraid to, but it tugs at you all the same.

A small smile plays on his lips, the kind that made your chest tighten – half teasing, half dangerous.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asks, voice low and smooth.

You exhale a soft laugh, running your fingers lazily through the water, trailing small ripples across the surface. “I’m not exactly complaining, am I?”

“Good. Wouldn’t want you to have second thoughts.” His tone is light, but the undercurrent of meaning isn’t lost on you.

You close your eyes, letting the warm water soothe your tired muscles, but even with the comfort of the bath, you can’t quite escape the one person lingering in the back of your mind. 

Matt isn’t Ewan, but he’s here, his presence steady, his charm disarming. He makes you laugh, makes you feel wanted in ways that are simple and uncomplicated, and maybe that’s what you need right now. Maybe it was okay to let yourself enjoy this, to live in this moment without overthinking what it meant.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Matt asks, leaning forward.

You open your eyes, catching the glint of amusement in his. “Just... thinking.”

“Dangerous territory,” he teases, reaching for your hand.

“Hmm, maybe,” you murmur, meeting his gaze. “You’re too charming for your own good, you know that?”

He chuckles deeply. “I’ve been told. But I like to think it’s part of my appeal.”

You roll your eyes, though you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Cocky bastard.”

He grins, leaning in even closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “Takes one to know one.” His hand travels to your leg underneath the water, massaging gently.

“I’m serious, though,” he says softly, his voice taking on a more earnest tone. “I don’t want you overthinking this. We’re good, yeah?”

You nod, but there is a flicker of something else in your chest. Guilt, maybe? But Matt is right here, and he isn’t asking for anything more than what you could give, and for now, that is more than enough.

“We’re good,” you whisper, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips.

He smiles against your mouth, his hand moving to cup the back of your neck, pulling you in closer. “Good,” he whispers back, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

You laugh, the sound muffled as he kisses you again and positions you on top of him. You shuffle forward and discover a very obvious indication that he’s ready for round two of rolling in the hay. Or in the tub. Whatever works. 

He looks absolutely enraptured when you ride him, your motions causing tremors in the water. 

And in the sheer pleasure he gives you, surrounded by flickering candlelight and the smell of lavender, you allow yourself to let go.

The event has the industry buzzing - an exclusive event by Vanity Fair celebrating the rising stars of Hollywood. A masquerade party, the notion of which excited you to no end. You’d only read about such in books, in its medieval iterations, all poofy skirts and velvet waistcoats, the whole concept full of prestige and mystery. 

You spent days prepping with your team, the anticipation building until it felt like a living thing inside you. Your dress, a beautiful piece from Atelier Versace, fits like a glove, one side made of draped black sequins shimmering like liquid night against your skin. The theme is Midnight Elysium, and you look every bit the part - dangerous and glamourous and untouchable. 

Your makeup team did an impeccable job. Your eyeshadow resembles a swirling galaxy, a blend of silver and noir. Your lipstick is a perfect nude shade that matches your skin tone and your features.  

But then there was the mask. The final, necessary touch. Delicate black lace that settles over your eyes, framed with gold filigree and flecks of silver – sharp and ethereal at once. It was a piece of art, something you personally commissioned from a local designer in your hometown.

In a room where everyone claims to know everyone, a mask can be more than just a costume piece. It can be a weapon – giving you the freedom to be both seen and unseen. 

Stepping into the nightclub is like slipping in between worlds. Black velvet drapes line the walls, catching the glow of the minimal lighting – gold and silver chandeliers hanging like constellations. The bass from the music pulses underfoot, sending vibrations through your veins. Faces are obscured by extravagant masks, but you are able to recognise some of them if you look close enough. Milly is speaking to someone by the bar, and you remind yourself to pull her aside for a chat later. Timothee is introducing his date to a small flock of people. And Jacob is bounding right for you the moment you make eye contact. 

“There’s my leading lady,” he greets cheerfully, swooping down to kiss you on both cheeks. He’s wearing a metallic silver vest and trousers, along with a white mask that covers one side of his face like The Phantom.

“Wow,” you say, making a show of appraising him, looking at all 6 foot 5 inches of his figure up and down. “You look like a handsome disco ball.”

He laughs, the sound unmistakable even in the bustling nightclub. “And look at you! What are you, a cyberpunk witch? A sleek dominatrix?” 

“Careful now,” you warn him, “or I might just hex you into getting me a drink.”

“Coming right up,” he says, but his attention is pulled by someone calling his name. “Hold on a sec, I have to introduce you to some of my friends.” You let him lead you further into the room, and you’re swept into the rhythm of it all, moving through the crowd as if you belong – because you do. You’re slowly getting used to the weight of eyes on you, but tonight, it feels as if there’s a shadow you can’t quite shake. 

Your personal shadow in a room full of masked shadows. Your skin prickles, an awareness blooming under your ribs. In all the fuss leading up to this event, you hadn’t really bothered to check the full roster of attendees.

After several rounds of conversation, you excuse yourself for a moment and stand off to the side to take a breather. 

And then you see him.

Ewan stands across the room, a drink in hand, his black leather overcoat tailored to perfection. The mask he wears, a sharp cut of black and gold, adds a dangerous air to him. His effortlessly tousled hair sports a smattering of gold embellishments, like streaks of pale blonde hair. You take him in, every inch of him, that mischievous curve of his lips and the glint of his blue eyes underneath that mask. 

It hits you like a tidal wave, like a fucking hurricane, the longing you’ve tried to suppress for weeks. 

You shouldn’t want him this much, not when you both agreed to the break. To keep some distance. His fake romantic arrangement had made sure of that. And after everything, you knew that some separation was what you both needed. 

But seeing him now, looking at you like he’s starving… it’s enough to unravel every careful thread you’d stitched together since you last touched. You want to look away, pretend that this is just another night, that he’s just another fellow actor among the crowd. But the pull is too strong. It’s as if your legs move on their own volition, and you slowly move through the crowd, almost subconsciously drawn to him. 

He steps deeper into the shadows of the club as you approach, disappearing into one of the more secluded alcoves draped in heavy black velvet. No one will see you there. No one will know any better.

The world narrows down to just the two of you, and the music becomes a distant hum. It’s quieter, darker, and for all the trappings of the Hollywood elite, Ewan is far more intoxicating. 

“You’re here,” you whisper, half in question, half in disbelief.

But he’s already moving towards you, his eyes dark and hungry behind the mask. The air between you crackles with an undeniable need – weeks of distance, of longing, building up to this moment. He’s close enough that you feel the warmth of his body through your dress, and you so badly want to forget that this is a bad idea.

“I can’t stay away,” he says, his voice low and raw, like it’s costing him to hold back. “Not tonight.”

You swallow, your heart pounding in your chest, every rational thought slipping away as his fingers skim the bare skin of your waist through the slits in your dress. “We… we can’t,” you manage to say, but even to your own ears, it sounds weak. Oh, who are you trying to fool?

“How can I not? Fuck, how can you look like that and expect me to just walk away?”

You want to say something, something sensible, something to remind him of the stakes. But nothing comes to mind, not when his hand brushes up your arm, raising goosebumps in its wake. His other hand slips to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space between you. He dips his head down, breathing against your shoulders and your neck, taking you in like a vice. 

“Ewan,” you finally croak. “We agreed not to – ”

“I don’t bloody care,” he cuts you off, his mouth inches from yours. “We agreed to give it some time, sure, but I never agreed to stop wanting you. Besides, I make good on what’s asked of me. I play the part. I deserve to be rewarded, don’t I? And you’re the only prize I desire.”

His words hit you hard, melting any resistance you’d been clinging to. 

“Oh? So… so I’m just a prize now?”

He only smiles. “The only one worth winning.”

Before you can think, before you can stop yourself, you pull him closer and crash your lips into his. 

The kiss is hard, fierce, his mouth feverishly attacking yours. He tastes bittersweet, all hard bourbon and cigarettes. You’re certain that the lipstick your makeup artist painstakingly applied would be wiped clean off. His hands grip you harder, fingers digging into your flesh, pulling you closer, deeper, like he can’t get enough.

You break apart, gasping for breath. His lips are slick, shining in the occasional flicker of neon blue and red lights, his mask casting shadows across his sharp features.

A bright flash from the party's official photographer erupts in the corner, thankfully not pointed in your direction. Still, it momentarily shakes both of you back to reality. 

“Come with me.” His hand slips into yours, fingers curling possessively as he pulls you away from the cacophony of the club. You barely have time to react before you’re being led down a narrow, dimly lit hallway. He pushes open a door, leading you into a smaller room bathed in that same cold, electric blue. Plush seating is arranged haphazardly in the corners, but the space is mostly empty. The low hum of the bass still thrums in the distance, but it’s reduced to a faint echo. The smell gives off cigarette smoke and spilled liquor.

“Smoking area,” he says with a half-smirk, glancing around the room as if seeing it for the first time himself. “I think.”

“You think?” You raise an eyebrow.

He shrugs, utterly unconcerned. “Who cares? It’s just us in here.”

You shoot him a look, glancing back at the door. “Someone could walk in.”

He chuckles, stepping closer, that familiar heat radiating off him like a furnace. “It’s a party, darling. They’re probably wasted out of their minds. And besides…” He taps the edge of his mask, his eyes glinting mischievously behind the black and gold. “The masks?”

You bite your lip, trying to maintain some semblance of control. “And if someone does walk in?” you ask, arching a brow. “What then?”

He steps closer, crowding into your space, the tension thick between you. “Then they get a show,” he says, his voice playful and teasing, but laced with something darker. 

“Are you fucking serious?” 

“You can still walk away, darling,” he offers, trying to bait you when he knows full well that he already has you hooked. “Or, you can just shut up and kiss me.”

So much for giving it time. Ewan’s lips find yours once more, just as desperate, and you barely notice when he directs you to the seating, your back colliding with its velvet exterior. His low groan sends a wave of heat pooling in your stomach, and you think to yourself, this was a terrible idea. 

Your hands roam, finding the planes of his chest. He smoothly takes off his leather overcoat, revealing his bare torso underneath. The sight of it makes your head spin, and you croak unsteadily, “Ewan… not here, baby, we can’t – ”

“I know, darling,” he croons, his hand cradling your face. “I just wanna kiss you. I just want you… to touch me…” His other hand takes yours and drags it down the firm lines of his stomach, a desperate plea in his eyes. “Please, just – ”

The moment is abruptly shattered by the sound of giggling from the hallway, getting louder. Suddenly, the door opens and in stumbles a pair of girls, one of them you recognise to be Jenna. 

“Oh!” The other girl exclaims, clearly delighted by the situation she’s just walked into. She pulls off her mask, revealing herself as Emma Myers. “We found him! We finally found your date.”

Your heart plummets, right down on the liquor stained carpet.

“Hi,” you manage to squeak, getting to your feet and smoothing down your dress which had ridden scandalously higher up your thighs. “I’m – ”

“Oh, I know who you are,” Jenna says, shaking your hand, not the least bit bothered by the state she found you and Ewan in. “I love your work. I’m Jenna.”

“Oh… thank you – ”

Emma steps in, grinning. “Hi! I’m Emma. I’m such a fan.”

“Oh my god, I should be saying that to you guys!” you blurt, feeling a rush of relief at their easy demeanour. “I love Wednesday.”

They both gasp, and soon the three of you are exchanging compliments like old friends, chatting about each other's work with enthusiasm. Ewan, still seated, watches the scene unfold with barely concealed frustration. He eventually stands, shrugging his leather coat back on, and glances at Jenna.

“One of our producers is here,” Jenna explains cheerfully. “She’d love to chat with both of us.”

Right. Ewan’s her date. The word echoes in your mind, but the jealousy you expected to feel is oddly muted now. 

Ewan speaks, addressing only you, “Darling, will you – ”

“I’ve got her,” Emma declares, looping her arm around yours. “I’ve got so much I want to ask you!” Before you know it, she leads you out of the room like you’ve been best friends for years.

Ewan’s eyes stay on you, full of frustration and yearning, even as he and Jenna follow you out the door.

But you barely see him for the rest of the night.

The party is a blur of celebrities and conversations, but your mind keeps drifting back to that stolen moment in the blue-lit room. Eventually, your social battery runs out, and you slip out of the club early, unnoticed by most. 

Back at your hotel, you peel off your dress and drop onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as the events of the night replay in your head. The feeling of his hands on your skin, the heat of his body pressed against yours – it’s all too much.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, snapping you out of your thoughts. Ewan One-Eye flashes across the screen.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen, but you pick up. His voice is low, almost cautious. “You left early.”

“I was tired,” you reply, voice soft. “The party was great but it was... a lot.” Mainly because of him.

A beat of silence follows, and you wonder if he's wrestling with what to say next. “Are you okay?” You can almost picture him running a hand through his hair, jaw clenched, eyes dark with worry. 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you say, unable to hide the tremble in your voice. 

Another long pause, with only his slow breathing on the other end. 

“I hate this,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper, the raw emotion in his words hitting you like a punch to the gut. “I fucking hate that he gets to have you, and I don’t… and I can’t… ” He cuts himself off, and you hear the snap of his lighter followed by his sharp exhale.

You bite your lip, your throat tight with emotion. You’ve both been so careful, dancing around each other, pretending that you could stay apart.

“I’m flying back to London tomorrow night,” you blurt out, the words rushing out before you can stop them. It feels like a confession, like you’re admitting defeat.

“I need to see you before you go.”

“Ewan, we agreed – ”

“Fuck what we agreed!” His sudden outburst takes you by surprise, and you hear the raw need in his voice. “I don’t care about the arrangement, I don’t care about the distance. I just... I need you.”

You want to tell him that you need him too. You want to throw caution to the wind and agree to being together in secret despite the false romance he has to portray to the world. But you can’t. 

“I...” Your voice falters. “We’ll see each other soon.” It doesn’t feel like enough. With a soft sigh, you add on a lighter note, “Alyna still has to kick Aemond’s ass, you know.”

A beat passes, and then you hear his tired laugh on the other end. “Right,” he chuckles softly, the sound both comforting and heartbreaking. “Wouldn’t want to keep the fans waiting for that.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, trying for casual, trying not to let your voice crack, “someone’s got to put Aemond in his place.”

“Hmm, well if that place happens to be right in Alyna’s arms, I doubt you’ll hear any complaints about the script from me this time.”

You can’t help but smile at his teasing, but it only deepens the ache in your heart.

“Ewan…” you begin, but the words hang in the air, unspoken. 

“I know, darling,” he replies, his tone resigned yet gentle. “I miss you too.”

The training room is alive with the sounds of clashing swords and laughter, but you can’t help but feel a different kind of electricity buzzing in the air. Maybe it’s just the way Matt looks at you, as you rehearse a scene where Daemon helps Alyna brush up on her sword fighting. 

You lunge forward, initiating the first move with confidence, and he counters effortlessly, the blades clashing in a symphony of steel. The practice moves are intense, each swing bringing you closer. His eyes darken with focus as he follows your movements, and for a moment, it becomes easy to forget the rest of the stunt crew in the room. 

“Nice footwork,” Matt compliments, stepping in closer. His body brushes against yours, sending a rush of heat through you. Ever since your night together, he has only been more brazen with his affections. “But you’re leaving yourself open here.” He demonstrates, his sword brushing against your side as he adjusts your stance.

“There,” he says, his voice dropping lower, “feel that?” You swallow nervously, grateful that the stunt coordinator had moved on to Harry in the far side of the room.

“I think I might be too open,” you manage to say, trying to keep your tone light.

“Maybe,” Matt murmurs, stepping back slightly but keeping his gaze locked on yours. “But I can’t help but want to close the distance.”

As you move through the choreography, you both fall into a rhythm, and almost inevitably, the fight turns into something more playful. You circle each other, exchanging faux blows and laughter, the distracting banter causing the stunt director to approach and get you both back on track. 

Next up, you have to train for Alyna’s pivotal scene where she attempts to mount Caraxes as per Daemon’s command. 

As you practice the mounting technique on the mechanical dragon, you’re hyper-aware of every movement. The crew watches closely, ready to offer guidance. You grip the handles tightly, adrenaline coursing through your veins, and for a brief moment, you lose yourself in the character, feeling the thrill of the scene.

But then it happens. The Buck jolts unexpectedly, throwing you off balance. Time seems to slow as you feel yourself slipping. You try to brace for impact, but it’s too late. You land hard, the pain shooting through your ankle as it twists at an unnatural angle.

There is a stinging sensation too, by the side of your head, and all you think is – oh fuck. The world around you fades to a blur, just as chaos erupts.

When you finally regain consciousness, the sterile scent of antiseptic fills your nostrils. Your surroundings come into focus slowly, and your heart races when you realise you’re in a hospital room. The steady beep of a monitor is the only sound, punctuated by the faint rustle of fabric.

You feel his hand on yours before your eyes even land on his figure, slumped on a chair beside your bed. His head rests on his shoulder, his grip still lightly holding your hand. His brow is furrowed in worry, even in sleep. 

You feel lightheaded, and for a moment you worry that your concussion might be worse than it is, but no. It's just him. 

Then, the sound of your movement catches his attention. He stirs, his eyes fluttering open, and when he meets your gaze, relief instantly washes over his features. 

“Love… you’re awake.”

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Some notes in the margins...

Well, well, well. Yous were convinced that Matty would get the clubbing scene, helped by the red herring of his dancing video. Alas!

Is that Matty at the end there? Or a certain Mitchelly man? Hmm... one wonders. 💖

Complaints? Refund requests? Please direct your thoughts in the comments section below. I can 100% guarantee a satisfying solution. Or 70%.

Or, you know, bugger it. We're all in this together, better or worse ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥