#Me at the start: I have barely thought about these two in this way.

[valeisaslut]

⭒࿐COLLIDE - c. eight

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑.

← 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 →

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

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

⭒ word count: 17,6k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cleared your throat, forcing the words out.

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

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

"Okay, mom." 

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

"I’m serious."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ellie finally looked at you.

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

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

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

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

"Especially then."

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

And then, finally, she muttered,

"Okay. I will."

You nodded, heart hammering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Didn’t hide.

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

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

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

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

"Then we’ll figure it out. Together."

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

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

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

You didn’t hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I promise." 

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

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

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

You both thought that was enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They couldn’t stand that she was still yours.

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

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

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

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

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

And in the next breath, she was Ellie Williams.

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

The fire the world couldn't help but chase.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn't save her from this life.

You couldn't even save yourself from this life.

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

You walked beside her, step for step.

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

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

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

At the foot of the stairs, Ellie paused.

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

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

There was only her. Only you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you let her go because you had to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were both still human. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The crowd thinned. The cameras turned away.

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

But for you, it had.

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

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

Your phone buzzed in your back pocket.

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

Ells <3

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

i don’t know how to do this without you

but i’m gonna try

i swear to god i’m gonna try

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

please say it back

im scared im gonna forget what it feels like

Your hands trembled so badly you nearly dropped the phone.

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

You:

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

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

please don’t disappear on me

please come back to me sober

im begging you

please

try

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

for us

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

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

i swear i will 

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

always.

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

But your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. 

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

Please be okay.

Please make it to the end of the tour.

Please keep your promise.

Please at least try to be sober. 

Please come back to me.

Please.

Don’t break my heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words caught, then fell.

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

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

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

“It was a hard goodbye. That’s all.”

She seemed satisfied. Moved on.

But your throat burned.

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

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

Nobody.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were the brightest star in the sky.

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

Stil, she called every night.

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

But she always called. And you always picked up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She tried, though. God, she tried.

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

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

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

And tonight, you picked up on the first ring.

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

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

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

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

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

“Debatable.”

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

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

“Are you smoking more?”

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

You raised an eyebrow.

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

“Mmhmm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ellie shifted on the bed. Looked away from you.

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

“What? Again?” you asked, frowning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Obviously.”

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

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

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

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

You didn’t want to ruin the silence.

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

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

You nodded slowly, though something tightened in your chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long’s it been like that?”

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

You didn’t say anything. Just waited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smiled, but your chest still felt tight.

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

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

She always tried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smiled, but didn’t meet her gaze.

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

“It was all I could stomach.”

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

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

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

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

Neither of you said what you were really thinking.

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

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

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

“Ellie.”

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

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

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

“It’s my stage fit!”

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

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

“Only for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

You: miss uuuu call me when you can <3

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

Still nothing.

Day two.

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

No missed calls. No texts.

Nothing.

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

You texted Jesse.

You: heyyy, everything okay? havent heard from ellie

No answer.

You texted Dina two hours later.

You: d please just tell me she’s okay

No answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You called her. Straight to voicemail.

You called again.

Straight to voicemail.

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

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

Day three.

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

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

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

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

You sent another message. And another.

i’m scared

please answer

i just need to know you’re okay

im not mad

please

No read receipt. No reply.

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

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

i’m fine

stop blowing up everyone’s phone

i just needed space, sorry babe

love you

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

Fine. Space. Love you.

Nothing real. Nothing you could hold onto.

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

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

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

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

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

Day four.

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

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

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

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

please just tell me if she’s okay

that’s all I need

please

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

she’s fine

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

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

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

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

But you cried now. For her. For yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you saw her.

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

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

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

But there was none of that.

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

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

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

And then it cut off.

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

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

At first, you laughed.

Not because it was funny. God, no.

Because it was too much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck the empire.

Fuck the perfect career.

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

She needed you.

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

"I need to fucking see her."

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

She wasn’t surprised. She knew you.

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

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

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

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

Please don’t be too late.

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

This wasn’t something anyone could shield you from.

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

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

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

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

It had always been about staying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Voices.

Shouting.

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

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

You rounded the corner and almost slammed into her.

Erin. Ellie’s assistant.

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

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

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

"Wouldn’t you like to know,"

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

She shrugged, the motion too casual, too dismissive.

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

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

"What do you mean?" you rasped.

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

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out.

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

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

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

But now you were close enough to hear everything.

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

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

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

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

And you froze.

Because that didn’t sound like her.

It didn’t sound like Ellie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say that again.”

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

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

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

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

Ellie growled, deep in her throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a pause. A charged, electric silence.

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

“You’ve been fucking lost, Ellie.”

It hit the room like a hammer.

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

"Don’t bring her into this."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And they were lies.

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

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

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

And then Dina twisted the knife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when Ellie snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A heavy silence settled like ash.

Then Jesse added, voice hoarse with something like grief.

“There are twenty thousand people out there.”

Another pause.

“And they’re all waiting for you.”

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

Couldn’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—his shoulder slammed into yours. Hard.

You staggered back, catching yourself against the wall.

He froze instantly.

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

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

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

You straightened, forcing your voice to work.

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

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

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

He shook his head, grimacing like it physically hurt.

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

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

"Then why?"

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

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

You blinked, stunned.

"What?"

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

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

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

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

Because of course she did.

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

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

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

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

"Is she really..."

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

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

"She’s not okay."

The words hung between you, heavy as lead.

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

"None of us fucking are."

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

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

And then Jesse turned.

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

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

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

The words sat between you like a goodbye.

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

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

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

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

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

Part of you didn’t want to know.

It was just you.

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

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

There she was.

Ellie.

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

Scorched. Charred black at its base.

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

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

Because Ellie’s other hand held something worse.

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

A syringe.

Full. Loaded. Shaking.

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

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

She didn’t see you at first.

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

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

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

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

And then Ellie lifted her head.

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

It was shame. It was guilt.

It was devastation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you were on her in two steps.

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t a fight. It was a collapse.

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

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

You fought.

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

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

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

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

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

Everything stopped.

You stumbled back, breath jagged, heart racing.

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

And you just stood there.

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

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

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

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

And then, softer—barely audible through your grief.

“Why wasn’t I enough?”

Ellie lifted her head.

Her eyes were bloodshot, wild, barely hers anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t have to!”

You shot back, and your voice broke wide open.

“I loved you!”

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

You stepped closer. Hands trembling. Voice trembling worse.

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

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

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

“Answer me!”

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

“I don’t know,”

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

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

“You do know.”

She looked away.

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

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

And there it was.

That look.

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

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

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

“I know!” she screamed, staggering to her feet like it cost her everything, crashing sideways into the wall with a thud that sounded too hollow, too wrong—like her body didn’t belong to her anymore. “But when you left—when you left—everything went fucking quiet. The world just—collapsed, and I didn’t know how to fucking stand in it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stared at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she just layed there.

Breathing like every inhale was a damnation.

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

That silence was worse than any scream.

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

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

“And now you’re here! Using he—!”

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

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

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

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

And then she whispered it.

So soft you almost didn’t hear it.

“...I didn’t want you to hate me.”

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

“I could never hate you,”

You choked, voice wrecked beyond recognition.

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

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

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

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

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

“But I hate myself,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It landed like a death sentence.

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

“What?”

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

The word barely had shape.

Because deep down, you already knew.

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

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

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

You shook your head. Hard. Desperate.

“No—you’re not—you’re not—”

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

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

Because you knew she wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ellie—”

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

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

But she pulled back like your touch scalded her.

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

She pressed her palms into her eyes, hard.

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

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

You were tired.

Exhausted.

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

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

She said it like a confession.

An apology to a god that never showed up.

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

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

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

She swallowed, and it buckled her whole body.

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

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

“It doesn’t fix me.”

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

“...But I need you.”

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

Neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed.

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

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

And then—

Then she kissed you.

Not like a lover. Like a goodbye.

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

And it wounded.

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

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

But the clock didn’t stop.

The world didn’t wait.

It never had.

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

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

There was no mercy in it.

No pity. No grace.

Just the cold, unyielding truth that time moved on.

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

You watched her walk away.

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

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

Shaky. Careful. Final.

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

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

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

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

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

But at the door, she paused.

And without turning around, she whispered,

“I’m sorry.”

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

And she chose the crowd.

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

Still. Silent. Utterly alone.

Like you always had been.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or die trying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the voice didn’t come.

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

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

Forgot who she was singing to.

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

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

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

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

And then she destroyed everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the worst part.

The world outside kept spinning. Kept demanding.

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

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

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

She’d made her choice.

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

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

She let you go because she did.

And now you were gone.

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

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

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

You spent the first day in bed.

Then two.

Then seven.

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

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

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

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

Not suspended. Not like yours.

Cancelled.

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

You stared at the screen until your eyes blurred.

She was unraveling.

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

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

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

You did the last thing you could.

You went back to the beginning.

You texted Rachel at 2:07 a.m.

get me Joel Miller’s number

It took her three minutes to reply.

ARE YOU OKAY?

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

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

You can’t just keep suspending shows.

Im really worried for you.

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

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

Ten minutes later, it appeared on your screen.

An unfamiliar area code. No name.

Just a number and the last ragged shred of hope.

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

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

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

Once. Twice. Three times.

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

You swallowed hard. Gripped the countertop to stay upright.

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

You paused. Swallowed again.

“…completely out of options.”

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

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

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

A beat of silence.

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

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

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

“She needs help.”

← 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 →

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

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

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

see ya'll soon, stay tuned ;)

[orimuraa]

• I know you wanna take my hand - LHS ↳ ┊: come over - le sserafim

꒰ 𝔖𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 ꒱┆hiding a relationship with heeseung ⨾

۶ৎ idol!heeseung x fem idol!reader┆fluff┆petnames, kisses, secret relationships┆wc 832

⤷ 𝐲𝐞𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: here’s the pt 2!! ik i usually suck at giving part twos but here it is!!

part 1

꒰ঌ ℬℴℴ𝓀𝓈𝒽ℯ𝓁𝒻 ໒꒱

it’s been 2 months and 7 days since you and heeseung first started going out—not that you were counting or anything.

he was perfect. he knew exactly how to treat you to make you feel loved but not overly so. he also knew how to hide his love for you when you were out in public.

you knew this would be the case when you first agreed to date him. you were both part of big kpop groups, meaning absolutely no scandals.

it was nice. you would meet up with heeseung after your dance practices, finding him hunched over his computer, producing something amazing.

“hi hee,” you whispered softly so you didn’t scare him. heeseung immediately looked up from his computer at your voice.

his eyes were tired, yet they still lit up when he saw you standing in the doorway, hair tied up in a messy bun and your practice clothes still on.

“baby, hi,” he smiled, shutting down his laptop and putting it back in his bag.

“ready to go home?” he asked, noticing your lack of energy. most likely from your 8 hour dance practice heeseung thought to himself.

you nod softly, liking the idea of going home and just resting with your boyfriend.

he hands you a big hoodie to replace your sweaty one, cooing at how adorable you look in it.

“alright..i have the car parked in the garage so just keep your hood on and it’ll be fine,” heeseung says, interlocking his fingers with yours.

there was barely any staff at this time and your members had all gone home, wanting to get as much sleep as they could, so it made it easy to get to heeseung’s car without much commotion.

the car ride was comfortably silent, besides the quiet sounds of the road.

heeseung almost had to carry you all the way inside as you were too sleepy to walk.

“babyyy c’mon! let’s get you all washed up and all, m’kay? how’s that sound?” heeseung hummed, stroking his knuckles against your cheek softly.

“fine,” you pouted, your eyes barely open and you mind barely awake.

you managed to make it up the stairs without falling and into the shower—heeseung helping with 90% of it all but he didn’t mind.

once you finally got to lay down with heeseung, you sighed softly, closing your eyes and letting the aches in your body soothe.

“seungie?” you sleepily mumble, still wanting to talk to him about your day.

“yes angel?” he replied, tucking his arm over your waist, pulling you closer to his chest.

“i’m glad we were on that show together,” you giggle, a smile touching at your lips from the fond memory.

a beat passes.

“yeah? me too. i think about how lucky i was for that everyday,” you hear heeseung reply.

the silence stays like that for a bit—quiet yet comforting.

“do you think we should tell them? fearnots and engenes?” you manage to say, opening your eyes slowly to look at heeseung.

heeseung’s eyes are already open, full of thoughts.

“i think we should,” he smiles finally, grabbing your hand and holding it firmly. “they could never tear me apart from you.”

his words make your heart flutter, reassuring you once again that you think you’ve found the one.

“hm? how romantic,” you giggle softly, eyes turning into little crescents.

“only for you, angel,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss your cheek, then your temple, then your forehead.

“heyyy what about here?” you pout, puckering your lips.

“hehe saving the best for last, angel,” he smiles, leaning in and kissing your lips.

“shall we have our managers announce the news tomorrow?” heeseung asks, settling back down at your side.

you think for a minute before nodding against his chest. “yeah that sounds good..” you yawn, clearly ready for bed.

you both let sleep take over, your bodies already drained from practice earlier.

the next morning, you already knew what awaited you in the news.

LEE HEESEUNG OF ENHYPEN AND Y/L/N Y/N OF LE SSERAFIM ARE DATING - HYBE CONFIRMS

heeseung was still fast asleep when you started scrolling through the comments, not being able to help yourself.

to your surprise, you saw only positive comments, saying things like “they make an amazing couple!” “it couple of the year!” “netizens better not tear them apart or i’ll be MAD” and it made you smile knowing you had fans that were actually happy for you and not wishing for your downfall.

as you scrolled with a big smile on your face, heeseung stirred next to you.

“angel? what’s got you smiling so much?” he asked, his morning voice very prominent.

“nothing hee, just…happy to be with you,” you smile, not being able to express how happy you were.

“shall we go on our first public date then?” he suggests, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“that sounds fantastic seungie,” you smile, ready to finally breathe freely in public with your boyfriend.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝐉𝐢𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @vmpivory, @yuvany, @seozii, @pinknjm, @greentulip, @jomisu, @nxzz-skz, @ancnymcnzjy, @hyukabean, @annybah, @ijustwannareadstuff20, @chaeneu, @17ericas, @firstclassjaylee, @riribelle, @right-person-wrong-time, @cheruphic, @woniefication, @melodiessvy, @soona-huh, @kiwicup, @yuuuraaa

[bluntzah]

COME & SEE ME FOR ONCE ੈ♡˳

♫ sza — 2AM. nav ; m.list.

word count. 1.9k

warnings. mentions of unhealthy relationships, sexual + graphic content, please review all warnings before proceeding. i’m not responsible for what you choose to engage or interact with.

summary. you support hamzah’s media hustle, but his constant absence hurts. when he leaves again mid-fuck, you’re left wondering if love is enough when you always come last to this motherfucker.

Your boyfriend is a busy man. Hamzah dedicates a lot of his time to filming for YouTube, constantly creating content, brainstorming ideas, and bringing them to life. From the beginning, you knew what you were signing up for. He made it clear that he takes his YouTube career seriously. Of course you supported it. You always backed Hamzah in whatever he chose to do: if he likes it, you loved it. That was all that mattered to you.

There was never a moment you didn’t have Hamzah’s back. No matter what he needed, you were there. If he ever forgot something important: whether at your place or his: off filming something with Mandy and Martin, you’d step in without hesitation. Sometimes that meant driving across town in the middle of your own busy day, retracing his steps to find whatever he left behind. Other times, it meant calling in a favor from a friend, asking them to go out of their way just to make sure he had what he needed to keep filming.

You supported your boyfriend more than anything in the world. His passion, his grind: you admired it, stood by that shit alongside him, never ever asked him to slow down. But that didn’t mean his absence didn’t sting sometimes.

On nights out with your girlfriends: dressed up, laughing, dancing at the club — you’d catch their boyfriends with them. Arms wrapped around their waists, sharing drinks, stealing kisses between freaky ass songs.

And then there was you sipping your drink alone, smiling through it, but feeling disappointed. Not because you doubted his love, but because you wished, once in a fuckin’ blue moon, he had the time to be there. To pull you close, to make memories outside of his hustle.

You knew exactly what you were signing up for: he made it clear from the start. And you accepted it, with your chest. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt sometimes, even just a little. That being said, every moment you do get with him, you hold onto like it’s gold. Just like now, this moment you’re in, making it count.

It’s a Saturday. You’re beneath Hamzah in his warm sheets, his body pressed close in missionary. Each deep thrust has his cock sliding in and out of you, your squishy walls gripping him greedily.

You love every second of it. After a long week of barely seeing your boyfriend, with him pulled in every direction but yours, having him this close making you feel so good feels like oxygen. So you take full advantage: hooking one leg around his waist, your heel pressing into his lower back, urging him so much deeper.

“Mm—missed you so much… missed your cock so bad,” you breathe out, lips parted and trembling. Your hand finds Hamzah’s, the one wrapped around your throat, and you guide it downward, over your collarbone, until it cups your breast.

“Work, baby… y’know that,” Hamzah murmurs, he gently brushes a strand of hair from your face. Needing nothing in the way of your beauty, needing to see the way your eyes slowly go cross from how good he’s making you feel. Especially after a week without him inside you — it had been pure torture.

“I know…” you whimper, hips rolling up in a desperate plea for more. “Just miss you. Feels like we’re never this close anymore…” You’re not sure if it’s the way you’re so drunk on his dick or the raw honesty slipping from your lips, but something in your voice makes Hamzah pause. His thrusts slow, then stop completely, buried deep inside you.

He went unmoving for a minute — clearly caught in some thought. You were just about to ask what was on his mind when, without a breath, he moved. He flipped the two of you over, his back hitting the mattress, and you landing on top. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you, positioning you exactly where he wanted.

“What…” you start to ask, but he cuts you off with action instead of words. His cock presses against your soaked folds, lining himself up before guiding you down onto him. You don’t resist at all, clutching his shoulders, the muscle of his meat beneath your fingers as you slowly sink onto him, taking him in with a choked breath, the stretch as delicious as the way he fills you.

He was stretching you so deeply, that your head began to fall against his shoulder, a soft moan running out your lips. “Nah, don’t drift,” he murmured, wrapping an arm tighter around your waist. “You just said we’re never this close… and you’re right. So let me feel you all close like this.”

You lifted your head, only for him to wrap his arms around you, pulling you into a hug. The kind of hug you’d normally hate from anyone else, the kind that made you feel caged. But with Hamzah, in this angle, it felt different. His tip brushed your g-spot just right, making you shiver.

He fucked up into you, syncing his thrusts with your bounces. Yes, yes, yes. You needed this so desperately, especially after the week you’d had. The way he hit that perfect spot perfectly sent a spurt of euphoria through you, as the pleasure made your eye twitch shut. You missed this, missed him. Missed the way your bodies fit so perfectly as he moved inside you, hitting every spot just right. Even his soft whimpers, those deep moans had you seeing stars: they were incredibly sexy.

You’d been craving this, aching shitless for it. That beautiful heat between you was everything… until Hamzah’s phone rang from the desk: it began buzzing once. He didn’t move. You opened your mouth to ask, but he silenced you with a kiss, his hand sliding up to pinch your breast just right, drawing a soft gasp from your lips he swallowed whole.

The second time it rang, your eyes flicked toward it again. Hamzah gently turned your face back to him, brushing your jaw. Focus on him. On how good he was making you feel. And you did — rolling your hips to meet his, lips parted as dirty moans slipped through your teeth.

By the third ring, your patience cracked. “Just answer the fuckin’ call,” you muttered, frustrated as you lifted yourself off him and swung your legs over the bed.

It’s not that you wanted to be a bitch for the fuck of it, but you seen the way his phone, and that call, started to circle his mind. That was the whole reason you kept looking over, because his lifting of his hips into you slowed and he started to dissociate slightly. You rather him take the damn call than think of something else while he’s inside you. You’re not fuckin’ with it.

If it’s on his mind that much, then let him take the damn call. The fact that he doesn’t even protest just proves your point even more.

You started slipping on your panties, one foot through the hole after the other. Hamzah grabbed his phone, sliding his thumb across the screen to accept the call, bringing it to his ear. One hand rested on his hip, his bare ass cheeks and back turned toward you.

You grabbed Hamzah’s old shirt and slipped it on, not bothering with a bra. This was your boyfriend’s house, and the only company besides you was him and his cats.

Hamzah kept talking on the phone, brown eyes moving to you every few seconds. He held the phone between his ear and shoulder as he peeled off the condom, tossed it in the trash, and reached for the boxers he’d flung on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, I’ll be there in like five or six minutes,” he said, slipping them on.

You almost wanted to roll your eyes: of course the one rare moment you two had alone had to be interrupted.

A voice was heard on the other end, followed by the sound of clicking. Hamzah set his phone down on the bed, grabbing his pants and stepping into them. “I’ll make it up to you soon, baby—swear on my life,” he said with guilt. “Martin lost some footage for a video due in a few days, and we’ve got to reshoot it.”

He pulled on his socks, then slid into his shoes as he sat at the edge of the bed. You moved toward him until you were right behind him. Leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss to the side of his neck, then another, and another.

He let himself melt into you, leaning into the presses of your lips as they brushed over his skin. A tickle went through him when you kissed just over his pulse, the spot so sensitive it made him tilt his head. His nose brushed yours before he moved closer, until his mouth found your bottom lip, catching it between his own and giving it a suck before releasing it with a pull.

“I’ll make it up to you. Promise.” he repeated, but deep down, you knew he wouldn’t. The cycle would just keep repeating itself. He couldn’t even give you a full hour before something or someone else pulled him away. This wasn’t the first time it had happened, not by far. It had been the routine most of the times you two had been together. It was frustrating.

“You aren’t.” You said. Hamzah blinked a couple of times, clearly confused. “What?” he asked, and this time, you almost wanted to shout it at him. You were sure you talked clearly with no stutter.

“I said.” You take a deep breath. “You aren’t. You aren’t gonna make shit up. This is like, what? The hundredth time this happened? You and Martin just film shit and don’t save it or something?” You know this is going to annoy him. He’s told you many times what he does for work and what packages come with it. But it’s just so frustrating to stay silent.

“Don’t start with that,” Hamzah muttered as he grabbed his shirt and pulled it on. “I told you—” But you cut him off, already knowing what was coming next. “Yes, I know, you warned me about what I was getting into,” you rolled your eyes. “But it’s so hard when I just want to spend time with my boyfriend, and he’s always caught up with something. Or when we finally do get time together, it feels half assed. What, Martin gives you an hour to push your dick inside me, and then it’s straight back to filming?”

When you finally stopped talking, you let out a quiet huff, arms crossing over your chest out of instinct. “Are you done?” Hamzah asked, clearly referring to your rant. The way he said it made your blood boil even more: like he wasn’t taking a single word you said seriously.

You rolled your eyes and looked away. It always felt like he wasn’t really listening: your words going in one ear and right out the other.

When he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, mumbling a casual “Bye, babe,” you didn’t say a word. You didn’t even glance at him. The only sound was the jingle of his keys as he walked out the door, leaving you there, barely covered in his shirt, lying alone in his bed, while he just… left.

[jaesblogstuff]

You know where home is at, don’t you now. (RAWR)

⸻

You don’t text him. You just show up.

You knock twice, the way he taught you, before slipping into the apartment like it’s your own. It isn’t. But that’s never stopped you before. Nothing about this should work. But here you are.

Same black hoodie. Same Glock under the pillow. Same grin he doesn’t bother to hide when he sees you in that skirt.

“Thought you had plans with your man,” Simon mutters, kicking the door shut behind you.

“I do,” you say. “They just changed.” He laughs once, low and sharp. Pulls you in by the waist and slaps your ass like you’re late to something.

“He know you wear that shit for me?” You hum against his mouth. “He don’t need to know everything.”

Simon Riley came from chaos. He never hid it. Said he was born somewhere hot and broke and loud. Said he had a couple acres out there, some fake papers, and a name that didn’t exist on any real record. Told you in that lazy, deep tone, like it was nothing. Like surviving shit like that was just how it goes.

“Heartbreakers,” he called them. “Women like you.”

But you were the one who stitched him back together. Drove him to court dates. Held his phone when he couldn’t stop shaking. Slept beside him when he woke up screaming from the past. You took him to Belgium once, just to say you did. Showed him a world where no one knew what he’d done. Or who he’d killed.

You made him feel safe. And that’s dangerous. Because now he needs you. And Simon Riley does not like needing anyone.

He doesn’t say much when you push him back onto the mattress, straddle him with nothing on under the skirt. He just grips your hips and grinds up once, slow and cruel, watching your mouth part around a breathless little sound that isn’t a moan but close.

You ride him until your legs shake. Until the room smells like sweat and smoke and that damn hoodie is halfway off and his tattooed arm is flexed around your waist. Until you’re ruined. Gutted. Fucked open and sore. And still, it’s not enough.

Later, when you’re on your back and the sheets are wet and the cigarette’s burning slow in his hand, he doesn’t pass it. Just lets it dangle from his lips while he stares at the you from the chair.

“You still fuckin’ him?” he asks, casual as sin. You don’t answer. Not right away. Just stretch like a cat, long and slow, letting him watch every inch of you shift under his gaze.

“Why?” you murmur. “You jealous?”

He scoffs, eyes half-lidded. “Nah. Just like knowin’ who I’m takin’ it from.” And maybe that should sting. But it doesn’t. Not from him. From him, it drips like honey. Dark, possessive, and thick with truth.

You slide off the bed, sore between the legs, and you make him wait. You don’t speak. Don’t ask. You just start to crawl. Palms to the cold floor. Eyes locked on his knees. You move slow, deliberate, like every step is a confession. A promise. A surrender.

Simon watches, legs spread wide, smoke curling around his face like a crown. “You done actin’ like you got options?” he mutters, voice rough and low. You smile up at him, teeth bared like a threat. “You scared I might?”

He leans forward, catches your jaw in one hand, thumb pressing against your lip. “Nah,” he says. “I know you won’t.” He slips two fingers into your mouth—down your tongue, past comfort. Until you gag just enough to make his eyes gleam.

“That’s my girl.”

And God help you, but you like the way that sounds. You always have.

You crawl into his lap, straddle him again. The cocky tilt of your mouth dares him to keep playing. “I didn’t fuck him,” you finally answered. “But you were thinking it.”

Simon doesn’t even blink. Just grips your waist like a man anchoring himself. “I was thinkin’ you’ve got a smart fuckin’ mouth for someone who crawls back to me beggin’.” You laugh, breath hot against his cheek. “That's why you kept beggin’? Couldn’t take not having me?”

“Beggin’?” He grabs your ass, lifts you, and drops you on his cock in one rough motion that punches the air from your lungs. “Sweetheart,” he growls, deep and close, “I own you.” And the sick part? You love how true that feels.

You fuck like it’s the last time. Like this is a war and he’s claiming the only piece of ground that ever meant anything. Your body is his battlefield, and he doesn’t just win—he conquers.

“You like when I crawl to you,” you whisper. Simon grins. “I like remindin’ you where you fuckin’ belong.”

You bite his shoulder. “Then remind me.”

He flips you, fucks you harder.

And you never forget.

[winged-self-indulgence]

I am late to the party but I come bearing a fic! RIP I wanted this to be 100% fluffy but alas I am still very much mulling over that video essay and the angst came swooping in lmao.

You were avoiding him.

That was what Ray thought anyway, but it wasn’t as if anyone would be able to blame him for coming to that conclusion. You hadn’t been by his apartment in several days, and when he tried to drop by your place instead, you’d been visibly on edge. Kept him at the door until you couldn’t justify that, and then kept him standing in the living room until your phone alarm chimed to alert you that it was time for your afternoon shift.

Ray had offered to walk you to work, and oddly you’d calmed down once the two of you were out on the streets. You’d even looped your arm through his elbow to point out a pair of crows playing hopscotch on the telephone wires. It was a game you’d started a few weeks ago, every day he had to try and find at least three things that made him smile (outside of seeing you, of course). It was your way of trying to encourage him to take in the smaller joys.

It was a cute attempt. Nowadays your text-logs were randomly interspersed with silly memes, random animals, pictures of weird desserts you wanted to try, and a lot of music. His favourites were the romantic ballads.

You weren’t cheating on him, he knew that. Even without his mind-reading abilities – “sorry Star, I am trying to curb it, but it’s been a habit for over a decade cut me some slack!” – you weren’t that kind of person. He wouldn’t have become so obsessed with you, or fallen in love with you, if you were.

Maybe you were tired of him and wanted to break up?

At work, Ray snapped the monster’s neck with one hand, his mind snagging on sharp brambles. The possibility of it stung like thorns, the possibility of you getting tired of the possessiveness, the depressive spirals, the inherent danger of being with him. Ray did not labour under false impressions or illusions of peace, he knew being with him painted a massive target on you and that one of the people holding the gun was him. Every so often he still woke up in a cold sweat, his mind filled with red fire, black smoke, and your charred body dead at his hands. All because he couldn’t just love you like a normal man.

Pensive, he tossed one monster away and absentmindedly sliced another in half with his heat-ray vision. He considered asking you outright what was wrong. That was what all the advice groups said. Communication is key, everyone loved to repeat that. Just talk to them! Well had those people considered that communication was fucking scary? That opening your heart up to someone who could easily reach in and rip it out – bloody and beating and dying – was absolutely terrifying? Huh? Yeah, didn’t think so.

The last of the monsters disintegrated into ash under white-hot flames, and Ray barely had a moment to breathe before he was swarmed by news crews. Years of PR training helped him bite back the sneer. Rats crawling out of the cracks and crevices, waiting for the danger to die down so they could pick at him. Or wait, you’d encouraged him not to overgeneralize. Some of them were filthy parasites looking for a clickbait soundbite, but others were reputable media groups simply trying to spread information to civilians. And now that the NAHA couldn’t control him, he was free to ignore the stupid questions about his fitness regimen or hair-care routine and answer actual questions like “any insight into the alien’s physiology? How can regular people keep themselves safe in the event of an attack? What do you think of NAHA’s frequent refusal to pay insurance to those who lost their lives and homes after villain attacks?”

Any chance to badmouth the NAHA was a win in his book. He pulled out his phone to text you, only to see he already had a text from you.

Rayyyyyyyyy!!!!!! (Followed by a truly embarrassing number and variety of heart emojis) Happy Birthdayyyyy!!!! I’m at your apartment with a surprise!!!!! (Insert even more emojis here, along with a sticker of a cat blowing a kiss)

God you were so fucking cute. Ray took off without a second glance, ignoring the journalists on the ground. He made it back to his apartment in less than a minute and was barely in the door when you launched yourself into his arms.

“Happy birthday!” You cheered.

“I don’t know if it counts as a surprise if you tell me over text, Star,” he replied, smiling down at you. Then he took in the decorations, the balloons, the gold stars you’d strung on the walls, and the warm smell of cake baking in the oven. You must have taken the day off work and run back to his apartment to do all this.

“It absolutely counts! Were you or were you not surprised?” You stepped back, pulling him along. Then you paused, turned back, and pulled off his mask. You had to go on tiptoe to run your fingers through his hair, pulling out the hair-tie and mussing it up. Satisfied, you smooched the bridge of his nose with a loud, exaggerated noise. “There. There’s my sweet baby Ray.”

In the past, Ray had always rolled his eyes at romance writers who described love in terms of being shot, whether by arrows or bullets. Now though, now he understood. Every time you kissed him or called him silly pet-names, he felt like someone had put a gun to his sternum and shot him point-blank in the heart. It felt like dying and being devoured in the best way possible.

Then his brain caught up to your words and he groaned. “Star, I love you, but can you please call me something else that isn’t barbecue sauce?”

“What’s wrong with that?” You teased, grinning playfully. “Everyone loves the taste of BBQ sauce. I sure do!”

“Oh?” He tilted his head, a dark heat shadowing his eyes. Before you could consider the implications of your words, he tossed you over his shoulder and began marching to the bedroom. “Then I'll be sure to give you as much as you like.”

“Huh? Wait, Ray the cake–! The cake!”

[cosmowgyral]

The Abstinent Beast Devours Love~

▪︎ Elbert Greetia

This is a fan translation so please don't expect it to be 100% accurate. Creative liberties have been taken. All content belongs to Cybird. Reblogs are appreciated. Hope you enjoy!

CW: Explicit sexual content/MDNI

(I need more of Elbert….)

Fighting back tears, I make my way to his room.

With me busy on missions and Elbert buried under a mountain of overdue estate paperwork, we hadn’t had any time together these past two weeks.

No moments to hold each other, not even a touch. And now, I was suffering from a serious lack of him.

(But that ends today.)

I knock on the door of his room.

Kate: Elbert, are you there?

As my heart fluttered with excitement at the thought of finally spending time together again starting today, I opened the door—

Kate: Huh?

For some reason, the room was filled with piles of sweets.

Elbert: …I was just about to come get you. Thank you for coming, Kate.

Elbert: Now everything’s finally in place…

Kate: What is all this, Elbert?

A wagon was laid out with delicious-looking dishes, but no matter how you looked at it, the portions were way too much.

Elbert: Come here, Kate.

After pouring the soup into a bowl, he pulled me onto his lap, scooped it up with a spoon, and brought it to my lips.

Kate: Mm, it’s delicious.

Smiling with satisfaction, Elbert set the bowl down on the bedside chest.

Kate: Mm

Without warning, he stole a kiss from my lips.

Elbert: Mmm... It’s been so hard, not being able to be with you for a while...

Between kisses, the words he uttered tightened my chest.

Kate: I feel the same way.

Elbert: That’s why I prepared three days’ worth of meals.

Kate:  Mmh?

I pulled away from the kiss and tilted my head.

Elbert tilted his head in the same way, with a puzzled expression on his face.

Elbert: I prepared the meals for the next three days... to make sure we stay connected the entire time.

Elbert: I want to be alone, just the two of us, without any disturbances…

I glance at the large amount of sweets and the meal that's far too much for just the two of us.

Elbert: ...If it runs out, I'll ask Al for more, so don't worry...

Elbert: Right now... I want to be one with you.

Kate:  E-Elbert... ah.

Elbert: Mm... hah, more...

Naked atop the bed, I straddle him, taking in all of his warmth.

As I narrowed my eyes at the long-awaited heat, he pulled me into a devouring kiss.

My relaxed body sank downward, and as his girth drove deep inside me, a numbing wave of pleasure surged through me.

Kate: Ha… nnngh…

Elbert: … more….

Kate:  Ahh, no…!

He didn’t even give me a moment to catch my breath before grabbing my waist and thrusting into me with force.

It feels so good, I’m losing my mind.

Our eyes met, blazing with raw hunger.

We gasped, losing ourselves completely as we devoured each other like wild beasts.

It's more intense than usual, and it's making my head spin.

My insides were deeply penetrated with relentless force, and the sheets became soaked with sweat.

Kate: Wait————!

As I clung to his neck, my body trembled, overwhelmed by the sensation of something breaking within me.

He cast a glance at me, still breathless from the experience, before grabbing a piece of chocolate nearby and pressing it against my lips.

Kate:  Mmm... ghh…

The moment I tasted the chocolate, my lips were stolen once more, and his tongue entered my mouth.

Elbert: Hah… mm..

A single piece of chocolate moves through my mouth, slowly melting into a warm, sweet sensation.

Elbert: The chocolate from your mouth... tastes so good...

Kate: Mm... Would you like another one?

While still connected, Elbert pushed me down onto the bed and grabbed something in his hand.

Kate: Ohh! ….Is that honey?

Golden liquid trickled from my breasts to my stomach, and I barely had time to be surprised before his tongue traced along my skin, licking up the honey as he began to move again.

But then, he let out a dissatisfied sigh.

Elbert: It's not fair... whatever you eat gets to become a part of your body.

The rhythm grew more intense, and waves of pleasure crashed over me—so overwhelming I felt like I might just burst apart.

Kate: Elbert… I-I can’t take it any more—

I begged him to stop, desperate for even a moment of relief, but my plea never reached his ears. Instead, his fingers slid down to where our bodies were joined—

Elbert: So devour me right here... and let me become a part of you, let me be one with you.

In this endless sea of pleasure, I feel like I'm the one being devoured by him.

[matts-hersheys-kisses]

"beneath the surface"

-matt sturniolo

warnings: eating disorder, suggested anxiety/depression, angst, body image

(dream)- salvia palth

Matt was the quiet one. Not in a shy way—just quieter than Nick and Chris. Matt was the one who saw everything and said nothing, which made him dangerous in a different way.

So when he started watching her—really watching—she noticed.

She just pretended not to.

--

It started in October. Or maybe August. The days blurred together now, like smeared ink in a notebook you didn’t mean to cry on.

She had it down to a science: excuses, distractions, lies that sounded like truth. "Already ate" was her favorite. "Not hungry" came second.

And it was fine. It was under control.

--

Until the night she fainted in the hallway outside her math class.

She woke up on the nurse’s bed, nausea curling in her gut, and Matt sitting beside her, arms crossed, jaw tight.

"How long?" he asked. No greeting. No warmth.

She blinked. “What?”

"How long have you been doing this to yourself?"

Her stomach twisted, but it wasn’t from the lack of food.

“I’m fine,” she croaked.

He looked at her like she’d slapped him. “Don’t lie to me.”

--

She didn’t think Matt cared that much. He barely talked to anyone unless he had to. He never flirted, never partied, never even joked the way Chris did or lit up a room like Nick. He just existed—leaning against lockers, hoodie half-on, watching the world through tired eyes.

But suddenly he was in her world. Loudly. Fiercely. And he wasn’t leaving.

--

The next day, there was a granola bar in her locker. No note. Just that. The day after, it was a chocolate biscuit.

On Friday, it was him.

Leaning beside her locker, backpack slung over one shoulder.

“You eat breakfast?” he asked.

She hesitated. “…Yeah.”

“Cool. Eat again.”

He held out a muffin. Blueberry. Her favorite.

She stared at it, then at him. “Are you serious?”

Matt’s face didn’t change. “Dead serious.”

--

The thing about Matt was, he didn’t treat her like she was fragile. He didn’t say the right things. He didn’t pretend to understand.

Sometimes he got mad. He’d clench his fists when she lied. He’d walk away when she pushed him too far. Once, she caught him kicking the vending machine out of sheer frustration.

But he always came back.

Even when she told him to stop.

Even when she told him she didn’t deserve it.

--

The worst day wasn’t the fainting or the hospital visit or even spending lunchtime crying in the school bathroom until her legs gave out.

It was the day she told him she liked being empty.

Not because she wanted to hurt him.

But because it was the truth.

Because empty felt safe. Predictable. Quiet.

Because fullness meant guilt and failure and losing control—and she was already losing so much of herself, she couldn’t afford to lose that too.

When she said it, Matt looked at her like she’d admitted to murder. His mouth parted like he couldn’t believe she meant it.

She almost took it back.

Almost.

But she didn’t.

And then, after a long silence, he said, “That’s not living. That’s punishing yourself.”

She couldn’t look at him. “Maybe I deserve it.”

“No,” he said, instantly. “You don’t. God, you don’t.”

And then his voice cracked a little, like maybe he was breaking too. “You deserve more than this. You deserve to wake up and not hate yourself.”

--

Later that week, she tried.

Just a slice of dry toast. No butter. Just something.

Matt sat across from her, quiet as always. Not judging. Just there.

You don’t need this. You’ll ruin everything. You’re disgusting.

She swallowed one bite. Two.

Then pushed the plate away, stood up fast. “I can’t—” Her voice broke. “I thought I could.”

She turned toward the sink, shoulders tense.

Matt spoke, soft but steady. “It’s okay.”

She didn’t move.

“I didn’t come to make you eat,” he said. “I came so you don’t have to do this alone.”

Her breath shook.

“I failed,” she whispered.

“No,” Matt said, stepping close. His arms wrapped around her from behind, steady and warm. “You tried. That’s brave.”

She didn’t answer. But she leaned back into him, just a little, and let herself breathe—for the first time that day.

--

Nick and Chris knew. Eventually. But they handled it differently. Nick hugged her without warning one day in the hallway, tried to make her laugh.

One night, Chris found her sitting outside on the porch swing, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands.

He didn’t say anything for a while.

Just sat next to her, the swing creaking beneath their weight. A cool silence stretched between them, the kind that didn’t need to be filled.

Eventually, he said, voice lower than usual, “I used to think you were just quiet.”

She blinked, glancing over. “I am.”

Chris shook his head. “No. You’re hurting quiet.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I should’ve noticed.”

She didn’t answer.

“I think,” he said, after a long pause, “if you ever stopped showing up, even just one day… it would ruin Matt.”

Her throat closed.

Chris looked down, eyes glassy now, his voice barely there. “And it would ruin me too.”

She didn’t cry.

Not then.

--

She didn’t know how to respond to Chris.

So she didn’t.

They just sat there, the porch swing creaking under slow motion, her eyes fixed on the cracks in the wood beneath them.

Eventually, he stood, ruffling her hair gently before walking back inside.

She stayed outside long after the door closed behind him.

Later, when the house was quiet and sleep felt impossible, she slipped into the kitchen to get water.

Matt was there.

Leaning against the counter like he’d been waiting.

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t mention her red-rimmed eyes or the untouched dinner still wrapped in foil.

He just opened the fridge, pulled out a chocolate milk, and set it on the counter beside her.

“I’m not hungry,” she murmured.

“I know,” he said.

She took it anyway.

Drank half of it in silence.

Matt stayed right there.

--

Matt always stayed.

On the days she ate, he’d sit with her. On the days she couldn’t, he’d sit anyway.

He never made her feel like a project. He never told her to “just eat.” He just existed next to her, like a constant she didn’t know she needed.

One night, she sat beside him in his driveway, knees pulled to her chest, hoodie swallowing her whole.

"I didn’t think anyone would notice," she whispered.

Matt looked over, eyes unreadable. "I notice everything about you."

Her breath caught.

He looked away, then back. “And I hate that you ever thought I wouldn’t.”

That night, he didn’t kiss her.

He just held her hand like it was the most important thing in the world.

And for the first time, she realised that maybe she wasn’t the only one breaking

if your struggling with an ed or anything at all, i'm here don't be scared to reach out 🤍

thank you for the suggestion ml

xoxo

-𝒜 💋

taglist - @hunyoucantresistme @angeliolo @chrepsi @imgoing-backto505 @ikyoudreamofme @iluvnicksturniolo @mattswrinkleton @shadowthesim237 @sturniolotripletlover @soplaap @emillionaireee @courta13

lmk if you want to be added/taken off the taglist x

[chaoticallykinkygrem]

DILF James let’s go. That man has a full head of hair til the day he dies (when he’s like 100 bc I know what your thinking and we’re not going there rn). He gets smile lines really early and he loves them. He is very well off financially and loves spoiling the ppl he loves. He drinks smoothies for breakfast and works out even when most people his age are complaining about their knees and backs. He is either in a tee shirt and sweatpants or a full suit, there’s no in between. Ugh he’s so fine.

Yeah ok this is the motivation I needed 🫡

Thanks @rablovergirl for helping me with this one!! I owe all my smut inspiration to you ❤️

Jegulus NSFW | Minor degradation/humiliation kink and Major daddy kink

James knew he was handsome. He’s known since he was a teenager and had everyone in his classes swooning if he so much as looked at them. Now, though, he sees the way the moms look at him as he drops off harry. He notices all the stares during his jogs or trips to the gym. He would be blinder than he already is to not pick up on the constant flirting from some of his clients.

And yet he still didn’t see regulus staring at him like a five course meal. Maybe it was because he was to busy staring himself or maybe he just needed to get his glasses changed. He notices now though. He can’t help but pay attention to every little thing regulus does. Not since those nights a few weeks ago.

Neither of them have discussed it. They parted ways on that third morning and never spoke about everything that had happened that weekend. Regulus still flirted with James, but it was to the same extent he did all of Sirius friends. He even treated Remus the same way.

So now here James was, weeks after the best two days of his life, neglected and forgotten by the one person he craves attention from. He continued to mope, slowly sipping his whiskey, while watching regulus chat up yet another man at the bar twenty feet away. He watched as regulus leaned into the mystery man and laughed at something he said, even going so far as to put a hand on his arm. He knew he should be paying attention to what Sirius and Remus were talking about and yet he couldn’t bring himself to. Not when a siren of a man was so fucking close he could almost taste him.

The next time James tunes back in, Sirius and Remus seemed to have walked away to go and talk to some other friends, leaving James to brood in his corner, at least until a woman approached him. She looked to be around his age, on the shorter side, and curvy beyond all belief. She had black hair and light blue eyes— almost like someone else he couldn’t seem to now think about. But James subtly shook his head, as if to shake away regulus, and focused on the woman before him.

“Hi I’m Leona. What’s your name handsome?” She bit her lip as she looked James up in down with eyes that scream predator.

“James. It’s nice to meet you Leona. What are you doing here all by yourself?” James asks suavely, falling back into the ease of casual flirting that has helped him throughout the years.

James lets himself go in the conversation with her. He finds Leona to be a charming and intelligent person and that conversation with her is easy. Just as they laugh from a joke James told, he feels a hand touch his bicep.

“Who’s this James?” James looks away from Leona and finds regulus standing next to him, with murder in his eyes.

“Oh this is Leona. Leona, this is regulus. He’s my best friend’s little brother.” He looks between the two and notices a shift in the air with his last sentence.

“I’m now just Sirius’ little brother? That isn’t what you thought of me a few weeks ago.” Regulus snaps, glaring at James with a look that should have killed him.

“Uhh I should go now. My friends are probably worried. It was nice meeting you both!” Leona says quickly before rushing away, though neither of the men are paying her any attention at this point.

“Can we talk somewhere private?” James grits out between his teeth. Regulus can barely start his argument before James pulls him towards the bars bathroom, locking the door behind them.

“What the fuck was that regulus?” James growls, finally getting to anger in his seven stages of grief.

“What do you mean ‘what the fuck was that?’” Regulus mocks him before continuing, “Why were you talking to some random lady? Actually no better yet why were you flirting with her?” Regulus pulls away from James and goes to lean against the wall farthest from him.

“Why was I flirting with her? At least I picked someone and didn’t try to fuck everyone at the bar. If you needed to be fucked so desperately, you could have just asked.” James scoffs, glaring at regulus.

“How should I have asked then? Hmm James?” Regulus walks towards him, slowly, like a predator about to pounce. “Should I have just texted you? Maybe I should have gotten on my knees? Begged for your big cock to fuck me stupid.” He pushes James back against the sink, leaning in to whisper in his ear “Would that have worked? Would you have fucked me again daddy?”

James groans deep in his chest while turning them, picking regulus up and setting him on the counter while stepping between his thighs.

“You act like I didn’t fuck you good enough last time. Are you that slutty baby? Do you need a dick always in you? Fucking you nice and hard. Putting you in your place.” He growls into Regulus’ ear before pulling his head back by his hair, exposing his pale neck.

“Need me to show you who you belong to again?” He watches as regulus’ eyes glass over and desperation truly starts to fill them. Regulus can barely whine out a yes before James pulls his pants down, staring in astonishment at his lack of underwear.

“Were you planning on getting fucked tonight baby? Or are you always this slutty?” He drops to his knees, now face to face with regulus’ dripping cunt. Pulling regulus closer to the ledge, he dives in, not giving regulus any space to argue.

James licked, sucked, nibbled, and fingered his way to two of regulus’ orgasms. He didn’t stop until regulus’ thighs were shaking and was trying to push him away.

“You ready for me to fuck you baby?” James said as he stood, slick glistening his lower face. Regulus nodded eagerly, fumbling with James belt while begging, “Please fuck me. I’ll be so good. Just need you in me.”

James grins, thoroughly enjoying Reg’s desperation, before picking him up again and turning him over, so regulus is now bent over the counter.

“Present your pretty cunt for me. Show me how much you want to be fucked.” He says while stepping back to move his pants and boxers down. Regulus quickly gets to work, arching his back and using his hands to spread himself for James’ viewing. James groans at the sight before him, looking at regulus through the mirror and seeing how ruined he already is.

“Keep your eyes on me baby ok? If you close them or look away, I’m stopping.” He slowly eases his cock into regulus, groaning at how wet and hot and tight he is.

“Y-yes daddy” Regulus practically purrs while pushing himself back onto James faster. James stops him though by grabbing his hips. He gives regulus a sharp warning look before finally starting to fuck him like he’s been craving for weeks. He watches regulus the entire time— watches as he tries to hide his moans again but fails quickly, watches as he scrambles to hold onto the edge of the counter and the way his eyes roll back in pleasure. James stops suddenly at that and spanks him harshly.

“What did I say love? Eyes on me. You need to know who’s filling you up this good and who’s gonna fuck you full soon.” Regulus nods weakly, already too fucked out to do much besides beg and moan. James finds his pace again and moves one of his hands to start rubbing at regulus’ clit. Before long, regulus is crying out about how badly he needs to cum and how good he’ll be for his daddy.

“You’ll cum when I cum” James growls out, loosing the careful rhythm he set and bending in closer to bite at regulus’ neck and shoulders. He can feel that heat inside himself already, knows he’s close, so James keeps going until he can’t anymore, thrusting a few last times before going as deep as he can. Regulus immediately shatters as well, having been holding back for a few minutes now. They collapse onto each other, not bothering to move or pull out.

“Will you stop avoiding me now?” James whispers into his ear. Regulus can only manage a small nod and weak groan as James pulls out of him, leaving him to drip cum down his thighs.

“Let me clean you up and then I’ll take you home.” He says it all gently, afraid regulus will get spooked again and run away. Instead, though, regulus lets himself get wiped up. He lets James help him put his clothes back on and doesn’t say anything as James leaves a trail of kisses in his wake.

This took me days. I hope it’s good and that you all enjoyed my first real small attempt at a smut fic.

[armpirate]

hey! i just read your “Like we were” of san and let me tell you, I LITERALLY CRIED. you are 1000000% my favourite writer. the effort you had put into that fic was definitely so much. thank you for your effort! everything was so beautifully written. it would be such an honour for me if you could write a fic of reader x choi san and have their relationship sound like the song “No one noticed” by the Marias? Especially the line “hold me, console me, and then i’ll leave without a trace”. I understand if it is hard to write a fic about a song, but i believe you can do it! if you could write such. beautiful fic like “Like we were”, you can definitely write a fic off a song. Thank you so much for reading this! 🥰🥰 please write more, i love your fics. looking forward for more fics!!

Thank you so much for your sweet words, and for your request!! I tried to write something based on that song, so I hope you like it!

pairing: San x fem!reader || Second chances

w.c.: 11.4k

Warnings: angst, heartbreak, cheating, smut, dirty talk, female masturbation, male masturbation, oral sex (female receiving), protected sex (Minors DNI! Refrain from reading if you're not +18, and ignore if you don't like this type of content).

Aprox. time of reading: 40 / 50 minutes

Summary: You were supposed to last forever. Until life, timing, and fear tore you apart. Almost a year later, you returned to the city where it all ended, only to find that San, the man you once thought you'd marry, had moved on. Or at least, he said he had. A chance encounter reopened wounds that never truly healed, and as stolen glances turn into late-night texts, you found yourselves spiraling back into something dangerously familiar.

MASTERLIST

The bar had been too loud for conversation, but too quiet for forgetting.

You sat tucked into a cracked leather booth near the wall, your drink untouched, hands wrapped around the glass like it could anchor you. The low bass rumbled through the floors, through your bones, but you barely noticed it. The whole night had started off wrong, and deep down, you knew why you said yes to coming here.

It wasn't because you needed a drink, it wasn't because you missed old friends, it was because a part of you -the stupid, reckless part- was still waiting for something impossible.

This bar had once been your place. Yours and San's. Saturday nights, crammed into these very booths, surrounded by his friends who had become your friends.

You could still hear the echoes of it: San's easy laugh across the table, the warm weight of his arm slung casually over your shoulders, the way he used to kiss your temple in the middle of a conversation, like he just had to touch you.

You didn't know why you chose that place when your friends asked to celebrate your return to the city. You didn't know why that pub came up as the only suggestion in your head, but it did. Maybe because you liked the staff there -the familiar environment-, maybe it was because the memories with your old friends were so vivid it made you feel at ease after returning to a city you didn't recognize. Or, maybe, you hoped to see your ex boyfriend hanging out with the same group of friends he used to meet up with on Saturdays.

You used to think you'd marry him. The two of you talked about it sometimes, late at night, lying tangled in his bed with the windows cracked open to let the city noise drift in. "One day, when we're ready," he had said once, half-asleep, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip. "You'll wear my hoodie to bed and my ring on your finger".

You believed him. God, you believed him with everything you had. And you knew, you were sure, if you had fought just a little more, it wouldn't have ended the way it did.

None of you saw it coming, until the slow unraveling began, until the problems were as part of your routine as brushing your teeth in the morning. Arguments that never quite healed, distance you both pretended not to notice, his career taking off, your life standing still... And in the end, it was you who had walked away.

You had loved him enough to leave, because staying would have meant watching him resent you.

You told yourself you did the right thing. You told yourself you moved on. But sitting here now, with the memories pressing against your ribs like knives, you realized just how beautifully you had lied to yourself.

Your friends were chatting with joy about the things you could do once you were settled back in the city. After being away for seven months due to a project in your company, you were back to stay. Not because you didn't like your new life, not because you didn't enjoy what you did, but there was something in you screaming to go back home.

You were playing with the straw of your drink when your eyes roamed around the place, and it was then when it happened. You caught sight of him by accident. Or maybe fate was cruel enough to call it inevitable.

San stood near the bar, bathed in a dripping wash of gold light. His hair was longer, swept back with a casual hand, and he wore black -always black- like he was mourning something only he could feel. His posture was easy, relaxed, one hand wrapped around a bottle, the other tucked into his pocket.

He wasn't alone. Different friends. New people, people you didn't know anymore, and who didn't know you.

You sank lower into your booth, heart thundering. It was then when you regretted ever fantasizing of seeing him again after so long. The scene in your head was one thing, one that fulfilled the emptiness you had tried to fight against ever since you left, but reality was completely different. You were scared. Panic found home in the back of your brain at the mere thought of his eyes landing on you, the same eyes that used to bring you comfort and make you feel at home.

Maybe if you stayed still enough, fate would let you go unnoticed. But San's gaze found yours like a thread pulling taut across the room.

The first glance was a flicker ,there and gone, but you felt it all the way down to your bones. Recognition. Shock. And something else, darker, more dangerous, flickering behind his eyes.

You easily caught him looking away before his eyes were briefly on you again, making sure he wasn't seeing a vision.

The last time he saw you, your eyes were puffy and red, your cheeks wet with your tears, and your voice was husky with desperation as you kept repeating a sentence he couldn't quite believe. "I don't love you anymore", to that day, those words hurted deep in his heart.

The next thing he knew about you after that argument was how you left the city to go on with your life somewhere else. And it broke him, he couldn't even ask you to stay, because you disappeared before he could.

You tore your gaze away. You picked up your glass and took a shaking sip, and laughed at something your friend said, too loud and too sharp, like you could pretend you hadn't felt your entire world tilt sideways.

It was a bad act. You were able to tell how obvious it was, how evident your little show was to anyone who minimally knew you. And, unfortunately, you were trying to pull it in front of one of the people that knew you better.

The night bled on, every minute a slow kind of torture.

You could feel him looking at you, even when you weren't looking back, when you laughed, when you tucked your hair behind your ear, when you stared too long into your drink, fighting the rise of memories.

You glanced up once, just once, and caught him already staring.

He didn't look away. Neither did you.

The space between you became electric, unbearable, like gravity trying to undo all the hard work you'd done convincing yourself you were over him.

And suddenly, you couldn't breathe. You couldn't be there anymore, sitting in a booth soaked with ghosts, pretending you weren't falling apart.

You slid out from your seat, muttering something about needing air. No one stopped you.

The second you stepped outside, the cool night slammed into your lungs. You dragged in a deep breath, your arms wrapping around yourself, like you could hold in all the pieces threatening to scatter.

You stood by the curb, blinking against the neon lights bleeding into the fog. You counted your breaths. One. Two. Three.

Maybe if you stood still long enough, you could forget. Maybe you could leave without looking back. After all, it wasn't something you weren't used to.

But then, a voice broke into your plans, making them all disappear, making any thought vanish as if the only thing that mattered was the tone, the thickness of the way your name was called out.

"Y/n."

You froze. You didn't need to turn around to know who it was, because you would have known his voice anywhere -low, careful, cracked at the edges like he hated himself for using it on you again.

Slowly, you turned. San stood a few feet away, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. His face was unreadable, but his eyes -God, his eyes- were a mess of everything you had spent the last year trying to forget.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment. The streetlight buzzed above, throwing sharp shadows across his face, catching on the strands of hair that fell into his forehead.

"You're back" he finally said.

"I've been back for a few days" you managed to answer.

He nodded, unsure of why he felt disappointed. It made no sense for him to expect a call, or even a text from you asking to catch up.

Your return was just as sudden as your escape. And, just like back then, he didn't know how to handle the situation without going insane.

"You look good," he spoke, his voice rough.

You smiled -a small, broken thing. "You too."

The cold bit into your skin, but you barely felt it. Not when he was looking at you like that, like you were the answer to a question he didn't know how to ask anymore.

"You were gonna leave without saying anything?" he asked, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. But his voice wasn't teasing.

He bit back the "Again" that was dying to slip out against you. Because, again, you were going to leave without saying a word, acting like he was no one important.

You shrugged, trying to play it off, trying not to drown in the ache. "Didn't think it would matter."

"It matters," he said, too fast, too quiet.

You hugged yourself tighter.

"I didn't know you'd be here," he said.

"Yeah," you breathed. "Me neither."

Another silence stretched between you, thick and fragile. You didn't expect to be there, but you were hoping life would reunite you again even if it was for a few seconds. Actually, fate was giving you that night more than you could've hoped for.

"You okay?" he asked, and you almost laughed.

Almost.

You shook your head, staring at your shoes. "Yeah. I'm great."

He stepped closer without thinking, then caught himself, like he realized too late that the rules had changed.

And maybe you should have walked away. Maybe you should have told him to go back inside to his new life, his new friends, his new everything. But you didn't. Because standing there under the hollow glow of the streetlights, with the night swallowing everything else, he didn't feel like a stranger.

He felt like a wound you never stopped picking.

"I should go," you whispered, voice breaking. "I have somewhere to be tomorrow morning"

He nodded stiffly. His hands stayed jammed in his pockets, like if he moved, he might do something stupid.

"Goodbye, San," you said, stepping back.

"Goodbye," he said, but the word cracked apart between you.

You turned. You didn't look back. But you felt him watching you. You felt it all the way home.

The text sat unsent on your screen for almost an hour. It was such a bad idea, such an awful plan.

Earlier that same morning, you hovered over his contact. You had kept his phone number and, after the previous night, you grew curious on knowing whether he changed his phone number or not. He didn't. His profile picture showed his reflection on a mirror, his well-proportioned figure still managing to leave you breathless even with a picture.

"Want to grab a coffee sometime?"

Simple. Casual. Safe. Yet, at the same time, it felt like you were risking yourself to be ripped open.

You stared at the blinking cursor, thumb hovering above the send button. Every part of you screamed that it was a bad idea, that reaching out would only open doors you'd slammed shut for a reason.

But still, the memory of San standing outside the bar, looking at you like he wanted to say a thousand things he couldn't, pressed into you like a bruise.

And you missed him. You missed him so much it hurt. You would only be lying if you didn't admit you agreed on coming back to the city because of him.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you hit send.

You dropped your phone face down on the couch and walked away like it might explode. Even if he hadn't changed his phone number, the chances of him ignoring you were high. Really high. Possibly he was just being cordial when he saw you at the bar, having the guts to do something you didn't have the guts for. Maybe...

The sound of the notification cut off your thought, the possibility hanging in the air before you eyed your phone.

"Yeah. Let's do it. Tomorrow?"

The next day you arrived first. You got there early, pacing nervously near the window, watching every car that passed by. You got there like thirty minutes earlier. The coffee shop was tucked on a quiet side street, just far enough from the usual chaos of downtown. A place you hadn't been before.

Neutral ground.

You were planning on running away, when you saw him walking down the street -hands deep in his jacket pockets, head slightly bowed against the cold- your heart did something ugly and painful against your ribs.

He was early, too. But it wasn't a coincidence. He knew you'd be there way earlier than planned, and he wasn't about to miss a chance to spend more time with you. Even if they were five minutes long.

San spotted you almost instantly. His face lit up, the smallest, almost hesitant smile touching his lips.

"Hey," he said as he reached you.

"Hey," you echoed, your voice thinner than you meant.

For a second you just stood there, both of you shuffling awkwardly, caught somewhere between a hug and a handshake and doing neither. Then you gave a breathless laugh and pulled open the door, gesturing him inside.

The warm rush of coffee and cinnamon filled the air.

You ordered drinks -he still took his coffee black, still teased you when you ordered something sweet and complicated- and found a quiet table tucked in the back, away from the few scattered patrons.

At first, conversation was easy. Surface-level. He asked about your job. You asked about his. You laughed about old friends who had gotten married, moved away, had kids... The conversation always went around anything that wasn't either of you.

The laughter felt good. It felt normal. The distance gave you a sense of comfort that helped you two relax.

For a little while, you almost believed that nothing had changed. He still leaned across the table when he got excited telling a story. He still ran a hand through his hair when he was thinking, making it stick up messily, he still listened like you were the only person in the world.

You sipped your coffee slowly, drawing out the moment, not wanting it to end.

"Remember that night we stayed here until closing?" you asked, nudging your cup toward him with a little smile.

He grinned, the memory flashing in his eyes. "Yeah, and we got kicked out while it was pouring outside"

"We had to walk three miles back to your place," you added, laughing. "In the rain."

He chuckled, his hand swirling the coffee inside his cup "Yeah, and you complained all the way there".

"I had just gotten out of a bad cold" you tried to justify.

"I know. I looked after you until you got better, remember?" the warmth in his voice tightening something low in your chest.

You did remember. Although it had happened so many times, you weren't able to just get one memory. San was always the type to send several texts a day when you were apart -especially when you were sick-, he'd cook for you and turn into your nurse. But, what you held tight to your heart was the way he played with your hair as he helped you fall asleep.

You ducked your head, smiling. It felt dangerously easy, slipping back into the rhythm of him. Maybe too easy.

The moment cracked when his phone buzzed against the table, vibrating insistently. San glanced at it, the color draining from his face in a way you recognized all too well. He silenced it quickly, but not before you saw the name flashing across the screen.

Annie❤️

Your stomach twisted. You looked down into your coffee, suddenly finding it impossible to meet his eyes.

"Sorry," he muttered, voice low. He shoved the phone into his pocket like he could hide it from the air between you. "That was..."

"You don't have to explain," you said quickly, forcing a smile that hurt your cheeks.

But he did anyway.

"I'm...seeing someone," he said quietly. "Her name's Annie. We've been together for a few months now."

You nodded, feeling your throat close up.

"That's great," you said, and the words tasted like blood in your mouth. "I'm happy for you."

San watched you carefully, like he could see right through the lie you wrapped yourself in. He opened his mouth, maybe to say something else -maybe to apologize, maybe to offer you some meaningless comfort- but you shook your head before he could.

"No, really," you said. You even managed a real, if brittle, smile. "You deserve to be happy, San."

A heavy silence fell between you.

You hated it -hated that you weren't someone he belonged to anymore. Hated that you had no right to be jealous, to hurt. Hated that part of you still wanted him to reach across the table and tell you he made a mistake. That he still loved you. That you could still find your way back. But he didn't. And you wouldn't ask him to.

After a few more stilted minutes, you both stood. Outside, the sky had darkened into a dull bruised purple, the street lights flickering to life.

San stuffed his hands into his jacket again, shoulders hunched against the cold. You wrapped your arms around yourself, more from habit than from the chill.

"This was nice," you said, meaning it and not meaning it all at once.

"Yeah," he said, voice rough. "It was."

He hesitated, like he wanted to say more, like he didn't want to leave it like this. But he just gave you a small, sad smile and stepped back.

"Take care of yourself, Y/n."

"You too, San."

You watched him walk away, his figure swallowed by the dusk, until he disappeared around the corner. You stood there for a long time after, staring at the empty street, feeling the weight of everything you couldn't say pressing down on your chest. And when you finally turned to leave, you swore you could still feel the echo of his eyes on you, even when he was already gone.

You told yourself you wouldn't reach out again.

After the coffee, after the tight, aching smile on San's face when he told you he was seeing someone else, you promised yourself you would let it end. No more texts, no more coffee shops, no more pretending you could be friends with someone whose absence still sat heavy in your lungs.

You were careful. Always. You took the long way home from work, even when it meant adding twenty minutes to your commute, you stopped going to the cafes and bars he used to like, you muted the old friends you still shared on social media, just in case his name popped up like a knife between your ribs.

Everything that could be done to avoid seeing him, you did it all.

It wasn't healing, exactly. It was survival.

And it worked, for a little while. Until you saw him again.

It was a random Tuesday, rainy and miserable, and you were ducking into the corner store near your apartment for milk. You weren't even really looking when you stepped through the door, brushing water from your sleeves, head bowed.

You were two minutes away from your house, there was no way you'd find him there. But you did:

"Y/n?"

You froze. When you looked up, there he was, holding a crumpled grocery bag in one hand, a dripping black hoodie plastered to his frame, hair a mess from the rain. His smile was immediate, unguarded. It hit you harder than you wanted it to.

"Hey," you said, voice small.

He shifted his weight awkwardly, the way he always used to when he wasn't sure if he was welcome.

"I didn't think I'd see you again," he said, like it was something he'd been carrying around for too long.

And it was. For some reason, that sentence just became part of who you were to him: someone he was never sure he'd ever see, someone who always ran away when his heart needed you the most.

You swallowed. "You know. Big city. Small world."

He laughed, a soft, breathy sound, and for a second, it felt like standing on the edge of something you couldn't see the bottom of. There was a beat of silence, and then he shoved the grocery bag into one arm and rubbed the back of his neck with the other, an old nervous habit you recognized immediately.

"I..." he started, then stopped, searching your face. "Y/n, I know we've gone through a lot. And it might be weird to tell you, but I don't want to keep wondering when it'll be the next time we see each other, wondering where I'll meet you by chance. I don't want to do that, not with you" he shook his head, before going on. "I'd like to keep in touch. If that's okay."

You should have said no. You should have walked away. But the truth was, you missed him so badly it hurt to breathe, and some part of you -the reckless, ruined part- wanted to know if he missed you too.

"Okay," you said softly. "Yeah, it's fine by me".

Was it?

As much as you were friends before dating, you were sure it'd never go back to how it was back then. Because, even then, there was something that pulled you close together, a connection you couldn't explain not even to yourselves.

His smile was quick, brilliant, the kind of smile that used to undo you without even trying.

"I'll text you," he promised.

You nodded, and this time, when you turned to go, you didn't feel like you were falling apart. Not yet.

After that day, the texts started small. At first, it was just the easy things: songs you used to listen to, funny memories, old inside jokes. Then it slipped into more dangerous territory. Late at night, when the city was quiet and the darkness felt heavier, your phone would light up.

San [12:47 AM]: You still up?

You always were.

The conversations at that hour felt different -raw, closer to the truth. That's how it began the first time.

One night, it was about music. Another, about the people you used to be, about regrets neither of you had dared to name when you were together. And then, one night, it shifted.

San [1:18 AM]: Wooyoung asked me today if I still think about you.

You stared at the message, your heart climbing into your throat.

You [1:19 AM]: What did you say?

There was a long pause. You watched the typing bubble flash on and off, like he was starting and stopping a hundred replies he couldn't bring himself to send.

San [1:22 AM]: I lied.

You swallowed hard. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, not sure what to say to that. Not sure if you should say anything at all.

You [1:23 AM]: Why?

Another long silence.

When his reply came, it felt like something tearing at the seams.

San [1:26 AM]: Because I know things would get weird. And because if I told the truth, I'd have to admit I still miss you. Every day.

The air felt thin in your apartment, like the words had sucked all the oxygen out of the room. You pressed the heel of your hand against your chest, trying to slow the frantic hammering of your heart.

You knew you should put the phone down. You knew you should tell him to stop. But your thumbs moved before your brain could catch up.

You [1:27 AM]: I miss you too. All the time.

You didn't get a reply right away. You stared at the ceiling in the dark, phone clutched to your chest, heart pounding like it wanted to claw its way out of you. Finally, your phone buzzed.

San [1:41 AM]: Can I call you?

You hesitated, every rational part of you screaming no. But you were already unlocking your phone, already hitting "Accept" when his name lit up your screen.

"Hey," he said, voice rough and low like he hadn't slept.

"Hey," you whispered back.

Neither of you spoke for a long time. You just listened to each other breathe, miles apart but tangled up in something too old and too deep to untangle now. And even though you knew better -even though you knew how this would end- you let yourself believe, for one small, aching moment, that you weren't alone.

You never meant for it to happen. At first, it was innocent enough -if you squinted hard enough and ignored the way your heart twisted every time he laughed.

You and San started meeting up again. Coffee shops, quiet bookstores, late-night drives where the windows stayed rolled down and the music stayed low enough that you could pretend the silence between you wasn't heavy with all the things you couldn't say.

It wasn't like before, not exactly. There was a distance to it, an invisible line drawn between you that neither of you crossed. You talked about small things: new hobbies, work, the latest movie he thought you'd hate but ended up loving.

He was careful. You were careful. At least at first. You two tried hard to believe it was friendly. At some point, you two believed it could be friendly. But it was never just friendship, not really. Not when your hands brushed accidentally reaching for the same book, and you both froze like you'd touched an open flame. Not when he looked at you too long and too soft, like he was memorizing you all over again. Not when the air between you felt charged, electric, like something was waiting to break.

The night it finally happened, it wasn't even anything special.

You were sitting side by side on the hood of his car, parked in an empty lot overlooking the city, the skyline glittering like a thousand tiny promises. A half-empty bag of takeout sat abandoned between you. The radio played something low and sad, barely more than a hum. San tipped his head back, looking at the stars.

"You ever think about how we almost got it right?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You didn't pretend not to know what he meant. The question took you by surprise, or so you wanted to believe. Although, actually, it wasn't a topic you didn't expect to be brought up.

"Yeah," you said.

"It's so ridiculous. But being here with you, it feels like nothing has changed" he lowly admitted, his brows slightly furrowing. "Absolutely everything has changed, actually" he finally sighed.

Silence stretched between you, thick and aching. He turned his head to look at you, really look at you. And you knew, in that moment, that if you moved even a little closer, he wouldn't stop you.

"It feels so wrong, but so right at the same time" his eyes momentarily moved to your lips. "It feels like this is exactly where we belong, after everything".

Your heart hammered against your ribs, frantic and pleading. You should have gotten off the car. You should have walked away. Instead, you shifted closer, just enough. The space between you cracked and collapsed, and then: he kissed you.

It wasn't desperate, not at first. It was slow, careful, almost reverent.

His lips brushed yours, tentative, like he wasn't sure if you would let him. You kissed him back -soft, aching- and you felt him break against you with a quiet, helpless sound. One of his hands came up to cradle your jaw, thumb stroking the curve of your cheek. The other slipped into your hair, tugging you closer like he couldn't stand even an inch of distance between you anymore. You melted into him, fingers curling in the front of his jacket, anchoring yourself to something you knew you couldn't keep.

It was everything you'd been starving for -all the unspoken things pouring out in a kiss that tasted like grief and longing and home.

For a minute, it was easy to forget the world outside: the girlfriend waiting for him to come home, the promises you had both already broken just by being here.

For a minute, there was only him.

When you finally pulled away, you were both breathing hard, foreheads resting against each other, eyes squeezed shut like it could undo what just happened. You moved first, pushing yourself back when Annie's ringtone, he had especially for her, rang in your ear through your silence.

"I'm sorry," San rasped, voice wrecked. "I shouldn't have..."

You shook your head, cutting him off, tears stinging the backs of your eyes.

"I know," you whispered. "It was a mistake".

Neither of you moved. And then, like something had snapped back into place -cruel and merciless- San moved further away.

The loss of him felt like a physical thing, like the air itself had been punched out of your lungs.

"I can't," he said, almost to himself. "I can't do this to her."

You nodded, even though every cell in your body screamed at you to grab him, to hold him, to beg him to stay.

"You shouldn't do that to her" you said, voice cracking.

You were already aware of her existence, of her role in his life. Guilt was already gripping on you tight. But, somehow, hearing him say it himself, made something in you break.

San looked at you for a long, breaking moment -like he was trying to memorize you one last time.

"I'll drive you home" he suggested, but you shook your head.

How were you going to spend a single second alone in such an empty space with him and not go insane? No, you couldn't.

"I'll call a cab".

"Y/n, don't be ridiculous. I'll drive you..."

"I said no".

He didn't insist, he didn't speak. He just nodded and rested his lower half against the hood of his car, silently accepting your choice, but assuring you he'd wait with you until the taxi came to pick you up.

Both of you were on opposite sides of the car. He remained at the front, while you stayed at the back. You stood there under the brittle stars, arms wrapped around yourself, feeling like you were bleeding out into the dark.

The tears started rolling down out of your control, and the silent sobs only caused you to painfully breathe through your nose.

The moment the taxi arrived, you hopped inside. Neither of you spoke, neither of you looked. It was like everything would fall down the second your eyes met again.

After that, the distance was sharp and brutal. No more late-night texts. No more casual meetups. No more pretending you could be friends in order to keep seeing each other.

You didn't blame him. You didn't blame yourself, either. Sometimes love wasn't enough - you knew that too well. Sometimes it was the very thing that broke you. And you knew -deep in the hollow, echoing part of your chest- that you would carry the weight in your heart.

You shouldn't have said yes to Wooyoung. You knew it the second you stepped into the bar, with the low thrum of music, the too-familiar laughter of old friends, the hum of a past you weren't sure you belonged to anymore.

But when Wooyoung had called you a few days ago, voice bright and persuasive, it had been impossible to say no.

"Come on, just for a little," he'd said. "It's been ages. Everyone misses you."

You should've known he meant San. Maybe part of you had known. Maybe that was why you spent twenty minutes deciding on a dress, why your hands had shaken while putting on eyeliner, why your stomach had twisted the whole cab ride over.

You'd barely stepped through the door when you saw him.

He looked... different. Not drastically, but enough. It wasn't the kind of different that was physical. It was the type of different that you could easily recognize after years together, after knowing every pore of his body.

He looked absent when you first stepped inside, his eyes looking tired even from afar. The kind of tiredness in his eyes that didn't come from lack of sleep.

He looked up -like he felt you- and his eyes met yours across the room.

Everything in your chest stilled. You tried to smile, it almost worked. You could even feel the corners of your lips moving up, but then she appeared beside him.

Annie.

Tall. Graceful. Effortlessly pretty in that expensive, put-together way that made you immediately feel like a kid playing dress-up. She was laughing at something San had said, hand on his arm.

You froze.

San noticed. You saw the subtle stiffening of his shoulders, the flicker of guilt in his eyes.

He started to step forward, but Wooyoung was already there, grabbing your hand and pulling you deeper into the crowd before San could say a word, before you could even think of turning around and getting out of the bar.

For a while, you managed to pretend.

You laughed. You drank. You hugged old friends and nodded along to stories you weren't really listening to.

You avoided San's eyes, but you could feel him watching you.

Every time you turned your head, he was there -leaning against the wall, fingers tight around his drink, eyes tracing your every move like he was trying to read something in your posture. And Annie noticed.

Of course she noticed.

She was subtle about it, in the way girls like her always are -never loud, never direct-, in a way you never were. Just sharp smiles and comments dipped in honey and poison.

At one point, you found yourself at the same corner of the room, reaching for the same bottle of wine.

She smiled at you. Perfect teeth. Glossed lips.

"You're Y/n, right?" she asked, as if she hadn't already memorized your face.

You nodded. "Yeah."

She tilted her head, all charm and calculation.

"I've heard a lot about you," she said. "It's so great you two are still... friendly."

There it was.

You smiled -tight, cold. "Yeah. It's good to catch up sometimes" you sighed. "I'm here for Wooyoung though. He's still our friend, after all".

"Of course, it's about Woo" she poured herself a drink. "I just think it's so important to be mature, you know? To let the past stay in the past."

You stared at her. She didn't blink.

It felt like a warning. It was a warning.

You felt the blood rise in your throat, like it wanted to speak for you. But instead, you swallowed hard and turned away without a word.

For the next twenty minutes, you tried to ignore that look she gave you, that tone in her voice, but you couldn't. Looking around, seeing how she interacted with everyone, it all made sense: you were the only one who had no business being there anymore.

You couldn't stay.

You barely remembered grabbing your coat, or the excuse you made up when you told Wooyoung you were leaving. You just knew that the music was too loud, the air too thick, the walls closing in.

You pushed through the door and into the night, cold air burning your lungs, your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

The sidewalk was cracked and uneven beneath your heels, and the cold wind bit at your arms through your thin jacket. You kept your eyes forward, your hands clenched deep in your pockets, and your breath came hard and fast as you walked. You didn't stop until you reached your apartment door.

Inside, you didn't cry. You didn't scream. You just stood there in the quiet of your entryway, staring at the shadows on the floor as your chest rose and fell with the kind of heaviness that only came from trying not to fall apart.

You poured yourself a glass of water, sat on the couch in the dark, and let the silence eat away at the space around you.

It felt like something inside you had been opened again, peeled raw -a wound you'd tried so carefully to suture now torn wide once more.

You didn't regret leaving, but you hated that it still hurt this much.

San had noticed the moment you were gone. When you thought you were sneaking outside, just like you used to before he found you hiding in a corner, trying to get back some energy. But that night, he knew he wouldn't find you in any corner of that bar.

He felt the change in the room like someone had turned off the oxygen. One moment you were there, barely, and the next, you were just... gone.

He scanned the crowd, heart stuttering in his chest, but you weren't anywhere.

"Hey," Annie said, sliding beside him with a laugh, looping her arm through his. "You good? You've been off all night."

San blinked and looked down at her. She was smiling, but there was an edge to it — something cold and coiled underneath.

"Just tired," he said.

"Right," she replied, voice light but pointed. "Tired from pretending not to look at your ex every ten seconds."

San's stomach tightened. "Don't do that."

She raised a brow. "Do what? Be honest? At least one of us has to be."

"Don't make a scene. Not today" he asked, not even making the effort to pretend he didn't want to fight with her.

Because, deep inside, he wanted that fight to happen, he wanted her to leave. But he didn't push it.

"Oh, don't talk down on me with that tone, like I'm just being the crazy girlfriend" she rushed to say, before he could even go back again to that calm state.

He didn't answer. His gaze drifted again to the front door, still closed. Still no sign of you. It was so ridiculous. His relationship was drifting apart, yet all he could think about was you.

Annie sighed. "You know what? Let's just go."

He nodded. Too quickly.

"I'll drive you," he said.

She looked surprised for a second, then narrowed her eyes. "Okay."

The drive to her place was quiet. San kept one hand on the steering wheel, the other drumming an anxious rhythm on his thigh. Annie said nothing. She was scrolling through her phone, jaw tight, profile hard in the passing streetlights.

"You're quiet," she muttered finally.

"So are you."

"Because I'm trying not to pick a fight in a moving vehicle."

San's grip tightened, he held back the eyeroll. "I didn't ask you to come tonight."

"Maybe that's the problem" she turned to him, eyebrows furrowed. "You knew she'd be here, right?"

He didn't respond.

Annie scoffed under her breath. "It's so obvious you still feel something for her."

"I don't..." he started, then stopped. Swallowed. "Annie, stop with all of this. Stop making things difficult."

Annie turned to face him, face blank. "Then make them simple."

The car rolled to a stop in front of her apartment. San didn't put it in park, and she knew he wasn't going to stay that night. He wasn't even going to go up to her place to argue. He wasn't going to make the effort, at all.

She stared at him for a beat longer, then unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the door. She turned once more, lips pursing as she nodded, eating all of her insecurities, eating all of the words in her throat, to simply say:

"Goodnight, San," she said quietly, and closed it behind her.

He waited until she disappeared inside before he exhaled. His hands gripped the wheel for another long moment -knuckles white, jaw clenched- and then, before he could talk himself out of it, he turned the car around.

He knew exactly where he was going.

You heard the knock just before midnight. Soft. Hesitant. Like someone unsure they had the right to be there. You didn't have to look through the peephole to know who it was. You could recognize those knocks anywhere. Still, you hesitated before opening the door.

When you did, San stood there -hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, windblown and wide-eyed, like he hadn't thought this far ahead.

Neither of you spoke at first.

He looked tired. Like he hadn't slept in weeks. Like the silence between you was the only thing holding him together.

"I dropped her off," he said, like that explained anything at all.

You nodded. Your voice came out low. "You shouldn't be here."

"I know."

You didn't move. Neither did he.

"I needed to see you," he said. "Just... tonight. I needed..."

You waited. But he didn't finish. He just looked at you like you were the only safe place left in a burning house. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the door.

"Do you want to come in?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer.

He nodded once, and you stepped aside to let him in.

You hadn't expected him to say yes. You hadn't expected him to step into your apartment like it was still familiar, like no time had passed at all. But he did.

San stood awkwardly in the middle of your living room, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, eyes scanning the space like it had changed in some subtle way he couldn't quite name.

It hadn't. Not really.

Same soft lighting. Same throw pillows he used to complain were more decorative than functional. Same faint scent of lavender and old perfume woven into the walls.

You watched him carefully as you set a glass of water on the coffee table. He sat down slowly, elbows on knees, looking like he might fold in on himself if he moved too fast.

You sat across from him.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was thick -not uncomfortable, exactly. Just fragile. Like one wrong word would snap it in two.

"I shouldn't be here," he said.

You nodded, slowly. "I know."

"But I didn't know where else to go."

You looked at him, and realized you knew exactly what he meant. You'd been there, too. A hundred nights, maybe more. Wondering where to go with all the feelings that had nowhere left to land.

"I didn't ask you to come," you said quietly.

"I know."

Another beat passed.

He took the glass of water, and sipped it. Set it back down without meeting your eyes.

"Did you ever miss me?" he asked suddenly.

You blinked. "San..."

"I'm serious," he said, louder now, voice cracking just enough to cut through the quiet. "Did you? Because I missed you. I missed you, every fucking day. You have no idea how hard it was to let you go. I spent nights without sleeping, I went to the therapist because everywhere I looked reminded me of you. You have no idea how hard it was for me to get over you. And then you show up again and pretend like it's casual. Like we didn't... like you didn't mean everything to me."

His chest tightened at the realization that, maybe, he never really got over you. He just learned to live with your absence, but he always waited for you to show up. It was obvious at first, and later it turned subtle. So hidden that his brain didn't even register it as longing anymore.

But it was.

Your chest tightened. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" His laugh was bitter. "You walked away. You decided we were over. And then you come back and sit across from me like we're just old friends catching up. Like I'm supposed to smile and move on like nothing ever happened."

You stood up, heart hammering.

"I didn't come back to ruin your life."

"Well, you did!" he snapped, standing too now, too close. "You came back and turned everything upside down. I can't think straight anymore. I can't sleep. I can't even look at Annie without feeling like a fucking liar."

Your breath hitched. "That's not on me."

"It's not?"

His eyes were wild, glassy with too many unsaid things. His voice dropped low, rough with emotion.

"You have no idea what you've done to me."

You stared at him, at the angry curve of his mouth, the way his chest heaved, the desperation flickering behind his words.

And you broke.

Because you haven't stopped thinking about him, because you couldn't even think of another man kissing your lips if it wasn't him. Because you spent twelve, and even fourteen, hours focused on words so your mind wouldn't remember how good it felt when you were together.

"I've been holding myself together with duct tape and willpower since the day I left you," you said, voice shaking. "You think I came back to mess with your head? I came back because this city feels like home and because every other place felt like pretending. And I didn't ask to feel like this again. I didn't want this again."

He was looking at you like he'd never stopped.

"I didn't want it either," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

And then something cracked between you, like a dam giving way.

He stepped forward, you didn't move. His hand curled around the side of your neck -not rough, but firm, anchoring- and then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss wasn't soft.

It was desperate. Starved. Years of silence and resentment and longing pulled tight into one breathless, furious moment.

You kissed him like you were drowning. Like you were trying to find air in his mouth. He kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

His other hand gripped your waist, pulling you closer, and you let him -let him press against you like he was trying to make up for every night you'd both spent alone, in separate beds, wondering what went wrong.

There was no room left for thought. No room left for guilt. Only the sound of breath and the rush of blood and the ache you both had kept buried for too long.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and your eyes stayed closed. You could still taste him on your lips.

"San," you whispered.

"I know," he said. "I know."

The silence after was deafening. You didn't speak again. You didn't need to, because what you felt in that kiss, it wasn't closure.

It was something much more dangerous.

Your lips met again the moment your eyes met after taking one breath. This time with more urgency, as if the need from all the time you were away was thrown onto it. Your tongues danced together in a rhythm you two were quite familiar with.

It was like nothing had changed.

San's hands roamed over your body, reacquainting themselves with every curve and dip. You moaned as his fingers found the sensitive spot on your neck, squeezing it the way he knew it made you squirm and fold, sending shivers down your spine. You grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer, your body aching for more.

"This is so wrong" you managed to whisper against his lips, only breaking the kisses to shed some conscience that neither of you wanted back.

San growled in response, his hands moving to quickly pull from your shirt, throwing it over your head. He kissed your neck, his teeth grazing your skin the same way his fingers were just seconds back, making you gasp.

At some point, it was like a speed race on who was faster on getting the other out of your clothes. While he unclasped your bra, you helped him out of his shirt, your hands exploring his muscular chest, tracing all of the muscles like you knew them by heart.

His mind was running a million per hour the second he got you out of your underwear. He didn't mind when it happened, he didn't care if it was right on the floor beneath you, but he needed to have you. Even if it was just one last time.

San picked you up easily, wrapping your legs around his waist to carry you to your bedroom. The same place where he had you countless times before, in different ways. With candles, with half of your clothes on because you just couldn't wait to get your hands on each other's, slow, fast...

It was crazy how much you two missed it.

San laid you down on the bed, his eyes roaming over your naked body with hunger, before crawling on the mattress to get on top of you. He started at your neck, kissing and nibbling his way down to your breasts, taking each nipple into his mouth, sucking and teasing until you were writhing beneath him.

When his hand moved to cup your core, you could barely hold back the whine. Two of his fingers moved through your folds, as if he couldn't quite believe you were still so responsive to his touch.

The moment he pulled back to look at you, so he could look at you while he licked his fingers, it was when you started seeing nothing else but him. Absolutely nothing else mattered.

"You taste so fucking good, Y/n," San murmured, his voice thick with desire. "Exactly like I remember".

You moaned, your fingers tangling in his hair. "San, please..."

San obliged, moving down your body, spreading your legs. He didn't need you to say anything else, because he already knew what you needed. He looked up at you, his eyes dark with lust. "You're so wet, Y/n. You want my cock, don't you?"

You nodded, your breath coming in short gasps. "Yes, San. I want you"

San smiled, his tongue flicking out to taste you after he settled between your legs, pushing your thighs up to his shoulders. You bucked against him, a soft moan escaping your lips. San continued to lick and suck, his fingers joining in, teasing your clit until you were on the brink of ecstasy.

"Fuck me" you begged, your body trembling with need.

Again, he moved over your body to settle his body between your legs, your thighs now falling at his hips. Your hand moved down his torso to wrap around his length, your slim fingers fitted just perfect as you moved them up and down.

San positioned himself at your entrance, wrapping his fingers on top of yours, his length hard and ready. He pushed in slowly, giving you time to adjust to his size, feeling the way your channel stretched out for him as he pushed in deeper. You moaned, your nails digging into his back, the moment your hips met. He stayed there for a few seconds, breaking through the pleasure to look into your eyes, finding a spark he hadn't seen on anyone else before.

As if to erase the thoughts that were crossing his mind, he kissed you again, hungrily, desperately.

"You're so tight, babe" San groaned, starting to move inside you. "I've missed this. I've missed you."

You wrapped your legs around him, meeting his thrusts, moving your hips in sync with his. "I've missed you, too"

He recognized that cracking in your voice mid-moan, he knew what you needed without you saying a word, and he complied, his hips moving faster, his dick filling you completely. You could feel the pleasure building, your body on fire with desire. You could even hear the wet sounds of your bodies coming together, the moans and gasps filling the room.

"Yes, San. Just like that," you panted. "Faster. Harder."

San increased the pace, his body slamming against yours. You could feel her orgasm building, your body tensing with anticipation. As you looked into San's eyes, you could see the raw desire and love reflected back at you.

God, it was like nothing changed.

"I'm close, San. So close," you gasped.

San reached between you, his fingers finding your clit. He rubbed it in time with his thrusts, pushing you over the edge. You cried out, your body convulsing with pleasure. San followed soon after, his length pulsing inside you as he reached his high, his body shaking with the force of his release.

When you looked at each other again, you could both feel something building up. The guilt. You allowed yourselves to get carried away by the feelings you found no explanation for. Yet, at the same time, it felt right.

And you both knew that wouldn't be the last time.

Your body was still humming when he pulled away.

The room was warm, and your skin was slick with sweat, sheets tangled around your legs, breath shallow as you stared up at the ceiling like it might offer answers you stopped searching for long ago.

San lay beside you, arm draped across your stomach, chest rising and falling against your side. The silence between you had stopped being awkward a long time ago. Now it just felt... necessary. Like a blanket you both wrapped around the things you didn't want to say.

You shifted slightly, drawing the sheets up over your chest, but didn't move away from him.

Didn't want to.

He was still inside the world you'd built here, in this small apartment, in this one dimly lit bedroom where the outside didn't exist. Where Annie didn't exist.

You felt him stir beside you. His fingers traced lazy patterns along your bare stomach, a touch that felt more like habit than lust. Like muscle memory. Like love he didn't know how to name anymore.

"I shouldn't still be here," he murmured.

You didn't answer. Not right away. Because you knew he would leave eventually. He always did.

Instead, you stared at the ceiling and let the weight of his arm keep you tethered.

"How long are we going to do this?" you asked finally.

His hand paused. Then resumed its slow circles.

"I don't know."

You turned your head to look at him -his face soft in the afterglow, hair messy, lips still parted from the way he'd whispered your name just minutes before. You wanted to memorize him like this. Not the version that smiled politely across coffee tables, or the one that walked beside Annie at crowded parties.

This version: all stripped down and real and yours, even if only in stolen pieces.

"She's going to find out," you said.

"I know."

You swallowed, throat tight. "And when she does?"

He didn't answer. Just exhaled, long and tired. You rolled onto your side, resting your forehead against his shoulder.

"This isn't fair," you whispered.

"I know," he said again, softer this time. "But when I'm here... I can breathe."

Your eyes stung. You weren't sure if it was guilt or something crueler, like hope.

You swallowed. "Why don't you just break up with her?"

His hand stopped. The silence that followed was colder than anything else that had passed between you.

When he didn't speak, you sat up a little, keeping the sheets clutched against your chest.

"San."

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, suddenly tense. "You think it's that easy?"

"No," you said. "But I think if you were really happy, you wouldn't be here."

He looked at you then, and something sharp flickered across his face. Guilt. Anger. Fear. All tangled up in a single breath.

"I care about her," he said tightly.

You nodded, slow and tired. "Yeah. Just not enough to stop sleeping with me."

That landed. His jaw clenched, and he sat up too, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," he muttered.

"But it did. Actually, it's been happening for two weeks".

You leaned back against the headboard, heart pounding beneath your skin. You hated this. You hated yourself for asking. Hated him for not having an answer. Hated the way he still hadn't left.

"I used to think we were endgame," you said, barely above a whisper. "You know that?"

"So did I."

"But now I just think we're moving around a past that won't come back" you finally said. "It won't ever be the same".

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The air in the room was heavy -not with lust, not anymore. But with everything you'd both lost and everything you were still clinging to.

He didn't reply. He just turned toward you, eyes burning, and kissed you. Hard.

It wasn't an answer. It was avoidance, maybe. Or desperation. But you kissed him back anyway, letting him push you down into the mattress, letting your guilt melt into his mouth and your hands clinging to the only thing that still felt real.

Later, when the room went still again, neither of you spoke.

Not about her. Not about what this meant. Not about the fact that it couldn't go on like this forever.

Outside, the world went on. Inside, you stayed wrapped in sheets and silence and secrets.

And when he eventually rose to dress, when he kissed your forehead and promised he'd text you later, even though you both knew it wasn't enough, you let him go.

Because you knew he'd come back. And that was what terrified you most.

The days after that night were quiet.

No texts. No late-night calls. No hasty plans wrapped in guilt and whispered names beneath the sheets.

You both disappeared into your lives like nothing had happened.

It was the only thing you could do.

You busied yourself with the parts of life that had nothing to do with him: work, laundry, walking the long way home so you wouldn't accidentally pass his building. You cleaned the apartment more than it needed. Rearranged the bookshelves. Drank wine alone, long after the sun had gone down.

You didn't check your phone as much anymore.

Not that he'd messaged.

But you still looked.

Some part of you had wanted him to say something, not to apologize, not to fix it. Just to acknowledge what that night had been. That intimacy and passion. That argument. The fact that it hadn't been a game for either of you.

But silence stretched like a bruise between you.

You didn't know if it was guilt or discipline. If he was doing it for Annie, or for himself. Or maybe for you, some misguided attempt at kindness, cutting things off before they could fall apart again.

Either way, it worked.

You stopped hoping, stopped replaying everything in your head. And slowly, that aching, unbearable question crept back in.

What were you still doing there?

It was the same one that had followed you around the city when you'd first returned. The one you ignored every time you ran into an old friend, or passed a place that still smelled like him. The one that screamed inside your chest when you kissed him again -still wanted him again- despite everything.

This city didn't feel like yours anymore. And neither did he.

You stared at your packed suitcase for a long time.

It wasn't full yet, but it would be. Soon.

You didn't know where you were going. Just that it couldn't be there.

Not now. Not with the memory of him wrapped around your bones like a secret you could no longer carry.

You picked up your phone before you could change your mind. Your fingers hovered over the screen for longer than you'd admit.

And then you typed:

You [09:26 PM]: Can I see you? Just once more. I'll be gone by morning. I promise.

Hold me, Console Me...

You didn't expect him to respond to your message right away.

But you barely had time to pace the length of your living room before his reply came through.

San [09:28 PM]: I'll be here.

No questions. No hesitation. No surprise.

You took the long way to his apartment, walking slower than usual. Your breath came in shallow pulls, chest heavy with everything you weren't ready to say. The night was cool and still, the city quieter than you remembered it ever being. Or maybe it was just you -quieter now, dulled by the weight of what this night would mean.

When he opened the door, he didn't say anything. Just stepped aside and let you in.

The lights were low, the same familiar shadows cast across the floor, like they'd never changed since you left the last time. It was all the same -him, this space, the silence between you- except for the knowledge that this would be the last time.

You walked past him into the living room and sat on the edge of the couch, hands folded in your lap. He followed you slowly, sitting beside you, not too close but not far either.

It was a while before anyone spoke.

"You look tired," he said, gently.

You let out a quiet laugh. "So do you."

He gave you a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

A breath passed. Then another.

"I've been thinking about that night," he said finally. "The last time we were together"

You looked down at your hands.

"I know."

"You said this wasn't fair. That I was lying to her. That we were both lying to ourselves."

You nodded once, slowly. "I meant it."

He looked at you, searching your face like there was something hidden there -something he'd missed all along.

"I need you to be honest with me about something" he said.

Because he had gone insane those weeks you had been seeing each other, long before you shared those secret nights. Because your answer could change everything he had planned.

You hesitated, then nodded.

"Why did you leave the first time?"

His voice was soft. Not accusatory. Just... tired. Like he'd been carrying that question for a long time.

You took a breath, eyes stinging before you even spoke. "Because you had your life figured out," you said. "You had this plan, this career, this path that made sense. And I..."

Your voice caught. You blinked it away.

"I didn't. I didn't know what I was doing. I felt like I was always scrambling to keep up. And I didn't want to hold you back."

"You never held me back."

"I felt like I did."

He shook his head, like it physically hurt him to hear that.

"I loved you," he said.

When he actually wanted to say that he still loved you. His heart still beated for you like it did the first time he confessed his feelings in the middle of that park. And that was why he didn't hesitate on breaking up with Annie two days after you left his apartment. Because a relationship that wasn't with you just didn't make any sense for him.

But he held back from saying that, he didn't tell you yet, because something in your eyes let him know it wasn't the time yet. That night wasn't the moment for that.

"I loved you, too," you whispered. "That's why I left. Because I thought that was what love was. Letting you go so you could grow without me dragging you down."

You didn't tell him that you were planning to leave again. That the city didn't feel like home, that nothing did anymore. You didn't want to see the look in his eyes, didn't want him to ask you to stay, didn't want him not to.

So instead, you leaned in and kissed him.

It was quiet at first -soft, tentative, like the brush of a memory. But when his hand found the back of your neck, when he pulled you closer like he was afraid you'd disappear before morning, the kiss deepened. His mouth moved against yours with something desperate and breaking, like he was trying to apologize and beg and remember all at once.

You let him. You let your fingers slide into his hair, let your body fall into his the way it always had.

Familiar. Natural. Inevitable.

You didn't speak as he pulled you toward the bedroom.

There was no need for words anymore.

You kissed like you were drowning. Like this was the last breath you'd get. Like you could memorize each other's skin well enough to survive the rest of your lives without it.

It wasn't rushed. It was reverent. Painful. Beautiful.

You held him tighter than you ever had before, even as something inside you fractured quietly, knowing this wasn't forever. Knowing this wasn't a new beginning, but the softest kind of ending.

He held you like his body knew it was a goodbye, even if his mind thought it was a second beginning that would end well.

When it was over, he pulled you into his chest, arms wrapped tightly around you. You lay there in the stillness, your body curled into his, listening to his breathing.

You didn't cry. You were past crying. You just closed your eyes and let yourself pretend, for a few moments longer, that this was still yours. That he was still yours.

And in the morning, while he was still sleeping, you would be gone.

... And then I'll leave without a trace.

San woke to silence.

The kind that felt off. Too still. Too hollow.

The sheets were cold beside him, your side of the bed empty, untouched, like you'd disappeared into the night itself. At first, he thought you might just be in the kitchen. Or the shower. Or sitting by the window again, bare knees pulled to your chest like you always did when you needed space to think.

But when he called out your name, there was no answer.

His heart beat a little faster. He pushed off the covers and checked the bathroom, empty. The kitchen, the living room -nothing. Not even a mug in the sink or a sweater left on the back of a chair. Just absence. The kind that screamed that you were gone.

Panic curled in his throat.

He grabbed his phone. No messages.

He dialed anyway, straight to voicemail.

He stood there barefoot in his living room, staring at the front door like maybe you'd still come back through it. Like maybe this was some kind of test. Or a punishment. Or a mistake. But something in his chest already knew the truth.

You'd left.

Not in anger. Not in drama.

You'd just... slipped away. Quiet as the night. Careful as always.

And this time, you'd meant it.

San didn't bother getting dressed properly, just threw on sweats and a hoodie and rushed down the stairs like urgency alone could stop what had already happened. He drove fast, barely remembering the turns.

Your apartment building was quiet when he got there.

Too quiet.

He knocked once. Then again. Then harder.

No answer.

The door was unlocked. When he stepped inside, the air hit him like a wall.

Gone. All of it.

No furniture. No pictures on the walls. No half-packed boxes or forgotten belongings. Just four white walls and hardwood floors and the echo of his own heartbeat.

It looked like no one had ever lived there at all.

He stood in the center of the room, staring at the space where your couch used to be. Where he once sat with you while your legs rested across his lap, laughter soft between sips of beer.

He walked to the kitchen: empty.

The bedroom: stripped bare.

Not even a note. Not a trace. Nothing. Just like you'd promised.

He sat on the edge of the bed frame, his fingers curling into fists.

Then he called again, still voicemail.

He didn't leave a message. There wasn't anything left to say.

You were gone. Really gone this time. And for the first time since he met you, he couldn't find where you'd left your shadow. 

[inwithrin]

⋆˚࿔ ellie could be better than him...

i just know ellie is the kind of friend—just a friend, but so obviously in love with you—who listens to you rant about your boyfriend being the absolute worst. how he forgets the little things, how he never shows up when it matters, how he makes you feel like you ask for too much and ellie… oh, she hears every word and takes mental notes like it's gospel. not just because she cares—though she does, deeply—but because something in her aches at the thought of you settling for someone like him.

so she starts doing better. quietly, but deliberately. she becomes the gentlewoman she knows you deserve. not in grand, flashy ways, but in the soft, careful love that slips through the cracks.

she starts bringing you flowers—always with a dumb excuse. “i picked them up on my way here,” or “they reminded me of that shirt you wore last week.” but the way she watches your eyes light up and your smile grow? yeah. she lives for it.

she’s the type to kneel in the middle of the street to tie your shoelace without saying a word. to gently tug your jacket back onto your shoulder or hold your skirt down when it's windy outside. the kind to notice when you’re cold and hand over her hoodie without a second thought—“just give it back whenever”—knowing full well she doesn’t want it back.

ellie opens doors for you. every door. stands between you and the world when it feels a little too loud. she never asks for anything, never says what she really wants, but it’s in every action, every glance.

because deep down, she’s not just trying to be your friend. she’s trying to prove—quietly, sweetly, and almost desperately—that she’d never treat you like he does.

you’re in ellie’s room, curled up on her bed, while she sits on the floor cross-legged, tuning her guitar with that concentrated little furrow between her brows. the light is soft, her room smells like her perfume and cedarwood, and the quiet hum of her strings fills the space between you.

you’re talking, casually—like always—but then you let it slip, nonchalantly. “yeah, i don’t know. he barely kisses me anymore,” you mumble.

ellie’s fingers freeze on the tuning pegs. she blinks up at you like she must’ve misheard. “what? what did you say?”

you shrug, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. “i think the last time was, like… two weeks ago? and i had to beg him.”

two weeks.

ellie puts her guitar down, her jaw slightly slack, staring at you like you just told her the sky is green. “you’re joking. you can't be serious.”

you shake your head, looking anywhere but at her. her eyes narrow just a little, but the corner of her mouth pulls into a crooked smile. the kind that makes your stomach flip.

“you’re telling me,” she says, crawling over to sit beside you on the bed, way too close, “that he could have you—you—and not be all over you every second of the day?”

you laugh it off, flustered. “ellie, i'm not that special…”

“no, seriously,” she murmurs, voice low. “he must be out of his fucking mind.”

you’re already turning pink, and she notices. of course she notices. her grin only grows.

“you deserve someone who actually knows lucky they're to have you,” she says, a little softer now. “someone who wouldn’t go a whole damn day without touching you—definitely not two weeks.”

your heart is pounding. you feel warm all over. "i know..."

ellie leans back, stretching like nothing happened, but there’s that smug glint in her eyes when she glances at you again. “just saying,” she hums, “if it were me… you wouldn’t be able to get a moment of peace.”

yeah, you’re basically cherry red now, and she loves it.

[tobiosbbyghorl]

Hyper & Chill | psh

act 46: workplace revelation

The company’s annual Christmas ball was one of the most anticipated events of the year. It wasn’t just a party—it was a night of glamour, celebration, and, apparently this year, a night of revelations.

For months, you and Sunghoon had been keeping your relationship lowkey, careful not to draw too much attention at work. But despite your best efforts, your colleagues had started piecing things together.

It began with small things—Sunghoon’s overly professional demeanor toward you (which, ironically, made it more obvious), stolen glances during meetings, the way you always managed to leave the office around the same time.

And then there was the bracelet incident.

One of your colleagues had caught a glimpse of the delicate silver bracelet you always wore—one with your initials intertwined with Sunghoon’s. When they asked about it, you had laughed it off, but the knowing look they gave you afterward told you that the suspicion had only grown.

Then, to top it off, HR had spotted the two of you together at the park one weekend. There was no mistaking the way Sunghoon’s hand lingered at the small of your back or the way he looked at you when he thought no one was watching.

When HR eventually asked about it, the two of you had exchanged a glance before deciding to just admit it.

To your surprise, they merely shrugged. “As long as you keep things professional in the workplace, it’s not a big deal.”

With all the signs pointing toward the inevitable, you and Sunghoon figured—why keep it a secret any longer?

And what better way to announce it than at the most extravagant event of the year?

—

The venue was breathtaking—a grand ballroom adorned with twinkling lights, crystal chandeliers, and a towering Christmas tree that cast a warm glow over the elegantly dressed guests.

As expected, Sunghoon arrived in a perfectly tailored black suit, his sharp features even more striking under the ambient lighting.

You, on the other hand, wore a stunning white gown that complemented his ensemble, the contrast making you stand out even more when you stood side by side.

And that was exactly what shocked everyone.

The moment you both walked in together, arm in arm, the entire room froze.

Whispers spread like wildfire.

“No way—”

“Are they… together?”

“I knew something was going on!”

Sunghoon, ever the composed one, simply smirked, guiding you further inside with a quiet confidence that made your heart flutter.

Minseok, however, wasted no time making his way over. “Wait, wait—so those marks on your neck from months ago—they were from her?!”

You nearly choked on your champagne. “Oh my god, Minseok—”

Sunghoon only grinned. “Who else would they be from?”

Minseok groaned. “Damn, now I owe Yuna twenty bucks. She bet you two were dating, and I said no because you were too good at hiding it.” Sunghoon shrugged. “Guess she knows me better than you do.”

As the night went on, the initial shock turned into excitement.

People came up to congratulate you, others teased you for keeping it a secret for so long, and some even admitted they suspected it all along.

By the time the Mr. and Ms. of the Night winners were announced, it was almost unsurprising when your names were called.

“You guys have to do a dance,” someone in the crowd shouted as you and Sunghoon were crowned.

And so you did—slowly swaying together in the center of the ballroom, his hand warm against your waist, your heart pounding at the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

“Guess we’re official now,” you murmured.

Sunghoon chuckled, leaning in just enough for only you to hear. “We were always official, Lolove.”

—

The night had been full of laughter, teasing, and finally embracing your relationship openly.

But the best part?

The real celebration began once you got home.

Sunghoon barely made it past the front door before his lips were on yours, his hands finding your waist as he backed you up against the wall.

“You looked too good tonight,” he murmured against your lips, his voice husky with desire.

“You didn’t look so bad yourself, Mr. Park,” you teased, running your fingers through his hair.

He chuckled lowly before lifting you effortlessly into his arms, carrying you straight to the bedroom without breaking the kiss.

What followed was a night of slow, passionate love—where he took his time exploring every inch of you, whispering sweet nothings against your skin, showing you exactly how much he adored you.

And as you lay tangled together afterward, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your back, he kissed your forehead and murmured—

“Merry Christmas, Lolove.”

You smiled sleepily, pressing closer. “Merry Christmas, Hoon.”

️tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

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[johanna-swann]

Post 8x16 thoughts nobody asked for:

Starting with the positives: The episode was solid and it did make me quite emotional. I really liked the flashbacks and ghost!Bobby. It would've felt incredibly weird if we'd just never got to see him again and I miss him so much already. Bobby is probably my favourite character on this show. Was. I wonder if there are going to be many more flashbacks in the last two episodes.

Kenneth Choi FINALLY got a plot that actually revolved around his character again, not Maddie. It wasn't about her trauma or their marriage, their child, their future as a couple, it was about Chimney as an individual outside of his relationship with Maddie. (It's been 84 years, etc.) He did such a good job too. Chimney is usually the peacemaker, now he's the pot-stirrer. A few lines seemed somewhat over the top and illogical: On the one hand he insists he blames Bobby for giving up on finding a way out and that he doesn't really blame himself (he wishes Bobby had lived, he thinks it's unfair he got to live and Bobby didn't, but he doesn't believe it was his fault), then again he says stuff like "I already killed my last Captain". Idk, seems like they were forcing the drama here a little. But all in all I'm glad they focused on Chim again for once. They already gave us a very beautiful Buck&Chim scene and I hope they follow up on this a little more.

Athena being a little all over the place yet still trying to stay on top of things and doing her lone wolf thing was very in character. (Also a great opportunity taken with the fight between her and Chim.) I kinda wish she had gone to someone and admitted she needs help/comfort/support instead of everyone having to chase after her, but oh well. Her scenes with Hen and her kids especially were amazing.

On to the questionable stuff: I did not expect there to be a time skip this big (Hen back at work? Chim back at work? Maddie much more visibly pregnant? It's been a month at least I'd guess, but it kinda worked.) and I didn't expect the funeral to just be a montage at the end of the episode. Look at all the trucks and ambulances, the street had to be closed down, there were dozens of extras and everything. This must've cost the show a fortune AND it got spoiled weeks and weeks in advance. For an end of episode montage. Not worth it, very much not worth it. No wonder this show has budgeting issues. Who needed this? We already know Bobby was a hero. You don't have to convince us by squeezing a few more trucks and engines in one frame in a montage at the end of the episode.

In general I wish we'd got a little less pizzazz around the funeral and instead a little more focus on the characters. Athena and Chimney got their chance to shine and it looks like Hen will battle her grief through the Captaincy question next episode, but between the burning water and end of season earthquake disaster - when will the other characters have time to grieve? Bobby's mother was there, but she didn't have a single line. Buck was... extremely well put together (for now). Eddie had very little to do in general.

Also, why did they bring back Gerrard AGAIN only for him to play grumpy but sympathetic grandpa AGAIN? He got to show more of his grief than Buck, Eddie, Ravi, Maddie, Karen, Tommy or Hen. Why do they keep bringing him back and why do they keep writing him as a bit of a drill sergeant, but otherwise harmless? That is the same guy who called Tommy a fairy to his face last season, right? At least this time they confirmed upfront a different Captain will be taking over soon and I guess we should be grateful Brad was only there as a foto on that shrine.

The episode also didn't answer any of the burning questions that still remain with other loose ends. Like what will happen with Eddie? He was barely in the episode, he came to LA alone and had next to no dialogue. It was impossible to read the vibes here one way or another. I still have no clue whether he'll move back during the finale or leave the show after season 8.

They still didn't adress the Bucktommy situationship. And let me be clear, I didn't want or expect a full love confession / reunion or confrontation / closure subplot, but they didn't even exchange so much as a glance. Buck voiced his intention to call Tommy, talk things through and apologise for lashing out in 8x11. 8x16 is over now and they still haven't talked even though we had a few time skips and months have gone by. They're not only dragging this out for us as the viewers, a huge amount of time has also passed in universe.

Again, there are only two episodes left, both of which seem to have big emergencies and there is a lot of ground they still need to cover. We need an answer to the Eddie question, they need to make a decision about Bucktommy one way or another, they need to name a new Captain, they need to let the other characters grief, Maddie needs to give birth at some point (they could let this happen between seasons, but why would they?), there will possibly be more flashbacks and they only have ~90 minutes for all of it.

So yeah, 8x16 by itself was fine, love how they involved Peter Krause and Athena working through her grief by working a case was interesting to watch. But I'm growing more and more agitated about the things they haven't addressed yet.

(I mostly worry about Buck's plot(s) tbh. For Hen they already confirmed she'll have to think about stepping up as Captain. Maddie and Chim will have a second child. Athena and Chim had a lot of screen time this week. The Texas arc is almost over, they can just have Eddie move back and give him a bigger plot again next season or give him a heartfelt goodbye and be done with it. All of that seems manageable even in 2 episodes. But Buck has two big unfinished businesses NOW that are somewhat complex and I hope to god they don't plan on dragging them into season 9. They already didn't let him have feelings about Maddie's abduction in a way that was absolutely ridiculous and only made an off-handed "oh he handles it rather maturely" comment in an interview to explain it, if they now also gloss over Buck's grief and have him handle losing Bobby "maturely" then I will lose it. Also they either need to give us at least a hint at a Bucktommy reunion or finally let Tommy go. I can't handle a second summer break like the last one.)

[rafesed]

10:36

“i didn’t think you’d fall in love you’re just a warm body to hold at night when im feeling all alone”

warnings: fwb, mentions of sex, angst

it started off as a drunken mistake. you were just supposed to have fun and get wasted with your girlfriends. nothing could’ve prepared you for what came next.

you woke up the first morning groggy with a headache that felt like your head was splitting open. your head hurt so bad you didn’t even register the warm weight of someone draped on top of you.

you glance over to see non other than rafe cameron resting his head on your bare chest, arm slung over your torso, his soft breaths echoing through his room. the sheets were warm and soft with the scent of expensive cologne and laundry detergent. you took a deep inhale of his scent before sliding out from under him and quickly putting on your clothes.

you knew that rafe cameron didn’t do relationships. you didn’t want to be the clingy girl that sleeps with a guy and falls in love immediately. of course you had a little crush on him, i mean- look at the man! he was six foot two with muscle and a smile that could make any girl topple over with desire.

you took your bike and rode it back to your house where you collapsed onto your bed and fell back asleep for the remainder of the day.

that’s how it all started.

then, it happened again. simple “u up?” texts and lingering gazes from across the room. you tried to tell yourself that it meant nothing. that you would be an idiot to think he would ever want anything more than your body. logically, your brain was yelling at your heart to shut up.

you two would spent hours tangled in the sheets sharing each others body warmth while talking about everything from your childhood to stupid embarrassing moments that occurred when you were drunk. at this point he knew you better than anyone. you had shared the deepest most vulnerable secrets with him that you hadn’t even thought about telling anyone else.

one night, you were hanging out with your friend, laughing about something she said while swirling your wine in your glass. you glance up and see rafe. you two spare lingering glances before you decided to get up and say hello. you excuse yourself from the table and approached him.

“hey” you smile, kissing him on the cheek

“hello pretty girl” he replied with his classic smirk

“just came to say hi and see if you were free later to hang out?” you asked

“yeah for sure. i’ll text you” rafe answered

over the span of the few months you and rafe had been sleeping together, it stopped being about the sex. you two enjoyed spending time with each other. you would meet up with the intentions of hooking up but ended up talking for hours at the beach until the sky turned pink with the sunrise.

you walked back to the table where your friend sat giving you a knowing look. you blushed and looked down at the table reassuring her that it wasn’t a big deal. it was something… casual. at least, that’s what you kept trying to tell yourself. the way your heart beats out of your chest and butterflies erupt in your stomach say otherwise.

as much as you tried to deny it, you had fallen for rafe cameron and you couldn’t shake the hope that he felt the same way for you.

you didn’t think that you were delusional. it was obvious to anyone who looked that you two had a special connection. you had even been referred to as a couple when the lady at the store said, “you two are a beautiful couple.” and neither of you corrected her.

you were shaken from your thoughts by the sound of a loud, dramatic, fake giggle. your head turns and your heart sinks at the sight before you.

rafe, his arm wrapped around another girl, whispering in her ear while she looked up at him with those stupid “fuck me” eyes.

you felt your lips tug into a frown, waiting for him to push her off and walk away. but he doesn’t. he invites her to sit down and they spend the remainder of the night talking and laughing with one another.

your vision blurred as you felt hot, salty tears roll down your cheeks. you apologize to your friend before quickly leaving the venue.

you cry your whole way home. scolding yourself for even thinking of the possibility of anything more happening with you and rafe.

after a few hours of you grieving the loss of the spark you both shared, your phone lights up with a notification.

“hey, u wanna meet up?”

you open the message before turning your phone off, forgetting that your read receipts were on.

approximately thirty minutes later, you hear a knock on your door. you padded down the stairs and swing the door open to find rafe standing before you.

“you didn’t answer my text” he accuses

“my phone was off sorry” you reply shortly

“you read the text. i’m not a dumbass”

“well you were having fun tonight so i assumed you would be busy tonight with whoever that was” you said shortly, implying that the conversation was over.

“what is this? this attitude? where is it coming from? did i do something?” rafe questions

“i don’t know. maybe you should go ask your little girlfriend” you tried shutting the door before he shot his hand out, blocking the door from closing.

“what is going on? talk to me”

“am i a joke to you?” you ask, your voice trembling despite your nonchalant front.

“no? what? i have fun with you! you’re my friend”

friend.

your heart aches at the label.

“i’m so fucking stupid. i really thought you had feelings for me. that you wanted me. i should’ve never started something with you,”

“i thought you knew that we were just fucking around! we were just having fun you know? if i had known you’d catch feelings i would’ve-“

you cut him off, “you would’ve what? never taken me home?”

“listen, you know i don’t do relationships”

“i know, but i can’t be casual. i thought i could but i cant. so please just… just leave and don’t text me or call me. please don’t make this harder than it has to be” you sigh

“i don’t want us to be over. i have fun with you! i like you i just… can’t be with you. i can’t be with anyone.”

“well i can’t be ‘friends’ with someone who just thinks of me as a warm body to hold at night when you’re feeling all alone”

that was the last thing you said before you shut the door on him.

and this time, he let the door close.

[saveahorserideaneddie]

(popping back for 0.2 seconds to give my thoughts on the episode- this is a long post so buckle up lmao but i promise it’s not crashing out or raging i tried to be as calm and collected as i could)

I’m going to confess something:

If a main character had to die on the show… Bobby would have been my choice.

Now before you run to my replies to get upset and accuse me of hating Bobby- let me clarify that that doesn’t mean I WANTED him to actually die…

But

If it needed to be done (it didn’t but walk with me) I understand the choice to have it be Bobby. I won’t spend too much time going into why I feel that way or what my intricate thoughts and feelings are on why he would be my choice, but instead I am going to spend time explaining why I am angry about his death.

To put it simply: It reads as cheap shock value.

It feels like Tim wanted an excuse to shake things up, and he dove off the deep end to do so without stopping and really thinking about what it would mean to the show and to the fans. Like I said, I think MCD’s are completely unnecessary in this universe and trying to throw one in now (regardless of who) only risks losing audience members who A) feel connected to that character and lose interest now that they are gone, and B) lose the assurance and comfort knowing that at the end of the day, these characters will get through what happens. That was the charm of this show, that no matter how much they go through, they will always come out on top in the end. That is no longer a reality here, and it’s a decision that- unless somehow reversed within the next two episodes (which is very unlikely)- will only negatively impact a show that was consistently climbing in terms of ratings and numbers, and didn’t need a shakeup to maintain interest.

It all feels unnecessary and out of nowhere- a sentiment that could provide a unique and interesting opportunity to explore those feelings within the show.

That, unfortunately, is not the case with ep 16. From start to finish, there was an emotional pall over the entire episode, but that feeling of grief was left underutilized within the context of the episode, all because Tim Minear felt the need to once again dedicate an entire episode to a side plot that didn’t even provide any real substance to the overarching story. We see Athena and Chimney both struggling to cope with their grief, but the rest of the main cast merely feel like background actors in their own lives.

For Hen and Buck it feels like they’re both just having a crappy day (at the most) and nothing more. Eddie (who was blatantly ignored by the show since the beginning of this arc) is once again cast to the side, his grief and emotion being boiled down to a handful of throwaway lines that don’t even begin to signal what the relationship between him and Bobby had been for years. Ravi- who for once had finally started being treated like a member of a team he had been with for years- is now back to being an afterthought; his grief and emotions barely making an appearance beyond the end of ep 15.

The potential to showcase the 118 grieving as a whole was completely bypassed by the direction Minear decided to take the episode. We could have explored Eddie’s complex feelings for not having been there, and the guilt he feels for that. We could have explored Hen losing the only captain who ever really believed in her when everyone else had no expectations of her success (especially with Gerrard being back). We could have expanded on Buck’s seeming stoicism and how he might be repressing and bottling up his emotions (something that wasn’t even really hinted at). We could have seen Ravi feeling isolated as the person who had known Bobby the least amount of time out of the whole team.

All of this could have been done as a subplot to Athena going through the process of grieving and moving on- something that would have made the ending all the more poignant, and would have been a fitting end both for Bobby as a character, and for the three episode arc that focused on the 118 as a family.

But instead, we got a flashback to a call we’ve never heard mentioned before, but supposedly had some major impact on Bobby meaning Athena spent the entire episode just ignoring her grief (in a way that didn’t even bother to explore the complexities of the denial stage of grief- it legitimately was as if this were just another case until the end). And on top of that, we have been taken all the way back to where we began the season:

Bobby’s gone, Gerrard’s back, Eddie’s storyline is at a standstill- (buck and tommy are potentially rekindling their relationship?)

We are quite literally back to where the season started, so I beg the question- What was the point of it all. Aside from a few minor outliers, there has been almost zero character development in the main cast so far, and we only have two episodes left to actually do something that would make this season not feel like a colossal waste of time.

And when you pair that with the fact that next episode seemingly is once again pushing Eddie to the side (like eps 14-16) and creating another random non-issue plot for Hen (like ep 13), I wonder if we will actually be anywhere different by the end of the season, or if they are simply going to just cram another random shock value twist in out of nowhere.

All that said, we can only wait and see what happens, but for now we are stuck with an episode that not only confirmed that Tim Minear is tone deaf to his audience, but also did not give Bobby/Peter’s farewell to the past 8 years the respect and reverence it deserves, and to me that is almost worse than Bobby actually being dead.

And with that, I am returning to my mental health hiatus- I will most likely be back by the start of the summer hiatus depending on how things are going for me irl (rehearsals are in full swing, im in the middle of a job search, and i am about to start flight attendant training ive been BUSY 🙃🫠), but i just wanted to give my thoughts on this ep 💕💕

love you all, please drink some water, eat something, and take care of yourselves- this all sucks but at the end of the day it’s just a show and isn’t worth making yourself sick over <3

[rist-ix]

Bloom's turn!

I'm gonna admit, I don’t think Bloom's reboot design is bad. I was ranting about Aisha's a lot, but despite me generally disliking Bloom's recent pink trend, this new design is… fine?

Anyway, redesigning it out of principle:

My main criticisms about the canon design are that the hair looks wack and the wings are too messy, but I do really like the added pinks for once! I still wish there was less of it, but combined with the more cosmic looking background (which I love!) it looks really celestial and warm. Idk I don’t have a lot of complains about the palette this time.

I wish her little half-sleeve was a bit less transparent, it’s barely visible like this and I really like that one shot where it appears on her arm. Deserves to shine a little more in my opinion. The shoulder pad… I like the idea behind it? I think it looks really awkward in execution though. I made it symmetrical and more collar-like because that made it more royal-looking in my opinion. Almost prince-ly, like some kind of ceremonial military uniform. Not because it reminded me of Utena haha noooo

Anyway, more thoughts under the cut:

I've kind of done the same thing I did with Aisha's wings in that redesign, but instead of making it look like water caustics I went for some more plain flame-looking patterns. It's very abstract, but as long as it vaguely resembles fire I’m happy. For the top, I tried to stick relatively close to canon — mainly because canon sticks very close to OG Bloom! Praise where praise is due, I appreciate the thought. Because the top part of the top is very narrow tho, that means the weird little shoulder pad ends up looking like an awkward little flap instead of armor. I’m deducting points for that. Granted, I also didn’t make it look like armor in my version, but I feel like that royal little suit-look would work AMAZING for that one shot where Bloom carries Icy bridal-style. You agree.

For the overall look, I went for much more symmetry than Aisha's redesign. I think Aisha being very headstrong and independent means she can afford to break patterns more, like she has her own way of doing things, even for clothing. But Bloom is still very new to being a fairy. I think she would be more than happy with just fulfilling her role as a fairy, so she can look a bit more… girl-next-door, I guess. That sporty little ponytail and singular sleeve should keep it from looking too well-behaved, I hope. I actually really like the ponytail in canon too, it’s just the sudden bangs that throw me off. Plus, I feel like the braids look odd. Don’t know why tho.

One detail I want to highlight: I made two version of her little headpiece. I feel like the first version is what Bloom should wear when she first starts out, and doesn’t yet know who she is. They’re just round little hair clips, mimicking the shape on her collar and creating a bit of a triangle, with Bloom's face at the center. But! They can also look like stunted little horn-stumps, in a way. So when Bloom regains her power in the finale, they can evolve into full little dragon horns, like she's molting out of her awkward hatchling stage.

I'm really happy with this! I feel like the vibe is a good blend between formal goody-two-shoes, and confident — maybe a little too cocky — little superhero. A bit girly, a tiny bit tomboyish, and a whole lot of kick-ass. Now if only I hadn’t set the resolution to like. 4 pixels in any direction. Wouldn’t that be fun.

[yena-enha]

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐈 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐭 - 𝐏𝐒𝐇

Warning - Emotional distress, Unrequited love, Themes of abandonment and rejection, Silent heartbreak, Bittersweet ending.

Note - SFW Content

Genre - Angst, Soulmate AU, Tragedy, Unrequited Love

Pairing - Park Sunghoon x Fem!Reader

Song Inspiration - All I Want BY OLIVIA RODRIGO

Word Count - 2k words

I had always believed in soulmates.

It wasn’t just a childhood fantasy. It was a lifeline.

The thought that someone was out there, waiting for me, loving me before even knowing me... it gave me something to hold onto. The universe had written our names in the stars before we were born, carved our fates into the fabric of existence.

And all I had to do was find him.

I imagined the moment I’d meet him. The way the world would shift, how everything would finally make sense. My whole life, I believed that the moment our eyes met, he would know too. That he would look at me and see forever.

But the universe had a cruel sense of humor.

✦⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆✧

It started on an autumn afternoon in a café filled with strangers.

Every table was occupied, save for the one across from me. I was stirring my coffee absentmindedly when a soft voice interrupted my solitude.

“Hey, do you mind if I sit here?”

I looked up.

And for the first time, I saw him.

Park Sunghoon.

He was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that stole the air from your lungs. Messy brown hair, soft eyes that held galaxies, lips curled into a polite smile.

I nodded, unable to find my voice. He set down his iced Americano, and I watched as condensation formed on the cup, tiny droplets slipping down like my heart sinking in my chest.

Because the moment he reached for it, the sleeve of his sweater lifted slightly.

And there it was.

The infinity symbol, inked into his wrist. The same one that had lived on my own skin since birth.

Time slowed. The noise of the café dulled to a murmur.

It took everything in me not to gasp.

I barely heard his voice over the sound of my heartbeat hammering in my ears.

From that moment, my world was no longer mine.

✦⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆✧

We met at the café every week. It wasn’t planned, but somehow, we always ended up at the same table, two strangers that became something more.

Sunghoon was easy to love.

He laughed with his whole heart, his eyes crinkling in a way that made my stomach flip. He stirred his coffee three times before taking a sip, hated sweet drinks, and secretly adored old romance dramas.

And I? I memorized it all.

Every small detail, every habit, every fleeting moment that I could hold onto.

Because I thought, no, I believed. That one day, he would see it too.

That he would look at me, see the mark on my wrist, and realize we were meant to be.

But fate wasn’t kind to me.

One day, he brought her.

✦⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆✧

“Y/N!” His voice was warm, excited. But it was different that day.

Because his fingers were intertwined with someone else’s.

“This is Mia,” he introduced her, his thumb absentmindedly brushing the back of her hand. The same way I wished he would touch me.

And then I understood.

I had been waiting for him to find me, waiting for our story to begin, but he had already started his own, with her.

It took everything in me to smile.

“Wow, Sunghoon, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, we’ve been together for a while. I guess I never mentioned it.”

I forced myself to laugh, to nod, to pretend I wasn’t dying inside.

I had spent months learning everything about Sunghoon—his favorite coffee, his favorite season, his favorite color.

But I had never learned the most important thing.

That he belonged to someone else.

I felt like a fool.

All this time, I had been waiting for a love that had never been mine to begin with.

✦⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆✧

I stopped going to the café.

Stopped answering his messages.

Stopped letting myself believe in something that was never mine to have.

But Sunghoon noticed.

One evening, under a flickering streetlight, he found me.

“Y/N.”

I froze.

His eyes searched mine, confusion painted across his face. Why are you avoiding me?

I let out a breathless laugh. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he insisted, stepping closer. Too close. “Did I do something wrong?”

I almost wanted to laugh.

But then, his gaze fell to my wrist.

My sleeve had slipped back slightly, revealing our mark.

His breath hitched.

“Y/N…” His voice was barely a whisper.

“You knew?”

A humorless chuckle left my lips. “Of course I knew, Sunghoon. From the very first day.”

Silence.

For a moment, I let myself hope. That maybe, just maybe, he would choose me. That he would take my hands in his, realize what the universe had given us, and not let go.

But then he spoke.

“I love Mia.”

And that was it.

That was the moment my world collapsed.

I nodded, swallowing back the sob that threatened to escape. I should’ve known.

Because of course, of course, he loved her.

Mia was beautiful. Kind. Perfect.

And I was just the girl destined for him but never chosen by him.

I forced a smile, the same one I had practiced in the mirror a thousand times before.

“It’s okay, Sunghoon.”

He looked at me like he didn’t believe me.

“I really hope you’re happy,” I whispered. And then, before he could say anything else, I walked away.

This time, he didn’t stop me.

✦⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆✧

Years passed.

Sunghoon moved on. He married Mia. Built a life with her.

And I?

I never moved on.

Not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t want to.

I had made a promise to myself long ago—I would only love the person the universe had chosen for me.

And so, I spent my days in solitude, watching the world move forward without me.

But sometimes, on rare occasions, I found myself back at the café, sitting in the same seat where it all began.

And sometimes, Sunghoon was there too.

We never spoke, never acknowledged each other.

But I saw it in his eyes.

The quiet guilt. The sadness. The way he looked at me like he wished things had been different.

Like he wished he could have loved me the way fate had intended.

But he didn’t.

And he never would.

Because love is a choice.

And he chose her.

Some love stories don’t get completed.

And ours was one of them.

"I’ll spend my whole life loving you in silence, knowing you’ll never love me the same way, but still wishing, just once, you’d choose me."

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