#Screen Addicts Studio

[hannieween]

kiss and tell | wicked games series

Mingyu was hurting, that was the thing. But he missed the way you looked at him, like he was worth sticking around for. Even if he couldn’t see that in himself back then.

☾ pairings: jeon wonwoo x female reader ☾ genre: angst, fluff, smut (18+) ☾ aus: bartender wonwoo, bartender mingyu, messy love triangle, friends with benefits ☾ word count: 14k

› PREVIOUS CHAPTERS – READ MORE

🎧: excuses – twlv | kiss&tell – ethan low and gen neo | amigos – bibi and becky g | blame – i.m | screen time – epik high ft. hoshi | good sport – hyejin

☾ warnings: smut with plot, hurt/comfort, hard dom wonwoo, brat reader, use of sex toys, masturbation, fingering, squirting, creampie, bdsm: light choking, manhandling, crymaxing, dirty talk, cussing, unprotected p in v sex, after care. reader is chubby. pet names: ma'am, baby (hers)

☾ author's note: helloooooo!! we're back with another chapter and oh my god!! last chapter you guys were amazing with the feedback. y'all really know how to make a girl feel special 🥺 anyways, enjoy this chapter!! love yous

☾ author's note pt2: the sex scene for this chapter is looooooooooooong. like wonu's c—[GUNSHOTS]

no but fr the sex scene is like 5k words 🧍🏻‍♀️ enjoy! ksksks

☾ disclaimer: minors DO NOT INTERACT. this post is intended for 18+ readers ONLY. please have your age stated in your blog description and do not to look like a bot 🙂

kiss and tell

Jeon Wonwoo woke up with a start.

He opened his eyes to an apartment that for one second he didn’t recognize. Everything looked different now that the sunlight was pouring from the windows.

He rolled over to reach out for his glasses on your nightstand, letting out a small sigh as the first movements of the morning got him feeling a little bit more awake.

A small jolt of his heart gave him the impulse to sit up. You were nowhere to be seen. But as he focused his senses, he heard the faint noise coming from the shower.

Wonwoo sighed, leaning back on the headboard of your bed. Then, everything came crashing down on him—the memories from last night, what he did. What you and he did together.

If last night had been a random booty call, then now it would be a perfect opportunity for him to grab his shit and walk out of your apartment.

But no, last night was different. No matter how he’d slice it, it was something he couldn’t walk away from. And he didn’t want to.

He looked at the ceiling, thinking of how to approach this situation as though he were organizing the pieces of a very complex puzzle. First, he’d have to talk to you, and then, he’d have to tell Mingyu what happened.

His heart deflated upon that last thought.

Wonwoo would’ve never imagined he’d be in this situation. Sure, he made the very conscious decision to kiss you, and then sleep with you. But everything that happened before that was something he never planned for.

And last night… he got to know how far his impulses could go if he lets his guard down. If he allows to act on his feelings.

He blinked slowly, releasing a long sigh through his nose.

The noise coming from the bathroom ceased. Wonwoo rose from your bed and slowly started gathering his clothes, putting them on one by one almost robotically. He stood before your bed, fully dressed now, thinking.

The bathroom door clicked softly, and then the steam and the smell of your shampoo quickly filled the air of your studio apartment.

The smell made his guts twist. Sweet, citrusy, and addictive. It instantly flashed a memory in his mind of him sinking his nose in your hair while he was buried deep inside your body.

Fuck. This isn’t good, he thought.

Some seconds later, you emerged from the bathroom wrapped up in a bathrobe, your humid hair resting on your shoulder as you dried the ends with a towel.

Wonwoo watched your expression intently, looking for any signs of regret. He took a deep breath, mustering some courage in case you decided to ask him to leave.

But you smiled softly at him. Your eyes were devoid of any emotion, making him think that you probably didn’t rest well.

“Hi,” you sighed, the corners of your eyes lifting slightly.

“Morning,” he replied, then realized how gruff his voice sounded and cleared it awkwardly before adding, “Did you sleep well?”

You were padding slowly towards him until you stood a few steps away. Your heart was racing, and your entire body was rigid with the fear of the unexpected. “I uh, yeah. I slept alright,” you replied, your tone sounding off. “You?”

Wonwoo nodded dryly.

You exchanged a long look. One that was guarded by both the inability to start having the talk and the urge to just keep going. To push it down.

You motioned to the kitchen. “Do-do you—” you stammered, pausing to take a breath. “Do you want some coffee?”

Wonwoo picked up every detail that you tried to hide—how your fingers twisted and twirled your wet hair, but they still trembled in doing so, or the nervous way you swallowed, trying to slow down your breathing.

He knew what you were feeling—and it wasn’t hard to guess because he was also feeling it too. The nervous fluttering inside, one that spread all over your body and tingled beneath your skin.

“Sure,” he muttered, giving you a tiny nod.

You turned to the kitchen before you let the moment linger for too long. You felt like the more you stood around, the more he got to notice just how nervous you actually were.

You vaguely remembered how it was when Mingyu stayed the night for the first time. How it had felt too natural to have him in your space.

You chewed on your lower lip as you poured water into the coffee machine and turned the button on. Discarding those memories, concluding that it would probably feel natural for Wonwoo to be there if he weren’t Mingyu’s best friend.

You liked Wonwoo. And given the turn of events of last night, you wanted him more than you had originally imagined.

But it still felt wrong.

The air between you had permanently changed. It made your chest ache, the feeling so tight you couldn’t get rid of it as you sighed deeply.

Wonwoo watched you from where he stood at the foot of the kitchen. He wanted to get closer to you, to drive your gaze towards his. But your focus was zeroed on the coffee dripping slowly into the pot, trying to hide your face from his scrutiny.

But he had to break the silence. With a rapid heartbeat, he asked: “Are we going to talk about it?”

His voice was gruff, heavy with emotion. The sound of his nervousness made your senses awake, as though your own nervousness had been trying to bury you by force.

You turned around, finding him leaning against the kitchen counter. God, he was glorious, in all his dishevelled form. His hair was messy from the night before, and despite being well-rested, he looked slightly tired. Sleepy.

You didn’t pretend not to know what he meant. There was no going around the subject. You met his eyes, finding the seriousness there that made your stomach flip.

“Yeah. I think we should,” you replied, your tone low. “I’m sorry. About last night.”

Wonwoo’s gaze snapped to yours, reading your face swiftly. Like your words had hit him somewhere tender. “Don’t,” he mumbled. “Don’t apologize.”

Part of you wondered why you always resorted to apologizing—or why you felt like Wonwoo needed you to say sorry. You didn’t want to give him the feeling that you regretted what happened. Because you didn’t.

“Listen. Last night wasn’t planned,” he said gently. “And I don’t expect you to know what to do with it. I don’t even know what to do with it.”

You exhaled, feeling that ache return to your chest. “It wasn’t just what happened last night. It’s everything leading up to it,” you said, wishing you could muster some strength to hold his gaze. But eventually you dropped it to the floor. “I’m still figuring out the things that hurt me.”

He nodded, his expression softening. “I know,” he said softly. “And I won’t push you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

You looked up, finding his gaze. “I don’t know if I’m ready… for you,” you whispered.

Wonwoo took a step towards you, but he didn’t reach out to touch you. Not yet. “You don’t have to be,” he replied in kind.

Your heart twisted, as though it knew you were making a mistake and just kept digging your grave. “But last night…”

“I know,” he nodded softly. His eyes outlined the features of your face, taking in every detail. “I don’t regret it.”

The way that he was looking at you made your heart ease. There was no pressure, no desperation for you to give in. Only patience.

“What if I mess it up?” you whispered.

Wonwoo shrugged lightly. “Then we mess it up,” he replied, smiling faintly. “But at least we can say that we tried.”

You tried to pay attention to what your heart felt, beating fast, painfully loud. “I don’t want to hurt you, Wonwoo,” you whispered. You bit your lower lip, trying to stop it from quivering.

“Then don’t,” he said gently. “Pull the breaks when you need it,” he smiled, shrugging. “But don’t hold yourself back either.”

Silence fell again, and then you knew why your heart was so stressed. “What about Mingyu?”

His lips parted slightly. There was an answer ready because he didn’t skip a second. “Don’t worry about him,” he said. “Let me worry about him for now.”

You dropped your gaze again, eyes brimming with tears. You missed Mingyu. That was a fact that was still real as everything you felt last night. All the despair, the raw emotion. You were angry at him for breaking your heart, but at the same time, you didn’t know how he’d take this.

But he used you. He broke you and walked away, a dark part of you raged.  

“Hey,” Wonwoo whispered, his hand finally finding yours. His fingers slipped onto your palm, pressing it gently.

You raised your eyes, releasing your tears. You sniffled, the sound making you laugh embarrassedly.

Wonwoo showed you a smile, one that made the nose of his bridge wrinkle. He took another step towards you, his knee brushing against yours. “We don’t have to be anything yet. We can go as slow as you need,” he muttered softly, while his thumb brushed the back of your hand. “I’m not in a rush.”

The words rung with a strange familiarity. As they sank in your mind, they rhymed with a distant memory, one that you weren’t ready to revisit yet.

You turned your hand over slightly, finding his fingers to lace them with yours. The gesture was so tiny, yet so gentle that it had your heart melting.

You found his gaze again, giving him a cautious smile. The way his hair looked made your tummy twist, and you subconsciously reached out with your free hand to brush the messy strands of hair back into order.

“Do I look bad?” he asked softly, reading your face.

“Just like you fell out of bed,” you joked, letting out a short giggle.

Wonwoo smiled sheepishly. “Can I…” he motioned to the bathroom door.

“Of course,” you whispered, stepping back to let him go fix his form.

You turned to take out two cups from the cabinet. The coffee machine had stopped brewing, and it was now softly hissing when you took the jar and poured two cups of coffee, leaving out space for cream in case Wonwoo took his coffee with cream.

You don’t know anything about him, the thought invaded you. You don’t know how he takes his coffee. Or what he likes having for breakfast. The overwhelming need to know more about him came about you when you heard the door click softly.

Wonwoo came back, looking more like he did last night. His hair looked more put together and you realized that he had also cleaned his glasses.

“How do you take yours?” you asked, handing him his cup.

“Black is perfect,” he sighed softly, taking a sip. “Thanks,” he muttered with a pleased look.

You sipped slowly from your cup, watching him intently.

It wasn’t a requirement to know everything about a person to harbor feelings for them. You knew this. But why did you feel a responsibility to know more about him?

Wonwoo read your expression, finding the curiosity in it. There was something more, something that made your eyes look sweet, tender.

He lowered his cup to the counter reaching out to grab you by the waist. The feeling of his hand on top of your clothes awoke your entire body, creating a tingling sensation on your skin.

You lowered your cup too, straightening up as he came closer to you. “Come here,” he said, bringing you to a hug. He wrapped his arms around you, pressing your body to his frame.

He was tall enough to rest his cheek on your head, using his arms around you to rock you gently.

Being in his arms soothed your heart instantly. You didn’t need to know everything about Wonwoo, but you knew why the urge was created. You liked him. You liked being around him. It felt like the pieces of your heart weren’t struggling to mend themselves back together. It felt easier to breathe.

You pressed the side of your face on his chest, sighing out the soreness in your chest. You wanted to cry—but it felt different from last night. It felt as though you had been trying to keep your emotions in a box, but have been fighting against the lid to keep it closed. And now, being safe in Wonwoo’s embrace, you were finally free to feel those emotions.

You sniffled softly against his chest, turning your face to snuggle against his warmth.

Wonwoo heard you. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “Cry it out. I’m here for you.”

Hot tears started to spill from your eyes, making you squeeze them shut. The words, I’m sorry formed in your lips, but you were unable to bring them out.

But Wonwoo repeated, “It’s okay,” without knowing that you were about to apologize from crying. It was like he knew.

He didn’t know how you liked your coffee either. But somehow, he knew you.

You let out a sad laugh. “I’m a mess,” you said, your tone made weak by the tears that kept on coming.

Wonwoo pulled back, his hands finding your face, cupping your cheeks. He leaned his head to look into your eyes. “We’re a mess,” he corrected. “But I’m not running away. And I’m not going to push you into anything,” he held your gaze, his softening by the sight of your teary eyes. Then slowly, he uttered the next words: “I want you.”

You raised one hand, pressing your palm to the back of one of his hands and leaning your face against it. You closed your eyes, letting more tears go.

You wanted him too. Deep down, you knew it. But the fears and the heartache made it impossible for you to admit it aloud, even if you gave yourself to him the night before. It was obvious, and you wondered if Wonwoo’s ability to study you had already found that out.

Something told you that he already knew you wanted him too.

A warm feeling settled in your chest. “I’ll try not to freak out,” you whispered, opening your eyes to find him.

He pursed his lips cutely. “I’ll try not to give you reasons to.”

Then he bent over, lips pressing against your forehead. He kissed it slowly, then moved his face to yours.

You held your breath when the tip of his nose bumped onto yours. Then he hesitated, pausing so close to you that you felt the gentle caress of his breath.

You gave in.

Joining your lips with his felt too natural. The pull you felt towards him was so great that you forgot about the worries that clouded your mind. So you kissed him. You kissed him deeply, like you had nothing to fear.

A tiny gasp broke from your chest as you moved your lips with his seamlessly. His hands still cupped your face, only moving you to tilt your head back for him, angling you perfectly for more of his kisses.

He broke the kiss, only to move his lips to one of your cheeks. You let out a short giggle, feeling his lips on your other cheek, realizing that he was kissing your tears.

He pressed his forehead against yours, sighing out in something that felt to you like relief. You tasted the coffee on his lips, mixed with the saltiness from your tears when he pressed his lips against yours one more time.

Wonwoo felt something unexplainable for you. He saw the girl that had been hurt ten times over and still had love to give. He saw the softness in you, the loving nature in you that you were now trying to protect. And he wanted to protect it too.

“I have to go,” he whispered, but he didn’t back away.

“Okay,” you whispered back, afraid to let go and open your eyes.

“If you need me, I’ll be a call away,” he promised.

You nodded shortly, not trusting yourself to speak up.

Wonwoo stopped cupping your face, taking a step back. Reluctantly, he grabbed his jacket, and his phone, turning to the door. As he turned the handle, he looked back at you.

You took two steps to him, grabbing his face to press a goodbye kiss on his lips. He kissed you back instantly, sighing out a smile.

“Text me when you get home?” you mumbled meekly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, kissing you one more time before he stepped out of your apartment.

And as you went back to your silence, you didn’t feel the need to guard yourself against it. It wasn’t the kind of silence that made you sink into it. You were for once, staying afloat.

Mingyu leaned his forearms against the sink, staring into the empty tub of ice. The emptiness inside it, paired with the bustling noise from the kitchen pulled him into his thoughts, making him drift away and somewhere else.

He remembered the echoes of your laughs back in your apartment. The way your eyes brimmed up with years and your voice cracked when you confessed something close to you. And how he said he wouldn’t walk away from you.

He remembered the moment he left you back at the basketball court. The way you sat at the bleachers, crying in heartache.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, sighing into his palm.

“What’s up Mings? You okay?” Wonwoo asked, appearing beside him with a crate full of beers, which he settled on the floor gently.

Mingyu nodded without looking up. “Yeah,” he croaked, resuming to clear out the bar off the clean glasses, putting them where they belonged.

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t press. He then turned away, disappearing into the hall to get another crate of beers.

Mingyu gnawed on his bottom lip, losing himself to another memory, torturing himself. This memory was a sweet one. One where he made love to you, holding your hand, telling you to breathe with him. He remembered the look on your eyes, his heart stammering painfully now.

Wonwoo came back, kicking the door open. The look on Mingyu’s face must’ve been telling what he was feeling inside, because Wonwoo just sighed, exasperated. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Mingyu finally broke, shaking his head swiftly. “It’s been over a month,” he said, raising his eyebrows a little.

Wonwoo panned to him. “Since?”

Mingyu’s jaw tightened. “Since I last saw her.”

Wonwoo’s gaze sharpened slightly, parting his mouth to say something.

But Mingyu continued, finally raising his gaze to meet Wonwoo. “Do you think she hates me?”

Wonwoo pressed his lips together in an awkward expression. “Why are you asking me?”

Mingyu let out a short laugh. “Right, what am I even saying?” he sighed, setting down the last piece of glassware on the rack.

Wonwoo kept quiet, bending down to put one of the crates on the counter and keeping an eye on Mingyu.

“I’ve been thinking about texting her, calling her,” Mingyu confessed, starting to get the beers out of the crate one by one. He pressed his lips into a tight line for a second before adding. “I almost did a dozen times.”

“Why haven’t you?” the question came out of Wonwoo with a flat tone.

Mingyu sighed. “Because I don’t know if I even deserve to,” he muttered. “I panicked, I really did. And I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

Wonwoo set the second crate down on the counter with more force than necessary. “Then why did you do it? Why did you leave?”

Mingyu turned his head, confused by the shift in tone.

“I mean, really,” Wonwoo continued, directing Mingyu a hard gaze. “You said you weren’t all in. You told me that you felt like you were going to mess it up. So what is it now?”

“Well, you said it—I messed up,” Mingyu said bitterly. “I was scared that I would end up hurting her because I’m not fully healed but, I realize now that I could’ve worked through it. I could’ve done more.”

“Done more?” Wonwoo narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean done more?”

Mingyu nodded slowly. “Maybe if I had made the effort to be with her, maybe I could’ve told her to give me a chance while I fix my shitty life—instead of breaking up with her,” he lowered his gaze, adding with a softer tone: “And hurting her.”

Wonwoo remained impassive, letting the silence stretch between him and Mingyu. Waiting.

Mingyu ran a hand through his hair. “Now I don’t even know if she’d talk to me. Or if she should.”

“Maybe it’s not about what you want anymore,” Wonwoo said, quieter this time, his tone coated with something Mingyu couldn’t place.

Mingyu stilled, his brow furrowing slightly.

“You broke up with her,” Wonwoo added. “And whatever reason you had, whatever reason you gave her for walking away, it better still hold up if you’re thinking about looking for her again.”

Mingyu didn’t reply, but he couldn’t hide the hurt showing on his face.

Wonwoo watched him for a second longer, letting the message sink. Then he turned, opening the fridge to start restocking it methodically. He didn’t offer Mingyu advice, nor nudge him toward texting you. And he wouldn’t.

Mingyu didn’t dwell on his best friend’s blunt reply. He picked up a glass, staring at the reflection in it.

“You didn’t come home last night.”

Wonwoo sighed softly, letting the remorse twist inside him. “I’m aware.”

Mingyu was used to Wonwoo’s expressionless manner. But this was different, guarded.

“What happened?” he pressed, not looking at him.

“Something came up,” Wonwoo said, realizing that it was the same thing he texted Mingyu the night before. He added, “A friend had some issues. Needed a hand with something, so I helped.”

“A friend?” Mingyu’s brow furrowed, now turning over his shoulder to look at Wonwoo.

But he remained impassive, putting one bottle after another inside the fridge. “Yeah.”

“You have other friends?” Mingyu joked, laughing lightly. But then his ears perked, his eyelids fluttering dumbly. “Oh,” he uttered, then another joyful giggle bubbled up. “Oh—is this…? Are you—are you seeing someone?”

Wonwoo rolled his eyes. “I’m not telling you anything.”

“Come on, don’t be like that,” Mingyu said, dragging his words in a tone that Wonwoo found jarring.

“A gentleman doesn’t share his secrets,” he said, letting himself smile a little.

“A gentleman? You?” Mingyu snickered, letting out a high-pitched wail that resonated across the empty bar. “So that means it is a woman you went off to see! Ah, you have to tell me everything.”

Wonwoo peeked from the door of the fridge, shaking his head. “I won’t tell you anything. Not until you finished setting up.”

Mingyu groaned loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls of the empty bar. “You’re all work no fun, hyung.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wonwoo muttered dismissively.

Wonwoo closed the door of the fridge, walking away to get another crate while Mingyu remained behind the bar. He stared at the shelves of liquor, thinking that he’d have to get up there soon and clean them.

Something felt off about Wonwoo. To Mingyu, there was something more than a casual display of seriousness. Wonwoo was usually livelier than his observant manner. Something was off, his gut instinct said. Not that Wonwoo was coming off as cold, nor aggressive. Just careful, and quiet.

Mingyu picked up a rag, wiping down the counter with slow, methodical motions. His thoughts kept circling back to you, just like always. How your voice used to soften when he called you in the middle of the night. How you would wait for him to clock off so you could walk home together, even if it was way past midnight.

He didn’t deserve to miss that. But he did.

Mingyu exhaled softly, checking his phone again. Mechanically, he opened your chat, his fingertip tapping on your profile photo. His gut twisted.

You had changed your profile photo.

It now displayed a very different photo. From the photo where you were standing with a cute smile, a colorful mural behind you, now you showed one with a bleak background of the river. The features of your face looked soft still, but there was a coldness in your eyes.

Your smile was gone. And now all Mingyu saw was the raw, cold emotion in your eyes.

You were beautiful, you always were.

But Mingyu couldn’t help but feel that the image where you were smiling was stolen from him. For days and nights, all he had was your pretty smile to look at.  

Now that was over too.

Wonwoo returned to the bar, slipping behind the counter and putting down the crate of beers. He pulled open a drawer, busying himself with receipts and notes. Wonwoo darted a glance back at Mingyu from the corner of his eye.

“So you think it’s a good idea that I leave her alone?” Mingyu asked anxiously.

Wonwoo didn’t look up. “I think that’s not my call.”

“But if it was?” Mingyu chewed on his bottom lip.

That made Wonwoo pause. He put the receipts back on the drawer and turned to meet Mingyu’s gaze. “I think that if you’re going to reach out, be sure that it’s not because you’re hurting—” he said, then cut himself off, shaking his head like he was dismissing a painful remark. “I think that with all you’ve done already, she deserves a real apology.”

“I am going to apologize,” Mingyu said, taken aback. His shoulders slacked. “Hyung, you don’t understand—” he swallowed hard, composing himself. “I want her back.”

Wonwoo’s lips parted, his eyes widening slightly.

But Mingyu didn’t see the change in his best friend’s expression. He pressed his lips into a thin line. “I don’t want to hurt her ever again,” he mumbled, looking down at the lacquered counter.

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow, tilting his head to one side. “Then don’t.”

It sounded simple.

But that was the thing. Mingyu was hurting. But he wanted you and missed you for you—not just because of the comfort you gave. He missed the way he felt when he was around you, simply existing. Mingyu missed the way you looked at him like he was worth sticking around for.

Even if he couldn’t see that in himself back then.

Sometimes, he thought of his ex—Gigi. Of how even months after breaking up, she still tried to contact him. His guts twisted one more time. Maybe, just maybe, you’ve already healed in all this time he hasn’t contacted you. Maybe he’s just messing things up more.

And that wasn’t fair for you.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Mingyu sighed, reconsidering again. “What am I even doing?” he muttered, more to himself than to Wonwoo.

Wonwoo sighed heavily. “Look, do what you have to do,” he said, his tone hardening slightly with annoyance. “But please, can you get to work? I’m drowning here and we only have twenty minutes till we open up.”  

Mingyu straightened, laughing awkwardly. “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head to keep you away from his thoughts.

For now.

“You didn’t have to fuck him though,” Mona said, looking at you with a concerned look on her face.

You laughed out loud, letting the red wine fuel your whole body. Your cheeks were flushed with the effects of your third glass of wine.

“I mean—” Mona started, but got caught off. She laughed, finally infected with the sound of your giggles. “—what is it with you and toxic guys? Do you have a magnet for them? Where do I get one?”

You continued laughing, head tilted back. It had been a while since you’ve had a night like this.

You were sitting in a half-empty bar, tucked between two other very loud bars. The place was cozy—totally the opposite to what The Spot was. This was bright, colorful, full of earthy tones and fairy lights that coiled around the warm lights overhead.

Mona watched your smile, and you swore you saw a tint of warmth there. “I’m glad you’re better,” she said, then blinked a couple of times. “Well, not better-better, but like—” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “I’m glad you’re not with that asshole anymore. He was truly sucking the life out of you.”

You sighed “I’m trying,” you said softly. “There are some bad days, and some good ones.”

“And today?” she asked, giving you an exaggerated inquisitive look.

You took a sip of wine, feeling pensive. “Today I’m good. Not perfect. But okay.”

Mona reached across the small table to squeeze your hand. “I’m really proud of you.”

You talked about everything and nothing for another hour. About work. Her new co-worker she thought was cute. About the graphic design course you were taking. About the new guy at the gym she was pretending not to notice. Everything and nothing.

And when it was time to step out of the bar, the air had cooled, but your laughter was still warm in your chest. The taste of wine lingering on your tongue.

“God,” Mona exhaled, fixing her jacket. “I’ve missed this.”

You smiled at her. “I’m sorry about dodging your calls.”

She clicked her tongue, using a hand to push your shoulder. “The next time I’ll just come get you out of your apartment. Bust you out of any prison you’ve made for yourself if that’s what’s needed.”

You snickered at the exaggerated roll of her eyes she gave you. “Okay, mom.”

She continued. “I should probably start charging you a therapist fee.” 

“Fair,” you said, the smile not wiping off your face.

“No but seriously. You look better. A little tired, but better.”

“I’ve been okay,” you reassured her for the tenth time. You shrugged. “Some days I wake up feeling okay. Other days it’s like I’m drowning.”

Mona nodded quietly. “Yeah. That’s grief for you. And yes, you’re allowed to grieve what you had with Jay—it wasn’t just a simple relationship. You guys were together for ages.”

You pressed your lips into a tight line. “It’s not just him, you know?” you murmured. “It’s everything I thought I was done with. Jay, the breakup, moving to a different part of the city. And then with Mingyu… it’s like he brought it all back.”

Mona bumped her shoulder against yours. “And do you feel safer with the new guy?” she paused. “With Wonwoo?”

You blinked and dropped your gaze to the ground.

It had been three nights since you slept with Jeon Wonwoo. And so far, you had only exchanged a few texts—nothing too personal, nor too serious. But you felt at ease whenever he texted goodnight, or whenever he told you he was doing okay.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, the knot in your throat tightening more. “I’m afraid to let myself care again. I don’t want to mess it up.”

“And if you do, you’ll fix it,” she shrugged, crossing her arms as she walked beside you. “You always do.”

Eventually, you both stopped when you knew your paths diverted into different routes. “Okay,” Mona sighed. “Are you taking the bus?”

“I could use the walk,” you said, tightening your fist around the strap of your bag.

The streets were damp, but the night sky gave no evident warning that it would start to rain again soon.

Mona nodded. “I’ll see you then,” she said, turning around and motioning a hand goodbye. “You better be with the same guy by the next time I see you!”

You laughed out loud, but couldn’t think of anything to reply to her.

You turned around, deciding to take the long way home.

Something about walking helped you think. You were still warm from the red wine and the laughter shared with your best friend. But walking through the park—seeing young couples walking hand in hand, groups of girls laughing gave you perspective.

The cold air stung your cheeks, making your eyes water. You hugged yourself tightly, closing your denim jacket around you.

You were passing by the park when you heard your name, loud and clear. At first, you thought it wasn’t meant for you, so you kept walking. But how many people could have your name in this city?

Then again, this time louder.

You turned around, following the sound of the voice.

Your stomach immediately dropped. It was Jay.

He looked the same. Despite the buzz cut hair he sported and the change in fashion style, he was still your Jay. The same big dark eyes, the same smile that made his eyes turn into half-moons. He was dressed too well for someone who didn’t like to go out at night.

You stopped walking, feeling glad that you were already hugging your body because you felt like fainting.

Jay slowed to a stop in front of you, catching his breath with a crooked smile. “Wow,” he said, breathlessly. “It’s really you.”

You nodded, managing a polite smile. “Hi.”

There was a pause, one where you just stood in front of him while he practically gawked at you.

“I’ve been meaning to reach out,” he said, scratching a fake itch on his nape. “But you know, life,” he rolled his eyes dramatically.

“Right,” you replied, nodding stiffly.

He blinked, like he suddenly remembered something. “I’m getting married,” he blurted.

Your smile didn’t falter—and you were thankful for Mona again, and her wonderful way of predicting things. “I heard,” you said. “Congrats.”

He nodded, his gaze flitting across your face like he was searching for something. Sadness? Regret? “Her name is Lana,” he added. “She’s—she’s different. But she’s great.”

You nodded again, about to tell him that you didn’t want to know. “That’s good. I’m glad for you.”

But he didn’t skip a beat.

“It should’ve been you, though,” he said.

The words punched the air out of your lungs. You almost wanted to register if he’d said another thing and you mistook it for being tipsy.

“What?” you breathed, unable to muster a reaction.

Jay stepped closer, and you almost stepped back, but couldn't trust your body. “I mean, come on. We were great. You know we were. We just—we just weren’t ready.”

You stared at him, blinking and gaping at him like you’d misheard.

“Sometimes I wonder if we gave up too soon. Or if I did.”

Anger flared, quiet but sharp. It made you finally step back. “Listen to yourself—” you gasped. “You’re getting married, Jay.”

“I know,” he laughed nervously. “What a stupid thing to say, right?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were starting to see red. Your chest felt hollow, and you almost wanted to yell at him for not letting you have a moment of peace.

But then he reached for your arm. “I’m sorry,” he said, and you could see the honesty in his eyes. “I just… Seeing you again brought so many memories back.”

You pulled your arm back. “Don’t.”

He blinked, almost confused at your reaction. “What?”

“Don’t tell me it should’ve been me when you already chose someone else,” you said, your voice shaking. “You’re forgetting that it was you who wasn’t ready. Not me.”

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and walked with a quick pace. Running away from Jay aimlessly. You almost forgot your way back home, but you had to get distance from him.

You made it three blocks away from the park when your chest finally caved in. You reached into your bag, pulling out your phone. And before you could think, you pressed the call button.

You weren’t considering that he might be busy at work. You weren’t thinking at all.

It should’ve been you. The words kept echoing. Each time was more painful than the last.

And each echo also fueled your anger more.

His phone only rang once.

“Hello?”

You closed your eyes. Your voice was barely there. “Hey.”

“Are you okay?” his voice cut through.

The world spun around you, blurs of streetlights and passing strangers, when you opened your eyes again. You staggered towards the nearest bench, sitting down on it.

You bit your bottom lip, squeezing your eyes shut. “I saw him,” you blurted out.

“Who?” he asked, and then a second later he said: “Your ex?” Wonwoo asked quietly.

Mingyu sent him an inquisitive look, which Wonwoo dismissed by shaking his head.

Then it was the broken way you uttered the next words that made his whole world stop. “He told me it should’ve been me he’s marrying.”

“Shit,” he hissed, lowering his face so it wouldn’t raise more questions.

“I thought it was over, I really did,” you said, your voice shaking and cracking mid-sentence: “I was having such a good night. But then… god I just feel so stupid right now.”

“Don’t,” he replied, sounding firm and gentle at the same time. “You’re not.”

You remembered the look on Jay’s face, the way he practically ogled at you.

“Where are you right now?” Wonwoo asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

You lifted your head, looking at your surroundings. You told him exactly where you were. But then it dawned on you—Wonwoo was working, and you had pretty much just called him on impulse.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed shakily. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

Wonwoo lowered his face more, hiding completely from Mingyu’s furtive glances. “I’m glad you called me,” he said. In the distance, he could hear a regular calling for him. “Listen, I have to go, but I’ll call you later, alright?”

“I didn’t mean to pull you away from work,” you sniffled lightly. “I’m sorry.”

Wonwoo was three hours from closing his shift. He couldn’t get away even if he had the means to. He was in charge of the bar tonight. And the bar was bustling with the usual Ladies’ Night activity, there was no way he could just abort the ship.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll get off in three hours. Do you… do you want to meet?”

You sniffled again. “Yeah,” you said, your voice sounding tiny. “Please.”

“I’ll text you when I’m out. Just—” he cut himself off, trying to think of what to say. But he couldn’t imagine what you were going through. “—get home safe, okay?”

You couldn’t ignore the warmth and the gentleness lacing his tone. It made your heart swell. “I will.”

Wonwoo sighed. “I’ll text you as soon as I’m off.”

“Okay,” you replied, ending the call.

And like a remedy, your heart was a little less frantic.

Three hours.

That’s all you had to wait.

But as you lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling, you couldn’t find what to do. You couldn’t even find the tears to cry anymore.

Time passed and you didn’t find the strength to move.

It should’ve been you.

You didn’t know why the words stung, but in a way that it just filled you with an unknown rage. You didn’t care about Jay. What he did or didn’t do with his life wasn’t your problem anymore.

Dodged that bullet, you could hear Mona’s words in your head, like a distant echo guiding you through.

The lights were off, the only thing illuminating your studio apartment was the TV, which was playing music videos at low volume. You were ignoring it, incapable of paying attention to anything else.

Your mind was cluttered with heavy, and dark thoughts. They pulled you away and deeper into the jaws of the monster that was your inner voice at that moment. You felt bad, but not at what happened, but at the thing you were turning into.

You weren’t enough for one man.

Then you were the temporary fix of another.

And now, you were using another man to get by.

No, that isn’t what you were doing, the lighter voice inside you tried to reason.

But no matter how you saw it, you couldn’t get rid of the thing eating at your heart, taking full bites, and chewing on it, leaving you bare and vulnerable.

You felt dirty. Hollow.

You wondered when it would stop. You wondered if there would be a day when you felt like you weren’t scared of the silence and the dark of the night. You wondered if the empty space in your bed wouldn’t matter anymore.

Part of you wanted to rage, to feel angry at Jay for ruining such a good night. Maybe you deserved this, maybe you needed a reminder.

You closed your eyes, trying to come back to the surface, trying to distance yourself from that voice that was luring you into parts you thought you had escaped from.

The fuzzy caress from the effects the red wine gave you had long run off. The impulse to get up and search for the bottles you had forgotten in the kitchen cabinet came about your fingers, like an itch you wanted to scratch.

Eyes completely closed, you felt the gentle ebb and flow of the last minutes of your drunken dizziness leaving your body. You sighed.

You ached to feel something.

In the darkness, you saw him. You didn’t want to, not at first.

You stretched out your arms on your bed, relishing in the gentle caress of your covers against your skin. Turning your face against your pillow, you remembered his hands as he cupped your cheeks, kissing you softly, then deeply.

The night Wonwoo spent in your bed had left an echo in you. You didn’t sport the mark he had left on your neck anymore, but you remembered seeing it every day, wishing he had left more, and all over you.

Then you remembered the little sounds he made when he was inside you—the grunts and gasps he emitted through his soft lips. How he delivered each thrust hard and deep, like he wanted to leave a mark.

You bit your bottom lip, sensing something rousing deep inside you. It was too late to stop now, you were falling. You wondered if he had thought of you again after that night.

A tingling feeling rushed beneath your skin, travelling from your face to the apex between your thighs. In your mind, you were seeing him, feeling him. Feeling his mouth on you, licking your inner thighs, kissing, and giving you soft bites.

You exhaled the nervousness inside you, to no avail. You knew it was too late to stop the feeling from blooming at the pit of your tummy.

Your self-control slipped from your hands at the same time that you pulled your knees up, your hand sneaking beneath the band of your sweatpants.

The first caress of your fingertip against your folds made your whole blood surge. You were so wet that you had already pooled in your panties, making you want to feel embarrassed, but the feeling never came.

You dipped two fingers in your entrance, your mouth parting as you tried to remember the feeling of Wonwoo’s dick slipping inside you. You wondered if the dildo you never used would be up to match the length of his cock.

You opened your eyes, slightly startled by the idea.

You turned over your bed, opening the drawer of your nightstand.

There, beneath the faint glow of the TV screen, you saw the bag where you stored your toys—which you remembered were too embarrassed when you initially got them. You opened it, grabbing the dildo that you have perhaps only used just once. You chewed on your bottom lip, looking at it while debating whether to use it or not.

A part of you felt ridiculous—you were just feeling sorry about yourself and now… you’re going to do this?

You pushed the thoughts away when you pressed the button down, bringing it to life with a loud buzzing noise. You didn’t even bother taking your clothes off—just lowered your sweatpants and panties down enough for you to have the space to slide the toy between your pussy lips.

You were dripping wet, smeared all over as the tip of the dildo slid perfectly inside you. Your mouth dropped open, gasping as you pushed the entire thing inside you, feeling its incessant vibrations ripple inside you.

“God,” you sighed, dropping your head back onto your pillow.

You bit your lower lip again, grabbing the toy to pull it back out slowly. The toy wasn’t as big as Wonwoo, but your imagination was running wild now. You remembered how hard and deep he went when he fucked you, how the tip of his cock reached places you didn’t even know existed.

You ached your back, pushing the toy back inside you, searching for that spot in your walls that Wonwoo had found almost effortlessly.

Sometimes when you were alone and just using your fingers, you would get nothing out of the dildo. So you just resorted to teasing your clit and calling it a night.

But now, you let yourself feel it. You allowed your mind to throw memories from the nights when the pleasure was so much that it overwhelmed you. So you saw him, you saw Mingyu—how he used to fuck you with a light grin on his face, knowing that your orgasm would be his.

You lifted your knees, pushing the toy in and out of you, moaning repeatedly. You desperately pushed the button, speeding up the vibrations. The pleasure brimmed instantly, barreling down your spine—but it wasn’t enough.

Then, your mind spun. You were overcome with memories of Wonwoo—the way he breathed against your neck, fitfully, muffling raw moans against your skin. The way he marked you like you were his, the way he pushed inside you, slowly, deeply.

You slowed down, filling your lungs with air as you slipped the toy inside you, enjoying the vibrations massaging your walls. You pushed it back in, slowly, bottoming out on it. In your mind, you saw Wonwoo, you felt him.

You let out a high-pitched cry—it being instantly cut off by a gasp when the orgasm tore through you, rippling down your body. You arched your back, letting the toy pleasure that spot deep inside you, prolong your orgasm.

You were rendered languid, breathless, and taut on your bed. That was until you felt the urge to pull the toy out of you, which you did, turning it off.

Opening your eyes, you stared at the ceiling, contending now with what you saw in your mind’s eye.

You had pleasured yourself thinking about Wonwoo—and Mingyu.  

You sat up slowly, pulling your pants up with shaky hands.

Somewhere on your bed covers your phone buzzed. You reached out for it, unlocking the screen to have your heart jolt at the words, “I’m outside” from Wonwoo.

You rubbed a hand against your face. Shame and guilt spread through your face and neck.

Pushing yourself up, you decided to discard the used vibrator inside your drawers and rushed to grant him access to your building.

You tried fixing your hair, still shaking with the aftermath of what you had done.

And when Wonwoo knocked on your door softly, you knew there was something wrong with you. Because the shame vanished, and was replaced by a joyful excitement to see his face again.

“Hey,” Wonwoo breathed, his eyes outlining your face, your body. “How are you?” he asked.

You were reminded why he asked that, why worry was all over the features of his face. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, swiftly bringing a hand to the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss.

Wonwoo gasped nervously, but his hands quickly found your waist. “Wait,” he whispered, but was quickly shut up by another kiss from you.

You pulled him closer, your other hand closing the door behind him. “I was thinking about you,” you confessed abruptly, not caring about how you were coming off.

“You were?” he asked, his tone laced with surprise and amusement. He let out a giggle in your mouth, one that sounded almost boyish. “Hold on—please,” he sighed, his body tensing as you ran your hands down his chest.

You stepped back, reality hitting you hard. “I’m sorry,” you blurted, bringing a hand to cover your mouth.

“No, don’t be,” he mumbled.

Then he paused, assessing you with a quick glance and lowering his backpack on the floor.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, putting two fingers beneath your chin to lift your face to him. “You don’t want to talk first?”

The light touch of his fingers against your face made your skin tingle. You blinked at him slowly, a short sigh leaving your body involuntarily.

“No,” you swallowed, shaking your head.

Wonwoo lifted his eyebrows. “We’ll talk later?” he asked, his voice was soft and gentle with you.

You had no other choice but to nod. “Yes,” you said, realizing that you indeed wanted to confide in him again—but your body was like a storm that needed to be sated by his touch.

Wonwoo directed a look at you for one second, content with what he found in your eyes. He dipped his head, meeting your lips with his in a swift kiss that had your lips creating a smacking noise. You smiled softly on his lips before kissing him again, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“What were you thinking?” he asked with a rasp, pressing soft kisses on your lips.

His hand switched from your chin to your waist, gently nudging you back. You understood what he wanted, and you staggered backwards, using your hands around him to bring him with you.

You stumbled upon the round table, gasping softly into his mouth when he broke away from your lips. His hand returned to your nape, his fingers tangling around the strands of your hair, and pulling it to tilt your head back.

“Mmn?” he pressed, his voice a mere murmur in your ear as he kissed your earlobe. “You said you were thinking about me.”

You had to bite your lip down to stop the moan from escaping your mouth. His lips were descending on the curve of your neck, kissing down the spot he had marked three nights ago.

Your hands held onto his shoulders, unable to move or to think. His wet lips were reaching your shoulder, caressing your bare skin with his breath as he breathed in your perfume.

A finger hooked around the strap of your tank top, nudging it aside to press his lips on your skin. He kissed each spot so softly that it left tingles on your skin, making it prickle.

“Baby.” He whispered, his voice barely making out a rasp.

“Yeah,” you swallowed, trying to ignore the effect that word coming from his lips had on you. “I was thinking about the other night, what we did…”

“What we did?” he repeated, sounding amused. He pulled back from your shoulder, letting you see the tiny smile playing on his lips.

You pushed his shoulder playfully. “You know what I mean.”

“We did a lot of things the other night,” he said jokingly, the smile not wiping off his face. “Do you mean how you yelled at me, and berated me for being an asshole to you?”

You clicked your tongue, playing his game. “I didn’t berate you,” you rolled your eyes.

Wonwoo was quick, leaning towards you and capturing your lips in a feathery kiss. “Don’t roll your eyes at me,” he said with a raspy tone, pushing your body against the table with his hands on your waist.

You leaned back, unable to push against his kisses which turned from feathery to demanding. His hand snaked from your waist to your neck, his long fingers circling it gently, without pressing any important parts yet.

He pulled you into a long kiss, one that told you that he’d missed you over the course of days and nights of just sticking to chatting on the phone. He moaned softly as his tongue brushed against yours, the sound driving you a little more insane.

Your hands found his hard chest again, feeling his tight muscles, the light outline of his lean abdomen when you slid your palms down, your fingers reaching the hem of his t-shirt.

Wonwoo pulled back, his hand still circling your neck. His dark eyes found yours, looking at you intently. “Were you thinking of doing this?”

You nodded, biting your lower lip. It was hot and wet from his spit. “Yeah,” you sighed, sounding pathetically sweet.

The corner of his lips twitched. “Were you playing with yourself, baby?” he asked.

A shallow breath left through your nose almost involuntarily. The way he used his words made you inch closer to losing what little self-control you had.

“Yeah,” you parroted, your fingers inching closer to the sliver of skin between his belt and the shirt you were trying to hike up.

He gave you a smirk now, but it was sweet, like he found you cute. Using the hand that was on your neck, he pulled you closer to kiss your lips. “Filthy,” he purred softly, brushing your lips with his.

“Wonwoo,” you yelped when his other hand clutched your waist. It was insane to you that he was making you feel so much with so little.

“Please,” you whispered, swallowing hard. “Take me—stop playing, just…” You let out a whiny sound as he started giggling with amusement, as though he still found you cute in your desperation.

“Just what?” he asked, not quite kissing you, but his lips were still so close to yours.

“Fuck me,” you blurted. “Fuck me hard, I don’t care what you do, just do it,” you pleaded, not caring how pathetic you sounded.

Wonwoo gave you a hard kiss, not pulling away from you as he said: “You have a dirty mouth on you,” he said.

You were finding out just how much you liked hearing him talk to you that way. You practically melted against his touch, kissing him again. His hand was still around your neck, while the other searched for the hem of your tank top.

With a strange boldness, you pulled back, grabbing your tank top and hiking it up your torso. You felt his gaze on you as you stripped the tank top off, revealing your bare chest for him.

His gaze darkened, outlining your body like he’d missed it. He bowed his head, giving you a sweet kiss before his hand clutched your waist, pressing his chest against yours.

You gasped in his mouth, feeling his cold fingers dipping onto your soft skin. “Wonwoo, please,” you whispered, breathing hard against him.

He let out an amused sigh. “If I slip my hand in your panties will I find your pussy wet?” he asked, shocking you with the language he used.

“Yes,” you gasped, nearly angling yourself for him.

Wonwoo laughed, wrinkling his nose. “Dirty girl,” he whispered, leaning to touch your forehead with his. “I was also thinking about you,” he confessed.

Your cheeks grew hot. “What were you thinking about?” you asked, your tone whiny and sweet.

His hand circled from your waist, parking on your tummy. “I want to fuck you in front of a mirror one day,” he drawled softly, nearly purring. The tips of his fingers inched closer to the band of your panties. “I want you to see how pretty you look when I’m inside you.”

You nearly moaned, but he quickly shushed you by pressing his lips against yours. His fingers slipped beneath the band of your panties, brushing against your mound. His lips smacked against yours with each kiss he gave you, sighing softly when you moaned.

He pushed his hand further, finding the mess you made while thinking about him. A raw, deep moan vibrated on his chest. “God, baby, you’re dripping,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” you moaned, parting your legs more for him, trying to tell him you wanted his fingers inside you.

But he took his time, gently brushing your entrance with the pads of his middle and ring finger. “I was thinking of how good you felt the other night,” he said, his voice barely audible, a gentle purr. “You don’t even know how good you taste, do you?”

You parted your mouth, choking on your own words. You wanted to say yes, you’ve tasted yourself. But every single word you knew slipped from your mind.

Because Wonwoo decided to push his fingers inside you. No warning, no more teasing. He pushed his fingers until you could feel the palm of his hand against your pussy lips.

You squeezed your eyes shut, twisting your fingers around the fabric of his t-shirt. “Fuck,” you breathed. 

“Were you doing it like this?” he asked, barely pulling his fingers out of you to then push them back in.

“No,” you mumbled.

“No?” he pulled his fingers out, sliding them on your clit as you parted your legs more for him.

You leaned back against the table, pressing your palms on it to support yourself. You shook your head, unable to talk.

“Words,” he reminded you pointedly.

“I used a toy,” you blurted, shame tingling beneath your skin.

His fingers swirled around your clit. “Did it make you cum?”

“Yes,” you breathed, loving the sound of those words coming out of him.

“You think a toy can do it better than me?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you chuckled, heart beating fast at your own boldness.

You were clearly challenging him. You omitted the fact that you had to pretend it was him fucking you instead of a toy. And also, how you were comparing sizes, and that your toy wasn’t enough.

But Wonwoo took the bait.

He grabbed you by the arm, effortlessly moving you to your bed. He pushed you with near carelessness, your back hitting the mattress.

You gasped in surprise, looking at him with an alarming need now. You needed him. You were more than ready for him.

“Take your clothes off,” you said.

Wonwoo tilted his head to one side, arching one eyebrow. “Take them off me,” he bit back.

You sat up, hurriedly taking each item of his clothing. Your fingers fumbled with his belt, distracted by the huge bulge beneath his jeans. And when he was finally undressed, you dared to explore his bare skin with your hands.

He was ready for you. Completely hard and leaking precum for you. You raised your gaze to his face. “I—” you gulped.

He smiled knowingly, pinching your chin.

He moved to the bed, hooking his fingers around the band of your sweats and panties, pulling them down. “Lean back, baby,” he muttered, grabbing you by the hips and helping you part your legs for him.

He wasted no time, pushing his tongue between your pussy lips, giving you a generous stroke with his tongue.

“God, Wonwoo, yes,” you sighed, raking your fingers through his messy hair.

He moaned against your pussy, pushing his fingers inside you again, curving them against your walls.

“Fuck,” you groaned, looking at his face as he pushed it against your cunt.

Wonwoo teased your clit with thorough, open-mouthed kisses. His fingers massaging your walls, dragging his knuckles slowly in and out.

“More,” you blurted with a lewd tone.

He dragged his tongue flat on your clit right before wrapping his lips around it, sucking it lightly. He started plunging his fingers in and out of you, curving them against your walls, against that spot you were itching to find.

“God, Wonwoo,” you gasped, bringing a hand to the back of his head as he ate you out just like the other night.

But he was on a mission now. He was thrusting his fingers in and out of you like he was trying to make you reach your high quickly. And that was easy, you were already shaking, your breathing ragged as you inched closer and closer.

“Oh, fuck, Wonwoo—” you gasped, aware of the lewd sounds coming out from the rapid thrusting of his fingers. But there was another issue—and you knew you were closer to your orgasm, but it felt different. Urgent, and so wet. “Fuck, fuck, stop.”

He detached his mouth from your pussy, pulling out his fingers and looking up at you.

“Wait,” you said, panting embarrassingly loudly. You smiled despite yourself.

Wonwoo sighed amusedly. “Too much?”

You nodded, still breathless. “Please, fuck me,” you sobbed, not caring how pathetic you sounded. “I need you.”

Before he gave you what you wanted, he took his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean off your arousal. You followed him with your gaze as he hovered on top of your body, arms on each side of your head to give you a kiss. You muffled a moan in his mouth, feeling his tongue brushing yours, making you taste yourself. 

The act was so lewd that you felt a rush tingling down your spine. 

Then got to his knees, positioning his hips between your legs in an upright position. “Where is it?” he asked.

You blinked at him dumbly, but understood after a second. “In my drawer,” you replied, and then you added: “Why?”

He shrugged slightly, reaching to open your drawer. “You said this thing can fuck you better than I can,” he said with ease, examining the dildo you had used, still slick with your mess.

But he pulled out another toy—one you used more frequently because you deemed it to be more effective than the dildo. It was a rose toy. He glanced your way, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You were about to take the toy from his grasp, but he was faster—trapping your wrists with one of his, pinning them above your head.

“Keep them there,” he mumbled, leaning back on his upright position.

Then something happened inside you. You forgot about misbehaving, about taunting him. The darkened look on his face was all you needed to know that you were about to get what you wanted.

He grabbed his cock with one hand, rolling it a few times to smear the precum all over its head. Then, his gaze fell on your body, on your pussy all dripping with your arousal and pink with overstimulation.

He bit down his bottom lip, guiding the tip of his cock down your folds, playing with you. “Wonwoo,” you called with an annoyingly sweet tone. “Stop teasing me and just fuck me already.”

“Grab the railings,” he motioned with the tip of his nose at your headboard. You did what he asked, just as you felt his bulbous cockhead notching at your entrance.

And with no more teasing, no warning at all, he pushed inside you. All in one go, he bottomed out with a pleased sigh.

You let out a mewling sound, closing your eyes tightly to enjoy the sting his cock gave you as it stretched your walls. “Fuck, Wonwoo,” you gasped, trying to urge him to start moving.

But then, he turned the toy on, guiding the centre of it to your swollen clit. The relentless vibrations overwhelmed you instantly. You cried out, feeling another orgasm surge inside you, consuming you quicker than all the other orgasms you’ve had.

Wonwoo started moving his cock inside you with slow, deep thrusts. Still biting his lip, his hair dishevelled, looking at you like he still had something to prove. Maybe because he did—and it was entirely your fault that he’d taken on this challenge.

You moved one hand to take the toy from his grasp, but he slapped it away. “Hands where I left them,” he said.

“It’s too much,” you whined, attempting to reach for his hand once more. “Wonwoo, I just need you.”

“Mmn?” he raised his gaze to your face. “What was that, baby?” he asked with a gentler tone.

“I just need you,” you repeated breathlessly, squeezing your eyes shut to let your tears go. “No toys. Just your cock, just—just…”

You arched your back, writhing on your bed as another orgasm rippled through you, taking over your ability to think and speak. You came so hard that you weren’t able to contain yourself, crying and panting pathetically.

“Oh, baby, look at yourself,” Wonwoo sighed, sounding amused. “You’re wetting the bed.”

“Please, please, please,” you gasped, ignoring the shame boiling in your blood. You pressed the side of your face on your pillow, realizing that it was wet with tears.

“Please, what?”

“Just you,” you mumbled dazedly, blinking at him. “I just need you.”

Wonwoo turned the vibrator off, tossing it aside and grabbing your hips with his hands. He plunged into you, hard and deep, like he was holding himself back earlier. His thrusts were so full, so calculated that they made you forget about the overstimulation you got from the toy.

“God, fuck,” you writhed, grabbing onto the railings again, holding onto them as pleasure brimmed inside you.

“Good girl,” Wonwoo drawled lazily, moving inside you with the same deep and thorough thrusts you tried to emulate with your toy.

You closed your eyes, enjoying the feeling of having him buried inside you—massaging your walls, reaching so deep you felt like cumming again soon. “God, that feels good,” you mewled.

Wonwoo sighed, and you opened your eyes to see his light smile. It did something to you—to see him smiling as he fucked you hard and deep. He looked so hot, his hair was dishevelled, and his glasses were slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah? Better than that toy?” he sighed with a mocking smile, pushing his cock inside your tight cunt.

You nodded dumbly. “So much better,” you admitted. And it was true—nothing could compare to the feeling of having him inside you. Raw, hard, and deep.

Wonwoo gave you a lazy smile, moving his hand to grip your neck lightly. He didn’t press hard, just circled his fingers around your bare neck, as though he just wanted to see how you looked with his hand around you.

And you wondered what you would look like. Wholly naked, legs spread for him, his cock disappearing inside you, tits bouncing gently each time he pushed his hips against you.

He slipped his hand from your neck slightly, brushing his thumb against your lips. “Open up,” he whispered.

You obeyed, parting your lips to suck on his thumb. You rolled your tongue around his thumb, simulating what you wanted to do to his cock, looking straight into his eyes.

“Fuck,” he blinked, swallowing back a moan. He pulled his thumb from your mouth, guiding it between your legs, where he started rubbing slow circles against your swollen and very sensitive clit.

You flinched, overstimulated. “Wonwoo,” you mewled, closing your eyes. “Yes, please, please. Don’t stop.”

And he complied, like his pleasure was not important. He kept his thrusts deep, steady, flicking your clit expertly. You moaned lewdly, enjoying the sweet waves building inside you—readying for another orgasm.

“Fuck, Wonwoo,” you whined.

“That’s it, baby,” he mumbled with a raspy tone. “Cum for me. Give me one more.”

“Wonwoo, fuck,” you sighed, your body tightened, your sanity slipping away. “Please, babe, don’t stop… don’t stop.”

Your jaw went slack, breath catching on your throat with a high-pitch cry as sweet pleasure bloomed inside your body, stretching to every limb, dancing beneath your skin.

Wonwoo moaned, the sound raw and raspy coming from his chest. But you found that he had liked the sound of your voice calling him babe, his light smile told you that much.

He tilted his head back, sighing out in pleasure. “Baby, I’m close,” he purred, swallowing hard.

You nodded to him. “Cum inside me,” you told him. 

Wonwoo didn’t remove his gaze from yours, his eyes peering into your soul as he moved his body against yours. A deep moan came out of him, his chapped lips parting softly as he spilled himself inside you. 

You were both panting, looking at each other like there was something left unsaid. It was obvious, though, and neither of you needed to speak out. 

There was something flowing in the air between you. Electrifying, alluring. You knew Wonwoo knew it too. 

You liked Wonwoo. More than you were allowing yourself to admit. 

“Hey,” he sighed, his chest still rising and falling steadily. 

“Hey,” you replied softly. 

“Okay?” He arched his eyebrows.

You nodded. “Amazing,” you replied with a lazy smile.

He returned the smile. “You were so good, babygirl,” he hummed, squeezing your hip gently.

“Hmm,” you hummed sweetly, palming his hand on your hip. “Take a shower with me, yeah?” 

He nodded, looking at your hand on top of his. “Yeah,” he said. “And then we talk?” 

“We talk,” you agreed.

“What do you usually do to feel better?” Wonwoo asked after stepping out of the shower, using the towel you’d lent him to dry his hair, messily rubbing it against his head.

He was wearing only his boxers, his messy hair dripping wet. He looked like a dream, making it hard for you to concentrate.

You took a long moment to think. “I don’t know,” you admitted with a shrug. “I could say a bunch of different things, but right now I just want to relax. Maybe talking about it will help.”

You opened your drawer, aware that Wonwoo was watching you intently as you spoke.

You pulled out a couple of face masks and two bandanas—one with cat ears, the other with bear ears—and handed him one without a word.

Wonwoo smiled softly, taking the bandana. He looked at it for a long moment before putting it on.

You laughed, reaching out to adjust the cat ears on his head. “There,” you whispered, your eyes drifting back to his face.

“So this is what we’re doing?” he asked, picking up one of the face masks. “Skincare and talking?”

“Yep,” you replied, nodding primly. “And maybe we’ll cuddle later, if I start crying.” You laughed at yourself.

“That sounds like a good plan,” he said.

“Crying sounds good to you?”

Wonwoo opened the package with his long fingers, unfolding the mask carefully. “I mean, it releases toxins, cleans and lubricates the eyes—at least it does for me. Plus, you get a kick of endorphins afterward. Overall, it’s good. Regulates—”

“Wonwoo.” You deadpanned.

“What?” he asked, lifting his face. “Am I talking too much?”

You smiled, your stomach flipping. “You’re cute,” you sighed.

Wonwoo smiled sheepishly. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s okay,” you giggled.

“But seriously, I think it’s better to cry it out.”

“It makes my face puffy,” you said, unfolding your mask.

“So what? You’re still pretty,” he murmured, still struggling with his.

Something fluttered in your chest. “Here, let me,” you said, taking the mask from him and unfolding it, then placing it gently over his face.

His eyes stayed on you. He rested a hand on your hip—almost unconsciously, like he couldn’t keep from touching you. As though he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.

“What?” you asked, sensing his gaze.

“I can’t see,” he laughed. “I need my glasses.”

“Oh,” you chuckled. “You could wear them over the mask.”

He pushed his glasses into place, grinning faintly. 

You turned to your bed, stopping before it. “Oh,” you uttered, seeing the wet spot on the side of the bed you always used.

“We’ll have to lay on the other side,” Wonwoo said with an ease that made you think this was almost inconsequential to him. 

“I could change the covers,” you said, shrugging lightly. 

Wonwoo palmed your butt lightly over your clothes. “Or we could rest, baby,” he said gently. 

“Yeah…” you sighed, realizing that you were too tired to change the covers. 

You lay back against the pillows, reaching for him as he followed you onto the bed.

Wonwoo sighed, wrapping an arm around you. “You okay?” he asked.

You blinked. “I feel like a mess,” you whispered. “Like I’m free-falling.”

“You’re allowed to feel like that,” he said, calm and steady. “You’re someone who got hurt. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

You turned your head to look at him. “Why are you so nice to me?”

He shrugged. “Because you deserve it.”

You didn’t doubt the sincerity in his voice, but part of you couldn’t fully believe it.

“I know I said I was okay earlier,” you murmured. “But I wasn’t. I’m still not.”

“You don’t have to be,” he said softly, reaching for the hand resting on his stomach.

You watched as his fingers played with yours, slow and careful. “I really thought I was doing okay,” you said, voice cracking. “But I realize now that I’m not.”

“You’re still healing,” he murmured. Then, after a beat: “And your ex was an asshole. No one could’ve predicted he’d say something like that.”

You closed your eyes. “He is an asshole,” you agreed. “It’s a good thing I broke up with him. Dodged a bullet.”

Wonwoo hummed, amusement blooming in his chest.

You lay in the peaceful moment for a while, listening to the faint sounds coming from the streets outside. His hand was still holding yours, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin.

“Can I ask you something?” you whispered.

He hummed in acknowledgement.

“Do you wish things had happened differently? Between us.”

You felt him turn slightly so he could look at you. And when you moved your head on his chest, you found his gaze on you. Steady, thoughtful. “Sometimes,” he conceded. “But I don’t know if we would’ve ended up here if they hadn’t happened this way.”

You nodded, your gaze falling to his chest. “I just keep thinking… how things started, everything leading up to here…” you said faintly. “I don’t want to mess this up more because of how we started this.”

His thumb brushed gently against your knuckles. “You’re overthinking it, baby,” he whispered. “Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out.”

The gentleness in his voice made your throat tighten. He was giving you the assurance that your soul craved to hear.

You wanted to say something, anything to match the certainty in his voice. But you couldn’t find the words.

You rested your head on his chest again, letting the quiet pulses of his heartbeat reach your ears, filling the silence.

For a while, neither of you spoke. And you continued to search for words to say.

From the beginning, Wonwoo had shown you that he wanted this. That he was choosing you for you. Not because of the things you had to offer, not for your body, or your pain.

You felt seen.

“You make things sound easy,” you mumbled finally, your voice sounding tiny.

Wonwoo let out a soft breath, and you could picture the smile that came with the sound. “I know it’s not easy. I’m just trying to meet you where you are.”  

“And where is that, exactly?”

“Somewhere between healing and trying to feel something again,” he answered with a softer tone.

That made you smile. “Sounds about right,” you replied.

Wonwoo shifted slightly, lifting his phone to glance at the screen. “How long are we supposed to have this?” he asked.

Your mind was so clouded that you'd forgotten about the mask completely. “Fifteen minutes.”

“It’s been twenty minutes already,” he said with a light laugh.

“I guess we should take them off,” you replied in kind.

You both sat up slowly, facing him as you peeled the mask from your faces. Wonwoo did the same, his fingers removing his glasses first.

You looked at him, your heart squeezing so hard it tore a giggle from you. “Hold on. You have a little piece stuck to your chin.”

He blinked. “Where?” he asked, lifting his fingers to his face.

“Here,” you whispered, reaching out. Your fingers brushed his skin as you carefully plucked the piece of paper off.

You didn’t pull your hand away, letting it linger. Your eyes met his, and the feeling consuming your heart just intensified, making it beat louder.

You blinked dumbly, moving away from him. In the bathroom again, you threw the facemasks in the bin, ignoring the mirror. You knew what you’d find in your reflection, because you could feel it—the tingling heat on your cheeks, the breathless, dreamy feeling.

When you came back to your bed, Wonwoo was still sitting there, now wearing his glasses. He raised his face, pressing his lips into a smile.

“Wanna cuddle?” you asked, the words flying out of your mouth.

He blinked slowly, the smile stretching on his full lips. “Sure,” he mumbled, laying back on the pillows. You leaned back into him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder. Wonwoo wrapped an arm around you again.

The silence came again. But this time you weren’t scared of it, you didn’t feel like running away. You closed your eyes, snuggling closer to his chest.

Wonwoo brought a hand to your head, his fingers going through the strands of your hair with gentle motions. It felt as though he were putting your concerns to rest, calming the thoughts running in circles in your mind.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep, but you did this soundly, nestling in Wonwoo’s safe embrace.

The sound of rain tapping lightly against your windows woke you up. You realized after a beat that you had woken up before your alarm went off.

The soft weight of Wonwoo’s arm around your waist made you keep still. He was still snuggled close to you, his chest pressed to your back. You opened your eyes slowly, blinking away the bleak light filling the room.

You must’ve woken him up, because he stirred behind you. He let out a soft hum, his nose brushing against your hair. “Morning,” he mumbled, his voice still heavy with sleep.

“Good morning,” you hummed.

You turned over in his embrace, facing his chest now. You snuggled against his bare skin, using a hand to feel the warmth coming from him.

“Why are you awake?” you whispered.

“I’m hungry,” he mumbled. “Was thinking about where to go to grab breakfast,” he mumbled happily.

You giggled against his chest, circling an arm to hug him too. “What are your options?”

“I don’t have many,” he admitted with a lazy tone, as though he were falling back asleep. “But I know a place I think you’ll like.”

You lifted your head slightly, finding his face. He had his eyes closed, half of his face buried on the pillow. He peeled one open, a smile stretching on his lips when he saw you.

“You drooled in your sleep,” he said as though he’d just remembered it, smiling softly at the memory.

“Stop. No I didn’t,” you sighed, bringing a hand to search your face.

“Yes, you did,” he teased. “Gross,” he said.

“Shut up, Jeon Wonwoo,” you pushed his chest.

But he didn’t even budge. He let out a louder laugh at your feeble attempt. “Make me,” he said.

You planted a hard kiss on his lips. “That’ll do it,” you sighed.

Wonwoo paused, processing what you’d done. He clicked his tongue, grabbing your head. “Come here, you,” he muttered, pressing his lips against yours again, giving you a fuller kiss.

You giggled into his mouth, melting into him completely. He slipped his hand from your cheek to your neck, pressing his lips against yours sweetly. “Let’s go grab breakfast?” he whispered.

“Are you asking me out on a date, Wonwoo?” you teased, your eyes fluttering close as he pressed his forehead against yours.

“Yes. I am,” he replied without letting another second pass.

Your heart fluttered, robbing your ability to speak. “Okay,” you breathed. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” he replied in kind, and you realized then, he’d gotten nervous.

You couldn’t help but smile. It was the second time you’d woken up with Wonwoo in your bed. And yet, he was nervous about asking you out.

“You’re too cute,” you whispered.

He smiled, notching the tip of his nose against yours. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” you said.

And Wonwoo was more than happy to oblige.

Mingyu parked a block away from your apartment, letting out a big sigh as he turned the engine off. The entire ride over, he had rehearsed in his mind everything he wanted to tell you. He did this, while knowing that by the time he got to look at your face, he would forget his words.

He remembered the last night he spent at your apartment. His guts twisted when he remembered that look on your face when you opened the door for him. You looked so happy to see him.  

Will you look at him the same way?

The nerves were truly eating him alive. But beneath all that, there was something else brewing—something pulling him back. Heavier than guilt and more painful than pride. It was regret, telling him to turn back around.

But he couldn’t live a day longer missing you.

He leaned back in the driver’s seat, exhaling as his fingers raked his long hair back.

“Just do it, Mingyu,” he told himself aloud, sitting alone in Wonwoo’s car. “All you gotta do is ring the buzzer. Talk to her.”

And with that, he climbed out of the car, crossing the street with a pounding heart that could be heard throughout the whole block.

The sky had cleared for once. The rain had stopped about an hour ago, leaving a cold air that felt crisp on his face. He hissed, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he approached your building.

But then he stopped.

You were there. Just outside your apartment building, standing under the awning of the entrance.

But you weren’t alone.

There was a man beside you—taller than you, leaning too close for Mingyu’s liking. His hand brushed your back as you laughed at something he said, your face tilting upward.

Mingyu’s stomach dropped.

Everything happened too fast.

The proximity wasn’t enough for him to discern who the guy was. He was covered, wearing the cap of his hoodie over his head. But that didn’t matter. All he could see was how you looked at the guy.

Mingyu subconsciously took a couple of steps forward, staggering almost. But then he stopped cold, watching the scene happening before him like an outsider.

It was your smile, the distant sound of your laughter, that had stunned him, causing a deep blow to his chest. You didn’t look like the last time he saw you, crying at the bleachers. You looked like someone who had already moved on.

Mingyu couldn’t move. He couldn’t call your name. Just watched as you and the other guy walked slowly down the sidewalk, disappearing down the next corner. Together.

His chest felt hollow.

The words he had memorized were rendered useless, forgotten in the back of his mind. Without thinking, he turned around and walked back to the car.

He was too late.

But despite that, something gnawed at his soul. Something sticky, ugly. It took over him quickly, like fire burning down an entire forest. She’s mine, no one else’s. He thought, aware how crazy his inner voice sounded. But he didn’t care. He was beginning to see red.

She’s mine.

Mine. 

☾ author's note: hello, hello! ᨐฅ

this fic journey has ben craaaaaazy!! i was astounded by the amount of you guys that left comments and came to my ask box to share your opinions!! it really warmed up my heart 🥺🩵

it is the first time that one of my series is received like this, i mean that it has a lot of you sharing their opinions and theorizing in the comments section. some of you even had theories that are very close to where the story is going in the future and i was like 👁️👄👁️ truly amazing. wow. thank you!!

you know the drill, if you have something to say, comment it, reblog, give it a like, and my ask box is always open!! 🩵🩵🩵

toodles

☆ READ PART VII! ☆ | PREVIOUS CHAPTERS | BUY ME COFFEE? ♡

© TO HANNIEWEEN I DO NOT ALLOW TRANSLATIONS, CONTINUATIONS, REIMAGINATIONS OF MY WORKS OR THEIR REPOSTING ON OTHER WEBSITES.

[sweettu1ips]

PAIGE BUECKERS x SINGER!FEM READER

SYNOPSIS: "The push and pull had always been intoxicating, a slow burn of control and surrender. But tonight, the rules shift—an unspoken goodbye lingering in the space where lips almost met."

WARNING(S): (18+) toxic relationship ⋮ situationship ⋮ hook-up buddies ⋮ fuck buddies ⋮ kissing ⋮ not exactly a happy ending, but if you like that reader got her lick back, then yes consider this a happy ending... ⋮ flashbacks to intimacy ⋮ not really sure what else I'm missing soo...

WORD COUNT: 6.7K

| MAIN MASTER LIST ⋮ VELVET TRACES [P2] |

THE THING ABOUT PAIGE BUECKERS is that she doesn’t do attachment. Not in the way that matters. Not in the way I wanted.

She’s like a storm that never settles, all presence and pressure, rolling in heavy and hot before vanishing like she was never there at all. A name whispered in locker rooms, an echo in arenas, a breath against my neck in the dead of night. She loves like a shadow—only seen when the lights are dim, only felt in fleeting touches that never sink past the surface.

I should’ve known better.

But how could I, when Paige is all adrenaline and honeyed words, wrapped up in a body that moves like poetry, lips that turn even the most fleeting moments into something that sears? She’s a habit, a high, a hands-on-my-hips, teeth-against-my-skin kind of addiction that I can’t shake, no matter how many times I swear I will.

We started as nothing. Just a few run-ins at events, a reckless decision after too much tequila and neon lights bleeding into the early morning.

 Me, fresh off a sold-out tour, my name looping through radio stations like an anthem, still buzzing from the stage, from the energy, from the world’s obsession with me. 

Paige, the golden girl of the court, drowning in expectations but never once missing a shot. Our first time was impulsive, a collision of egos and sweat, hands grasping, mouths hungry, neither of us looking for anything more than the rush of it all.

And then it happened again. And again. Until suddenly, I had the code to Paige’s apartment, and she had a habit of pulling me into dark corners whenever our paths crossed.

It was easy. Until it wasn’t.

Because while Paige only ever wanted hands tangled in sheets and a body pressed to hers, I wanted something deeper. Something beyond the four walls of a dimly lit bedroom, beyond the stolen kisses and murmured goodbyes before dawn broke.

I wanted late-night conversations that didn’t end in tangled limbs. I wanted mornings where Paige didn’t slip away before the sun rose. I wanted to be something more than just a fleeting thrill, more than just a name she moaned into the dark before locking the door behind her.

But Paige?

She wanted nothing more than the sensation, the moment, the rush.

And I don’t know how much longer I can pretend that’s enough.

That’s how I found myself in the studio late at night, the soft hum of the city’s distant chatter filtering through the windows.

 The overhead lights cast a warm glow, the dim shadows stretching like the quiet ache in my chest. The walls around me, lined with instruments and sound equipment, felt both comforting and isolating at the same time, as though they had absorbed every secret I had whispered into the microphone over the years.

Two days had passed since I had last sent a message to Paige, the blue text bubble sitting unanswered on my phone. 

My thumb hovered over the screen, pausing just before tapping it to send another message—my emotions like a tangled wire, too complicated to be untangled with a few simple words. 

Every minute that passed without a reply felt like a bruise on my heart, a dull throb that seemed to sink deeper with each second.

The night was mine now, a time to drown out the ache, to lose myself in music. I sat at the keyboard, fingers brushing lightly against the keys, a note breaking the silence in the room. 

My mind wandered as the melody spilled from the ivory, filling the space between the notes. My thoughts slipped into the lyrics that had been playing on repeat in my mind— Would you hear me more if I whispered in your ear?

A small sigh escaped my lips, and I exhaled slowly, almost like I was trying to let go of the tension held within my lungs. My hands hovered above the piano once more, the next note suspended in the air, waiting for something, anything to push it into reality. 

I could feel the weight of the question—a question that had stayed in my mind since the moment Paige and I had begun drifting, a question I didn’t have the courage to ask aloud. 

Would Paige hear me? Would she understand me more if I approached things differently? Would the vulnerability, the quiet intimacy of whispering, make her more present in our connection? Would it make her feel wanted, or would it push her further away?

I bit down on my lip, the sudden wave of emotion flooding my chest. The lyrics replayed in my mind, Would you hear me more if I touch you right here? 

I didn’t mean to think about it like this, didn’t mean to feel the heat of the words burning in my veins, but the song had a way of weaving itself into my very skin, sinking under my bones.

 The “right here” was never a place—it was an act, an invitation, a vulnerable plea for attention, for connection. I could picture it: my fingertips barely grazing Paige’s skin, the tremor in my touch betraying the uncertainty in my heart. 

The thought of making that kind of contact—so close, so intimate—was both electrifying and terrifying.

I slowly stood, the music still playing in my mind, as my hand reached for the microphone stand. The cool metal against my palm felt oddly grounding. The intensity of my emotions surged, threatening to spill over like an ocean crashing against the shore. 

I couldn’t stop it. I leaned into the microphone, my breath steadying, and whispered softly, “Ah, ah.” It was just a sound, a simple exhale into the space around me, but in that moment, it felt like I had said everything I needed to.

 The vulnerability of the sound echoed, filling the room. A sensation of wanting, of longing, crept up my spine.

I moved to the center of the room, the dim light casting shadows across the floor, and closed my eyes, my body swaying with the rhythm in my chest. My hands floated just above my skin, as if reaching for something that was just out of reach. 

Would it be enough if I reached out and touched someone, poured my desires into every delicate movement? Would it be enough if I brushed my lips against their skin, against their thoughts, the weight of every unspoken word shared in the air between us? The question lingered, as heavy as the silence that hung in the room.

I exhaled slowly again, this time with more certainty, as if releasing the tension that had built up between Paige and me, between myself and the world around me. 

I wasn’t sure if this would be enough—if this small act of touching, of whispering, would ever be enough to bridge the gap of distance that had formed between us.

But there was something about the act of letting go, of offering myself in the quietest way, that made it feel like I could be heard. Even if it was only by myself.

My fingers brushed the strings of the guitar by my side, the soft strum of the chord filling the space with its melancholic sound.

It was almost as if the act of playing the song was a silent plea—a desire to be understood, to be touched not just physically, but emotionally, in ways that words couldn’t express. 

My heart raced, the lyrics flowing through me as if they were written just for me. Would you hear me more?

I paused, letting the silence settle in. I wasn't sure if I was ready to hear the answer. But in this moment, in the stillness of the room, I let myself be vulnerable, letting the music carry my thoughts into the night.

I snapped out of the haze, the weight of the emotions that had overwhelmed me suddenly lifting, replaced by a sharp, determined clarity.

My heart, still thudding in my chest, quieted as I reached for my phone on the corner of the desk, the cold screen feeling almost foreign against my palm.

 My fingers fumbled for a moment, as if they were still tangled in the last few lingering chords of the song that had played over and over in my mind, but soon found their place.

The familiar touch of the phone felt grounding, like a lifeline pulling me back to reality.

I pressed the call button, the sound of it ringing filling the silence, each ring seeming to echo my anticipation, my nervousness, my need for something—anything— to move forward.

It was as if I was trying to shake off the last remnants of the vulnerability I had just laid bare. I couldn’t stay here, lost in my head any longer.

When the line finally clicked, the voice on the other end greeted me with that familiar, steady calm, “Hey, it’s me.”

I exhaled sharply, as if releasing all the tension I hadn’t known I was holding in. “How fast can you get to the studio?” The words came out faster than I had intended, but they carried an edge—urgent, a little desperate. My voice shook, just barely, the slight crack betraying the layers beneath the surface.

I could hear the slight rustle of movement through the phone, as if my producer was shifting his position, maybe setting his coffee cup down, or running a hand through his hair.

It didn’t matter. I could feel the moment stretching between us, filling the space with an electric charge. I wasn’t even sure if I was asking for help, for direction, or for something else entirely, but the need was undeniable.

My hand, still gripping the phone, tightened around it as I gazed out the studio window, my eyes scanning the night outside. The city’s lights twinkled in the distance, just a blur of movement that felt so far away, so detached from the chaos inside me. 

I was still on edge, still haunted by the unresolved feeling that had settled in my chest like a heavy weight. Paige. The distance between us. The things left unsaid. The longing that pressed against my ribs, urging me to do something, to make a choice.

But in this moment, I needed to focus. I had to focus. I wasn’t ready to dive back into my thoughts about her, about us. Not now.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. “I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I need to get this out,” I admitted, my voice a little softer now. The honesty slipped through, unintended but there all the same.

 My eyes shifted over the studio, taking in the dim lights, the instruments scattered around like pieces of a puzzle I wasn’t sure how to solve. The walls that had once felt so comforting now seemed like they were closing in on me, the air thicker with the weight of my feelings.

The producer’s voice came through again, low and calm, but with an undercurrent of reassurance. “I’ll be there in 20.”

I nodded instinctively, even though I knew he couldn’t see me. A sigh of relief escaped me, and I finally let my shoulders drop, feeling the tension melt away, bit by bit. It wasn’t over, I knew that. 

The song I was trying to create, the emotions I was trying to channel, the unresolved ache that lingered—it was all still there, pressing at the edges of my mind. But I had made the decision. I was going to push forward, try to create something, anything, to move past the confusion and the frustration.

As I hung up, the weight of the room felt just a little lighter. I wasn’t completely sure where I was heading with the song, but in this moment, it didn’t matter. The only thing I knew for certain was that I had to keep moving, keep creating. Maybe in the music, I would find the answers. Or maybe, just maybe, the answers would find me.

𖥔 A WEEK LATER 𖥔

The air was thick with anticipation, the bass from the speakers humming through my body like a second heartbeat. Backstage, I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the strap of my top—minimal, yet enough. 

The dim glow of the vanity lights flickered against my skin, casting shadows that felt almost poetic. The weight of the moment pressed down on me, but not in a suffocating way. It was exhilarating. Electric. Like standing at the edge of a storm, just waiting for the thunder to crash.

For the last week, I had poured myself into two songs. Every lyric, every melody had come faster than ever, flowing through me like something inevitable. Like I was supposed to write them.

 Like they had been waiting for me to put them into words. I hadn’t released them yet, holding onto them for this moment—this night—when I could perform them live for the first time. A choice that was far from accidental.

I ran a hand through my hair, inhaling deeply, trying to shake the gnawing feeling in my chest. It had been almost a week since I had last spoken to Paige. Since she walked away. Since I stood there, silent, replaying every word, every sharp edge of our argument, over and over.

"You act like this is more than what it is," she had said, her voice edged with something I couldn’t quite place—frustration, maybe. Or indifference. "But it’s not. We’re not. You know that."

I remembered the way she had looked at me, the way something flickered across her face just before she turned and walked away. Like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she knew her words would stick to me, get under my skin, wrap around my ribs and refuse to let go.

I clenched my jaw, blinking away the memory as I exhaled sharply.

The arena was dark, thick with anticipation. A low, pulsing hum vibrated through the air, rattling through the floor beneath my feet. The crowd was already screaming, their voices blending into a chaotic symphony of excitement, but they hadn’t seen me yet. 

Not yet.

A single spotlight flickered on, illuminating nothing but the stage floor. The massive LED screen behind it came alive with static, glitching shapes and distorted visuals flashing in time with the deep bass that rumbled through the venue like a heartbeat. The sound of distant sirens echoed—warped, haunting, looping. A breathy, distorted voice whispered my name, stretched and layered over itself until it sounded surreal, hypnotic.

This—this performance—was my way of getting the last word in.

Maybe Paige would see it as an eye-opener. Maybe she’d see it as an attempt to get under her skin. Truthfully? I couldn’t give a single fuck.

What mattered was the music. The stage. The way the lights would hit just right, the way the crowd would scream the lyrics back to me, their voices colliding with mine in a way that felt almost sacred. 

And the fact that I looked good. No—better than good. The deep purple lace hugged my frame just right, the dark fabric catching the glow of the stage lights in flashes as I moved.

A crew member signaled that it was time, and my pulse quickened, the air around me shifting. The venue was packed—thousands of bodies pressed together, waiting, the energy buzzing like static in the air. And right at the heart of it all—Madison Square Garden. The place where it all started. Where we started.

The music built slowly, a heartbeat turning into a racing pulse, synths creeping in like something alive. The fog machines hissed, rolling thick waves of smoke across the stage, swallowing the floor in shadows. And then—just for a second—total silence.

The arena went pitch black.

Suddenly..

The bass dropped. A blinding flash of white light strobed through the venue in sync with the first beat, illuminating me for the first time, standing center stage. Head down. Eyes closed. The breath of the moment curling in my lungs.

The screen behind me glitched again—flashes of old, grainy footage, a mix of blurred city lights, broken reflections in puddles, flashes of hands, lips, fleeting touches. Her silhouette. The past bleeding into the present.

A deep, sultry voice—mine, but distorted—spoke over the mic, just two words:

"You watching?"

And then—violins.

Soft at first, delicate, but haunting. They floated through the venue like a slow drip of honey, smooth, entrancing, weaving their way through the charged air. The LED screens behind me shifted—deep purple and black, slow-motion imagery of silk slipping off bare skin, fingers ghosting over lace.

The first beat crept in underneath, a subtle pulse beneath the strings.

Then the drums hit, and the violins swelled, twisting into something richer, more dangerous.

The lights flickered, shifting to deep reds and violets as the beat intensified, climbing into something sultry, hypnotic. The bass curled through the melody like smoke, smooth but intoxicating, pulling the entire track into the kind of rhythm that demanded to be felt.

I let the moment stretch just long enough—let the tension coil, let the crowd feel the buildup in their chests, waiting, craving.

And then, just as the beat fully dropped, I moved.

Hips swaying, chin lifted, gaze locked forward.

The mic brushed my lips, and I let the first words spill out.

“I been singin’, I been screamin’...

“...I been goin’ all night till my throat’s bleeding” 

If she was watching, good.

Because this time, I was saying everything I never got the chance to.

The LED screens flicker to life behind me—glitching city lights, reflections rippling in puddles, fleeting hands skimming over skin. A fragmented memory playing for thousands to see.

And then—my voice.

"Did my purple lace bra catch your attention?

Uh Yeah, the look in your eye made me question."

The words drip from my lips like honey, smooth, effortless, but laced with something deeper. Something raw. Something meant for only one person.

And somewhere above—watching, devouring—Paige.

She's here. Actually here, in New York. In the VIP section, perched above the stage with the best view in the house. I don’t see her at first, too lost in the rhythm, in the way my body moves in sync with the dancers around me. 

The choreography is sultry, deliberate, every step calculated. When I drag my fingers down my torso, lingering just slightly against the purple lace that clings to me, the crowd screams—but only one gaze matters.

Paige.

And the second I finally lock eyes with her—piercing blue, locked onto me with a fire that burns even through the darkness—I feel it.

The shift.

Her gaze settles on me like she owns me, like every movement is hers to consume. And then the realization hits—I see it in the way her lips part slightly, in the way her fingers tighten around the glass in her hand—this is a new song. 

She hasn’t heard these words before. Hadn’t known until now just how deep this ran.

A memory flashes, one neither of us could ever forget.

Me, sprawled against silk sheets, bathed in moonlight, wearing this same shade of purple. The lace barely covering me, teasing just enough to make Paige lose her mind. 

The way she had whispered against my skin that night—God, you’re wearing this just to kill me, aren’t you?

I had laughed then. But tonight? Tonight, I’m performing.

And Paige is watching.

"Would you hear me more if I whispered in your ear?

Made all my inner thoughts sound like, ‘Ah, ah’

Would you hear me more if I touch you right here? Made everythin' I want sound like, ‘Ah, ah.’"

The choreography intensifies, fluid, seductive. I roll my hips, arch into the movement, dragging my hands down my curves before flipping my hair back, locking eyes with Paige again. There are thousands of people here, screaming my name, but I only care about one.

Paige’s grip tightens around her drink.

I smirk.

I feel the effect I have on her, see it in the way her chest rises and falls just a bit quicker, in the way her jaw tenses.

She’s unraveling.

And me? I’m going to make her feel every second of it.

"I could take it off for you and tell you what I'm goin' through, hm

'Cause my body positioning determines if you're listenin', ah-ah."

I turn, my dancers moving in sync with me as I twist my body, sinking into the rhythm. The choreography is intimate, teasing—slow rolls of the hips, fingers grazing down arms, lingering touches that set the stage ablaze. And the entire time, my eyes never leave Paige’s.

The flashbacks bleed into every lyric. Paige’s hands gripping my hips that first night, pulling me closer, our bodies pressed together in the dim glow of city lights. The way she had looked at me—like I was something to be worshiped.

And now?

Now, I’m untouchable.

"Did my dance on your lap pique your interest? Yeah

Now I got you like that, let me finish."

The words are a challenge. A reminder.

I run my fingers over my chest, pressing into the lace just enough to tease, enough to dare Paige to remember.

The chorus hits again, and I let myself sink into the song, into the power of it. Paige feels it—the way I own this moment, how every movement is meant to be felt, witnessed.

"I'm losin' my mind, I'm losin' my head

You only listen when I'm undressed

Hear what you like and none of the rest, 'est."

And Paige feels that lyric.

It’s the truth she never wanted to admit.

The way she ignored the things I actually needed to say, the words that got lost somewhere between tangled limbs and gasping breaths.

"I'm-I'm losin' my mind 'cause giving you head's

The only time you think I got depth."

Her stomach drops.

I see it—the way her fingers dig into her thigh, her jaw clenching so tightly I swear she might crack a tooth.

Because fuck.

This isn’t just a song. It’s us.

I know exactly what I’m doing, the way I sway my hips, run my fingers along my thighs. I let myself sink into the music, into the feeling of being desired.

And Paige?

Paige is trapped. Watching. Needing.

But this time, she doesn’t get to have me.

But this time, she didn’t get to have her.

The final notes linger in the air, and I let the moment hang. I let her sit with it, drowning in the weight of the lyrics, the weight of me.

Then, slowly, I tilted my head, eyes flickering up to Paige’s seat.

 I smirked.

And it was as if I knew— felt the way Paige was losing her mind, unraveling at the seams.

And then, just before the lights went dark, I mouthed one final thing.

“Still listening?”

Paige had actually sat through the whole concert—watching, studying, caught somewhere between lust, anger, and something heavier that neither of us had ever put a name to.

 Her eyes had been fixated on me the entire time, tracing every movement, every note I sang, her expression an unreadable mask of longing and frustration, the kind that simmered beneath the surface, never quite reaching the surface.

By the time I was done with my last set, she was already out of her seat, her body taut with tension as she stood.

 I thought, maybe, that this was it. Maybe this was the moment she would finally walk away, truly done with me for good.

But the second I hit backstage, pushing open the door to my dressing room, I realized how wrong I was.

There she was.

Paige was sprawled across the leather couch like she owned the place—legs casually spread, arms draped lazily over the backrest, her fingers barely curled as if she had all the time in the world. Her body was relaxed, but there was something predatory about her stillness, something that told me she had been waiting for this exact moment. 

Her head tilted slightly, eyes never leaving me, watching as the door swung open, revealing me in all my post-show glow. The rush of the performance still lingered in the air around me.

 My skin was flushed from the lights, damp strands of hair clung to my neck, and though my body ached from the show, I could feel the hum of my confidence still thrumming beneath the surface, energizing me, keeping me upright. But in an instant, that energy started to flicker, replaced by something I hadn’t prepared myself for.

My breath caught in my throat as our eyes met.

Everything stilled.

The cool, collected air that had surrounded me the entire night faltered for a second—just long enough for her to catch it. That self-assured smile I had walked in with faltered, just barely, enough to let her know she had the power to break me, to make me doubt every inch of the poise I had so carefully constructed.

The weight of the silence in the room pressed against me, the distance between us shrinking with each heartbeat.

I stood there for a moment longer than I meant to, the tension between us so thick that it felt like it could snap at any second. My final outfit of the night clung to me like it was made just for this moment—soft fabric molded to my form in a way that demanded attention. 

The mini skirt skimming the tops of my thighs, the hem dancing with each subtle movement, while the fitted top traced the curves of my torso, leaving just enough skin bare to tease, just enough to make her notice. 

The dark brown chunky platform boots I wore added an edge to my look, the weight of each step grounding me but also making me feel powerful in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

And all the while, Paige’s gaze was on me—slow and deliberate, her blue eyes tracing me from head to toe, each movement of her eyes sending heat pooling in my chest. Her expression remained unreadable—calm, controlled, like she was watching a masterpiece come to life, but there was something else there too. 

Something simmering just beneath the surface—an intensity I couldn’t look away from. It was like she was waiting for something to break. Waiting for me to break.

I could feel the pull of her gaze like gravity, dragging me toward her without a single word exchanged. It wasn’t just her eyes that had the power over me. It was the tension, the rawness, the fact that I had never really escaped her orbit, no matter how many times I thought I had.

And I knew then, just as I always had, that she was never really done with me.

She wasn’t just watching. She was studying. She was waiting. And I was no longer sure if I could fight it.

I broke eye contact with her, a scoff slipping from my lips before I even realized I was doing it. I rolled my eyes, not bothering to hide the annoyance that flickered beneath my skin. 

If she thought I was going to stand there, locked in some silent power struggle with her, she had another thing coming.

I turned my back to her and walked deeper into the room, letting the door swing shut with a sharp click behind me. The sound reverberated in the otherwise still air, cutting through the tension that had settled between us like a thick fog. 

My hips swayed with the rhythm of my steps, the heavy click of my platform boots echoing off the cement floor. The sensation of each boot hitting the ground felt grounding, like I could still control this situation, even if my heart was already betraying me.

I moved toward the vanity, not daring to look back at her. Not yet. I reached for the small mirror on the edge, adjusting it slightly, watching my own reflection instead of facing Paige’s unwavering gaze.

 I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of seeing how much she affected me, not tonight. Not when I was so close to losing myself to whatever this was between us.

I could feel her eyes burning into my back, unblinking, like a predator watching its prey. It wasn’t just the weight of her stare; it was the certainty that no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many walls I built around myself, she always knew how to break through them. 

She always knew where to strike. Her jaw was clenched tight, her body unmoving, but I could feel the tension radiating off her in waves.

 She didn’t say anything, but the amused smirk that danced on her lips told me everything I needed to know. She was watching, waiting for me to crack, to give in, to say something. Anything.

I wasn’t going to give her that. Not tonight.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, like it was daring me to do something. I stayed focused on my reflection, pretending that the quiet wasn’t eating away at my insides. But deep down, my mind was a storm. 

Thoughts swirled like a cyclone, each one more confusing than the last. Paige—her presence, her control, the way she always seemed to hold every card—was never easy to ignore. It wasn’t just her ego, the way she carried herself with an unshakable confidence, or how she always had a smirk on her lips like she was always one step ahead. It was the pull of her. The constant tug she had on me, whether I wanted it or not. The way she made me question everything I thought I knew about myself.

I wasn’t some naive girl who couldn’t see the truth. I knew exactly what this was. Paige and I, we were never going to be anything more than what we were—hook-up buddies, tangled in this chaotic mess of lust, anger, and everything in between. Her ego was too big.

 Her confidence too loud. It was a game, one she always won. Always kept me at arm’s length, just enough to keep me wanting more, but never enough to let me close.

And yet, I found myself caught in it, every single time.

The weight of her presence grew more suffocating, and I could feel my patience wearing thin. But I refused to show it. I refused to let her see the way my heart raced when she was around, the way my body seemed to lean toward her without my permission. I couldn’t give her that satisfaction. I wasn’t going to let her win tonight.

She broke the silence, her voice cutting through the room like a blade.

"You really think that outfit's going to distract me, huh?" Her eyes flickered over my form, her smirk widening as she took in the tight mini skirt I’d chosen for tonight, the way the soft fabric clung to my skin. "You think that’s gonna make up for what you did on stage?"

I didn’t look up, kept my gaze focused on my reflection. I wanted to give her nothing. I wanted to return to the calm, collected version of myself—the one that could walk into a room and own it without breaking a sweat. But the truth was, I was already unraveling, piece by piece. And Paige? Paige was the one who had the scissors.

Her voice was a poison, calculated and precise. "So tell me, Y/N, is this your way of proving something? With that little performance of yours? You really think you can just walk out there, do your thing, and not expect me to notice?"

But I refused to give in.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t get a kick out of this,” she continued, her tone dripping with challenge. “You’re not fooling anyone, Y/N.”

I let out a slow breath, letting the tension roll off my shoulders like it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to let her get to me. Not tonight.

“You really think I care?” I finally said, my voice steady, but I could hear the lie in it. The cracks in my calm. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, but I didn’t move.

Paige let out a low chuckle, a sound that made my pulse quicken. She stood from the couch, the smooth, calculated movement of her body almost predatory as she took a step toward me.

“I think you care more than you’re willing to admit.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Because somewhere deep down, she was right.

I was in too deep.

The silence between us stretched, suffocating yet electric, and I refused to meet her eyes, even as I felt the weight of her gaze searing into me. 

The reflection in the mirror, though, was another story. I could see the smirk spreading across her lips like a slow burn—satisfied, triumphant. I hated that damn smirk. It was her weapon, a reminder that no matter how much I tried to hold my ground, she always had the upper hand.

I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much it grated on my nerves. Not once did I meet her eyes. Not once did I let her see how badly she was getting under my skin. 

Instead, I focused on the mirror, watching my own reflection, trying to cling to the remnants of composure. I could almost pretend that I wasn’t trapped in this web of tension, but I wasn’t fooling anyone—least of all, Paige.

She didn’t let it go. Her presence shifted, darker, closer. I felt the heat of her body pressing against mine, her chest just barely touching my back, and I bristled at the contact. But I didn't move, didn't flinch. I wouldn’t let her have that.

Her hands slid around my waist, just above the hemline of my mini skirt. The warmth of her touch made my skin prickle, my breath hitching slightly as she pressed her body further against me.

 Every movement was calculated, deliberate. Her hands were claiming me, possessive in the way they moved, gripping the soft curve of my waist with just the right pressure. My heart raced, but I didn't show it. I wouldn't show it.

I let her. I let Paige think she was winning, let her believe she had me right where she wanted me. Her kisses, slow and feather-light, trailed along my skin, familiar, almost too familiar. I knew what this was. I knew the drill.

 She wanted control, wanted to be the one in charge, and I was giving her that—just for a moment. But deep down, I was already ahead. I always was.

I kept my silence, my body still, my expression neutral, and I could practically hear her self-satisfied smirk. She took my lack of response as confirmation. 

"Did I hurt your feelings, baby?" Her voice, dripping with honeyed mockery, made my pulse spike as she pressed a kiss to where my neck met my shoulder.

The way her lips felt against my skin should have been comforting, but instead, it ignited something darker, something more dangerous. She was playing a game, and I was letting her think she was winning, letting her think she had the upper hand. But all I had to do was wait.

Paige didn’t give me any time to breathe. In one swift motion, she turned me in her arms, so I was facing her now, my back pressing up against the edge of the vanity table with a jolt that made my breath catch. 

The shift was urgent, messy, the kind of passion that made the air between us thick with anticipation. I didn’t flinch, though. Instead, I stayed still as she pressed her hips against mine, the pressure making me bite my lip to hold back a reaction.

 Her hands began to roam, tugging, gripping, finding familiar places that made my body betray me.

I could feel the way she took pleasure in it—the way I let her touch me, let her feel me respond to her. My hands gripped the edge of the vanity behind me, fingers curling against the cold wood.

 Paige’s lips found their way back to my neck, and I let her—let her think that she had me, that I was melting into her touch, that I was submitting so easily to whatever game she wanted to play.

I tilted my head back, giving her more access, playing into the illusion, letting her think she was in control. But it was all a lie. I knew exactly what I was doing.

Her kisses were relentless, tracing sweet spots along my neck that made my breath hitch and my body tremble. 

Her hands slid around to grip my ass through the fabric of my skirt, and I couldn't suppress the soft noise that slipped past my lips—one she loved, one she craved. 

Paige was a menace, always knowing exactly where to touch, how to make me fall into this web of tangled emotions, of lust and anger and everything in between.

Her lips trailed up my neck, slow, deliberate, marking their territory, moving toward my jaw. The warmth of her breath on my skin made my chest tighten, but I could feel the moment approaching, the moment when I would stop this game. 

Just when her lips were about to claim mine, I opened my eyes, my gaze slicing through the thick haze of desire like a blade through silk.

I tilted my head to the side, deliberately slow, a teasing pout curling at my lips—a cruel mimicry of surrender. Our mouths were barely a breath apart, the ghost of contact lingering in the air between us.

If it had been any other night, I would have caved, let her take what she wanted, let myself get lost in her touch. But tonight wasn’t any other night. Tonight, I was the one pulling the strings.

Paige froze, her breath hitched, her eyes flickering with confusion, frustration—searching for confirmation, for any sign that she still had me wrapped around her finger. But I refused to give her that satisfaction.

“I’m not your toy, baby,” I murmured, my voice a quiet storm, steady and unwavering. The weight of my words settled between us like a final warning.

For a moment, nothing existed but the shallow, ragged cadence of our breathing. I watched the disbelief flicker in her eyes, the realization creeping in like a slow-moving tide, threatening to pull her under. 

She didn’t move at first. But then, the smirk she always wore like armor cracked, faltering, and I pushed her back—gently, yet firm enough to carve a space between us, a boundary she had never encountered before.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, her lips parted slightly in stunned silence. My gaze stayed locked onto hers, heavy with something she wasn’t used to seeing in me—control. And worse—rejection.

A slow smirk ghosted across my lips as I turned away, pivoting toward the vanity behind me. Paige wasn’t far enough for there to be real distance, so when I leaned forward, fixing my reflection with careful precision, the curve of my ass hovered dangerously close to her front—just barely not touching. 

A whisper of temptation. A reminder of what she wouldn’t have tonight.

I adjusted my hair, smoothed my lipstick, acting as if her presence didn’t unnerve me in the slightest. The silence behind me was deafening, thick with unsaid words, unfinished games.

Satisfied, I straightened, meeting her eyes in the mirror, the corner of my mouth twitching with something smug and unforgiving. I turned, stepping past her, my fingers barely grazing the fabric of her sleeve as I moved toward the door.

Pausing in the doorway, I glanced back just once, my voice laced with something light, but sharp enough to leave a mark.

“You know where the exit is.”

And with that, I was gone.

The air outside the dressing room was thick, suffocating, despite the hum of excitement still pulsing beneath my skin. The second the door clicked shut behind me, sealing her inside,

I exhaled—a slow, deliberate release of breath that did little to steady the riot inside me. The hallway stretched ahead, a blur of dim, flickering lights and the distant hum of voices, but I moved through it like I was weightless, like my body hadn’t fully caught up to the gravity of what I’d just done.

I left her there—just like she had left me a thousand times before.

The symmetry of it should have satisfied me, should have made the ache in my chest shrink, but it didn’t. Instead, it spread—slow and creeping, like ink seeping into paper.

A stagehand passed by, tossing me a wide grin. “Insane show, Y/N. You killed it.”

I nodded, murmuring a thanks that barely scratched the surface of my lips. Their words felt distant, muted by the steady pounding of my heartbeat. My hands, wrapped in rings that glinted under the fluorescent lighting, flexed at my sides, still buzzing from the way she had looked at me.

Paige, sitting there like she had all the time in the world, like she had been expecting me to cave—to melt under her gaze the way I always had before.

But tonight, I hadn’t melted.

Tonight, I had watched the cracks form in her armor, had seen the exact moment realization settled in—that she no longer held the leash she thought she did. That I wasn’t hers to summon at will.

I made my way through the labyrinth of the backstage corridors, my heels clicking against the polished floors.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and something electric—an aftershock of the show still clinging to the walls. But none of it compared to the static lingering on my skin, the ghost of her gaze burning into me long after I had walked away.

The night unraveled in a blur after that. The dressing room, the press, the distant hum of a celebration I couldn’t bring myself to care about. People talked, laughed, congratulated me, but I wasn’t there. Not really.

Because in the back of my mind, Paige was still sitting on that leather couch, still staring at the door I had walked out of, still replaying my words like a cruel, looping melody.

I’m not your toy, baby.

I wondered if she had stayed there for long, if she had run her hands through her hair in frustration, if she had exhaled sharply the way she always did when things didn’t go her way. If she had sat in the silence, replaying every moment between us with that same restless, hungry energy I had spent years suffering under.

And then the days stretched into weeks.

Paige didn’t call.

Didn’t text.

But she didn’t need to. Because I knew she had seen it.

The internet had erupted like an uncontained wildfire, speculation running rampant in the wake of my performance. Every move, every lyric dissected, pulled apart, devoured by fans and gossip columns alike.

The video of me on stage went viral within hours—the way I sang with fire in my voice, like the words had been ripped from my ribs, like I needed this to be heard.

The analysis was relentless.

"Did you see the way she looked toward the VIP section? SHE WAS SINGING TO SOMEONE." "The way Y/N sang that line… she meant that. You could feel it." "Purple lace bra. PAIGE’S FAVORITE COLOR. The way she moved during that part? She knew exactly what she was doing." "Paige was in the crowd. You think she didn’t feel that?? That wasn’t just a song; that was a message."

The evidence stacked, theory after theory, fans pulling together every little thread like detectives unraveling a scandal.

Then came the videos of Paige at my concert—sitting in the shadows of the VIP section, her eyes locked on me like a predator watching its prey.

She hadn’t moved much, hadn’t reacted outwardly, but the cameras had caught enough. The sharp set of her jaw. The tight grip on her knee. The way her chest had risen just a little too sharply when I had turned in her direction.

I should have ignored it. Should have turned my phone off, drowned out the noise, let the world do what it did best—talk.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I let myself scroll. Let myself watch the videos, read the tweets, trace over every blurry, stolen moment that confirmed what I already knew.

She had felt it.

I pictured her in some dimly lit room, scrolling through the same chaos, lips pressed into a thin line, fists clenching as she watched the world speculate about us.

Wondering if she was regretting every moment that led up to this—the push and pull, the endless games, the times she had left me in bed, tangled in sheets and longing, only to disappear without a word.

Well, now she knew what it felt like.

And yet…

I missed her.

Not in the soft, romanticized way people spoke about heartbreak. Not in a way that felt poetic or tragic.

I missed her like a craving, sharp and unrelenting. Like something I had been forcibly weaned off, left to suffer the withdrawal.

I missed the way she would’ve laughed at all this—at the internet’s obsession, at the way people were tearing their hair out trying to figure out what we both already knew.

I missed the way she would have leaned in, breath hot against my ear, whispering, "Look what you did, baby."

But I wouldn’t break first.

She had spent years teaching me patience, teaching me the pain of waiting, of wanting. Now, it was her turn.

I stood in front of my mirror, makeup wiped clean, skin bare, exhaustion weighing heavy in my bones. My reflection stared back at me, lips curling at the edges with something dark, something smug.

You know where the exit is.

I wondered how long it would take before she found herself standing at my door.

𖥔 J'S JOURNAL 𖥔

Dear sweets,

this was a quick write--- well more of a get done to test the waters fic. But, here's my first Paige Buecker's fic <3

Not sure if I should leave it as it is or write a second part and make y'all happy...

Anyway's please let me know :)

P.S my main account is: @angelshxt. Thought the wifey deserved a separate blog, so here it is :p

xoxo,

J.

© sweettu1ips.tumblr 2025 do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[deepspace-scenarios]

[scenario/drabble] mint choc and strawberries

LIs react to you singing the AiScReam song around them. (Some are confused, some suffer, Rafayel loves it unironically- but we all know nobody can escape this song.) RUBY CHAN? HAiiiII!! what the LADS men had to listen to

Genre: Fluff

SYLUS

At first, Sylus ignores it. Then, after the twentieth time you mumble "Nani ga suki? Chokominto yori mo a-na-ta" while stirring your coffee, he decides it's time to intervene.  

"Kitten," he drawls, "if I hear Ruby-chan one more time, I might have to replace your playlist with white noise." 

But two days later, you catch him muttering "Shiki-chan? Hai!" under his breath while reviewing a new set of modified protocores laid out on his wooden desk.

When you cheer, he stops you mid-spin on the bespoke office chair.

He leans over you. “Are you happy about this, kitten?” 

“Mhmmm, very,” You grin at him, reaching up to cup his face.

“This is all. Your. Fault," he says before pressing his lips to yours, and from the way he's smiling into the kiss, you know he doesn't mind it at all.

_____

XAVIER

Xavier tilts his head the first time you absentmindedly chant "Chokominto yori mo a-na-ta" while stargazing.  

"Is this... an incantation?" he asks, genuinely curious.  

You explain it’s a song, and let him listen to it.

He nods along to the rhythm. "Ah. A new trend. It's oddly addictive."  

Later, you hear him attempting to sing along with your humming, albeit badly at first.

"I'm not familiar with the language," he admits, but keeps trying anyway.  In a few hours, he's singing it word for word.

_____

ZAYNE

Zayne’s hand pauses on the rearview mirror when you chirp "Shiki-chan? Hai!" as you slide into the passenger seat. 

"My love," he deadpans. "Please explain this to me,"  

You lean over the console to kiss his cheek. “Sutoroberii fureibaa yori mo a-na-ta!” You say in response, grinning at his baffled expression.

He sighs, shaking his head.

But that night, you catch him typing "AiScReam lyrics meaning" into his tablet.  

"For diagnostic purposes," he insists, as his finger taps along to the beat on your knee.  

“You can diagnose me with… hm… loving you more than any ice cream flavour,” you quip, snuggling closer under the blanket.

“And you taste sweeter than any ice cream.” He places the tablet aside to cup your face gently and close the distance between your lips.

_____

RAFAYEL

Rafayel immediately latches onto the song like it’s his new artistic muse.

"WAIT, WAIT- put it on my bluetooth speaker!" He grabs your phone, tapping quickly at the screen. The song connects to the studio’s speakers, blasting through the airy space.

"I can tell this is going to be my personality for this entire week," he tells you, taking your hands in his and practically skipping back to his canvas.

The problem? He keeps getting distracted mid-painting. 

"Damn it, cutie," he groans, staring at a half-finished canvas. "I was supposed to paint tragedy, but now all I can think about is Ruby-chaaan! Haaaai! I really should be mad at you-”

“But it’s a good song, right?” You say, sidling up next to him and poking his cheek.

(He still sings it with you every time.)  

_____

CALEB

Caleb tries so hard to resist. But after hearing you hum it for the fiftieth time, he caves.  

"Okay, fine- what’s the Ayumu-chan part again?"  

You cheer, and he groans- but by the end of the week, he’s full-on chanting "Kukkii and kuriimu yori mo a-na-ta" while cooking.  

He even uses the wooden spatula as a mic and points it in your direction to sing with you.

It’s addictive, to a point where he acknowledges it as a problem.

"This is your fault," he grumbles, even as he steals a kiss. "Now I’m gonna be humming this in the Deepspace Tunnel."

Pls DM/comment if you'd like to be in a taglist!

Note: the contrast between the cute/silly trend and the LADS men's personalities is something i wanted to see really badly so i wrote this Idk if it's been written before (PLS LINK ME IF THERE IS BC I'D LOVE TO READ) Anyhowww ty for reading!! <33

Edited: tags, spelling

Taglist: @fallthelong

[biteyoubiteme]

Omg congrats on 1k!!!

Soobin in the killa and gbgb performances have been killing me lately.. 🫠🫠 can i request a fic where reader goes down on him after his performance for either of these songs? Seriously never wanted to drop to my knees and suck a dick this badly in my life before this man 😵‍💫

baby, now, now, now, now

soobin x gn!reader

synopsis: he just looks too hot after a performance.

warnings: 🔞!!! oral (m!rec) prob forgot some sorry

wc: 1k

an: thank you so much! it was actually so hard to pick between gbgb and the killa for this lol but these photos spoke to me and picked themselves out. I go crazy watching these performances so I get you on a deeply personal and spiritual level okay and I rewatched the killas stage so many time to get inspo for this and omfg thank you for this ask I love watching that stage. but I hope you like this! not proofread forgive me sweet angel im forever indebted to you

[m.list] [1kevent m.list]

It was not the first time you’ve seen the performance but it was the first time you’ve been there in person. This was entirely different from all the practices you’ve sat in on, every misstep followed by yeonjuns guidance, the soft laughs shared between the people in the room aiding the relaxed feel of the studio. 

But here, sitting in the little private suite overlooking the stage you’re at a loss for words. No one should look that hot on stage, not even your own boyfriend. Maybe it’s the lights that hit soobin just right, the way they keep catching his hair; shiny with sweat. The big screen zoomed into every detail, black tank top stuck to his skin, his bicep flexing just enough to make the wrap around his arm look as if it would pop off from the force. 

It’s enough to make the crowd go wild, the echoing cheers and screams louder than you imagined them. Every single one of them fawning over the way he looks, the way he moves, so in sync with yeonjun. It's almost impossible not to keep your eyes trained on soobins hips. Shirt cut just long enough to reach the waistband of his pants, just short enough so that every time he moved his arms or rolled his body it lifted up, exposing his midriff. Watching them dance during practice, Soobin was mostly dressed in sweats and a hoodie, unbothered by appearances when no one was around to see. Now here it's the opposite, your mouth watering at the way he's moving. 

You're familiar with the way his hips move without anyone around, here with everyone watching it only makes jealousy bubble up for a second. And when he stretches back, arms above his head, so much of his skin on display for the camera to catch. It was addicting to witness. 

When the two of you finally met backstage soobin couldn't tell if you were angry or tired. Never did he expect you to lead him over to the nearest dressing room, the lock twisted before you pushed him against the door. 

“I'm all sweaty,” he chuckles, hands instinctively on your body already, head rolling back as he lets you kiss up his neck. 

“I don't care,” you mutter, hand reaching down to palm him over his pants. 

It took very little for him to get hard when it came to you. Just knowing you were watching him set his nerves aflame, but he worked so well under the slight pressure. He knew what got to you, knew the possibility of this very thing happening now, he could scope your neediness as easily as he could his own, both of you tethered together in that department just fine. 

When you got down on your knees before him, fumbling with the button on his pants, he was whimpering, and already praying no one would walk past and hear him. The second you got your hands on him he was moaning in the back of his throat, pursing his lips as if that would help any with the sound. 

You don't even have to work to build up any spit, your mouth watering on its own just having his pretty cock in front of you. Your thumb rubbed over his slit, spreading the beading precum around his pink tip. “You looked so good out there,” you say in between kisses along his shaft, “performing so well I couldn't stop thinking about sucking you off,” 

You trace your fingertips across his veins, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath he takes. “You sounded so pretty on stage, will you make sure to let me hear you while I make you feel good?” 

He doesn't even get to finish his nod before your mouth is on him, so hot and wet he can't help the moan that leaves him. You hum in response, the vibration traveling up his spine and down his knees. He could buckle under the feeling alone, your free hand not circling what does not fit into your mouth is wrapped around his balls adding enough pressure to make him see stars. 

Reaching out to the door handle for leverage, he needs anything to keep himself up, his head rolling back as you try to take him deeper down your throat. Even just the wet sounds of your working mouth makes his thighs tremble. 

You move to pull away for only a second, enough so that you can go back to using both your hands when he pushes his hand into your hair. “No please don’t stop,” he whines pushing you back down onto his cock. You give a muffled yelp that has him moaning when he hits the back of your throat, so slick with your saliva he pumps in and out of your waiting mouth with ease. You don't even care about not breathing, on the cusp of just about to choke and pure bliss as he uses you. His hips work just as well as you knew they would, your hands wrapping around his thighs to help keep yourself still for him as he thrusts. 

He's a mess of whimpers as he feels his orgasm build, your nails digging into the fabric of his pants, “oh god- I’m about to cum- I’m- I’m cumming- I’m-” he lets your head go as he cums, body slumping against the door as his cock twitches on your tongue, mouth flooding with his release, the saltiness so familiar to you as you swallow.

When you pull away his cock is slick with your spit, rivulets still connecting you to him as you giggle. You give him a few loose tugs, his hips jerking back at the stimulation to his sensitive tip where you place light kisses. 

He reaches out to brush his thumb across your cheek, tracing it down to rub at your just fucked red lips. “You're so good to me, what did I ever do to deserve this mouth?”

taglist 🏷: @kissmekissykissme @bts-txt-ateez @apeachty @seungfl0wer @lunesdesire want to be added to the taglist? check out my rules to see how to join! want to be taken off the taglist? send an ask! also a little thank you to @beomiracles for looking at this and not letting me set myself on fire over it

[endless-ineffabilities]

Chemical Override (bonus chapter 4) - Above The Gods Eye

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: I had envisioned bonus chapters as not too integral to the main plot (as in, you will be able to follow the story without reading them), but this one... this one might just count.

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

A series of moments from the vault, occurring in part eight of the story, now yours to enjoy. 🤍

The one with the second sons…

The photoshoot has wrapped, and the cast of House of the Dragon has drifted into all corners of the set, exchanging laughs in between much-needed sips of caffeine. The next item on Entertainment Weekly’s agenda is the video segment recordings, pairing cast members for various games and interviews.

Fabien and Freddie finished their narrative recap of season 2, with more jokes than actual informative recaps. Harry and Bethany played a game where they guessed whether the line is from House of the Dragon or Game of Thrones. Tom and Emma played a ‘which sibling' game, leaning into the dynamic between Aegon and Rhaenyra that clearly should have been explored in previous seasons.

As it happens, Matt and Ewan are paired up for an Aemond or Daemon game, meant to give the audiences a glimpse of what to look forward to. Their notorious rivalry, culminating in a battle that will be their last. 

The two film their segment in Studio E, the set consisting of the great cellar of the Red Keep where Balerion’s massive skull looms on a pedestal. The dozens of candles surrounding it have been lit, casting dramatic shadows as they take their seats, facing each other in what could easily be mistaken for the start of a duel.

“My name is Ewan Mitchell and I play Aemond Targaryen,” Ewan starts.

“And I’m Matt and I play the Daemon Targaryen,” Matt follows. “And we’re about to play Second Sons: Aemond vs Daemon.”

“Let’s go,” Ewan rolls his shoulders, his sense of competitiveness all fired up, intensified by the fact that the man in front of him potentially could become his rival off-screen. That is, when it concerns the battle for your affections. 

He can still hear it ringing in his ears, the sound of your laughter in the background, distracting him during the photoshoot. That laugh, so addictive, so yours, was a melody he could listen to forever - except when it’s Matt Smith who’s the culprit. 

The lads take their cue to read the first prompt displayed on a screen above the camera. The game begins. 

“Who is the better swordsman?” Matt reads aloud with a smirk. “Well, that’s obviously Daemon, mate. He’s older - ”

“Age doesn’t always mean better,” Ewan counters smoothly.

“Ah, but he’s battle-tested. He fought in the Stepstones, and was the Commander of the City Watch, for heaven’s sake. What’s Aemond got?”

“Aemond spent years and years training with Criston Cole in the Red Keep yard, honing his skill,” Ewan argues. “He clearly has the dedication. He’s disciplined.”

“Training,” Matt scoffs, turning to the camera as if sharing an inside joke. “Put Aemond out there in a real battle, then we’ll talk.” 

“Alright, alright,” Ewan concedes, biting his cheek to keep from saying more. “Next one. Who’s the better dancer at the royal ball?”

Matt can’t help but chuckle, “Neither of us are inclined to - ”

“Yeah, I don’t know.”

“But if we had to pick, then I'd say Daemon. We saw him dancing in the first season, didn’t we?”

“I don’t think Aemond would be much of a dancer,” Ewan says, before adding with a smirk to the camera, “unless it’s with Vhagar.”

“Oh, yeah?” Matt asks him. “Short of dancing partners, is he? Can’t say I’ve got that problem. I’ve got Rhaenyra, I’ve got my daughters, and of course, the lovely Alyna.” His voice drops at the mention of your character, and he notices a telling flicker in Ewan’s expression. The younger boy latches on to it, hook, line and sinker. 

Ewan’s brows scrunch, not missing the bait. “Oh, she wouldn’t dance with you,” flies out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

“Alyna wouldn’t?” Matt tilts his head, feigning hurt. 

“She’s… she’s too busy fighting the war,” Ewan quickly musters. “She’s got better things to do.”

“Mate, I think we all are. But that wasn’t the question.”

“I just don’t think she - ”

“She’ll dance with Daemon,” Matt says confidently. “Once she realises how good he is, then it’s game over.”

“I disagree,” Ewan easily says to the camera, willing the viewers to side with him.

“Next,” Matt continues, “Who’s more likely to get into a fight at the tavern? Is this… so far, it's been all Daemon! This one too.”

Ewan nods, but adds slyly, “Aemond’s not one to waste his time at the tavern, no.” His answer is an apparent concession to Daemon, until he adds, “which is why Alyna would prefer to spend her time with him. He’s calmer… more reliable… no unnecessary tavern brawls or anything…”

“Calmer, mate?” Matt rolls his eyes, chuckling to himself. “Come off it, yeah?”

“Compared to Daemon, he clearly is.”

“He killed Luke and Rhaenys!”

“That was an accident,” Ewan shrugs. “He feels bad for it.”

“Alyna better steer clear,” Matt points to the camera, making his point. 

Ewan shakes his head in protest, “I don’t agree.”

“So, for this one, again, it’s Daemon,” Matt finishes. 

Ewan lets it go, the Alyna comment lingering in the back of his mind. It didn’t seem like an Alyna reference; it felt like a message to you. His stomach twists, suspicious of the other game Matt seems to be playing at. Turning to the prompter, Ewan reads, “Who’s got… the better hair care routine? Oh wow.”

“Daemon’s been at some dingy castle,” Matt says, “clearly no showers there. Forget it.”

“Aemond’s got this locked down,” Ewan grins.

“Has he? Alright then,” Matt responds, amused. “He does have that pin-straight hair, doesn’t he? It’s almost like… well it’s almost like it’s a bloody wig!” He laughs, and some of the onlookers behind the camera mirror the sentiment. 

“I did read somewhere about Aemond having a 20-step hair care routine… ”

“20 steps? Blimey, mate. I’m surprised he even makes it out the door,” Matt says. “Would you say he’s got better hair than the women on the show? Than Alicent or Alyna maybe?”

“Oh,” Ewan leans back, mulling it over. How to one-up Matt without making it seem too obvious? He’s about to respond, when he hears some soft giggling in the corner. It appears that you’ve made your way into Studio E with Phia and Liv. The sound came from Phia, who gives him a thumbs up when she notices his diverted attention. 

Matt notices your presence too, and when the director waves a hand for them to carry on, he answers for Ewan, “We could say Aemond has the better hair. Alyna’s way too busy training with Daemon anyway. We do tend to get into that rough and tumble during our sword fights.”

“Mmm,” Ewan narrows his eyes. He then ignores or conveniently forgets the fact that it’s Matt's turn to read the next question. “Who’s more likely to fight a dragon for their lover?” 

The two men lock eyes, the air between them charged, more so due to your appearance. If a rivalry is what the viewers expect, then that is what they’ll get. 

Matt puts a hand up. “I think Daemon’s the one with the guts to fight a bloody dragon. Daemon will stand against anything and anyone. Without a doubt.”

“It’s different with him, though, isn’t it?” Ewan responds. “Daemon would be doing it for the glory. He’d be doing it for himself. Whereas Aemond… he’d be doing it out of pure devotion.”

“Are you talking about the same devotion he had for his brother? I’d say he’s more likely to burn his lover to a crisp, than fight a dragon for her.”

“There is a completely different dynamic with his brother,” Ewan explains. “I think that when Aemond falls in love, there is nothing at all that he wouldn’t do for them. In season 2, we already kind of saw him leaning into this reputation of being the most wanted man in the realm. So… he’d fight anything for his lover, that’s for sure. He’d burn the seven kingdoms down if necessary.” He turns to look at the camera, but he catches your eye instead. You’re shaking your head slightly at his answer, but the small smile that graces your lips tells him that you enjoyed it. 

He simpers at your apparent show of approval, but Matt cuts the shared moment short. 

“I think Aemond’s a young buck,” Matt says, “who’s desperate to make his mark. He wouldn’t know the first thing about devotion. But Daemon… that’s been his internal struggle this whole time. He’s proven that he stands behind his brother and Rhaenyra, no matter how much he tries to act to the contrary. But yeah, we’re going a bit off track here. What was the question? Who’d fight a dragon… ”

“For their lover,” Ewan finishes. “I would still say Aemond. Daemon is too unpredictable.”

“Of course you’d say that,” Matt wags his eyebrows at him. “But I’m standing by my answer. We clearly saw Daemon basically pledge himself to Rhaenyra in the last episode. What more proof do you need?”

“Aemond’s got something up his sleeve,” Ewan says. “He just wants to be loved, that’s it, and when he finds that, there’ll be no question of what he’s capable of doing for Al - ” He catches himself at the last second, before he fully lets slip your character’s name. “I mean - ”

Matt’s eyes light up, sensing an opportunity. “For Alys, you mean?” To the camera, he adds, “spoiler alert, everyone.”

“Right,” Ewan lets out a breath, “Of course.”

“Can’t be anyone else,” Matt challenges him. 

“I don’t know for now,” Ewan tries to keep up. 

“You currently have a bit of a lack in the lover department,” Matt smirks. 

Ewan narrows his eyes at the apparent insinuation. He better be referring to the show. “Fine, then, we can give this one to Daemon. But as to their real-life counterparts,” he locks eyes with you again, “who’s to say? I bet I have this in the bag.”

Matt follows his line of sight, pleased when your attention switches to him. “I think that’s yet to be decided.”

“Alright, we’ve got some more,” Ewan quickly says, in an attempt to divert Matt’s gaze from you. 

Matt reads, “Who’s more likely to maintain a good social media presence? Oh, bloody hell, we’re crossing over into uncharted territory with this one.”

“That’s interesting.”

“I’ve never touched it myself,” Matt shrugs. “I’m not on anything, only Facebook for a moment ages ago, but I did not have any desire in going back. Oh wait, we’re meant to answer for our characters. Apologies.”

“Hmm,” Ewan nods. “I don’t know if Aemond would be on social media, no.”

“Yeah, this is a weird question,” Matt says. “Maybe Daemon then? But only to post pictures of Caraxes or something. What do you think?”

“Yeah, Daemon can take this one,” Ewan replies. “Personally, I’m not on social media too much - ”

“But didn’t you jump into the fray recently? With… which one was it?”

“Instagram? Yeah, yeah, that was something.” His mind flashes back to the pictures he had up, both attesting to his love for you. But you had asked him to take the latest one down, which led him to deactivate the account altogether. Temporarily. If the fans assumed that the action was meant to symbolise an end of his involvement with you, then now would be the perfect opportunity to prove them wrong. “I did have to take a step back, because it was kind of overwhelming. I just needed to take some proper time off.”

“Oh really? I wouldn’t know,” Matt says. “Did you actually share some photos there?”

Ewan smiles, pleased at being able to answer this question. “Yeah, I shared a few of my most treasured ones. They were some great pictures, but I’ve got loads more of the same in my phone, and I - ” He throws a warning glance to the camera “ - I think I’ll be keeping those to myself for now.”

Matt, oblivious as to what he’s hinting at, reads the next one. “Who’s the better brother?”

“Aemond for sure.”

“Clearly Daemon.”

And so the banter continues for a couple more prompts, sharp yet flowing naturally, foreshadowing the frenzied fan reactions when the segment is shared online for all to see. 

The one where Ewan needs his cowgirl…

Ewan paces around his dressing room, settling into his outfit, awaiting his cue from set. The outfit is a bold mix of traditional Western elements and high fashion: a tailored deep brown leather jacket with intricate embroidery, a crisp white shirt with ruffled cuffs, fitted trousers, and a wide-brimmed cowboy hat. His boots click against the wooden floor as he moves. He’s nervous but determined to impress you, even though it’s always been you with a knack for making his heart race.

After a while, he makes his way out of the dressing room and into the bustling set. The set is decked out to the theme. The director and crew are scattered all around, but Ewan focuses solely on finding you. 

When he finally does, his world seems to slow down. You are standing near a vintage saddle, dressed in your own Western-inspired attire. Your smile is radiant as you speak to your assistant, and the way your eyes light up when you see him makes his heart skip a beat. No, it never gets old, he realises, you will always have a maddening effect on him.

He takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, and saunters over with as much swagger as he could muster. “Howdy, darling,” he greets in his best cowboy lilt.

You look him up and down with a smile. “Why, hello, good sir,” you say, even doing a playful curtsy. 

“Ready to give them a show?” he asks, gesturing to the expanse of the set. Ready to be my cowgirl, darling? He wants to ask instead. 

You hum a response. “As I’ll ever be. I’d say you’re a natural at this whole cowboy thing.”

“Oh, darling,” he smirks, “you’d be surprised by what I can do with my lasso.”

“Down, Mitchell.”

“Whatever you want, my cowgirl.”

The atmosphere is electric throughout the shoot, with Ewan constantly leaning down to whisper suggestive lines in your ear. 

He finds himself getting lost in the intensity of the shoot, but his focus remains on you. It isn’t as if you are making it easy on him, with your lingering touches and flirtatious remarks. 

The camera's shutter clicks away, and Ewan and you pose for one perfect shot after another. The set is alive with activity, but he only sees you, the lighting casting a warm glow on your rouge-stained cheeks. Forgetting where he is for a moment, his hand reaches up to caress your face, and he leans in slightly. 

You pose accordingly, likely thinking that he’s just giving the shoot what it demands. 

“What was that you were saying about a lasso?” you smirk, in an attempt to diffuse the tension, but it only spurs him on. 

“Care for a demonstration?” he shoots back.

“Why not?” you reply easily, adjusting your stance. 

“We may need a more intimate setting for that, darling.”

“More intimate than this?” you laugh breathlessly, the warmth of it fanning his face. He’s close enough that the tip of his nose brushes against yours. 

He smiles, deaf to the low warning that escapes your lips when he leans in for a kiss on instinct. 

Just as his lips are about to graze yours, the director’s voice cuts through the charged silence.

“Cut! Break, everyone!”

The spell is broken instantly. Ewan pulls back, his expression shifting from one of intense concentration to surprise and a hint of frustration. 

You stand facing each other, flustered and left wanting. Ewan wants nothing more than to just reach for you and pull you in a closet, and show just how well he can use that bloody lasso. If you want him to. But he forces himself to croak, “To be continued, darling?”

You mirror his heated gaze, nodding once, before turning on your heel and heading to the break room. 

When the set is mostly emptied, Ewan picks up the hefty lasso that’s been put aside. With a determined look on his face, he swings it expertly through the air, causing a resounding thwack. The movement is deliberate, a release of his frustrations about you. About Matt. About everything. 

But it doesn’t quite bring him the relief he needs, because only you can offer that. 

It’s only ever been you. 

The one with the first date…

You glance at your phone to check the time, heart fluttering with anticipation. Matt had promised to pick you up at 2, and it is only a minute past, but you’re already standing nervously in your living room. Not a moment too soon, your buzzer alerts you of his arrival, and you press the button to allow him upstairs. 

You sneak one more glance at the mirror, smoothing a hand over your t-shirt and jeans. You opted for a casual look, dressed up with some jewelry and heeled boots. 

Finally, there’s a knock at the door and you grab your purse as you walk up to meet your awaited visitor. 

There he is, standing in the doorway, as impossibly charming as ever. Matt’s dressed in a perfectly fitted black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms, paired with staple dark jeans. His tousled hair looks like he ran a hand through it on his way over, and his signature mischievous grin plays at the corners of his mouth as he takes you in.

“Hello there,” he greets cheerfully.

“Hey, Smithy,” you blush under his gaze. 

“You look absolutely incredible,” he says, his gaze sweeping appreciatively over you, “As can be expected. You are my Alyna, after all.”

“Thanks,” you manage to say, your voice soft, almost breathless. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

“Glad to hear it. I was worried I’d underdressed,” he teases, though the way he carries himself shows that he knows exactly how good he looks. He steps a little closer, his hand lightly grazing your arm as he does. 

“You ready to go?” he asks, his voice just a shade deeper, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that still catches you off guard, no matter how exposed you have been to his charms.

“Yeah,” you nod, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing, the air between you thick with tension. “Let’s do this.”

The late afternoon air is crisp as you walk with Matt down a quiet street near Hyde Park. The anticipation from earlier has settled into something more relaxed, yet there’s still an undercurrent of excitement, an unspoken awareness of the new territory you’re both navigating.

Matt leads you to a small café tucked away from the bustle of the city. It’s quaint, with ivy creeping up the walls and soft lights glowing through the windows. As you step inside, the rich aroma of coffee and freshly baked pastries envelops you, and you can’t help but smile. The interior is just as charming as the exterior, and a few patrons sit scattered throughout, each absorbed in their own worlds. Too absorbed to notice two somewhat renowned actors entering the premises.

“Pick a spot,” Matt says, his hand gently brushing the small of your back. The touch is fleeting, but it’s enough to send a warm tingle up your spine.

You choose the table with a view of the park just beyond the glass. Ever the gentleman, Matt pulls out a chair for you before settling into the one across from you.

“Hope you like this place,” he says, his tone easy and genuine. “It’s one of my favourites. Feels like a bit of an escape from everything, you know?”

“It’s perfect,” you reply, taking in the cozy atmosphere. “I can see why you come here.”

A waitress comes over to take your order, and Matt gives you his recommendations which you happily go along with. The familiar way with which she addresses him as Mr. Smith confirms his frequent visits. Once she leaves, you lean back in your chair, letting yourself relax into the moment, though you are aware of his eyes watching you the entire time. 

“So, how are you finding the city? It’s different from set life, that’s for sure.” Matt asks, his eyes studying you with a mix of curiosity and something deeper. Something you can’t pinpoint just yet, though it’s not unfamiliar. You’ve seen that look before. From Ewan. The sudden thought of him drives a wedge in your focus, and you have to shake it off before you answer.

“It’s been great,” you say, smiling. “It’s nice to be able to explore it more this time around, since I've got some downtime. And, of course, the company’s been pretty good too.” You add the last part with a playful tone, which makes him chuckle.

“Oh, I’m sure it has,” he replies, a teasing glint in his eye. “But don’t let Ewan monopolise all your time. I’m around if you ever need a break from him.”

The mention of Ewan brings a subtle shift in the conversation. It’s light, but there’s a hint of something more - an awareness of the connection you share with Ewan that both complicates what you have, or what you could have, with Matt. 

“You’re a good friend, Matt,” you say, your tone still light but more sincere. “I appreciate that.”

He nods, a small smile playing on his lips, though there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “Friend, sure,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “But, just so you know… I’m here, if you ever want more than that.”

It’s a simple statement, but the weight of it hangs in the air between you. He’s not pressing, not trying to make you uncomfortable, but it’s clear that he’s laying his cards on the table. Matt’s always had a way of being direct without being pushy, and this moment is no different.

You meet his gaze, feeling the sincerity behind his words. There’s a part of you that’s tempted, drawn in by the way he makes you laugh and feel seen. But there’s something - someone - holding you back. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you reply, smiling softly. 

Matt nods again, his smile resurfaces, as sure as the sun rising. “That’s all I ask.”

The waitress returns with your coffee and pastries, breaking the tension with the clink of cups and the sweet scent of buttery croissants. 

After a moment, Matt takes a sip from his own cup and raises an eyebrow. “You know, I heard that drinking coffee in a café like this can increase your charm significantly. I think it’s working, do you?”

You play along, pretending to consider this. “Hmm, I don’t think you need help in that department. But… I’ll still be careful. Just in case you charm me into agreeing to a second date.”

Matt leans closer with a grin. “Second date? Love, if I’m being honest, I’m already planning our third date.”

The conversation shifts back to lighter topics - your favourite places in the city, funny stories from the set, and his many revealing anecdotes about Fabien. Like the one where he got properly sloshed after a night out at the pub, so much so that he stuck some croissants in his washing machine thinking it was the oven. 

“To his defense,” Matt exclaims as you giggle uncontrollably, “the two appliances are similarly shaped!”

As the date progresses, you feel undeniably warm and comfortable in Matt’s presence, but you also can’t ignore the lingering thoughts of Ewan. Your phone had buzzed at some point, and when you snuck a glance at the screen, it lit up to reveal three missed calls from Ewan One-Eye. He knows you’re on a date, so he must be interrupting on purpose. Thankfully, Matt’s enthusiastic regaling keeps you from lingering on Ewan - from worrying about him, missing him… from wishing that he could freely allow himself to take you on a date just like this. 

As you and Matt stroll back to your apartment, the city lights cast a warm glow on the pavement, creating a magical backdrop for the end of your evening. His arm around your shoulders brings you a sense of ease, and you no longer feel that nervous flush as earlier. 

He walks with you inside your building, and when you reach the door to your apartment, Matt pauses by the entrance, turning to face you with a gentle smile. “Well, this has been quite the evening,” he says. “I’m really glad we got to do this.”

You return his smile. “Me too. It’s been a lovely night.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, a shared look that speaks volumes without words. 

“Well, I - ” you swallow, your nerves returning, “I better head inside.”

As you reach for your keys, Matt’s hand gently wraps around yours, causing a jolt of electricity to travel up your arm. “Before you do,” he says, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to do all night.”

You look up at him. Screw your newfound sense of ease. Your heartbeat now pounds in your ears like an erratic drum. “Oh? And what’s that?” But something tells you that you know just what he means. 

Without breaking eye contact, Matt leans in slowly, his face drifting closer.

“This,” he mumbles the word as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. And then his lips touch yours.

Taglist: @namelesslosers @skymoonandstardust @valyrianflower @luckyfirebasement @omgsuperstarg @elissanatok @callsignwidow @sinistersnakey49 @darkwriteracademia @yyrzmomo @queenofshinigamis @luvaerina @shamelessblazecrown @mirandastuckinthe80s @elleinex0x0 @pierrotlu @aegonswife @strangersunghoon @lunampacheco @writer-ann-artist @gaiaea @of-swords-and-words @ateliefloresdaprimavera @m00n5t0n3 @helaenaluvr @peachysunrize @annie-ruk @luvly-writer @ananas26t @athenafaes @lovelyteenagebeard @mamawiggers1980 @moongirl27 @katherine93 @barnes70stark @justbelljust @cloudroomblog @somestufftoday @esposadomd @girl-in-the-chairs-void @insideyourimagination @vyctorya @wildrangers @onlyrealjoy @hotdismylife @thepurplecrown @just-fics-station @clarkysblog @urmomsgirlfriend1 @misfitbimbosblog (continued in comments ... )

Some notes in the margins...

This poll caused quite the stir amongst yous, I see. Consider me amused. Since part 9 isn't out yet, and my mind isn't set either - if you've got something to let off your chest, some supporting arguments, you've got one more chance to let me know below (or let each other know) 😉 I always read all your opinions, and they are properly taken into account. What did you think of Matty after this?

When Ewan called her at the end of part eight, do you think she had company? Anyway, something sweet is coming in part nine with Ewan and his darling!

To those who are seriously worried about the outcome, note that is and always has been a Ewan x reader fic. I am a Ewan girl just like yous. Hold fast and have fun on the wild ride, darlings 💙

[burningembers91]

The Fear of Feeling Nothing - Choi Su-Bong x Fem!Reader

Follow up piece to:

Not Who I Want to Be The Beauty of Vulnerability Fuscia Pink Kisses Performance of a Lifetime Vacation Mode

Synopsis: Choi Su-Bong is forced to face his addiction head on

A/N: Based on this ask

Life had been a whirlwind since you’d returned from vacation. Choi Su-Bong had barely been home, touring the country with his record label, recording songs in the studio, and giving interview after interview. You’d barely had time for each other, save for a few phone conversations and three blissful nights that he’d managed to sneak away and spend at home. You’d been renovating the apartment, painting walls, ripping up carpets and replacing kitchen cabinets, and the whole place just felt chaotic.

You knew Su-Bong was keeping himself busy on purpose. If he was busy, he wouldn’t have time to deal with his dad. The man had been calling him non-stop, leaving voicemails and text messages at all hours of the day and night. He knew he’d have to see him at some point, knew he’d have to face up to the man who had turned him into a monster.

He’d tried to explain to you what life had been like growing up, but it was hard to put it into words. You had such a great relationship with your family and couldn’t even begin to fathom the things Su-Bong had been put through. Years of his dad’s drinking, physical and mental abuse, and living in constant fear of the man who was supposed to have loved him had left their mark and Su-Bong could feel old habits trying to scratch their way back into his life.

He desperately wanted a drink, craved the numbness that came from the colourful little pills he used to pop. He didn’t have you around him to keep him grounded, didn’t have the safety of your embrace to turn to whenever things got hard. He wanted to ask you to come with him on his press tour, but you had your own work to focus on, and the apartment desperately needed sorting. He had to be strong for you, had to stay sober for you. if he lost you, life would lose it’s meaning entirely.

It was late when his phone rang, breaking through the light sleep he’d finally fallen into after hours of tossing and turning. His dad’s name flashed up on his screen and he immediately silenced the phone. There was nothing that man had to say that Su-Bong wanted to hear.

“Why don’t you block him?” you asked then next day on FaceTime, giving him a tour of the kitchen you’d be awake until 2am painting. “If you have nothing to say to him, and you don’t want contact with him, block his number.” Su-Bong had thought about doing that, but could never bring himself to do it. he wasn’t sure why, but something always stopped him just before he hit the button. “Part of me wants to know why he’s back,” he admitted. “I keep wondering if maybe he’s come to apologise.” He knew that wouldn’t be the case. His dad was a textbook narcissist, and never felt any remorse for his actions, because he never felt like he’d done anything wrong. “Would you accept his apology?” you asked. He knew the answer was no, but it didn’t stop him wondering if maybe, after all these years, his dad had seen the light.

The next day, Su-Bong had another four missed calls, and the day after that there were another three. “Please, son,” his father’s voice begged down the phone. “Just hear me out. Meet me tonight at The Python Lounge. I really need to talk to you.”

Against his better judgement, Su-Bong found himself outside his father’s favourite bar, finally relenting on the man’s request to meet up. He hadn’t stepped inside a bar since meeting you, hadn’t had a drop to drink in months. He could feel the desire clawing at his skin, could feel the insatiable thirst gripping him. He had to stay strong though, for you.

Heading inside, he couldn’t see his father but found a quiet table in the corner. The bar was a complete shit hole, the kind of place you went to drink yourself to death. Su-Bong sunk down into the booth, eager to hide his face. Not that he was worried about seeing anyone here. The bar was mostly empty, and the few people propped up on bar stools were too drunk to know their own name, let alone recognise him.

He waited, and waited, finally calling his father when an hour had gone by. His phone went straight to voicemail, so Su-Bong hung up and tried again. He was getting angrier as the minutes passed, unable to believe he’d been stupid enough to allow himself to believe his father would show up. He’d failed him his entire life, so why had he expected him to change his ways now? The need for a drink was almost overwhelming now, the heavy smell of liquor in the air making his mouth water. His chest was tightening, a sign he now recognised as a panic attack. A drink could soothe him, could calm the rising nerves.

He balled his fists, willing himself to be stronger, to be better than his addiction. He needed to leave, needed to get out of this shithole and head home to you. “Thanos?!” His heard his name, his old name, and turned around. One of his old friends stood behind him, the man who had been glued to his side at every party. He could barely even remember his name. Kang-Hun? Was that his name? It embarrassed him that he couldn’t recall. “It’s Choi Su-Bong now,” he snapped, his anger almost at boiling point. Why, when he was trying so hard to be a better person, did his past keep trying to drag him back down.

“The fuck happened to you, bro?” Kang-Hun, or whatever his name was sighed. “You just, like… disappeared.” His pupils were huge, so dilated his eyes were almost entirely black. His face was slack, his mouth slightly drooping as he attempted to focus through the haze of drugs. “I changed,” Su-Bong said, pushing himself out from the booth. “Man, we used to have so much fun,” Kang-Hun laughed. “Hey, you remember that time we did coke off that stripper’s tits? Man, that was a sick night.” Su-Bong cringed as he remembered it, the flashback making him feel sick. He’d been a horrible person back then. “Have a drink with me,” Kang-Hun smiled, slapping him on the shoulder. He was swaying in place, the combination of booze and pills wreaking havoc on his balance. “I don’t drink anymore,” Su-Bong sighed. “Listen, I’ve got to go-“ “One drink, bro. that’s all I’m asking.” Kang-Hun held his hands out. “For old time’s sake.”

Against his better judgement, Su-Bong found himself at the bar. He ordered a diet coke, but the smell of his former friend’s whiskey burned in his throat, that niggling desire itching the base of his skull. He could almost taste the warm, bitter amber liquid. “So, you’re making new music now?” Kang-Hun asked, gripping the bar as he swayed in his seat. “So fucking cool, man. why don’t we talk anymore? I miss you.” He couldn’t find the words to respond, all his energy focused on not taking a sip of alcohol. His heart was hammering in his ears, the sound almost deafening. “You seemed stressed, bro,” Kang-Hun told him, rummaging for something in his pocket. “Hey, remember what you used to say? When the feels get real, just pop a pill.”

Su-Bong wished he could go back in time and punch the old him. He’d been a real fucking prick. Kang-Hun nudged him, showing him a tin of the pink pills he’d once loved so much. “Come on, man,” he smiled. “Just one, so you can chill out.” “No,” he spat through gritted teeth. He needed to leave, needed to get in his car and drive home to you. “You’ve gone soft,” Kand-Hun laughed. “Like a chick. You all in tune with your feelings now or some shit? Just take the fucking pill, man. Feelings ain’t worth fucking shit.”

Is this what Su-Bong had been like? A junkie with no regard for other people’s boundaries? He looked at his former friend, so high off his face he could barely keep his eyes opened and wondered if this is how people used to see him. He remembered how he used to numb himself, so he’d feel nothing. He didn’t feel pain, sadness, happiness or even pleasure. He spent years feeling nothing, but now he knew that feelings, no matter how uncomfortable, made you who you were.

Kang-Hun shook the tin of pills, wiggling his eyebrows. “What do you say?” He smirked. “I’d rather feel something, than nothing at all,” Su-Bong snapped. He stood up to go, before turning around. “It’s not too late. You can get help if you want it.” “I don’t need your fucking help,” his former friend spat. “Get fucked.”

Su-Bong headed out into the night, driving back to the sanctity of the apartment he shared with you. He burst through the door, pulling you in close. “I’m covered in paint,” you laughed, but you wrapped your arms around him anyway. You could tell something was wrong, could see the pain in his eyes. His clothes smelled like stale booze, and you wondered if maybe he’d relapsed. “Did you drink?” you asked him softly. “No,” he should his head, “I went to meet my dad, but he didn’t show. I waited in the bar for hours and I wanted a drink so badly. But I didn’t drink a drop, I swear.”

He was desperate to feel you, to feel all the emotions he’d spent so long blocking out. He made love to you on the paint-stained sheets in your kitchen, feeling every curve of your body, every inch of your soft skin. He lost himself in the pleasure he had so often blocked out, relishing the way he felt inside of you, the way his body felt against yours. Tonight had been a stark reminder of what could happen if he lost his way. He didn’t want to be like Kang-Hun, didn’t to become the person he’d once been.

He needed to face his past, to confront his dad and then block him from his life. He would never again allow himself to sink into the numbness that came with addiction. But in order to free himself, he needed to confront the man that had caused the need to block out all feelings in the first place.

His dad had bailed on him tonight, but Su-Bong wouldn’t allow him to do it again. He’d faced his past head on, and now it was time his dad did the same.

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

The Radio Times magazine from the 29 July-04 August 2023 :)

THE SECOND COMING

How did Terry Pratchett and Neil gaiman overcome the small matter of Pratchett's death to make another series of their acclaimed divine comedy?

For all the dead authors in the world,” legendary comedy producer John Lloyd once said, “Terry Pratchett is the most alive.” And he’s right. Sir Terry is having an extremely busy 2023… for someone who died in 2015.

This week sees the release of Good Omens 2, the second series of Amazon’s fantasy comedy drama based on the cult novel Pratchett co-wrote with Neil Gaiman in the late 1980s. This will be followed in the autumn by a new spin-off book from Pratchett’s Discworld series, Tiffany Aching’s Guide to Being a Witch, co-written by Pratchett’s daughter Rhianna and children’s author Gabrielle Kent. The same month, we’ll also get A Stroke of the Pen, a collection of “lost” short stories written by Sir Terry for local newspapers in the 70s and 80s and recently rediscovered. Clearly, while there are no more books coming from Pratchett – a hard drive containing all drafts and unpublished work was crushed by a vintage steamroller shortly after the author’s death, as per his specific wishes – people still want to visit his vivid and addictive worlds in new ways.

Good Omens 2 will be the first test of how this can work. The original book started life as a 5,000-word short story by Gaiman, titled William the Antichrist and envisioned as a bit of a mashup of Richmal Crompton’s Just William books and the 70s horror classic The Omen. What would happen, Gaiman had mused, if the spawn of Satan had been raised, not by a powerful American diplomat, but by an extremely normal couple in an idyllic English village, far from the influence of hellish forces? He’d sent the first draft to bestselling fantasy author Pratchett, a friend of many years, and then forgotten about it as he busied himself with continuing to write his massively popular comic books, including Violent Cases, Black Orchid and The Sandman, which became a Netflix series last year.

Pratchett loved the idea, offering to either buy the concept from Gaiman or co-write it. It was, as Gaiman later said, “like Michelangelo phoning and asking if you want to paint a ceiling” The pair worked on the book together from that point on, rewriting each other as they went and communicating via long phone calls and mailed floppy discs. “The actual mechanics worked like this: I would do a bit, then Neil would take it away and do a bit more and give it back to me,” Pratchett told Locus magazine in 1991. “We’d mess about with each other’s bits and pieces.”

Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch – to give it its full title –was published in 1990 to huge acclaim. It was one of, astonishingly, five Terry Pratchett novels to be published that year (he averaged two a year, including 41 Discworld novels and many other standalone works and collaborations).

It was also, clearly, extremely filmable, and studios came knocking — though getting it made took a while. rnvo decades on from its writing, four years after Pratchett's death from Alzheimer's disease aged 66, and after several doomed attempts to get a movie version off the ground, Good Omens finally made it to TV screens in 2019, scripted and show-run by Gaiman himself. "Terry was egging me on to make it into television. He knew he was dying, and he knew that I wouldn't start it without him," Gaiman revealed in a 2019 Radio Times interview. Amazon and the BBC co-produced with Pratchett's company Narrativia and Gaiman's Blank Corporation production studios, with Michael Sheen and David Tennant cast in the central roles of Aziraphale the angel and Crowley the demon. The show was a hit, not just with fans of its two creators, but with a whole new young audience, many of whom had no interest in Discworld or Sandman. Social media networks like Tumblr and TikTok were soon awash with cosplay, artwork and fan fiction. The original novel became, for the first time, a New York Times bestseller.

A follow up was, on one level, a no-brainer. The world Pratchett and Gaiman had created was vivid, funny and accessible, and Tennant and Sheen had found an intriguing romantic spark in their chemistry not present in the novel.

There was, however, a huge problem. There wasn't a second Good Omens book to base it on. But there was the ghost of an idea.

In 1989, after the book had been sold but before it had come out, the two authors had laid on fivin beds in a hotel room at a convention in Seattle and, jet-lagged and unable to sleep, plotted out, in some detail, what would happen in a sequel, provisionally titled 668, The II Neighbour of the Beast.

"It was a good one, too" Gaiman wrote in a 2021 blog. "We fully intended to write it, whenever we next had three or four months free. Only I went to live in America and Terry stayed in the UK, and after Good Omens was published, Sandman became SANDMAN and Discworld became DISCWORLD(TM) and there wasn't a good time."

Back in 1991, Pratchett elaborated, "We even know some of the main characters in it. But there's a huge difference between sitting there chatting away, saying, 'Hey, we could do this, we could do that,' and actually physically getting down and doing it all again." In 2019, Gaiman pillaged some of those ideas for Good Omens series one (for example, its final episode wasn't in the book at all), and had left enough threads dangling to give him an opening for a sequel. This is the well he's returned to for Good Omens 2, co-writing with comic John Finnemore - drafted in, presumably, to plug the gap left Pratchett's unparalleled comedic mind. No small task.

Projects like Good Omens 2 are an important proving ground for Pratchett's legacy: can the universes he conjured endure without their creator? And can they stay true to his spirit? Sir Terry was famously protective of his creations, and there have been remarkably few adaptations of his work considering how prolific he was. "What would be in it for me?" he asked in 2003. "Money? I've got money."

He wanted his work treated reverently and not butchered for the screen. It's why Good Omens and projects like Tiffany Aching's Guide to Being a Witch are made with trusted members of the inner circle like Neil Gaiman and Rhianna Pratchett at the helm. It's also why the author's estate, run by Pratchett's former assistant and business manager Rob Wilkins, keeps a tight rein on any licensed Pratchett material — it's a multi-million dollar media empire still run like a cottage industry.

And that's heartening. Anyone who saw BBC America's panned 2021 Pratchett adaptation The Watch will know how badly these things can go when a studio is allowed to run amok with the material without oversight. These stories deserve to be told, and these worlds deserve to be explored — properly. And there are, apparently, many plans afoot for more Pratchett on the screen. You can only hope that, somewhere, he'll be proud of the results.

After all, as he wrote himself, "No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away, until the clock wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone's life is only the core of their actual existence."

While those ripples continue to spread, Sir Terry Pratchett remains very much alive. MARC BURROWS

DIVINE DUO

An angel and a demon walk into a pub... Michael Sheen and David Tennant on family, friendship and Morecambe & Wise

Outside it's cold winter's day and we're in a Scottish studio, somewhere between Edinburgh and Glasgow. But inside it's lunchtime in The Dirty Donkey pub in the heart of London, with both Michael Sheen and David Tennant surveying the scene appreciatively. "This is a great pub," says Sheen eagerly, while Tennant calls it "the best Soho there can be. A slightly heightened, immaculate, perfect, dreamy Soho."

Here, a painting of the absent landlord — the late Terry Pratchett, co-creator, with Neil Gaiman, of the series' source novel — looms over punters. Around the corner is AZ Fell and Co Antiquarian and Unusual Books. It's the bookshop owned by Sheen's character, the angel Aziraphale, and the place to where Tennant's demon Crowley is inevitably drawn.

It's day 74 of an 80-day shoot for a series that no one, least of all the leading actors, ever thought would happen, due to the fact that Pratchett and Gaiman hadn't ever published any sequel to their 1990 fantasy satire. Tennant explains, "What we didn't know was that Neil and Terry had had plots and plans..."

Still, lots of good things are in Good Omens 2, which expands on the millennia-spanning multiverse of the first series. These include a surprisingly naked side of John Hamm, and roles for both Tennant's father-in-law (Peter Davison) and 21-year-old son Ty. At its heart, though, remains the brilliant banter between the two leading men — as Sheen puts it, "very Eric and Ernie !" — whose chemistry on the first series led to one of the more surprising saviours of lockdown telly.

Good Omens is back — but you've worked together a lot in the meantime. Was there a connective tissue between series one of Good Omens and Staged, your lockdown sitcom?

David: Only in as much as the first series went out, then a few months later, we were all locked in our houses. And because of the work we'd done on Good Omens, it occurred that we might do something else. I mean, Neil Gaiman takes full responsibility for Staged. Which, to some extent, he's probably right to do!

Michael: We've got to know each other through doing this. Our lives have gotten more entwined in all kinds of ways — we have children who've now become friends, and our families know each other.

There have been hints of a romantic storyline between the two characters. How much of an undercurrent is that in this series.

David: Nothing's explicit.

Michael: I felt from the very beginning that part of what would be interesting to explore is that Aziraphale is a character, a being, who just loves. How does that manifest itself in a very specific relationship with another being? Inevitably, as there is with everything in this story, there's a grey area. The fact that people see potentially a "romantic relationship", I thought that was interesting and something to explore.

There was a petition to have the first series banned because of its irreverent take on Christian tropes. Series two digs even more deeply into the Bible with the story of Job. How much of a badge of honour is it that the show riles the people who like to ban things?

David: It's not an irreligious show at all. It's actually very respectful of the structure of that sort of religious belief. The idea that it promotes Satanism [is nonsense]. None of the characters from hell are to be aspired to at all! They're a dreadful bunch of non-entities. People are very keen to be offended, aren't they? They're often looking for something to glom on to without possibly really examining what they think they're complaining about.

Michael, you're known as an activist, and you're in the middle of Making BBC drama The Way, which "taps into the social and political chaos of today's world". Is it important for you to use your plaform to discuss causes you believe in?

Michael: The Way is not a political tract, it's just set in the area that I come from. But it has to matter to you, doesn't it? More and more as I get older, [I find] it can be a real slog doing this stuff. You've got to enjoy it. And if it doesn't matter to you, then it's just going to be depressing.

David, Michael has declared himself a "not-for-profit" actor. Has he tried to persuade you to give up all your money too?

David: What an extraordinary question! One is always aware that one has a certain responsibility if one is fortunate and gets to do a job that often doesn't feel like a job. You want to do your bit whenever you can. But at the same time, I'm an actor. I'm not about to give that up to go into politics or anything. But I'll do what I can from where I live.

Well, your son and your father-in-law are also starring in this series. How about that, jobs for the boys!

David: I know! It was a delight to get to be on set with them. And certainly an unexpected one for me. Neil, on two occasions, got to bowl up to me and say, "Guess who we've cast?!"

How do you feel about your US peers going on strike?

David: It's happening because there are issues that need to be addressed. Nobody's doing this lightly. These are important issues, and they've got to be sorted out for the future of our industry. There's this idea that writers and actors are all living high on the hog. For huge swathes of our industry, that's just not the case. These people have got to be protected.

Michael: We have to be really careful that things don't slide back to the way they were pre the 1950s, when the stories that we told were all coming from one point of view and the stories of certain people, or communities within our society, weren't represented. There's a sense that now that's changed for ever and it'll never go back. But you worry when people can't afford to have the opportunities that other people have. We don't want the story that we tell about ourselves to be myopic. You want it to be as inclusive as possible

Staged series 3 recently broadcast. It felt like the show's last hurrah — or is there more mileage? Sheen and Tennant go on holiday?

David: That's the Christmas special! One Foot in the Algarve! On the Buses Go to Spain!

Michael: I don't think we were thinking beyond three, were we?

So is it time for a conscious uncoupling for you two — Eric and Ernie say goodbye?

David: Oh, never say never, will we?

Michael: And it's more Hinge and Bracket.

David: Maybe that's what we do next — The Hinge and Bracket Story. CRAIG McLEAN

[redroomreflections]

Hotel California | Track 1: Smoke and Mirrors

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: Natasha Romanoff, frontwoman of the punk rock band Velvet Rebellion, falls hard for a woman she believes is too good for her. Their intense relationship unfolds in the chaotic world of rock 'n' roll, where they struggle to balance fame, personal demons, and their undeniable passion for each other.

W/c: 7k

Chapter 1/12

Masterlist | General Masterlist

Note: I was going to wait to post this since I have fifty-leven WIPs but to make up for me not being able to write for a while and also finishing two stories in the coming weeks - here we are. I'm nervous about posting this one for some reason. Hope y'all like it.

Themes: love, fame, sex, drugs

Track 1 - Smoke and Mirrors (each chapter is a track)

In the world of music, there's no denying that Velvet Rebellion's sound is electric, their melodies are undeniably addictive. But offstage, the drama and chaos surrounding this band have been the subject of endless tabloid fodder. It's a classic case of the music being sweet, but the rest of the package is a tad sour. Will their rock 'n' roll lifestyle ultimately overshadow their undeniable talent? That remains the question on everyone's lips.

The TV channel flicking produced a rapid succession of blips and static.

"You know, when it comes to Velvet Rebellion, it's clear that Natasha Romanoff is the best thing about the band. Her vocals are just on another level!"

"Oh, absolutely! Natasha's stage presence is incredible, and her voice, that raw emotion she pours into every note, it's what sets them apart. But let's not forget the rest of the band; they bring their own magic to the mix!"

Another press of the button. Another channel emitting the same rhetoric. 

"So, what are your thoughts on Velvet Rebellion, the band that seems to be taking the music scene by storm?"

"Look, I won't deny that they've had their moments. Natasha's got a powerful voice, and they've had some catchy tunes. But let's not forget, there's more to rock 'n' roll than just one person. We bring our own unique sound to the table, and we're here to show that rock isn't a one-trick pony."

Suddenly, the screen goes black. The television has been turned off. The room is silent. 

“Whatever,” The mysterious person tsks. There are better things to do. 

In the dimly lit room, the first flicker of a cigarette lighter illuminated a shadowy figure, and a guitar's haunting melody echoed through the air. It was a simple beginning, a humble birth of sound that would eventually become the anthem of a generation.

Images flashed in rapid succession—a chaotic whirlwind of memories and moments that had defined their journey from obscurity to stardom. The flashing lights of a small, dimly lit club, the very place where they had played their first gig, gave way to a sea of screaming fans, arms raised in fervent adoration.

“Bucky! Bucky!”

“Steve, we love you!”

Talk show interviews brought them into living rooms across the nation, their faces beamed into millions of homes as they shared their stories and their music with the world. The camera panned to Natasha, her fierce gaze unyielding as she answered questions with poise and grace.

And then, there were the guitars. Guitars being smashed in a blaze of glory on stage, a ritual that had become their trademark. The destructive catharsis of the act symbolized the release of their raw energy and passion into the world.

Groupies and fans clamored for their attention, their devotion evident in the longing looks and outstretched hands. Each face in the crowd told a story of how Velvet Rebellion's music had touched their lives.

Late-night studio sessions followed, with the band working tirelessly into the early hours, crafting the songs and lyrics that had earned them their place in music history. In the dimly lit room, the flicker of a cigarette lighter once again marked the beginning of a new song.

Magazine covers splashed with their images adorned newsstands across the country. Excerpts from clippings of their first studio album, "Velvet Love," told a tale of raw, unbridled emotion set to music—a story that had resonated with countless souls.

The montage painted a vivid picture of a band that had journeyed through the highs and lows of fame, never losing sight of the music that had brought them together. Velvet Rebellion had carved its path through the music industry, leaving an unforgettable mark on the hearts of those who had listened and loved.

*************

Sunlight filters through the curtains of Natasha and Wanda's cozy Los Angeles apartment. Disheveled yet determined, Natasha sits on the edge of her bed, cradling her guitar. She strums the strings absentmindedly, searching for that inspiration that once fueled Velvet Rebellion. Her fingers danced over the strings of her trusty guitar, each note a whisper in the quiet solitude of the bedroom.

Natasha's hair framed her face, and frustration lined her expression as she strummed the chords once again. The next album's melodies were meant to be born here. Yet, inspiration remained at arm’s length, teasing her like a fading dream.

"Come on Natalia," she whispered gruffly, remembering the name she had left behind long ago.

With a sigh, she shifted her gaze to the muted TV on the dresser. A NEWS REPORTER's face appeared on the screen, accompanied by headlines that could never escape the relentless clutches of the media. She searched for the remote to turn up the volume as the face of one of her bandmates, Tony Stark’s pictures appeared. 

NEWS REPORTER

(on TV)

“In a surprising turn of events, Velvet Rebellion's Tony Stark was arrested last night for public indecency.”

Natasha's eye-roll was instinctive. Tony always had a way of making headlines for all the wrong reasons.

NEWS REPORTER

(on TV)

“...fans and critics alike have noted the band's gradual decline, and it seems the once-revered punk rock indie sensation is now on the verge of falling apart.”

The reporter's words cut through Natasha's indifference, a scalding reminder of the shadows that had been gathering around them. She couldn't deny it; the band had been stagnant for too long.

Fury sparked in her eyes, and she clenched the neck of her guitar, momentarily abandoning the song. The Velvet Rebellion of yesteryears, the band that had ignited stages and won hearts, couldn't be reduced to this—a spectacle of controversies and dwindling star power.

Returning her attention to her guitar Natasha sighed. The room's stillness hung heavy as she gently laid the guitar down on the floor. It felt like a futile effort, the muse remaining frustratingly out of reach, leaving her with an empty canvas and an aching desire to create.

Her gaze dropped to the small, black notebook, its pages filled with aborted attempts to capture the essence of their experiences and emotions in song. But today, those pages mocked her, an unforgiving reminder of the creative void that had taken its home within her.

Just as her frustration reached its peak, the bedroom door swung open with a soft creak, and in walked Wanda, a bowl of popcorn cradled in her hand. She plopped down on the bed beside Natasha, her eyes rolling in a knowing, teasing manner.

“How’s writing going?” Wanda asked, grabbing a handful of popcorn to plop into her mouth. 

Natasha let out a weary sigh, her notebook momentarily forgotten as she shared her woes with her best friend.

“You have no idea. It's like I've hit a wall, and I can't seem to find my way around it.” Natasha said. “How are we supposed to come up with another album with no songs? It’s been two years. We’re going to be known as one-hit wonders.”

“First off that’s a bit dramatic,” Wanda attempted to calm her down. “We made the hot rock and alternative songs billboard charts for our debut. I think the momentum is still there.”

Wanda cast a glance at the muted TV screen, where a news reporter was still busy dissecting Tony's latest escapade. She couldn't help but roll her eyes, mirroring Natasha's exasperation.

“And of course, our dear Tony adds another branch to the publicity tree. It's almost impressive how consistently he manages to get into trouble.” Wanda shook her head. 

After placing her bowl of popcorn on the dresser, Wanda decided to abandon her sitting position and instead flopped onto her belly, propped up on her elbows. She grabbed Natasha's small notebook, a curious glint in her eyes as she skimmed through the handwritten lyrics and scattered notes.

“You know, Nat, I think I see where you're stuck.” Wanda hummed to herself for a moment. 

Turning her attention to Wanda, Natasha felt her frustration momentarily ebb away, replaced by curiosity.

“Oh?” Natasha eyed her. “Please, share your wisdom.”

Wanda's eyes sparkled with an unexpected idea, and she pointed to a particular verse in the notebook. Her voice took on a sultry, poetic quality as she suggested a new lyric.

“How about this: "In the shadows of desire, we ignite the night."

Natasha's eyes widened in surprise as the words resonated deep within her. She quickly reached for her instrument and strummed the guitar, incorporating the new lyric into the melody, and in that instant, it all fell into place. A smile grew on her face, and she turned to Wanda.

“Wanda, that's brilliant! Thank you!” Natasha leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “I know why I keep you around.”

Wanda beamed in response. 

"Speaking of," she began, her voice casual yet laced with an underlying purpose, "we've got a gig this weekend. It's a birthday party for Harley Jameson, you know, the producer's daughter."

Natasha's response was swift and uncompromising, her will clear in her refusal. Her head shook slightly as she firmly voiced her decision, her thoughts already drifting toward the disturbing pattern of her bandmates taking liberties with decisions without consulting her, the lead.

"Absolutely not, Wanda," Natasha declared, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. “Aren’t we better than performing for snot-nosed brats?

Wanda, ever patient and understanding, propped herself up on her elbows. 

“Well, when that snot nose brat is paying us fifty thousand dollars plus a retainer,” Wanda shrugs. “And all the booze and food we want.” Her words were measured, spoken with the calm that came from knowing this conversation was inevitable." Nat, remember," she began, "you're the lead, not the boss. We haven’t been taking gigs because you've been declining. You know we need to keep the momentum going."

Natasha's jaw clenched in frustration. She leaned back, her gaze shifting to the ceiling as she contemplated her response.

"There's a reason, Wanda," Natasha explained, her voice tinged with concern. "Our brand has taken a beating lately with all the scandals we've had over the years. It’s not a good look being so new. I want us to lay low for a while, let the storm pass."

Wanda sighed, her eyes reflecting her understanding of Natasha's concerns. But she also recognized the band's need to keep going ahead despite the challenges.

"Nat," Wanda said, her voice gentle and reassuring, "I get it, I really do. But we'll be fine. Harley's party should be a breeze, and I promise we'll stay out of trouble. We'll stick to the music, no antics."

Natasha's hesitation lingered. Ultimately, the trust she had in Wanda, her lifelong friend and partner-in-crime, began to outweigh her reservations. She finally nodded, a reluctant but willing acceptance of the gig.

"Alright, alright," Natasha conceded. “We'll do it. But just this one, and we'll play it safe."

Wanda's eyes sparkled with a victorious smile, recognizing that she had won this battle for now. With that agreement, they returned to their songwriting. 

**************

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the manicured lawn of Harley Jameson's grand estate, Velvet Rebellion gathered on the makeshift stage. Around them, staff and party planners began to decorate the backyard. Their instruments glistened under the setting and stage lights. 

Natasha, her guitar slung securely across her shoulder, couldn't help but notice Tony, seated behind the drum kit, his sunglasses doing little to hide the lingering effects of his earlier indulgence. She approached him with a stern expression, a hint of frustration in her voice.

"Tony, you better get it together," She warned. "We're not messing this up tonight."

Tony, ever the charmer, brushed off her concerns with an easy smile and a wave of his hand.

"Nat, I promise, I'm fine. See?"

With that, he launched into a lively drum solo, his sticks dancing skillfully across the drumheads. The rhythm was tight, the sound electrifying. Natasha couldn't help but acknowledge his undeniable talent, even as she sighed in resignation.

"Great," she muttered to herself, "the sunglasses are his secret weapon now."

Standing beside Natasha, Steve placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. His quiet and calming presence was a balm to her nerves.

"It's alright, Natasha," He reassured her, his voice steady and comforting. "We'll get through this gig, just like our old days. Tony’s recovering but he seems fine."

Together they glance back to their bandmate who was more than likely inebriated. Tony chugged a bottle of water, before crushing it and dropping it down onto the floor beside him. 

Natasha's gaze softened as she looked at Steve, a small smile forming on her lips. “Yeah, he’s the epitome of fine.”

“Okay,” Steve pulled her gently to the side. “What’s the problem?” 

“Nothing,” Natasha shrugged. “I just can’t help but think that gigs like this are beneath us. I mean we went from performing at the MTV Video Music Awards to this? A sweet sixteen?”

Steve looked at her. He had been through thick and thin with Natasha and knew the depth of her concerns. 

“Natasha,” He replied. “I get your worries, but I promise this is a good thing for us. Todd Jameson is one of the biggest music producers in Hollywood right now. There will be a lot of executives here just to support his daughter. Think of what that could mean for us.”

“Fine,” Natasha nodded. “But if he fucks up I kick his ass.”

“Oh, you bet. Right after I’m done kicking it,” Steve joked causing Natasha to burst into laughter. 

Natasha steps back over to the mic. “Alright let’s take it from the top.” 

As Natasha prepared to lead the band into their rehearsal of the first song, the peacefulness of the backyard rehearsal space was abruptly disrupted by the arrival of Harley Jameson. She swept onto the scene with all the extravagance befitting a Hollywood princess, accompanied by a harried-looking party planner and another woman, who appeared to be a guest.

Harley, the embodiment of a spoiled heiress, immediately began issuing orders with a sense of entitlement that left the party planner flustered.

"No, no, no! These decorations are all wrong! Change them around! The mirror ball should be over here. And I want a live peacock by the pool. It's not too much to ask, is it?" Harley demanded impatiently.

The party planner, clearly overwhelmed, tried to keep up with Harley's demands. "Harley, we only have a few hours before the party starts. It's going to be challenging to make all these changes in such a short time."

Harley huffed, uninterested in the logistical challenges she was causing. "I don't care about that. Just get it done. My dad said I could have whatever I wanted."

Meanwhile, Harley's attention shifted to Velvet Rebellion, her face lighting up with enthusiasm.

"Oh, my God! I've been dying to meet you! I'm a huge fan!" she exclaimed with excitement. “I’m so happy I could get you here.”

She bounded over to the band, seemingly oblivious to the chaos she was creating, and introduced them to the party planner and you.

"This is Velvet Rebellion!" Harley introduced with enthusiasm. "Steve, the keyboardist, Tony on the drums, Bucky on the electric guitar, Wanda, the second lead singer and bass guitar, and Natasha, the incredible lead singer!"

You and the other woman exchanged glances, your expressions a mixture of frustration and amusement at the whirlwind that was Harley Jameson. You gave a small wave, opting to be in the background of this exchange. 

Wanda, ever the peacekeeper, managed to maintain her composure and put on a friendly smile despite Harley's overwhelming energy. She nodded graciously at Harley's enthusiasm.

"Oh, thank you so much, Harley!" Wanda replied with genuine warmth. "We're thrilled to meet you too. Your party looks like it's going to be incredible!"

Harley's energy showed no signs of waning as she delved into the details of the band's performance. When Wanda mentioned their planned first song, "Smoke and Mirrors," Harley immediately piped up with an alternative suggestion.

"No, no, no," Harley interrupted with fervor. "I want you to start with 'Ink and Whiskey.' It's my favorite!"

Natasha, who had been preparing to protest the sudden change to their setlist, hesitated as she saw Wanda's meek demeanor. However, it was clear that Harley's demand had disrupted their carefully planned sequence.

Natasha began to voice her concerns, but Harley's retort was swift and smart-mouthed. 

“We’ve already planned this out for-” Natasha began. 

“Oh, you can change it, can’t you? It’s just a silly setlist,” Harly questioned. 

Before Natasha could respond, you intervened with a calm yet authoritative tone.

"Harley, let's tone it down a bit," You advised, your demeanor oozing an air of authority that surprised Natasha. Harley listened, her earlier defiance giving way to a more composed demeanor.

“Sorry, I’m just excited,” Harley shrugged. 

Natasha found herself intrigued by your presence and the respect Harley seemed to show you.

"Alright," Natasha conceded with a smile, "since it's your birthday, we'll start with 'Ink and Whiskey.'"

Wanda offered a nod of agreement, and the tension in the air began to dissipate.

Harley, feeling triumphant, turned her attention to the party planner.

"Sarah, darling, let's make sure everything is perfect. I want it to be a night to remember!" Harley changed the subject, pulling you both back into a conversation with ease. 

Sarah, the party planner, nodded and tried to hide her relief that the brief crisis had passed. 

"Of course, Harley. Everything will be just as you want it."

Natasha watched the exchange between Harley and Sarah, her curiosity piqued more by you. 

“Who’s the chick?” Natasha pointed over to you with a tilt of her head. She got shrugs from Steve and Bucky. Tony was way too distracted to answer as he flirted with one of the staff. Wanda squinted to see if she could guess. 

“I don’t know,” Wanda said. “She looks vaguely familiar, but I’m guessing it’s not her mom.”

“Interesting,” Natasha mumbled to herself. She shook her head. There was no time for whatever the thumping in her heart was proving to be. She was here for the band and for the music. Also for the money, she couldn’t forget the money. 

As the preparations for the party continued, your cell phone suddenly rang, breaking the conversation flow. You excused yourself with a polite smile and stepped away from the group, heading toward a quieter corner of the backyard a few feet away.

Natasha couldn't help but overhear snippets of your conversation, the tone of your voice suggesting a heartfelt exchange, likely with a significant other. Natasha discreetly glanced in your direction, her curiosity getting the best of her.

Your voice held a gentle warmth as you spoke softly into your phone, your words filled with affection and longing.

 "I miss you too, sweetheart. Yeah, the party's getting started here in a couple of hours. It's not the same without you. Can't wait to see you soon." You smiled. 

Natasha couldn't hear the other end of the conversation, but the tenderness in your voice painted a clear picture of a loving connection between you and someone special.

Meanwhile, Harley, always the inquisitive host, began questioning Steve and Bucky about the band and its music.

"So, guys," Harley started, her interest genuine, "Have you ever thought about going solo? I am dying to know the secret."

Steve and Bucky, accustomed to answering these questions, engaged in a friendly chat with Harley, even if they also found her annoying. 

As Natasha discreetly observed you from the corner of her eye, she couldn't help but be captivated by your natural beauty. You were dressed in a simple white t-shirt and form-fitting jeans, a look that should have been unremarkable, but on you, it was utterly captivating.

The way your hair was styled, framing your face in soft waves, added to your appeal. Your skin had a radiant glow, and your features held an understated elegance that drew Natasha's attention. Despite the casual attire, you exuded a timeless charm that was impossible to ignore.

Natasha found herself admiring the effortless beauty that seemed to emanate from you and she wanted to know more. 

Just as Natasha started to pretend she wasn't eavesdropping, you turned around with a warm smile, catching her off guard. She quickly toyed with her microphone stand, feigning indifference.

You found her reaction amusing but were soon drawn back into your phone conversation. Natasha couldn't help but wonder about the person on the other end of that call and what had sparked such a genuine smile on your face. 

She toyed with the mic stand for as long as possible, physically forcing herself not to look your way. It’s a few more minutes before you returned to the group. You turned your attention to Harley and Sarah.

"Harley, don't forget, you have that hair appointment in an hour," You reminded her, glancing at your watch. "We need to make sure you're all set for your big night."

Harley, momentarily distracted by the band's presence, nodded in agreement.

"Oh, right! Thanks, y/n. I'll head out now," Harley replied with a grin. She turned to the band and offered her farewells. "Catch you all later!"

With that, Harley and Sarah departed, leaving Velvet Rebellion alone in the backyard.

As the group began to disperse, you took a moment to say goodbye to the band. 

“See you guys tonight,” You said. “I’m sure you’ll do great. If you need refreshments just ask one of the staff and they will be happy to help you with anything you need.” 

Natasha responded with a small smile and a nod, a subtle acknowledgment of the brief but pleasant interaction.

Once you, Harley, and Sarah were out of earshot, the rest of the band couldn't resist teasing Natasha. Wanda, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, chimed in.

"Uh oh, I know that look," Wanda teased, earning a knowing chuckle from the others. Natasha's momentary fascination with you hadn't gone unnoticed, and her bandmates were more than happy to playfully nudge her about it.

“There’s no look, I don’t have a look.” Natasha rolled her eyes. 

“Sure, you don’t,” Wanda grinned. “Any bets on how long until she gets her number?”

“I say within the hour,” Tony raised his hand pulling out a single, crinkled five-dollar bill from his back pocket. 

“Fifteen says they sleep together after the show,” Bucky shrugged. Steve is the only one to remain silent. 

“I don’t know,” Steve scratched the back of his neck. “I think I’ll save my thoughts for later. The girl barely said two words to any of us.”

“Thank you,” Natasha said. “Now, can we rehearse like a proper band?” 

She tried to erase your image from her head as she positioned herself in front of the microphone. 

From the top. 

*****************

The night was alive with energy as Velvet Rebellion took the stage, the crowd gathered around, eager to soak in every note of their music. Natasha oozed confidence and charisma, a star in every sense of the word. The opening chords of "Ink and Whiskey" filled the air, and the crowd erupted in cheers. This birthday party was a rager if she’d ever seen one. Natasha always considered rich people stiff and uptight. Going to plenty of parties once their debut kicked off their careers. Stiff drinks, weird pleasantries, and even more drugs. She was being proven wrong with this particular shindig. 

She moved to the edge of the stage, her presence magnetic. She sang with a passion that could be felt in every corner of the space, her voice carrying the weight of their lyrics. The audience couldn't help but be drawn into her performance, and they eagerly joined in, singing along and dancing to the beat.

Wanda, standing beside Natasha, bled a different kind of cool and calm. Her steady presence provided the perfect balance to Natasha's fiery performance. It was clear to anyone watching that their dynamic was the secret to their success.

Natasha lowered her head, giving Wanda the floor to sing her part of the chorus. Wanda’s hands moved steadily between the chords as she sang into the microphone. 

Ink and whiskey, the pages of our hearts,  

Tangled in the chapters where love starts,  

In the darkness, our secrets we confide,  

With every word written, our souls collide

Natasha steps forward, moving close enough to the microphone so that she and Wanda could harmonize the last verse. Her eyes travel from Wanda’s, smiling as they share in the energy and joy of being on stage before she maneuvers herself to face the crowd. 

In the night's embrace, our love's sweet refrain,  

Ink and whiskey, like a runaway train,  

Through the highs and lows, we'll find our way,  

With every word we write, love's here to stay

In the front row, Harley danced with her friends, reveling in the music and the excitement of the night. The atmosphere was electric, and the joy was contagious.

As Natasha sang, she scanned the crowd, her eyes landing on familiar faces among the sea of B-listers and music enthusiasts. But the one that stood out the most was you. Your eyes locked, and Natasha couldn't resist a playful wink, a silent acknowledgment of your earlier encounter.

You raised your glass in a silent toast and clapped enthusiastically when the song came to an end. You weren’t a huge fan of the music genre but you could see why Velvet Rebellion was such a rising star amongst new artists. Their stage presence was undeniable, the song was catchy and the beat was electrifying. It helped that Natasha was cute. All good things in your book. You can’t take your eyes off the stage as they move into their next song. It’s a bit disjointed considering Harley made them change the setlist around the last minute but it seems smooth either way. Natasha dances a bit for this one, her body movements fluid and effortless. Almost as if she’s had some training. 

You’re momentarily distracted when a distant family member comes to say hello. 

The show must go on as Natasha continues to sing her heart out. 

**********************

The final notes of their setlist rang out, and the crowd roared in appreciation. Velvet Rebellion had given their all, and now it was time for the DJ to take over and keep the party going.

Wanda had convinced Natasha to stay a while longer, promising that the night was still young and full of possibilities. Tony, ever the charmer, remarked with a grin, "I see a few MILFs in the crowd that I wouldn't mind mingling with." He slipped into the crowd with ease, chatting up the first single woman he saw. 

Natasha, however, remained all about business. She stood at the bar, surveying the party and keeping a watchful eye on her bandmates. The chaos and revelry around her seemed to blur into a colorful swirl of dancing bodies and laughter.

It was then that you approached her, catching Natasha's attention. Your presence was a welcome change of pace, and Natasha couldn't help but appreciate the genuine compliment she received.

"You guys were incredible," You said with a smile. "I'm impressed."

Natasha, always a woman of few words in such settings, offered a gracious nod of acknowledgment. 

You extended your hand with a warm smile as you introduced yourself, "I'm y/n. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Natasha shook your hand firmly and replied, "Natasha. Likewise."

You couldn't help but notice Natasha's reserved demeanor. Almost as if she felt too cool to be here. 

"I couldn't help but wonder," You began, your curiosity evident as you raised your voice above the music. "why aren't you out there dancing like the rest of your bandmates?"

Natasha offered a wry smile and shot back, "I could ask you the same thing."

“Touche,” You nodded. “I’m not much of a party girl.” You turn towards the bartender. “Do you want a drink? Eric here makes the best mojitos.”

“Sure, I’ll have a sex on the beach,” Natasha asked. 

“You heard the woman,” You jokingly said to Eric as he began to make your drinks. As you focused your attention on grabbing a few napkins, Natasha gave you a once-over. Your party dress was a delightful balance of simplicity and style. The knee-length and backless dress showcased a flattering silhouette, hugging your curves in all the right places. The deep, midnight-blue fabric was decorated with tiny, shimmering glitter that seemed to twinkle with each movement you made. Its sweetheart neckline and delicate spaghetti straps added a touch of femininity to the ensemble, while the mid-thigh slit allowed for easy movement as you moved. The overall effect was a cute yet elegant dress that perfectly suited the festive atmosphere of the party.

Natasha's observant eye caught the jewelry adorning your wrist. It was subtle but tasteful, hinting at a level of refinement that didn't go unnoticed. It was at least half of her salary for tonight’s show. This only interested her more. She needed to know who you were. She wanted to know the mystery behind you and your name. 

“Here you go,” You step back over to Natasha to hand her a drink. “I hope I’m not being too forward.”

“Not at all,” Natasha shrugged. 

"You know, if you're looking for a bit more quiet, we could step inside for a breather." You suggested, tilting your chin towards the house. 

Natasha considered the offer, realizing that a change of scenery might be a welcome respite from the party's chaos. With a small smile, she agreed, "That sounds like a good idea."

You led Natasha through the sea of people and inside the mansion to a nearby office where the music's relentless thump was muffled, and the atmosphere was quieter. It was a welcome change from the frenzied party outside.

As you settled into seats close to each other on the couch, drinks in hand, Natasha couldn't help herself and began to ask you questions. 

“Why did you ask me in here tonight?” Natasha asked. “Not that I’m complaining. I have been invited into much worse places.”  

“Thanks, I think,” You chuckled. You sensed Natasha's curiosity and offered a simple explanation, your eyes holding Natasha's in an unspoken connection."I enjoy meeting new people," you confessed, your voice soft but sincere. "And I've decided I wanted to talk with you."

You took a sip of your drink, your gaze thoughtful. "I also wanted to apologize for Harley's behavior earlier. She can be... spirited at times."

Natasha waved off the apology with a small smile, understanding that spirited was one way to describe Harley's antics.

You went on to explain, "Usually, I don't speak up like that, but my uncle has a way of spoiling Harley. It's... complicated."

Natasha's curiosity got the better of her, and she asked, "Your uncle? He’s Todd Jameson?"

You took a moment before revealing, "Yes. He and my dad are half-brothers. Making Harley my little cousin. I don’t admit it often."

The revelation left Natasha intrigued. She had heard the name Todd Jameson before, a figure of significance in the entertainment industry. The connection between you and Harley was now becoming clearer, and Natasha couldn't help but wonder about the family connection.

“That would make your dad…” Natasha began. 

“Nick Fury, the one and only,” You finished for her. “Different fathers. My dad is somewhere out there tonight. It’s a thing I don’t like to admit to strangers.”

“I get it,” Natasha nodded. 

The revelation about your family connection to Todd Jameson made Natasha pause for a moment. She had always admired the award-winning jazz player turned talent manager, Nick Fury, from afar. His contributions to the music industry were legendary, and Natasha couldn't deny that she was a fan of his music.

She decided not to fangirl, though, and instead offered a genuine smile. "Your dad is a legend. I've always been a fan of his music."

Your eyes lit up with appreciation. "Thank you, Natasha. I'll be sure to pass that along to him." You set your half-empty cup onto a coaster, before turning back to Natasha. “So, watching you on that stage. Not many people have that star power. I was wondering if you have experience dancing? You were incredible.” 

Natasha's eyes sparkled as she recalled her performance. "The way I danced on stage during our set, it's a part of who I am. I guess you could say it's a bit of my background showing through."

Your curiosity piqued, and you guessed, "Ballet, then?"

Natasha nodded. "Yes, I did ballet for sixteen years as a child. I even got into Juilliard."

Your eyes widened in admiration. "That's amazing, Natasha. How did you get into singing and music?"

Natasha took a sip of her drink and smiled as she delved into the story of how she got into music. It was a story that she didn't often share, but there was something about her conversation with you that made her feel comfortable opening up.

"It all started back in high school," Natasha began. "I was really into dancing, and it was an elective at my school. But then, one day, I decided to join the choir on a whim. And I fell in love with singing and songwriting. I grew up in a rough neighborhood. I needed something to keep me out of the house and off the streets."

She paused for a moment, reminiscing about those early days. "So, I started writing songs, and my friends Wanda and Steve would go over to Steve’s small bedroom. We'd play our rented instruments and experiment with different sounds. It was just a fun little hobby at first."

Natasha's gaze drifted, lost in the memories of those simple beginnings. "Then Bucky, Steve’s best friend well, he's always been a bit of a troublemaker, but he's got a talent for the electric guitar. And Tony...his dad's pretty wealthy and bought us all our equipment. Plus, he's good at the drums."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "It was a bit of a motley crew, but that's how Velvet Rebellion came to be. We started playing in small venues, dive bars, and country clubs. And somehow, we made it here."

Natasha's usually guarded demeanor had softened in your presence, and she found herself enjoying the opportunity to share a piece of her journey with someone who seemed genuinely interested in her story.

“I love that,” You nodded. You and Natasha share a smile before she asked. 

“Is your boyfriend here tonight? I don’t want to keep you too long,” She fished for more information. 

“No, no,” You shake your head. “No boyfriend. You?”

“Not really into monogamy at the moment,” She shrugged. She doesn’t know if this statement will bite her in the ass later but for some reason she trusted you. “Tell me about you. Are you in the family business or?”

"I've always had a bit of a connection to the music world," You began. "As a teenager, I sang a few backup vocals for artists my uncle produced. I guess you could say I almost pursued a career in music, but life had other plans for me. I got pregnant at seventeen. Dedicated to finish school and go to college."

You took a thoughtful swig of your drink and continued, "Now, I'm a publicist. I don't mean to brag, but I'm good at what I do.When I'm not working, I'm taking care of my daughter, Isabella. She's nine years old and the light of my life."

Your face softened as you spoke about your daughter, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of pride and joy. "She's with her dad for the weekend," you added, "and we co-parent quite well."

Natasha was genuinely interested in your life outside of the party scene, and she couldn't resist asking, "Do you have any pictures of Isabella? I'd love to see her."

Your eyes twinkled with delight as you pulled out your phone and began to share a few adorable images of your daughter. Natasha couldn't help but smile as she admired the photos, enjoying this glimpse into your world beyond the music and the party.

“Here she is at gymnastics practice,” You flipped through a few pictures of Isabella’s smiling face. “And swim. She is a little spitfire and she wants to do it all.”

“Wow,” Natasha smiled as if Isabella were her own child. “Do you ever want more?”

“Maybe one day,” You said wistfully. “For now I feel pretty full with everything in life. You?” 

You noticed the change in Natasha's expression and asked, "Is something on your mind?"

Natasha sighed, leaning back into her seat. "I just don't know if I'm cut out for motherhood," she admitted. "I have a younger sister, Yelena, she’s attending the University of Cambridge in England now. She's even developed a bit of a British accent." Natasha couldn't help but chuckle at the thought.

"But," she continued, "I enjoy the fast-paced life, the music, the performances, and the constant movement. A significant other won’t quite understand that I don't always have the time. Not that I don’t ever want that someday but…” Her voice died down. 

You listened empathetically, understanding the complexities of Natasha's life as a musician. "I get that," you acknowledged. "But it's essential to find the right balance for you, whether it's in your music career, personal life, or something in between. My dad was able to do it. When he crossed over into hip-hop there was definitely a lot he missed but he still made things happen"

“Really? Well, I will have to ask him for pointers.” She grinned. 

Just as the conversation was reaching its peak, there came a polite knock at the office door. A member of the party staff popped in to inform you that they were ready to sing "Happy Birthday" to Harley.

You turned to Natasha with a warm smile. "It was nice meeting and talking to you, Natasha," you said genuinely.

Natasha, not wanting the connection to end, began, "You know, I'd love to..."

But before she could finish her sentence, your cheeks flushed, and you interrupted already knowing what she was going to say, your voice bold, "Are you going to call me, or are you going to leave me hanging in the wind?"

Natasha couldn't help but laugh at your sudden assertiveness. It was a pleasant surprise. "I’m not that type of woman," Natasha said. At your look, she laughed again. “You got me there.”

You returned her smile and handed Natasha your phone, saying, "You'll just have to trust me with your number instead, and I'll call." Asking for her number instead eased the pressure off Natasha, and also your nerves at hoping she’d call. 

You gave Natasha a wink and chucked a thumb over your shoulder to indicate you were going back to the party. Natasha nodded and watched you walk away. When her eyes trailed lower she doesn’t even feel guilty about it. 

Natasha left the office, rejoining her bandmates outside in the backyard, just as they were preparing to sing "Happy Birthday" to Harley. The festive atmosphere was in full swing, and the energy of the party was infectious.

As the crowd gathered around Harley, Natasha's eyes scanned the faces, and they landed on you, who was standing among the partygoers. Your eyes met, and you shared a knowing smile, a silent acknowledgment of the connection you had developed.

Tony, always quick to pick up on things, couldn't help but tease Natasha when he noticed her grin. "So, did you get her number?"

Natasha rolled her eyes at Tony's assumption but then burst into laughter. "No," she replied with a playful smirk, "she took mine."

The party was still in full swing when someone on stage stopped the music with a loud, "Hey, everyone! Can I have your attention, please?"

The spotlight shifted to the stage, and all eyes turned toward the source of the interruption. It was a friend of Harley's, and he had a mischievous grin on his face as he spoke into the microphone.

"I have a special surprise for our birthday girl tonight," he announced. "We have someone here who's agreed to sing 'Happy Birthday' to Harley, and I think you're all in for a treat."

A collective cheer and applause erupted from the crowd as they eagerly anticipated the surprise. The spotlight moved to you, highlighting your face and putting you on the spot. You managed to not look like a deer in headlights which was a feat in itself. Natasha's curiosity was piqued, especially considering you had mentioned you weren’t much of a singer.

You tried to protest shyly, but the crowd begged you to come up on stage. Encouraged by their cheers, you reluctantly made your way up to the spotlight.

Once on stage, you cleared your throat and took a deep breath, your nerves palpable. You began with a little birthday speech, your voice tinged with affection and humor.

"I want to wish a happy birthday to my cousin Harley," You began, your smile directed at the birthday girl. "Even though she's a bit of a brat," you teased, earning laughs from the crowd, "she's my brat, and I wouldn't have it any other way."

Then, as expected, you began to sing "Happy Birthday." Your voice, which you had modestly downplayed earlier, was nothing short of remarkable. It was soulful, sweet, and filled with a depth of emotion that resonated through the entire backyard.

The crowd, including Natasha, was utterly blown away by the unexpected talent that you possessed. Your voice filled the air, making the birthday celebration even more special and memorable. It was a moment of pure magic, and Natasha couldn't help but be captivated by your incredible singing ability.

Natasha decided two things then and there. One, she really liked you, and two, boy, was she in for a ride.

---> next part

[heevee-likes-soup]

Hongjoong x Reader |1K- 1 Trope|

>> 1K- 1 Trope series: A start of me to start publishing/ Get back into writing, 1 character, 1 Trope, 1 K words <<

>> Soulmate AU <<

>> Summary: "Can I get a coffee?" Must have been amongst the most boring words you could've wished for on your wrist. The first words your soulmate would say to you. <<

>> Rating: Fluffy/ SFW <<

You weren't too interested in your Soulmate, on most days. Today, wasn't such a day. You were out with friends yesterday evening, it wasn't anything too big. Just some drinks, some catching up. Nothing special. And then one of them started to rant about her new Boyfriend, and how she was so happy with him. Most people found their Soulmates in Highschool, or College. You, were a professional by now, with all that already over, working a boring life- well, working in music production was never boring. And your career was blooming. Going from simply boringly watching and working with the hardware, to now some of your own creations being sold to clients.

You never bothered to look for your soulmate. The words on your forearm weren't much of a hint. "Can I get a coffee?" were about the most boring words you could've ever asked for.

But back to your friend, as she was talking about her new boyfriend- that's when it happend. A guy walked by, no one payed much attention to him as he passed. But seemingly, neither did he. As he tripped over your bag placed next to the table, he inconveniently spilled his cocktail a little- on said friend.

"Not the Pineapple!" he exclaimed as the fruit pick slipped out of the drink before her. "Not the…" she slowly repeated.

That's how they met.

And that caused your current, mental exhaustion. She needed all the moral support she could get that evening, explain to her new boyfriend- well, now ex, what had happend.

Now, you were about as done with dating as it got. Your last partner was lackluster, not just in bed, just in generell. It didn't hurt ending things, and for two years, you didn't really bother in dating, for this exact reason. Soulmates made 'casual' relationships messy.

This morning wasn't difficult because of any hangover from the night before, you kept calm with the drinks. It was difficult because said emotional support ended up in a three-hour call.

"Oh you look dead." Your oh so sunny coworker smiled when he entered your studio. "I know." You simply sighed, dropping your head down onto your arm pillow. "I had two hours of sleep- I had to help a friend break up with her boyfriend since she ran into her soulmate. How does that just happen?" You let out a small whine with the last word, muffled by your hand. "Oh, Great for her." Yunho smiled. He squinted looking at you. "I'm… gonna get you some caffeine." he simply smiled and walked through he studio office.

"Actually, we have a short notice coming in later." Yunho announced as he returned with two cups of coffee, sitting one down on your desk, seating himself next to you on the chair. The desk set up simply holding a few monitors with two seats. "Since we had a really empty day Boss squished him in for a recording later. He said the guy is good- has his own beats and everything, kind of just in search for some second opinion and professional recording." You nodded, taking only half the information in as you sipped on the bitter coffee. It did revive you somehow.

After falling asleep twice in front of your screen, the third time the different colored beams of the music program in front of you started to mush together, you took it as a sign- getting up, opening up some windows, and walking into the small in-office kitchen.

There, to your dismay, you discovered the coffee can to be already empty. No wonder with the caffeine addiction raging within this team.

You cautiously opened the water container, filling it up by the sink. Washing the can itself through once, not really caring about any coffee remains. You placed everything carefully back together again. Lastly, you replaced the filter, and started scooping the pulverized coffee carefully in. One for each cup made… which would summ up to 6, two for each, yunho, you, and your shared boss. Then an extra spoon for caffeine and one fo-

"Can I get a coffee?" A smiley voice sounded behind you. With a shrug you added another two scoops. "If you like it strong, sure." you answered without much of thought.

You managed to actually put the second spoon in, before your brain caught up. The silence now seeming deafening. You slowly turned around- god, the guy was gorgeous. His features were sharp, yet… detailed. It reminded you of a neatly cut diamond, sharp and refined. His hair was pushed back, split into two colors, one side black, the other nearly white.

His dark eyes went wide, probably matching your own face right now. His clothes were also oddly your style- the jacket hung oversize, a matching turtleneck and simple fitting pants while he paired it with colorfully painted sneakers. "Hi" he then smiled and oh god- his smile was full, it stretched over his face and was endlessly bright. "Hi…" you could only answer, looking down at the words on your wrist slowly filling up.

Your own phrase now appearing underneath his words. A moment of silence passed.

"I'm Hongjoong" he then smiled. And oh god- you could just die the way he looked at you. His features may have been sharp, but his eyes seemed like they were shining. "Y/N" you only answered with a small smile.

The lack of sleep, and amount of caffeine made you feel light headed to begin with, but this whole thing- This man- No, Hongjoong in front of you, made you feel a whole different way of dizzy.

"Oh I see you two ran into each other yourselves." Yunho smiled walking into the small office kitchen, slowing down his step while looking back and forth. "What…" he tried to ask until he caught onto how you were holding your wrist. "Can I get a coffee?" Yunho repeated with a grin. "I really love coffee-" Hongjoong shrugged still smiling at you.

[monktwo]

Part 14 of the Missing piece series

First official week

Tobias didn’t say much as the car rolled to a stop outside the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper training complex, but you could feel him watching you from the corner of his sunglasses. You’d known him long enough to read the subtleties: shoulders relaxed = safe. Chin tilted = focus. Backpack over one shoulder = he thought you’d do fine.

You blew out a breath and stepped out.

First official week as a Barça player.

First test to prove you weren’t just hype.

—

You’d always known you were fit. Growing up on a farm didn’t leave a lot of time for skipping leg day. Especially when your “leg day” was dragging hay bales or carrying sacks of grain up and down the barn stairs. But this was the first time it was measured like this.

On paper.

With data.

And you crushed it.

Speed sprints? Personal best.

Explosiveness? Top 3 in the team.

Vertical leap? You exceeded their expectations.

At one point during mobility testing, you stripped down to just your compression shorts and sports bra to move freely for the cameras and sensors. There was a moment. Brief, but noticeable, when the room fell a little quieter.

You were used to your body. To what it could do. You weren’t showing off, but you were definitely being seen.

Someone whistled low.

Mapi, obviously.

“Dios mío,” she muttered from behind a laptop screen. “Is this part of the test, or is this just a gift?”

You rolled your eyes and kept stretching.

Ingrid didn’t say anything, but you caught the shift in her expression. The slight furrow between her brows when you reached for a wall stretch and the curve of your back revealed the thin, scattered white scars that spidered across your shoulder blades.

Later, she walked by and bumped her knuckles against your arm.

“Your body’s incredible,” she said softly. “But those… they’re from before?”

You nodded once.

She didn’t ask more. Just nodded back and gave your arm a squeeze.

—

After showers and recovery shakes, you were ushered into the media studio for your “Get to Know Me” segment. The official video that would go up across Barça Femini socials to introduce you to the fans.

You sat in full kit fresh, crisp, name on your back. And you tried not to fidget while the lights were being adjusted.

The interviewer smiled. “Alright. Let’s make the Culers fall in love with you.”

You blinked. “No pressure, then.”

“Name, age, position?”

“Y/N. Twenty-two. Attacking player, mostly left wing.”

“Perfect. Question one: Favorite food?”

“Lasagne,” you said immediately. “The cheesy kind. With garlic bread.”

Off camera, Mapi called out, “She’s not lying! I’ve seen it!”

“I was carb-loading!” you yelled back.

Ingrid added calmly, “There was no game that day.”

“Question two,” the interviewer continued. “Pre-match ritual?”

You smiled. “I always lace my left boot first. Always.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s enough.”

“Question three: Players you looked up to?”

“Neymar. Messi. And Ada Hegerberg. Watching her made things click for me.”

“Question four: Fun fact fans wouldn’t guess?”

You shrugged. “I’m low-key addicted to Pepsi Max.”

“That’s… specific.”

You grinned. “I’m Norwegian. It’s basically a national phenomenon.”

Mapi shouted, “She drinks it at breakfast!”

“She offered it to the physio!” Ingrid added.

“Question five: Three words to describe yourself?”

“Strong. Fast. Hungry.”

Mapi again, louder: “FOR LASAGNA!!”

You groaned and dropped your face into your hands.

The interviewer laughed. “Last one. What does playing for Barça mean to you?”

You took a breath.

“Everything,” you said softly. “When I was thirteen, I trained at La Masia. It didn’t last long, and it wasn’t easy, but it stuck with me. The joy of how football is played here. The philosophy. I’ve wanted to come back ever since.”

There was a pause, just a little beat of silence.

Ingrid leaned around the curtain. “You’re doing it now.”

Mapi followed with, “And looking good while doing it.”

—

That night, after the video was filmed and your numbers logged, you lay stretched across the couch in their apartment. Mapi’s hand tracing lazy circles on your thigh, Ingrid’s fingers softly combing through your hair.

“Long day,” Mapi murmured.

“Big day,” Ingrid added.

You smiled, letting their voices settle over you like a blanket.

Tomorrow, the pressure would come. The matchday prep nerves. The press. The expectations.

Next day, pre match prep

You weren’t even playing yet, and still the pressure felt like a second skin.

Not from the coaches, they were good. Clear. Fair.

But the cameras?

The articles?

The whispers that built up online every time you posted, or didn’t post, or breathed?

You didn’t know how to deal with it.

—

“Just breathe,” the physio said, pressing her thumbs into the tightest part of your shoulder.

You were lying facedown on the massage table, head resting in the cradle, jaw clenched.

“I am,” you muttered.

“Try again.”

You tried again.

It didn’t help that you’d already watched two reels this morning of people debating your value, whether you deserved to be at Barça. Whether you were hype or real. Whether your “personality” was more important than your touch.

You hadn’t even played a full 90 yet.

“You’re holding your breath again,” the physio said gently.

You let it go.

The door opened. Footsteps. Then a voice.

“You mind if I sit?”

Alexia.

You didn’t lift your head — you couldn’t — but you nodded.

There was a pause. Then: “It gets loud, huh?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Feels like every breath you take, someone has an opinion on it.”

Another nod.

“But you know what drowns it out?” she asked. “Your teammates. Your joy. And a ball at your feet.”

You exhaled slowly.

“I’ve seen you,” she said. “You’re the type who lights up when you dribble. That’s not fake.”

“Feels like everyone’s waiting for me to fall on my face.”

“Let them wait,” Alexia said, smiling. “They’ll be waiting a long time.”

—

Training ended with a short recovery cool-down and the dreaded ice baths.

You stripped and stepped in next to Ingrid without thinking.

“Lean on me, babe,” she said softly.

You leaned. Of course you did.

The chill soaked into your skin. Your breath slowed. Your body finally let go of the tension.

You didn’t even notice you’d drifted off until the quiet giggles started.

“She’s out,” someone whispered.

“She always is,” Salma added. “Any time she’s near Ingrid.”

“I am not,” you mumbled, barely awake.

Ingrid brushed her thumb across your arm. “You are, baby. That’s how I like it.”

You grunted and refused to open your eyes.

—

At the small press event later, you were sharp at first.

Polished.

Then one of the reporters asked about social media and if your visibility came from your actual game or just your look.

Your mouth opened. “I think it’s— I mean— I know I can play, and if— if that’s not clear then—”

“She means yes,” Mapi cut in cheerfully. “And she also thinks your question sucks.”

The room laughed.

You blinked. “Yeah. What she said.”

—

Dinner was lasagna again. Your chef had clearly caught on to your carb dependency.

You were working through your second plate when Ingrid called softly, “Baby, slow down a bit”

You paused mid-chew. “Mm.”

Mapi grinned from across the table. “Every single time.”

“What?”

“She says ‘baby’ and your fork drops like it’s choreographed.”

You frowned. “I’m just being polite.”

“She’s got you trained.”

“She’s nice,” you muttered.

—

Later, shirtless and tucked into the corner of the couch, you stretched out across Mapi’s lap while Ingrid’s hand rested on your ribs.

“You good?” she asked softly.

You nodded, eyes half-closed. “Better now.”

“Still nervous?” Mapi asked.

You didn’t answer at first.

Then: “A little.”

Ingrid leaned down, kissed your cheek. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

“Tomorrow’s your start,” Mapi added. “But don’t think of it like a test. Think of it like your moment.”

You smiled tiredly. “You two make everything feel easier.”

Ingrid brushed your hair from your face. “You make everything feel right.”

You sighed, letting your whole weight sink into the couch.

And by the time Mapi pulled a blanket over your hips, you were already asleep.

Next day

You had fire in your chest before the whistle even blew.

Not nerves. Not excitement.

Focus.

They could talk all they wanted — about hype, about image, but today, you were going to remind everyone exactly why you were here.

—

From the first minute, they made it clear: you were the target.

You couldn’t touch the ball without a body on you. Hands on your hips, studs down your ankles, elbows in your side.

By the tenth minute, you’d already snapped once, spinning on a defender and barking, “¡¿Quieres jugar fútbol o pelear?!”

(“Do you want to play football or fight?!”)

The ref gave you a warning look. You gave him a glare in return.

—

The first goal was clean. Classic.

A ball flicked through by Alexia. You ghosted past one, touched once to set it, and fired high into the top corner.

1–0.

You celebrated by kissing the badge on your chest, simple but clear. This is where you wanted to be.

—

Second half.

The ball broke to you near the sideline, and as you sprinted up, their right back took you out, shoulder first, dragging your leg.

You slammed into the ground, rolled, and instantly bounced back up, blood in your mouth, rage in your chest.

“¡Eso es una broma, árbitro!”

(“That’s a joke, ref!”)

You marched up to him, finger pointed, voice raised.

Alexia was beside you in a flash, one arm around your chest. “Tranquila,” she muttered under her breath.

You pushed her off. “¡Me están pateando en cada jugada!”

(“They’re kicking me every play!”)

The ref ignored you. Again.

Fine.

—

You got your revenge three minutes later.

Same defender. Same side.

This time, she slid in again, hard. You stumbled and fell, but your feet caught the pitch like magnets. And then you bounced with the momentum back up. You were gone.

Sprint. Cut inside. Rippling net.

2–0.

You walked back past the defender, still sitting on the ground.

“Deberías haberte quedado de pie.”

(“You should’ve stayed on your feet.”)

—

Your third came in the 85th minute.

Caroline sent a chipped cross from the opposite flank. You beat two defenders in the air, heading it in like gravity didn’t apply to you.

Hat trick.

You dropped to your knees. Arms open. Jaw tight.

The stadium exploded.

—

Then came the MVP announcement.

You barely had time to untie your boots before they dragged you to the flash interview zone.

You stood under the lights, still catching your breath.

First question came quick, in Spanish.

“Tres goles en tu primer partido completo. ¿Cómo te sientes?”

(“Three goals in your first full match. How do you feel?”)

“Cansada,” you answered bluntly. “Pero satisfecha. No vine aquí a posar. Vine a jugar.”

(“Tired. But satisfied. I didn’t come here to pose. I came to play.”)

Another laugh. Another question.

“Fue un partido muy físico. ¿Qué opinas del arbitraje?”

(“It was a very physical match. Thoughts on the refereeing?”)

You stared dead into the camera.

“La próxima vez, tal vez alguien debería proteger a las jugadoras talentosas en lugar de mirar hacia otro lado.”

(“Next time, maybe someone should protect the talented players instead of looking the other way.”)

Silence for a beat. Then the press officer quickly thanked the media and ended the session.

—

As you walked off the platform, your jaw was still tight. But your chest?

Lighter.

You’d said what needed to be said.

And more importantly?

You’d shown them.

Three goals.

One warning.

Zero regrets.

Keep reading

[urauntiefaye]

This is random but I really need a FUCKING BIG HEATED reaction from the teamies when you light a cigarette in front of them🙌

&Team Hyung Line Reaction to You Smoking❤️‍🩹

WC: 3397

TW: Smoking, Quitting smoking, talks of mental health issues and bad forms of coping mechanism, angst in a lot of these, y/n is naked in the shower in Euijoos, Nicholas is the one with addictions issues in his, Kei says some pretty harsh things in his. Hurt to comfort? Let me know if I missed anything.

A/N: I may have gone overboard…Also just a heads up guys if you are struggling with finding healthy coping skills there are plenty of good websites that give tips, don't go towards addictions as means of coping please, also if you are struggling with addictions I get it I really do and just know you got this and it's not a losing battle.

Maknae Line

Kei-

Kei would be under the assumption that you didn’t smoke, as he’s never seen or even smelt it on you. That would be because you weren’t a habitual smoker. Smoking was more like an unhealthy coping mechanism for you; only smoking when things got too stressful or when your mental health would start to decline and spiral into a low episode of depression. As it was a means to deal with it all. Kei wouldn’t find out about this until you both got into your worst fight.

Stress levels rising in both of you as Kei was being overworked and gearing up for a special stage performance. Along with you getting overwhelmed by work or school. Despite this you guys wouldn’t fight just yet. Not until you got out early and decided to head to Keis work, surprising him with lunch. Going to his work and expecting to see him either alone or with one of his members in the dance studio. You would immediately be the one taken by surprise as you walk in only to see Kei dancing with a famous female idol, doing a rather explicit dance at that. Once they came to an end Kei still wouldn’t have seen you, instead laughing and getting along with the other girl. He wouldn’t spot you until the girl idol pointed you out. Kei would be happy to see you, running up to you and pulling you into a hug. Pulling away though he would be confused at your uneasy mood. Asking you what was wrong you would ask him what he was doing. He would explain to you that for the special performance he was doing a dance duet. Forcing a smile you would nod only saying “oh”. Dropping the topic Kei would introduce you to her. The whole time being there your mind would start to race with jealous and insecure thoughts.

Going home you would still be rather quiet, only giving Kei short responses with each of his questions. Kei wouldn’t think much of it though, drawing the conclusion that you were probably tired and had a long day. Now getting ready for bed, you are also thinking that maybe you just needed some sleep. Getting into the bed you would wait for Kei to lay down, but his phone buzzing non stop he would check it. Texting back to whoever it was laughing and smiling at the lit screen. You would finally snap, all those toxic thoughts reaching up “who are you texting?, your other girlfriend?” venom seething through with each word. Kei would be shocked at your words, never hearing you speak to him that way. He would try to explain to you calmly that it was his team's group chat and that Taki had sent a funny meme. But his own stress building up and having no energy to deal with this he would lash out. Starting a screaming match, both taking your stress and anger at each other. Words being thrown left and right, silence only coming when you hear “maybe I should be with her, at least she wouldn’t act like a crazy bitch”.

You and Kei fell silent as soon as he spoke those hurtful words. The muscles in your chest tighten up, feeling your face flush as your eyes stinged with tears threatening to escape. Choosing not to say anything else, you grab your keys and storm out of the apartment leaving Kei alone. Guilt washing over him as he cursed himself out knowing he should have never let it get that fair. Especially since he didn’t mean a single thing that came out of his mouth. Opting not to chase after you just yet, wanting to give you both the space you needed.

Storming out of that apartment you found yourself at the nearby corner store, going up to the counter as you asked for the marlboro reds. Making your purchase and leaving heading to the park that was just across from the store. Sitting down on the swing, staring at the pack of cigarettes. The monsters in your head whispering their evil words, opening the little box and pulling a stick out. Lifting your other hand up that holds the lighter, feeling your thumb make contact with the harsh spark wheel. Lighting it up and burning the end of the cigarette, getting ready to take your first inhale. The cigarette and lighter would be knocked out of your hand. Landing down on the grass with a black nike shoe stomping out the cherry. Raising your head to meet the person getting ready to yell you would instantly be startled quiet as your eyes met Keis furious ones. Kei would start to yell again, lecturing you that these things could kill. When he finally calmed down he would rub the bridge of his nose asking why the hell you would even think about doing this. That was when the tears would finally break through it bearer, now a sobbing mess you would tell him everything. Holding your head in your hands as it all became too much to hold it in. Keis heart would soften at the sight of the state you were in. Kneeling down he would hold your hands, lifting your chin to look at him. The entire night would be him and you apologizing for your actions, along with coming up with new healthier strategies for when you start to feel like this.

Fuma-

Fuma knew you were a smoker before you two started dating. The relationship only started out in the talking stage. He would tell you that he wanted to move forward with you, but he doesn’t want to date a smoker. You would understand and since you were also wanting to make each other official you agreed you would stop smoking. It was definitely difficult at first, as quitting any form of addiction was. Now quitting nicotine even if it is cold turkey there are no severe physical side effects. But it does come with having to get through cravings along with irritation levels rising and some may even feel a dull pain throughout their body. You and Fuma knew this but you were determined and Fuma was more than supportive of you.

It being a while since you’ve officially quit smoking. You can say yours and Fumas' relationship was going more than well. This being the most healthy and stable partner you’ve ever had made you a better person as well, even taking better care of your physical health. However there are still a few things that could be worked on. One being the fact that you never tell Fuma when something is wrong. Always keeping your problems and negative emotions to yourself often lead to small arguments. You knew it was something you needed to work on but it was hard to break old habits. The moment that made you finally seek professional help to work on your personal journey would be when Fuma found you smoking again.

Having a really stressful week because of work, more specifically because of a new coworker of yours. They were always rude to you and constantly took credit for your work oftentimes even leading to your boss comparing you two. One day being the worst as your mental health was already low, and having everything not work out for you the whole day made you feel as if the entire world was against you. Not wanting to tell Fuma though as his week had been the complete opposite, having things go perfectly the way he wanted to. You would turn away the idea of even telling him thinking it would bring down his day and you didn’t want to throw a wet towel on it. You would try to act normal through the rest of the day, acting as if it didn’t feel like someone had thrown chains attached to weights over your body. It wouldn’t be until late at night, 2am more precisely as Fuma slept comfortably as you tossed and turned not being able to get even an ounce of sleep in. Not wanting to wake Fuma you would quietly slip out of bed and head downstairs to put your shoes on. Hoping going for a short walk would help, heading outside you would find yourself at the 24/hour gas station. Telling yourself that you’re only there to get a midnight snack and maybe some melatonin. Heading to the counter to check out your plan would start to fail as you eyed the camel royal reds. Your impulse breaking as you asked the cashier for a pack.

Going home you would stay on the front porch instead of going inside. Sitting on the little porch swing as you took in the silence that came with the night. Hand clutching the pack of cigarettes as unfavoring thoughts would start to loom around as if it was a parasite finding a host. Your impulse takes over you once again, tearing off the plastic and opening the red box. Placing the cigarette in between your lips and pulling out the lighter. Cupping your hand around the flame so the wind doesn’t blow it out, lifting it up but never letting the flame touch the cigarette. The front door swinging open revealing Fuma, making eye contact you felt your body seize up knowing you fucked up. Fuma wouldn’t say a thing as he made his way towards you, snatching it out of your hands. Storming back inside you would chase after him, anxiously letting him know it’s not what it looks like. Upon hearing your words he would stop and turn around facing you. “It’s not what it looks like?, are you fucking serious?, then what is it then huh? Because it looks a lot like you were getting ready to smoke when I had specifically told you I won’t date people who do shit like this!”. Raising his voice sent you over the edge, your mouth opening but nothing coming out. Trying to find the words not but being able too, Fuma would grow irritated with your silence “that’s what I thought”. He would say getting ready to turn on his hills and leave. Stopping though as he felt you grabbing onto his shirt, “I-I’m so sorry, please it’s it’s not like that” inhaling shakily before you spoke again “it’s just, fuck, things are just way to- I don’t know! Everything is just crashing, and I can’t, pl-please Fuma. I don't know why I got them, it’s just everything is getting too much and I needed something, just fucking something to ease it all because I swear to fucking God I can’t, I can’t do this anymore” your body shaking violently as you rambled on trying to get him to stay but turning into a sobbing mess, your heart pounding in your chest reaching up to your ears turning into the only thing you could hear. Gasping as it felt like the air around you had disappeared.

Growing concern and somewhat guilty as he realized that you’ve been suffering. Fuma would pull you in a tight embrace, rubbing your back not saying anything as he let you get everything off your chest. Sniffing against his chest you would mumble a broken and weak “help me”.

Nicholas-

For Nicholas it’s actually kind of the other way around. Nicholas would be the one who was addicted to nicotine along with other addictions like alcohol. His friend group is also filled with people who have all kinds of addictions. He would have never even thought about quitting until he met you. You were someone who was against smoking, so knowing this Nicholas would want to quit as it meant being with you. Now even when y’all are dating I see him still smoking as he doesn’t intend to cut cold turkey, choosing the easing off of it route instead. Nevertheless you would support him, knowing he’s trying hard to quit. That’s why when it came to his friend's party he grew furious and screamed at you.

Having received an invitation for his friend's birthday he debated if he should go or not. But you encouraged him to go as it was still his friend. Coming to the game plan that he would bring you with him as a support buddy for when he felt like going overboard with all of the substances that would be there. Now Nicholas’s friends did know that he was trying to quit and they were also aware that you didn’t do any of that stuff. Keeping that in mind Nicholas didn’t see any issue with leaving you by yourself with them as he excused himself to the restroom.

So when he walked into the living room he was not expecting to see a cigarette resting between two of your fingers as your other hand lit the lighter. “What the fuck!?” he would scream out startling everyone including you. He would make his way towards you, ripping them out of your hand and grabbing your wrist pulling you up and dragging you out of his friend's apartment. Dragging you down the street by your wrist, your pleas and attempts to stop him failing. It won’t be until you were a good couple of blocks away he would stop and face you. Screams falling out of his mouth. Nicholas was upset with you, but because you almost smoked. It was that but so much more, he was pissed because a. You knew he was trying to quit and that it was difficult for him b. You told him you were heavily against that shit so why the hell would you do it? And c. How can you be so easily pressured by his friends?. Nicholas however wasn’t only upset with you though. A part of his anger was towards his friends because he thought better of them than that, but also at himself because how could he so easily trust them with you knowing their true nature.

Nicholas would leave you there in the streets alone that night. Even going three days straight without speaking to you because of how upset that night made him. Not even wanting to speak to you the third day, but not having much of a choice since here you are now. Standing in front of him in the entry to his apartment, while holding a box filled with his things asking him for yours back. Convenience you two were no longer a thing as he left you that night you would try to return his things and possibly even apologize. Feeling like someone stabbed a knife through his chest Nicholas would understand how messy everything was now. His whole world crashed down as he stared at you. Grabbing the box and tossing it on the floor, he would pull you into a hug. Nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck as he broke down crying, not wanting to let you go because you were the only good thing in his life. Your own arms wrapping around him, trying not to cry as well as sorrys left your lips and his. It would go to say that you both stayed together, only drawing to the conclusion that he needed to drop his friends and you needed to learn how to say no.

Euijoo-

Euijoo and you both weren’t and never were smokers. Having countless conversations with one another and others on how you would never touch a cigarette. Being with Euijoo would be a dream come true for you both as you both have a lot of the same morals with one another. That being said though you could imagine his disappointment when he catches you almost smoking.

It was around the time of year for your families ‘family reunion’. Usually dreading this event as you couldn’t stand your Aunt. But this year was different since now you can bring Euijoo, thinking that if you brought him that it would stop your Aunt. Whenever your Aunt was around she always had to say something about everyone. You being her biggest target, she would always point out if you gained weight, or try to point out some bullshit flaw with your appearance or life choices. So bringing Euijoo was your best option because there’s no way she’ll act like that in front of a guest. Little did you know that it only fueled her more.

Heading over to your Grandparents house as the reunion was held there for as long as you could remember. Introducing Euijoo to everyone, and everyone being respectful and kind to him. That is until your Aunt and cousins would show up, she would immediately start talking shit about you to him. Saying things about how he could do better, and even trying to hook him up with one of her daughters also being your oldest cousin. Euijoo would also be uncomfortable, but not wanting to be rude he would still act polite. Tired of your Aunt you would sneak out to the garage only to find your youngest cousin already in there smoking away. Both staring at each, your cousin would break the silence “hiding from my mom too huh?”. Both erupting in a laughing fit as you sat down next to them. You wouldn’t bother lecturing your cousin for smoking because you lived by the motto “it’s your life, not mine”. Also paired with the understanding that if you had a mother like your aunt you probably would also start smoking.

Instead you two would crack jokes about your aunt and catch up with one another. Your cousin grabbed another as they offered you one, saying “it’s how I deal with her”. Debating if you should but eventually giving into the stress “just one”, you told them, but also telling yourself. It was just one, what harm could it be? Getting ready to light up the cigarette Euijoo walks in. “Here you are, please come back your Aunt is-” instantly falling silent as he witnessed the scene in front of him. Your cousin feeling the awkward tension rise between you two, they would put theirs out and excuse themselves. As soon as they left you would try to explain to Euijoo the why, but he just wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t comprehend why on earth you would even think about doing that kind of thing. Not wanting to argue with you at your family reunion he would stop you mid-explaining. “Enough y/n, we’ll talk when we get home” would be all he would say. The rest of the day would consist of you two trying to be civil in front of your family. Euijoo won’t speak a word about the incident even on the way home. You wouldn’t try to say anything either until you reached home. Not wanting to jump right into the conversation you would try to ask simple questions like if he wanted to shower first. But Euijoo would stay quiet, walking right past you and into your shared room. Euijoo couldn’t bring himself to talk to you, he was a mix of disappointed and angry that he just couldn’t form words. Giving up on trying to talk to him, you would go shower first. The moment you stepped under the water your emotions would fill to the tip now overflowing as you cried to yourself silently in the shower.

Euijoo would grow worried though as you’ve been in the shower for almost two hours. Getting up from the bed he would step towards the bathroom, knocking first asking if you were okay. But receiving no response he would open the door calling out to you to let you know he was coming in. As soon as he stepped in the poorly muffled cries would reach him. A pang of guilt would hit him, knowing he should have talked things out with you instead of giving you the silent treatment. Grabbing the towel off the sink he would approach the shower, reaching in to turn off the shower and opening the curtain to reveal your wet body still sniffling. He would help you out and assist you in drying yourself and getting dressed. He would lead you to the bedroom and cuddle you for the night. Both of you apologizing and promising each other you won’t do what you each did tonight ever again.

[applelune]

──★ ˙ 🍎 ̟ !! Elliot Pierce - the lyrical genius

‎ ‎⋆✴︎ star apple biodata ✴︎⋆

❝ i've been writing ballads all my life, my muse. it's no wonder that songs flow to me like water. ❞

gender : male

age : 31

ethnicity : american

occupation: singer

☆ about Elliot 。 。 。

When anyone thinks of the name Elliot Pierce, they think of the heartthrob superstar who write ballads that speak to the soul. All of his albums always make it to the top of the charts and songs win world class awards with critical acclaim. Ladies fall to his feet, begging to be his muse for the next lyrical masterpieces he's going to write. Known as the singer who ran away from an abusive home and won a historical court battle against his predatory company, Elliot has become a role model representing resilience and success. However, deep down, Elliot struggles with his own battles. Despite appearing confident and put together, Elliot suffers from intense self-loathing, abandonment issues, and addiction. Substance abuse is a long battle he's fighting against to escape his issues into another reality and to deal with the anxiety of never being enough. Being Elliot's lover means constantly making promises of forever. Elliot needs to know that you'll stay with him for the rest of your lives; extending even in death when you both eventually pass away. He'll make sure to whisper images of your future together when he holds you at night, he'll attempt to get better just so he could make that distant reality come true. He'll do anything to make sure that you'll stay. He'll dedicate the rest of his life to writing songs for you, providing you with the best, and guaranteeing your safety. All you need to do is just say that you'll never leave him alone with his thoughts. If Elliot ever senses you thinking of leaving him, he won't be afraid to break down in front of you. He can't take another person taking away the sliver of happiness in his life; the only person who he trusts with this broken part of him. He'll turn into a self-destructing mess and threaten to go back to his old habits. You don't want your poor Elliot to hurt himself anymore, would you? Not when he's doing so well trying to make himself into a better man, just for you. And once he manages to make you promise him once again that you'll stay, he'll be making sure to hide you away from the things that even made you consider leaving him. If necessary, he doesn't mind getting his hands dirty to make sure your future and emotions are back under his control.

☆ the visuals 。 。 。

Silky golden blond hair that he always tousled in the most perfect way. He has a very specific way of styling his hair and hates it when it looks any other way. Do note that a bad hair day will automatically ruin the rest of his day (unless you assure him that he still looks good either way; maybe the mood will improve a little bit)

Cold silver eyes. His eyesight is terrible due to countless hours staring at a screen. He doesn't wear his glasses in public spaces since he thinks he looks bad in them. So, he always has clear contact lenses in case he needs to put away his glasses.

Pale skin, sickly pale actually. Due to being holed up in his studios a lot when he doesn't need to make a public appearance, his already pale skin developed a sickly pale shade. That's why it's a must that he wears makeup to cover his prominent eyebags to maintain the flawless image to the public.

Stands at a comfortable 168 cm. His figure is lean and with a little bit of muscle. Elliot wants to gain more muscle but it's a struggle for him to even maintain the ones he already has from disappearing. He will never go shirtless in public due to the fact that he thinks that his chest needs more mass to look good and because he has countless old scars from depressive and self-hate episodes he used to have before meeting you.

Both of his ears are pierced as is looking to get more piercings, but is still unsure on where he should get it next.

He has a silver chain necklace he wears wherever he goes. Other than because he thinks that it looks cool, it was the first ever fashion accessory he bought with his own money after being able to support himself with his musical career.

Elliot cares very much about what he wears. He loves wearing tailored and high fashion suits to award shows and interviews. A big fan of wearing leather gloves. When he's alone and chilling with you, he's much more casual and loves to layer clothes with a pair of baggy jeans.

❝ you don't understand... being with you makes me feel human. without you i am a monster, i am nothing. ❞

You wondered how you got yourself into this situation in the first place. It all started with one night of busking at a high-end bar. You've been doing that almost every day of the week to try and make a name for yourself while getting pretty good pay on the side. On that same night, somehow you ended up coming across a dangerously drunk Elliot Pierce and helping him back to his penthouse before any cameras see his messy state. You thought it was only going to be a one-time thing; a fever dream of a night and a crazy story you were gonna tell your friends sometime in the future.

So, what were you doing in his penthouse again?

It wasn't the first time you came over. On that crazy night, Elliot wouldn't allow you to leave. As soon as you dropped him off on his bed, he made you climb in by crying and begging you to not leave him alone. So, seeing how broken he looked, you did. Ever since then, the blond superstar has been calling you whenever he wanted company and you've, for some reason, been agreeing.

You coming to his penthouse started with pity. Drunk Elliot clung onto you onto the night while he sobbed and vented about multiple things; about his life, his career, and how alone he felt due to the lack of genuine human contact. You tried to slip out of his hold but, every time you did, he'd let out a sad cry and you ended up staying.

You expected to be kicked out the next day, but you were met with an embarrassed yet thankful Elliot. Despite the unconventional introduction, Elliot liked how you didn't take advantage of his drunk state and listened to him. So, you both exchanged numbers for when Elliot needs a drinking buddy and when he feels the need for human interaction.

You can't tell if it was just you, but you the more time the two of you spent together the more domestic your interactions felt.

"I made pasta today. I had some seafood left over and I thought I'd add them in too," Elliot casually said as he made you wait over at the dining table. He brought over two plates of delicious smelling pasta over and put it in front of you.

"Thanks," you awkwardly said as the two of you began eating.

The routine of when Elliot called you has always been the same. He'd have food ready when you arrive. Then, you'd both eat before making your way over to the couch to drink; well more like take sips while Elliot downs bottles by himself. While that happens, you both would talk and, then, the night would end with the both of you cuddling in bed.

"I have a surprise for you after this," Elliot announced when the two of you finally finished eating. You had just finished washing the dishes and were drying your hands.

"Oh, what is it?" You asked curiously. Elliot gave you a cheeky smile in response as he took one of your hands.

"You'll like it, trust me," he simply said as he lead you into one of the rooms in his fancy and very expensive penthouse. The room looked like a home studio filled with a couple of monitors, musical instruments, and vibey mood lighting. He made you sit down on one of the office chairs by the monitor as he opened a music file.

The song he played had beautiful instrumentals and lyrics. You could tell that the emotions the song was trying to portray sounded raw, yet beautiful. You paid attention to the lyrics and noticed how it sang of forever and the feeling of longing. As a whole, the song sounded perfect and you were sure that it was going to win awards if it gets released.

"What do you think?" Elliot eagerly asked when the song finished.

"Yeah, it's really good! It sound's really romantic though. Is this song about someone?" You asked as you turned to look at him. You could see that his eyes light up when you said that you liked it.

"I'm glad you like it! After all, this is a song I wrote for you," Elliot chuckled as he leaned back on his chair. Your own eyes widened, not expecting the singer to give out that answer.

"What? What do you mean that this is a song about me?" You didn't understand why he wrote you this song. This whole time, you've been under the pretense that you both have just been hanging out casually with no feelings involved.

"Of course it's about you!" Elliot exclaimed as he took both of your hands into his, his eyes filled with so much love that you didn't expect to see from him, "Spending time with you has made me realize what it means to be human, to be seen as the true me."

You were trying to process everything and listening intently at where the conversation was going.

"I didn't think spending time with someone could ever make me feel whole you know? My whole life has just been filled with people who criticize me or people who were just there for the fame," as he said all this, his grip stayed strong on your hands as if he was afraid that you wouldn't hear him out until the end, "But spending time with you has made me realize that I've just hadn't met the right person. Now I can't even imagine what it would be like if you decided to stop coming over."

Your breath hitched as he confessed about his thoughts.

"I have more songs written about you, you know? But, they're not done yet and I only want to show you the best of me so you won't leave," he said with a chuckle before continuing, "I can show you all of them if you want. Just... promise me that you'll continue to stay with me or I don't know what I would do to myself without you."

You looked at Elliot as he said that, his body language seeming confident and charming as if he's giving you a choice. However, the desperation in his silver eyes and the tight grip he had on your hands made you scared of what he'd do if you decided to walk away from him.

[hoshiputa]

Cyber

💌 woozi x female reader

📩 Request: Phone sex with Woozi.

cw: nsfw, smut, established relationship, pet names (babygirl, princess, etc), masturbation, exhibitionism

word count: 1.2k

It was past midnight when your phone started ringing. You grabbed as fast as you could, because you already knew who it was.

Lee Jihoon. Your beloved, hard working, super famous boyfriend.

He usually called at that time when he was at the studio, because that was when he had a break. The only difference today was that it was a video call instead of the usual late night voice calls.

“Hi, babe!”

“Hello.”

Jihoon immediately smiled at you through the screen, the well known blue lightning of his studio making him look as beautiful as ever. His phone was set at the perfect angle, showing off his muscled arms.

“What's with the video call?” You asked. “Not that I'm complaining.”

It was always good to see him, of course. Especially when he had been away for days like this, working day and night to produce another masterpiece for his group, unable to come back home for you.

“I wanted to see your face,” he said softly.

“Aww, I miss you!”

You rolled around in your bed, kicking your feet in the air like the main character of a teenage movie talking to their crush for the first time.

“What are you doing? Did you eat?” Jihoon asked.

“I was just watching some Netflix. And yes, I had dinner. What about you?”

He sighed, running his fingers through his hair.

“I ate instant noodles,” he confessed.

“Lee Jihoon! What did I tell you?!”

“It was just this time. Please forgive me.”

Staring at your boyfriend through your phone screen, you felt your heart ache. You hadn't seen each other in a week and it was starting to make you feel sad.

“And how was your day?” You asked him.

“It was nice… I just stayed here for the most part of it.”

Jihoon giggled, like being trapped in a music studio for the whole week wasn't a complete nightmare like most people thought

“You're the only person I know who doesn't complain about work.”

“What can I say? I like what I do.”

Jihoon leaned against his chair, pushing it back a little just so the screen could show up from his thighs to his face. It was unusual, because normally his video calls were filled with awkward close ups of his face.

“Sir, are you trying to seduce me?!”

Jihoon giggled, the kind of laugh he let out every time he did have something up his sleeve.

“Actually, I have something to show you.”

“What is it?”

Not even intense therapy through the twenty years of your life would've prepared you to watch your boyfriend pull out his cock on camera. Your jaw dropped at the sight, his length standing up hard and nice as he smirked at you through the screen.

“What— Jihoon! What?”

You had no words, so you just kept staring at the screen. Mouth watering, body heat going up, thighs clenching as you sat up on your bed.

“I've been missing you,” he said, hands wrapping around his length. “This much.”

“Oh, God.”

You rolled around on your bed, screaming into your pillow as you held tight against your phone.

“I was jerking off to one of your pictures, and then I thought… We could make it better.”

There was this thing. With Jihoon's busy schedules and all of the time you two had to spend away from each other, both of you agreed to share and save each other's nudes.

“I can't stop staring at your dick.”

You chuckled awkwardly, being washed over by the memories of Jihoon on top of you, his cock stretching you out and hitting just right. It wasn't fair you had to be away from him.

“So… Can you take your clothes off for me?”

You weren't the exhibitionist type. To be honest, you weren't any type before Jihoon — just some boring random girl. Then he came into your life and showed you his ways, and now you were addicted. So you didn't think twice before ripping your clothes off so fast it made Jihoon giggle.

Laying on bed, you lifted up your phone, showing off your naked body for him.

“Fuck, you're so hot,” Jihoon said, hand slightly stroking his dick.

It wasn't just missing him. And it wasn't just desire and lust. You actually yearned for him. Not only his body, but hearing those nice words coming straight out of his mouth and being whispered to your ears, his soft hands touching all over your body, wrapping around your neck.

“I miss you so much,” you whined.

“I miss you too, babygirl,” he sighed. “I wish I could be there to spread you out and fuck you senseless.”

“Shit, don't say that.”

“Why? Am I making you wet?”

For someone who wasn't into exhibitionism, you for sure felt the urge to touch yourself to make Jihoon know how much you missed him. And it was sinful, to say the least. To wrap your fingers around your hardened nipples and watch Jihoon touch his hardened dick, biting his lip as you showed off like you were his favorite movie star.

“Fuck, you know how much I love those tits, right?” He asked, voice hoarse.

Of course you knew it. You knew it because every time Jihoon got you naked, he sucked on your nipples like his life depended on it. And oh, how you missed his mouth on your skin.

“What about spreading your legs for me? Will you show me your cunt?”

Hearing Jihoon asking so nicely and calmly for something so dirty made you gasp softly, reminiscing all of the times it was his hands spreading your legs open for him to dive into your wet pussy and suck on your juices like it was his favorite drink. When you opened your legs and leaned against your bed frame, Jihoon let out a soft moan as he pressed his thumb against the tip of his cock.

“That's right, you're such a good girl,” he smirked through the screen.

You watched as Jihoon started stroking his cock a little faster, biting his lip as he watched your naked body. It felt good to know he needed you that much, so much only a picture wasn't enough. Your head ran over all of the times you had his fingers inside you, playing with your cunt just to tease you. All of the times he fucked deep into you as you begged for more.

“Are you touching yourself, babe? Let me see it,” he said, now slowly stroking his cock.

You hadn't noticed your free hand slipped in between your legs, because you were lost in thoughts about having Jihoon's muscled arms around you.

“I— Can't help it,” you said, slightly embarrassed.

“It's okay,” he smiled at you. “I'd love to watch you fuck yourself.”

You bit your lip at his words, fingers pressing against your clit as you moved them in circles. You thought about Jihoon and how he was perfect with his hands, his soft fingers plunging into your cunt.

“That's perfect, babe. We can do it together.”

Your head was spinning when you buried two of your fingers inside your wet cunt, the phone in your other hand showing Jihoon's eagerness as he stroked his cock faster.

“You want this cock?”

“Yes.”

You whined, gasping as your fingers fucked into your cunt. The only problem was they weren't as thick and good as Jihoon.

“I want your pussy too, babe,” he said. “You always take my cock so well.”

Jihoon gasped, biceps flexing as he moved his hand faster and faster around his leaking length.

“Yeah, I love your cock,” you moaned, fingers brushing against your own walls.

“Oh, my love, you look so good when you're desperate for my cock.”

Jihoon leaned back against his chair, hand working even faster and harder around his thick cock.

“I wish I could be coming all over you now,” he said.

Your toes curled and your legs clenched, the way Jihoon always painted you with his warm cum imprinted into your brain.

“I'd treat you just right, my princess,” he let out a gasp. “Let you ride my cock just how you like it.”

“Fuck, Jihoon!” You whined, back arching against your bed.

“Are you going to come? From watching me jerking off to you?”

“Yes!” You moaned.

It didn't take long. The mix of Jihoon's words, the sight of his beautiful cock and your fingers stretching you out, your orgasm hit so hard you rolled your eyes and let your phone fall from your hand. From the noises you heard from Jihoon, you were sure he had finally come too. Laying on your side, you grabbed the phone to watch a messed up Jihoon staring back at you. There were strands of his hair falling on his face and his breathing was just as hard as yours.

“That was so fucking hot,” he said in between sighs.

“Oh my God, I love you,” you confessed.

“I love you too, babe.”

[soupymango]

Any HCs for Vox with a gn!Reader that loves to mess with his tie? Either grabbing it to pull him into a kiss or just to help him fix it every morning?

YESS 🙏🏼🙏🏼

Vox x gn!Reader

Genre: Fluff/headcanons

Cw:None 💅🏼✨

≣≣≣≣≣✿≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣

He def was confused when you first did it and let's just say it wasn't the best knot lol.

He taught you the proper way, but he framed it as teaching you a better looking knot.

He feels strange when he doesn't have his tie tied by you every morning and he def can't leave without you kissing him.

It's like that scene in the Incredibles when she pulls him into a kiss while he's leaving.

He can't get enough and you def have him wrapped around your finger.

It's become his addiction, his routine, and he basically can't function without you tying his tie/bow tie and pulling him in for a kiss every morning.

If you're bored, he lets you fidget with his tie, loosening it and tying it again while sitting in his lap while he works.

He gets a laugh at the different patterns and colors of ties you get him (tvs, wifi symbols, etc)

≣≣≣≣≣✿≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣

He stood there watching silently as your hands worked effortlessly at his bowtie, it was like muscle memory for you at that point. Sure you had started off with the worst tie tying ever, but hey, who doesn't?

You finished it off, creating a perfect bow. As you fluffed it a bit, he had a small smile as he watched you. Your hands then went to the edges of his screen and you pulled him in for a kiss like always. It was clockwork for you two, it felt like if you didn't do this you would feel off the entire day.

You kissed him once more and let him go to his filming studio for another show for one of his many channels. But, you both knew that he would probably come back in a few hours for you to hang out with him in his moniter room.

≣≣≣≣≣✿≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣≣

I totally did not post this before finishing (I totally did smh) anyways, hope yall enjoy o(^▽^)o

Requests open!

[agirlsawalittlerose]

This is Me Trying

ModernAU!Aegon x OFC

Fresh out of rehab, Aegon Targaryen is looking for a way back into music when he meets Victoria, a talented but stubborn singer-songwriter who wants nothing to do with his family’s record label. Reluctantly thrown together, they form an unexpected creative partnership, finding common ground in music and shared struggles.

TW: Alcoholism, Addiction, Sexism, sex, MINORS STAY AWAY

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 11: Perfect Day

Loving someone you’re not supposed to love is a cruel affliction.

It clings to you, tainting everything—your mind, the blood in your veins, your past and your future.

It doesn’t matter how many years go by, how many times you fall back into it. That love stays there, dormant, tucked away in some dark corner of your being, hidden between scar tissue and gut. And it doesn’t matter how many attempts you make to replace that ugly thing with something beautiful, strong, or bright—every time a thought sneaks in, or worse, a place, your body reacts before your mind does, and the love that was never meant to be comes rushing back.

In your stomach first, then in your head.

In the warmth and nausea, and then in the memories.

It’s surprising, really, how the brain clings to everything that hurts us, no matter how hard we try to forget. You catch yourself standing in front of a café and suddenly remember the exact words you spoke, the clothes you were wearing, how much smoother your skin was before the fine lines of age marked the passage of these long, aching years without him.

Loving someone you’re not supposed to love is a cruel affliction. And it never truly leaves.

Vic thought that, all things considered, she was lucky. She had Sara, her mother, her pub, and her eighty-year-old friends. Yes, friends.

She had music—her songs, and Aegon’s.

She had just been thinking that now, at least, she had the money to pay for St. Louis when, right in the middle of her shift, an email came in.

She had wrapped up the conversation with the supplier as quickly and professionally as possible, skipping her usual habit of double-checking the gin bottles, then rushed off to find Sara.

She found her at the register, chatting with Mae.

“It’s here,” was all Vic said.

Sara understood immediately. The way Vic was fidgeting, shoving her bangs out of her eyes with a sharp tilt of her head, gave her away.

“Sorry, Mae, sweetheart, I’ll tell you later what that snake charmer had to say,” Sara said before letting Vic drag her into the staff room at the back.

They stood facing each other.

“Well? Open it!” Sara ordered.

Vic stared at her for a moment, the phone in her hand suddenly weighing a ton. She glanced at the screen, then turned her head sharply, thrusting the phone at Sara instead.

“I can’t do it. You read it, and I’ll figure out if I got in from your face,” Vic said anxiously, picking at the skin around her nail until it bled.

Sara took the phone with a deep breath before opening the email.

Vic studied her intently, waiting for even the smallest flicker of reaction, but it didn’t take much to figure out the result.

Sara had gone pale. She froze for two unbearable seconds before shooting Vic a quick glance and then lowering her head, shaking it.

“I need a cigarette,” was all Vic said.

She had no desire to dwell on this failure. In fact, she had no desire to face that part of her brain that equated failure with worth. For the past months, the two had been hopelessly intertwined, and Vic didn’t have the strength to reassure herself.

For a long moment, she forgot about the warmth of the pub, the successes in the studio with Aegon, the rare but meaningful compliments from Aemond. She was using every bit of her mental energy not to break down crying right there in front of the pub, cigarette in hand, trying not to think about the fact that she hadn’t gotten into St. Louis.

Maybe if she focused hard enough, if she actually listened to whatever story Sara was telling Mae, if she forced herself to talk to Arthur despite the old man’s grumbling, or to make small talk with Rhys even though he never had anything important to say, she could keep the crushing weight of failure from sinking in.

Her energy held up only until the end of her shift. Then, as she placed the last glass back on the shelf, the avalanche of toxic thoughts finally swallowed her whole.

She stared at the beer taps.

And thought: fuck it.

After the first pint, talking to Mae became easier, the weight of St. Louis buried under ***ml of bubbles and hops.

“Ah, so now you’re interested in my stories,” Mae teased, taking a slow sip of her drink.

Vic propped her chin on her hand, grinning lazily. “I’m always interested in your stories.”

Mae scoffed. “You weren’t interested when I tried telling you about my hip surgery.”

“That’s different,” Vic argued, waving a hand dismissively. “Now tell me about your husband again.”

A fond smile crossed Mae’s face. “Met him at a dance. I was in love with someone else at the time.”

Vic narrowed her eyes, intrigued. “Oh? Scandalous.”

“Not really. The other one was a fool,” Mae said with a shrug. “And my Michael—he wasn’t the first man I loved, but he was the one who stayed.”

Vic hummed, running a finger along the rim of her glass. The warmth of the beer buzzed pleasantly in her veins, dulling the ache in her chest.

“The one who stayed,” she murmured. “That’s nice.”

Vic thought she didn’t have anyone who stayed.

Her mind drifted back to Charlie, to Amy—to how that poor girl was surely dealing with his endless rants about cryptocurrency and conspiracy theories by now.

Well, at least she had someone.

Then her phone rang.

It was her mother. She probably wasn’t calling to ask about St. Louis—she was always too busy to remember Vic was even waiting for the results.

The thought was oddly comforting. At least she wouldn’t have to bring it up herself. Encouraged by that small relief, she answered, even though she was tipsy. If her mother noticed, she’d definitely launch into one of her lectures.

“Hey, Ma,” Vic said, straightening her posture and giving Mae an apologetic look before taking the call.

“Vic, don’t panic, but we’re at the hospital. There was an accident with Peter. We were arguing, and he pushed me by mistake—we both fell…”

Vic stopped listening at that moment, completely shattered.

That by mistake—she had heard it too many times before. Too many times, she had desperately tried to get help from relatives, from organizations, from professionals, only to be told that, as a sister, there was nothing she could do.

She just needed this day to be over.

And she needed another beer.

By now, the motion had become almost automatic. Before she even realized it, Vic had ordered another pint. She took a long, heavy sip, then ran her fingers over the condensation on the glass, lost somewhere between thinking about everything and, thankfully, nothing at all.

Then, out of nowhere, a thought pushed its way to the forefront—relentless, growing larger with every passing second. The need to be touched. The need to feel close to someone. The unbearable weight of not wanting to be alone suddenly pressed down on her, suffocating.

It took her all of twenty seconds to abandon her barely-touched pint and spend £18 she didn’t have on an Uber to Highbury. In the car, she tried to fix her makeup, smeared from the tears she had stubbornly held back. Instead of opening the front-facing camera, she accidentally turned on the flashlight, probably blinding the poor driver.

*Fuck it,* she thought, letting it go.

When she got out, murmuring a barely audible thanks, it only took a few steps to reach the building where the Targaryen family lived. What she didn’t expect was to find who she was looking for outside, smoking on the street.

“Vic?” Aegon said, his voice tinged with surprise, clearly not expecting to see her at this hour.

Poor Cinderella, she thought in her alcohol-fueled haze, relegated to the curb just to catch a glimpse of the city at night.

He was wearing grey sweatpants and a white tank top, his tattoos peeking out playfully along his arms.

“Vic?!” he repeated, more insistent this time, when she didn’t answer. She was close enough now for him to notice just how drunk she was.

She held up a finger, signaling him to stay quiet. Aegon frowned, confused, watching her as she stared straight into his eyes. She was searching—desperately—for something. An answer about herself, about the two of them, about what was so broken inside her, about why life felt so exhausting.

But all she saw was him: his deep eyes, the mustache he stubbornly refused to shave, his full lips.

So she kissed him.

*****

No hesitation, no prelude—just the press of her lips against his, hot and urgent, like she’d already decided exactly how this was going to go.

For a moment, Aegon froze.

With one hand she held his neck, her main thought always to not let him go, while with the other she had started caressing his abs to then find the elastic of his sweatpants.

Her mouth moved against his like a demand, a challenge, and his chest tightened with the realization that she wasn’t giving him time to think.

She didn’t want slow. She didn’t want tender.

She wanted this.

And God help him, so did he.

Aegon groaned into the kiss, the sound half frustration, half surrender, his hands flying to her waist, to her back, to her—as if he could somehow keep her close enough to steal whatever part of her she wasn’t willing to give. Vic’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him growl. She was clinging to him, pressing against him with reckless abandon.

Vic bent slightly, her hand grazing his cock through his sweatpants, a touch that sent him completely feral.

With a sharp inhale, he grabbed her hips and yanked her even closer, swallowing the surprised sound she made as his grip turned rough. The kiss deepened—heat and hunger, teeth scraping against swollen lips, tongues colliding in a war neither of them wanted to win.

Aegon’s hands dragged down the curve of her spine, fingers splayed, pressing her flush against him. He felt her chest rise against his, the quickened beat of her heart drumming against his own. He wanted to drown in it.

He then hesitated for a second, doubt flickering in his eyes—was fucking under his attic by the road really a good idea? But Vic met his gaze with a look that said, Fuck it. And damn, if that wasn’t also his life philosophy.

And suddenly, Aegon was done pretending.

He spun her around, pressing her against the cold brick wall, his body caging hers in.

Vic gasped—sharp, breathless—but she didn’t push him away. She arched into it, rolling her hips back against him in a silent dare. And that was all the permission he needed.

The last shred of restraint shattered.

He kissed the nape of her neck, open-mouthed, hungry, dragging his teeth down the slope of her shoulder while his hands roamed, exploring, claiming.

One hand slipped beneath her shirt, fingers tracing her stomach before sliding up to tease her nipple, rolling it between his fingertips. She let out a soft gasp, arching into his touch. The other hand dragged up her thigh, slipping beneath the hem of her skirt, fingertips pressing into her inner thigh in a silent promise.

Vic exhaled sharply as she felt the growing heat of his arousal pressed against her ass, separated only by the thin fabric of his sweatpants. She pushed back against him instinctively, grinding just enough to feel the sharp inhale he took against her skin.

His hands tightened. "You keep doing that, and I’m not gonna hold back."

She turned her head slightly, enough for him to see the smirk ghosting her lips.

A curse slipped from his lips, low and rough, before he yanked her skirt higher, fingers hooking into the sides of her knickers and dragging them down her thighs.

She didn’t even had time to step out of them before he was back—his palm sliding between her legs, finding her already slick. His fingers parted her folds, gliding through the wetness, teasing, testing, as if confirming just how badly she wanted this.

Vic’s breath hitched, her body jolting at the first deliberate stroke. He circled her clit, slow and precise, before dragging his fingers down again, pressing just enough to make her gasp. A smirk ghosted across his lips as he felt her hips instinctively roll into his touch, chasing the friction.

She breathed nonsenses, her fingers curling against the brick wall, struggling to stay upright as pleasure coiled low in her stomach.

Aegon’s grip tightened on her hip, steadying her as he pushed two fingers inside her, the slow stretch pulling a low moan from her throat. He set a torturous rhythm—deep, curling strokes, each one punctuated by the obscene sound of how wet she was for him.

Her thighs trembled, knees threatening to give way. But just as she was teetering on the edge, his fingers withdrew, leaving her aching, empty.

She barely had a second to register the loss before she felt him—hot, heavy, the tip of his cock dragging through her wetness in an agonizing tease.

Aegon gripped her hip with one hand while the other guided himself to her entrance, and then, in one smooth thrust, he buried himself inside her.

A choked sound tore from her throat, fingers clawing at the brick as he stretched her open, filled her completely.

For a second, neither of them moved—just deep, shuddering breaths, the overwhelming sensation of being exactly where they needed to be. Then he pulled back, only to slam into her again, setting a pace that was anything but patient.

The wall scraped against her skin as she braced herself, gasping with every sharp thrust. His hands were everywhere—gripping her hips, sliding up her stomach, palming her breasts, his touch rough with need. His breath was hot against her ear, muttering curses, praise, things that only fueled the fire burning between them.

Vic moaned, pushing back against him, matching his rhythm, taking everything he gave. He groaned in response, his grip tightening, his thrusts turning desperate, erratic.

The city buzzed around them—the distant hum of passing cars, the occasional muffled voices from the street—but here, in this moment, none of it mattered.

There was only this.

Only them.

Only the way he fucked her like he never wanted to stop.

They fucked like they were trying to tear each other apart—biting, clawing, leaving marks that would linger long after this was over.

But beneath the raw aggression, there was something else. Aegon could feel it in the way her body yielded to him, in the way she gasped between moans, in the way she pushed back against him as if she couldn’t stand the thought of space between them.

Aegon’s lips found her neck again, biting down before soothing the sting with his tongue, his breath hot against her damp skin. The alleyway echoed with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, their heavy breathing, the soft, helpless noises slipping past Vic’s lips every time he drove deeper.

She rolled her hips, meeting him thrust for thrust, chasing the pleasure coiling tight inside her. "Fuck," she breathed, her voice raw with need.

Aegon growled in response, his rhythm turning desperate, his body taut with the effort of holding back. He could feel her getting close, the way she clenched around him, the way her moans turned breathless, erratic. One hand slid between her legs, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing in firm, precise circles.

Vic gasped, her entire body tensing, her head falling forward as the orgasm hit—sharp, blinding, all-consuming. A curse tumbled from her lips as pleasure crashed through her in violent waves, her walls tightening around him like a vice. Aegon groaned, his grip on her hips tightening as he buried himself to the hilt, his own release tearing through him with a deep, guttural moan.

For a long moment, they just stood there, breathless, bodies trembling, pressed together in the aftermath. Aegon let his forehead rest against her shoulder, his hands still gripping her waist, as if he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

Finally, he pulled out, steadying Vic when her legs wobbled. Without a word, she straightened her bra and top, not bothering to wipe the evidence of his release from her thighs before dragging her underwear back up. Then, she turned, locking eyes with him for just a second—something unreadable passing between them—before she walked away, disappearing down the alley, leaving Aegon standing there, breathless and wrecked, wondering what the fuck had just happened.

Aegon lingered outside his building for a few minutes after she disappeared. On the ground, he noticed the cigarette butt he hadn’t had the chance to finish before she’d practically thrown herself at him.

She hadn’t said a word.

For months, he’d fantasized about this moment—about using her, leaving his mark on her body and claim it as his own. And yet, now that it had happened, he felt... empty.

She had used him. She’d shown up unannounced, taken the heat of his body, and left the second she was satisfied.

She hadn’t said a word.

Back inside, he didn’t head straight to his attic but instead stopped at his parents’ place. Standing in the kitchen, his gaze fixed on nothing, he drank a glass of water. His mother walked in, her long hair loose, wrapped in a silk nightgown. Aegon couldn’t help but think she looked stunning.

“Why do you reek of alcohol?” she asked sharply. Of course, she didn’t notice his blank expression or how strange it was for him to show up at her house at 11 p.m.

She wasn’t wrong, though. He still smelled like Victoria—the scent of sex, stale beer, and the cheap shampoo she bought from Tesco.

“I didn’t drink, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said, avoiding her eyes, his tone clipped as he drained the rest of his water and leaned on the counter.

“Aegon, the point of therapy is to—”

“I didn’t drink, Mum. Drop it!” he snapped, finally meeting her gaze. Something in his eyes must have convinced Alicent, because she let the subject drop.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily. “Is Helaena home?”

Alicent nodded, her mind swirling with questions and disproportionate worries about her son’s overall state. “She’s working, though. Don’t disturb her,” she added, earning a dramatic eye roll from Aegon.

As usual, his siblings were the ones who received all the care and attention. Fuck her.

He walked through the long halls of his family home until he reached Helaena’s suite, where she had both her bedroom and a studio. He knocked but didn’t wait for an answer before pushing the door open.

Helaena took a moment to tear her eyes away from the monitor, her Avid Media Composer program open on what was surely another intense project. She definitely hadn’t been expecting a visit at this hour.

“What’s up?” she asked, her tone neutral.

“Got a joint?” Aegon blurted, his voice betraying his frayed nerves.

Helaena slipped off her headphones, swiveling in her chair to face him fully. “Close the door and sit,” she said, gesturing to the sofa behind her.

“I’m not giving you a joint, Aegon. In theory you’re not supposed to be drinking either.”

“I haven’t been drinking!” he snapped, his patience already worn thin.

Helaena didn’t flinch. “What happened?” she asked again, her calm demeanor steady.

As much as Aegon wanted to avoid saying something as pathetic as what had just transpired, the words tumbled out in a rush. “I saw Vic downstairs, like, 20 minutes ago. She showed up out of nowhere, didn’t say anything, looked drunk out of her mind,” he began, talking fast as though speed could add distance between him and the memory. “She kissed me, we fucked, and then she left.” He turned his gaze away, as if searching for meaning in the air.

Helaena didn’t look shocked but raised a brow, mildly puzzled. “On the street?”

Aegon snapped his head back toward her. “Yes, on the fucking street.”

She tilted her head, her brow still raised, clearly more intrigued by the logistics than the event itself. Otherwise, she seemed completely unfazed.

“She didn’t even say a word…” Aegon muttered, his voice soft now, revealing what truly bothered him.

“And you were expecting… what? A love confession?” Helaena prodded, crossing her legs and leaning back, ready to observe his reaction.

“No, Hel. She didn’t say anything. She showed up, used me, and then left,” he explained, his frustration mounting as he struggled with her unbothered demeanor.

“Well, that’s not very nice,” she said simply.

“No, it’s not nice! It wasn’t supposed to go like that. When I’m the one doing the using, I at least come up with a creative way to say thank you,” Aegon shot back, exasperated.

“And why do you think she acted like that?” Helaena asked, tilting her head slightly, her curiosity genuine.

Aegon thought about it for a moment, but the answer came quickly, the familiarity of the thought sharp and stinging.

“She was sad,” he said quietly.

The image of her eyes flashed in his mind, just before he started fucking her. And yes, she had been sad. She needed to matter to someone, even if only for a fleeting moment. And she had come to him because who was he, if not the ex-junkie who could make you feel like the center of the universe for ten minutes before discarding you like a cigarette butt? Aegon felt the heat of self-loathing rise from his stomach to his face.

“Maybe you should ask her why she was sad,” Helaena suggested gently.

But Aegon wasn’t good at this. What if what he said made things worse, pushed her even further away? Or worse—what if he stumbled through it, offering one of those empty platitudes that screamed I have no idea what to say?

“I don’t know what to say to her,” he admitted, burying his head in his hands.

“You know,” Helaena began, her tone almost reverent as if she were passing down wisdom from her own personal scripture, “my therapist once told me that sometimes we’re drawn to people who mirror us. Maybe you should tell her what you would want to hear.”

Aegon lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers. Maybe she was right. Maybe he could do that.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, and Aemond appeared in the doorway, as composed and icy as ever.

“I looked for you upstairs, then Mum said you were here,” he said, his tone cold and clipped. “Vic’s not coming tomorrow. She’s got a fever. Enjoy your day off.”

With that, he offered a curt goodnight and vanished, shutting the door behind him.

Aegon shook his head in disbelief, an ironic, bitter laugh escaping his lips. When his eyes met Helaena’s again, he didn’t need to say anything. Instead, he gestured toward the door, as if to say, See?

While they had been here discussing communication strategies, while he had been agonizing over how not to upset Vic further, she had already launched her own war of silence—spinning a blatant lie he could never believe.

[mrs-barnes-rogers-writes]

The Fate Of A Fae - Part 7

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader x Steve Rogers

Soulmate Match: You know on sight. Friends also know when they meet you if you're a match for one of their friends.

Summary: Natasha Romanoff is a meddling, pain in the ass Sprite, who you wrongly thought would leave you alone once you introduced her to your best friend, Darcy. News flash, she doesn’t and she won’t. Not when she thinks you’re a perfect match for two of her best friends. Could she be right? Maybe. Just don’t tell her that.

“Never tell Natasha Romanoff she was right” - Clint Barton

Chapter Summary: Tony explains what he knows about your medication.

Chapter Warning: Mention of arsehole parents, past trauma and being medicated.

It’s an hour later when Bucky tucks you into bed. You’re exhausted and emotional drained so the fight you put up is minimal. He sits with you a moment, noticing how you’ve automatically laid in the middle of the bed. A spot he hopes you’ll soon take in his own bed. Steve one side and him the other. As you snuggle down into the sheets and let out a soft sigh, he fixes the sheets around you again and softly strokes your face, humming a Russian lullaby to you.

Natasha smiles when she hears it, remembering the sound of Winnie humming it to Bucky in the hospital after he’d been found. A tortured prisoner of war cannot be made comfortable by medication but by the soft hum and voice of his mother. She gravitated towards the screen that separated your bedroom from the rest of the studio apartment. A vintage store find that you and Clint had found when you could only leave the apartment with him, Nat or an appointed guard from Happy’s team. Peeking around it, she’s joined by Tony, who can’t help but feel his heart warm at the sight. He types on his phone that he needs to speak to Barnes and shows it Nat, she nods and knows this is probably about your medication and what it really is.

“Yasha.” She whispers. Bucky sighs and gets up from the bed, placing a kiss to your temple before meeting them at the screen.

“Can’t this wait?” He whispers back harshly. Tony walks back to the kitchen and flicks his head for Bucky to follow him. Natasha follows but positions herself so she can keep an eye on you through the gap between the screen and the wall.

Tony pushes your boxed medication towards him.

“Do you know what this is?” He asks him.

“No, she said it was a muscle relaxant.” Bucky replied.

“Well, it’s not. Do you remember the trouble at the shareholders meeting? A couple of them had ideas about a pharmaceutical company using our factories for production and I refused.”

“Well it didn’t make any sense. Plus you said the ethics didn’t line up so I backed you.”

Tony nodded.

“It’s because they make this. It’s not a muscle relaxant James. It’s a species suppressant. Those arseholes must have put her on them as a kid. Stop her wings and ears growing back.”

Bucky growled deep in his chest and clenched his fists.

You stirred in the bed and Natasha gestured at him to be quiet. He took some deep breaths and made his way to the screen to check on you.

“So what do we do?” He asked, eyes fixed on you.

“You get her off them as soon as possible before there’s any long term damage.”

“Long term? She said herself she’s been on them since she was a kid!!” He whispered harshly.

“But these are worse Yasha.” Natasha replied. “They’re highly addictive, she’s gonna have to detox.”

“You’ll need a plan from Banner and Cho. There on their way back from DC now. They’ll give her a full review tomorrow, results the following day. I’m going to warn you Barnes it won’t be pretty. The fact her ears look like they’re growing back could mean the her body is already fighting against them and the meds, well they’ll fight right back.”

“How are her ears growing back if she’s on them?”

“Wild guess?” Tony replied “And personally I’d even ask Shuri’s advice on this one, Cho’s too, it could be because of you.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“How’s your shoulder?”

“Excuse me?”

“How is it? Where the scales, skin and metal meet?”

Bucky huffed and moved away from the screen, dropping himself on a stool at the kitchen island in a huff.

“It’s better isn’t it?” Tony asked. Bucky nodded.

“There’s lots written about our kind, all of us, changing when we meet our soulmates. Wounds being healed, forced transfers switching back. It’s so we’re at our best for them. Your shoulders have gotten broader, your eyes are brighter gold when your dragon shows and your shoulder is improving. Her ears will likely be the first thing to right themselves. They’re smaller, less to grow back. Her wings will take longer and from what I remember her telling me, there’s a lot of scarring. This won’t be easy James.”

Bucky nodded.

“There was a lot written post war, as well as Shuri’s recent stuff, people recovering in their soulmates company. I’ll send you somethings over.”

Bucky nodded again.

“Romanoff walk me out?” Tony asked, Nat nodding and following him out to the hallway.

Bucky zoned out their whispering, as he thought of you and what your childhood could have been like. You were missing all the things that made you appear fae and for them to put you on those drugs? Why had nobody ever told you what they were? Were you willingly on them? He was brought back to himself as Natasha slid into the seat beside him.

“She didn’t know Yasha.”

Bucky shook his head.

“How’d you know that’s what I’m thinking?”

“Because I know you.”

“You’re sure?”

Natasha nodded.

“The first time I saw her scars we were in a dressing room, she refused to try on the dress I’d picked out for her, I pulled back the curtain as we were arguing and I saw them. She shutdown completely so I took her to a bar. Four drinks in she told me about her parents being arseholes. Six in and she’s telling me what they did. All she’s ever wanted is to be a true fae again.”

“She is a fae!”

“That’s not how she sees it.”

Bucky leaned back on the stool and ran his hand over his face. Natasha moved from his side, returning with two shot glasses and a bottle of vodka, quickly pouring one for each of them. Bucky took the shot and without looking at Natasha asked a favour.

“Find out where her parents live.”

Fancy a cuppa? My Ko-Fi.

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