#and the kind words you have said to me since last night

[valeisaslut]

⭒࿐COLLIDE - epilogue

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄

𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

𝐏𝐓. 𝟏 : 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐎𝐕𝐀

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑡.𝟸 →

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

⭒ synopsis: After losing everything—the spotlight, the stage, the one you love—you disappeared into the kind of silence that doesn’t echo back. But somewhere in the hush, something began to stir. Not healing. Something darker, softer. A quiet rebirth. Piece by shattered piece, you stitched yourself into something unrecognizable. Not who you were. Not quite who you hoped to be. Just… becoming. This chapter doesn’t just tell your story—it pulls you through it. Breath by breath. A descent, a reckoning, a resurrection. And when you rise again, it’s not to ask for space. It’s to claim it. 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 16,7k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: angst, entirely from readers pov, the first part is rlly heavy but it gets better (kinda), detailed emotional unraveling and depression, references to drug use and alcohol, media scrutiny, depressive themes, raw vulnerability, intense dialogue, AFAB!Reader, modern AU setting, multi-part series. MEN AND MINORS DNI. Likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated — thank you for supporting! 𖥔 ݁ ˖

Disclaimer: This chapter contains detailed depictions of panic attacks and disordered eating. These themes are presented with raw emotional intensity and graphic realism, as part of the character’s unraveling. I've approached these topics with as much care and thoughtfulness as possible — but your safety and well-being always come first.

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

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Three years.

Three years have passed since that night.

Since the door slammed behind her and silence swallowed everything that was still breathing. Since her voice—wrecked, final—spilled those last words you’ve never been able to forget, no matter how many songs you wrote trying to erase them.

But now—

Let’s rewind.

Back to the night you made the call, that night you gave up the last piece of pride you were still clinging to and admitted—out loud, into the quiet hum of your empty kitchen—that you couldn’t save her.

You hadn’t spoken his name aloud before. Not even when she said it in her sleep, not even when you saw it inked on her guitar strap like a wound that never fully healed. 

“She needs help.” 

You said.

And he didn’t speak. The silence on the line stretched long, but not cold. Not angry. He was waiting. Letting you fall apart if you needed to.

So you did.

You told him everything.

Every show she stumbled through high. Every lie she fed you between whispered I love yous and trembling hands. How she started disappearing piece by piece—first emotionally, then physically. How her body got thinner, how her laugh got quieter, how her eyes stopped lighting up when she saw you.

You told him about the greenroom. The fight. The syringe. The way she flinched when you tried to touch her. How she kissed you like it was the last time, but never said it was.

How she left with your heart in her hands and didn’t look back.

You told him about the headlines. About the cancelled shows. About the silence.

You told him how it felt to hold someone in your arms and still not be able to reach them. You told him how much she needed help.

And that she wasn’t going to ask for it. Not from you.

Not from anyone.

By the time you were done, you were on the floor, the phone pressed to your ear with one hand and your other hand covering your mouth to keep the sobs from tearing your throat open.

Joel never interrupted.

He never asked you to calm down. He never once asked why now. He just said, low and steady,

“Send me the address.”

And you did. With shaking fingers and eyes that wouldn’t stop spilling over.

He didn’t ask if she’d let him in. He didn’t ask if she’d scream, or cry, or hate him for coming.

“I’ll be there in the morning. You did the right thing, callin’ me. Thank you so much for that. And… I hope you find happiness. You deserve it.”

And somewhere, hundreds of miles away, Joel Miller boarded a private jet with your heart buckled into the seat beside him—silent, heavy, burning—and flew straight into the wreckage she’d become.

The announcement came three days later.

No press tour. No farewell post with poetic closure or throwback reels. No soft-focus documentary promising they'd “see you again someday.” 

Just a black square. Posted across every official Fireflies platform at the same time. Instagram, Twitter, the website, streaming banners, merch store splash pages.

No comments allowed. No follow-up. No statement from the band.

No explanation.

Just one line, in stark white type, centered on the void:

THE FIREFLIES ARE ON HIATUS. INDEFINITELY.

And it was like the entire world paused in its orbit.

You could feel it across the planet. People didn’t just react—they collapsed. Group chats detonated. Teenagers dropped to the floor in bedrooms lit by laptop screens. Some left school early without explanation. Others drove hours to already-cancelled venues just to stand outside in silence.

The Fireflies weren’t just a band—they were the band. A once-in-a-generation phenomenon. The only group of their era to drag rock music back to the top kicking and screaming, draped in leather and glory.

They weren’t a revival. They were a resurrection.

They were the kind of band who didn’t promote albums—their three albums just arrived, like seasons, like weather, like destiny.

They didn’t follow trends—they set them. Their debut album went platinum in under a month. Their sophomore record broke streaming records before it even hit shelves. They racked up ten Grammys in five years. They headlined Glastonbury and Coachella by the time Ellie turned twenty-two.

Her voice was called the soundtrack of a decade before she turned twenty. Hoarse and raw in all the right ways, but still lyrical, still unmistakably hers. She growled and moaned and whispered and roared. She made every chorus feel like a confession and every verse feel like a wound.

But it wasn’t her voice that made her legendary.

It was the guitar.

She played guitar like it was an extension of her nervous system. She shredded and sobbed through solos that critics compared to Hendrix, Slash, Prince—but darker, sharper, more haunted. She was the one every magazine called the best female guitarist of her generation.

And Rolling Stone didn’t even qualify it—they just called her one of the greatest alive.

Jesse’s drumming was a signature in its own right—unpredictable, primal, full of tempo changes that made even seasoned producers pause mid-track and go holy shit. His beats were sampled by hip-hop legends, stitched into club anthems, spun at raves. The way he played live made people cry. Made people move.

Dina on bass was the heartbeat. Her timing was inhuman. Her tone made amps hum like they were falling in love. And off-stage? She’d wear shredded jeans and a tank top and Vogue would call it a revolution. Her basslines were as elegant as her glare was deadly.

Together, they weren’t a band. They were myth.

So when that black square appeared, when that single sentence ended everything indefinitely, the silence that followed wasn’t confusion.

It was mourning. 

They were never supposed to stop.

And definitely not like this.

No final tour. No goodbye album. No last acoustic performance on late night television with chairs too close and the stage too dim.

Just gone.

The post passed a million likes within minutes. Ten million within the hour. Fifty million by the time the sun rose. News outlets around the globe pulled planned coverage mid-broadcast. Editors in London, New York, Tokyo, São Paulo ripped up the front page and rewrote it from scratch.

“THE FIREFLIES GO DARK.” “GENERATIONAL ICONS DISAPPEAR INTO SILENCE.” “NO COMMENT FROM FRONTWOMAN ELLIE WILLIAMS—WHERE IS SHE?”

“DID ANYONE SEE IT COMING?”

They didn’t stop. Not for days. Not for weeks. Not for months. It became the dominant headline across countries, languages, time zones. Labels issued statements expressing shock. Concert venues issued refunds. Brands paused entire marketing campaigns. Radio stations across the globe held simultaneous tribute blocks.

Millions and millions begged them to explain what happened.

But they didn’t.

So the world did what it always does when starved for truth—

It picked someone to blame.

And it picked you.

Your name was trending before sunset.

“POP PRINCESS OR ROCKSTAR HOMEWRECKER?” “DID LOVE RUIN ROCK’S BIGGEST BAND?” “FROM LOVER TO LEGEND-KILLER: DID Y/N RUIN THE BAND?” “Y/N: THE YOKO OF THE FIREFLIES.”

They took photos—some old, some recent—and twisted them into knives. You kissing Ellie’s cheek on tour. You whispering something into her ear at an award show. You standing backstage at one of their concerts, hands pressed to your mouth, crying.

They looped the footage on cable and digital outlets like evidence.

They called you manipulative. Jealous. Controlling. A fame leech who couldn’t handle being second to a rockstar. A washed-up pop girl whose comeback relied on dragging someone down with her. They blamed your queerness, your softness, your sexuality, your songs. Said you were obsessed. Said you were a narcissist. Said you were weak.

You lost hundreds of thousands of followers overnight. Then millions. Radio pulled your songs. Magazines pulled your features. Brands dropped your campaigns without even calling.

You became a name to hate. A target for mourning dressed in outrage.

No one asked how you were. No one wondered if you had survived the wreckage. 

Because they’d already written you out of the story and rewritten you as the villain.

As if you hadn’t been the one who begged her to stay alive.

The worst part? you still had to perform the suspended shows. You knew it before anyone said it out loud—could feel it in the atmosphere like static before a storm. That thick, choking stillness that settles on your chest before the first crack of lightning. It wasn’t another tour stop. It was a burial. The final acts with its teeth bared and no interest in letting you leave the stage whole.

You hadn’t performed since the collapse.

Since Ellie disappeared into silence. Since the Fireflies went dark. Since the headlines multiplied like black vultures and your name stopped belonging to you. Since the world decided your heartbreak was public property, a story to stream, repost, and monetize. 

You weren’t a popstar anymore. You weren’t even a person. You were a scandal. A soundbite.

The girl who broke the Fireflies.

Your PR team bled behind the scenes, clinging to whatever was left of the narrative. Every morning, there was a new fire—new photos, new blind items, new hashtags clawing their way across the internet like vines made of glass. They tried to make you likable again. Paid features. Cease and desists. Media training.

But the damage was done. The walls were caving in.

And you saw it all.

But beneath all the headlines and hysteria, under the weight of rage and rumor and think pieces with your name misspelled, there was a quiet, cutting truth you clung to like a lighthouse in a storm:

There was no new Ellie content.

No blurry paparazzi photos at airports. No shaky footage outside clinics. No mugshots. No overdose. No funeral.

Nothing.

Just a silence so complete, it felt curated.

You didn’t know it at the time, but Joel was the one who made sure of it.

He didn’t just protect her. He erased her.

He bought silence the way other people buy coffee—quickly, absolutely, without blinking. Whatever he couldn’t cover with his monstrous wealth, he covered with something much more terrifying: influence. The kind of power that doesn’t come from only being a celebrity, but from being the last person in the room when the doors close.

He scrubbed metadata. Buried leaks before they surfaced. Paid off photographers, silenced editors, threatened entire media corporations with lawsuits they couldn’t afford and consequences they couldn’t calculate. Blogs lost access. Social media accounts were wiped clean. Mentions vanished mid-upload. Sources went dark.

Their last performance—her last performance—never made it past whispers.

Her addiction never made it to the main page.

Because Joel wasn’t trying to cover a scandal. He was trying to save his daughter. He wanted her to heal. Quietly. He wanted to build her a place without pressure, without headlines.

And in doing so, he forgot what the silence would cost you.

The one without enough influence, or power, or legacy to protect her. With no father in the shadows pulling strings to make the world go quiet. The only one left and the perfect target for their blame.

No one talked. Not the staff. Not Jesse. Not Dina. They disappeared too—folding into silence like it was an instruction. Like grief was classified and they were following protocol.

They left you alone with a story you weren’t allowed to correct. A love you weren’t allowed to grieve publicly. A collapse you couldn’t explain.

You couldn’t say a word. Not even a whisper of the truth.

Not even her name.

So, for another long week, you barely ate one full meal. Didn’t shower. Didn’t speak. The sun rose and fell without ceremony. You lay in the dark, wrapped in the clothes she left behind, watching the shadows shift across the ceiling like time-lapse footage of the destruction of everything you ever called yours.

The TV played on mute, your name flashing in ticker scrolls beneath strangers dissecting your ruin like it was commentary, not consequence.

You stopped brushing your teeth. Stopped checking your phone. Pain rotted in your throat like a secret. Not the kind that makes you cry. The kind that just… sits there. Dead weight in your chest. Too big to hold, too loud to name.

And then, on the eighth day, your assistant sent a single text.

They’re still expecting you to perform.

You didn’t respond, just stood. Not because you felt better, not because something clicked, but because numbness had settled so completely in your bones that you couldn’t even summon the energy to resist.

You took a scalding shower and scrubbed your skin until it stung. Sat while someone did your hair. Let a stranger paint your face in five different layers because she said a corpse looked more alive than you. Wore the outfit picked for you weeks ago, back when the tour was still a future, not an autopsy.

And when the black SUV pulled up outside your building, you stepped into it without a word.

It felt like climbing into a hearse.

The arena was sold out. Not a single empty seat. But it didn’t feel like a crowd.

It felt like surveillance. 

Like every eye in the room had already made up its mind about you. Like they weren’t here for music—they were here for evidence.

You hadn’t warmed up. Hadn’t done vocal prep. You hadn’t even opened your mouth in days. What was the point? You didn’t feel anything anymore. Not nervous. Not angry. Not sad. Just hollow. Carved out.

There was no buzz, no electricity in the air, no eager chatter or chants echoing in the rafters. Just a cold, unblinking silence. They didn’t scream when you stepped out under the lights—they lifted their phones like weapons, like proof. No one reached for you. No one cried. They just stared, eyes sharp, lenses sharper, like they were waiting for you to fall apart in real time.

Still, you sang. Not because you wanted to. Not because there was anything left inside you worth sharing. You sang because they told you that if you didn’t, the silence would be spun into guilt.

Because if you didn’t finish this show, if you so much as wavered, they’d never let you speak again.

So you opened your mouth and gave them what they came for.

Your throat was already burning by the second verse, every word scraping its way out like it didn’t want to be heard. The adrenaline faded too quickly, leaving your knees locked and your body stiff. The lights above you were blinding—too white, too hot, too cruel—and the crowd didn’t move.

Not a sway. Not a scream. Just thousands of eyes, blank and waiting. You gripped the mic stand like it was the only thing anchoring you to the earth, and even then, you weren’t sure you’d stay grounded.

And the worst part?

Every single song had Ellie’s name etched between the lines.

Every melody, every lyric, every bridge soaked in her fingerprints. You’d written them in hotel rooms with your legs tangled together. On studio floors with her mouth still fresh on your skin. You’d written them drunk on being hers. Every chorus was a memory. Every verse a scar.

They were love songs.

And now, they were ghosts.

Her face crossed your mind for just a second, and when you opened your mouth again—your voice shattered.

It cracked so violently it sounded like glass hitting concrete. The note split in half, raw and jarring, and you winced. You turned your back fast, pretended to fix your in-ear, anything to keep the big screen from catching the look in your eyes.

Because you were about to start crying.

And you couldn’t let them see.

Your voice, your strongest weapon, was now was working against you. It kept betraying, trembling with every word, cracking more horribly each time you tried to swallow the grief. The grief of singing songs you once believed in. Songs that were alive when she still was yours.

You gave the worst performance of your life.

And somehow, with a body that barely worked, limbs limp from hunger and anxiety and days without proper sleep or light or air, you still made it to the end. Eyes blurry, throat raw, heart barely hanging on — you gave them what they came for. You finished the show.

Not because you wanted to. Not because you could. But because it was all you had left to give.

And the only thought echoing in your skull was how impossible it felt that this had once made you happy. That once, the stage had been freedom. Purpose. Joy.

Because now, it felt like a sentence.

This world hadn’t just taken the love of your life impersonated. It had stolen the other love of your life too. The one that lived in your voice, in your art, in the part of you that still believed in beauty and sound and the holy act of giving something sacred to the world.

That part was gone now. Burned out. No body to bury. Just an empty space where something precious used to be. Loud in its absence, deafening in its silence.

When the show ended, they clapped, but it wasn’t joy—it was relief. Like they were just glad you made it to the end. Hollow. A slow, uncertain patter that echoed across the stadium like a dare not to cry.

You bowed because the contract said you had to. Didn't say thank you or goodbye.

You turned before the lights dimmed, your back to the humiliating, slow and disappointed applause before it even started. You walked offstage like a stranger in your own skin, like your body belonged to someone else—someone capable of surviving this.

You sprinted to the dressing room, and the second the door clicked shut, everything inside you gave away. The air vanished. Your vision turned to static. Your ears rang, sharp and high-pitched, like your whole universe was tearing at the seams.

And then you collapsed.

Your knees buckled. Then your whole body followed.

You don’t remember hitting the floor—just the sound it made when you did.

A brutal crack, something falling from too high and landing wrong.

Your hands clawed at your chest, your throat, your face, desperate to find a switch, a lever, anything to stop the panic screaming through your nervous system.

The sob ripped from you before you even knew it was coming. It wasn’t delicate. It wasn’t poetic. It was pain. Unfiltered, ungodly pain. Ripped raw from somewhere deep—so deep you hadn’t even known it existed until now.

Grief. Rage. Sadness. Exhaustion. Humiliation. It all poured out of you in violent waves, none of it beautiful. None of it performative.

And no one in the crowd knew. No one watching through screens, through camera lenses, behind filters and hashtags, had any idea that what they had just witnessed wasn’t a concert. It your breaking point.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t breathe.

You gasped. Choked. Punched yourself in the ribs like you could force the air back in. Your nails scraped down your cheeks, dragging mascara and foundation with them and something salty and disgusting. Tears, sweat, shame.

Footsteps thundered behind the door. Voices shouting. Calling your name. Your team, your stylists, security. Too many sounds, too many movement.

But only one person opened the door and dropped beside you. Only one hand touched you.

Not with panic, but with purpose.

Rachel.

She pulled you into her arms like she’d done it a hundred times. Like your body fit there. Like she knew how to hold someone who was falling apart.

She cradled your head to her chest, curled her body around yours like a shelter, like a shield, like she could protect you even here—on the cold floor, under the too-bright lights, in the smell of hairspray and fear.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, one hand stroking your hair, the other pressing firm and steady against your spine. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re here. You’re not alone.”

You sobbed and gasped into her collarbone. Full-body, shaking gasps. Ugly. Gut-wrenching. The kind that stole sound and gave back only tremors.

You couldn’t control your body at all— like some frantic, panicked force had hijacked the controls and left you trapped in the passenger seat.

And still, she held you.

“You’re safe,” she murmured. “You made it through. It’s over, baby. The show 's over.”

Someone shouted—but she didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. Didn’t let go.

Not when your breathing couldn't stabilize. Not when your fingers curled in her shirt like you were drowning and she was the only thing keeping you above water. Not even when you started to repeat the same phrase over and over, each one more broken than the last.

“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t—”

You didn’t even know what, exactly, you couldn’t do.

You just knew you couldn’t. Not anymore.

She tried to ground you. Pressed her forehead to yours. Counted your breaths like she could keep time with your heart. But it was already spiraling.

The oxygen disappeared. Your limbs jolted. Your mouth opened wide but no air came in. Your chest seized.

You weren’t breathing.

“Hey. Hey. Hey, look at me,” Rachel’s voice cracked as she cupped your face. “You’re okay. You’re right here. With me. Breathe with me, in and out, come on, please, look at me—breathe—one, two, three—”

But you couldn’t.

You were sobbing so hard your ribs felt fractured, mascara bleeding down your chin in thick streaks of black and ruin. Every part of you had collapsed inward. Your strength, your posture, your ability to fake it. Gone.

The last scraps you’d saved for the stage, for the flashing lights and smiling lies—it had all gone up in flames the second you closed the door.

“I’m done, I'm done,” you choked out, not even able to hear your own voice over the pounding in your ears. “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore—I’m not going back, I won’t—I can’t—I—I want it to be over—”

You could only hear the sounds that heightened your panic. The ones always present in your nightmares. Footsteps. Loud. Rushed. Suits and heels. Voices shouting your name like it was urgent, like it belonged to them. People you worked with. People who profited off your face.

People who were still trying to get one more show out of you before your corpse cooled.

“Wait—wait, what the hell is going on—”

“She can’t leave like this—”

“We still have six shows—”

“Don’t make a scene. Don’t do this now.”

The words came fast, cold—like bullets. Like they’d prepared for this. Like they were ready to argue you back into submission.

You curled in tighter against her body, teeth clenched so hard your jaw spasmed. The pressure in your chest spiked again, all at once, unbearable. Your mouth opened, but the air caught in your throat, stuck like a scream too afraid to come out.

Your vision blurred.

The edges went white.

“I can’t—” you gasped. “I can’t—I can’t—”

You sobbed and choked, soundless, broken, gagging on the weight of your own breathlessness.

Rachel held your face in her hands, wiped the sweat from your temples, kept her voice calm even as she was about to break too.

“I—I—” you wheezed.

“Breathe,” she whispered. “Sweetheart, look at me. You’re safe. You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re not going anywhere you don’t want to go.”

Your lungs stuttered, seized, then finally gave in to a shaky inhale. Not enough—but more than before.

Your hands still trembled, still clawed weakly at the fabric over your chest, but Rachel caught them. Held them steady. Her thumbs traced soft, grounding circles into your palms.

“There you go,” she murmured. “That’s it. Breathe with me. In… and out. I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

You blinked hard, your vision swimming back into focus one hazy layer at a time. The spotlight in your mind dimmed, the sharp edges softened. The wave hadn’t passed, but it was pulling back just enough to let your ribs move again.

Your breathing evened—still shallow, still trembling, but less violent. Your fingers stopped clawing. Your shoulders stopped jerking with every breath.

You looked up at Rachel.

She was looking at you. And she didn’t look away.

But behind her, the shouting didn’t stop. It pierced through the thin veil of your calm like thorns through gauze.

“She just needs to rest. We’ll move the next show. Reschedule—”

Rachel turned her head. Just barely. Just enough.

“You want her onstage again?” Rachel snapped, not raising her voice, not needing to. “She can’t stand up. She hasn’t eaten in weeks. You watched her collapse in my arms—and your first thought was damage control?”

“We’re trying to protect her—”

“No, you’re trying to protect the tour. You’re trying to protect the brand. The fucking bottom line. Not her.”

“If she leaves like this, the headlines are going to spiral—”

“You’re blowing this out of proportion—”

“She can’t take a break, not now,” someone snapped. “If she disappears again, she won’t recover—her reputation won’t recover—”

Rachel turned around, fully now. Voice hard. Knife-sharp.

“She won’t recover if you kill her first.”

Silence. Sudden. Heavy.

“She said it's over, and that's enough. She’s not finishing this tour. I don’t care what’s been signed. I don’t care who’s watching. I don’t care how much you paid. I will take care of everything.”

Then her voice dropped. Cold. Low. Lethal.

“And if any of you ever speak to her like that again, if any of you so much as text her without going through me, I swear to God I will burn this entire fucking industry to the ground with one phone call.”

No one dared speak again.

Rachel turned back to you. Her hand on your back. Her other cradling the base of your skull. You were still crying. The kind of sobbing that didn’t have sound left to give.

“You’re okay,” she whispered. “You’re going home, darling. I promise. It’s over.”

The penthouse was dark when you returned. Not dim. Not still. Dark. The kind of silence that hums, almost vibrates, because it's been left alone for too long. 

Rachel didn’t ask if you were okay.

She knew better than to insult you like that. 

She didn’t try to cheer you up or fill the space with empty comfort. She moved around you gently, hands steady, voice quiet. She helped you out of your coat, took your bag from your shoulder, unzipped your boots because your fingers weren’t steady enough to do it yourself. 

“I have to leave and take care of everything now, but I’ll come with groceries tomorrow,” she said quietly, voice kind, an old song. “Everything else can wait.”

You didn’t answer. Just nodded, eyes hollow. She stepped forward, kissed your temple, and smoothed your hair back once, slow and careful.

“You don’t owe anyone anything,” she whispered. “I love you. Take all the time you need.”

She didn’t say how long. Didn’t set a deadline. 

And then, quietly, she left.

You didn’t move for a long time.

You stood in the middle of the living room like you didn’t know where the walls ended. As if you weren’t sure this was your home anymore, or if you’d ever belonged in it at all. The furniture felt too sharp. The air too thick. The floor to ceiling windows looked like they belonged to a stranger.

You walked to the kitchen, the silence of your footsteps against the tile the only sound in the whole place, and you turned your phone off without even checking the screen. Not one glance at the texts or missed calls. Not one swipe to see the headlines you already knew were waiting for you.

The idea of looking felt dangerous—as if you saw your own name one more time, it would gut you.

You went back to lock the door. The deadbolt. The chain. Set the security code. Then walked to your room on autopilot, your body moving like it was detached from your mind. As if your brain had shut down the part that was supposed to care about survival. You didn’t turn on the light. You didn’t change out of your stage clothes. You didn’t even pull back the comforter.

You just dropped onto the bed like gravity had given out beneath you, the weight in your chest too much to carry even a second longer.

For a moment, you laid still.

And then it all came undone.

The sob hit without warning. Violent. Uncontrollable. It had been sitting there for weeks, months, years—waiting for this exact moment to break free. You curled into yourself, fists twisting in the fabric of the sheets, and let it take you.

No restraint. No composure. No performance. 

Just pure, unfiltered anguish.

You cried like your body had been holding it back your entire life. The kind of crying that tears through you, that claws its way up from your gut and explodes in your throat like shrapnel. You sobbed for hours into the mattress until your face was slick and your mouth tasted like salt and cotton.

You screamed—loud, broken, horrible, throat-aching screams—because words couldn’t hold what you were feeling. 

You cried for the headlines, for the think pieces, for the names you’d been called, for the way the media dissected your grief like it was a puzzle they were entitled to solve.

You cried for the fans who turned on you. For the ones who didn’t. For the ones who begged you to be okay like their lives depended on it.

You cried for the tour—for the nights you bled for an audience that only ever wanted a product. For the stage that used to be sacred and had become a crucifixion. For the days you starved yourself to look good in front of a camera.

You cried for your family, for your friends—the ones who didn’t call, who watched the rumors pile up and chose distance over understanding. You cried because you knew what they thought of you now. A failure. A disgrace. They turned their backs when you needed them most, and you were sure, deep down, that they wouldn’t come back. 

You cried for Ellie—because she was gone. Because the silence between you wasn’t just space anymore, it was shapeless, aching distance. Something neither of you had the tools to fight anymore.

You cried because you didn’t know where she went or if she meant it what she said before she disappeared.

And the worst part was, you did. You knew she meant it. You knew it in the marrow of your bones, in the echo of her voice cracking under the weight of all she couldn’t say. Because she didn’t leave you instead of loving you—she left you because she loved you, but couldn't do it properly. Not through the haze. Not while she was losing herself. Not while her hands shook and her eyes hardly met yours.

She couldn’t love you the way you needed —the way you deserved— no matter how much she wanted to.

You cried because maybe she was healing now. Maybe she’d finally stepped away from the edge, from the stage, from the pressure, from you. 

And if letting go of you was the price she had to pay to survive her own name, her own shadow—then maybe she paid it willingly.

Maybe she had to let you go to stay alive. 

Not whole, not well, not ready.

But alive, somewhere. 

And maybe that was all you’d ever get.

Maybe she would never speak to you again. Maybe she would carve a new life for herself far from the spotlight, somewhere no one could reach her. Maybe she would never sing or play guitar again. Maybe, when she looked back on all of this, she’d pretend it never happened.

But she would live.

And that was enough.

Because you didn’t need her beside you on red carpets anymore, or her voice low and close against your ear. You didn’t need her lyrics woven into yours, or her hand in yours while the world looked on. You didn’t even need to be remembered.

You just needed her to still be.

Still breathing. Still being out there. Still being Ellie.

And if the cost of her survival was your erasure, if she had to forget you entirely just to find her way back to herself,

Then you’d let her. 

Because you would rather her alive and gone,

Than dead and yours.

But most of all, you cried for yourself.

For the girl underneath it all—the one who never got to grow up because fame had stolen her first love, her first heartbreak, her first real moment. The one who had learned to smile through exhaustion and dress up her pain in designer. The one who had never been allowed to fall apart without someone telling her to pull herself together in five minutes.

You cried for the version of you that had once stood on a stage and believed it was the only truth of her existence. 

Because that girl was gone.

And you didn’t know who was left in her place.

Your body trembled. Sweat drenched your hairline. You gagged on your own breath, curled tighter into the blankets, fists pressed to your chest like you could hold your own heart together by force.

And the cruelty of it—all of it—came crashing down like a final blow. 

Ellie’s disappearance hadn’t just broken your heart.

It had detonated your life.

Everything you’d built, everything you’d bled for, shattered in the fallout. 

And still—it wasn't her fault. Still, you didn’t hate her.

Even when there was nothing left, you couldn’t.

And somewhere out there, the world turned without you.

Headlines multiplied. Clips from the performance circulated like wildfire—your voice cracking, your eyes vacant, your body barely moving. Commentators called it the downfall of an empire. Analysts speculated whether it was a stunt, a cry for attention, the end of your career.

“Unprofessional.” “Diva meltdown.” “Couldn’t keep it together.”

Some called you fragile. Some called you unstable. Others called you a fraud.

You didn’t defend yourself. You didn’t fight back. You didn’t post or clarify or explain. That would’ve required believing you were worth defending.

So you stayed right there, in that bed, with your voice gone, your body shaking, your ribs sore from sobbing—letting yourself crash all the way down for the very first time. 

And by the fifth day, the sheets didn’t feel like sheets anymore.

They felt like skin—sweaty, twisted, suffocating. You hadn’t opened the curtains since you got back. You hadn’t spoken. Just nods. Grunts. The occasional “no” when Rachel asked if you wanted to eat, shower, breathe.

She came and went without complaint. Brought groceries, clean clothes, herbal tea you didn’t drink. She folded your laundry even though it hadn’t been worn. Once, she left a vase of tulips on the windowsill. You didn’t look at them. They died in silence two days later.

It was late when she came in this time.

She didn’t knock. She never knocked, not anymore. She sat at the edge of your bed, like she had a hundred times before, and this time, she exhaled.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Fuck the day I told you to fake date her.”

Your eyes cracked open, barely “Yeah. Thanks a lot, Rachel. Fuck that goddamn day.” 

She let out a tired breath. “Baby… you’ve been in bed for three days.”

“Five,” you corrected flatly. “It’s been five.”

Her brows knit together. “That’s worse.”

“I know.”

“...You have to stand up eventually,” she said, not unkindly. 

Like it hurt her to say it, but it would’ve hurt her more not to.

“Why?” Your voice was a whisper, hoarse from disuse.

“Nobody likes me anymore. I don’t have a tour. I don’t have a career. I don’t have Ellie. I have nothing.”

She stilled. For a moment, she just let the words hang in the air, thick as fog, ugly as truth.

“That’s not true,” she said eventually, “That’s not—”

“It is,” you snapped, tears stinging your eyes without even the energy to fall. “I lost everything. She disappeared, and now I’m Yoko fucking Ono. They think I ruined her. I’m alone.”

“Do you want me to call your friends?” she asked carefully. “Get them over here? I’m sure they’d—”

“I don’t want to see those fake ass fucking snakes.” you spat. “They haven’t texted me since the hiatus thing. Not one of them. Not even Olivia. I bet they’re all out somewhere drinking and laughing about how they dodged a bullet by not standing next to me when the ship sank.”

“...Okay. Not them.” she said. “What about your therapist? Linda?”

You let out a broken laugh, more like a bark. 

“What the fuck is Linda gonna say? ‘And how did being blamed for the Fireflies’ downfall by the entire planet and the love of your life breaking up with you made you feel?’"

You mimed a deep, reflective breath. 

“It made me feel like I want to kill myself, Linda.”

Rachel flinched. But she didn’t leave.

She cleared her throat. “...Your mom?”

Your face crumpled, and you turned away. “No.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t—”

“She already thinks I’m a failure,” you whispered. “She asked me if it was true. If I destroyed the band on purpose. She told me to get a real job and go back home with them. I don’t want to hear her voice.”

Rachel nodded. Not pushing. Just absorbing. Holding space.

You flopped backward on the pillows, arm thrown over your eyes. “So maybe I’ll just go back to my fucking hometown in the South. Marry a man. Have a lavender marriage. Get a dog named Earl. Die slowly.”

“Aren’t you being a little…” she hesitated, “dramatic?”

You moved your arm just enough to glare at her.

“Yeah. I can’t even think about lavender marriage without wanting to gag.”

“Okay, then. So no hometown husband.”

You sighed, turning to face the wall. “Maybe I’ll move to a little town in Argentina. Change my name. Get three cats. Upload music to SoundCloud under an alias.”

There was a long silence.

Then Rachel said, quietly,

“So… you still want to make music.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

“I know what you need,”

She stood, slowly. Crossed the room. Opened your closet and rifled through the drawers. You heard things shifting, rustling, being pulled out.

When she returned, she set something on the bed beside you. A pen. A notebook. The guitar you hadn’t touched in months, polished smooth.

You stared at it.

Stared at her.

You blinked. “Guitar, paper, and a pen?”

Rachel smiled softly. “Yes.”

Your throat clenched.

“I can’t write,” you whispered. “I don’t know how to write about this. I don't even know if I remember how to write a song anymore.”

“You don’t have to write about it,” she said. “Just write through it.”

You looked down at your hands, at the calluses that had faded. At the instrument that had once been the only thing that made sense.

And for the first time in weeks, something inside you stirred. Not hope, not yet. 

But maybe the possibility of it.

Rachel leaned down, pressed a kiss to your forehead. Her voice broke just slightly.

“I can’t fix how you feel. But I can sit here with you while you figure it out.”

Rachel left without a word, but not without love. She lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching you as if she could will you to live just a little longer with her eyes.

You didn’t look up. You just stayed on the bed, the guitar by your side as if it was something ancient and sacred you didn’t dare touch. 

When the door clicked shut, the silence that followed was total. Complete. Not cruel, not yet. Just vast.

You didn’t know what made you reach for it. The guitar. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the weight of everything pressing against your ribs, needing to go somewhere. 

Maybe it was just the fact that you were still alive—and the thought of being alive without music hurt worse than anything else.

You sat, instrument on your lap, fingers hovering above the strings. They were still new. Tuned in. It gleamed in the low light like something waiting to be reborn. You placed your fingertips on the frets. Pressed down gently. Strummed once.

You didn’t know where to begin. Not lyrically. Not musically. Not emotionally. You had all this stuff—pain and confusion and anger and guilt—but it was shapeless. Smoke in your chest. You stared down at the blank page and felt something unfamiliar.

At first it was slow. Scratchy. Lines crossed out and rewritten. Fragments of phrases that made you wince when you saw them on the page—too much, too raw, too pathetic. But then something shifted. Maybe the guitar helped. Maybe it was the rhythm. Maybe it was the sound of your own voice, still hoarse from crying and not using it, whispering lines out loud.

“...i’m trying my best to keep you satisfied.”

After that, the words came faster. Not rushed, but inevitable—like they’d been waiting for you to stop holding your breath. 

"and you don't wanna know,

how alone i’ve been.

let you come and go,

whatever state i'm in."

You wrote about the weight of giving everything and getting less than nothing in return. About exhaustion. About being asked to stay by someone who couldn’t even stay for you. You wrote about silence. About the aching kind of absence that feels more like betrayal than distance.

You wrote, "man, am I the greatest" —and you didn’t mean it as a boast.

You meant it like a question. Like a whisper. A plea. Didn’t I give you everything?

Time stopped meaning anything. You just wrote—line after line, verse after verse—until the page was full, then the next, then a third. Each lyric sharper than the last, threaded with a bitterness you hadn’t dared name until now. Threaded with truth.

You played the chords again. Softer this time. Almost reverent. You found the melody without trying. Adjusted the tempo. Layered the harmonies like careful stitches across a wound. The chorus landed like an open wound. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t hopeful.

But it was real.

Your fingers ached. Your face was damp, though you didn’t remember crying.

And for the first time since she left, you looked out the window.

The city was still there.

So were you.

And in the quiet, in the wreckage, in the wake of everything you’d lost—you had something again.

You had this.

Later, when Rachel convinced you to get out of bed, you were curled up on the far end of the couch, knees drawn to your chest, blanket pulled tight over your shoulders even though the penthouse was warm. The curtains remained drawn, keeping the sunlight at bay. The only light came from the soft flicker of the muted TV screen and the gentle spill from the kitchen, where she stood barefoot in one of your hoodies, holding a plate.

“I made your favorite,” she said softly, walking over and placing it down on the coffee table. “Real food. Not a protein bar. Not pressed juice. I cooked it myself.”

You didn’t move. Just stared at your knees.

Your stomach was a void now. Not hunger. Not even pain. Just absence.

“I’m not hungry,” you whispered.

Rachel didn’t sit right away. She crouched beside you, eyes searching yours.

“You think I didn’t notice?” Her voice was so quiet. “All those years. The award shows. The shoots. The dinners where you barely touched your plate? You’ve been throwing meals away since your first red carpet. Baby, we’ve talked about this. A million times.”

You shook your head slowly, eyes burning. “I just… I can’t. It feels like there’s a pit in my stomach. Like I’m already full of something I can’t name.”

She brushed a strand of hair from your face. “I know. But your body’s still here. It’s still holding you up. Give it something back.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

“There are no cameras now,” she said. “No stylists. No fans zooming in on your body. No headlines to impress. Just me. Just you.”

You blinked.

A tear fell and soaked into the blanket without a sound.

“You are still made of flesh and bone,” Rachel whispered. “You are not made of numbers. You are not made of the things they said.”

She let the silence stretch between you, heavy and patient.

Then, slowly, she stood. Lifted the plate with careful hands—hands that trembled, just barely.

“I’m not asking you to finish it,” she said softly. “But I’m not leaving until you try. One bite. For me. Please.”

You looked up at her. Then at the food. Then back at her.

And you hated that she had to ask. That she had to see you like this. Hollowed out, fading, not quite here.

But you didn’t know how to fix it. You didn’t even know how to want to.

Still… your fingers moved.

You reached for the fork.

Rachel exhaled like she’d been holding that breath for days, maybe even longer.

And in the quiet aftermath, in that room that still smelled like grief and dust and darkness, something small shifted. Something fragile.

Like maybe, somehow, this was a beginning too.

Five months.

Five months passed since the door to the penthouse shut behind you and never really opened again.

You had vanished.

Just like she had.

Rachel moved in with you. Sometimes she brought vinyls — Joni, Fiona, Phoebe — spinning soft sadness through the apartment like a lullaby for the broken. Sometimes she showed up with Crumbl cookies, just to see the faintest flicker of light return to your face. One night, she tried to sneak kale into your pasta and you burst into tears so suddenly, so violently, that she started crying too.

And the first thread you pulled when everything else had already unraveled, was “The Greatest.”

You re-recorded it in the built-in studio you’d once carved into the bones of your penthouse—just a passion project at the time, a creative sanctuary meant for demos and ideas that couldn’t wait until morning. You never imagined it would become the place you'd rebuild your entire life. But thank god you had it. Tucked behind soundproof glass and velvet curtains, that little studio became the cathedral to record your prayers.

You sat at the console, alone, and started over. Stripped the track down to its bones and rewrote every inhale. Reproduced it from scratch. Layered harmonies like echoes in an empty room—soft, staggering, fragile. Like ghosts. You spent an entire week tweaking the reverb on a single breath, making sure it sounded exactly like what it was: loss wrapped in melody.

You then found yourself at the piano. You don’t remember walking there. You don’t remember sitting. But your hands touched the keys and didn’t flinch. A few scattered notes. A single chord. Your fingers found their shape like they'd never left.

The next morning, you opened your laptop and started building another demo.

And it didn’t stop.

Rachel brought you coffee and leaned against the doorframe, eyes warm, saying nothing. You’d work all night, sleep for four hours, wake up with a melody stuck to the roof of your mouth. It was obsessive.

But you finally had a reason to live for.

You wrote everything yourself. Played every instrument. Guitar. Piano. A drum pad you hadn’t touched in years. Bass you borrowed from a neighbor and sanitized twice. You didn’t ask for help.

Because for the first time in your life, something was completely and solely yours.

The songs were sad. Devastating, actually. Every single one about her. You never used her name, but she lived in the lyrics. She was in the opening synths. In the bent guitar notes. In the pause before the final chorus. You wrote about waiting. About watching someone unravel. About the way her voice had sounded the last time you heard it. You wrote about the silence afterward. The not-knowing. The breath you never got to hear on the other end of the line. 

The way you still loved her.

And Rachel—God bless her—never asked you to stop.

She stayed, always. Bought four pairs of the same sweatpants in different colors and laid them out like wardrobe options.

You only left the penthouse ten times in those months. Some doctor’s appointments. Once because the fridge broke. Once because Rachel begged you to walk to the corner to see the cherry blossoms.

Each time, you wore oversized men’s clothes, hair tucked under a baseball cap, face tilted towards the sidewalk. She called you “Dave”. 

No one recognized you. The world had moved on.

And yet—it hadn’t.

Sometimes Rachel showed you stuff. Just to let you know. 5 Months of Silence. Fireflies Hiatus Continues. Y/N Still Missing. Fans Worry. 

There were photos of the last time you were seen in public, in that last performance you couldn’t even bare to remember. Pixelated, unkind. 

People still cared. Or at least, they cared enough to keep talking.

About the Fireflies. About Ellie. About you. Threads unraveled. Podcasts theorized. Fans cried and fought and defended and betrayed.

A dozen narratives tried to rise to the top, but the truth remained locked behind the soundproof walls of the 57th floor, hidden behind tinted glass and a private elevator.

Because you learned how to live without being watched.

You learned to live in a room full of sound and no applause.

And somewhere, in the middle of it all, you realized you were making an album.

The sadness was still there, but so was something else—something like purpose. A lighthouse in reverse, guiding you inward.

Healing.

Late at night, you’d sit on the floor with her, eating cereal out of the box, letting the speakers play the rough cuts. She’d point at a bridge and say, “That one’s gonna ruin lives.” You’d roll your eyes and mumble something about the compression being wrong and your voice too nasal and hoarse. 

She’d swat your arm and say, “You’re doing it, bitch. You’re really fucking doing it.”

You still didn’t know what would happen when the door finally opened.

But for the first time in a long time, you weren’t making music for them.

You were making it for you.

And that's how the 1st part of the album —Dead— was born.

Fifteen songs. Fifteen grief-soaked, gut-wrenching crafted pieces of you. Every one of them carried the weight of a different version of her. Her ghosted haunted every harmony, every downbeat, every breath and break of your voice you captured on the mic and didn’t bother editing out.

You waited until sunset.

Rachel came back with Thai food and a six-pack of something you used to drink when things were good. She kicked her shoes off and flopped onto the velvet studio couch like she always did—like it was her throne, like she was waiting for a show.

But this time, she was quiet. She knew what tonight was.

You turned the lights down, opened the master folder on your desktop, and hit play.

Track 01: The Greatest.

By the time the first chorus hit, Rachel had one hand over her mouth.

By the second track, she was curled into the armrest, tears sliding silently down her face.

By the third, she was yelling “BITCH—” at the ceiling and clutching your throw pillow like a defibrillator. “WHAT THE FUCK YOU MEAN SHE GOT, SHE GOT AWAAAAY? YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?”

You sat on the floor cross-legged, chewing little bites of cold pad thai and whispering anecdotes she already knew.

“This one was supposed to be a voice note. I recorded it at 3 a.m., locked in the bathroom because I couldn’t breathe.”

“This one? I almost deleted it. I wrote it as a joke — then broke down crying halfway through the demo.”

“This one happened in ten minutes, standing in the kitchen. Got PTSD from the way she looked at me the last time."

“And this one… I wrote a long time ago. After I found her in the bathroom. I don’t think I ever really came back from that.”

And Rachel? She wept. She sobbed. Loud, theatrical, ugly crying. Like she had held all of it in for you. For five months. Maybe longer.

“You made me go through it,” she wheezed into a napkin around track nine. “I’ve been normal this whole time! I’ve been fine! I’ve been the one getting your stupid oat milk and refilling your lavender oil diffusers and telling the world you’re not dead and now you do this to me?? I’m grieving like she left me!”

You giggled, even through your own tears. “Okay, first of all, you love it.”

“I do,” Rachel groaned. “And I fucking hate her for this. How dare she inspire the best album of all time and not be here to hear it.”

You both laughed, then cried again.

Song after song played. Some soft. Some devastating. One was practically instrumental except for your voice whispering lines of a letter you never sent. One had a heartbeat sample from the panic attack backstage—you’d clipped the audio from your own security camera, distorted it, looped it until it sounded like something alive. Rachel stared at you for a long time after that one.

When the last track started, number 15—“Bigger Than the Whole Sky”—neither of you spoke.

You just sat there, two girls in socks and sweatshirts, the lights low, your eyes rimmed red, listening to a song that felt too big for the room.

You had debated leaving it off the album. It was almost too honest. Too final. But now that it played, you knew there was no choice. It was your goodbye. It was the song you’d write for her if you never got to write another. Rachel didn’t cry during that one. She just held your hand.

The last note faded. Silence bloomed.

A full minute passed. Then another.

Finally, she turned to you, voice thick but sure.

“You know you’re still the Princess of Pop, right?”

“...What?”

“I’m serious,” she said, wiping her face and sitting up straight. “No one has come close. Not even remotely. Your songs still chart. Your fans still play them. You vanished, got crucified by the media, dropped off the face of the earth—and you still own them.”

You strayed silent. It didn’t compute.

“I didn’t tell you,” she continued, a little breathless, as if the realization had only just hit her too. “But your streams? They went up after the last show. After people said you were done. Your Spotify page never dipped. You still hold the title.”

You stared at the floor, jaw slack.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. You thought your name had been buried. That all they saw when they looked at you was failure.

Rachel grinned now, wicked and electric.

“And if... if you did some more pop... catchy songs?”

She leaned in like she was telling you a national secret. 

“You could become the Queen of Pop.”

You laughed. Shook your head. “I don’t even know how to write songs that aren’t sad anymore. I’ve forgotten how to write about anything else. I can’t even remember what catchy-pop sounds like.”

“So don’t write it for love,” Rachel said. “Write it for revenge.”

You looked at her.

“Write it about you,” she said. “About the media. The fans who turned. The people who used you. The people who made you feel like you deserved what happened. Write the way it felt to be watched while falling apart.”

She paused. Then, quietly:

“Take your crown back. Respond.”

And something in you clicked.

You could feel it in your blood. Not like hope. Not like healing. Like fire. A heartbeat of defiance. The version of yourself you buried started to rise.

You turned towards your desk.

And you began to write again—not for her,

But for them.

For you.

And the second half of the album —Star— began with a synth.

You didn’t mean for it to happen that way—it was just a sound you stumbled across late one night, messing with an old analog patch in your bedroom studio, fingers twitchy with nerves and a Red Bull. It was metallic, sharp. You played it over and over again. Then layered a kick under it. Then a baseline. 

Then you whispered into the mic: “Kill the lights.”

And seven months passed.

Seven months of sweat-slicked nights dancing in your kitchen with Rachel, testing beats at 2 a.m., exporting stems from your bed and watching her improvise choreography in mismatched socks and a sports bra. Seven months of sneaking razor-edged lyrics into candy-coated choruses. Seven months of learning to write songs that made people move—while still ripping their hearts out if they dared to really listen.

You were writing pop again, but it wasn’t empty. I

You wrote vengeance. Every synth line was survival. Every kick was a rebuttal.

Rachel gave notes in between mouthfuls of cereal and dancing on your couch. “Track two needs more drama,” she’d say. “Give me bridge-that-makes-me-blackout energy.” Or: “No, no, this one’s only slutty. Make it sad and slutty. Let them cry in the club.” 

You took every note seriously. She had good ears.

You started going outside more.

Still undercover—always undercover. Hoodie pulled low, hat snug, sunglasses swallowing half your face. Jeans sagged just enough to soften the sway of your hips, the parts of you that always gave you away. You wandered through farmer’s markets like a ghost, bought overpriced candles that smelled like memory and sea salt. You sat in corner coffee shops, watching strangers mouth your lyrics, old songs still spinning on the radio like they belonged to someone else. No one recognized you.

You were just a shadow. A whisper.

But inside, quietly, something was beginning to shift.

You felt alive.

You were eating again. Tentative bites at first. Then real ones.

Meals. Moments. You chewed slowly, like you were relearning how to stay.

Rachel didn’t say anything every time you finished your plate. She just smiled —soft, steady— like she’d been waiting for that moment longer than you realized. Like it mattered more than applause ever did.

You threw out the weight scale one morning without ceremony. Just picked it up and let it go. No breakdown. No second thoughts. You didn’t need numbers to tell you anything anymore.

Bit by bit, you stitched yourself back together.

Not perfectly—never perfectly. But beautifully.

And one night, while polishing track eleven —purple lace bra— Rachel walked into the studio holding her phone like it had a pulse.

“They want to renew your contract,” 

“Who?”

“The label. Sony.”

You stared at her like she’d just said NASA wanted to put you on the moon.

“They want to what?”

“They want to renew, babe.”

“After everything?”

She tossed the phone onto the couch and leaned against the table, arms crossed, grinning. “After everything. After the press, after your full collapse and disappearance. Yes.”

“Why?” you asked, half-laughing, half-wheezing. “Why the fuck would they want me back?”

“Because you have thirty songs in your hands. And I showed them three.”

You froze. “You what?”

“Three,” she repeated casually. “Kill the Lights. The Greatest. And that one that made me cry into my bowl of Lucky Charms. The Subway.”

“You sent those to the label?!”

“I’m still your manager, babe,” she said, completely unfazed. “But also, surprise—I studied law.”

You stared at her. “You did?”

“Bitch, I have a law degree. NYU, full ride, thank you very much. Passed the bar in two states.”

“Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?”

“Because you were too busy being a popstar in love.”

You stared at her like she was a stranger.

A really well-dressed, brilliantly chaotic stranger that just changed your life again.

She walked over to the dining table and pulled out a folder. A real one. Like, paper.

“I drafted something.”

You laughed, breathless. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

You opened it. Scanned. And your heart did something violent.

Because she wasn’t joking.

She had rewritten your contract from the ground up.

No limit budget. Final say on all visual and marketing assets. No interference with musical direction. Full creative control and ownership of masters. You choose collaborators. You approve performances. You decide your image.

It was a declaration. A manifesto.

“This is the deal,” Rachel said, calm and steady. “They want you because you are the full package. You write like god. You sing, and DAMN, you can sing. You dance, and even produce. You have thirty songs ready to go and you did it all by yourself. You’re not just a popstar. You’re the star.”

You didn’t say anything.

You sat there, staring at the paper, feeling the weight of it settle on your chest. Not in a crushing way. In a real way.

For the first time in your career, you weren’t asking. You were telling.

“I’m not going back to being their puppet,”

“You’re not,”

“I want to direct my own music videos.”

“You will.”

“I want to choose who interviews me. And I don’t want them to mention Ellie or anything related to what happened in any interview. Or I'm standing up and leaving.”

“Done.”

“I want to wear what I want. Decide how much skin I show. Be who I want. When do I speak. Say what I fucking feel.”

“Good. Because that’s the only version of you they’re getting now.”

You looked up. And for the first time in years, you saw it clearly.

You had a fucking bomb in your hands.

And this time—you were going to drop it.

Another full year went by in the studio this time, but now it was official—no more demo booths or mic stands balanced on pillows. This was the real thing: glowing floors, velvet-lined walls, mixers worth more than your car, and lights that blinked like the heartbeat of a body being brought back to life.

You rerecorded every song yourself. Mixed them until your ears bled. You learned choreography that left bruises on your knees and your ribs. And with your now unlimited budget, you shot music videos until four in the morning—on rooftops, in deserts, underwater tanks, in glass boxes. You designed the visuals frame by frame, picked the colors, styled the looks, storyboarded the lighting.

Every single person who stepped into the room signed an NDA.

No one knew what the world was about to get. No one dared say “no.”

And that was the point.

You were given no budget because there was no ceiling anymore—not for you. 

You went out more. Still undercover, still “Dave” in your oversized hoodie, Rachel trailing behind in sunglasses and AirPods—but you started tasting life again. You drank matcha lattes and wore rings on every finger. You watched sunsets from the fire escape. You swiped on strangers and didn’t answer.

It ended up feeling like freedom.

Not the loud kind—not the kind with flashing lights and open bars and roaring crowds. It was the quiet kind. The slow kind. The kind that blooms behind your ribs one morning when you realize the fear is gone. When you open your window and let the light in without flinching. When you walk down the street in oversized jeans and sunglasses and no one looks twice, and you smile—not because they didn’t recognize you, but because you recognized yourself.

Every day you made something. A beat, a demo, a visual, a verse. Every day you moved your body not to impress anyone, but just to feel alive. You went from singing into the mic with trembling hands to dancing alone at midnight. You weren’t healing for the cameras this time. You were healing for you.

And then—your first appearance.

An interview. No teaser. No preview. No cryptic post.

Just you. Sitting in a chair under soft lights, head tilted slightly, hair longer now—darker, like it had remembered its roots. You wore black velvet. No glitter. No gloss. Just confidence. Cold and refined. You didn’t blink too much. You didn’t fold your hands and blush like you used to.

You looked the world in the eye and didn’t apologize.

You answered every question without flinching. Controlled. Graceful. No label-approved anecdotes. No media-trained smiles. Just facts. Truth. You told them about the album. About staying inside and disappearing for two years. About the blood, sweat and tears that went into every note. About how you wrote the best music of your life alone, with a keyboard in your lap and the world forgetting your name.

Millions wept at the sight of your face again—flooded timelines, lit-up screens, strangers sobbing in living rooms like you were someone they’d lost and just found again.

Kill the Lights and The Greatest dropped like twin detonations—two forces hurtling from the same galaxy-wide rupture. You were grief and vengeance. You were heartbreak and hunger. You were soft acoustic and razor-sharp synths. 

The two songs battled for the top spot on the Billboard 100 like tectonic plates fighting for space—like you were at war with yourself, and winning both sides.

The world froze.

People paused meetings. Turned up their radios. Sat in silence in their cars, crying through traffic lights, replaying your songs again and again like it might save them.

And when the album dropped—

The world didn’t just listen. It obsessed.

Thirty tracks. Each one a chapter. Each one a constellation in a story they tried desperately to piece together. They printed out the lyrics. Annotated them like sacred texts. Drew timelines. Mapped connections. Fans and journalists and college professors debated the order, the meaning, the metaphors.

They tried to tell the story of you and Ellie.

Of two girls who had everything and lost it. Two artists who vanished like smoke and left nothing behind but silence and rumors.

But they never got it right.

They didn’t understand why the heartbreak in your songs never curdled into hatred or spite. Why every lyric sounded like a hand reaching out, not a door slamming shut. Why the choruses built like pleas, not accusations. 

They didn’t understand why, after all that, after everything—you still sang about her like she was holy.

No one could explain her disappearance. No one could explain the pain without resentment. No one could explain why you never named her. Never blamed her.

But in the end, they understood one thing:

You loved her.

And it was never your fault.

Some people still clung to the lie. Still whispered the old narratives. Still clutched at the tabloid versions of you, the girl who ruined the Fireflies. But the world? The world saw you now. Fully. Finally.

And this time, you weren’t just a popstar. You were a woman reborn. A myth rewritten in your own handwriting.

Thirty Billboard Hot 100 entries. A once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon. History rewritten in your voice.

And this time, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t shatter.

This time, you stepped into the light and claimed it. Not as an apology.

As a reign.

And your crown?

Eight Grammys.

Weapons and relics. Golden, glinting under the lights, heavy in the most sacred way. They stacked in your arms and sat on the floor like proof. Of your voice. Of your pain. Of your survival.

You’d swept every category they once swore you’d never be nominated in again—each win a quiet, stunning defiance.

And then came the final envelope. The inevitable.

Album of the Year.

The same award the band you “destroyed” won, three years ago.

Poetic justice, millions said.

You stepped onto the stage slowly, breath shallow, heels silent against the polished floor. The applause thundered in your ears. Spotlights bloomed across the walls like flowers. You passed legends in gowns and tuxedos who stood to greet you. People you used to idolize. People who doubted you.

All of them on their feet now, clapping until their hands went red.

Rachel had been crying since the first win. She stood with both hands over her mouth now, mascara running.

You reached the mic. And for a moment—just one breathless, shivering second—it felt like that night again. The collapse. The silence. The concrete floor. The dressing room lights. 

And for another second, it felt like that night when you stood on this same stage, trembling in heels too big and a glittering dress and dreams too loud, clutching your Grammy for Best New Artist.

When Ellie was there.

In the crowd. Eyes on you like you were the only religion she ever believed in. Enamored. Steady. Still by your side.

But now there was only you.

Still, you exhaled. No speech. You just leaned in and spoke.

"Two years ago, I disappeared."

Your voice rang clear, but quiet. Intimate, like a confession.

"Not by accident. Not as a PR move. Not for mystery or drama or effect. I disappeared because I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t breathe. Because, simply, I couldn’t do it anymore."

The room fell into stillness. Cameras. Artists. Critics.

You held all of them in your hands.

"I remember being on a stage like this and feeling like the air was being ripped out of my lungs. I remember not recognizing my own voice. Not recognizing myself in the mirror. I remember feeling like I had nothing left to give except the pieces of myself people wanted to pick apart."

You glanced down at the Grammy in your hand, then back up. The silence ached.

"Supernova isn’t a comeback album. It's not a rebrand. It’s not an apology or a reinvention. It's a war report. My version of the story."

Rachel pressed a hand to her chest. You kept going.

"I made it at home, when I was so alone I thought even music had left me. I wrote it with nothing but my grief. I produced it through panic attacks and insomnia and a silence that lasted years. I made it with no team. No timeline. No help."

"And I never thought anyone would want to hear it."

Your hands shook.

"So, I made it for myself. Because I had to. Because I didn’t know how to survive without making something out of the wreckage."

"This album is about death—not literal death, but the death of who I was. The death of what people thought I was supposed to be. It’s about watching everything fall apart, including myself, and choosing not to stay shattered."

A hush rippled across the audience like wind in a cathedral.

Your voice trembled on the next words.

"I didn’t know I could survive the kind of silence I went through. I didn’t know I could come back from that kind of grief. I didn’t know… that healing could be loud. That you could dance through pain. That you could sing your way out of a breakdown."

You looked up.

"Because that’s what a supernova is—a dead star. A star that explodes at the end of its life, and still manages to shine brighter than ever before. A last, defiant burst of light. Brighter than anything else in the sky. Brighter even in its ending."

And the room leaned in.

"So I want to thank everyone who made space for me—to the fans who stayed when it would’ve been easier to leave, to the people who kept playing the songs even when the world stopped saying my name, to the team who let me take my power back, to the academy for believing in me again, for gifting me eight awards tonight… and to Rachel."

You paused, voice catching just slightly, as your eyes found her in the front row.

"To Rachel—who has been by my side every single day. Who I love deeply. Who fed me when I couldn’t feed myself. Who sat on the floor at 3 a.m. while I rewrote the same chorus fourteen times. Who held me through the silence. Who told me to keep going when I didn’t believe I could. Who reminded me who the I am, even when I forgot."

"Because not only music saved my life. She did too. She didn’t just manage me—she fought for me. She negotiated for me. She became my armor when I had nothing left to wear but pain. She believed in this album before it existed, before I existed again. And I wouldn’t be standing here without her. Not as an artist. Not as a woman. Not as me."

Your voice cracked.

"This is our win, Rachel. You are my home. You’re the family I chose."

The camera caught Rachel whispering “I love you” as tears spilled down her cheeks, her eyes bright and shining, not with sadness, but with pride.

And the tears blurred the edges of the moment—every single person in that room was crying. Some quietly. Some not at all. But all of them, undone.

You blinked, a tear slipping down your cheek too.

"And finally..."

Your voice dropped into a hush that vibrated all the way to the back of the theater. Your fingers curled around the award like a lifeline.

And just for a moment—just a breath—you weren’t the most talked-about artist in the world. You weren’t the girl who just won eight Grammys and who millions and millions were watching live.

You were just a girl —still— in love.

"If the main person who inspired this album is watching…”

A silence fell over the room like snowfall. Slow. Holy. Electric.

You took your time.

“I hope you know I made it through.”

Your voice cracked a little. Tears started flowing with more force.

“I hope you found your way back to yourself, wherever you are. I hope you’re safe. I hope you're not afraid of your own name anymore.”

You smiled then. Not for the cameras. Not for the crowd. 

For her.

 The kind of smile that knows everything it’s lost and still chooses to love.

“And I hope you know…” 

You inhaled, steadying yourself. 

“I will love you until the day I die. Always.”

A quiet gasp rippled through the crowd.

A collective intake of breath.

Behind you, the screen lit up—Supernova in white-hot letters. Galaxies and wreckage and rebirth. The cover pulsed like a living thing.

You turned to look at it. Then back to the crowd. And your voice rang out clear, with a kind of peace the world had never heard from you before.

“Because that’s what a supernova is.”

A pause.

“Two stars that collide.”

Applause thundered through the room like a tidal wave. The loudest applause you have ever heard. Rachel stood sobbing, clutching her heart like it might fly out of her chest. The cameras shook from the impact of the ovation.

But you?

You stood in the golden light, head held high, dark blue gown trailing behind you like smoke. Your hands steady. Your eyes wet.

Your name immortal.

Bathed in gold. Crowned in fire. Unfathomably alive.

And as the room rose to its feet, as the cameras clicked, as the world screamed your name—

you smiled again. And the world bowed.

And touring again wasn’t just a return. It was a reignition.

You didn’t come back to the stage out of obligation. You came back hungry, starved—for the lights, for the roar, for the electricity that only exists when you’re standing at the center of a world and it chants your name like gospel.

You rewrote the entire rulebook. Tore up the expectations. Took back the lights, the cameras, the narrative. You walked into rehearsals not as a product—but as a visionary. The choreographers didn’t lead, you did. The stylists followed your sketches. The tech team adjusted to your cues.

You weren’t the face of the machine anymore. You were the engine.

THE SUPERNOVA TOUR wasn’t just a tour—it was a world event. Every stadium was transformed. Not just staged, not just lit—rebuilt. Custom arenas. Traveling architecture. Immersive catwalks that extended into the crowd like light-years. Stages that moved, shifted shape, breathed. Ceilings filled with artificial stars. Laser rain that fell in sync with the beat.

People screamed. Fell to their knees. Passed out. Cried. It was more than spectacle. It was a mass. A shared fever dream.

You didn’t just dance—you commanded. 

And your voice?

Every note was a revelation. Every live performance better than the album version. You didn’t need tuning. You didn’t need tricks. You only needed air—and even that bent to you. The control, the power, the emotion—you could level a room with a whisper. Critics dropped their usual qualifiers. No “for pop.” No “for her age.” 

Just: the best voice in the industry. Full stop.

A once-in-a-generation voice in its prime.

But let's rewind to the first night.

Your 25th birthday.

Because yes, all of this happened in your early twenties.

Crazy, right?

So, the beginning of it all. Back on the stage after two years in a room. Michigan Stadium. One hundred thousand people. Sold out in less than ten minutes.

It was the most anticipated show in a decade. The largest stadium in the country pulsed like a living, breathing thing.

Backstage, the atmosphere buzzed like static. You could feel the weight of it in your chest. The stage manager called out cues. Dancers warmed up. Rachel checked her clipboard for the fifth time. Crew members whispered. Cameras readied.

But you stood just offstage, frozen.

Your chest tightened. Your breath thinned. Your palms sweat through silk gloves. The echo of two years ago crawled up your spine—the night you collapsed, the crowd watching while you crumbled. 

The headlines. The expectation. The fall. The shame. The humiliation.

You stepped backwards, towards the shadows.

And then—Rachel.

God bless that woman. At this point, you’re completely convinced she might be your personal angel—sent not with wings, but with patience and the uncanny ability of being the only one able to hold you together when you’re unraveling.

She found you, as she always did. Not with panic or urgency. But with knowing. She stepped in front of you and placed both hands on your shoulders, firm but gentle. Her forehead touched yours.

“Breathe,” she whispered. “You’re not her anymore.”

You blinked. Tears threatening.

“You’re not coming back to beg,” she said. “You’re walking out there to reign.”

You nodded. A tear slid down your cheek. She caught it before it could fall.

And then—

The lights dimmed.

The stadium screamed.

The first note of "Kill The Lights" began to hum—your heartbeat, engineered, trembling through the floor. The crowd felt it before they heard it. It crawled into their skin, a vibration in the bones, anticipation curling around every breath. Lights blinked in time with the rhythm, and the arena seemed to inhale all at once.

Then you rose. Literally.

The stage lifted, slow and reverent, and your silhouette appeared against a backdrop of stars so real it felt like the night sky had cracked open just for you. You stood there, light pouring over your figure like a coronation.

The crowd went feral. One hundred thousand voices screamed your name like it was holy. People cried. Cameras shook. Security lines blurred. Entire sections of the stadium pulsed with devotion.

And this time, there was no fear, no ghosts clinging to your shadow.

You sang like the planet had been waiting to hear your voice again, like something ancient had broken open and was pouring out of you, pure and unforgiving. You danced like gravity belonged to you, like every beat was orbiting your hips. You didn’t miss a breath. Didn’t break. Your voice carved through the air like velvet laced with glass—lush, sharp, unforgettable.

And when you finally slowed down, when the lights dimmed and the band hushed, the stage softened into something smaller, more intimate. You sat at the edge of the platform, guitar resting in your lap, crowd holding their collective breath.

And you sang the songs you wrote for her. The ones soaked in grief and memory. The ones no one else could ever fully understand but you.

"Bigger Than the Whole Sky" echoed into the night, and somewhere in the bridge your voice cracked. Just a little.

You looked up at the sky, blinking against the heat in your eyes, like maybe—just maybe—wherever she was, she could see you. That maybe Ellie was watching. That maybe the girl you still loved, the girl you still couldn’t stop writing about, was somewhere in the dark with her hand over her heart.

You whispered into the mic, "I'm okay."

The crowd screamed back,

“We love you!”

You smiled, small and real. “I love you too.”

You played "My Everything" on a baby grand with white lacquer that shimmered under the lights. And when you reached the verse that gutted you the most, you couldn't help it. The tear came. Quiet and clean, just one.

But it slid down your cheek as you sang, and the note trembled as the world held its breath.

Between songs, you knelt at the barricades. You reached for their hands. You took fan letters and tucked them into your boots. You harmonized with people sobbing in the front row.

You gave pieces of yourself away like confetti, and somehow, it made you more whole.

This wasn’t just a comeback tour. It was the performance of the decade. A cultural reset. A historical imprint. The kind of show people would talk about for the rest of their lives. Critics had no adjectives left. Fans tattooed your lyrics down their spines.

And by the time the last chorus of “No tears left to cry” exploded around you, by the time the final spotlight dimmed and you stood there, breathless and burning—you weren’t a popstar.

You were the Queen.

Undisputed. Untouchable.

And finally, unmistakably, home.

The tour had a rare break—eight whole days without a flight, a choreography run, or a stadium full of people screaming. Eight days of silence, of stillness, of the strange ache that comes after the fire.

And how did you choose to spend your sacred, golden downtime?

By agreeing—against your better judgment—to go to a football game with Rachel.

Not just any football game. The national championship. In a luxury suite at the Rose Bowl, no less. Your name on the guest list. 

Your face caught on the stadium cam five seconds after sitting down. Your tour jacket—SUPERNOVA stitched across the back in thread that shimmered—glinting under the floodlights. You smirked sharply and winked. The crowd erupted like they just saw Jesus.

You sat curled into a seat with a mojito in hand and sour candy tucked between your thighs. Rachel was next to you, heels kicked off somewhere under the seats, one hand wrapped around a tequila soda, the other holding a tub of popcorn like it was a baby.

The stadium pulsed with sound. It was chaos. Beautiful, American, screaming chaos.

“Okay,” Rachel said, “Admit it. You’re having fun.”

You raised your brows. “I’ve been here for twenty minutes and thirty girls have already tried to take a selfie with me.”

She shrugged. “Icon problems.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned forward just as the players emerged from the tunnel. The crowd exploded. Fireworks burst into the air. Marching band horns stabbed the night like glittering knives. And at the center of it all—

“Aaand there she is,”

Rachel said, elbowing you sharply.

“Miss Abby fucking Anderson.”

“Who?" You squinted. "Which one?”

“Girl. You live under a rock.”

“Try thirty-eight cities in four months.”

“Okay, fair. But that,” she said, pointing like she was unveiling a piece of art, “is Abby Anderson. Number 7. The quarterback of the moment. Six feet of pure lesbian chaos. Built like a Greek statue and allegedly makes girls see God.”

You looked.

And yeah. She was… fine.

More than fine.

Blonde under the helmet, jaw sharp, broad shoulders filling out the jersey like it was designed for a movie montage. And she had that look—composed, locked-in, calm in a way that made your pulse stutter.

“I mean, okay,” you muttered.

Rachel nearly dropped the popcorn. “Okay?! You’re looking at a panty-dropper in cleats and giving me ‘okay’? You need help.”

“I’m not trying to get tackled in the press again, thank you.”

“You haven’t even touched a woman since Ellie.”

Your lips parted. “Don’t—”

“Girl, two years. And a half.”

“I know.”

You looked away, cheeks heating—but it was already too late. The thought was a match, and your memory was all gasoline.

Because it was true.

You hadn’t touched anyone. No one touched you. Not since her.

And it wasn’t for lack of opportunity. Men and women alike lined up for a chance to sleep with you. 

It was because your body still belonged to someone who wasn’t coming back. You still remembered the way her fingertips dragged over your hipbones, the weight of her hand resting between your thighs like it had always been meant to fit there. You remembered her voice in the dark, breathy and low, the way she said your name like a secret no one else was allowed to know. The rasp of it against your jaw. The low groan when you bit her shoulder. The way she kissed you—possessive, unhurried, knowing.

You remembered her mouth.

The way she looked up at you from between your legs like you were the only thing in the world worth ruining her eyeliner for. The way she’d laugh when you begged. How she’d press her lips behind your knee. That little smirk she wore like a weapon.

Her scent still lingered. Sometimes. In your sheets. In your sweat. In the shirts you still hadn’t thrown out.

Her ghost lived under your skin.

And your body? It hadn’t forgotten. Not even for a second. 

So, no.

You hadn’t touched anyone since her.

“Your pussy is in hibernation. The spiders are webbing.”

“RACHEL.”

“I’m sorry, but the poor thing needs some action.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Why are you like this.”

“We talked about this like a million times. I’m tired of watching you cry about the same girl every night. I want you to have fun again.”

“I don’t know how to.” You shook your head. “I can’t even think about touching someone else.”

Rachel quieted. Her voice softened.

“Because you’re still in love with her.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

The screen above the field lit up suddenly, and before you could brace yourself, there you were. Big-screened. The crowd screamed again.

And down on the field, Abby Anderson looked up.

Saw you.

And tripped.

Rachel screamed. “OH MY GOD.”

“No she didn’t.”

“She DID! Replay that in your mind, bitch! The most famous quarterback in the world just ate turf because she saw you. The Queen of Pop has entered the building!”

You groaned and slumped in your seat. “You’re unbearable.”

She was already texting the group chat. “Girl. Be real. You haven’t had sex in two years and a half. That’s a federal crime.”

“I bought three vibrators last month!”

“Great. Maybe that dark purple one can bend you over and dirty talk you—since we both know that’s your favorite.”

And yeah, you both knew the exact reason why that one’s your favorite.

You nearly spit out your drink. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m just saying,” she continued, now in a whisper only for you, “A little one-night stand wouldn’t kill you.”

You shook your head. “I don’t know how to do that anymore.”

Rachel looked at you. Really looked. 

Past the jokes. Past the fame.

Past the perfect eyeliner and the platinum record sales.

“I know,” she said. “But maybe it’s time to try. You have every right to move on, because this isn’t good for you. you have to get over her someday.”

You just stayed silent and focused on the game.

And you didn't even realize how into the game you’d gotten until the fourth quarter hit, when Rachel had to physically pry the candy bag out of your clenched hand.

“Jesus,” she whispered. “You’re holding onto those sour patch kids like they’re rosary beads.”

But you couldn’t answer. You were too busy watching Abby.

Abby Anderson had just played the best game of the season. Of the year, probably. Maybe of her entire career. Three touchdown passes. One brutal breakaway run that made half the stadium leap to its feet. A fourth-quarter interception that changed the momentum of the game entirely—and ended with her launching the ball with precision so vicious, the announcers couldn’t even get the words out fast enough.

The girl was on fire.

The stadium was buzzing with it. Cameras lingered on her. Commentators said her name like they were in awe. The student section went feral every time she moved.

And still—every few minutes, every time the adrenaline ebbed just enough for her to breathe—she looked up at your suite.

Not a glance. Not a passing look.

She searched for you.

And when she found you, her face cracked into a smile like thunder breaking sky.

“She’s trying to impress you sooo bad,” Rachel murmured, practically vibrating beside you.

“She’s not,” you muttered, though your stomach flipped violently.

“She’s out there playing like she wants to fuck a Grammy winner. Which, if we’re being honest, is a pretty impressive life goal.”

You shoved her. “Stop.”

She raised her drink. “I’m just calling it like I see it.”

You tried to focus on the game again, but it was hopeless. All you could see was Abby—Abby snapping her helmet off between plays, face flushed, eyes burning. Abby wiping sweat off her jaw. Abby looking up at you like she was already winning something else.

The final buzzer sounded. The crowd exploded.

And her team won. Of course.

They swarmed the field, screaming, jumping, throwing helmets. Champagne bottles sprayed. Confetti cannons fired. Cameras flooded the turf. Reporters sprinted in heels. The screen overhead lit up with her face—smiling wide, eyes glinting, cheeks pink.

Rachel leaned in, whispering, “Okay, if you don’t ask for her number, I’m gonna.”

You didn't respond. You were in a trance.

Your name was still trending worldwide. The stadium still screamed your lyrics between plays. Your face had just been projected to seventy-five thousand people.

And everything started the night of the championship afterparty.

Abby found you in a rooftop lounge lit by champagne and expensive fog machines. The city glittered below. Music pulsed, and your name was passed between lips like a prophecy. You were in a black mini-dress, leaning against the balcony with a glass of wine you didn’t finish. 

She walked up behind you and said, “You looked bored.” You turned, eyebrow raised. She grinned, calm and sharp. “Thought I’d offer a distraction.”

And then she kissed you.

Hard. Clean. Like it was the only thing she’d wanted to do since spotting you on the game.

Her hands were huge. Steady. She kissed like someone who trained for it, like someone who played to win. You gasped into her mouth and she caught it with her tongue. 

Her hand gripped your hip like she’d done it a thousand times in her head. 

And you let her.

Because for one second, you wanted to forget. You wanted to give in.

You ended up at her hotel.

You don’t remember the elevator ride. You barely remember the door clicking shut. But you remember her mouth was on your throat. Her body pressing you into the mattress with that easy, practiced strength. You remember thinking—God, she’s strong. Strong and careful and good. So good. Her fingers moved with precision, her mouth everywhere you needed it. Her strap was deep, steady, relentless. She made you come twice, coaxed it out of you with murmured praise and quiet intensity, her palm warm against your stomach like she was anchoring you to the moment. And after, she kissed your shoulder, tucked the blanket up to your chin, and didn’t fall asleep until you did.

It should’ve been perfect.

Abby did everything right. She was steady hands and quiet warmth. She looked at you like you were something to be cherished. She made space for you. She kissed you like she meant it.

But the whole time, it felt like you were mouthing someone else’s lines. Like reciting a love poem in a language you’d only ever learned phonetically—beautiful, but not yours.

You couldn’t stop comparing.

Not out of cruelty, but instinct. Your body remembered a different kind of heat.

Because she was good. Better than good. She was present. She was gentle. She made you feel seen.

But she didn’t make you feel undone.

There was no spark. No chaos. No desperate, breathless hunger that left you trembling in the aftermath. No thunder in your chest. No fire behind your ribs.

Nothing lit on fire.

Still, you kept showing up. Let her hold your hand. Let her sleep beside you. Let her call it something close to love.

Because it was easy.

Because it didn’t hurt.

Because convincing yourself felt safer than being alone with the truth.

And maybe, if you said it enough times, if you pretended hard enough—one day it wouldn’t feel like pretending.

The headlines ate it up like wildfire. QUEEN OF POP DATING STAR QUARTERBACK. Pictures of you in sunglasses and oversized denim jackets sitting next to her courtside. Her hand on your thigh at brunch. Her arm around your waist walking into a gala.

You went to some of her games. Front row. Her jersey number burning your back. You cheered, clapped, smiled for the cameras.

The internet called you power lesbians. The world loved it.

Abby took you to restaurants with three Michelin stars. Private jets. Islands. She picked you up in a Ferrari after rehearsals. She brought you flowers so big they looked fake.

She was perfect. Too perfect.

This restaurant had no sign. Just a man in a tuxedo who opened the door like he’d been waiting for you all his life. Inside, it was all soft gold light and white-gloved service. Every dish looked like a painting. Every glass cost more than someone's rent. The tablecloth was actual silk. The menu didn’t have prices.

Abby looked unfairly good across from you—shirt unbuttoned just enough, blazer perfectly cut, smile easy, confident. She leaned back in her seat like she owned the place. And honestly, she probably did.

When the third course arrived—a tower of food so small it looked like a joke—Abby reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a tiny velvet box.

“I saw this and thought of you,” she said, sliding it across the table.

Inside: a diamond necklace. Massive. Blinding.

You blinked.

“Abby, this is…wow. It’s gorgeous. Thank you.”

She shrugged like it was nothing. “I just wanted to spoil you.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but she was already shifting topics.

“You saw the game last night?” she asked, cutting into her dish. “That cornerback from Dallas tore her ACL. Brutal.”

“No, I didn’t catch it.”

“Man, you should’ve seen it. She went down hard. I mean, she’ll recover, but it’s career-altering.”

You nodded, stirring the sauce on your plate.

Abby kept talking. Stats, transfers, coaching decisions. Every few sentences, she’d drop a you’re so pretty when you’re quiet or that dress is killing me, and you’d laugh on cue.

You glanced at the necklace. At the wine. At her hand resting on the table, waiting for yours.

And then you noticed—

She hadn’t asked about your day. Not about what you were writing. Not how you were feeling.

Just sports. And how hot you looked. And diamond gifts you didn’t ask for.

The necklace around your neck was heavy—gold, oversized, nothing like you. Loud. Expensive. Thoughtless in its sparkle.

You remembered another necklace.

Platinum. Your birth stone. Understated. Designed just for you— two tiny initials woven together like they were bounded to eternity. Hers and yours. Ellie's.

It had arrived in a black velvet box with a note you still keep, her messy handwriting spelling:

"I know you don’t need anything to know I love you, but if you ever forget how much of me is yours, you can wear this. So you never have to wonder.

I will love you in every version of forever.

— E"

You wore it everyday until she left.

And suddenly, all you could feel was the space between her hand and yours — the silence screaming louder than anything she’d said all night.

And sometimes—when the room was quiet and her breathing even beside you—you thought, maybe I could fall in love with her.

But you never did.

That’s what destroyed you.

Because you liked her. You really liked her.

And still—your heart never settled. Never slowed. Never opened. 

Until one night, she held you afterwards, arm draped across your waist, and you realized you were crying.

Silently. Into the pillow.

Because all you could think about was Ellie.

Ellie, with her messy auburn hair and her tattooed arms and her sharp, beautiful green eyes. Ellie and her goddamn laugh—low and rough, like gravel and thunderstorms and freckles you traced a thousand times with your fingers, with your mouth, like you were trying to memorize the constellations written on her skin. Ellie, who made love to you like it was a language only the two of you spoke—like your body was a song she was born knowing. Ellie, loud and chaotic and funny and unapologetic and always leaving guitar picks in your shoes and lighters in your makeup bag. Ellie, who pulled you onstage during soundcheck just to kiss you in front of the crew, like it was a declaration, like it was defiance. Ellie, who wrote you more than twenty songs, some released, some unreleased, and swore every single one of them was your fault. Ellie, who said I love you with a Grammy in one hand and your heart in the other. Ellie, who you wrote two entire albums for, like bleeding out was the only way to survive loving her. Ellie, your greatest muse, your brightest spark, your most devastating collapse.

Ellie, who made you feel more alive than anyone ever had—or ever would.

Ellie, who left. 

The most intense love you’d ever known. And then—left.

And never reached out. Not once. Vanished like ash. No public sightings. No leaks. She left the band. She left you. She left everything.

And still, you loved her.

You hated that you loved her.

You hated that you remembered her voice in the shower. That you remembered the way her hand tangled with yours when you were nervous.

That you remembered every word she spoke that final night—the way her voice cracked on the edges, how the silence between sentences felt heavier than the ones she said. The sound of her boots retreating across the floor still echoed in your skull, sharp and final. The weightlessness of her body, slipping away. The hollowness of her eyes.

The coldness of her lips in that final kiss had etched itself into the very cells of your mouth—an imprint beneath the skin, a memory your body would never stop carrying.

How the ache in your chest turned unbearable when she said, “I will love you until the day that I die,” like it wasn’t a promise— but a farewell.

You hated that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t write a single song about Abby, but you could sit down and pour out ten songs about Ellie in a single breath, like she lived in your bloodstream, like the words had been waiting for you to stop pretending.

You hated that you had someone next to you in bed, and still—you slept with the ghost of someone else.

There was none of the wild, consuming heat that made you feel like loving Abby might kill you—but God, what a way to go. No hunger that clawed through your chest. No sense of ruin and worship tangled into one.

No love that made you forget who you were before it.

Ellie had been that.

She had been storms and screaming and things only the two of you would ever understand. She had set you on fire and you couldn't stop smelling smoke since. She had been Ellie fucking Williams.

It wasn’t Abby’s fault.

But the fact that she didn’t inspire you—not even a verse, not a melody, not a single chord that didn’t sound borrowed—was what made the realization hit harder than anything else ever had.

Because with Ellie, you and her hadn’t just been connected by feeling, or by fate, or by that magnetic force that made gravity feel heavier when she was near.

It was also music.

From the very beginning. Before the first “I love you.” Before the fall.

It was the language your hearts spoke when words weren’t enough. It was the quiet confession in a harmony you built without meaning to.

The song you wrote together before you even admitted what you felt for each other was a confession all on its own—every lyric of yours dripping with the ache of love you hadn’t said out loud yet, her guitar holding more truth than she was ready to face.

She had been your muse. And you had been hers. You were fire feeding fire, melody wrapped in melody. It was inexplicable. It was holy. It was the kind of connection that people search for their whole lives and never find, the kind of alchemy that doesn’t come twice.

Music didn’t just tie you together. It fused you. Deep and sacred and permanent.

And even in her absence, even in the silence, she was still shaping your life. Still sparking something in you. Still changing the way you moved through the world. Ellie didn’t need to be in the room to leave fingerprints on your voice.

Because if it hadn’t been for her, none of this would’ve happened.

You wouldn’t have written Supernova or Better Lies. You wouldn’t have clawed your way back from the wreckage. You wouldn’t have found your sound. Your truth. Your power. You’d probably still be performing dumb songs, smiling on cue, praying your sophomore album didn’t flop. You would’ve been a popstar with a beautiful voice but no direction—just another one-hit wonder, fading into dust.

But she made you want more. Be more.

Ellie had given you the kind of love that tears everything apart—and then dares you to build something greater from the rubble.

And in doing so, she gave you everything.

Even when she was gone.

Especially when she was gone.

So you kept mourning her.

In Abby’s shower. In the back of black SUVs. On the balcony of your hotel suite while Abby slept inside. On stages in front of thousands of people. In your lyrics. In your silence.

And every time you looked at Abby—doing everything right, being everything right—you hated yourself a little more for the way your heart still lived in the hands of a girl who never mouthed the word goodbye.

And all of this, takes us here.

Three years passed.

The room buzzed with soft laughter, the clink of ice in glasses, the kind of lazy joy that came with triumph. You were curled up on the velvet sectional, Rachel lounged beside you with a mimosa in one hand and a cheese cube skewered on a tiny sword in the other, looking obnoxiously pleased with herself. The rest of your team was scattered around the room—your stylist, your publicist, someone from the label, two assistants.

Everything was normal. Everything was okay.

You were scrolling through photos from your Vogue shoot when someone from the label looked up from her phone and laughed.

“Yo,” she said, grinning. “Someone finally took you out of the top spot.”

You didn’t look up. “Took them long enough.”

Rachel raised a brow. “Wait, what?”

“Kill the Lights,” the girl said, waving her phone. “You’re not number one anymore. Billboard updated.”

A chorus of groans and mock gasps rippled through the room. Rachel clutched her chest in fake horror.

“Our queen dethroned,” she said dramatically.

You laughed. “Alright, alright. Who is it? Who do I have to duel for my crown?”

Rachel was already grabbing her phone.

The room kept talking, jokes bouncing off walls, glasses refilling. You leaned back, sipping your drink, basking in the comfort of it all. And then—

Rachel went quiet.

You glanced over. Her smile was gone. Her whole body had stilled, like something ancient had just brushed past her skin.

You sat up. “Who is it?”

She didn’t move.

“Rach.”

She finally looked at you. And in twenty years, you’d still remember the look in her eyes—stunned, weightless, like the ground had opened beneath her feet.

She didn’t speak.

She just stood, slow and deliberate, as if any sudden movement might break something fragile in the air. She walked over, silent. Her face pale. Her phone shaking just slightly in her hand as she held it out to you.

You took it.

The Billboard Hot 100.

Freshly updated.

#2: KILL THE LIGHTS — You.

#1:

Your stomach turned.

Your breath caught halfway up your throat.

And when your eyes locked on the name, the rest of the universe vanished.

#1: Lover, You Should’ve Come Over – Ellie Williams

← 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑡.𝟸 →

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

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

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

see ya'll soon, stay tuned ;)

[starkeyvhs]

enviers goin’ to envy

PAIRING: best-friend’s brother!rafe x fwb!fem!reader

SUMMARY: envy gets the best of you when you hear about rafe and a new girl. 

WORD COUNT: 1132

WARNINGS: suggestive content; casually dominant rafe; mentions of sex; light swearing

EDITH SPEAKS: I haven’t written in god knows how long, and even though university was a major contributor, my country’s current status contributed just as enough, if not more. I’m extremely relieved to say that things have simmered down quite a bit, but nothing is certain so I don’t want to get my hopes up. I hope that anyone else who lives near the borders is safe and sound <3

Besides this, I’m really glad I was able to write something after so long! I was watching cmbyn for the very first time, and the reference is right in the first line. When I heard that line, trust, I immediately opened my doc and started writing this piece without even seeing what happened next in the movie :p so yeah! I hope you like reading this 💞💞 feedback is always highly appreciated xx

masterlist / join my taglist / requests

“We almost had sex last night… Eliza and me,”

Well, that caught your attention just as he had intended. 

You lifted your head up from your plate to catch a glance of Rafe from the corner of your eye, and you saw how he was just busy eating, his gaze on his plate, but you could see it: the hink of a smirk on his face. 

There were multiple things going on in your head. The thought on the forefront was what kind of topic this was to bring up on the dinner table? And why was everyone acting so unfazed? Was his sex life a regular dinner topic at their house?

But, besides this extraordinarily loud thought, the other thoughts mainly revolved around two names, which also somehow became the main characters of your life; an entirely unintentional move from your side. 

Rafe Cameron and Eliza Cooper. 

“Wow, sounds interesting,” Sarah rolled her eyes from next to you, going back to eating her greens. You could feel Rafe’s gaze on Sarah and you, so you made sure to not lift your head up even once from your plate.

“Oh trust me, it was more than interesting,” he said, and his pride was dripping from every word rolling off his tongue. 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but no one cares Rafe,” Sarah snapped back, and you mentally thanked your best friend from stopping whatever seizure Rafe’s probable next words would’ve given you. 

“Oh please, everyone’s interested enough,” and Rafe’s gaze was set on you. You could feel his eyes practically seeing through you – all your thoughts and emotions, and exactly just what his words were making you feel. 

You didn’t know what this complex bundle of emotions was inside you, yet you felt Rafe knew exactly what it was. 

“It was at Topper’s party yesterday, we found ourselves in a nice bedroom, things were going absolutely great. I could tell, she really, really wanted me,” 

Wow. Now he was just being straight up evil. 

“Rafe, son, as eclectic as this conversation is, I’d prefer it if it doesn’t happen on the dinner table yeah?” Ward spoke up, and that shut Rafe up the way you had wanted since that mouth of his had opened. 

Everyone fell quiet, the only sound being of forks and knives scraping across the ceramic plates. 

“I think I’m going to ask Eliza to be my girlfriend–”

“I need to go to the bathroom.” 

Your words were quick, cutting smoothly across Rafe’s voice as you immediately stood up from your chair. Everyone looked at you, and you just knew everyone could see how the color had practically drained from your face. 

“You okay sweetie? You look a little… pale there,” Rose said softly. You looked down and you saw how tightly you were gripping the fork in your hand. You let go of it and kept it in your unfinished plate with a light clatter. 

“I’m fine, just- just need to use the washroom,” you muttered, and left the dining table. You could feel everyone’s gaze on you as you left, but Rafe’s– Rafe’s gaze just felt like a laser beam. 

You were quick to enter Sarah’s bathroom, where you stood in front of the mirror, and looked at yourself. 

Eliza? His girlfriend? Was he fucking serious? 

You knew what it was: just a random girl he met, something to make you feel extremely jealous when you broke off your deal with him. 

You thought you could stay away from him. 

Yeah, yeah you could. 

You could 100% stay away from the insanely sexy brother of your best friend, who you had a crush on for as long as you remember. 

What a clown.

That’s what you thought you looked like when you looked at your reflection in the mirror. With shaky hands, you turned the tap on and splashed cold water on your face, as if that water could wash away all the thoughts from your mind. 

Only if it was that easy. 

With your head ducked down, you began to wipe your face off with a towel. 

But as you lifted your face up to look at yourself in the mirror, you realised you were no longer alone. 

“Rafe–” 

Your words got cut off when Rafe’s palms pressed into your sides, the warmth of his chest spreading through your back. 

“Shh,” he hushed quietly, his chin resting in the crook of your shoulder. His arms wrapped firm around your waist and he pulled you into him, the action causing your breath to get hitched in your throat. 

“My girl got so jealous, didn’t she?” Rafe murmured, his lips pressing to the shell of your ear. 

The way he was holding you, the way his chest was pressed right up to your back, and the way his voice was travelling through your ear; you knew you were turning into a mush. 

A mush only Rafe Cameron could make of you. 

When you didn’t respond with anything, Rafe chuckled softly, beginning to press the most gentle kisses to the skin behind your ear. 

“Hm, I know you were,” he whispered, kissing a trail down to the side of your neck. Your body wasn’t under your control anymore, with the way your breathing picked up pace and you leaned your head to the side to give him space. 

“And you know what?” He whispered further, now kissing in the crook of your neck, finding a particularly sensitive spot that made you gasp softly, “that was exactly what I wanted. To see my girl jealous. Now I know she wants me.”

Rafe’s hands were swift to turn you around, so that you were facing him. Your back pressed into the sink behind you, and you were efficiently trapped between the cold sink and Rafe’s warm body. 

He could see you were avoiding eye contact, so a finger came right under your chin to direct your gaze back at him. 

“Am I wrong?” He whispered, his other hand exercising a firm grip on your waist to keep you in place. 

You shook your head, your lips parted just slightly as short breaths escaped them. 

“Good girl,” he murmured softly, and god that praise did something to you. 

And just as you thought Rafe would do something to help with the ache of pure need that lit up every nerve of your body, he let go of you and stepped back. 

“It’s rude to leave your dinner unfinished,” he said, his hand already on the doorknob to open the bathroom door. “Be there in two, yeah?” 

And with that, he left. 

Now, if it would’ve been any other man commanding you this way, you wouldn’t have tolerated it for even a second. 

But this wasn’t any other man. 

This was Rafe.

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

taglist: @oxpogues4lifexo / @inthelibrarybtw / @mccaffreyswifey / @chenslucy / @totalswag / @wearemadeofstardust0 / @percysley / @superswaggycooch / @kaileashiftz / @weirdowithnobeardo / @chimchimjiminie16 / @ursovaine / @mariamadison6-blog / @snowtargaryen / @htlkira / @acidfeens / @r4fe-cam3ron

tagging a few moots: @runningfrom2am / @ilyrafe / @zyafics / @nemesyaaa / @ladyinbl00d / @jjsbank444 / @b1mb0slvt / @maddsxfall

[lvrhoon]

just in case..!

a sunghoon x reader fic where he tries hiding his feelings (and ultimately fails lmaoa)

word count: idk..

genre: fluff - no suggestive themes

──────────୨ৎ──────────

the first time park sunghoon held your hand, it wasn’t romantic.

it was because you were sprinting down the hall after school, backpacks bouncing, sneakers skidding against the too-waxed floors as you tried to outrun detention. you’d both been caught sneaking out of gym to avoid running laps — sunghoon faked a stomach ache, you pretended to console him, and coach lee was definitely not buying it.

“left, left—!” you gasped, tugging his arm.

he turned too hard and slammed into the wall.

“i said left!” you hissed.

“that was my left!” he argued, breathless, cheeks flushed from running and laughing and maybe something else in between.

you ended up in the art wing, crouching behind a stack of forgotten canvases, trying to catch your breath and not laugh too loud.

and that’s when he grabbed your hand.

“just in case,” he whispered, eyes sparkling. “in case we have to run again.”

it wasn’t romantic. not then.

but you remembered the warmth of it. how his fingers fit so easily between yours. how he didn’t let go even after you were sure the coast was clear.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

you and sunghoon had been best friends since your first year. the kind of friendship built on shared earbuds, last-minute cramming, late-night calls just to “check what the homework was” (even though neither of you actually did it).

somewhere along the way, people started assuming you were a thing.

“are you and sunghoon dating?” someone asked during study hall once.

you didn’t even look up. “no.”

sunghoon, two seats down, looked up just long enough to say, “she’s not my type.”

you laughed. shrugged it off. but later, alone in your room, you thought about those words longer than you meant to.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

the second time sunghoon held your hand, it was on purpose.

you were in his room, lying on your backs on his bed, shoulder to shoulder, sharing one pair of earbuds. his playlist — quiet guitar riffs and warm vocals — played between you, and his fingers tapped along to the rhythm against the comforter.

you were talking about nothing. and everything. college. the future. how weird it would be to not see each other every day.

he said, “i think i’ll miss this.”

you turned to look at him. “what’s ‘this’?”

he didn’t answer. just reached over, slowly, and laced his fingers through yours.

he held your hand like it meant something.

like you meant something.

you didn’t pull away.

you didn’t ask if he still thought you weren’t his type.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

after that, sunghoon started acting weird.

still walked you to class. still teased you about your iced americano addiction. still sent you cursed tiktoks at 2am.

but he’d freeze when you brushed his arm. turn red when you looked at him too long. stare at your lips when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

you noticed. of course you did.

so you confronted him.

behind the gym, your usual hideout. you kicked at the gravel and said, “are you mad at me or something?”

his eyes widened. “what? no.”

“then why are you being weird?”

“i’m not weird.”

“you’re literally blushing.”

he looked away. mumbled, “i’m not.”

you crossed your arms. waited.

and then he said it. soft. like it was fragile.

“i think i might like you.”

you blinked, brain short circuiting. “oh.”

“like... more than just friends,” he added, and held his breath waiting for you to say something, anything.

you stepped closer. reached for his hand. linked your fingers, not saying anything.

and strangely, that was enough.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

after that, things didn’t exactly change. but they did.

sunghoon still made fun of you for crying at movies. still showed up to your house unannounced, usually with snacks. still had bad handwriting and a tendency to fall asleep in class.

but he also kissed your forehead when you got nervous before a test. held your hand under the lunch table. walked you home with his pinky linked to yours, grinning like an idiot every time.

and you? you let him.

because the truth is, you’d probably liked him since the first time he tripped into that wall and took your hand like it was instinct.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

[navybrat817]

Hold You Tight: Part 25

Pairing: Club Owner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.

Part 24 | Series Masterlist | Part 26

Chapter Word Count: Over 4.2k

Chapter Summary: You want to feel normal after your ordeal, but change won't happen overnight.

Chapter Warnings: Mentions of violence, crying, assault aftermath, inner turmoil, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.

A/N: More Hold You Tight, and thank you for sticking with me! Can you believe it has been almost here since we started?! Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby and @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-in-darkness . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You woke up earlier than you expected, but made no move to get out of bed. Your body felt stiff when you tried to sit up, which was to be expected since Clark threw you to the ground pretty hard. Being prepared for it didn’t stop you from tearing up. You blinked the tears away when you realized Bucky wasn’t in the room.

You barely said a word after you left the club, and you didn’t protest when he held you close in the car. It was like he needed you in his arms to chase away his remaining demons, and you needed comfort as well. But once you were back at the penthouse, he led you to the guest room instead of the master bedroom. He let you be while you robotically went through your nighttime routine. And he didn’t make a move when he got in bed beside you.

“I just want to make sure you get some sleep,” he told you, his hold tender instead of smothering.

Before you sleep took hold, you heard him whisper that he loved you.

Had he snuck out during the night, or did he get up not too long ago?

Grabbing your phone from the nightstand that Bucky graciously plugged in, you were glad you were alone. You didn’t want Bucky or any of his men hovering while you called Mrs. Crandle. It was bad enough you were calling in when you just wanted the sense of normalcy and control in your life, but what were the chances you’d make it through the day without breaking down?

You held your breath when you dialed and waited for Mrs. Crandle to answer. It didn’t take long. “Hello, dear.”

“Hi, Mrs. Crandle,” you tried to smile, but there were already tears in your throat. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

“You are never a bother,” she promised, which only made you feel worse. “Is something wrong? Are you okay?”

“I…” What were you going to tell her? “I’m dealing with something very personal right now, and I don’t… I don’t think I can work today. I’m so sorry.”

It wasn’t a lie. You were dealing with something personal. It didn’t stop you from feeling like you were letting her down.

“Oh. Oh, dear. You take the day off, and don’t worry about finding someone to cover for you. I’ll take care of that,” she assured you, knowing you weren’t the type to make excuses to skip a shift.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, that’s your business, but is there anything I can do to help?”

You squeezed your eyes shut. She was so kind, always looking out for her staff. “Just… keep being the wonderful boss and person you are.”

“Oh, I will. And you tell that man of yours he’d better be helping one of my favorite employees with whatever’s going on,” she said.

A laugh almost came out. If she only knew. “I’ll tell him,” you said, sitting up straighter when you remembered something. You were concentrating so much on ther other things last night you had forgotten that Zemo met up with her. How could you forget about that? “Before I hang up, I wanted to ask. Did you win an all expenses paid trip to a flower expo?”

“Why yes, I did! Can you believe it? The man I spoke to actually contacted me this morning to make sure I was still going.” You gripped the phone tighter. Zemo had promised to back off, so why continue the charade of the expo? Unless it was legitimate, and letting Mrs. Crandle go was part of the olive branch to you. “I was going to ask if you possibly wanted to go, but if you’re dealing with something-”

“Then it’s probably best that you bring someone else,” you finished for her. “I understand.”

“It would be nice if you could go. I think you’d like Gotham,” she said, making your heart drop. Gotham, where Clark wanted to take you. “But we can discuss that later. You take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will, thanks.”

You put your face in your hands once you hung up. It was all supposed to be over. You hoped it was. Mrs. Crandle deserved only good things, along with everyone you cared about.

You went quickly through your morning routine, and heard chatter once you finally went into the hall. You stood still, torn between eavesdropping and heading to the kitchen for breakfast. Your curiosity got the better of you and you tiptoed down the hall toward an open door- Bucky’s office.

You stopped when you heard Curtis speak.

“You really think she’ll go for that?”

Go for what?

“You’ve already been keeping an eye on my girl from a distance, but she needs a bit more. She needs a real bodyguard,” Bucky replied, your eyes wide. A bodyguard? How the hell would you explain that to your friends? “Last night proves it,” he added with a bite to his voice.

“Why not Ray? From what I’ve seen, she trusts him,” Curtis said, which was true to an extent.

“I could have Ray be her bodyguard, but then I’d need you to be by my side and we know you don’t like being at the club,” Bucky pointed out. “You barely tolerated being there last night.”

Why did guilt fill you? Was it because Curtis put himself in an uncomfortable situation because of you? If you hadn’t been attacked, he would’ve stayed hidden in the shadows.

“She may be grateful that he helped her, boss, but do you think she’ll want him as her bodyguard?” Ray asked. “Or that she’ll want a bodyguard at all?”

“If not Curtis, who else? It’s the best choice,” Bucky replied, which was met with silence. The men must’ve known not to argue further. “And whether she wants one or not, it comes with the territory.”

You exhaled through your nose. Comes with the territory whether you wanted it or not? It was too early for that shit.

“You know, for starters, it would really help if you all asked me,” you said, making your presence known as you walked in. Bucky stood up, alarm in his eyes, while Ray and Curtis looked at you with unreadable expressions from their chairs. “But I guess we’re right back where we started where what I want doesn’t matter.”

Was Bucky going to make you live the rest of your life like that? Would he dictate whatever he wanted while trying to paint it as doing the best thing for you? How could he call that love?

For a moment you thought Bucky looked upset because you were eavesdropping, but he rushed around his desk to you and you knew that wasn’t the case. “Kotyonok, you should be resting.”

“Did you not hear a word I just said?” you asked, stiffening only for a moment when he got closer and reached for you.

You inhaled and exhaled slowly. Bucky wasn’t Clark. He wouldn’t throw you to the floor. He wouldn’t try to choke you.

“I did, and we will talk about that. I’m just glad to see you still have your spirit,” he smiled softly, slowly framing your face with his hands. Your spirit was both itching for a fight and begging for rest. “How are you feeling?”

“Stiff,” you admitted. A bath in that wonderful soaker tub of his would hit the spot, which you would take advantage of later. “But I don’t need any painkillers before you ask.”

He frowned and dropped his hands. “Lay down,” he urged, nodding toward the sofa a few feet from his desk. “It’s very comfortable, trust me.”

You huffed, but went to lay down as instructed. It was only because you were stiff and still tired. Before you could spread out on the sofa, Bucky took a seat on one end and patted his thigh. “What are you doing?” you asked.

“Rest your head here,” he urged, patting his thigh again.

You snuck a glance at Curtis who looked like he was fighting a smile. Ray hung his head a little. “You want me to lay with my head in your lap in front of them?” you asked.

“They're going to see us for the rest of our lives,” Bucky said, tossing an arm on the back of the sofa. “Please, lay down.”

You blinked, remembering the night he broke in and sat waiting on your sofa like he owned the place. The darkness in his eyes, the smirk on his face. But now? He only looked like a concerned boyfriend.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, getting as comfortable as you could while resting your head in Bucky’s lap. You opted to curl up facing away from him so you weren't staring directly at his crotch.

Bucky caressed your arm, his touch featherlight. “Is this okay?” he asked.

You tilted your head back. He was asking if it was okay to touch you? “It's fine,” you replied.

You caught the soft smile he gave you before you faced forward again. It was strange how people called you Bucky’s queen when you didn't feel like one. What kind of queen curled up with a king in front of their council? Didn't queens stand tall and proud?

“You're thinking too loud,” Bucky whispered.

How did he know? “I think Zemo contacted Mrs. Crandle,” you said.

“He did,” Bucky confirmed, continuing to caress your arm when you tensed up. “You didn’t think I forgot about her, did you? I’ve had someone keeping an eye on her since Zemo met her up with her.”

You remembered. No one knew Zemo’s angle at the time. “But I didn’t…” You sniffled and felt Bucky’s muscles tense beneath your head. “I didn’t even ask about her last night.”

You asked about Lois and your friends, but not your boss.

“You were attacked and you’ve been dealing with so much. Last night was about getting answers for you and the fact that you went to the club after what you went through is nothing short of amazing,” Bucky said, refusing to let you blame yourself for any of it or let you argue. “Mrs. Crandle will be fine. Nothing's going to happen to her. Zemo just couldn't back out of the expo because it would've hurt or upset her, which would have upset you.”

“And he wants to stay on my good side after last night,” you guessed. So it was an olive branch of sorts. “It’s taking place in Gotham.”

That couldn't be a coincidence.

“Another possible way to get you out of the city, but there was no way to guarantee Mrs. Crandle would've asked for you to go with her,” Ray spoke up. “Not to mention Zemo would've had to handle her if you were missing, which could get messy.”

You shivered and Bucky suddenly had a blanket over you. It would've destroyed her if you went missing while on a trip with her, and your heart could hardly bear the thought of Zemo hurting her or getting rid of her. “So, she’ll be okay?” you asked.

“She’ll be just fine,” Bucky promised.

Your fingers curled in the blanket. “I’m trusting you, Bucky,” you whispered, hoping it was a promise he could keep.

His hand froze and you could sense the emotion in his eyes without looking at him. “Thank you.”

“Curtis?” you asked, his blue eyes meeting yours to acknowledge you. “I know you suggested Ray and I appreciate that, but would you like to be my bodyguard?”

Having a bodyguard was another step in the path of accepting your place in Bucky’s life. But if there were other enemies out there or anyone simply interested in using you as a means to get some of Bucky’s fortune, it was better to have protection. At least for now.

“I already-” Bucky began.

“I’m asking him and giving him a choice,” you cut him off. Yes, Bucky had his mind made up that Curtis would be your bodyguard, but you still wanted to ask. “I think I’ve earned that privilege.”

“Who am I to argue with my queen?” Bucky teased.

Curtis chuckled and you found yourself smiling a little. Even Ray looked like he wanted to smile. “Since you’re asking, the answer is yes.”

“Thank you, Curtis,” you said, closing your eyes. “Can we sort the details out later?”

“Of course,” Bucky replied. You had a feeling he would be the one handling that anyway. “You just need to relax.”

You were trying, but he was making you relax with him. “I need things from my apartment, like my bridesmaid dress,” you said.

“We’ll handle whatever you need so you don’t have to go back there,” Bucky assured you.

You bit the inside of your cheek. It was still him or his men going through your things, your memories. “I need other things. Stuff to bake the brownies, and things to make arrangements here.”

“Again, whatever you need,” he smiled. He’d probably make you a greenhouse on the roof if you asked.

“And I need to get in touch with Natasha so I can-”

“That doesn’t sound much like relaxing,” Bucky gently said. You huffed in response. Sitting around doing nothing wouldn’t do you any good, even if your body was screaming at you not to push it. “But I am arranging our movie and pizza night tonight, so that should help you relax a bit.”

You did agree to that the night before. “I think I want to go to the library,” you said. It was the one place Bucky said he wouldn’t enter without permission and none of his men were allowed in there.

You held your breath and waited for the argument, for Bucky to tell you to stay put. Instead, he carefully helped you sit up. “I’ll take you there and I’ll bring you something to eat, okay? You haven’t had anything yet, have you?”

“No, I haven’t,” you admitted. You called Mrs. Crandle first thing and went to find him.

“Well, let’s change that,” Bucky smiled, helping you to your feet. Ray and Curtis began to stand before their boss motioned for them to sit back down. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said, guiding you out and closing the door behind him.

You glanced back and remembered he had the door open while he spoke with Ray and Curtis. Had he done that as a way to build your trust, to show that he wouldn’t hide things from you? Was he going to make an effort?

Bucky stopped at the library door and kissed your forehead. “I’ll grab your phone for you, too, okay?”

“Okay,” you said, stopping when you took two steps in. “Did you stay with me all night?”

He nodded when you looked back at him. Had he held you? Kissed your forehead? Whispered to you to make any bad dream go away? “I wanted to make sure you slept peacefully, although…”

“You wish I’d sleep in our bedroom.”

His eyes lit up at the realization that you didn’t say his bedroom. “In time,” he whispered, walking away without another word.

You exhaled and went to select a book. Your fingers moved along the spines, recognizing some classics as well as modern titles. But you didn’t pick one, your eyes unfocused.

Curtis was going to be your bodyguard. Your life changed so much that you’d need someone watching you at all times. Would he hang around the shop while you worked? Would he linger nearby when you went out with your friends?

Could you even invite the girls to the penthouse?

You stood at the bookshelf long enough for Bucky to come back and clear his throat from the doorway. “Do you want me to bring the tray in?” he asked, holding it up for you to see. Not only did he have plenty of food, a drink, and your phone, he also had a bright flower in a small vase. It was sweet.

Shaking your head, you went to him. “I can take it,” you said, not wanting anyone in your sanctuary at the moment.

If Bucky was hurt by declining his offer he hid it well. It meant a lot that he kept his word and didn’t go in. That was progress. “You’re not okay, are you?” he asked, your eyes connecting.

You gripped the tray hard when you took it. “I’m just taking it one moment at a time,” you answered. It was all you could do. “Could you please shut the door?”

Bucky didn’t hide the hurt this time. It wasn’t just shutting the door, you were shutting him out. “Sure,” he whispered, the door softly clicking shut when you turned your back to him.

As you sat and ate, you let a few tears fall before you finally selected a book. You were unsure of the next steps, and you mourned, but you weren’t sure exactly what it is you were mourning. A piece of your innocence? A normal future?

Bucky, for his effort, gave you space when you refused to come out after breakfast, leaving your tray outside of the door and refusing to say a word to him. He brought you lunch as well, one of your favorites, and left you another flower and a small sheet of paper that read, “I love you, Kotyonok.” You thought about crumbling up the note, but you put it on the table with the flowers.

Every now and then you’d look around and swear that Clark was there watching you in the shadows. It was your mind playing tricks on you, of course, but you kept your eyes on the door in case someone tried to come in. You swallowed bitterly, hating how afraid you were. How would you conquer that?

The girls in the group chat all mentioned taking it easy today, which brought tears to your eyes all over again. They were taking it easy because they were exhausted, and they were exhausted because they were drugged. All of that because of you. It was your fault. It was all your fault.

No… it was not your fault. None of this was your fault. “It’s not my fault,” you whispered tearfully, gripping your head to quiet the taunting voice that blamed you. “It’s their fault.”

Everything in your mind swirled until it became a tornado, destroying everything in its path. It felt harder to breathe, like something was closing around your lungs. You had to calm down before you spiraled. You needed…

“Bucky!” you shouted.

You barely made it to the door when you heard footsteps race down the hall. The door flew open and Bucky stood with wild eyes, struggling to rush in and pull you toward him since you hadn’t told him to come in. “Kotyonok, what-”

“Tell me you won’t hurt my friends,” you demanded, a sob coming out when you pointed at him. You had to hear him say it. “Tell me.”

Bucky flinched when you gasped for your next breath. “I won’t hurt your friends.”

“Tell me it isn’t my fault,” you continued, shoving him back. You could hear Ray and Curtis in the hall, but you paid no attention to them. “Tell me what happened isn’t my fault.”

“None of this is your fault, do you hear me?” he said through his teeth, his anger directed elsewhere and not at you. “None of it.”

The spiral in your mind began to slow. “Tell me you won’t hurt me,” you barely whispered. “If you really love me you won’t hurt me.”

He made a wounded sound like you saying the words hurt him. “I won’t hurt you,” he promised.

Your shoulders slumped. You believed him, damn it. Why? “I’m sorry. I…”

Bucky waved a hand for Ray and Curtis to stay back before he extended it to you. “Come with me.”

You hesitated before you wiped your eyes and took it. You didn’t realize he pulled you toward the living room when the scent of freshly baked pizza and popped popcorn reached your nostrils. “What…”

Bucky had pizza, popcorn, snacks, and drinks set up along with blankets. “Our movie night,” he reminded you, guiding you to sit down. Had you been in the library so long that it was nighttime? “But before we do anything else, I need you to breathe.”

“Hurts,” you whispered. It hurt to think, hurt to feel, hurt to breathe. Why did it feel so hard today?

“I know it hurts, but you’ll get through the hurt because that’s how incredible you are,” he whispered back, pulling you into his arms to rock you. He breathed slowly, urging you to follow his rhythm. “There you go. Breathe. Good girl.”

You took another deep breath, ignoring how the praise relaxed you. “I didn’t bake today,” you said sadly. You wanted to make those brownies for Curtis. “I didn’t make any arrangements.”

You didn’t contact Natasha to set up those self-defense lessons. You didn’t figure out when you’d visit Lois. God, you didn’t even take that bath. Wallowing in self-pity led you to hiding in the library all day, but maybe you needed it more than you knew.

“It’s okay that you didn’t,” Bucky said, kissing your temple and wiping more tears away. “I know you want to bounce back immediately, but you have to give yourself grace.”

He was right about that. “I shut you out,” you said. You shut him out in his own home. Why? To punish him for his part in all of this? To be in control?

He sighed and only held you closer. “I deserved it,” he whispered, rubbing your back. “But we’ll be okay.”

He said it like he was fighting for you, for each other. “I just want to feel normal,” you said, giving him some insight into your thoughts and feelings.

“And you will. We’ll take it one moment at a time.”

A few minutes passed while he held you, and you eventually put your head on his shoulder. He held you so much in the last few days. You wanted to feel strong and not feel afraid anymore. You wished that could happen overnight, but you needed patience and grace.

And Bucky, well, he would need to accept his hand in this. He had to see you at a low point so that he’d never want you there again. He had to see you broken so you could build yourself again, with or without his help. Because if he wouldn't love and accept you at your lowest, then he didn't deserve you at all.

“So, what are we watching?” you finally asked.

“You said you wanted to pick the movie,” he reminded you.

He listened. He remembered. “Something funny,” you said. Something that wouldn’t upset you or make you think.

“Comedy it is.”

Bucky waited on you hand and foot during the movie, making sure you were comfortable while you ate. He had an arm around you when you weren’t eating, but didn’t let his touch wander. It took a bit, but you eventually laughed during the silly moments in the film, and he gazed at you like the sun rose in front of his very eyes.

You stole a glance after a few more minutes and found him staring at you instead of the screen. Unable to help yourself, you tossed a bit of popcorn at him. He blinked twice in shock while you tried not to laugh. “Did you just…”

“Toss popcorn at you? Yes,” you said, looking back at the screen before popcorn hit your cheek. “Hey!”

He licked the salt and butter from his fingers. “Oops,” he teased. “C’mon, Kotyonok. I had to defend myself.”

One second you were staring at each other and the next second turned into a full blown battle. Popcorn and candy went everywhere as you threw everything within reach and you found yourself laughing when a piece of candy landed in his open mouth. He growled and gently tossed snacks back at you, making you laugh harder.

It was ridiculous. Silly. Unexpected. It felt like… a real date.

“I’m not cleaning this up,” you giggled once the battle ended, gesturing to the mess. At least you didn’t spill any of the drinks. “And I think I won.”

“I have people for that, and we’ll call it a tie,” he smiled, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “Fuck, you have a beautiful smile.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He wanted to kiss you, you could feel it, but he didn’t lean in. He waited for you instead. You didn’t kiss his lips, you were still too raw for that today, but you did kiss his cheek before you put your head back on his shoulder.

“Thanks for this,” you whispered. It was only the first day since the incident, but he was trying and you had to give him that.

“Thank you,” he whispered back, leaning his head on yours. “I’ve got you.”

“I know.”

And resting in his arms like an actual date, you were blissfully unaware of the missed calls and texts from your mom.

Our poor girl. Let's hope Bucky keeps trying. And let's hope Mom's messages aren't a bad thing. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[meazalykov]

out of reach

barcelona femeni x f!pugh!OC with features of platonic!alexia putellas x oc, platonic!kika nazareth x oc, and sister!mallory swanson x oc

margaret (margo) pugh breaks through world class stars to score goals. so what happens when she transfers to barcelona after knocking them out of the champions league in the previous season?

a continuation to this fiction linked here

margo’s first official day at barcelona didn’t start with the usual excitement that new players had for their favorite clubs. 

the woman was happy, but she was nervous about the unknowns that came with playing with a new club, in a new country, away from everyone she knows.

its not like she has anyone on the national team to rely on, she is the only american to ever play on the barcelona team.

she had barely slept the night before, lying awake in her temporary apartment just a short walk from the training grounds, eyes flicking between the ceiling and her phone. she wasn’t scrolling, only just staring, occasionally checking the time, and occasionally rereading the press release announcing her transfer like it hadn’t been finalized weeks ago. 

the contract is for four years, aka four seasons. this is four years in the city of her dreams, with the club that lived in the center of her childhood heart. well, its going to be four years if everything turns out like it is supposed to be.  

it was surreal. 

even as she stepped into the training facility wearing the badge on the newly black training kit, it still didn’t feel entirely real.  

she was early…of course she was…and the locker room was still mostly empty when she arrived. a few kit managers nodded at her in passing. some staff she didn’t know yet offered small smiles. 

margos blue adidas boots were already waiting at her new locker, laced neatly beside her personalized training kit. she ran a hand along the material. 

there is her last name on the back: pugh. 

the new number: 19. she kind of mourned the number 22 she had at lyon but 19 can represent something new.

the first players to filter in were friendly enough. those players being fridolina and ingrid. they gave her a quiet “hola,” despite not being spanish. margo knew of fridolina, remembering that disgusting world cup knockout game she had to go through.  

when jana and ona came in next, they greeted her in english with wide grins, and light hugs. this caught margo by surprise, since she didn’t expect to be in the physical touch stage for a while. 

after margo went to adjust the laces on her boots, she saw someone join the room from her peripheral vision. she didn’t think much of it until their figure sat directly beside her.

“so,” vicky called out, half-laughing as she tugged her sweatshirt off and tossed it into her locker beside yours, “you better help us win this year, superstar.”  

the tone was light, but the words landed heavier than expected.  

margo blinked, caught off guard. there was a split second where she wasn’t sure how to take it. 

is this a joke? a challenge? was she already being resented for the spotlight that followed her here?  

before she could find a response, salma stepped in beside her, speaking quickly and with a soft touch to margo’s arm.  

“she jokes,” salma said in her accented english, words slow but intentional. 

“vicky always say things like that. she… how do you say? teases.”  

salma smiled gently, almost apologetic, and margo felt her heartbeat slow.  

“oh, okay,” she breathed out, finally letting her shoulders drop. 

“good. because i was ready to throw hands, and i haven’t even stretched yet.”  

salma giggled at that, her laugh quiet and sweet.  

margo turned to vicky again, this time with a smirk of her own. 

“i’m not a hero. you all have already won everything without me. i’m just trying not to get in the way.”  

vicky laughed, waving her off. 

“relax, i’m just hazing you. all love. but seriously, i can speak for all of us when i say that we’re glad you’re here.”  

the tension dissolved with that, and as more players filtered in, the space started to feel less intimidating. 

as margo stands up and heads outside of the locker rooms to go stretch outside, she felt a hand rest of her shoulders. 

“so,” esmee said casually, “do you miss the french press yet? or were you ready to be grilled in spanish this time around?”  

there was no need for an introduction or some “nice to meet you”s between margo and esmee. the two already had an established friendship long before margo’s move to barcelona. 

one of margo’s close friends played at PSV, overlapping with esmee’s time at the dutch club. well, that girl who was esmee’s psv teammate wasn’t just a friend… but things didn’t work out in the end. 

margo remembers when they were introduced casually, initially bonding over the shared sport. what started as a polite introduction quickly turned into social media exchanges, and playful banter that carried on even while they played in different leagues.

for margo, having esmee around might make this transition smoother. something steady in the middle of all the change.

margo snorted. 

“i miss not understanding what the reporters were saying, honestly. ignorance was bliss.”  

kika chimed in, “don’t worry, we’ll get you caught up fast. or you’ll just learn by accident like everyone else here.”  

they all laughed, and it was natural. 

however, margo realized that she forgot her water bottle inside of the locker room. she let esmee and kika continue to walk outside to the sunny pitch while she turned around. 

the american jogged, ignoring the few looks from the players in the locker room as margo sat down on her bench to grab her water bottle from her gym bag.

however, as margo grabbed the bottle and zipped her bag up… the room’s energy shifted. the quiet ripple of presence rolled through the space as alexia walked in. 

something about alexia’s aura was undeniable… even to you. she had achievements equivalent to mallory’s. 

ale placed her things gently on her spot before turning around, walking straight to margo with a calm curiosity. margo looked at ale with a bit of anxiety as the catalan stopped right in front of her.  

“its finally nice to meet you margo,” alexia said, her accented voice smooth, “i’m glad you came to join us.”  

margo stood quickly, nerves spiking again. she took the offered handshake.  

“yeah,” she replied, “its nice to meet you too.”  

alexia tilted her head slightly, a smile tugging at her mouth. 

“you were a pain in the ass last season.”  

margo chuckled, eyes flicking down, then back up. 

“i used to watch you when i was a kid. wore a barça kit with your number on it. my sister used to say how embarrassing it was. i got detention once for wearing it under my school jersey, and even tried to convince my parents to let mal and i join la masia but they said no...”  

alexia blinked. something about that made her pause. 

“seriously?”  

“always loved barça,” margo said quietly, “lyon was just the first door that opened.”  

there was a flicker of something in alexia’s eyes. 

surprise, maybe. respect. 

then, a smile.  

“well,” she said, letting go of margo’s hand, “welcome home.”

it was still her first day, but already, margo was beginning to feel the weight of everything that came with playing for one of the best clubs in the world. this shouldn’t be new, since she played for lyon. however, the factor of being with the club of her childhood dreams put a bit of pressure on her.

also, there is new pressure with the everyday stuff. margo had to now navigate a locker room where everyone spoke two languages, and neither of them were english.

back at lyon, the american learned french quickly with the help of selma and wendie. however, there were many english speakers in the club.

margo had been briefed ahead of time about barcelona requiring all non-spanish-speaking players to take both spanish and catalan classes as part of their integration into the club. it was part of what made barça… barça since identity mattered. 

the club provided the classes, scheduled around training and recovery. two classes a week are mandatory, but four are recommended if she wants to be fluent by the end of the season. the woman’s agent made it clear how necessary this was, since it will make her experience easier.

margo didn’t mind since she wanted to learn. still, being in that room overtime where she was hearing jokes fly around in catalan she couldn’t catch, watching conversations flow between teammates like fast-moving water while she stood just outside it… it was a little overwhelming. even for someone as confident as her.

there was an hour break from training because of lunch, and margo found herself alone near the back corner of the locker room, tying her laces. 

cata approached and sat down next to her, in vicky’s locker spot. margo had seen her earlier, had smiled politely, but hadn’t had a chance to say anything. she thought it might’ve been awkward since she scored many goals past cata’s fingers. 

now that they were face to face, she stood, brushing her hands off on her training shorts.

“hi,” margo said warmly while holding out her hand, “i’m margo.”

cata returned the smile, clasping her hand briefly. 

“hola.”

a pause.

margo hesitated, then tried again, slower. 

“my name is margaret… but just call me margo. it’s nice to meet you.”

cata’s brow furrowed slightly, trying to process the english. she caught the gist…margo could tell…but didn’t respond right away. instead, she pointed to herself. 

“cata,” she said simply. 

after a beat, added with a soft smile, “nice to meet you.”

without another word, she leaned in and gave margo a hug.

completely unexpected.

margo blinked, her body freezing for half a second before instinct took over and she hugged back. it was quick, warm, and genuine, and when cata pulled away, she gave a shy nod before moving back toward her own locker.

margo stood there for a second, slightly stunned. she hadn’t expected such a sweet gesture from someone who couldn’t speak much english to her. the hug said more than words could’ve, and somehow, that made her feel more at ease than anything else that morning.

she scanned the room, looking for the one person who might understand what she was feeling.

alexia was by the lockers, chatting with irene. 

margo approached, waiting for a lull in the conversation before gently tapping alexia’s shoulder.

“hey,” she said, “quick question.”

alexia turned while her expression curious,  “yeah?”

margo glanced around before leaning in a little. 

“so… my catalan is basically nonexistent and my spanish is decent enough to survive in a café but not… here.” she paused. 

“do i sound completely lost?”

alexia laughed, a quick, familiar sound. 

“absolutely.”

margo groaned. 

“great. love that for me.”

“don’t worry,” alexia said and her voice is warm now, “everyone knows you’re new. esmee and fridolina still struggle. however, we all appreciate you learning. barça’s classes actually help and they’re good. they won’t throw you into a group of strangers either…it’s just us.”

margo nodded, already feeling a little better. 

“okay. that’s manageable.”

“plus,” alexia added with a knowing look, “cata might not say much, but she’s one of the most affectionate people here. the hug means she already likes you.”

“i got that vibe,” margo laughed, “i was mid-sentence and suddenly in a hug. didn’t even have time to panic.”

alexia smiled, “that’s her way of saying ‘welcome.’”

margo exhaled, “well, she speaks hug better than i speak spanish.”

“you’ll get there,” alexia assured her, “by december you’ll be dreaming in catalan.”

“or swearing in it,” margo muttered.

“pina will make sure of that,” alexia grinned, “she teaches the good stuff first.”

margo smirked, “perfect. swear words and football terms. that’s all i need for now.”

“and maybe how to ask for coffee,” alexia said, raising a brow.

“right,” margo nodded, “priorities.”

the sun was hot and stronger than what margo had gotten used to in france. barcelona’s training grounds were massive, open, and quiet in the kind of way that made sound travel far. every whistle felt sharper, every footfall over the grass more deliberate. 

this was her first session after the lunch break. this was not the casual kick-around or warm-ups from earlier, but the real drills. 

today, she was paired with kika.

new signings stuck together, it made sense after all. kika had only arrived a few days before margo did, both of them thrown into a system that had been functioning like a well-oiled machine for years. 

it wasn’t about proving themselves since both had already done that to get here, but more about syncing up with the culture. it might be easier for kika, since she is fluent in spanish and the portuguese culture isn’t too far off from spain. 

however, margo was starting to feel nervous due to the unfamiliarity. 

barça’s way of playing was distinct. 

kika nudged margo with her elbow, pointing to the first cone. 

“ready to embarrass ourselves?”

margo snorted. 

“speak for yourself.”

kika grinned. 

“i’ll trip first, don’t worry.”

they started off clean with solid passes, and tight turns. it was only a minute in when kika asked, breath steady despite the movement, “so… how’s america?”

margo shrugged while keeping her eyes on the ball, “it’s okay. to be honest it is nothing too special.”

kika glanced at her with eyebrows lifting, “really? i thought americans were, you know… super patriotic.”

margo laughed under her breath, sending the ball through the next set of cones. 

“some are. most are. not all of us, though.”

“you’re not?”

“not really,” margo said honestly, “i mean, i love some things about home but I don't feel… attached to it, you know? not in that way.”

kika nodded slowly, catching the pass cleanly with her left foot. 

“interesting.”

margo gave her a quick look. 

“why, are you super patriotic about portugal?”

kika smiled, eyes softening. 

“i love portugal but i don’t think that means i owe it everything.”

margo liked that answer.

after a few more rounds of passing, their coach whistled for the next variation: cone runs with sprints and one-touch layoffs. it picked up the pace fast. they jogged to the line side by side, sweat already building on their brows.

“you played at benfica, right?” margo asked between breaths.

“yeah.” kika nodded, “just last season.”

“did you like it?”

kika tilted her head, thinking. 

“i did. it was home but after a while, i started to feel like i was missing out on other opportunities even though i was close to my family. i wanted something new.”

margo looked ahead while nodding, “i get that.”

“france was good to you, no?”

“yeah. lyon was amazing but it never felt like my club or somewhere that i wanted to stay at forever. it felt like… the place where I could've proved myself on the highest level.”

they exchanged a look, aka mutual understanding. 

as they started their sprints, kika glanced sideways, clearly debating whether to ask something.

“so,” she said, a little out of breath, “i overheard ona say that you have a sister in football?”

margo let out a small laugh. 

“yeah. mallory.”

“mallory…” kika said, squinting slightly. 

“mallory swanson?”

“yep.”

“ohhh,” kika said with realization. 

“i know the name. don’t think i’ve played against her though.”

“she plays in chicago, my brother in law is a baseball player there too and i guess married couples have to stay together. i'm surprised you haven’t played against her yet..” 

“ah.” kika nodded while understanding, “i’ve definitely played against you, though.”

margo grinned, “same.”

they shared a knowing look.

“i don’t want to talk about it,” kika muttered suddenly, and margo burst into a laugh, already knowing what she meant.

“that world cup match?”

“yes,” kika groaned, “last group stage game. 0-0.”

“ugh,” margo said while her face twisting, “don’t remind me.”

“we needed one goal,” kika said, “just one.”

“you nearly got it.”

“don’t say that,” kika grinned bitterly, “we got knocked out because of that game.”

“we barely made it through, and we played like garbage,” margo admitted, jogging back to the line with her hands on her hips, “it was tense.”

“i remember marking you.”

“i remember being pissed off the whole time,” margo joked.

kika laughed again, “same.”

for a few minutes, they ran in silence, just the steady beat of their shoes against grass and the calls from romeu cutting through the air. margo could feel the tightness in her legs starting to build. 

she wasn’t out of shape, but this kind of training was intense. 

margo liked it. i

finally, after one last full-field sprint, the whistle blew, and they slowed to a walk, breath coming hard and heavy.

“we survive?” kika asked.

“barely,” margo puffed out, “but yeah.”

as they walked back toward the group, margo looked around at the drills being cleaned up, at the girls passing balls and chatting with ease in the center circle. this team wasn’t just good, they were close. 

“you think we’ll get subbed out of 3v3 for not knowing catalan?” margo asked, only half-joking.

“no chance,” kika smirked, “we’re the test run. if we mess up, they’ll blame it on transition.”

margo laughed, bumping shoulders with her. 

“good. i need at least a month of excuses before they expect me to be fluent.”

“deal,” kika grinned.

they jogged to rejoin the others.

the week before national break had been better than smooth. margo was settling into barcelona’s system faster than expected, bonding with her teammates, learning the rhythm of life both on and off the pitch. 

she was absorbing, adjusting, growing. 

when the national break rolled around, she was ready to put that momentum to use.

it was the olympics. 

in france.

margo had not expected to go.

at first, she was just an alternate…named to the squad but not included in the official 18-player game roster. she traveled, trained, stayed sharp, but deep down, she knew how rare the call would be unless something drastic happened.

it happened.

catarina had to pull out for an irritation in her bad knee. it was heartbreaking for cat, and for the team… but the moment the call came, margo didn’t hesitate. 

she was on the 18-player roster. 

suddenly, the olympics were hers too.

the best part?

she got to play alongside mallory again.

“can’t believe they finally put us on the same damn roster,” mallory said one evening in the locker room before a match, towel tight around her body, hair still damp.

margo laughed, leaning against the bench across from her. 

“yeah, they finally figured out we work better together than apart.”

mallory grinned. 

“i missed you, sister.”

“missed you too. it’s weird not being around each other all the time anymore.”

“it’s weird not hearing you complain about my playlists.”

“because your playlists are ass,” margo teased, and mallory chucked a full water bottle at her.

they both laughed, the kind of laugh you could only share with someone who had known your game since it started in backyard practices and open garage doors.

there was trinity too, margo’s best friend on the national team. she knew every version of margo. every mood swing, every post-game rant, every low and every high. playing with her older sister and bestfriend on the biggest stage in the world felt like some twisted miracle, like the universe finally gave them something just for them.

“you ready?” trinity asked before the gold medal match, bouncing on her toes beside margo in the tunnel.

margo nodded. 

“more than ever.”

“don’t go stealing my goals though,” trinity smirked.

“no promises.”

the stadium in paris was packed.the gold medal match was the moment everyone waited for. 

the opponent? brazil.

brazil played angry. their pressing was suffocating, and by halftime, no goals had come. margo had been stopped more than a few times… or intercepted, and muscled off, and double-teamed the second she got too close to the box. 

the u.s. wasn’t breaking either. 

defensively, they were locked in.

halftime came with red cheeks and heaving chests. in the locker room, everyone refocused. they weren’t panicking. this was what they did…suffocate, frustrate, and then, when the cracks formed, capitalize.

the break worked.

in the 57th minute, it was mallory who broke. she drifted into space off the left side, took a brilliant diagonal ball from em fox, and fired low across goal. 

the net rippled, and mallory threw her hands up in the air, sprinting to the sideline in a rush of joy. margo was the first to her…arms flung wide, yelling at the top of her lungs before tackling her sister in a hug.

“you still got it, swanson!” she yelled.

mallory laughed, breathless. 

“had to remind ‘em.”

the next four minutes felt like a blur.

margo stayed high. waited. when the ball came to horan in the midfield, margo was already peeling away, finding the half-space, screaming for it with her eyes. 

lindsey delivered the perfect through ball…low, fast, threaded like a needle.

margo took one touch, and another, then she buried it.

a left-footed shot, far post. the keeper dove too late.

2-0.

as the crowd erupted, something hilarious happened.

a chant broke out, echoing across the stadium.

“PUGH! PUGH! PUGH!”

a clear, enthusiastic star wars reference, unmistakable. mallory used to have the chant before she got married to margo’s brother-in-law. the woman wanted to laugh but didn’t due to her excitement running in her veins.

margo dropped to her knees, sliding across the pitch in one of her classic celebratory styles…arms stretched, head tossed back. when she stood, trinity was already mid-sprint, tackling her into a hug that knocked them both off balance. 

sam followed next, arms around both of them, and lindsey jumped in too. 

once everyone broke away, mallory jumped on margo’s back.

“this is so unfair,” mallory grinned, clinging to her sister from behind. 

“you’re stealing all the attention.”

“shut uppp you’re still dad’s favorite,” margo laughed.

in the 90th minute em fox sent a ball into the box…high, curling, perfect. margo timed her run flawlessly. she rose above angelina, connected clean with her forehead, and smashed the ball into the top corner.

this time, she didn’t knee-slide.

margo ran to the sideline, dropped into a fake golf stance, and mimicked swinging an imaginary club at the crowd.

3-0, which secured the gold medal.

margaret pugh, barcelona’s new signing, america’s rising force, the younger sister of mallory swanson… she established that she was her own unstoppable player.

the players, well just lindsey and lynn, lifted margo on their shoulders. 

after the ceremony, the medal hung heavy, but her smile was even heavier. 

margo wasn’t just coming.  

she was already here and thriving. 

masterlist

[sinsxo]

in my dreams. —itoshi rin.

synopsis. some feelings don’t fade with time — they linger, quiet and unresolved. with dreams that haunt you, and when the past and present collide, you might have to face the truth you’ve been running from.

cw. oneshot, ex boyfriend!rin x fem!reader, angst, heavy emotional themes

note. i might make a part 2 depending on how this does!

wc. 1.6k words, not proofread.

you sighed, lifting an arm to shield your eyes from the sunlight that was piercing through the thin curtains — waking up yet again, drenched in cold sweat and tears. sleep was already a struggle, and when you did manage to fall into it, you were dragged into another cycle of dreams. dreams that rubbed salt into old wounds, pushing the knife in deeper with every night.

and the dreams… they weren’t nightmares — worse. they were memories.

they were like a replay of your life — the type that’d appear during the last seven minutes of your life as you’re dying. and those dreams, those memories haunted you.

it looped the memories of your high school days. the late nights you spent running through empty soccer fields, wrapped in each other’s scarves. memories of studying together at the library, his occasional glances slowly morphing into a quiet gaze, lips curled ever so slightly into a rare smile.

you still remembered that look — a quiet adoration cracking through his cold, stoic facade. it was an expression that you absolutely cherished. he was the only one who could make you feel like that — butterflies fluttering, cheeks tinted with pink, a smile tugging at your lips without permission.

and you hadn’t forgotten how brightly he shined on the field. that brief smug, proud grin after every goal. the cocky smirk aimed only at you before he returned to his usual icy expression — a silent gesture that the point was for you. the way he’d press a soft kiss to the matching necklace you gave him after scoring the winning goal before jogging back to his teammates… it was all too vivid. when you dreamed, it didn’t feel like a dream. it felt like you were living it all over again.

which is why, in a cruel twist, you wished those dreams were nightmares. at least then you’d have a reason to hate them.

but instead, they showed you him — itoshi rin, your high school sweetheart, your first love.

it was a love so beautiful — like roses blooming in your chest every time your feelings for him grew. but roses have thorns, and it hurt when they wrapped around your heart, every single one of them piercing into you.

you’d hoped, over time, that those roses would wilt — that only the thorns would remain. it would’ve been easier that way. even if it continued to pierce through you, it’s less painful than tearing them off yourself. because living with thorns was easier than tearing out something still alive.

but it never did, they never wilted. if anything, the red of the roses just deepened into burgundy — richer, darker, heavier.

still, they continued to bloom.

it was pathetic, really — that after all these years, he still lingered in your thoughts — in your dreams. because if it were rin, he’d have already ripped the roses out, thorns and all. that was the kind of person he was.

as long as he got what he wanted, he didn’t care if it left him bleeding.

since the day you both parted ways, you avoided soccer like the plague, you avoided his name and everything else that reminded you of him. but the world didn’t care. no matter how far you ran, itoshi rin was everywhere — on subway walls, billboards, towering posters on buildings, in store windows. he still haunted you.

and now here you were, sitting in a cafe with your best friend — the very same friend who had the audacity to ask you to attend one of his upcoming matches.

“yeah, no way in hell i’m going,” you said, rolling your eyes as you glanced out the window — only to be met with rin’s face plastered on the building across the street. “really smart of you to save me this seat. super convincing.”

“that was a coincidence!” she grinned sheepishly. “but pleaseee? you can’t keep avoiding him forever.”

you gave her a flat look. “i can, actually. and i will.”

she pouted, squeezing your hand. “come on. it’s been years. maybe seeing him again will help. closure, perhaps?”

you snorted. “closure? seeing rin would be like reopening a wound i just learned to ignore.”

"you really don’t wanna come with me? i already bought two tickets..."

"still no," you replied, firmer than before. "you know how things ended between us. i’m not going."

"please? you don’t even have to look at him," she pleaded. "just come with me. i’ve been dying to see one of their matches."

you raised a brow.

she pulled out her trump card — puppy eyes. as if that’d work.

.

.

.

it’s working.

“ugh, fine. you’re so annoying, i hate you,” you groaned, standing up. “just text me the details.”

“i love you, i love you!” she beamed.

and that’s how you ended up here — standing outside a massive stadium, surrounded by fans and banners of rin’s team.

your stomach churned. “yeah, no. i’m going home.”

a strong grip on your arm stopped you. “absolutely not! do you know how hard i worked to get you here?”

“if only you weren’t my best friend…” you muttered, sighing in defeat as she dragged you in.

“you love me. admit it.”

you didn’t have to reply. she already knew the answer.

the closer you got to your seats, the tighter your chest felt. it wasn’t the stadium from your memories, but it felt the same — the exact replica of your dreams. and when she led you to your seats near the front rows, your heart nearly dropped.

“this is too close,” you mumbled.

“too bad. i paid good money for this. don’t chicken out now.”

you stayed silent, fiddling with the necklace around your neck. and then the music started. the crowd roared. announcers hyped the atmosphere.

your hands trembled.

“they’re here!” your friend squealed.

and then… there he was.

itoshi rin.

he was taller now, broader, his presence sharper, more dangerous.

colder. more distant.

your stomach twisted, fingers clenched around your necklace. and when his eyes scanned the crowd, they stopped.

on you.

your breath hitched.

his gaze froze you in place, but you saw it — something flickered in his eyes, brief, almost imperceptible. recognition. disbelief. a flicker of surprise in his expression.

then it vanished, replaced by that same ice-cold look. the one he gave you when you last saw him, when everything ended.

distant. final.

he looked away.

and somehow, that hurt more than anything he could’ve said.

your friend kept talking excitedly beside you, but you couldn’t hear her. you felt like the air had been knocked out of your lungs. you had told yourself you were over him. that you had moved on.

but your heart betrayed you.

you had refused to acknowledge it for years — buried it under pride, distraction, denial. but now, standing there with his gaze still lingering in your mind, the truth clawed its way back to the surface.

you still loved him. you had never stopped.

and deep down, you had always known. that’s why you avoided it. why you looked away. why you left. because loving him meant facing everything you tried so hard to forget.

but now?

you had no excuse to run anymore. not from him, not from the truth, not from yourself.

then, the match began.

and rin… rin owned the field like usual. like he usually did back then. he was like a monster on the field — fast, sharp, merciless. goal after goal, he moved like a man possessed — and he was just as captivating as he was back then. you couldn’t take your eyes off him no matter how hard you tried.

“itoshi rin’s on another level today!” the announcer shouted. “something’s different — he’s locked in!”

after each and every goal, his eyes found yours again. that same piercing stare — steady, unwavering, deliberate.

cold, very cold.

but you didn't look away. it wasn’t a coincidence, it was a message. and you understood it, loud and clear. each glance felt like a silent confrontation, like he was saying all the things he never had the chance to — or maybe never dared to.

your chest felt tighter with every goal he scored. the cheers, the noise, the movement — it all blurred around you. all you could feel was the weight of his gaze, heavy and relentless, dragging every buried feeling to the surface.

and still, he never stopped looking your way, as if demanding you acknowledge what you’d both left unspoken. as if daring you to admit you still cared. and it hurt — not because he was angry or distant, but because he knew you would understand.

he was right, you did.

and when he scored the winning goal, you became even more sure of it. because when he kissed the necklace around his neck, the one you gave him years ago. the one that matched the necklace you currently held in between your fingers. the one you couldn’t bear to take off, you felt an ache in your chest.

the roses bloomed again. but this time, the thorns dug in deeper.

the feelings you had buried so deeply, the ones you thought you'd forgotten, everything unresolved suddenly overwhelmed you.

it wasn’t just a dream anymore; this was real. you can’t just wake up, shrug it off and continue avoiding it anymore.

you couldn’t avoid him anymore.

and now, as the cheers of the crowd faded into the background, you couldn’t escape the crushing weight of it.

the past, the unspoken words.

him.

it was all real, and you had to face it now. your dreams end here.

you can’t run away anymore.

© all written works are created and owned by @sinsxo. do not plagiarise, modify, repost or translate any of my content on other platforms under any circumstances.

all images, aside from the dividers, do not belong to me. credit belongs to their original creators on pinterest & xhs.

[elizabeth-holland24]

Racing Hearts - Chapter 2

< previous chapter -- next chapter >

She’d meant to run a quick errand—just in and out for some last-minute ingredients for Daisy’s dinner. Instead, she stood in the middle of a small London grocery, mentally replaying every second of the red carpet from the night before. The noise of cameras. The heat of the lights. The flash of Brisket’s tail as he ran toward her.

And then—him.

Glen. His smile had been sharper than any lens, his voice warmer than any spotlight. She still couldn’t believe how the world had quieted the moment he said, “I think you’ve stolen my dog.” That was Monday night. Now, it was Tuesday. Her last day in London before flying out to Hungary for the next Grand Prix. Her suitcase was half-packed, her mind even less so.

She picked out fresh cilantro, chiles, and mezcal—her signature addition for a special dessert. Daisy had invited friends over for a laid-back dinner, a goodbye before she left. And since Daisy’s idea of “cooking” included vegan microwave meals and wine that came in a box, she had offered to handle the food.

As she loaded her basket, her phone buzzed.

🔥 — Glen Powell

She blinked. Her heart skipped.

He had reacted to her Instagram story—her dancing in Daisy’s kitchen, flour on her cheek, mouthing along to End Game while baking. She had posted it an hour ago, thinking nothing of it. A moment of silliness before the evening rush.

But he’d seen it. And responded. Not with words—but with fire.

She tucked her phone away before she could spiral. It was probably nothing. Just a friendly little emoji.

Still, she smiled the entire walk home.

Back at Daisy’s flat, she got to work. Music blasted through the speakers as she cooked—enchiladas verdes, arroz con elote, and her mezcal chocolate chip cookies cooling on the counter. Daisy leaned in from the hallway, still applying mascara.

“You look suspiciously domestic,” she teased.

“Don’t worry. It’s all for Brisket.”

“Sure,” Daisy smirked. “You’re telling me Glen Powell’s dog just happened to find you on the carpet, and now you’re baking?”

“He’s not coming,” she said quickly. “He probably doesn’t even remember.”

But she kind of hoped he would. She didn’t have to wait long to find out. The knock on the door came just as she was plating the last of the enchiladas. Daisy opened it, and there he was—holding Brisket’s leash in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

“I brought the most important guest,” he said, stepping inside. “And also this wine, which I’m told doesn’t go with enchiladas. But I’m here for dessert.”

She stared, heart hammering. “You came.”

“Well, Brisket demanded it,” he said, unhooking the leash. The dog sprinted toward her like she was his favorite person in the world. She crouched down, laughing, letting him jump up.

“You again,” she said, scratching behind his ears.

Glen was watching her with a half-smile, like he was still a little surprised she was real. He looked different now—casual in a navy sweater and jeans, no cameras, no crowd. Just a guy. And yet somehow, even more disarming. As the rest of the guests trickled in—Daisy’s musician friends, a couple of actors, Anthony Ramos—Glen stayed near her, helping plate food, refilling water, handing out napkins. The dinner was chaotic and warm, everyone squeezed on cushions and mismatched chairs around a low table. Between bites of spicy rice and second helpings of cookies, the room buzzed with stories, laughter, the occasional off-key harmony.

At one point, Anthony leaned in, eyes glinting. “Entonces, cuando es la boda? Ya firmaste los papeles de adopción?” (So, when's the wedding? Have you signed the adoption papers?)

She coughed, mid-sip. “Que? No. esta loco, apenas y nos conocemos.” (What? No. Are you crazy we barley know each other)

“Sure,” Daisy added, winking. “But I’m pretty sure there was eye contact that could cause a blackout.”

She shook her head, cheeks burning. “We were just...talking.”

Across the room, Glen caught her glance and raised his glass. She raised hers back.

Just talking.

After dinner, most guests lounged around with drinks, trading playlists and half-tipsy confessions. Glen helped her stack plates in the kitchen. They moved in sync—passing dishes, wiping counters, brushing elbows.

“You sure this isn’t too much before your travel day?” he asked.

“I needed a distraction,” she said honestly. “Racing is constant motion. This...” She looked around the dim kitchen, candle flickering near the sink. “This feels like breathing.”

He nodded. “So where are you off to first?”

“Straight to Germany for a sim session. Then back to the US for college, before the real chaos starts. I won’t really be back in London until they need me or something comes up.”

He looked impressed. “That’s intense.”

“It’s everything,” she admitted, leaning against the counter. “Fast. Loud. Adrenaline on tap. But also—it’s the only time my brain shuts off. When I’m driving, I don’t think. I just feel.”

Glen rested his hands on the counter beside her, close enough to touch. “That’s how I feel when I write.”

“You write?” she asked, surprised.

He nodded. “Not scripts. Not yet. But stories. Scenes I never show anyone.”

“Why not?”

“Maybe I’m scared they won’t live up to the version in my head.”

She studied him. The quiet vulnerability beneath the charm. “You’d be surprised how much of yourself shows up anyway. Whether you mean to or not.”

He looked at her, then. Really looked. “Is that what happened yesterday?”

She froze, caught off guard.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about it,” he said softly.

The kitchen fell silent. Neither of them moved.

“I can’t either,” she admitted.

His smile deepened. “That makes me feel slightly less insane.”

She laughed, quietly. “Only slightly?”

“I mean, I barely know you,” he said. “But it doesn’t feel that way.”

“No,” she agreed. “It doesn’t.”

He glanced at her lips, then back to her eyes. His hand inched closer on the counter. She didn’t move away.

But the door creaked open as Daisy popped in, wine glass in hand. “Cookies are disappearing. If you want one, this is your last shot.”

They stepped apart, flustered.

“On my way,” she said quickly.

The night wore down in soft tones. Friends hugged their goodbyes, laughter trailed out into the hallway, and finally, it was just her, Daisy, and Glen. She stood by the window with a glass of water, watching lights blur in the distance. Her packed suitcase leaned by the door. Media calls. Branding. Sim time. College classes. It all began again tomorrow.

But tonight—tonight had been still.

Glen approached quietly, standing beside her at the window. Brisket curled up by the couch.

“Thanks for letting me crash,” he said. “Brisket thinks you’re his soulmate.”

She laughed softly. “I might be.”

Glen looked at her again, serious now.

“I know you’re leaving,” he said, voice low. “And I’m not asking for anything. But I just—”

She turned to face him.

“I just want you to know,” he said, “this wasn’t, nothing. Not to me.”

She swallowed. “Not to me either.”

There was a long pause. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pen.

“Here,” he said, gently taking her hand. He scribbled something on the inside of her wrist. A phone number.

“If I text you,” he said, “will you answer?”

She looked down at the number. Memorized it instantly. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you’ll send me Brisket pics.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

They stood there a moment longer, hands still lightly brushing. Not quite holding on. But not letting go, either. And later, long after he left, she curled into the couch, cookies wrapped for the plane, and the number still inked faintly on her wrist.

Her heart still racing. Not from driving this time. But from something just as dangerous.

A/N: So what do you guys think? are they going too fast? Or is everything just part of my masterplan?

[melancholy-of-nadia]

heart on the window – special chapter | ksj

special chapter title: don't say you love me pairing: ksj x reader(f) rating/genre: m (18+) ; smut ; roommates au / streamer/cam boy au / office worker au, childhood rivals to awkward roommates to lovers? au summary: a special chapter depicting a trip to singapore that happened sometime in between chapter 5 and 6 warnings: chaotic. maybe even cacophonous. maybe some angst? maybe some fluff? inspired by jin's "don't say you love me" mv, jin POV with some reader POV sprinkled in drop date: May 17th, 2025, 11:00am pst word count: 3.9k please check out the full series here - -

The trip wasn’t supposed to be like this.

It was meant to be a reunion with friends from elementary school that you and Jin decided to reach out and reconnect with. Loud, chaotic, full of half-drunken memories and spontaneous laughter between old friends. A trip born out of a group chat fantasy: “What if we all just disappeared to Singapore for a week?” Moonbyul had the idea. You were the first to actually look up flights to see if it could even be possible. It seemed like a cool idea, but also sounded pretty expensive. Jin was the one who booked the flights and hotel for you both. Everyone else just talked and said they booked their stuff too.

But life happened. One had a family emergency. Another got hit with a last-minute deadline. One had a commitment they forgot about. One just ghosted. And then it was just the two of you.

You told him the night before the flight, guilt-ridden and frustrated, saying you think it’d be a good idea to cancel the trip. Said it didn’t feel right anymore, not with everyone bailing. Said it wasn’t worth it. You didn’t even have the money to pay Jin back for everything. The camming makes money, but you really should save up for when you move out, not for a trip. It’s expensive living anywhere in this area.

But Jin still persisted, which you found hard to turn down.

“I’m paying. Just come. You need the break, and so do I.”

You nodded, going back to your room to finish packing. You sighed.  And then you both took off to Singapore, doing your best to enjoy this trip.

Now it’s day three, and something’s shifted. Jin can feel it. You smile at the right times. You laugh when you’re supposed to. But something’s... off.

You both are at the Singapore Art Museum (SAM). You're looking at a painting, blanking out. Something seems to be on your mind since you got to Singapore, but Seokjin can't pinpoint it out.

"Something wrong, Y/N?"

"Huh?" You go back to reality, turning to him. "Oh, it's nothing. It's just the jet lag."

"Then let's get your blood flowing and keep it moving, alright?" He playfully grabs your wrist and gently drags you along the hall.

You don’t pull away, but you don’t laugh either. Well, not the way you usually do. Not like before. He notes the delay in your steps, the way your fingers rest limp in his grip instead of curling around his like they used to when you were just being playful.

It’s not jet lag. He knows it.

As you walk through the wide, echoing corridor, surrounded by soft lights and experimental installations, Jin sneaks a glance at you. You’re here—physically—but your thoughts are clearly somewhere else.

And maybe he’s being dramatic, but he kind of misses you.

Not the version of you standing beside him, quiet and tense, but the you that used to shove your camera in his face mid-bite at a food market. The you that would elbow him in the ribs when he made a stupid pun. The you who, a few nights ago back home, rode him like you had something to prove, then passed out in his bed like you genuinely live there and not temporarily.

Maybe that’s the problem.

You’re not just friends anymore. You’re not dating either. You’re in this in-between place—sharing beds, sharing skin, but never talking about what that means. And now here you are, in a foreign country, staying in the same hotel room, eating at the same table, doing everything together like a couple… but you’re not.

And it’s eating at you.

He knows because you’ve stopped meeting his eyes when he offers to pay for something. Because you barely touched your laksa yesterday even though you’d been excited to try it for weeks. Because last night, you showered and pretended to sleep early before he even got out of the bathroom.

You don’t want to owe him.

He gets it. But it doesn’t make it easier to watch.

“So…” he says, voice light as he tugs you into another exhibit. “What’s your honest opinion of this one?”

You blink up at the installation in front of you—a large digital screen looping a surreal, color-shifting animation. “It’s… trippy,” you murmur.

He chuckles. “Very insightful. You’ve got a future in art critique.”

You give him a small smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Still, it’s something.

He lets go of your wrist and steps a bit closer to the piece, arms crossed. “You know, if our friends were here, they’d have made us pose in front of this thing and made it a whole bit. Probably pretended we were in a music video or something ridiculous.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Yeah. They would’ve.”

There’s a pause. A quiet kind of ache settles in the space between you.

By day four, Jin has stopped trying to make you laugh.

Not because he doesn't want to. But because every smile you offer him is painfully polite. Controlled. Pretty on the outside and hollow underneath. He knows the difference—he's known you long enough to see through the cracks.

You pay for your iced coffee before he gets the chance to tap his card. You walk beside him like everything’s fine, but it’s all surface.

And it’s eating at him.

You both have dinner at a tucked-away café on a quiet street corner. The food is warm and good and the ambience cozy, but you're barely touching your plate. You nod at his stories, sip your drink slowly, but your eyes drift past him to somewhere he can’t reach.

You walk slower on the way out. He doesn’t ask where you’re going, just follows. You wind up at a multilevel parking garage with a view of the skyline. The city glows in the night, sharp against the dark, and for a few minutes, neither of you say anything.

Then it breaks.

He doesn’t remember what sets it off. A comment, maybe. Something small. Something that hits a nerve.

“You’ve been acting weird this whole trip.”

You don’t look at him, but respond with an annoyed twinge in your words. “Have I?”

“You have. You’ve barely looked at me.”

You push off the ledge, finally turning toward him, brows furrowed. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Tired doesn’t make you shut me out.”

That’s when your face changes. Like something inside you snaps.

“Well this is your fault, Seokjin!”

The words slice through the quiet like a blade. Jin flinches. You keep going.

“I didn’t want you to pay this trip for me. I was supposed to pay—even though I barely have the damn money—I was still willing to go through with this. I wanted to hang out and see everyone. Our old friends. That’s what this was supposed to be.”

Your eyes are shining, your voice trembling.

“But it’s just us now. And instead of canceling, you threw money at it and acted like it was no big deal. And now I’m here…feeling like your stupid sugar baby.”

Jin’s mouth opens, then shuts. You don’t stop.

“You don’t even see it, do you? How humiliating it is to feel like I owe you. How fucking small it makes me feel.”

His heart is pounding. “Y/N… I didn’t mean for it to feel like that.”

You don’t even know, he thinks.

You don’t know that he booked this trip not just to get away, but because he couldn’t stand seeing you so burned out every day. He’d watched you stay up night after night, rereading the same job descriptions, rehearsing for interviews that went nowhere, rewriting resumes that got tossed aside without a second glance. He saw how it was breaking you down. The apartment had started to feel like a trap, quietly suffocating you. He knew you wouldn’t say it, wouldn’t admit it, but Jin saw it in the slump of your shoulders, the way you didn’t bother turning the lights on when you came home.

He paid for the flights because he wanted to see your smile again, your real one. The one where your nose crinkles and your eyes disappear and you forget for five seconds that the world has been unfair to you.

And maybe—just maybe—he hoped being away together like this would open a door. Maybe in another version of this trip, where you weren’t upset and pushing him away, he might’ve told you everything. That you mean more to him than you probably realize. That this isn’t just about friendship or sex or convenience. That he’s scared shitless of ruining what you already have, but even more scared of watching you drift away into someone else’s life someday.

“I know you didn’t,” you spit. “But it does feel like that.”

Your voice wobbles. “I’ve always been an independent person. I’ve always figured things out on my own. And now I’m living in your place. Now going on a trip you paid for. And no matter how many times you say it’s fine, it’s not fine for me.”

Jin steps forward instinctively, reaching for you. “Y/N, God, don’t do this—”

You shove him. “Just leave me alone, Seokjin’

It’s not hard enough to hurt, but the rejection using his full name stings more than a slap.

He grabs your wrists on instinct, not to restrain you—but to stop you from slipping further away.

“Y/N. Stop.” His voice drops. “Just—breathe. Please.”

But you’re shaking your head, furious tears welling.

“You don’t get it. You’ve always had your shit together, Jin. You’re successful, stable, rich, hot, loved. And I’m just… struggling. All the time. And being around you like this—it makes me feel pathetic.”

He stares at you. Words rise up in his throat, thick and real.

He wants to tell you he understands more than you think.

That his ex left him because she didn’t believe in him at the time.

That the world sees his achievements, but not the loneliness he carries like a second skin.

That when he looks at you, it’s not pity he feels. It’s awe. It’s what he’s felt ever since he met you in elementary school. The amusement he had bickering with you and being competitive against one another. And the budding feelings that he didn’t realize until he left.

He swallows hard. He could tell you all of that. He could tell you everything.

“Y/N, I—” His voice is raw.

But he chokes.

“…I just thought you needed a break,” he says instead. “That we both did.”

Your face crumples, just slightly.

You yank your wrists free.

“I’m going back to the hotel alone.”

“Y/N—”

“I need space. I’ll take a cab.”

And then you’re walking away.

Jin watches you go, his arms falling uselessly to his sides. His chest is hollow, chest tightening with every footstep that takes you further from him.

This is why he’s scared to feel.

This is why he’s terrified to hope.

Because even when he gives the best of himself, it never feels like enough.

Maybe he really is too much of a provider and not enough of a partner. Maybe no amount of success can fix what’s always been broken inside him.

Maybe—

He watches the cab door close behind you.

Maybe this is what being close to you means:

Knowing when to let you walk away.

Before the cab pulls away, Jin suddenly moves.

His legs act before his mind can catch up. He darts forward and yanks the door back open, sliding in beside you.

“You’re not going alone,” he says, out of breath but firm. “I don’t care if you’re mad at me. I’m not letting you go back by yourself in a country we barely know.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed, lips parted in surprise—but you don’t push him out. You don’t say anything at all.

So he shuts the door behind him.

The driver nods and merges into the road, unaware of the hurricane churning inside the cab.

Silence fills the space between you. Not awkward, not hostile. Just heavy.

You glance at him—just once—and Jin feels it. The air shifts.

You don’t know what you were expecting when you lashed out at him. Maybe for him to get angry. Maybe for him to throw his hands up and let you spiral alone. But instead, he followed you. He always does. And now he’s here, quiet and steady beside you, while your chest aches from too many emotions you don’t know how to carry anymore.

You turn your face back to the window on your right, your fingers tightening slightly on your thigh.

Jin catches your reflection in the glass. He looks away toward the left, but the image of your expression—tired, vulnerable, guarded—sticks in his mind.

He gets it now. It wasn’t just about money. It wasn’t even about pride, really. You’ve always fought for your independence, and the fact that things still haven’t gone your way lately has made you feel like you’re failing. And him stepping in—offering help, offering ease—it must have felt like another reminder that you couldn’t stand on your own two feet. That he could always do the saving, but you couldn’t.

He swallows hard. His voice is gentle when it finally breaks the silence.

“I didn’t bring you here to make you feel small, Y/N.”

You stay quiet, but he continues.

“I just… I’ve been watching you fall apart back home. The way you pretend you’re okay when you’re not. You didn’t think I noticed, did you?”

You blink once, still looking out the window.

“I didn’t want to take something away from you,” he says, “I wanted to give you something. Peace. Air. A few days without expectations. And I’d do it again. Not because you owe me, and not because I want anything from you—but because I care about you.”

That lands between you. Heavy and real.

“I care about you so fucking much,” he admits softly, eyes flickering down to his hands, “that sometimes I don’t know what to do.”

You finally turn to face him.

Your voice is quiet. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

He breathes out a shaky laugh. “Because the last time I told someone how I felt about something, shit hit the fan?" He doesn't want to mention that someone. It's irrelevant and off-topic anyways. This is about you. "And this friendship… between us… it’s been good. Simple. I didn’t want to mess that up.”

You stare at him for a long moment. Then you reach over and thread your fingers through his.

“Simple’s overrated,” you murmur. “And for the record… I care about you too. You’re one of the closest friends I got right now. A little too close if you ask me.”

Jin chuckles, squeezing your hand gently. The cab glides down the road, the glow of the city lights painting golden reflections across your faces.

Neither of you says anything more. You don’t need to.

By the time you reach the hotel, you’re still holding hands.

And for once, it feels like everything complicated between you two is starting to slowly make sense.

The morning sun filters through the hotel curtains, casting soft light over your sleeping face.

You're curled into the comforter, breath steady, no longer weighed down by yesterday's storm.

Jin watches you quietly, eyes tracing the slow rise and fall of your chest.

He never slept that well, even after you reached out for his hand last night. Even after that quiet, fragile peace settled between you. His body had been still, but his heart was loud. Because you said you cared. And that should’ve been enough. Should’ve felt like winning. But it’s never that simple with you. Not when he wants more. Always more.

You stir a little, your eyes fluttering open. “What?” you murmur sleepily.

He smiles softly. “Nothing. You snore.”

You shoot him a look through mussed hair, then throw a pillow at him.

It’s the start of a better day.

Later that afternoon, you arrive at Gardens by the Bay, surrounded by tourists and locals milling about for some kind of seasonal couples event. The air is humid but fresh, the sound of chirping birds mixing with the chatter around you.

The line at the ticket booth is long, but it moves fast. You both finally reach the front—and the person at the counter explains there’s a couple’s discount.

Jin doesn’t hesitate.

“We’re together,” he says, flashing his charming, public-friendly smile.

You turn to him, wide-eyed, half a breath away from denying it.

But his hand slides into yours, fingers intertwining.

It’s not just for show. He could’ve left it at the words. But he doesn’t. He holds you like he means it. Because he does.

Your hand twitches in his, caught between pulling away and holding tighter. You glance down, a little dazed.

“…Guess we’re a couple now,” you mutter under your breath.

He grins. “Just for the discount.”

He doesn’t let go.

You start with the OCBC Skyway, a narrow walkway suspended high between the Supertree structures, giving a sweeping view of the gardens and city skyline beyond.

The wind flutters against your clothes. You grip the railing with one hand, his with the other.

You’re still flustered, pretending like the height has you distracted, but he catches the way you glance down at your joined hands. Not pulling away.

“You afraid of heights?” he teases.

“I’m afraid of losing balance and accidentally launching both of us off this thing,” you mutter.

He laughs. “Noted. I’ll hold on tighter.”

He does.

Next stop: The Flower Dome

Cooler, calmer. A burst of color at every turn. Orchids, tulips, lavender, desert plants.

You take your time here, pausing at every odd flower, reading placards aloud with exaggerated voices. Jin pretends to be annoyed but listens to every word.

You’re cute when you talk to plants. He won’t say it out loud, but the way you squat beside a cactus and go, “He looks like a grumpy uncle,” nearly makes him choke on laughter.

He sneaks a few photos of you from behind when you’re not looking. Later, he’ll pretend he was testing the lighting.

And finally, The Cloud Forest.

Misty, cool, and otherworldly. The towering indoor waterfall roars from the center of the space, mist curling around the edges of your clothes.

You both stand in awe at the base of the mountain-like structure wrapped in plant life.

You glance at Jin. “It’s like something out of a fairytale.”

He tilts his head. “Yeah.”

But he’s not looking at the waterfall.

He’s looking at you.

You, cheeks flushed from humidity, hair a little frizzy at the ends. You, who cried in a parking garage last night and still let him stay beside you. You, who always pretends to be fine until the cracks show. He’d give you the world if you’d let him. He’d build a waterfall higher than this one just to see you smile.

“I think we should get married here,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “I—what?”

He smirks. “If we’re still single by the time we’re 42...let’s just do it. Save ourselves the trouble. This place is good for it too.”

You burst out laughing. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I mean it,” he grins, “We’d make a great tax bracket. And we get along, I think.”

You nudge his arm. “Wow... well..." You're kind of at a loss of words. Like what can you even say to some suggested marriage proposal?It's not that serious, that's for sure, right? "It's… kind of like a lavender marriage? We get with each other for the benefits and see other people if we're able to.”

His heart stutters. You’re joking, of course. You don’t see it. Not the way he does. Not the way he looks at you and sees late mornings, shared coffee mugs, and dancing in the kitchen. Not the way he wonders what your kids might look like. Or what your name would sound like with his.

“Sure,” he says with a tight smile. “Like a lavender marriage.”

You turn back to the waterfall, cheeks sore from smiling.

He watches you.

42 sounds too far away. But if it meant waking up next to you, even once, he’d wait.

He’s caught in the afterglow of your laughter, a little stunned that you actually found his marriage joke funny.

You turn to grin at him, nudging his shoulder. “You’re so silly sometimes, you know that? But... if I was stuck with you forever, it wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

Jin raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Stuck with me? Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease, “better stuck with you than some boring guy who doesn’t make me laugh or even make good food or have a good dick!”

He laughs softly, shaking his head. “God, I can’t believe you’re saying this out in public!” “Nobody knows who we are here! Plus, did I lie?”

“Jeez, flattery will get you everywhere, huh?”

Before he can say more, like a sexual innuendo aimed towards you, you tug at his hand.

“But hey! Come on. I wanna show you something,”

He stumbles forward a little, caught off guard, but doesn’t resist. Never resists you.

Your palm is warm in his, fingers curled loosely around his.

You pull him toward a level near the top of the Cloud Mountain. The air gets cooler as you ascend in the elevator, and when the doors open, it feels like you’ve stepped onto a different planet.

Clouds of mist curl around your ankles. Vines dangle from high archways. There’s a little footbridge up ahead, overlooking the whole space.

You don’t say much—just lead him forward, step by step, until you reach the edge. From here, you can see nearly the whole Cloud Forest below, thick with cascading greenery, wet with dew and mist. People move far beneath you like tiny toy figures.

“It’s so nice and quiet up here,” you murmur, leaning forward just slightly. “I like it.”

Jin stands beside you, too aware of how close your shoulders are. He can smell the faint trace of your shampoo and something light and citrusy from the hotel lotion you complained about, but still wear.

You look peaceful. Maybe the most peaceful he’s seen you in weeks.

And suddenly, he’s not thinking about forty-two anymore. He’s not thinking about jokes or what-ifs. He’s just thinking: I wish this could be ours. Not just a moment. But a life. A forever. A reality where you weren’t only his friend, or his escape. A reality where your hand in his was normal, not borrowed. Where he didn’t have to play pretend with strangers at a ticket counter just to feel like you were his.

You turn to him with a faint smile, a quiet ease in your eyes. “Cool, right?”

He nods, swallowing. “Yeah.”

He wants to say: you’re the most beautiful thing here. He wants to say: I brought you here because I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d have the guts to tell you everything. He wants to say: if I gave you my heart, would you keep it safe this time?

Instead, he says, “We should take a photo.”

You blink, then grin. “Yeah. Definitely. Give the people what they want! Two people pretending to be a couple for the discount.”

He lifts his phone with a faint chuckle. You lean into his side, resting your head briefly on his shoulder, your hand still in his. The timer clicks down.

Three... two...

One day, he thinks, he’ll look at this photo and wonder why he didn’t just tell you the truth right then. Maybe he’ll say it next week. Or next year. Or maybe never. Because loving you quietly is safer than losing you loudly. And some things, he’s learned, are better left unsaid.

Click.

The photo snaps.

You pull away gently and keep walking toward the next part of the path, talking about the waterfalls again, something about how the plants are real and not artificial like you thought.

Jin grins and teases, “So what, I’m not real enough for you?”

You punch his arm lightly. “Shut up, go enjoy being a fake boyfriend for the day.”

He laughs. “Fake boyfriend, huh? I’m way too good at this.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling.

He follows. He always does.

Because maybe he can’t have all of you.

But for now, this moment is enough.

And maybe… that’s love too.

a/n: I spent yesterday and today cooking this up and was debating to even drop it since it's just a mess. but enjoy! keep streaming jin's new album as well!!

[n3ptoonz]

'Political Animals' II

okayyy so i had zero intention of adding on but the people YEARNNNN for this affair, and i thank you guys so much for the overwhelming support 💋!!!

now bc of that, i changed small things in the first part and hey, y'all wanted plot so i'm GIVING u plot 🤫 shit bout to get wicked.

New warnings/tags: Mentions of guilt, arguing, dom!reader, sub!bucky, riding, choking (m!receiving), floor sx, Bucky is a fucking freak, Bucky's kind of a dickhead but it's hot, husband mentioned/interaction, idk shit about the inner workings of the government so i'm bullshitting most of the plot, barely proofread so apologies in advance, it's about to be 5 am LOL

referenced this tweet at the end. foaming at the mouth.

Word count: 3.4k

Read first part/chapter here if you haven't already and feedback is MUCH appreciated <3

"Bucky-" your words caught in your throat as he shushed you, two of his fingers going at a relentless pace while buried inside you. The squelching sounds alone drowned out your heartbeat thumping in your ears. You clung onto him and balled up his blazer into your fist as you fought to stay quiet.

"You're so pretty like this," he whispered into your neck. Your ears started to buzz and ring quietly as you neared climax.

"If only he knew," he continued with a dry chuckle. When he curled his fingers, your vision went white and you gasped-

"Madam Secretary?"

The two words were like cold water being splashed on your face. You blinked a few times at the woman sitting in front of you at the table, your eyes trailing down to the recorder sitting there.

"I'm sorry, what did you ask me?" you said and subtly looked around to make sure you were back in reality. What happened? One second ago you were being interviewed by an "esteemed" journalist about the latest foreign affairs going on overseas, and the next you just...blanked.

"What do you think of Congressman Barnes?"

"What?" your eyes snapped to hers.

The woman's brows furrowed as she reiterated, "What part does congress have in this?" she asked slowly before pausing the recorder, placing her hand on the table and leaning forward, as if to scrutinize. "If I got you at a bad time-"

"No! No, it's fine. I just, didn't get much sleep last night. Paperwork, am I right?" you said as you waved off her concern. She nodded with a smile and grabbed her pen along with the notebook that you seemed to miss when you first walked in.

"Then, shall we start over?" she asked. There was something so slimy about her that you couldn't quite put your finger on. Journalists have always given you hell in one way shape or form. You nodded and watched her unpause the recorder, determined to stay focused this time.

It's been two whole months since you last even spoke to each other. Duty calls, and you were thinking of starting your campaigning today. Announce to the world that you will be running for president in the upcoming election.

You meant it when you said you had elections to think about, but what you didn't expect is for this long string of lack of interaction with Bucky to make you reflect. It was pure bliss that night, but you started to feel guilty. Especially because all it took was one good fuck and he ruined you for anybody else. Ruined you for your own husband. Which was his mission complete.

Bucky felt like the motherfucking man ever since. He practically spent his free time daydreaming about how you looked with his metal hand over your mouth. The desperation in your eyes. The sounds of your pretty voice ringing in his ears. The overwhelming urge to unmute the phone and show that prick what an authentic creampie sounded like-

"Congressman Barnes?"

He snapped out of thought and cleared his throat, that familiar frown appearing back on his face as he motioned for his assistant to come in. She handed him a stack of files with different labels on it.

"These have Information about what's going on overseas. There's going to be a hearing later at the White House, to which the Madam Secretary is going to lead. Likely to sway the votes towards sending resources over, but you didn't hear that from me."

Bucky nodded and skimmed over the print, rolling his eyes at the redacted documents. He was half listening and checked out when he heard you'd be there.

"Thank you," he said while holding it up. "When is it being held?" he asked, seeing her check her watch.

"In about an hour and a half, sir." she answered, "You'll have a vehicle sent for you in an hour."

"You aren't coming with?" he asked with furrowed brows.

"No, sir. I have to outline your schedule for the next two weeks just in case things go south at the hearing. Let me know how it goes. And don't forget your binder." she said with a thumbs up and then left. Bucky half waved goodbye and sighed. He was going to see you again after two months, front and center. Likely on strict business so he knew to watch his stares and remarks.

Stay professional, Buck.

The hearing went terribly. Almost a unanimous "no" across the board, and the questions being asked were atrocious. It wasn't new news that most of these old fucks never budged, but that didn't make the process any less frustrating. On top of it all, Bucky had been staring you down since you stepped onto that stage. The proud look in his eyes as you stood your ground, despite the situation made your heart flutter alone.

As if matters couldn't get worse, afterwards while you were shaking hands and well aware of the press lingering around, your husband pops up out of nowhere. To which he rarely does.

You turned and tried to maneuver through the crowd to avoid him, but, of course, like something from a cliche romcom, you walked into Bucky at the same time he turned. Just a face full of chest and tie. Probably the same tie he wore when...

"Oh- Madam Secretary," he said, catching your arm before you stumbled backwards. You cleared your throat and nodded with a half smile, removing his hand and taking it in your other hand to shake it.

"Congressman," you responded in a formal tone, like this was your first time meeting.

"Honey!" you heard from behind. Sighing and letting go of Bucky's hand, you turned and faced your husband with possibly the fakest smile you could conjure. You greeted him with a kiss on the cheek and backed up.

"What brings you by?" you asked. With your back to Bucky, you completely missed the deep grimace on his face at the whole interaction, but he stuck around.

"You weren't answering your phone, so I thought I'd swing by to ask if you could cook tonight? I have a meeting in an hour and I'm going to be out pretty late." he replied, either oblivious or unbothered by the way you froze with that same expression.

"What-"

"Oh, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" he interrupted with his hand extended to Bucky as he introduced himself. Bucky's hardened expression completely vanished as he shook hands with the very guy he'd dangle from a ledge, had this been a few years prior.

Your eye twitched as you snapped out of your thoughts. This is bad. Really bad.

"Congressman Barnes," Bucky said with a genuine grin. To anybody else, it was friendly, to him and you, it was "You have no clue I'm fucking your wife."

"Well, um, I will get back to you on that. We should go before the press-"

"Have we met before?" your husband asked Bucky. Your heart dropped and you swore you were manually breathing now. You turned to Bucky with pursed lips, your eyes saying 'Wrap it the fuck up.'

Bucky glanced at you before his eyes went back to your husband. He knew he should leave it alone. Just say no and let you go deal with whatever it is with your man. Respect the boundary.

"No, I don't think so," he said. Your shoulders slumped in relief as you went to take your husband's hand and get the hell out of dodge.

"Are you sure? I really feel like I've at least heard your voice before." he pressed, his hand moving out of the way of yours. You resisted the urge to shoot him a strong glare at his stubbornness.

"Hun, if he says he hasn't met you before, then perhaps he hasn't-"

He snapped his fingers and pointed to Bucky, a flash of recognition on his face. "We spoke on the phone a while ago. You answered her phone and were generous enough to pass on my message to her."

Your entire body felt itchy all over. Seeing that oblivious smile on his face sent you an upcoming headache later.

"Right, yes. He was very kind to do that." you said with a tight smile.

"Oh, that's right. That meeting was pretty intense, I didn't want to interrupt but I had to make sure your lovely, hardworking wife heard from her husband. She's quite the determined one. A natural leader, might I add-"

"Yeah, that's nice, uh, honey?" he said, gesturing toward the exit so you two could leave. Bucky's lips formed a thin line as he held back every fucked up thing he could fire off at this very moment. You nodded and walked off without another word. You could just strangle the both of them with your bare hands.

-

"I guess they just let anybody into Congress," your husband said while pouring a small drink of whiskey. The same complementary drink that's been sitting in your office for some time now.

You looked up from your desk, "What?" you asked, tone harsher than intended.

"Your friend," he said like it was obvious. "It just clicked to me that he has a metal arm." he added and downed the drink in one go.

"So?"

"'So?' Honey, that's the Winter Soldier." he said in a dramatically hushed tone.

"I know who he was." you replied, purposely changing the wording to Bucky's defense. He looked at you like you were crazy.

"And you're just...okay with that? No concern or worry that he might...you know-"

"You think the government would let him even run for Congress if he was still unstable? Don't be ridiculous. And you just met him. Thought you two seemed friendly." you grumbled and put your attention back on the files in front of you.

"Yeah, cause I thought he was just some guy." he said. "But is this really the kind of guy you wanna be around. I saw the way he looked at you."

A lump formed in your throat. It wasn't abnormal for him to be jealous and/or just accuse men of wanting to take you from him, but this time it wasn't necessarily wrong...and he very well could've been looking at you...

"Do not start with that- Don't you have a meeting?"

"I do in a bit but I'm just saying. I know it's like your job to see the good in people-"

"Go." you said and stood up, pointing to the door. He scoffed and stood upright to fix the sleeves on his suit.

"Alright," he said and shrugged. Walking over to the door, he turned halfway and added, "Just to be clear, you aren't cooking tonight-"

"Go!" you exclaimed and watched him dart out the door. You huffed and chuckled dryly as you sat back down. The files on your desk reminded you that you forgot to talk to your assistant about contacting your old campaign manager.

You heard a soft knock on the door while you were rubbing your eyes in frustration, assuming it was him.

"Hey, could you get in contact with-" you began, but when your eyes landed on a man that definitely wasn't your assistant, you couldn't look even more annoyed.

"Bucky," you said in a not so welcoming tone. "Why are you here?"

"I... came to apologize, actually," he said and rubbed his chin. "I do apologize...but I couldn't help myself. Guy's a dickhead."

"You think I don't know that?" you responded and stood again but didn't move from your desk. "And you call that an apology?"

"What was I supposed to do? He wouldn't stop pressing the issue so I just, acted accordingly."

"Barnes-"

He interrupted with a scoff. "So now it's back to Barnes."

"Yes! It is back to Barnes, and it should've stayed that way. You knew how pissed I was because of that shitty hearing and now the man that I cheated with is playing buddy-buddy with my husband."

"And now I'm just the guy you cheated with?" he asked and placed his binder down before stepping forward to lean on your desk with his hands. "If I recall correctly, you had full reign to tell me to fuck off and you didn't. Don't pin this on me."

"I'm not pinning anything on you. I'm more mad you idiots distracted me, so now I have to make a few calls tomorrow and start campaigning later than I intended."

Bucky stared at you for a few seconds before standing up slowly. He rounded the desk and stood a foot away to your right.

"What's this really about?" he asked softly. You didn't look at him, but instead looked down at the desk. You began rattling off about your stresses these last two months, including how the guilt was eating you alive. You didn't notice he stepped closer until you felt the heat radiating off him. You put a hand on his chest and physically pushed him away.

"You need to go." you said quietly. His metal hand came up and pressed it closer. If you paid attention, you could hear his heart fighting to stay inside. He said your name in a silent plea but you persisted. This connection, the electricity between you two was no stranger, but at the end of the day he was crossing a boundary. You're still a married woman who had an election to think about.

He didn't say anything else and just...left. You took a deep breath and rubbed your temples. But the bullshit wasn't over. Your gaze fell to the binder he forgot to pick up before leaving. Groaning loudly and actively resisting the urge to hurl something across the room, you decided you'll cool off by finishing your work for the night and bringing it over to him one you're finished.

-

You stood at the foot of his office door, staring at the name tag as you took a deep breath. Was this a bad idea? Was this stupid? Silly? Setting yourself up for failure? It's just a binder. And it's also just the man that had you shaking under him not too long ago. It's ridiculous. The whole thing seems childish.

Without second thought you knocked. A few seconds later you heard him tell you to come in, which kind of annoyed you because you hoped he'd come to the door and just retrieve his stuff.

You walked in and saw his gaze snap to you. Bucky had his blazer slung over the back of his chair. He stood and walked over to stand directly in front of you, his eyes never glancing at his binder in your hand.

"You left your binder." you tossed it to a nearby table and kept his gaze. He didn't look phased at all.

"I know." he said in a soft tone. He took a step closer and your back pressed against the door. Your chest tightened as the seconds went by. This had to end.

This has to end...right?

You just stood there. Like you did at the door. Whatever you were going to say, whatever speech you had prepared died on your lips.

"Barnes-"

He exhaled and rolled his eyes. He can't take it anymore.

Bucky gently grabbed your face and kissed you, just like he did two months ago. It was like no time passed since. He couldn't stop himself. You are a carnal desire and it needed to be satiated.

"I love you," he whispered.

"Bucky, don't- mph-"

And alas, it all clicked. He wrapped his arms around your torso and lifted you as he kissed you once more. You didn't care anymore. You needed him. He needed you. Badly. You even kicked off your heels once off the ground.

Bucky carefully spun you away from the door, so lost in you and how life just felt perfect in your presence. His taut muscles flexed against his shirt as he brought you both to the floor, lying in between your legs and hooking his knee under yours. He ground himself against you like a wild animal, grunting against your mouth like he hasn't eaten in so, so long.

You dragged your nails against his back, earning a snap from his hips while you straddled him harder. You figured the only way you'd be able to stay at the volume you wish so that nobody would overhear, you had to take control.

Somehow you managed to gain enough strength to flip him over so that you were on top. 99% of you is convinced he let you. You shed your blouse to reveal your bra, leaning over him and placing his hands on your ass.

"If I had known the day would end like this, I would've worn something nicer," you purred, seeing his pupils blown wide as she smiled.

"You're fuckin' perfect," he said breathlessly and squeezed. He pushed your skirt up and you reached down between your legs to undo his pants with fervor.

He managed to get them down enough for you to pull him out and waste no time sinking down onto him. You had to hold back a guttural moan from waking the city. Sure, you've experienced him before, but this angle was purely ungodly; sinful.

James Buchanan Barnes is an enigma. But if it's one thing that is no mystery, it's that he had a big dick. It was like getting used to another man.

"Take it." he whispered with his eyes closed, his hands resting on your hips. He wanted to save a mental image of your tits threatening to spill out while you were on top. "Take it all."

You started to move your hips slowly began to move, purposely sinking your hips harshly against his. The sound of your whimpering while trying to concentrate was sending him to another dimension.

You cursed aloud and closed your legs around him tighter to get better leverage. Now at this point you were fucking yourself on him. He could die like this.

You grunted and bounced harder. Perhaps you were feeling yourself just enough to close your hand around his neck.

And that was the first time you heard Bucky whine.

You looked down at him with heavy breaths. Did you hear that correctly? Maybe it was the sticky substance forming under you that made you hear things.

"Harder." he said quietly as he eyes opened again and seeing your bra strap hanging off your shoulder. "Please." he barely uttered.

You squeezed a little harder and you could swear you felt him get harder inside you.

"Fuck." he groaned and gripped your hips hard enough to leave a mark. "You keep looking at me like that and I'm gonna give you a son."

You bit your lip to stifle your own moan while shooting him an attempt of an unamused expression, but he looked dead serious.

"Ugh- Wouldn't wanna- fuck up your image though-" he added and blew air through his cheeks to stay focused. He was definitely about to cum. "Madam President." he said under his breath and smirked.

"Shut the fuck up." you said in one breath, one word. He called out your name in a moan and sucked in his breath.

"You gotta get up," he strained, like he wasn't still assisting in you using him like a fuck toy. "Gonna be dripping for days if you don't."

You just needed a few more. Just a few more and you were there. This is possibly the biggest risk you've ever taken, and you've been in war zones.

He said your name again in a pleading tone and it took one, two, three more and you were gone. You pulled yourself off him and nearly collapsed if his chest wasn't there to hold you up. He bucked and twitched under you, some of his cum hitting under your thigh. You rolled off of him and laid on the ground to stare at the ceiling while catching your breath and feeling the aftershocks.

You shook your head in disbelief and grabbed your phone that luckily didn't crack when it hit the ground. You called your husband, and when it went straight to voicemail, you sat silent for a few seconds before glancing at Bucky, still dazed and fucked out.

"I want a divorce."

[kangshxrtie]

DANCE4YOU | PARK SOHYUN

sypnosis — y/n is dared to give park sohyun a lap dance pairing — park sohyun x reader trope/genre — mutual pining, fluff, and slight smut includes — kim yooyeon, kim nakyoung, zhou xinyu, and koma mayu word count — 5077 words

you were in your dorm, half-dressed and halfway through your makeup, getting ready for a party you hadn't even wanted to go to. one of your roommates, kim yooyeon was sitting at her desk, applying some finishing touches to her makeup.

somehow, your other two roommates, zhou xinyu and koma mayu, had managed to convince yooyeon to go. you were only going because in a moment of false confidence, had said you'd only go if she did—because yooyeon wasn't the type to agree to these things.

except this time? you've never felt as betrayed as you did then when she looked you dead in the eyes and said, "fine. i'll go."

so here you were, curling your hair and rethinking all of your life choices that had led you to this moment. 

"i still can't believe you said yes," you muttered, glancing at yooyeon through the mirror.

"i don't know. xinyu promised we wouldn't be there for long and i was also promised free food afterwards." yooyeon shrugged, lip gloss in hand.

"i wasn't promised free food," you stared at her.

"sounds personal," yooyeon shrugged.

you rolled your eyes playfully. "you know we're gonna end up staying longer then promised, right?"

"i give it three hours," she said, "max."

"sure," you smirked. "we'll be lucky if we're not crawling home at three in the morning."

across the hall, you heard mayu yell, "hurry up or we're pregaming without you!" followed by the pop of a can being opened.

"alright, let's go. before mayu and xinyu start making up drinking games again," yooyeon sighed dramatically, grabbing her jacket.

you stood up, checking and smoothing your outfit and giving yourself one last look in the mirror to make sure your makeup looked good. "i have a feeling this night is gonna be weird."

"of course it is. it's a sohyun party," yooyeon smirked, opening the door.

"sohyun?" you repeated, eyebrows raised.

"yeah," yooyeon nodded like it was no big deal.

you immediately turned on your heel. "yeah, i'm not going," you said, already stepping back into your room.

"oh my god—you already agreed and you're literally dressed up."

"and?" you shot back, "i can get un-ready and be in bed in five minutes."

"come on," yooyeon groaned, leaning against the doorframe. "we probably won't even see her."

"yooyeon. be so fucking for real right now," you gave her a flat look.

"okay—fine," she huffed. "but maybe it's time for you to confess to sohyun."

"me? confess? to sohyun?" you stared at her like she'd personally offended you.

"it's literally our last year. what do you have to lose?" yooyeon shrugged.

you sighed, flopping dramatically onto your bed. it wasn't like yooyeon didn't know the situation—sohyun had been your crush since freshman year. it was embarrassing, honestly. a slow burn kind of crush that never let up, no matter how hard you tried to outgrow it. the worst part about all of it was, she just kept getting hotter every year. like, unfairly so.

it wasn't like she didn't know you existed either. she did. you'd had classes together, been at the same parties, and shared mutual friends. you'd even talked and joked around before.

you were still lying on the bed, face down on the bed, silently considering how you were gonna get out of this now, when mayu stepped in.

"if you hate us and didn't wanna pregame you could've just said so!" xinyu yelled as she walked in holding a solo cup, "why are you still horizontal?"

"she found out it was sohyun's party," yooyeon explained, completely unbothered as she slightly moved out of the way of the doorframe so they could both get in.

"ohhh," mayu said, following in with a smug little grin. "we did forget to mention that little detail."

"of course you did," you mumbled into the pillow.

"don't be mad we just really wanted you to come with us tonight," mayu said, walking over and yanking the pillow out from under your face. "so you need to get up. you look too hot to stay in the house; we're not letting you sit in here all night thinking about someone who may or may not already have a thing for you."

"what if i just don't wanna" you sat up slowly, rubbing your temples.

"that is what pregame is for," xinyu said, tossing you a can from her mini bag. "mental preparation and alcohol."

"unless you wanna take shots instead," mayu offered cheerfully, already opening your fridge like she lived there. "i know you keep that little emergency stash of soju."

"i'd like to remind the room she agreed to go to," yooyeon raised her hand.

"that was before i was tricked," you muttered, cracking open the can anyway.

fifteen minutes and two drinks later, you were buzzed, warm, and starting to feel like maybe showing up wouldn't actually kill you. 

"we should probably leave if we don't want to show up when people are already blacked out," mayu said after a while already heading out of the room.

you were now ready. well, not really but you were ready to fake it all. and now it would be a waste to just crawl back into bed and disappear for the night.

as you all walked out of your side of the dorm, yooyeon grabbed her bag and handed you your jacket. "you're gone be fine. worse case, you see sohyun, make weird eye contact, and never talk." 

"best case," mayu grinned, holding the door open, "you kiss her and she falls madly in love with you."

"zero in-between," xinyu added, sipping her drink as you all filed into the hallway.

"cool. love that for me," you muttered.

still, as the four of you made your way to the party—the music could already be heard from half a block away—there was a weird twisting in your stomach. fear, excitement, and just the faintest hope that tonight's outcome will work in your favor.

and of course, the second you walk in, you see the one person who's been the main problem of your entire college experience.

park sohyun, just standing the middle of the room, drink in hand, looking so damn fine.

the music was loud, the lights were low, and the living room was packed wall-to-wall with people. the kind of packed where it was impossible not to brush shoulders or get accidentally posted on someone’s story. you could feel the music through the floor, drinks were being passed around, and the air smelled like sweat and perfume; great.

you stuck close to your friends, weaving through the crowd until you found a semi-cleared-out corner where you all could relax for a second. you were just about to tell xinyu to give you another drink when someone yelled over the music, “truth or dare!”

"we just got here," you froze slightly.

“oh no,” yooyeon muttered beside you. “it's starting.”

before you could even back out you were dragged by xinyu to where truth or dare was happening, a circle forming in the middle of the room. you caught glimpses of familiar faces filing in, people from your classes, campus regulars, a few you barely knew, and then you saw kim nakyoung which meant someone wasn't too far behind—your heart skipped a beat when you saw sohyun.

they both slid into the circle effortlessly, near your group considering the whole mutual friends thing. 

you took that time to glance at the dark-haired girl; her drink was in one hand, the other resting casually on her knee, like she wasn’t currently destroying your ability to think straight.

“we can still leave.” you looked at yooyeon, eyes pleading.

“too late. we're already sitting down.” she said as she took a sip of her drink.

and she was right. you didn’t even remember doing it, but somehow (xinyu's fault), you were in the circle too. 

of course the game started innocently. a few truth questions like—boring things like "what's your largest age gap" and "who was your last kiss" which could actually be pretty messy if you asked the right person.

some tame dares—chug a drink, post a story with no context, text your ex and stuff like that.

you mostly tried to keep your head down while also playing along when reactions were needed hoping it would help you slide under the radar. but you knew you were cooked when you made eye contact with nakyoung after her turn.

"okay y/n." nakyoung grinned at you, clearly about to either ask you to do something crazy or ask you something crazy, "truth or dare?"

"dare," you answered without hesitation.

nakyoung grinned even harder at your answer, "give sohyun a lap dance... or take five shots."

the room immediately exploded in screams at the dare.

"easy choice," you said barely even thinking it over.

before anybody could even process that, you were already making your way over to a very stunned park sohyun, who looked like she was reconsidering every decision that had led her to this moment.

someone dragged a chair into the middle of the room, practically sohyun into it before she could even protest. somebody else was already at the speaker to que up a song. the opening beat of a slow, sexy song with a baseline started thumping through the room.

sohyun sat frozen in the char, eyes wide as you straddled her lap, moving to the beat with confidence. her hands hovered awkwardly in the air, visibly struggling, because she clearly didn't know where to put her hands.

you grabbed her hands and placed them behind her chair.

"i—i'm not touching you," she muttered under her breath, jaw tight.

"that's good," you smirked, leaning in just enough to have your lips almost pressed up against her ear. "this is a look but don't touch type of dance."

the room was literally screaming now, and sohyun looked like she was about to melt into the floor.

you rolled your hips slowly to the rhythm, following the beat as you leaned back just enough to give everybody watching a show. sohyun's eyes were zeroed in on you, roaming around your body but not meeting your eyes.

her jaw clenched tighter when your hands ghosted down her shoulders and slid along her thighs, but not touching too much, just enough to make her visibility tense.

"y/n.." she hissed, voice barely audible over the music and noise.

"shhh, you don't have to talk," you murmured, tiling your head as you trailed your eyes down her face, "just focus on me."

her eyes finally locked with yours, which was clearly a mistake—because now you were both holding eye contact, and neither one of you looked away. the crowd didn't matter anymore. your only focus was on making sure you looked hot, the music, and sohyun.

you knew this was planned as a joke, but now it seemed like something more could come out of this.

you leaned in closer, lips brushing over her cheek as you whispered, "aren't you glad i chose dare?"

sohyun swallowed hard, but didn't say anything. yet, her silence said everything.

sohyun's breath hitched when your hand brushed her neck on the way down, and you felt her legs tense beneath as you slowly and deliberately shifted on her lap.

"you gonna tip me after this?" you teased, trailing your fingers lightly over her collarbone, before slowly dragging them back up.

"god, i hate you," she whispered, voice cracking from the lie.

"i bet you do right now," you smirked.

you let your hands slide into her hair, tugging just enough to tilt her head back slightly—not too hard though.

she inhaled sharply, lips parting like she wanted to say something. she stared up at you, eyes dazed, but it seemed like she was trying to hide how affected she was by the whole situation.

"you're really pretty from this point of view," sohyun finally managed out, but her voice was shaky, her face flushed, and her thighs were definitely still tense under you.

"you can see more of it later," you whispered, barely holding back a grin, "if you can get us out of here."

and you didn't kiss her; you didn't have to.

because the second you pulled away, slow and smug and confident as hell, you knew you'd just won something neither of you had admitted was even a game.

you moved back over to where yooyeon was sitting, slipping back into your original spot and shooting her an innocent smile like you hadn’t just given park sohyun a lap dance in front of a full room.

yooyeon blinked at you, looking absolutely stunned. “not in my four years of living with you have i ever seen anything like that.”

“well, what did i have to lose? it’s our last year," you shrugged, repeating her earlier words right back at her with a smirk.

she stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “still—that was just crazy. have you always had those skills?”

“liquor courage. don't question it.”

the room finally started to settle again, everyone slowly returning to their spots, though the energy still buzzed. all eyes turned back to you, since it was your turn to ask the next truth or dare. you were absolutely thriving in the attention, especially with how nervous everyone suddenly looked. you took a small amount of pride in the fact that nobody was topping that performance anytime soon.

you glanced around, then locked eyes with nakyoung. you smirked. “nakyoung… truth or dare?”

“dare,” she shot back without hesitation, mirroring your smirk and clearly accepting whatever challenge you had coming for her.

you leaned forward, resting your chin in your hand, eyes glinting. “i dare you to blindfold yooyeon… and get guided by touch from the top of her body to the bottom.”

“what—?” yooyeon blinked confused on why she was catching strays.

“or take five shots,” you added sweetly, already scooting away from her spot.

“evil,” yooyeon muttered under her breath, glaring at you.

“all's fair in this game, roomie,” you grinned.

“immediately yes,” nakyoung said before yooyeon could even protest, standing up way too eagerly.

a chorus of gasps and laughter followed her as someone tossed her a black bandana from across the room—honestly, the fact that someone had that ready was more concerning than the dare itself.

yooyeon stared up at nakyoung with wide eyes, clearly trying to act nonchalant, but you could see the internal gay panic going into full meltdown mode. you leaned back, arms crossed, just to enjoy the show.

nakyoung didn’t hesitate. she moved behind yooyeon and gently tied the makeshift blindfold over her eyes, her hands brushing against yooyeon’s face for a little longer than necessary.

“okay,” nakyoung said, “guess i’ll start at the top.”

yooyeon flinched the second nakyoung's fingers touched her shoulders, and you swear you saw her toes curl. nakyoung’s hands were light, almost teasing as they skimmed over yooyeon’s arms, down to her fingertips. she paused there, letting her thumb brush along yooyeon’s palm.

“doing okay?” nakyoung asked, voice a little too soft.

“great,” yooyeon replied, though she sounded like she was about to pass out.

“she's not even touching you like that and you’re already sweating,” mayu snorted in the background.

“shut up,” yooyeon muttered, blindfolded and flustered beyond saving.

nakyoung moved again, fingertips ghosting across yooyeon's collarbones, down her sides, then slowly over her waist. yooyeon visibly tensed at that and tilted her head back slightly like she was trying to keep it together.

“just part of the dare,” nakyoung said innocently, but everyone in the room could hear the teasing in her tone.

your grin only widened. revenge was so, so sweet.

when nakyoung’s hands reached yooyeon’s hips, yooyeon let out a quiet noise, somewhere between a squeak and a breathy laugh. “okay! that’s enough. i’m taking the shots.”

the room burst into laughter and cheers as yooyeon ripped off the blindfold, face flushed all the way to her ears. nakyoung just raised her hands in mock surrender, grinning.

“didn’t even make it to the knees,” xinyu teased.

“i value my life,” yooyeon deadpanned, grabbing a shot glass.

“she lasted longer than i thought, honestly,” you leaned over with a smug smile.

“don't talk to me,” yooyeon said, downing the first shot.

“oh come on,” you teased. “you're welcome. that was practically a confession.”

nakyoung was still standing there, clearly proud of herself. she finally sat down next to yooyeon, watching with a smirk as your poor roommate knocked back the punishment shots one after the other. not once did she offer to help, just sat there, all smug and pleased while yooyeon slowly lost it next to her.

the room was loud, everyone practically screaming over the dare, cheering yooyeon on. amid the chaos, you barely noticed the presence beside you, until you felt a hand on your wrist.

you turned just as sohyun crouched beside you, eyes locked on yours. “let's go,” she said low enough that no one else could hear, her fingers gently tugging at your arm as she coaxed you to your feet. your heart was already thudding in your chest.

“you don’t think they’re gonna notice us disappearing?” you blinked.

she tilted her head slightly, lips twitching into a smirk. “oh, they’ll notice. do we give a fuck?” sohyun stood fully now, still holding your wrist.

you paused for half a second before shaking your head. “not even a little.”

with that, you let her guide you away, slipping out of the room without a single glance back.

she brought you to the nearest room she saw which just so happened to be a bathroom and as soon as you were in there you used your foot to nudge the bathroom door closed behind you. your eyes stay locked on sohyun’s, and without breaking the gaze, you reach back and fumble for the lock until you hear it click.

“hey,” she says with a smirk, voice low and teasing.

“hi,” you reply, biting your bottom lip.

there’s a beat of silence—long enough for your heart to start racing in your chest—before you finally speak.

“so… why'd you bring me to your.. bathroom?”

“definitely not to do what you’re thinking,” sohyun says, shaking her head with a playful grin.

you start turning around, already calling her bluff. “well, if that’s the case, i might as well leave.”

“wait,” she calls out, stepping toward you.

you pause, glancing back at her over your shoulder with a small smirk. “yes?”

“i did call you in here for that,” she admits.

“oh, then we should probably get down on our knees and start praying now,” you joke, eyes flicking down then back up at her.

“shut up,” sohyun laughs, slipping one arm around your waist and pulling you in.

“i’m kidding. but i wouldn’t mind getting down on my knees for something else,” you whisper, grinning as your hands find their way to her waist.

“well, i guess you could do that for me,” she chuckles, glancing around the small bathroom. “but we should probably change the location first.”

“why?” you ask, tilting your head. “you're the one who acted like this was our only option when this is your house?”

“i just wanted to get alone as soon as possible,” sohyun says, her grip tightening around your waist as she pulls you even closer.

“you already have me locked in here. you don’t need to keep using the cheesy lines,” you murmur, looping your arms around her neck.

“i just don’t want you to leave,” she says, voice quieter now. she leans in until her lips are barely an inch from yours.

“i'd never,” you whisper, your voice dropping, “now are you gonna show me the real reason you kidnapped me from the game?”

“is that a challenge?” she tilts her head slightly.

“take it how you want to.”

“challenge accepted,” she murmurs.

she closes the distance first, pushing you gently back against the bathroom door as her lips find yours. your hands slide down her sides, curling around the backs of her thighs, before dragging up to rest just under her arms. you tilt your head, angling perfectly to meet her mouth, and pull her impossibly closer.

sohyun’s grip tightens around your waist. her tongue grazes your bottom lip, asking for entrance—and you don’t give it to her which she notices.

and the next second, she’s tickling your sides, making you giggle into the kiss. she uses the opening to slip her tongue into your mouth, shutting you up immediately.

you raise one leg, hooking your knee up by her hip. her hand instinctively catches it, fingers trailing up and down the back of your thigh.

you lose track of how long you stand there like that, pressed up against her, kissing like the world doesn’t exist. it’s only when her lips start trailing down to your neck that you manage to find your voice again.

“i thought,” you breathe, trying and failing to sound unaffected, “we were gonna do it somewhere else.”

“we are,” she mumbles against your skin. “just getting started.”

“i wanna go now,” you say, your head gently thudding back against the door.

“what about my party?” she asks between kisses along your collarbone.

“fuck the party,” you mutter, eyes fluttering shut.

“my room?” she asks, her voice low, lips still brushing your skin.

“yes,” you say without hesitation. “now off, so we can go.”

she pulls back slightly, pout already forming on her lips. “just a few more minutes?”

you lean in again and kiss her—just once, soft and quick. “we can keep going once we’re there.”

and with that, you're unlocking the door again, ready to leave.

once you and sohyun made it to her room, thankfully unnoticed, she barely got the door shut and locked before she was on you.

sliding one of her hands up to cup your jaw, sohyun leans in and kisses you, slow and sensual, her mouth coaxing yours open as you shift onto your knees. the movement tilts her back and your body follows hers naturally, pushing her gently against the bedframe.

when she breaks the kiss and leans her head against the top of the bed frame, there’s a grin on her face that makes your stomach flip. you rise up and lift the hem of your dress, straddling her bare thighs, her oversized t-shirt riding up just enough that the heat of her skin settles perfectly against yours.

her hands settle on your hips, and you brace yourself by curling your fingers over the top of the bed frame just above her head, your breath catching as her thumbs inch your dress higher. “hmmmm, you want me to eat you y/n?” she murmurs, voice playful and low.

your eyes darken with want as she slides one hand under your dress, cupping you softly through your damp underwear. you can’t stop the small whimper that leaves your parted lips when the heel of her hand presses firmly, her middle finger curling just enough to remind both of you how soaked you are. when she repeats the motion, teasing the wet fabric against you, your hips twitch forward involuntarily. “already so wet?”

you spread your knees a little further, pressing against her touch as her other hand tightens around your hip. dropping your hands from the bed to cup her jaw, you press your lips to her cheek before whispering, right at her ear, “i'm always wet for you.”

that pulls a groan from her, her hands pulling you in even closer as she captures your lips in another desperate kiss. her tongue tangles with yours, and her hands slide from your hips to your back, fingers fumbling slightly as she unzips your dress with urgency. she keeps her forehead against yours as she ends the kiss, breathless and flushed, helping you slide the straps off your shoulders. you reach back to unhook your bra, discarding it quickly, and your hands tangle in her slightly damp hair as she tugs the fabric of your dress down to your waist.

her arms wrap around your back, pulling you in. the warmth of her skin radiates through the cotton of her shirt, and her mouth moves to the side of your neck, slow and reverent. her lips and tongue skim over your collarbones, your shoulders until your legs flex around her waist and you feel her shift. with a quiet groan, she turns, guiding you down until your back hits the cushions.

she kneels between your legs, lifting her shirt over her head and tossing it on the floor, your eyes follow every motion, and your chest rises as your breathing quickens. she leans down, bracing herself with one hand by your head, and the other teases against the wetness at the center of your underwear. her mouth latches onto your nipple, her tongue flicking, sucking in rhythm with the slow circles of her fingers. your back arches as your hands tangle in her hair.

“baby, take them off,” you gasp, pulling her into another kiss. her fingers fumble at the waistband, and you groan as the kiss deepens and distracts her. she chuckles against your mouth, pulling back just long enough to strip your underwear and toss them aside.

you grin, sliding the bunching fabric of your dress down between your legs, but stop her with one hand low on her stomach when she starts to move back down. “uh uh. you’re still slightly overdressed.”

“says the one with not even a single piece of clothing off,” she teases.

she still steps away long enough to remove the last of her clothes. your gaze tracks down and back up to her face, more serious now.

as you reach for her, your fingers brushing over the curve of her shoulder, you manage a breathless laugh between moans, your voice low and shaky as you whisper against her skin, “this is all your fault, sohyun… you didn’t even let me take this off before pushing me down and deciding you had to have your way with me… don’t stop…”

her hands drop to your knees, gently bending your legs and shifting you back. she lowers herself between your legs, resting her elbows on the bed, her hands sliding under your thighs. her mouth presses a sucking kiss to your inner thigh, trailing up with warm, open-mouthed kisses. then she kisses just below your belly button and looks up, voice soft and certain, “i want you to know... i consider us dating now because i don't just fuck anybody."

the words go straight through you.

your hands grip your dress tightly as anticipation flares hot in your chest. and then her mouth is on you, licking slowly against your folds, teasing, avoiding the spot you need her most. your hips jerk, but her grip holds you steady. her tongue moves in slow, aimless circles, the tip dipping just enough to make you writhe.

“god, sohyun,” you gasp, fingers threading into her hair, watching as she finally sucks your clit into her mouth, slow and deep. the rhythm of her tongue is maddening, and you can’t help grinding against her.

“make me come, baby,” you breathe out, voice rough and desperate. “you look so fucking sexy moving like that. god, i just want to touch you…”

her moan vibrates against your core, her tongue pressing firm as your muscles start to tremble. when she moves her mouth lower to gently lap at you through your release, your body arches, twitching. you hold her face, fingers gentle, your breathing shaky.

“what is it, y/n?” she murmurs against your ribs, looking up at you.

“come here.”

she lets you guide her up, straddling you now, your legs stretched out beneath her. your hands slide from her wrists to her arms, her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach—everywhere. you can’t stop touching her. one hand grips her hip while the other slips easily between her legs, two fingers pushing into her warmth. she gasps, starting to move, but you still her with a hand.

“no…stay still and just, take my fingers. just like that, sohyun.”

her moan fills your ears, her walls clenching around you. you thrust deep and slow, watching her face as you add your thumb to the mix, brushing across her clit. her head drops to your shoulder, panting, her lips hot against your cheek.

you guide her rhythm, controlling her movements as your fingers curl inside her. her hips buck, and she moans into your skin, “baby, you have to let me move before i…no, wait, right there…oh, fuck me, right there…”

you smirk, lips brushing hers as you continue, building her up slow, deep, and steady. her orgasm hits with a shudder, her body trembling beneath yours as she clenches around your fingers. her hands fall limp behind your head, your name soft on her lips as her body melts into the bed.

you finally pull your hand away, wrapping both arms around her as she snuggles in close, helping her adjust the dress back down over her thighs. she kisses your chest, listening to your heartbeat as her fingers trace soft patterns on your skin.

“your heart’s still racing,” she says, smiling. 

“that's your affect on me,” you grin, brushing her hair back from her face and tracing her lips with your fingertip.

she rolls her eyes playfully and kisses your palm, settling into your side with a sleepy smile.

“did you really mean it?” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. “when you said you wanted us to date?”

sohyun glances over at you, eyes soft even in the dim light. “of course i meant it. i’m not even drunk, you know.”

a beat of silence. then you smile. “okay then. we’re dating.”

she laces her fingers with yours, her thumb gently stroking along your knuckles as she lets out a quiet yawn. “alright, girlfriend. just… don’t wake up tomorrow and pretend this didn’t happen.”

you shift closer, wrapping your arms around her, your lips brushing over her forehead in a slow, steady rhythm.

“i won’t,” you whisper against her skin, smiling as her breath evens out. “you’re mine now. my sohyun.”

[ingravinoveritas]

Babe not wanting to put more attention on this pathetic person but there’s someone here on tumblr who made a mock account of you

Hi there! I've been debating whether to address this publicly, but I received numerous DMs about this last night and have been made well aware of the blog in question.

For context: Over the last few days, the person behind the mock blog has used their main account to make their presence known on my blog, having reblogged one of my posts just to add a nasty comment to it, replying to another one of my posts and attacking my followers, and sending me a hateful Ask, all in escalating succession. This culminated in the creation of the new account last night, which had a name that was an almost identical dupe of my blog name.

To be clear, I have no intention of linking to this blog publicly, as this person's goal and aim seems to be for me to engage with them--someone I do not know, and to whom I have never spoken or responded in any capacity. It also seems that the URL of the blog has changed from being a copy of my blog name to something else, and given that I had a lot of people DMing me indicating that they reported the blog to Tumblr, my guess is that the name change is the result of that.

The only other thing that I will say regarding this is that I'm obviously not thrilled that someone created a blog for the purpose of harassing me (while ironically accusing me of harassing Georgia and AL, despite me repeatedly stating that I do not follow either of them on social media and am strongly against anyone leaving harassing comments on any of their accounts). At the same time, however, I have been subject to far worse in my previous fandom--most notably, one vile incident where someone falsely accused me of distributing pornographic material to a minor, and another incident where the same person contacted my employer in an attempt to get me fired in the middle of lockdown in 2020. So all things considered, this blog is relatively mild in comparison.

And while I'm enormously grateful for the support that I have received from so many kind folks, I would urge you to not engage with this blog on any level, and please especially do not send this person threats of any kind on my behalf. I've said many times on my blog that people are welcome to disagree with me, and that I'm happy to hear the opinions of others who do not share my views as long as they are civil and respectful. What this person is doing is neither of those things, and they've made it clear that engaging with them would be a fruitless endeavor, but that still does not make it okay to send anyone hate. And if the desired outcome here is attention, then the best course of action would be to not provide it.

Again, my deepest thanks to you @phantomstars24 and to everyone else who has let me know about the situation and offered their support, as it means more than I can describe. I'm hopeful that we can continue sharing the joy so many of us have felt over Michael and David these past few years, and leave the rest where it belongs...

[notquitecanon]

Search History // Poly!141 x Reader

A continuation of this thought

Summary: Reader (based loosely on Penelope Garcia from Criminal Minds) has to be face-to-face with the boys for the first time since they started including her in their late-night fantasies. They've decided it's time to take it off-screen and move in IRL.

I'm taggin the peeps who replied to the last part bc I'm desperate for attention lol (in all actuality y'all really encouraged me to actually write thank you!!)

CW: allusions to porn, allusions to female genitalia, they're all horny in the workplace, this is basically workplace harassment but we're excusing it because they're hot and fictional and I say so, no outright smut

Still nsfw though so MDNI pls and thanks

“The 141 just touched down. ETA twenty minutes.” 

Your eyes flicked up from the muted video on your monitor, cheeks flushed red but masked by the light radiating off your screen in your dark office. Thank God, your monitor faced away from the door. A young private was standing in the doorway with a tablet, looking at you for an acknowledgment, probably running about starting preparations for their arrival back on home base. 

“Thank you, private.” You murmured, teeth toying at your thumbnail, chipping the polish. The young soldier gave a short nod at the quiet dismissal and disappeared once again. Your eyes, with embarrassingly blown pupils, flicked back to the video. 

After your discovery two weeks ago, the sites and links you had to review furthered down the rabbit hole. And this video you were currently watching had been one that all the men had been visiting, and revisiting, and revisiting… 

By god, they’d done it. 

Similar build, skin tone only a shade or two different - you could probably share foundation and it wouldn’t look too bad. Hair and eye color so close it was uncanny. And when the woman looked over her shoulder at the mountain of a man hitting it from the back, the angle made the resemblance almost scarily uncanny.  The Had you had a porn career and simply forgotten?- kind of uncanny. 

Sure there were differences- she was a little taller, maybe a bit leaner, with boobs that had definitely had some work done. Tattoos where your skin was bare and vice versa, different piercings. Her voice was pitched different, and her accent was completely different from yours but within three minutes of the video she’d stopped speaking words, so accent didn’t matter much.  But as far as porn actresses went- she might as well be your twin. 

It seemed the 141 had perused her entire.. filmography. Different videos, different scenarios, different partners. They all had videos they seemed to like better than others. Soap seemed to particularly like the POV video where the man had a thick Scottish accent. Gaz had bookmarked a soft-core bondage and forced orgasm scene. Price, a shorter video of an unseen man pushing the actress under a desk for oral, and Ghost… the only link he’d visited was your instagram. It was hard not to let it stroke your ego a little bit. 

God, if you told anyone about this… They’d tell you to file a workplace harassment suit, and maybe a police report.  To start job hunting, and therapist hunting. Distance yourself. You should have been embarrassed or uncomfortable- you knew you should be. That you should feel objectified or disrespected, disgusted. 

But hell, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t send yourself the links and watched them in your free time at home. It was hot- turned you on in an almost concerning way that would set feminism back twenty years if you told anyone. 

The video kept playing on your monitor, one of the videos that Soap had visited more than once (little did you know it was one that Ghost had picked out). A gloved hand smoothly glided down the actress's spine before curving around her throat and pulling her upright on the man’s lap, filthy praises in a British accent playing through your single AirPod. 

“Holy shit…”  You muttered, thighs clenching because if you squinted it really did look like you, even some of her mannerisms. And the rough accent was like a mix of Ghost's and Price’s. 

Abruptly, you shut down the entire monitor completely, ripping out the AirPod and tossing it on the desk. Pressing slightly shaking hands to your too hot face. You needed to get it together, because Price was your boss and the others were your superiors. They’d been gone for a month and a half, and it’d been your voice in their ears guiding them through missions, and you knew you had a flirty disposition, especially from the private safety of your dark little office half way across the world. 

It made sense that their wires got a little crossed, but your wires- like those off all your monitors and hardware- needed to stay neatly organized and separate. Focus. Focus. 

Your nails were bitten to the quick, the bitter taste of old nail polish on the back of your tongue. The skin around your nails was raw from your teeth toying with it as your so intensely focussed on the videos. You needed to get out of this too small, too hot room.  Which is how you found yourself, twenty minutes later, in the communal break room fighting with the vending machine. It was withholding the ice cold water you were desperate for, despite your curses and attempts to jostle the machine. Right as you delivered a frustrated kick to the machine-

“Just the bird we were looking for!” 

It was Kyle’s voice first, that tipped you off to the herd of men entering the space. You almost jumped out of your skin- brain flitting through several scandalous snippets of the videos he’d replayed. His smile was dazzling as always as he came into view, tapping the yellow warning stickers that instructed people not to jostle the machine, with the little illustration of the stick man getting crushed, “What’d the machine ever do to you? It might start fighting back.” 

A gloved hand reached between the two of you, skeleton fingers curled into a fist that delivered a blunt strike, and, like magic, the water bottle fell in to the receptacle. You peeked over your shoulder at Ghost, standing just slightly too close and looking down at you intensely, but not meanly. An easy to miss bit of mirth that was usually reserved for Soap. Thank god you’d bitten your nails to stubs or they would’ve drawn blood from how they were digging into your palms to distract you from the gloved hands and the brutish display of strength. 

Kyle put the drink sweetly in your hands after cracking it for you, like he would do when bringing Ghost or Price something, eyes twinkling like he knew something you didn’t.  Another hand, warm and large clapped gently on your shoulder, pulling you back a step, almost directly into Captain Price’s chest. 

The men shared a look over your head before focussing back on you. 

“Your intel was good.” It was a simple statement, but delivered in a warm, proud tone that felt so much like praise that your stomach flipped a bit, with that warm smile that made him look soft despite the fact he was still in full tac-gear, “They didn’t even see us coming.” 

“They never see you coming, that’s kind of your whole thing.” You tried a joke, your voice a touch strained. His hand was lingering, right on the curve where your shoulder became your neck, fingers flexing into the flesh just so. Just like it did on the boys when he thought others wouldn’t noticed. focus, focus, focus. 

Fortunately, or unfortunately, it was Soap that interrupted the kneading of Price’s fingers. 

“Don’t be so modest, bonnie!” He was laughing as large arms caught you around the waist, lifting and spinning you slightly. His voice so similar to that one Scottish co-star that had done such filthy things to your lookalike, it made your head spin.  Despite your startled yelp and squirming, his grip didn’t waver, “Couldn’t of done it without our lass in the chair.” 

“ ’nough, Johnny,” Ghost called firmly, leaning against the vending machine that they’d all but cornered you against, “Put ‘er down.” 

Soap’s laugh was still good natured as he set you on your feet again, a little roughly for the heels you had on to match your skirt, you wobbled only for Ghost himself to steady you, giving you another intense look, that you had trouble meeting, “ 'e’s right though. Intel was good.” 

They were all staring at you, varying degrees of smirks, eyes a spectrum of mischief and something that was dizzyingly close to hunger.  Unable to keep still, you were squirming, shifting your weigh from foot to foot, fiddling with the wrapper on the bottle. You found your eyes flitting around settling anywhere but their own gaze, cheeks feeling hot, mind full of vile images that you knew they’d seen and enjoyed- ceiling, the exit sign, Johnny’s tac-vest, the floor, the water bottle in your hands. You gulped, eyebrows raising as you puffed a breath, trying desperately to reign yourself in.

“Glad to be of service.” You smiled tightly, nodding meeting each set of eyes briefly and hoping your foundation masked your blush (it didn’t). Jesus Christ, you couldn’t do this.  You couldn’t tell if you felt turned on or awkward or both, but you needed to go. Preferably before you did something that would cost you your job. Your voice was rushed as you squeezed between Gaz and Price, double timing it to the exit, “Enjoy your leave, boys, you deserve it.” 

As you all but fled the building, you typed out a mass base-wide memo email, language formal as you professionally reminded every soldier, specifically four of them, that any website visited by government devices was subject to internal review. 

You swore you could hear them laughing as the memo went out. But maybe that was just your overactive imagination. 

____

You’d gone home for the evening, and then clocked back in the following morning. Surprised to find all of the 141 was still there, debriefing must have ran long. 

“Morning, love.” It was Kyle that greeted you, pressing a cup of coffee into your hands. He looked tired but happy to see you. Soap was with him, eyes bright and grin wide as he whistled lowly, fingers tugging at the hem of your skirt as you passed his seat. 

“Looking good, bonnie,” He smiled devilishly, rubbing the fabric between his fingers before letting go, “Tired of all the green, black, and beige tac gear. Missed seeing something a little… softer.”  

You somewhat doubted that. He seemed to appreciate military khaki when it hugged Gaz’s ass, and he sure didn’t seem to mind an all black tactical ensemble when it was on Ghost. But the compliment still brought heat up your neck, which you coupled with a sip of the hot coffee Gaz had brought you- fixed perfectly the way you liked it. It elicited a pleased sigh as you swallowed, humming in content. 

“Price wants to see you before we all leave. Brought you some new stuff to work on.” Kyle smiled, watching how your expression softened at the taste of the beverage, clearly proud of himself for drawing out that reaction.   

“A present? For me?” You smiled sarcastically back at the prospect of more work added to you caseload, “It’s like Christmas.” 

“You been good this year?” Kyle grinned back, accompanied by Soap chiming, voice low and chiding, “Nah, she’s definitely been naughty.” 

Both Sergeant’s shared a look as you almost choked on another sip of coffee. 

“I’m leaving now.” You shook your head, turning on your heel away from where they were hanging around the rec room, clearly waiting for Price to dismiss them, “Y’all should shower. Or take a nap.” 

“You want us naked?” Kyle questioned, raising his eyebrows at you, leaning back against the wall, standing so very close to Soap, who was sprawled out in his chair, long legs splayed and spread before him as he waggled his eyebrows. “And in bed?” 

Now that was some imagery. Taking the lord’s name in vain you didn’t dignify that with a response other than a huffed, “Leaving now.” 

____

The good thing about Price and Ghost was they were business first. So if you really focussed you could almost ignore Ghost's thigh pressed against yours as you sat beside him in the dark room, reviewing body cam footage. They pointed out different things to you, things to include as you started your next dark web deep dive. 

You could almost ignore how Price’s fingers grazed and lingered on your palm as he gave you a thumb drive to decrypt and analyze, how he stood close enough to you that you had to look at him through your lashes. 

“Has a self destruct program that Gaz didn’t want t' aggravate. Figured it needed your... soft touch.” Price smiled down at you as you curled your fingers around the thumb drive. You had to try pretty hard to ignore the slight emphasis on soft. Ghost seemed to chuckle lowly at your expression at the captain. 

“What’s on there'll point us in the next direction of our next target.” Ghost nodded to you, his leg shifting so it pressed harder against yours. In the guise of stretching out, he’d draped an arm over the back of your chair, the cotton of his gloves half tickling the sensitive skin on the back of your bicep, where the flesh was soft. 

“So don’t screw it up, got it.” You swallowed thickly, shifting so you couldn’t feel his thumb against your skin- it was making it hard to think about hacking and terrorism and military operations.  He took it as an invitation to spread out more, his fingers grazing the exact spot only seconds later. 

“Precisely,” John laughed lowly, his hand moved to your shoulder, back into that sweet curve that was partly your shoulder and partly your neck, and gave it a lingering squeeze, that kind of made you want to melt, “You won’t screw it up, love.” 

The captain gave his Lieutenant a nod, and Ghost quickly stood, his boot giving the toe of your pretty heels a slight nudge as a goodbye before silently stalking out. Price took a seat across from you, leaning back and his arms cross comfortably over his chest.

“I’m having the boys over at mine tonight. A couple of drinks, I’m gonna grill, put the footie on, celebrate another successful mission to start our leave.” Price listed out their plans casually, noting how you squirmed a bit, uncrossing and recrossing your legs as you tugged at the hem of your skirt before continuing, “We want you to come. Couldn’t have done it without you, so you should celebrate it too.” 

“Oh, uh-“ You started before you could think of a good excuse, “I’ll be really busy… with.. with the flash drive. And stuff.” 

“What stuff?” Price rose a single brow, his stare pinning you still as he reached across the table and took the flash drive back, “This can wait.” 

“Files. Coding. Security checks.” You mumbled the first couple aspects of your job that came to mind, the intensity of his gaze making you want to adjust your collar or shrink in your seat. You figured you’d have a couple more sites to clear off their devices, if they’d been sitting around base all night. Your cheeks heated just at the thought. “I’m a little behind. Been… distracted lately."

“Everything all right, love?” He ‘asked’ with at signature warm smile and amused eyes, he seemed to already know the answer to his question, “You’ve been… skittish, since we got back.” 

Your teeth worried the seam of your lips as you considered the question. Skittish, was one way to put it- fidgety, fleeing rooms, avoiding eye contact, barely speaking as opposed to your usual chatter and banter. Your eyes flitted away from his gaze again, swallowing dryly again- geez when did you get so shy, “ ‘m fine. Absolutely fine. Never been better. How’re you?” 

Cringing at your own rambling, you sighed shoulders drooping as he fixed you with another look, and muttered your name in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. It was a look that expected obedience, as his legs shifted into a natural man spread. Your brain flitted back to the video of your look alike being shoved under a desk… 

Him saying your name again, slightly louder but just as bemused drew you back to him, realizing you were staring at his legs, debating if you could fit between his knees and you almost sputtered as you cleared your throat, “I’m fine, really.” 

“Either lie more convincingly or tell me what’s bothering you, sweet.”  Price chuckled, leaving forward against the table, drumming a knuckle against the table. Sweet, that was new. You’d have to add it to the laundry list of nicknames and pet names the boys had for you. You’d always told yourself that it was nothing personal, that British/Scottish people just did that. But this on wasn’t as easy to write off as ‘love’ or ‘bonnie’, average pet names in the UK colloquial, no sweet seemed personal. 

“I’m not bothered.” You glanced away again, nose wrinkling, even though you were bothered- hot and bothered. John Price had a way of drawing details out of people with just a look and a couple of well prodded words.  With a deep breath, you tried to keep your characteristic rambling to a minimum, a losing battle as he starting stroking at his beard with those long fingers- two parts of him that you’d been thinking about way too much lately-, “Listen, I’m not judging, you’re grown men, watch what you want to, but just a reminder that it’s my job and obligation to review every link and site that government devices visit. Which includes at least skimming videos.  In case you didn’t know or maybe forgot that I can and do see these things, so maybe you could pass that along to the boys-“ 

“You can tell 'em yourself. ’s your job, sweet.” Price said firmly. The girlish part of your brain corrected ‘firmly’ to dominantly. Before his demeanor relaxed again, giving you an amused, appraising look again, “At my place. Tonight. 8 o’clock. Not a request.” Shrinking in your chair a bit, hoping the chair hid the way your thighs involuntarily clenched, you couldn’t help but nod and squeak, “Yes, sir.” 

___

Part Two

Was supposed to have actually smut in this but I got carried away on the build-up, laugh out loud. Maybe a part three or you can just imagine how the little dinner party goes (hint, she's the meal)

Tags: @fruitymoonbeams-blog @viviennevianna @savas-q1 @cringeycookies @lainey-laines @buttercup337 @acosmisted @carqueensworld @tmartin0918 @dreamland08 @sheepdogchick @hidden-wildflowers @lilynotdilly @astrxsee @joopyjup @originalsoulcollector @henhouse-horrors @ohdrey89 @red5tars @cod-z @balletbiscuit @spacecrawllerr @scrumptioussportstoadgarden-blog @blues-of-neptune @monster-effer @yunho-leeknow @ungodlydilf @pluviofleur @jandthecrow @fangtoothgod @coquetterie-dancer @sapphires-and-silver-things @ghost-is-my-bbg @loveergirll @silly-starfish @popkle @honestlymassivetrash @not-mentally-sane @devoetee @beloveds-embrace @jellyamour @simon141price @divinecat

[navybrat817]

Miss Navy! What if the reader joined the thunderbolts and fooled around with Bucky?

Bahaha. I have a thot, nonnie.

Not Exactly a Secret

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You and Bucky are really good teammates... and more.

Word Count: Over 1.1k

Warnings: Kissing, implied smut, humor, team bonding (kind of), Thunderbolts spoilers, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Using this beautiful @nixakimbo edit for reasons (you know why if you've seen Thunderbolts!). ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

In hindsight, they all should've seen it coming.

You were the last to join the team and easy to get along with. You could roll with the punches and keep up with Alexei, put John in his place when he stepped out of line, sympathize with Bob, and have a blast with Yelena and Ava. Hell, you even congratulated Bucky on his six month stint as a Congressman and swore he made a difference. He admired your kindness. He admired you.

The team thought Bucky was just being extra welcoming since he always found an excuse to be around you. If you offered to cook for the team, he was beside you in the kitchen ready to help. If you wanted to spar, he dropped what he was doing to go to the training room. And if you suggested a movie night, he sat next to you with your favorite snacks ready to go and a blanket in case you got cold.

Everyone noticed that Bucky smiled more when you were around. He laughed more, too. Turned to you for advice and didn't mind staying up late to chat or exchange books. Your room also happened to be beside his and he spent a lot of time in there, more than a regular teammate should.

The recent movie night you snuggled against him and started to doze off. If anyone else had tried to snuggle with him there was a chance they'd lose a hand, but not you. “Mmm. You're so good to me, Bucky,” you said when he picked you up.

“You know me. Just being a good teammate,” he replied, holding you close the way a boyfriend would and not at all like a teammate.

Yeah, they should’ve seen it coming.

Bob stumbled upon you by accident. He had forgotten his hoodie in the common room after one of the movie nights and froze when he spotted you and Bucky making out on the couch. He stood there for a full minute torn because he wanted to get his hoodie back, but he didn't want to interrupt. He ultimately decided against it when Bucky pushed you back on the cushions. On top of his hoodie.

“I’ll just… I’ll get it tomorrow. And I’ll wash it. Yeah, yeah. I'll do that. It’s fine. Everything’s fine,” he mumbled as he went back to his room.

You were kind enough to wash it yourself the next day and offered to buy him a new one, but he declined. It was nice that you offered. And he was happy because he saw how happy you made Bucky.

Yelena caught the two of you in the training room. For a moment it looked like Bucky was trying a new move on you and she almost asked him to show her how it was done. Tilting her head after a few seconds, she realized what she was seeing wasn't a defense move at all. If there was any doubt, the grunt he let out and the moan you gave him in response when some clothes were moved aside told her very loud and clear what was happening. And it would've been rude to stay and watch.

“Oh, I'm not sparring on that mat again,” she muttered.

She did spar on it again after Bucky cleaned it twice.

Ava didn't catch the two of you doing anything. She phased in the kitchen one day while Bucky was eating and making a mess. The exasperated look on your face when you tossed him a paper towel was adorable, as was the smile you two exchanged. Bucky never looked that soft around anyone else.

“You eat pussy like that?” Ava asked to get a rise out of Bucky when another drop of sauce hit his shirt.

“Yeah, he does,” you said without skipping a beat.

Ava laughed, thinking it was a joke at first, before she caught Bucky staring you down and licking his lips. You bit your lip and Ava almost phased out of the room to give you two some privacy. You beat her to it by sauntering out of the room with a smirk, the super soldier hot on your tail and leaving his mess behind.

“Thank you for not using the counter since we eat here!” Ava called out after the two of you.

Bucky had you on the counter the next day so he could eat, too.

Alexei found the two of you in his limo tangled up in each other. You couldn't explain why you and Bucky decided to fool around in there, but you wanted to have some fun and the limo was there. And it was clean. The Red Guardian wasn't at all upset. In fact, he felt honored that the Winter Soldier wanted to have sex in his limo and blasted “Pony” to set the mood.

“That’s what I talk about!” he cheered before Yelena dragged him away.

She also decided then and there that she’d always ride in the front seat of the limo.

John was the last to know, which surprised no one. After a successful mission, he realized neither you nor Bucky had answered a question he asked. Whatever smartass comment he began died in his throat when Bucky unashamedly kissed you. There was nothing gentle or chaste about it. It was a deep, filthy kiss and he felt like a perv watching.

Bucky must've thought something similar since he gave John the finger all while he continued to kiss you and you gripped his hair.

“Are you guys…” John trailed off since the rest of the group didn't seem at all surprised by the display. “Wait, did everyone know? Was I the only one who didn't know?”

“Yes, dime store Captain America.” Ava rolled her eyes. “Everyone knew.”

Whether it was the insult of being the last to know, John looked offended. “Even Bobby? And since when did the two of them become a thing?”

Bucky broke the kiss to glare at the blonde. “Yeah, asshole, Bob knew,” he replied.

“And it wasn't really a secret. We just hadn't officially announced it,” you said, giggling when Bucky’s lips found yours again.

Apparently the display was the official announcement.

“I really did know,” Bob smiled before he cleared his throat. “I, uh, found them in the common room.”

“Training room,” Yelena said.

Ava nodded. “Kitchen.”

“Limo!” Alexei shouted, hitting his chest. “My limo.”

“Jesus Christ,” John muttered.

Bob shrugged. “I think they make a good couple.”

“Of course, you do,” Yelena said, a small smile forming on her face as you and Bucky carried on. “I think so, too.”

Yeah, lovelies. Loved the film. Not at all sorry. Catch more shenanigans with Game Nights. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[heeluvv]

˗ˏˋ02. MOAN FOR THE CAMERA

pairingᝰ.ᐟ lee heeseung x fem reader

warningsᝰ.ᐟ unprotected sex, grinding, praise kink, soft dom! heeseung, overstimulation, etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

statusᝰ.ᐟ 2/9 completed!

──

it has been a week since you got the message.

seven days since your phone lit up with his user for the first time. seven days since those words slid across your screen and rewired the chemistry in your chest—since that simple, perfect sentence cracked something open inside of you and refused to let it close again.

god, you were so fucking hot. why don’t you let me see what more you’re capable of doing?

you didn’t answer at first. not out of disinterest or shock, but because your breath caught in your throat and refused to let go. because your body lit up in a way it hadn’t in years. because the sudden heat that flooded your skin felt so raw, so consuming, you didn’t know if it came from fear or desire or both. you stared at the message in the dark of your room, the sound of your breath uneven, your fingers hovering over the screen like it might burn you.

and then you said yes.

you haven’t looked away from him since.

you haven’t stopped thinking about the way his voice curls into your ears, low and patient and warm with something just shy of menace—how he never tries to impress you, never tries to talk himself up, just says what he means and means what he says. you still haven’t seen his face. not fully. he’s careful with his camera, careful with his angles, his hair always falling into the frame and covering the details that might make him feel too real. but that doesn’t matter. because it’s not his face that made you agree.

he told you his name on the third night. not dramatically. not as a reveal. just tucked into the middle of a message like a comma.

heeseung. thought you should know.

and that was it. no last name. no photos. no follow-up. and for some reason, that made you trust it more.

the days since then have been slow and fast in turns. mornings feel stretched out, your body heavy with anticipation you don’t know how to burn off. nights feel electric—your phone screen the only light in the room, your fingers trembling as you read and reread everything he sends. he’s not always sweet. he’s not always careful. but he always makes you feel seen. he always reminds you that you said yes. and you keep saying yes, over and over, in every message you return.

until this morning, when the yes had to become real.

because today’s the day. tonight’s the night. and he’s waiting.

your bag is half-packed. your body is half-numb. you’ve been staring into your closet for twenty minutes now, unsure of what it means to dress for someone who’s already seen you at your most bare—someone who watched you fall apart in silence, whose voice sat in your head while your fingers pushed deeper into yourself than they ever had before.

he told you to bring whatever makes you feel good.

and you wish you knew what that was.

you tug down a black lace lingerie, something you bought months ago and never wore—something that felt too bold, too obvious, too much skin. you smooth it out over your bed with slow, reverent hands, then lay a silk robe beside it. then another option. then another. the pile grows until it looks more like you’re preparing to become someone else than getting dressed. because maybe that’s what this is. not a costume. not a mask. but a version of yourself that hasn’t been touched yet. one that only lives in the shadow of a camera light.

you fold everything slowly. precise. intentional. like the way you pack will dictate the way he undresses you.

be ready by 7.

────୨ৎ────

you don’t remember the drive—not in any clear way, not in the kind of way that leaves images you can describe. you remember the sound of your bag shifting across the seat beside you, the constant press of your thighs against each other beneath your hoodie, the way your fingers curled into the hem like they were holding on for stability. you remember the driver didn’t speak, and you were grateful. you didn’t think you could have formed a sentence anyway. the city moved around you in streaks and shadows, lights bleeding into the windows like soft threats, buildings you couldn’t name passing in patterns you didn’t register. your stomach stays tight the whole way, curled in on itself with the kind of heat that makes you feel nauseous, but not sick. it wasn’t fear in the way most people feel fear. it was quieter. heavier. like your body was preparing itself for something it had never done before, but had already decided it would endure.

the car slows, and you know before the driver says anything that you’ve arrived. something in your chest drops, cold and sudden, and it stays there as you look out the window. the building is sleek. modern. smooth walls and quiet lighting. tall glass that reflects just enough to keep the inside hidden. it looks expensive. clinical. the kind of place people rent for short terms, the kind of place that doesn’t hold stories—just moments. 

your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you flinch even though you were expecting it.

unit 603.

you stare at the words, fingers gripping your phone tighter than you mean to. your eyes trace the message once, then again. it’s not dramatic. not aggressive. just information. a direction. a point of no return.

your lips part. not to speak—just to breathe. just to test if you still can. you turn your head toward the driver, your mouth opens like you might ask him to keep going, to turn the car around, to pretend none of this happened. maybe you’ll say you made a mistake. maybe you’ll lie and say you have the wrong building. maybe you won’t say anything at all—you’ll just go home, crawl into bed, and forget that this ever felt real enough to chase. but you don’t. the air stays trapped in your throat, and the words never come.

because you remember why you’re here.

you remember the numbers at the bottom of your bank statement. you remember the rent due in four days. you remember the red stamp on that envelope and the way you stood in the corner of your kitchen with your heart thudding so loud it felt like it might shake your teeth loose. you remember your first video—the shaky way your hands touched your skin, the breathy little moans you tried to bite back, the way your legs trembled when you came—and how that one night covered groceries for the week. the one that paid for a quarter of your tuition bill. you remember the messages. the tips. the strange little thrill that came with being seen.

so you open the door and step out into the cold.

the night wraps around you immediately. the air has a bite to it—nothing violent, just enough to raise goosebumps along the backs of your thighs. you adjust your hoodie and sling your bag higher onto your shoulder as you approach the building, heart thumping with a rhythm that doesn’t match your pace. the inside is even quieter than it looked from the outside—soft lighting, clean tile, no front desk, no noise. you walk toward the elevator like your body’s been programmed to do it, and when the doors open with a sound that feels too loud in your ears, you step inside and keep your eyes down.

the mirrored walls don’t help. they catch you from every angle, all soft curves and stiff limbs and the subtle trembling of your fingers where they press against your thigh. you don’t look at your face. you know what you’ll see. too much. too vulnerable. too obvious.

the ride is short but unbearable.

each number lights up like a warning.

and then the doors part again, and you’re stepping into a hallway that looks like all the others—long, narrow, lit with warm bulbs that hum faintly overhead. the carpet swallows the sound of your steps. you feel like a ghost. like someone halfway between becoming and undoing.

unit 603 is near the end.

you don’t rush toward it. you walk slowly. deliberately. like your body is stalling, trying to delay what’s inevitable. like maybe if you just slow down enough, the tension will go away. the heat in your stomach will ease. 

it doesn’t.

you stop in front of the door and just stand there. you don’t reach for the handle. you don’t knock. you don’t breathe. you just… exist, trembling slightly, caught in the kind of silence that feels like it should be protected.

your eyes drop to your feet. you shift your weight. the strap of your bag digs into your shoulder, and your hand reaches for it without thinking, like it might steady you. your other hand hovers near the door, fingers flexing once, twice, like they want to touch something they don’t believe they deserve.

you don’t knock.

you don’t have to.

you could leave.

you could turn around right now. no one’s seen you yet. you could head back to the elevator, back down to the street, call a new ride, go home, crawl into your bed and cry about it later. tell yourself you’ll find a different way to get the money. a different life.

your heel shifts.

your body starts to turn.

and then, quietly—smoothly—the door opens.

you freeze.

the hallway holds its breath with you.

you don’t know what you expected to see. you don’t know what you hoped he’d look like. you don’t know if you even dared to imagine. maybe you thought he wouldn’t answer. maybe you thought you’d stand out here until the hallway lights went out and the quiet pressed into your lungs so tightly you couldn’t take it anymore. maybe you thought you’d be strong enough to leave.

but now the door is open.

and he’s real.

and everything in your body goes still.

your eyes widen instantly, and for a full second—maybe two—you forget how to move. your fingers curl tighter around the strap of your bag, breath caught at the base of your throat, chest tightening like it’s reacting to something it never thought it would see in real life. because there he is. standing just inches from you. real. solid. and so painfully beautiful it almost feels cruel.

he’s tall, taller than you imagined, his frame filling the doorway with a presence that makes everything behind him blur. his body is broad and built in a way that feels effortless, like he was never trying to be impressive—he just is. his arms are bare, exposed by the loose black tank that clings to the outline of his torso and drapes perfectly over the swell of his chest. his skin is smooth and golden, glowing faintly under the warm hall light, veins barely visible where they run down his thick forearms. he looks strong in the way that matters—not for show, not posed—but like he knows how to use every inch of himself. like he could hold you up and tear you open in the same breath.

his hair is the same cotton candy pink from his previews, but messier now—soft strands falling over his forehead in loose waves, the ends curling just slightly where they brush against his temple. it looks like he’s been running his hands through it all day, and the idea of those hands—big, rough, ringed—tangled in your hair, gripping your hips, wrapped around your throat—makes your stomach twist so tightly you have to shift your weight. a few strands cling to the side of his cheek, the light catching on the moisture like maybe he just showered, or maybe he’s been waiting. pacing. preparing.

his ears are a constellation of silver, pierced through with hoops and cuffs and studs that glitter faintly each time he shifts. one of them dangles slightly—a thin, delicate chain brushing the edge of his jaw. and then your eyes land on his mouth.

and you stop thinking altogether.

his lips are almost too pink. full, soft-looking, the kind that look like they’d leave a stain on your skin no matter where they touched. he has the faintest indent of a bite mark on the lower one, like he’d been chewing at it without realizing, and it glistens slightly with the sheen of spit or gloss or both. you don’t know if you want to kiss him or watch him speak. maybe both. maybe forever.

and then his eyes meet yours.

brown. impossibly dark, but warm. deep in a way that makes you feel like you’ve already said too much, like he’s pulling the truth out of you just by looking. they glimmer faintly in the low light, lined with thick lashes that make him look devastatingly pretty and disarmingly unreadable all at once. there’s a slight drop to his gaze, heavy-lidded like he’s already seeing you undressed. like he’s been seeing you that way from the moment you said yes.

they remind you of boba pearls—glossy and rich and bottomless. and just as dangerous. you feel like you could fall into them without realizing you were drowning until it was already too late.

you’re frozen.

completely and utterly off guard.

this is not what you expected. not what you prepared for. not the image you tried to sketch in your head based on his previews. you thought he might be attractive, sure—maybe even cocky. you assumed he’d be confident, comfortable in his skin, maybe a little smug about how much he’s watched you. but this?

this is something else entirely.

he’s not just beautiful. he’s unreal. he looks like something that stepped out of the fantasy you didn’t even know how to finish. and he’s looking at you like you’re the one that took too long to arrive.

he smirks, soft and knowing. 

“i knew you’d still be here.”

his voice doesn’t just sound good. it sounds dangerous. smooth and rich and low enough to sink through the fabric of your hoodie and press directly into your skin. it’s slower than you expected, a little raspier, like it’s made for private conversations and whispered commands. it doesn’t rise above a murmur, but it fills the space between you completely. it curls under your ears and down your neck and makes your stomach dip so hard it steals your balance for half a second.

you swallow, but your throat is dry.

your heart flutters violently against your ribs, pounding loud enough you wonder if he can hear it. your lips part slightly, maybe to say something, maybe just to breathe, but no sound comes out. your tongue feels too heavy. your mouth is too unsure. and the last thing you want to do is stutter over yourself while he’s standing there, relaxed and perfect and waiting.

your eyebrows pinch together without meaning to—just a small, confused furrow, like your body is trying to process what your brain can’t catch up to. you hadn’t thought this far ahead. hadn’t planned for what it would feel like to be seen like this. not through a screen. not through a message. but here. in person. under his eyes.

you thought you were prepared.

you were wrong.

he doesn’t say anything at first. he just stands there in the doorway, holding it open like it weighs nothing, while your whole body feels impossibly heavy. his gaze is steady, quiet, unwavering—not intense, not invasive, just there. patient. like he’s not surprised you showed up, like he always knew you would. like this moment was never a question.

when he finally shifts to the side, it’s a small, effortless movement—barely more than a step—but it sends something sharp through your chest. he doesn’t gesture. he doesn’t usher you in or flash a grin or try to ease the nerves that are curling tighter in your stomach. he just opens the space. clears the path. leaves it entirely up to you.

you hesitate for a beat longer than you mean to. the hallway feels colder now, the air thinner somehow. your fingers twitch where they’re clenched around the strap of your bag, your heartbeat pressing against the inside of your ribs like it wants out. but your legs move. maybe from instinct, maybe from need, maybe because part of you knows that if you don’t do it now, you never will.

you cross the threshold.

the air inside is warm—soft and still, carrying the faintest trace of something unfamiliar and expensive, something dark and clean and musky like amber or smoke. it hits you in a slow wave, curling up your nose and settling in the back of your throat. you take a shallow breath, then another, but it doesn’t help. everything feels too quiet now. too private. the silence inside the apartment is thicker than the silence outside, not empty, but full—of tension, of weight, of waiting. like the walls know what’s about to happen. like they’ve already seen it a hundred times.

you take a few careful steps forward and stop just inside, unsure what to do with yourself. unsure where to stand, unsure what to look at. your body is taut with nerves and anticipation, your hands suddenly too aware of themselves. your mouth is dry. the sound of the door clicking closed behind you is sharp in your ears, the lock sliding into place like a thread being pulled tight.

you don’t turn to look at him. you can’t. not yet.

his apartment is clean, but not in a soulless way. everything is curated. intentional. the lights are low and warm, tucked beneath shelves and mounted in corners, glowing like dusk instead of buzzing like daylight. the walls are matte, smooth concrete or something close to it, and the furniture is dark—black, deep gray, the kind of colors that drink light instead of reflecting it. a massive bed dominates the space, not tucked into a corner, not hidden behind doors, but bold and unashamed in the middle of the room. the sheets are dark. rumpled. there's a throw blanket tangled at the end, half falling over the side. and scattered around the perimeter of the space, you spot his gear—tripods, light stands, cameras. they’re sleek and familiar, but somehow more intimidating now that they’re not behind a screen.

he gestures toward the kitchen with a small tilt of his head, his hand brushing lightly against your lower back as he leads the way, not forceful—just present. his touch is gentle, careful, a whisper against fabric that leaves warmth in its place as you follow the slow rhythm of his stride. the kitchen glows in soft amber light, casting long shadows across the clean counters and illuminating the faint sheen of condensation on the glass he’s set out for you. it’s quiet here, the kind of quiet that doesn’t press but cradles, wrapping around your shoulders like a weighted blanket. he moves like the silence belongs to him, like he’s always known how to make space feel soft instead of suffocating. the air smells like faint vanilla and spice, like clean linen and a memory you can’t name. you slide onto the stool he pulled out for you, your palms damp against your thighs, the hem of your hoodie gathered loosely in your grip. heeseung remains standing across from you, arms braced on the counter, eyes soft but intent as they meet yours.

“before anything else,” he begins, voice low and smooth, every word laid down like silk on stone, “i want to talk about boundaries.” he doesn’t blink too much when he speaks, doesn’t fidget, just holds your gaze with something steady, like it’s not a challenge but a promise. his hands spread slightly against the marble surface, fingers relaxed, the veins on his forearms faint but visible beneath warm skin. he’s not performing. he’s not playing a part. it’s in the way he waits—silent after each phrase, giving you room to process, not expecting your answer before you’re ready to offer it. “if there’s anything you don’t want to do, say it. if you change your mind mid-way, say it. we stop whenever you say stop, and i won’t ask why.” there’s nothing rehearsed in his tone, no false sweetness, only care shaped by confidence and restraint.

you nod slowly, your eyes dipping toward the glass he set in front of you, its surface dewy against the soft light. your throat is dry, but your voice finds its way through the haze, low and hesitant but certain. “i’m okay with most things,” you say, the words trembling slightly as they leave your lips. he nods as you speak, never interrupting, never shifting his weight too abruptly, like he wants you to feel the space between each word instead of rushing past it. “but it’s been a while,” you admit, your shoulders curling inward slightly, your hands clasping together in your lap. he doesn’t react with surprise or even curiosity—just attentiveness, the kind that feels like a door being held open instead of a window being peered into. “and… i don’t want to show my face,” you finish, the truth dropping into the space between you with more weight than anything else you’ve said. “i want to stay anonymous.”

his expression doesn’t flicker, doesn’t shift into confusion or disappointment—it deepens, softens even, like your request settles into place with ease. “we’ll work around that,” he says, the certainty in his voice firm enough to anchor you, even as your nerves start to pool low in your stomach again. “no face, no identifiers. close shots, over-the-shoulder angles, shallow focus. i’ve done it before, and it works.” he moves slightly, adjusting the way he leans against the counter, one hand tapping once against the glass as if to ground the moment. “this is about what makes you feel good, not what the camera sees,” he adds, voice dipping even lower, like it’s meant to reach beneath your skin. “if you don’t want the world to know it’s you, then they won’t.” your chest eases at that, something unspoken unraveling in your lungs. he doesn’t ask why. he just honors the request like it’s law.

you look up at him then, really look, and his gaze hasn’t drifted once—it’s still locked to yours, patient, open, unreadable but safe. he hasn’t made a single move to close the distance between you again, even though it would be easy. his restraint isn’t cold—it’s reverent, like he’s watching you bloom slowly and doesn’t want to bruise the petals. “thank you,” you say, quieter this time, the words heavy with relief you didn’t realize you were holding. he nods, a small motion that carries more weight than it should, then steps back just enough to gesture toward the hallway. “bathroom’s on the left if you want to change,” he says. “take your time.” you slide off the stool with a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your legs moving on instinct, the pulse between your ribs still uneven but quieter now. you clutch your bag loosely, fingers curled around the strap like a lifeline, and head towards the quiet hall.

the bathroom is clean and warm, wrapped in that same subtle scent of something smooth and expensive and low—soap and eucalyptus and a hint of whatever lived beneath his skin. you lock the door behind you gently, setting your bag on the closed toilet lid, your reflection already waiting for you in the wide mirror. the light here is softer than expected, casting a muted glow over the white tile and catching faintly on the metal fixtures, making everything feel a little too clear. you unzip your bag slowly, each sound exaggerated in the quiet, each movement deliberate but hesitant. the fabric of your hoodie feels heavier now, like it doesn’t want to be peeled away, but you force your hands to keep moving. you fold your jeans with care and lift the set from your bag, the lace cool against your fingers. you pull it on carefully, the straps snug where they wrap around your shoulders, the softness of the fabric suddenly feeling like too much.

you face the mirror again, eyes sweeping slowly over the new version of yourself standing there—exposed, yes, but not ruined. the lingerie hugs you in all the places you thought you wanted to hide, lifting and shaping you into something elegant, something quiet but striking. but even as you look, your stomach knots. you think of the camera. of your body in motion. of being watched, of being remembered. of existing somewhere outside yourself. the doubts creep in slowly, delicate as poison—what if you look awkward? what if you can’t do it? what if he’s disappointed the second he sees you? your fingers brace against the sink, palms flat, knuckles pale, your breathing shallow and uneven. for a moment, you wonder if you should leave before it starts.

but then you think of his voice again—measured, thoughtful, unrushed. you’re in control here. you remember how he looked at you—not like something to consume, but something to hold, to coax open with time. your chest rises and falls once more, slower this time, deeper, steadier. you adjust one last strap, swipe your thumb beneath your bottom lip, and blink once at your reflection. she doesn’t look scared anymore. she looks like someone beginning. you reach for the doorknob and step out into the hallway, the cool air brushing against your skin, your pulse quickening with every step back toward him. and you know, as your bare feet sink silently into the dark flooring—that you’re about to let someone see you, truly, maybe for the first time.

when you return to the room, the silence greets you like a held breath, still and warm and heavier now, coiled around the soft glow of ambient light and the faint hum of something electric in the walls. heeseung is standing near the kitchen still, his posture easy but not casual, one hand resting lightly against the counter, the other falling slowly to his side as he looks at you. his eyes catch on the shape of you like he wasn’t prepared, like he thought he was but somehow still feels like the floor just dropped out beneath him. his gaze sweeps down, slow and deliberate, not in hunger but in reverence, like he’s taking in something rare he’s never seen in full daylight. he doesn’t speak right away, but the silence between you blooms like a confession, every second weighted with something unspoken but deeply understood. your bare feet shift against the hardwood, the coolness of it whispering up your calves, grounding you even as your breath begins to shallow. his lips part slightly, like he wants to say something—maybe a compliment, maybe a request—but nothing comes. and then finally, slowly, he steps forward.

his approach is quiet, not calculated but intentional, his body moving like it already knows how not to startle you, how not to rush, how not to steal. he stops a foot away from you, eyes still holding yours, one corner of his mouth lifted in something soft, something just shy of a smile. you can feel the heat radiating off of him now, feel the quiet pressure of his presence like it’s brushing against your collarbone, your ribs, your thighs. his hand lifts slowly, fingers hovering just beside your arm, and he doesn’t touch you—just lets the air between your skin and his feel thicker than it should. his voice, when it comes, is low and quiet and perfectly clear. “can i show you where we’ll start?” he asks. your lips part, and your nod is small, breathless, but sure. he waits a second longer, then gently tilts his head toward the center of the room.

the bed looks larger now than it did earlier, all shadow and suggestion, the dark linens catching the warm light and folding it into softness. you follow him slowly, each step silent, deliberate, your nerves curling into your spine and blooming down your arms like smoke. the mattress dips faintly under your weight as you sit, the fabric cool beneath your thighs, your back straight but uncertain. heeseung lowers himself beside you, not quite touching, his knees bent and body angled toward yours like he’s shielding you from the rest of the room. his hand rests on the bed between you, close enough that your pinky grazes his knuckle, but he still doesn’t reach. his eyes find yours again, deeper now, full of something steadier than want. he breathes in, slow and even, his tongue wetting his bottom lip before he speaks. “can i kiss you?” he asks, and it’s not a whisper—it’s a vow.

your heart stutters in your chest, not from fear, not from surprise, but from the weight of being asked—of being given the choice. the air around you hums with heat, not the kind that scorches but the kind that builds, lingers, waits for ignition. you meet his eyes fully now, let yourself hold there, let him see what it means for you to say yes. your voice is quiet when it comes, but steady, a single word laced with permission. “yes.” he doesn’t move all at once—he moves like something precious, something unfolding, his hand lifting first to cup your jaw, fingers warm where they press against your cheek. your breath catches when he leans in, not because you’re afraid, but because you’ve never been kissed like this—not yet, not even now. his nose brushes yours, a breath shared in the space between, and then, gently, he closes the gap.

his lips are soft but sure, pressing against yours with a slow ache that makes your knees curl into the mattress and your fingers tighten in your lap. he kisses you like he’s reading you, like every tilt of his head is a question and every pull of his lips is an answer you didn’t know you could give. his hand stays on your jaw, his thumb tracing lightly against your cheekbone, grounding you even as your pulse picks up. there’s no rush, no hunger, no desperation—just heat, slow and sinking, pouring into your spine and rising up behind your ribs. you kiss him back with equal weight, not matching his rhythm but meeting it, finding your own within it. the room feels quieter now, the lights dimmer, the air denser with the sound of your shared breathing and the subtle hitch of your chest when he shifts closer. his other hand moves to your thigh, not gripping, just resting there, heavy and warm.

when he pulls back, it’s not abrupt—it’s a soft retreat, like he’s giving you time to breathe, to think, to want more. he stays close, his forehead resting lightly against yours, the bridge of his nose brushing your own, his thumb still stroking your cheek. his eyes are closed for a moment, and when they open again, there’s something darker in them—still soft, but heavier now, like want coiled behind patience. you don’t speak. you don’t need to. your body is already leaning forward again, your lips parting just slightly as your breath mingles with his. he waits, just a second, just to be sure, and then you feel the kiss again—deeper this time, fuller, still slow but firmer, like he’s letting go of a layer he’d been holding back. your hand lifts to his chest, pressing lightly against the cotton of his shirt, feeling the heat of him through the fabric, the steady beat of his heart.

you’re not sure when it happens—when your thighs brush, when his hand slides slightly higher on your leg, when your breath comes faster—but it’s there now, pulsing between your bodies. you’re not overwhelmed. you’re alive. every nerve alert, every part of you tuned to the press of his mouth and the pressure of his palm and the low sound he makes when your lips part just enough for him to taste you. it’s not just a kiss—it’s something more deliberate. a grounding. a beginning. and it feels exactly like it should. when he pulls away again, his eyes meet yours, searching—not for doubt, but for reassurance, for confirmation that you’re still here, still with him, still choosing this. and you are.

he doesn’t rush the question—he asks it like he’s offering you the last word in a language only the two of you speak. “are you ready?” heeseung says, and it sounds less like a formality and more like a thread of silk brushing across your skin, soft and waiting. you pause for half a breath, letting the moment linger there between your chest and his voice, letting it settle just behind your ribs. you meet his eyes, steady now, your heart loud but your voice quiet and sure. “yes,” you answer, and it lands softly, but it rings through the room like a bell. heeseung gives you a single nod—silent, smooth, composed—and then turns slightly toward the camera. the lens is positioned precisely, angled just enough to capture the space you share while keeping your identity untouched. he reaches for the remote resting on the bedside table, presses one button, and the soft red light comes on.

the room doesn’t change when it starts recording—it just feels heavier. the silence stretches a little longer, the air thickens a little deeper, and your skin starts to feel like it’s holding more than just heat. he doesn’t turn to the camera. he doesn’t acknowledge the lens. his eyes are on you, and only you. heeseung takes a slow breath and shifts his position on the bed, moving a little closer, the dip of the mattress drawing your knees toward his. his hand reaches up, fingertips brushing lightly against your jaw, and his touch is warm, sure, almost grounding. he watches your reaction like it’s the only thing he needs to see to move forward—like your body gives permission long before your mouth does. “can i kiss you?” he asks again, even now, when you’ve already said yes to everything else. and when you nod—small, breathless, trembling a little—he moves in with a reverence that feels like worship.

his lips meet yours with the kind of care that makes your chest ache, a kiss not rushed or shallow but deliberate, slow and full of intention. he doesn’t press for more than you give—he lets the rhythm unfold with time, lets your lips part when they’re ready, lets the tension curl warm and slow between your knees. his hand stays cradling your cheek, thumb stroking the soft skin just beneath your eye, as if he’s memorizing the exact way you feel beneath his fingers. your breath stutters slightly when the kiss deepens, when his mouth opens just enough to taste you, when your tongue brushes his in something quiet but certain. his other hand finds your thigh again, not moving higher, not demanding, just resting there—heavy and warm and present. you kiss him back with something softer than desperation, something more vulnerable than lust. your fingers twitch, aching to hold onto something, and when they finally curl into the edge of his shirt, he lets out a breath that sounds a little too much like relief.

he doesn’t speak when he pulls back—he just watches you, eyes dark and steady, breathing a little heavier than before. your forehead brushes his, your mouths still so close they could reunite with a single breath, and the quiet feels louder now than anything else in the room. you feel his fingers flex against your thigh once, like he’s holding something back, like he’s still giving you room to shift or stop or say anything else. but you don’t. you just nod again, slower this time, your eyes half-lidded, mouth still tingling with the press of his. “good,” he whispers, and the word moves through you like heat. then his hand slides—just slightly, just above your knee—tracing the edge of your thigh with the same patience he kissed you with.

his lips find yours again before the silence can thicken too much, and this time the kiss is heavier, more certain, laced with the tension that’s been building since you stepped inside his apartment. his hand doesn’t rush higher, doesn’t slide beneath your lace just yet—it just lingers, exploring the softness of your skin in slow strokes that burn like silk dragged over bare flame. you part your lips more eagerly now, letting him taste the corners of your breath, letting his tongue find yours in something messier, something that leaves your lungs stuttering and your thighs tightening together. your fingers drag up his chest, slow and careful, the fabric of his shirt warm beneath your touch, the steady drum of his heart loud enough to match your own. heeseung groans softly against your mouth when your grip tightens—low and hushed, like the sound slipped out without permission.

when he pulls back again, it’s only to look at you—really look, his gaze trailing from your eyes down to your lips, then back again, lingering like he doesn’t know where he wants to settle most. your breathing is ragged now, lips kiss-bruised and chest rising in slow, uneven swells, your hands still resting against his collarbones like you’re afraid he might float away if you let go. his thumb brushes across your bottom lip once, dragging lightly over the spot where his teeth had pressed seconds before. “you okay?” he murmurs, not because he thinks you’re not—but because he wants to hear it from you. you nod again, slower this time, your voice catching in your throat as you answer. “yes,” you whisper, and your legs shift slightly where they’re tucked under you on the bed.

heeseung leans in again—not to kiss you this time, but to trail his nose down the curve of your cheek, to inhale the scent of your skin where it glows faintly warm. his lips press against the corner of your mouth, then the edge of your jaw, slow and reverent, like he’s tasting gratitude. his hand moves again, slightly higher this time, fingertips tracing the underside of your thigh, still careful, still asking. his lips find your collarbone, pressing once, then again, just beneath the strap of your lingerie. his teeth graze the edge of your skin there, not biting, just lingering, a question written in touch instead of speech. and when you tilt your head to give him more room, heeseung breathes out a soft, broken sound against your neck that makes your core clench and your pulse spike.

“you like that, baby?” he asks, his voice husky against your skin, his teeth grazing your shoulder—but never biting, never hard enough to leave a trace. you nod, breathless, and tilt your head back further, offering your throat like instinct, letting him kiss and suck and worship without ever crossing the boundary. his hand tightens gently around your thigh, holding you still as your hips roll against his palm, wetness soaking through the lace with each drag. the moan you let out is quiet but needy, slipping out against his ear as he nuzzles beneath it and hums in return.

his fingers pause just at the hem of the lace, the pads of them slipping under with a kind of patience that makes your lungs seize and your hips twitch. the fabric drags slightly against your folds as he shifts it to the side, the air hitting your bare heat and making you tremble despite the warmth of the room. he groans under his breath when he finally feels you, his fingertips gliding slowly through your slick, parting you so delicately it makes you clench around nothing. your thighs try to close out of reflex, but his palm presses gently against the inside of one, guiding them apart without force—just the weight of intent. his mouth is still at your neck, lips soft, kissing lazily beneath your jaw as if he isn’t already making you fall apart with nothing but his hand. “you’re soaked for me,” he breathes, lips brushing the edge of your earlobe now, and the sound of it nearly makes you whimper. his fingers drag through your folds again, this time stopping at your clit, circling it slowly in wet, aching spirals. you’re already shaking, your head dropping back slightly as the pleasure coils tighter in your core.

heeseung doesn’t rush the motion, doesn’t press harder than necessary, just works your clit with the kind of care that makes your vision blur and your body hum with electricity. his fingers are long and warm, slick with you, moving in soft, controlled circles that never lose rhythm, never falter. every time your hips shift to chase the pressure, he meets you halfway, adjusting the angle, letting you grind subtly against the heel of his palm. his other hand stays at your waist now, anchoring you in place, thumb rubbing gentle strokes into your hip like he’s reminding you to stay with him. his mouth hasn’t left your neck, only moved lower, teeth grazing your skin without ever biting, lips pressing over every place your pulse flutters wild beneath your flesh. “that’s it,” he whispers, low and soothing, “just like that, baby…” your breath is broken now, little gasps slipping out between parted lips, and you can barely keep your eyes open, your lashes fluttering as the pleasure builds deeper in your belly. your fingers reach for his arm, gripping at his wrist like it’s the only thing tethering you to the bed beneath you.

he kisses down your neck with the same rhythm he’s touching you, soft and unhurried, lips brushing along the delicate edge of your collarbone like he wants to memorize it with his mouth. your skin is warm beneath his tongue, flushed and trembling, and his breath leaves it damp as he continues to move lower. his fingers never stop working your clit, thumb pressed gently but firmly, circling in slow, wet loops that make your thighs twitch and your hips rock forward on instinct. you can feel the weight of him between your legs without him even being there yet, just his hand and his mouth and the thick tension swirling in your core like a storm waiting to snap. he lifts his head for a moment to look at you—eyes dark, wide, mouth flushed from kissing your skin—and the way he looks at you makes something ache deep in your chest. “you tell me if it’s too much, okay?” and when you nod, breathless and already shaking, he finally slides his middle finger down and pushes it slowly inside.

you gasp—high and sharp, your mouth falling open as the stretch hits, not painful but deep, too real, too much after so long without. his finger sinks in carefully, inch by inch, and he watches your face the whole time, like every twitch in your brow and shift in your hips is more important than anything else in the world. your walls pulse around him, already clenching tight, wet and warm and so reactive his jaw tightens with the effort of keeping his own hips still. he exhales against your collarbone and presses his lips there again, kissing gently as he begins to move the finger in and out, slow and shallow. his thumb keeps working your clit, synced perfectly with the curl of his finger as he searches for that spot inside you that will make you crumble. you can’t speak—your breath is too staggered, your moans too broken to shape into words—but the way your body arches toward him says enough. “fuck, you feel so good,” he murmurs, kissing just beneath the swell of your chest, his voice vibrating through your skin. “you’re perfect like this.”

your breath hitches when he curls the single finger inside you again, the slow glide of it dragging perfectly against your walls, thick and precise like he knows exactly where to touch without needing to be told. your body is already arching into him, your hips grinding down against his hand as the slick sounds between your thighs grow louder, needier, messier. he doesn’t tease—not once—he keeps the rhythm steady, intentional, with every motion designed to draw the tension higher, to coax your body open instead of ripping it wide. when your walls begin to flutter, tightening around him with the kind of resistance that begs for more, he presses a kiss to your sternum, right between your breasts, and lifts his head just slightly. “gonna give you two, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing over your skin as he speaks, his voice dark and low and reverent. “i want you to take it slow for me, yeah?” you nod, breathless, your nails digging into his forearm as his finger slowly pulls out. the moment his second finger presses in beside the first, your mouth falls open on a soft, broken moan. the stretch burns for a second, sharp and thick, but his thumb keeps circling your clit, and the pleasure blooms fast enough to swallow the sting.

his lips part as he watches the way your body reacts—your thighs trembling, your hips jerking up, your slick coating his fingers as he begins to move them in a slow, twisting rhythm that makes your stomach flutter. heeseung groans softly, his forehead brushing your chest as he sinks lower, dragging the flat of his tongue along the curve of your breast with aching care. “so fucking tight,” he breathes against your skin, his voice thick with restraint, his jaw clenched as your pussy clenches down on his fingers. “you feel unbelievable, baby.” his mouth moves to your breast, kissing softly over the top of it, then trailing down until his lips brush over your nipple through the thin lace. he sucks gently, just enough to make you whimper, and the combination of his mouth and his hand makes your eyes roll back into your head. his fingers curl inside you again, deeper this time, pressing right against that spot that makes your whole body jerk, and he doesn’t stop—he does it again, and again, and again. your back arches off the bed, your fingers clutching the sheets now, your breath coming in broken little pants that you can’t control.

he pulls the lace down with his teeth—slow and controlled, his mouth never leaving your skin—and when your nipple is bare, he takes it into his mouth like it’s something sacred. the suction is warm, wet, steady, and his tongue flicks just enough to make your core tighten dangerously around his fingers. every motion feels choreographed, like his entire body is synced to yours—your breath, your pulse, your need, all dictating the way he moves. his fingers fuck into you slow but deep, knuckles brushing your soaked entrance with every stroke, the squelch of your arousal thick in the air between your bodies. his thumb never leaves your clit, drawing small, precise circles that keep you trembling, unable to come down from the tension he keeps pulling tighter and tighter. “you’re doing so good,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your chest, “taking me so well, baby, just like that.” your hands move instinctively, threading into his hair, tugging gently at the soft strands as your head tips back into the pillow. he groans at the touch—low and needy—and his pace shifts slightly, fingers thrusting just a little faster, a little rougher, still watching your every breath.

your thighs begin to tremble uncontrollably, the pleasure peaking in your lower belly, every muscle tensing like you’re caught on the edge of something massive. you can barely speak, barely form a thought, the only thing in your mind is him—his hand, his mouth, the deep pull of his voice every time he praises you. he lets go of your nipple only to kiss a path across your chest to the other, his lips never leaving your skin, his breath fanning out over every inch he touches. “you gonna cum for me?” he whispers, his voice shaking now, wrecked with how wet you are, how tight you are, how you’ve soaked his hand with nothing but slow kisses and a little praise. “let me feel you cum, sweetheart.” your body jerks when his thumb presses harder against your clit, circling faster, and your moan breaks—loud, breathy, raw. your hips buck, your walls clamp down around his fingers, and everything inside you snaps.

you cum with a force that steals your breath, your body seizing beneath him, your voice reduced to high, desperate whimpers as the orgasm crashes through you. he doesn’t stop—his fingers slow but stay buried inside you, his thumb softening into soothing strokes, guiding you through the aftershocks as your legs tremble and your stomach flutters. his lips kiss over your chest again, murmuring sweet, quiet things into your skin—“so good for me,” “so beautiful,” “you’re perfect like this”—until the tension in your limbs begins to fade. he finally pulls his fingers out, slowly, carefully, and your pussy twitches with the absence, fluttering around nothing, still dripping with your release. he lifts his hand, coated in your slick, and glances at you once with heat in his eyes before licking his fingers clean, slow and shameless. your chest rises and falls in uneven waves, your eyes glassy, your thighs sticky and trembling where they rest open. and all he does is smile—soft, sinful, and absolutely wrecked—with the taste of you still on his tongue.

he climbs over you slowly, the mattress shifting with his weight as he settles between your legs, his thighs bracketing yours while your slick coats the sheets beneath you. his hands press gently into your hips, guiding you back into the center of the bed, keeping you open for him as his mouth finds your throat again. you feel the heavy drag of his cock through his sweatpants, thick and hard, pressing flush against your soaked slit with nothing but damp fabric between you. the sensation makes your head fall back into the pillow, a sharp gasp catching in your throat as your hips roll up, grinding against him without even meaning to. he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates in his chest and melts into the curve of your neck as his lips drag down to your shoulder. “fuck… you feel that?” he rasps, his hips rocking down just once, slow and deliberate, forcing a desperate moan from the back of your throat. he grinds again, firmer this time, the head of his cock catching perfectly against your clit through the soaked material, and it makes your eyes flutter closed. “so messy for me already, baby.”

your moan slips out before you can stop it, soft and high and cracked open with heat. 

“heeseung…” his name trembling on your tongue like a secret that finally escaped. his whole body jerks at the sound, like he wasn’t expecting to hear it, like it did something to him that he wasn’t ready for. he lifts his head, eyes dark and wide and hungry, his breath hot against your cheek as his hand slides up to cup your jaw. “say that again,” he breathes, thumb brushing your bottom lip, voice low and tight like he’s barely holding it together. “please, baby—say my name again.” you do—whispered at first, then louder, your moan broken around it as your hips buck up into his again, grinding shamelessly into the thick line of his cock. “heeseung…” you whimper, and he lets out a sound that’s half a growl, half a praise, pressing his forehead to yours as his hips grind down harder. “fuck, just like that,” he groans. “keep saying it. don’t stop.”

you can barely think anymore, the friction dragging over your sensitive clit, your core still pulsing from your orgasm, your skin too hot and your breath too fast. heeseung keeps rocking against you, not thrusting, just grinding, slow and deep, letting the drag of his cock over your soaked folds speak for itself. every roll of his hips pushes a new moan from your mouth, and every time his name leaves your lips, his rhythm falters like he’s losing control one syllable at a time. he’s not speaking now—just breathing, hard and fast, his mouth open against your shoulder as he chases the pressure, the heat, the tension pulling tight in his spine. his hands are on your hips again, holding you down as you writhe beneath him, his name falling from your lips in messy, broken cries that make his cock twitch harder against you. “god, you’re driving me fucking insane,” he chokes out, grinding harder now, faster, like he needs the friction or he’s going to snap. “i could cum like this—just like this, fuck—just from you saying my name like that.”

you’re soaked again already, the wet drag of your pussy against his cock leaving a dark, sticky stain on his sweats, and the sound of it makes your face burn. he kisses your jaw again, his lips soft and reverent, like he’s grounding himself before he loses what little control he has left. “you make me so fucking hard, baby,” he groans, voice rough against your ear, “you don’t even know what you do to me.” his hips stutter as you arch up, grinding harder, needier, chasing the pressure and the weight of him and the sound of your name in his mouth. your fingers claw at his back now, slipping under his shirt, dragging your nails down the smooth muscle there as he grinds again and again. his name falls from your lips like a chant now, breathless and ruined and wrecked, and each time he reacts—his hips jerking, his teeth biting down on a moan, his hands gripping you tighter. “again,” he begs, lips at your throat. “say it again—please.”

heeseung pulls back just slightly, just enough to sit up on his knees between your thighs, the cool air brushing over your sticky skin in the wake of his body. his eyes never leave you as he lifts his shirt with one hand and tosses it aside, exposing lean lines and smooth muscle, his chest flushed with heat, his collarbones glistening faintly in the low light. your breath catches, and before you can even say anything, he’s dragging his fingers down the waistband of his sweats, sliding them low on his hips until his cock finally springs free—thick, hard, flushed deep red at the tip and already slicked with precum. your thighs twitch at the sight of him, your mouth parting on instinct as your eyes drop and your stomach coils at the sheer size of him. he watches you watch him, and the look on his face shifts into something darker—needier—like he knows exactly how you’re feeling. “you want it?” he asks, his voice a low rasp as he wraps a hand around the base and strokes once, slow and tight. “you wanna feel it, baby?” you nod quickly, breathless, the answer already written across your body in the way your legs part further, your back arches, your fingers curl into the sheets.

he lowers himself again, one hand steadying his cock, the other gripping your thigh as he settles between you, his body flush against yours once more. the first drag of him through your folds punches a moan straight out of you, loud and broken, your hips jolting upward as the thick head of his cock slides perfectly over your clit. heeseung groans low in his chest, teeth clenched as he guides himself back and forth, letting your slick coat his shaft, every motion slow and heavy and deliberate. “fuck—so wet,” he mutters, his voice wrecked, breath catching as the head of his cock catches at your entrance before he pulls back again. he doesn’t press in yet—he just teases you, again and again, the tip dragging down your slit, catching, slipping, soaking. “say it again,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth as he rocks his hips forward just enough to make you feel every inch of him. “say my name like you did before.” you moan it again—soft, breathless, full of want, and it makes him hiss through his teeth, his forehead dropping to yours.

he keeps moving his hips, sliding his cock over your pussy in slow, deep grinds that make the head catch at your entrance just enough to make your walls flutter and your thighs shake. heeseung’s breathing hard now, the muscles in his arms flexing beside your head, sweat starting to gather at the nape of his neck as he holds himself above you. “you feel that?” he groans, cock slick and heavy between your folds, grinding against your clit with every roll of his hips. “you feel how fucking hard i am for you?” you nod, gasping, your back arching off the bed as your body chases more pressure, more friction, more him. “i could do this all night,” he rasps, voice cracking against your throat. “just like this—grinding my cock on you while you moan my name like that.” 

“heeseung…fuck..” you whimper it again and he nearly loses it, his hips stuttering, cock twitching, precum smearing hot across your swollen clit. “fuck, baby. don’t stop.”

you don’t—you can’t. the way he feels against you is too much and still not enough, the thick head of his cock dragging through your folds, slicking you up more with every stroke. your pussy is dripping now, soaked and swollen and clenching on nothing, desperate for him, but he just keeps teasing—keeps grinding—like he’s determined to make you come again before he even gets inside. he leans down to kiss you again, tongue messy and breath ragged, and his hips roll deeper, grinding the head of his cock harder against your clit until you cry out into his mouth. “say it again,” he whispers between kisses, his voice hoarse, eyes burning into yours. “say it while i make you come just like this.” you moan it again and again—his name spilling off your lips like prayer, like surrender—and the sound of it makes him twitch, makes him curse, makes his cock slide lower and nudge right at your entrance again. you gasp, trembling, and he pulls back just barely, smirking against your lips. “yeah… just like that.”

heeseung doesn’t speak at first—he just looks at you, eyes locked to yours, breath coming heavy as he reaches down to line himself up with your entrance. the swollen head of his cock rests right against your soaked slit, and you feel it twitch, leaking more precum that drips down over your folds as you clench around nothing. his hand tightens on your thigh, holding you open for him, and when he pushes just the tip in, you both moan—his, low and broken in his chest, yours sharp and high as the stretch hits hard and fast. “fuck…” he breathes, voice cracking as his forehead drops against yours, “you’re so fucking tight.” your walls flutter around him already, pulling him in instinctively, and it takes everything in him not to sink in all at once. “relax for me,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth as he strokes your side with his free hand, “breathe, baby… let me in.” you nod, your legs trembling, your nails digging into his biceps, and with one slow, steady push, he eases in another inch. the burn is intense, but it’s exactly what you need—he’s so big, so thick, and your body is clenching so hard it makes your vision blur.

he stills halfway in, giving you a second to adjust, his mouth pressed to your jaw as he breathes through his nose and murmurs softly into your skin. “you feel unreal,” he says, voice wrecked, like he’s speaking through gritted teeth just to keep control, “so warm… so wet… you’re fucking perfect.” your body trembles beneath him, thighs twitching, toes curling, your hips arching off the mattress in a slow, involuntary motion that makes him groan deep and filthy. his hands move to cradle your hips, holding you steady as he rolls his in return, easing another inch into your soaked heat. the stretch makes your eyes flutter shut, makes your mouth fall open in a breathless moan that turns into a plea, your fingers gripping the sheets now. “heeseung…” you cry, broken and sweet, and it makes his cock twitch deep inside you, his hips rocking forward until he’s fully seated, the base of him pressed snug to your aching folds. “fuck, that’s it,” he growls, his jaw clenched, sweat starting to bead along his temple, “you’re taking me so well, baby… so fucking good for me.”

he doesn’t move yet—he just stays there, deep inside you, letting your walls pulse and flutter around his cock while he kisses your temple and whispers through shaky breaths. your pussy clenches again, so tight and hot that he has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from coming too fast, and his hand lifts to brush your hair back from your face, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone. “i can feel you squeezing me,” he whispers, so low it almost sounds reverent, “like your body doesn’t wanna let me go.” you nod, whimpering, your whole body buzzing from how full you are—how stretched, how completely consumed by him you feel. his cock fits inside you like it was made for it, like every vein and curve was molded to your walls, every inch pushing against spots you didn’t know were there. “you’re so deep,” you whisper, voice shaky, breath caught, and he presses a kiss to your lips again—soft, open-mouthed, messy. “i know, baby,” he says, and the way he says it—like it’s a promise—makes your whole body tremble again. “you want more?”

his hips pull back slowly, just enough to make you feel the stretch of his cock leaving your body, the drag so thick and heavy it makes your breath hitch. your walls flutter at the loss, already aching to be full again, but before the whine can slip out, heeseung thrusts forward—slow and smooth, burying himself back inside you until your bodies are flush again. the moan that escapes you is soft and breathless, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as your back arches, your chest pressing into his. “that’s it,” he breathes against your ear, his voice low and shaking with restraint, “just like that, baby—take it.” he sets a rhythm that’s deliberate, not fast, just deep—so deep—like every stroke is meant to make you remember the exact shape of him. the bed rocks beneath you in soft, steady pulses, the slick sound of your bodies filling the space between each breath. your pussy clenches around him with every thrust, soaking his cock with more wetness, and he groans, long and low, his mouth brushing the side of your neck. “you’re so fucking tight,” he says, the words barely a whisper, “you’re milking my cock, baby…”

you cry out his name again, broken and high, your voice shaking as your hips start to move in sync with his, meeting each stroke with the kind of desperation that makes your thighs burn. heeseung’s hand slides up your body, past your waist, your ribs, and finally settles around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, his thumb brushing softly against your jaw. “keep saying it,” he tells you, fucking you deeper now, his strokes heavier, thicker, the drag of his cock so intense it makes your eyes roll back. “say my name while i’m inside you.” and you do—his name tumbling out between gasps, your lips parted, your moans turning to pleading whispers that make his pace stutter. heeseung’s head drops to your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged, his teeth grazing your skin as he tries to keep control. “fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, his voice raw now, wrecked, as he drives back in deeper. “you were made for this—you were made for me.” your nails dig into his back, dragging down his spine, your walls clenching again, tighter, hungrier.

his thrusts grow a little rougher now, not fast but more forceful, each one punching moans from your chest and making the bed creak beneath you. the rhythm is everything—steady and perfect, his hips rolling with precision, never breaking contact, always dragging back just to push deeper again. his hand on your throat moves to cradle your jaw now, tilting your head so he can kiss you, sloppy and breathless and open, your tongues tangling as you moan into each other’s mouths. his other hand grips your hip harder, holding you still as he grinds deep into your core, your clit brushing against his pelvis with every thrust. your pussy is soaking him now, slick dripping down his cock, your inner thighs sticky, your skin flushed and trembling. “you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he says, kissing down your neck again, “i could stay buried in you forever.” and he means it—you can hear it in the way he moans when your walls tighten, in the way he slows down just to feel it, in the way his voice cracks when he says your name again. “don’t stop, baby. don’t stop saying it.”

heeseung’s lips don’t leave your skin as he slowly starts to move again, his cock still deep inside you, twitching slightly from the last wave of pleasure. your body is warm and pliant beneath him, flushed and wrecked and trembling, but still hungry—your walls fluttering around him like they’re begging for more. he lifts his head slowly, brushing his thumb across your cheek, and you see it in his eyes—there’s no hesitation left, just need, raw and open and laced with something darker now. “turn over for me,” he murmurs, voice thick and low, like the words are dragging out of his throat from somewhere heavy. he leans back just enough to let his cock slide out, and even the loss of him makes your body ache, your pussy clenching at the emptiness. you move without thinking, already shifting beneath him, rolling to your stomach as your thighs tremble against the mattress. his hands are on your hips instantly, lifting you up just enough so your ass tilts higher, your chest pressed to the sheets, your back arched beautifully for him. “just like that, baby,” he groans, one hand sliding down your spine, the other gripping your ass as he positions himself behind you, “fucking perfect.”

you feel him again—his cock dragging slow between your soaked folds, thick and hot and still dripping with both of you as he lines himself back up with your entrance. your breath hitches when the head presses against your hole again, pushing in with that same slow, stretching pressure that makes your jaw drop open. he slides in deeper this time, the angle sharper, the thrust more intense as he sinks into you inch by inch, both of you moaning as he fills you back up completely. “fuck—you’re tighter like this,” he groans, hands gripping your hips hard now, thumbs digging into the softness of your skin as he pulls you back onto him. you’re gasping into the sheets, your hands fisting the covers, your knees spread wide as your pussy takes him all the way to the base. the new angle hits deeper, rougher—his cock dragging against spots that make you cry out, your body jolting with every thrust. “look at you,” he breathes, hips snapping forward, his cock slamming into you now with full control, “taking me so good, baby… so fucking deep.” your moans get louder, more desperate, your voice breaking on his name as you start to fall apart all over again.

he builds a rhythm that feels brutal and perfect, his hips slamming against your ass, the clap of skin on skin echoing through the room with every thrust. your walls are soaked now, slick running down your thighs, the mess of your first orgasm coating both of you and making every stroke louder, wetter, filthier. heeseung growls under his breath as he leans forward, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, gently pulling your head up so your cheek turns toward him. “say it again,” he demands, breath hot against your ear as he pounds into you from behind, “say my name while i fuck you like this.” your voice shakes as you sob it out—“heeseung, heeseung, heeseung”—and the sound of it makes his hips stutter, his grip tighten, his cock jerk inside you. “that’s it, baby—keep moaning for me,” he groans, his hand sliding down your front now, finding your clit again and rubbing tight circles while he keeps thrusting into you hard and deep. your legs tremble, your elbows give out, your chest sinking into the sheets as your second orgasm starts building fast, burning low and hot and uncontrollable.

his thrusts grow slower, deeper, deliberate again—not to ease you, but to let you feel it all, to make your body stretch around every inch of him like it’s learning him. he doesn’t say anything for a second, just breathes through clenched teeth, his hands gripping your hips like handles as he watches the way his cock disappears into your soaked pussy with every roll of his hips. your moans are soft and broken, spilling into the pillow as you push back to meet his rhythm, the pressure building inside you sharp and sweet. “you’re dripping, baby,” he pants, voice dark and strained, “can you hear that?” and you can—the filthy, wet squelch every time he fucks into you, your slick coating his cock, the mess of both your bodies echoing in the quiet room. his fingers tighten around your hips, dragging you into him harder now, the new angle hitting deeper, the tip of his cock nudging your cervix in a way that makes your back arch and your breath catch. “i’m not gonna stop,” he groans, and he means it—you can feel it in the way his body moves, like he’s addicted to the way you take him. “not until i feel you cum on me again.” his voice breaks on the last word, and you choke on a moan, your thighs already starting to tremble from how close you are.

his free hand slides down again, slipping between your legs to circle your clit with his fingers—still soaked from earlier, still trembling with how sensitive you are. “i know you’re close,” he says, breath hot against your back as he leans over you, his cock still grinding deep into your pussy with slow, firm thrusts, “i can feel it—you’re squeezing me so tight.” your body jerks under him, your hands clawing at the sheets, your moans broken and high as the pleasure builds higher, tighter, hotter. he doesn’t let up—not with his cock, not with his hand—he keeps fucking you slow and hard, his fingers pressing tight circles against your clit until your legs shake uncontrollably. “come on, baby,” he whispers, voice right in your ear now, “cum for me again—cum on my cock, let me feel it.” and the way he says it—so low, so desperate—breaks something open inside you. your pussy clamps down, walls fluttering in tight, wet pulses as your second orgasm takes hold, crashing over you harder than the first. “fuck—heeseung!” you cry, your voice breaking, your whole body convulsing under him as you cum, hips jerking wildly, back arching, mouth open and gasping.

heeseung groans loud—filthy—his hands grabbing your hips tight as your pussy squeezes around him, your slick spilling down his cock and dripping onto the sheets. “holy fuck,” he growls, hips stuttering, his pace falling apart as he ruts into you hard, deep, chasing his own release now. “you feel—so good—so fucking good,” he moans, each word punched out between heavy, desperate thrusts. your body is limp beneath him, ruined and twitching, but he holds you up, keeps you open, keeps driving into you like he can’t stop. “i’m gonna cum,” he gasps, “gonna cum inside you again, baby—fuck—i’m not pulling out.” your moan is soft, breathless, nothing but wrecked permission. heeseung groans, loud and broken, as he thrusts deep one last time and spills into you, hot and thick, his cum flooding your pussy in long, heavy pulses. he doesn’t stop moving, not right away—he keeps grinding into you, burying it deeper, fucking it up into your sore, overstimulated cunt like he wants it to stay. your walls twitch around him, fluttering from the aftershocks, your breath shallow as he collapses forward, his chest pressed to your back, sweat-slick and panting.

he stays inside you as long as your body lets him, his cock twitching with every breath, his cum warm and sticky between your thighs, leaking down onto the sheets. his arms wrap around your middle, pulling you close, holding you still as your body shivers beneath his, overstimulated and buzzing. he kisses your shoulder slowly, reverently, murmuring soft things you barely register—“you were perfect,” “i didn’t want to stop,” “you’re so fucking good.” his voice is hoarse, wrecked from moaning your name, from holding back, from fucking you like he meant it. your eyes flutter closed, your body loose and heavy, your chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. heeseung doesn’t move, doesn’t let you go—his arms stay locked around your waist, his cock still half-hard inside you, like he can’t stand the idea of being anywhere else. “stay like this for a minute,” he whispers, kissing the back of your neck. “just like this, baby… let me feel you a little longer.”

heeseung’s chest rises and falls against your back, each breath brushing over your shoulder as his arms slowly loosen around your waist, just enough to let you shift. you let out a soft sound—half-whimper, half-sigh—and he presses a kiss to your spine, so featherlight it almost doesn’t register. “hold on,” he whispers, low and hoarse, and he pulls out carefully, the slow drag of his cock making your body twitch as his cum begins to slip out of you. he steadies your hips with one hand, still gentle, still warm, and reaches for the small remote near the bedside table with the other. you hear the soft beep as he presses the button, the red light fading instantly, the lens no longer watching, no longer recording. he exhales deeply, like some part of him only now lets go, and he sets the remote aside before turning back to you. “it’s off,” he says softly, brushing your hair back from your face, his fingers trembling just slightly. “it’s just us now.”you hum faintly in response, eyes half-closed, body limp and heavy against the mattress, and heeseung smiles—small, crooked, fond—before leaning down to kiss your temple. “you did so fucking good,” he murmurs, his voice all warmth now, rough around the edges but soft with pride, with affection. he moves slowly, lifting himself from the bed and disappearing for just a moment, the faint sound of running water coming from down the hall. when he returns, his hands are full—warm washcloth, small towel, a bottle of water already uncapped. he kneels beside you again, coaxing you onto your back with a careful hand on your hip, and when your body winces from the soreness, he just nods. “i’ve got you,” he says gently, his eyes full of something deep and quiet. he cleans you up slowly, thoroughly, without rushing—starting at your thighs, then between your legs, wiping away the mess with care, never looking away from your face.

the rag is warm, soft, comforting against your skin, and his touch never loses its patience, even when you shiver or twitch from the overstimulation. “tell me if it’s too much,” he says, barely louder than a breath, his hand resting lightly on your knee as he presses the cloth between your legs once more. your voice is weak when you say “you’re okay,” but it’s enough—his shoulders relax, and he finishes the last gentle sweep before setting the rag aside and covering you with the clean towel. he presses another kiss to your thigh this time, lingering, almost reverent, before he climbs back into bed beside you, body warm, arms open. “come here,” he whispers, and you move slowly, shakily, letting him pull you into his chest. the moment you settle against him, everything melts—his hand in your hair, your cheek against his collarbone, the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear grounding you completely. “you’re everything,” he says again, and this time it isn’t just praise—it’s a truth.

he stays like that with you, holding you close, stroking your back, letting the silence settle like a blanket. the heat from your bodies still lingers, but it’s not heavy anymore—it’s soft, intimate, something woven into the quiet between your breaths. heeseung doesn’t try to fill the silence with anything unnecessary—he just exists with you, his touch constant, his presence wrapping around you like something you never realized you needed. his hand moves to your waist, tracing lazy circles against your skin, grounding you gently, reminding you that you’re safe, that it’s over, that you’re okay. “do you want anything?” he asks quietly, lips brushing your hairline, and when you shake your head, he nods, content to just be here with you. his fingers curl around yours beneath the towel, and you feel his thumb stroke the back of your knuckles once, twice, again. “we’ll stay like this as long as you want,” he says. “there’s no rush.”

you feel your chest swell at that—your lungs tightening with the weight of something you don’t want to name, something warm and stupid and dangerous. the words hit you somewhere low and vulnerable, curling beneath your ribs like they belong there, and for a second, you almost let it. you almost believe this could be more, that the way he touches you means something deeper, that this warmth he gives isn’t just for the camera. but then you remember the red light, the lens, the view count still sitting at zero. you remember why you’re here in the first place—money, rent, survival. and just like that, you shift again, sitting up slowly, the sheet slipping down your chest as you turn your back to him. “i should go,” you say quietly, forcing the words out like they don’t scrape your throat raw. heeseung moves beside you, confusion creasing his features as he reaches out gently, his hand brushing your back. “wait—what’s wrong?”

you stand before he can touch you again, grabbing your clothes from the floor and pulling them on with unsteady hands, refusing to look at him. “nothing’s wrong,” you say quickly, too quickly, because everything feels wrong now—the closeness, the softness, the way your body still buzzes with the ghost of his touch. “this was great. it was good.” you pause, slipping on your hoodie, heart pounding too loud in your chest. “but this is business, remember?” heeseung’s face shifts at that—something subtle breaking in the way he exhales, in the way his eyes fall to the sheets, then back to you. “i know,” he says quietly, sitting up, raking a hand through his hair. “i just didn’t think you’d want to leave so fast.” you ignore the way that stings and reach for your phone, already stepping toward the door. “can you call me a ride?”

he doesn’t argue, doesn’t beg, doesn’t guilt you—he just nods, slides out of bed, and grabs his own phone from the nightstand. the air feels heavier now, the silence between you no longer soft but sharp, cutting against your ribs with every breath you try to take. you watch him through your lashes as he types, jaw tense, his brows furrowed like he wants to say something he knows he shouldn’t. “ride’s five minutes away,” he says, voice flat, and you nod, hugging your arms around yourself even though you’re fully dressed. neither of you speak again—not until the buzz of your phone signals the driver’s arrival, and even then, you just give him a short, “thank you,” before heading for the door. he doesn’t stop you, but you feel his eyes on your back the entire time, like he’s memorizing the way you walk away. the door clicks shut behind you, final and quiet, and it takes everything in you not to look back.

────୨ৎ────

you don’t cry in the ride home—you’re too tired, too overwhelmed, too busy replaying the feeling of his hand on your jaw, the warmth of his voice in your ear. your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you pull it out without thinking, eyes widening at the notification that lights up your screen. 

@heefreakshow posted a new video: “moan for the camera, baby.” 

your stomach flips, breath catching as you tap it open, watching the views tick up in real time—hundreds, then thousands, climbing faster than you can process. the comments pour in, the gifts, the subscribers, and your inbox is already starting to fill with names you don’t recognize. 

your eyes stay fixed to the numbers, the sound of the car engine barely registering over the pounding of your heart, the dull throb between your legs still pulsing with the ghost of his cock. comments begin pouring in, flooding the screen in a blur of praise and fire emojis, messages of “who is she?” and “this is fucking art,” and “the way he touches her???” flashing by too fast for you to breathe. the heat in your chest blooms again, twisting tight, painful in a way you can’t name—because this was supposed to be just business. but it doesn’t feel like business when you’re watching yourself fall apart under him, when your moans play back through the speakers like something sacred, when he touches you like you matter. your hand tightens around your phone, jaw clenched, eyes wide as the numbers keep rising—ten thousand, twelve, fifteen—until you can’t look anymore. you close the video, thumb hovering over the home screen, heart still pounding.

and then it hits—a soft buzz. one new message.

@jayafterhours has sent you a message.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ it's not proofread so sorry >-< but i hoped y'all enjoyed it anyways !!

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[rainydayathogwarts]

Just the tip - Ex!Peter Parker

summary: just the tip with ex!peter parker cw: SMUT, kind of pushy/manipulative peter but everything is consensual. wc: 2k

When Peter fell through the open window of your bedroom, you had let out a loud gasp, spinning around in your desk chair, only clad in your exposing pyjamas. At the sight of your ex boyfriend, you put your hands on your hips, instantly abandoning the homework laid out on your desk. Standing up, you walked towards the hopeful boy, watching as he approached you, a pleading look in his eyes. “So we’re normalising breaking into our ex’s apartments now?” Peter opened his mouth, putting both hands on your hips desperately. “Peter just because you’re spider-man-” “Please.” Peter whispered, his eyes tearing up slightly. “I miss you.” He said, making you drop your hands flatly by your sides. One of your hands came up to cup Peter’s face, thumb caressing his cheek softly. Peter leaned into your touch, shutting his eyes as he savoured the moment.

You looked at Peter with concern; this wasn’t the first time he had come back to you, longing to be held. Things had always escalated to more despite telling yourself that you wouldn’t allow it to happen again. “Can you hold me, please?” Peter asked, ducking his head down to nuzzle in the crook of your neck. Obediently, you snaked the hand on Peter’s face around his neck and over his shoulder, the other one wrapping around his torso. Peter sighed, his own arms enveloping around the curve of your waist. You held him for a moment, inhaling his familiar scent as you gently stroked his back. From where Peter’s head is pressed up in the pocket of your neck, he slowly presses a soft kiss to your skin. You took in a sharp breath, jumping slightly at the sudden movement. Peter kissed your neck again, but you didn’t have the heart to pull away from him. “We can’t keep doing this Pete.” You mumbled instead, a hand finding its way in Peter’s soft locks. “Just this once. It’ll be the last time I promise.” You vividly recall him uttering similar words to you last time.

Sighing, you stepped away from Peter, unravelling your arms from around him. As though he knew what you were thinking, Peter added “Baby, please.” You let your head drop to the side, crossing your arms over your chest in an unconvinced manner. “Peter, we broke up. Exes don’t keep going back to each other like this.” At your words, Peter dropped to his knees in front of you, both hands landing on your thighs, softly grasping them. He looked up at you with his signature begging, puppy eyes, leaning his chin on your exposed abdomen. “You broke up with me. I’d never leave you. Just one night. Let me spend one night with you.” You uncrossed your arms from your chest, returning your hand to Peter’s hair, softly scratching at his skull. Peter never broke eye contact with you, leaning just slightly forward to press a kiss on your bare stomach. You tugged your short tank top down, hoping to stop the tickle from Peter’s kisses, until you finally gave in, telling the boy to stand up.

Peter followed you to your bed, chanting quietly “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” You tossed the covers off the corner of your bed for you to climb in, patting the empty space next to you for Peter to join you. He immediately climbed in next to you, allowing you to cover him up with the soft blanket before cuddling into you. You turned on your side, facing Peter and watching as he pressed his face directly against your breasts, both hands coming to your hips to pull you closer to him before his arm settled over your waist. Sighing melancholically, you threw a leg over one of Peter’s, tangling your body with his as you leaned forward, pressing a kiss on his forehead. Peter laid still as you played with his hair and kissed along with hairline, treasuring the intimate moment. It had been so long since he had felt loved like this. In fact, the last time he felt cared for was the previous time he had been in your arms, despite your complaints about these reoccurring meetings.

Finally taking his opportunity, Peter shuffled upwards on the bed so that he was face to face with you, nose nudging against yours. With Peter’s intentions clear, you had enough time to pull away if you wanted to, but you felt bad, or at least that’s what you told yourself. You didn’t want consider that the way Peter’s eyes flickered down to your lips made you feel engrossed in him, or that his lips also looked soft. You didn’t want to consider the fact that maybe Peter wanting you so badly drew you closer to him. But he was your ex, and the furthest you would go is a kiss. So when Peter leaned ever so closer to you to press his lips against yours, you didn’t pull away, allowing your eyes to flutter shut.

Peter’s lips moulded against yours, his lips separating slightly so his tongue could shoot out to lips your bottom lip, a silent request for access into your mouth. When your mouth dipped open, allowing Peter’s tongue to press against yours, his hand came up, cupping your jaw to pull you closer to him. Peter pushed himself up on one of his forearms, using the height over you to press you deeper into the mattress as he deepened the kiss, his tongue licking deeper into your mouth. You gasped, pushing Peter away by his chest as you panted in attempt to catch your breath. Peter’s mouth latched onto your neck, immediately suckling at the sensitive skin as he moved his weight over you. Peter held the leg you had on top of his to pull it over his waist, testing your limits as he experimentally thrusted his hips between your spread legs. You immediately gasped, pushing Peter’s mouth off your neck and sitting up straight. Peter fell on the bed next to you, a guilty look on his features. “I thought-” “Peter, exes don’t have sex. If we have sex, we’re official again.” Peter furrowed his eyebrows at your words, the same sentence echoing in his mind over and over again. But I want us to be official again.

“Let me put the tip in. Just the tip.” You looked unconvinced, leaning over to take a sip of water from your bedside table. Peter scanned your legs, your cotton shorts riding up with each movement you did. When you sat up straight again, you readjusted the straps of your tank top and crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly aware of the way your nipples were constraining against the fabric of your top. “Just the tip isn’t sex.” Peter pushed, adding a pleading “Please.” “You’re really going to get off on just putting the tip in?” You questioned, eyeing Peter down. He felt himself harden when your gaze landed on his covered cock. “Just want to feel warm.” He weakly argued.

You rolled your eyes, reaching your hand out to grasp the cotton of Peter’s t-shirt, roughly pulling him towards you so you could slam your lips against his. Peter moaned, softly holding your face, but you broke the kiss as quickly as you started it. Peter froze, awaiting further instruction from you. “Just the tip.” You warned, laying back on your bed. Peter instantly jumped up, as though he had to act before you changed your mind. He tripped over his trousers twice before finally tossing them somewhere in our room, and his boxers went next, carefully watching the way your eyes widened slightly in reminiscence. Peter climbed over you, his knees on either side of your legs as he hooked his fingers through both your shorts and panties. He slowly tugged them down your smooth legs, leaning down to press a single kiss on your mound. Peter climbed off you, manhandling your body to lay on your side and settling himself flush against your back. You gasped, feeling Peter’s hard cock poking against your hip. Peter wrapped an arm over your shoulder, pulling you back to stay put against him while his second hand guided his cock towards your entrance.

Peter’s dick nudged your tight hole and you shut your eyes tightly, listening to the immediate moan that ripped from Peter’s chest. You cursed, seriously considering to tell Peter to push all the way in as you felt his swollen tip dip into your entrance. Peter whined, pulling his dick out of you and you sighed disappointedly. Peter bit his lip so hard it almost bled, his thighs shaking in attempt not to push himself all the way in. He needed to abide by your rules if you were going to let this happen again. “Just the tip.” You mumbled absentmindedly, drool gathering in your mouth as you pushed your ass out for Peter to put it back in. Peter panted, trying to control himself as he put the tip back in your entrance, rocking slowly back and forth. “Just the tip.” Peter repeated, but quickly found himself losing control over his actions, and suddenly, he had half his dick inside you.

The both of you moaned in unison, and Peter brought a hand to the arch of your back, caressing your skin. He needed to take a moment or else he'd instantly be coming inside you. You reached a hand behind you, landing halfway on Peter’s cheek. Peter kissed your hand, pushing himself up to press kisses on your cheek and jaw. You whined in pleasure, rolling your hips back to take as much of Peter’s dick as possible. “Fuck, just put it in baby!” You cried, finally letting your put-together front crumble down. Peter chanted a string of ‘thank you’s, finally snapping his hips all the way in so his cock fully sheathed himself in your folds. Wrapping an arm over your hips, Peter shifted his weight to switch your positions, landing you laying on your stomach with him on top of you.

Whining, you pushed yourself on your knees, chest touching the mattress as Peter kneeled, gripping both your hips tightly before setting an unforgiving pace on your cunt. Your moans immediately increased, small sounds escaping you with each push of Peter’s cock closer to your cervix. Peter relentlessly whimpered, feeling his orgasm building up quickly, but he needed to make you cum. He needed to make you cum or you’d never let him fuck you ever again. Desperately, Peter snaked his fingers around your body, concentrating hard on finding your clit while keeping up the pace and brutality of his thrusts. You whined impatiently, your own hand finding Peter’s to guide him to your clit. When his fingers finally made contact with your clit, your toes were immediately curling, a high pitched moan escaping you. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, feeling your pussy clench around his dick. “Come on baby, cum for me.” He begged, rubbing harsh circles on your clit as his thrusts became sloppy. You couldn’t help your bodily reaction to how pathetic Peter sounded, your cunt clamping on his dick as you came, causing a string of curse words to leave Peter’s mouth as his own orgasm was triggered. “Shit, shit, shit.” He mumbled, whimpering softly as he emptied his loud into you, your sounds of ecstasy ringing in his ears.

Peter softly rocked his hips into yours, hoping to ride out your orgasm, but you whined at the overstimulation, and Peter knew it was time to pull out. You immediately slumped against the bed when Peter pulled out with a groan, sitting next to you to rub a hand over your back. You turned onto your back, looking up at Peter tiredly, and gesturing for him to get closer to you. With a hand on his jaw, you pulled him into another kiss, engrossed in the fact that this would be the last time you two had sex. “Last time Peter. Yeah?” Peter nodded, mumbling “I’m happy with that, yeah.”

But his words sounded so familiar you refused to believe them.

[abbotsanatomy]

Jack x reader

Possessive & Protective Jack. Reader is the hospital social worker. Jack finds out a grieving family member has been stalking and harassing reader.!

⨳ (I’LL BE WATCHING YOU)

pairing: jack abbot x social worker!reader warnings: age gap (28, and 49), depictions of stalking, grief, child death, epilepsy (seizures), verbal assault, physical assault. author's note: this was a rough one to write tbh! hope u like! title’s totally inspired by ‘every breath you take,’ i love double meanings lol

“Good morning!” you greet, strolling into the ER break room.

You set aside the coffees you bought for everyone. It's your turn to bring everyone their fix tonight. They're nothing fancy, as can be expected from someone who earns almost half of what everyone else around here does.

You pick one of the brown coffee cups up from the paper cupholder on the counter, “Or, Y'know. Good night?”

“Live-saver!” one of the second-year residents yells. She's quick to grab one of the coffees, too.

The few people in the break room do the same, thanking you along the way. They slowly filter out, presumably going to tell everyone the break room's stocked up again so they can get their own before it's all gone.

It's just you and Dana Evans in the small room now. She's never been one for rushing home the moment her shift's over. She always lingers, you feel like you might know her even better than the night shift's charge nurse. The affinity you have for her can also be attributed, in huge part, to the fact that the veteran charge nurse reminds you of Dr.Abbot.

“Hey, kid. I heard what happened yesterday,” she starts. “Are you good?”

Wow. Word gets around much quicker than you expected. What happened yesterday should've been less than a blip on someone like Dana's radar.

The situation in question was just a grieving parent who'd said some pretty nasty things to you. He was in shock. You understand. You have to; it's your job.

His anger was justified. You were partially responsible for him missing his kid's last few moments. The memories kept you up all day.

The girl was barely two. When they came in, she was having an epileptic seizure that wouldn't go away. Upon further investigation, the doctors, with a neuro consult, told her father there was a surgery that could reduce her seizures. He'd heard about it before, but he was skeptical.

Apparently, having had his seizing daughter in his arms, unable to do anything but wait for an ambulance changed his mind.

There was one minor problem, though. Before they could get his daughter prepped for surgery, the hospital needed his insurance documents. She was stable; this wasn't emergency surgery. So the financial aspect was, unfortunately, a priority.

“Her mother's out of town. It's just me. I can't leave her alone,” he'd told you.

“Well, she still needs to be monitored for a while. And I understand you want the surgery immediately,” you'd reasoned with him. “Maybe you can make it home and back quickly, before she wakes up.”

He was hesitant at first, but you were determined. You'd help where you can.

“I'll be with her the whole time. I promise. Our doctors will do the best they can to make sure she's comfortable and safe.”

Safe. What a stupid word to use. She wasn't safe when he came back. She was dead.

She'd had another seizure minutes after he left. The entire medical team tried their best, you know that. You were there, holding her hand through it all. Begging her to stay strong for her dad.

When he came back, he was held back by security as he shouted all kinds of evil truths at you.

“You bitch.”

“You all killed her.”

“I could've been here if it wasn't for you!”

It was all true.

His words have replayed in your mind ever since. So, no, you aren't good. But there's nothing a charge nurse you're sure has been through worse can do about it, so you won't tell her.

“Mhm, I'm fine. Don't worry about me,” you lie, straight to her face.

You have a feeling she doesn't believe you, but she's also smart enough to recognize when someone doesn't want to talk about something. So, she drops it.

“Alright. Be kind to yourself, okay? Take some time off if you need it,” she advises, and you trust her judgement. It isn't like you'll listen to her, though.

“Okay. I'll try.”

Dana walks out of the break room, but not before giving you a long hug. On a good day, you'd be soaring with happiness. Today, it makes you feel just slightly better.

You're mid-sip when your favorite attending walks in. Jack looks shocked to see you. He'd given you the exact same advice Dana just did. You'd obviously not taken it.

He walks towards the counter you're leaning against. You feel like he's about to tell you off. He just stands there for a long moment. Then, he's searching your face for something. A sign of distress, maybe?

He doesn't find whatever it is he's looking for. You smile at how ridiculous this staring habit of his is.

“Are you good?” he parrots Dana.

Your brows crease, “Have you and Nurse Evans been talking about me?”

Jack looks confused.

“I'm fine. I'm great, even. Okay?” you demand.

He nods, but it's very hesitant.

“I have a shrink. I'm seeing her after work. You don't have to worry about me,” you reiterate.

Everything he could say was said yesterday. He reassured you for thirty minutes after, brought you water and food in between patients. There's nothing more he can say right now.

He just grabs one of the coffees you brought, “Thank you.”

His tone's a little too sincere for what this is. You'll take it.

You both exit the break room and part ways to get on with your shifts. His eyes are front and center in your mind the entire time, especially when you need some comfort.

You've been on edge lately. You're flinching at things you aren't supposed to. You close your curtains whenever you're home alone. You just can't shake this feeling that you're being watched.

The 90$-an-hour therapist you visit once a month says it's a symptom of your PTSD. That's of no consequence, because the anxiety feels as real as can be. Your nerves are fried all the time.

You need a break. There's one person in particular you want to spend your time off with. He's been invited to your apartment for dinner tonight. Thankfully, Jack hasn’t embarrassed you by rejecting your invitation.

He's just texted you that he's on his way now. You're in the kitchen with your cooking playlist playing in the background. It's the kind of mellow moment you haven't experienced in weeks. You're bringing the wooden mixing spoon up to your mouth to get a taste, when the moment's rudely interrupted.

Someone's pulling you back, with their arm tightly wrapped around your throat. This isn't psychosis, paranoia, or PTSD. This is real.

You try to hit back with the spoon in your hand, but it quickly clatters to the floor, splattering soup everywhere.

Your next line of defense is clawing your way out. Literally. You scratch and pull away at the stranger's arm. It's minimally effective. You're trying to scream out for help, too. It barely comes out as a squeak.

Your vision's getting blurry, when you feel someone tackle the intruder, bringing them to the floor. You can hear an altercation happening on your floor, right next to where you're coughing up a storm, just trying to catch your breath again.

Someone's landing more than a few punches, in the distance. The sound becomes much less distressing when you realize it's Jack who has the upper hand in this fight. His eyes lack the tenderness they usually have when you’re staring back at them.

“Jack...” you croak out, trying to pull him out of it.

He stops, pulling the guy under him up by the collar. That's when you realize it's the same grieving man who was shouting at you in the middle of the PTMC’s emergency room, less than a week ago.

Jack slams him against your kitchen wall, his arm pinning the man in place by the throat. On the floor, beside you, is a set of pictures. They must've fallen from the man’s pocket mid-brawl. They're all of you. At your therapist's office. At home. At work.

He's been watching you, following you. The realization fills you with dread.

You pull your phone out and dial 911 immediately.

“Are you okay?” Jack asks, his eyes still set on the man in front of him.

“Yes, I'm fine. Be gentle,” you tell him.

He shakes his head subtly. He'd be smiling a little too, if he wasn't so angry at the man in front of him. Of course, you'd want him to be gentle with the man who was about to kill you. You've always seen the best in everyone.

He can’t ever deny you a thing, so he's as gentle as he can be, with how furious he is right now.

“911, what's your emergency?” you hear on the other end.

Jack takes care of it all. Tells the officers what happened, shows them the pictures, escorts them out. All you could manage for now was a few hums in agreement to the questions the officers asked you.

Once they left, Jack came to sit beside you on the couch. Now, he’s been staring at your neck intensely. You can tell he wants to take a look.

“Do you mind?”

“Nope,” you answer, pulling your hair to the side.

His fingers are gentle on your neck, as they graze the bruise forming there.

His voice is tight, like he's still barely containing his anger, “It looks alright. It'll just be slightly bruised.”

You nod, “Thank you. For everything.”

Your hand finds his, interlocking your fingers. He brings your joined hands up to his mouth, to place a chaste kiss onto the back of your hand. You grin, and finally look up from the spot on your carpet you’d been staring at.

There's a cut on his cheek, still bleeding. You bring your other hand to rest on his cheek, pressing your mouth to the skin beside the cut.

“Let me take care of that for you,” you offer.

It's almost like he didn't even hear you, though. “You probably shouldn't go to work tomorrow.”

You nod in agreement, “Yeah, probably.

“Can you stay?” you propose, barely louder than a whisper.

You're asking because it'd make you feel safer. He can tell. He agrees, immediately.

You pull your hand away to go grab the first aid kit in your bathroom cabinet. You're also rehearsing how you're going to convince him to sleep in your bed with you, instead of the couch. He ends up being very easy to convince.