#chapter two in a multi chapter story

[mbirnsings-71]

Struggled with today's art but I have to draw Scar Daily or I implode basically- also Ren for @pup-pee because I have to practice drawing him and Martyn after all-

Also I think Non-dog hybrid Ren is cursed but like it's what we're working with here we're balling-

[mechazushi]

Watercolor Memories

"And where are we at on the budget for the Research and Development Department?" Jozu Nogizaka, the Chief of Staff for Ariaka base asked from his seat at the conference table.

All the higher ups for the First Division were settled in one of the larger meeting rooms for the bi-monthly debriefing where everyone with an important job title get together to make sure everyone is on the same page. Not only was the Chief of Staff and his fellow associates there, but the Head Director of the Defense Force, Isao Shinomya. His assistant as well as Narumi Gen were there as well, with all three of them in different states of mental presence. The Director was listening as intently as he could, seeing as he had the most to gain or lose from a lack of communication from inside his cabinet members. Ebira looked to be following along for the most part, but any light that would normally be in one's eyes had dissipated considerably early into this drool meeting. Narumi, openly picking his nose with his feet up on the table, had certainly lost any and all interest in this communal interaction a while ago.

Which made it a good thing that he had enforced his decision to bring Kafka Hibino to the meeting with him. Not being one for paperwork, much less anything not related to the active takedown of kaiju threats, he usually got dragged along to these meetings by his second in command, Eiji Hasegawa. Recently however, the base had acquired the biological enigma that was Kafka and once they had deemed him not an immediate threat, they had run out of ideas as for what to do with him. They still weren't comfortable with him traveling outside of base, but had decided that he could at least wander around a few select buildings on the grounds as long as he had supervision. Not one to miss out on exploitative labor, Narumi weaseled his way into letting Kafka act as essentially a personal secretary.

Kafka didn't give it any second thought once he heard the offer since it let him outside of his small, barren closet he had to call a room. It became clear that he should have since most of what Narumi made him do had him chained to a desk piled with paperwork or had him running endless fetch quests for food around base. Still, Kafka went about it without complaint. It was either this or working out his room all alone, losing his mind from worry and baseless fear. Hasegawa wasn't too thrilled about this new arrangement since it meant that the strongest division officer to date just got to laze around more often, but he couldn't deny how Kafka's presence streamlined the paper processing and left him open to pursue actual second-in-command duties. It even worked out better in meetings.

All Hasegawa had to do was drag Narumi with Kafka in tow and go off to finish more important tasks. Kafka turned out to be incredible at note and record taking, so all he did during meetings was make an abbreviated list of important facts that he could rattle off to Narumi when he actually had the capacity and care to acknowledge them. All Narumi had to do was show up and look like he was interested... which was turning out to be the hardest task of all. As the First Division captain continued to look at anything else besides those in the room, Kafka just slid glances in his direction and sighed heavily at the patheticness of it all. Everyone here had made several attempts to correct his behavior, all to no avail. If anything, they've been letting him get away with it more now that Kafka was here to cover his attention deficit ass.

But even Kafka had to admit he was with Narumi on this. These meetings were soul-sucking. It took everything he had in him to keep a running tab in his mind about everything that was being decided on. Even then he didn't have to think that much harder as to how to frame his notes in such a way to make it easier for Narumi to understand at a glance. This left him with plenty of free time in between important bulletins for his mind to wander, and in turn his fingers as well. Kafka didn't get a seat at the table during these meetings and was forced to stand behind Narumi the whole time as he cradled a small tablet to write on.

Holding it in one arm meant he had to type with one hand, which he got impressively good at as the days went on. But since the sentences he wrote were so short, it left him standing there inactive for long periods at a time. Something that would eventually garner judging sneers from the other board members. To avoid these leering glances and an ever present fear of reprimand, he had taken up doodling in the margins of his digital notes. The notes app he wrote in had surprisingly adequate artist's tools that he could pull up and use alongside his typed notes. He, of course, deleted everything before he handed the tablet over to Narumi to read later, but the habit at least made him look busy during the more dull sections of the meetings.

It wasn't his first rodeo in dealing with digital media, but it had been a hot minute since the last time he could only work with a lower standard of equipment. He grew up playing around with the School's built in paint programs, but had eventually gone on to dabble in more advanced programs built specifically for mobile. Really, it just started as a way to kill time at work until he could go home and get a hold of his sketchbooks. What started off as glittering fantasies of being the best warrior known to man being put to paper, shockingly warped itself into anatomical studies of the monsters he butchered apart for most of his life. Once a pastime turned teaching tool had now reverted back to a simpler time. One of daydreams and recovering of memories not yet lost. Kafka drew the faces of those he shared the room with as warm ups, but would quickly find himself trying to draw those he wished to see again more prevalently.

It was a dangerous mindset to find himself in. He had a nasty habit of getting too caught up in how Reno would hold his head or how Haruichi would hold a drink to remember to focus on the words being said around him. To be stuck in the past was never good, especially when keeping your job meant concentrating on the present. In a sick sense of bartering, his mind came up with the solution of instead bringing attention to his past relationship to his ex-vice captain, Soshiro Hoshina. It didn't feel like they were together long, but the memories of their connection burned the brightest even in the darkest recesses of Kafka's mind. Their circumstances had changed drastically from the shrouded image of domesticity that they had gathered for themselves ever since the reveal of what lay dormant in Kafka's chest.

Hoshina was mad about it, that was for sure. Kafka had become so wrapped up in the idea of being loved by the last person he ever thought he deserved it from that he actively shoved his biggest secret under the rug. All just to feel one more day of tender warmth from his lover. Recent events had forced everyone's hands and fresh wounds had to be quickly patched with no real healing touch behind them. Hoshina still came to base every two weeks to train Kafka in Squadron Style hand-to-hand, but neither one made any move to bring up how the reveal seemed to cut down the trust that had been built between them. With the looming threat of another coordinated attack looming over everyone, it had been silently decided that it would have to be put to the side for now.

Kafka was desperate to say he was sorry, in any way he could. That he knew he should have said something earlier, damn the fact that their budding attachment to each other was about as stable as a newborn deer's legs. You don't hide the fact that you have an alien entity buried in your chest just because you want to see how far you can get away with courting above your military station. It wasn't just to see if he could either; He never viewed their love as something so empty and vain. Kafka more than looked up to him. Hoshina was the pinnacle of everything he ever wanted to be growing up. And that same person was looking back at him and telling Kafka that he had a chance; that he believed in him no matter how small that chance was. He wanted to be anything and everything that Hoshina could ever want to see in a partner, in someone that could stand by his side as well as Mina's. Hoshina loving him back was just a bonus.

Kafka just had to hope there would be a moment where he could put it all into words.

"Narumi, if you keep bouncing your heel against the table, I will not hesitate to assign you to janitorial duty for a year." Director Shinomiya gruffly commanded from his seat at the head of the table.

"It's not my fault you geezers are talking about dull shit. Losing my mind over here." Narumi groaned as he moved the offending foot off of the table, the movement snapping Kafka out of his spiraling misery.

"This "Dull Shit" as you so put it is critical for the defense of the nation!" Jozu declared as a fist bounced firmly on the boardroom table.

As Narumi began to engage in a battle of differences with the Chief of Staff, Shinomiya stole a brief look at the wall clock, "Tell you what. If you can tell the group what the last subject we were discussing was, I'll dismiss this meeting early."

"Uhhh... okay. Yeah, sure, I can do that." Narumi drawled as he was caught unaware by the proposition.

"The last thing we were talking about was..." Narumi chewed on his lip as he tried his best to think back to what the conversation was about in the first place. He threw several pleading glances back as a distracted Kafka before leaning back in his chair.

"Psst! Help me out here!" He harshly whispered, his lips almost curling into a snarl from how long it was taking Kafka to answer him.

Kafka fingers flew frantically over the screen as he tried to find the last place he left off in his notes for the meeting. As soon as he found it, he leaned down to Narumi's ear to whisper the answer back.

"We were about to move away from talking about the budget for the R&D department!" Narumi claimed with as much confidence as he could muster.

As everyone in the room glared disapprovingly for a moment longer than comfortable, Narumi began to direct the collective brunt of the glare back towards Kafka, who was visibly sweating buckets. A loud and disappointed sigh soon broke the uncomfortable silence before a creaking of a chair was heard from the head of the table.

"Meeting Adjourned." The director ordered as he stood up, the toll of the meeting now seen more clearly in the lines of his usually impassive face.

While everyone there would have gone on record stating that these meetings were important and necessary to have, it wouldn't have taken a trained eye to see just how fast everyone was leaving the board room. Even the Director let out a low gasp of relief, his sinking shoulders betraying his stone visage in the smallest way possible. Not waiting for more people to leave the room, Narumi didn't hesitate to drag Kafka out by the collar and pulled him out into the connecting hallway. Hoping to corner Kafka somewhere a little more private, he dropped his hand and sauntered away knowing his subordinate would follow closely behind. Narumi had long since caught on to Kafka's tactic of playing around with the tablet to give the appearance of being busy, but hadn't cared about it before now. Having almost been humiliated by the potential distraction made him wonder what could Kafka be doing that garnered so much divided attention. Once they had made a more comfortable distance away from the board room did Narumi start his investigation.

"Mind handing me the notes since you're still here?" The captain requested, starting his attack early. The sudden question made Kafka shake himself out of his fog of thoughts and fumble around with the prematurely dismissed tablet.

"Yeah, sure, give me a second." He answered back as he woke the screen back up.

"A second?" Narumi pressed harshly, leaning in to the irritated energy he developed back in the meeting.

"I-I just want to check for spelling mistakes." Kafka casually lied as a bead of sweat rolling down his temple, betraying his nerves.

"That's bullshit and you know it." Narumi countered as he made a swipe for the device in Kafka's hands.

"What's up with you, Mr. McGrabby Hands? Usually I have to print these out and staple them to your forehead in order for you to read them." Kafka retaliated as he had to dance around his commander, making painstakingly sure the tablet didn't fall into the wrong hands.

"Maybe I just wanna see what kinda shit you're doodling on company time." Narumi growled with determination as he tried every trick in the book to knock the tablet out of Kafka's hands.

"Pfffft, w-who me? I-I'm not doodling! I wouldn't do that!" Kafka sputtered as he cradled the device close to his chest while trying his best to erase all of the artwork he had scrawled in the margins of the pages.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of, Kafka. I would too if I could." Narumi continued to goad as he pressed himself as close as he could over Kafka's back, still in a battle for dominance over the hotly desired device.

"Here, here! Take it! Jesus..." Kafka shouted defensively as he tossed over the tablet into Narumi's surprised hands. Narumi took a moment scrolling excitedly, hoping that Kafka had missed a piece somewhere on the digital pages. His eager grim dropped quickly into a disappointed scowl once he was sure there was nothing incriminating to be seen.

"Told you." Kafka confirmed breathlessly, "Busy with spell checking, like I said."

Narumi eyed him distrustfully through his bangs as he stayed hunched over the tablet. His suspicions over his officer's habits had yet to be dissuaded, but he relaxed his shoulders and took ownership of the device nonetheless.

"Whatever. Anything you draw probably looks like dogshit anyway." Narumi teased maliciously, wondering what kind of reaction he would get if he did.

Seeing the ploy for what it was, Kafka made sure to keep himself looking unshakeable as he tried to stare down his current captain. Soon, the two of them heard a pixelated popping noise that was synonymous with the act of receiving a call over their government issued ear buds. Hasegawa's authoritatively dull tone soon filtered in with a slight crackle.

"Narumi. I request Kafka's presence outside in the West Quadrant. Is he available to do so soon?" The commander's right hand man asked, the sound of the wind unmistakable under his request. Narumi sighed irritably as he gave a long, hard stare right back at Kafka.

"Yeah. Meeting's over so he should be there soon." Narumi answered before he nodded Kafka away, signaling he could go.

Kafka silently bowed back and turned sharply on his heels. Narumi watched as he lightly jogged away at a clipped pace, clearly wanting out of his company. Making sure Kafka didn't come running back for any unknown reason, Narumi picked up the disregarded tablet once again and gave the note screen a thorough once-over. Biting the inside of his cheek, his eyes glanced over the back and forward arrow at the bottom of the screen. He took a chance and tapped on the button several times. His eyes grew wide as he watched the margins of the notes become jarringly splashed in broad strokes of color. Giggling manically to himself, Narumi ran off back to his office so he could study Kafka's colorfully intricate secrets in peace.

Fall in Tachikawa had brought a bitter chill along with the changing of the leaves. It came slicing in on those pervasive and penetrative winds, the kind that makes old men say "It wouldn't be so bad if not for the wind". Soshiro's brother often compared him to this type of weather, saying that if it wasn't for his blades, he would be easier to ignore and that it's more regrettable that he isn't. It was the type of weather that made every fiber of your body run for warmth despite it not being life threatening. Hoshina would have dove for a more welcoming form of warmth, one he had become intensely attached to shockingly quickly, but was forced to supplement it with one cheap glass of beer after another.

He wasn't normally a heavy drinker, not unless you counted coffee. Lately the nights after work had started to require something stronger than coffee and after dark training. Everywhere he walked, it was just another reminder of what he lost. Crumbling walls, cracks in the foundation, it all reminded him of Kafka. It almost felt like it was all taunting him. The cracks and crannies mutating into leering jeers, mocking and slandering him, saying he wasn't strong enough. That if he had taken Number 10 down faster, that the base would still be here, that nobody would have been forced to transfer, that Kafka...

Thus the alcohol. At least with something fermented running through his system, there was a chance Hoshina could redirect his brain to something less soul-sucking. When it was just mug after mug of coffee, all it did was make the thoughts churn faster and bring up every little problem he didn't feel like dealing with right now. With the alcohol, the thoughts were slower. Sure it was the same thoughts, but he could at least buy himself enough time and fake plausible excuses to make himself feel better. His first and most recurring thought being about his current coldness towards his most treasured cadet.

Kafka was a Kaiju...apparently. And he had somehow managed to hide any indication of this affliction during the six months they had been together. Hoshina was beyond mad about it -he was furious- but that feeling did nothing against what he already knew to be self evident about the both of them. Given a second to open his mouth, Hoshina knew that Kafka would spill apology after apology, be on his hands and knees begging for forgiveness. He would probably go so far as to say that he would understand if Hoshina would prefer to never see him again after breaking his trust so demonstrably. It wouldn't stop Kafka from trying anyway, just so he could have a chance to help Hoshina understand that he didn't do it out of maliciousness or genuine distrust. Hoshina had an idea of why he did it, but he didn't want to tear himself up over it any further by jumping to conclusions.

All he knew was that if he was given that same second, he would have cut Kafka's throat before he had a chance to speak. Yes, it was partly because that would be his sick idea of a fitting punishment for not saying anything about it sooner (It's not like he would die from it). But the bigger reason was that Hoshina wouldn't be able to hear Kafka even suggesting they separate over something so trivial. Well, it felt trivial to Hoshina anyway. Soshiro loved Kafka. Even as Kafka was being loaded into the transport, Hoshina had to dig into everything he had not to cut down anyone that would be in his way and drag his dopey partner off over the horizon to whatever sense of safety they could carve out for themselves. He wanted to forgive Kafka just as much as he wanted to forgive Hoshina, but God he was too damn prideful to let this go so easily.

It's not like they had any time to hash this out properly anyway. Not with the attack of Tachikawa Base acting as an indicator for worse to come. He went into his arrangement with Kafka knowing full well that what was being unsaid was going to hurt them both, but talking it out and trying to heal from what would be said would take up so much precious time that they did not have. All this arrangement was to Hoshina was a way to see Kafka one more time, to get to touch him one. more. time. This was his way of making sure that moving forward, Kafka had a chance to be safe, as well as keeping track of how he was feeling. After he explained to Mina what he was going to be doing every week, she wrote down a list of expressions Kafka makes and what they meant. Kafka wasn't just Kaiju Number 8 to the Third Division, and Hoshina had to work with what he could do to make sure Kafka felt anything but unwanted.

But by not saying anything, Hoshina couldn't get back the same treatment Kafka would return tenfold if he just asked. This was the one-sided, unspoken, understanding that sent him to the local bars most nights. He initially despised the the communal loneliness that seemed to permeated the atmosphere of these places, but soon found himself becoming a major contributor of the melancholy fog he once avoided. The dark wood walls offered a sense of artificial coziness while the bartender had a good sense of when to talk it out with a customer and when to just serve and leave. The man behind the bar never offered to converse with him, probably understanding with just a glance that Hoshina's problem wasn't something that could be solved with small talk.

So there he sat. Nursing a third mug of light draft beer and praying that memorizing the wood grain pattern in the mahogany in front of him will be enough to distract him churning mind for one more night. With his eyes crossing and his mind still not quiet, Hoshina quickly understood that he was fighting a loosing battle. With a tired sigh, he pulled out a last ditch effort seeing as he didn't feel fit to head back just yet. He pulled out his phone and began to scroll endlessly, the motions sufficiently rendering his skull numb.

It wasn't something he ever wanted to make a habit out of. He was always going on about how there were so many other tasks that could be done that were more beneficial than doom-scrolling. It made him sound like an out-of-touch senior, but he always stood by that sentiment. Well, before now at least. He hated to admit it but some nights it really was the only thing that could get him distracted enough to sleep. Hoshina pulled up Chatter and skipped over his For You page, preferring to look at more national headlines than anything the algorithm spat in his face. He had only scrolled for a short while before he came across a familiar account profile.

Narumi had had posted something earlier in the day and it was quickly making headway through the notarized list of most fascinating things showcased that day. Hoshina just rolled his eyes at it and quickly moved past it, not feeling like being exposed to whatever attention-whoring shenanigans that fool had cooked up for himself. A few articles later, he felt weirdly compelled to go back up and look at it with the idea that maybe he would feel better if he could glean some scathing retort to it. It might make Narumi's post more popular, but when he joined in the conversation, that just meant that it only drew in more attention because he chimed in. And some days that would be enough for him.

Scrolling back up however, Hoshina was blindsided by the subject of the post. Narumi had posted some art. Not only that, it was art that Hoshina recognized. Hoshina had spent so many hours leaning over the artist's shoulder, critiqued every little doodle that ended up on the bottom of incident reports, and had been the subject of many an artwork that it was impossible for him not to distinguish Kafka's deft hand on the digital canvas. Rounded patches of cool colors cascaded under crisp, but messy line work. Portraits were nothing more than organized scribbles, but the still life's were where Kafka really shined.

In the slim margins of what were clearly meeting notes, Kafka had managed to depict one of the managerial heads sitting across from him at the table, including the top of Narumi's head and boot in frame and in perfect point perspective. "He does not deserve to look like a Renaissance painting" was the caption of the post. Hoshina only caught the heading of the post as he accidentally backed out of observing the screen shots more closely. Looking around the edges of the post, he understood that what he was looking at wasn't even the original post. Clicking one link after another, Hoshina managed to dig around long enough to find the rest of the chain of posts, all talking about Kafka's art.

"My assistant is so cooked Dawg! Caught his ass doodling during a meeting!1!" Was the title to the start of it all. From there, it had devolved into a more serious critique of the art found. One post after another was about how accurate the details were. Occasionally, there was one about how stupid-looking a fellow defense force member appeared, but it just looped back around to the precision of it all. Hoshina wasn't surprised. After all he had the same reaction to the first time he had discovered Kafka's artistic talent. The memory bubbled up unbidden, causing Hoshina to sniff back a runny nose as he tried not to get swept away by his feelings. The memory continued to play in the back of his mind, projected onto the phantom screen hung in the back of his eyes...

It was an unseasonably warm day in March last year. Hoshina only had the new recruits for a few months now, but he was feeling like they were making lots of progress to breaking in to being the best soldiers of this generation. For a reward, the ground troops of the Third Division got to leave the base for a whole day. There was a slight caveat to this in that they were asked to turn out to a school spirit event, but none of them minded since it still meant they got to skip out on training for a day. In fact, it felt like they were more than happy to show up to the event and get the chance to inspire the next generation themselves. Some even went above and beyond, buying some cheap toys and candy to pass out. Kafka had gone out of his way as well and bought boxes and boxes of chalk.

Hoshina had been continued to be surprised by this man. Even still having only 1% aptitude for the suits, he continued to be a mainstay among the Defense Force. Once Hoshina made enough excuses for him, backed by Kafka's consistent information gathering while in the field, it started to feel like the Higher Ups just gave up and backed off. So what if one guy in their platoon only had 1% percent to spare? He was doing his best to earn his keep and with everyone else surpassing records previously held by earlier iterations of their platoons, it seemed like they could spare to have the extra hand around. Unfortunately, this did unintentionally classify Kafka as a mascot, but no one was going to offer the information up intentionally.

And it wasn't like the man wasn't doing anything to dissuade the mascot allegations. When Hoshina had finally cleared enough paperwork to come down to the school to let some of the other officers take off, he saw Kafka over in a corner of the school's lot looking like he was giving a very educational lesson. Dressed in cheesy vacation finery, that is to say an open Hawaiian shirt with a white tank and jean shorts paired with socks and sandals, Kafka had squatted down so he was eye level with his own congregation of children and was animatedly discussing something that had them all enraptured. Surrounded by buckets of chalk, Kafka was using one to illustrate something on the black top before them. Interest immediately piqued, Hoshina decided to slide on by for a visit.

Childish chalk drawings littered the lot around him as he made his way over, some appearing to have been abandoned halfway through. Looking over at where Kafka was, Hoshina could see a much more detailed drawing of what looked to be a fearsome battle of strength between a comically large Isao and a daikaiju. Just under it, Kafka had started up another illustration and was using it as a base for an art lesson in chalk. He talked in simple words, having to slow himself down in his own excitement several times just to make sure that the other kids were following along. He actively encouraged questions, surveying his grouping to make sure everyone had a chance to see and to understand. On his knees, Kafka leaned over his own makeshift canvas and was about to start demonstrating a new facet of art but suddenly stopped once Hoshina's shadow made his presence known before he opened his mouth.

"Wait! Don't move." Kafka said as he held his hand up without looking, "Don't move a muscle. Stay right where you are."

He took out a piece of chalk and began to quickly sketch the outline of Hoshina's shadow. One Kafka got all the way around his head, he started to sketch other details of Hoshina's face like his haircut and sly shaped mouth.

"I know that silhouette anywhere!" Kafka exclaimed as he finished his rough outline, "Vice Captain Hoshina! I was wondering when you would show up." He finished just as he looked up at his vice captain and flashed him the brightest smile he thought he would ever see.

The two of them exchanged pleasantries, but it was already too late for him. Once he knew of the way Kafka saw the world, Hoshina started to become more and more invested in all other aspects of him. Kafka's art was a gateway into his mind, and Hoshina didn't hesitate to walk right in. It looked so bright and hopeful on first impressions, but the more Hoshina hung around Kafka the more he would start to catch glimpses of things not being the case. Kafka stopped being just the funny man of the group to him after he found out about his talent. Much like other great artists, Kafka was as layered and as colorful as watercolor on canvas.

Thus began a months-long secret relationship with a man that was originally here off of pity and bias. Hoshina was thankful he could stop making excuses to keep him around at some point, because now it meant he could poke around at Kafka a little more. More intently, more personally. He always found Kafka fascinating from the get-go, seeing as his initial performance during the second test was surrounded with an air of secretive fascination, but that all fell away once he saw the shining facets of Kafka's mind. Hoshina felt he was no better than a crow some days, but the love and attention he received from Kafka just meant that he stumbled onto a gift that just kept giving.

Hoshina continued to scroll down the chain of posts, trying to keep himself from bursting into tears. Each new sketch, each scrawl and scratch of digital ink felt better than anything intense nostalgia could replicate. It was almost like a salve for his weary mind, an old childhood blanket that never aged a day, offering comfort and relief and sorely, much needed warmth. It had been so long since a hand-written scrap of love had graced his desk, Hoshina hadn't realized how much he needed them to continue his day. If snapshots of daily life at Ariaka made him feel bad, seeing any piece of Kafka's old life at Tachikawa made Hoshina's heart skip a beat.

Lungs hiccuping as he scrolled past happy recreations of outings long past, he wondered if he was going to be able to keep it together for much longer. It wasn't that he was embarrassed to be seen crying, it was more so with how he felt right then. He felt like he was too open, his heart becoming too exposed. Like a bonsai being harshly shaped and molded into a memoriam of what he and his division once had. A flash of blackish-purple and the side profile of someone's cheerful face finally broke Hoshina. Slamming the phone on the counter, he brought a hand up to muffle an unbidden sob. He hadn't looked long, but he knew Kafka well enough that it couldn't have been anything other than his most favorite thing to draw.

Grabbing his mug of unfinished beer, Hoshina took off running towards the restrooms, not wanting to garner attention from the smattering of people in the dive bar he was holding himself up in. Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the forced drought of affection, maybe just seeing Kafka art was the last straw, but Hoshina found that he couldn't take it anymore. Hoshina had been forcing a facade every moment of every day he managed to get out of bed. Being in a shitty little bar at the end of the night might have allowed him to drop the mask a little, relieve some of the pressure that the mask had been holding back, but even the Vice Commander, Second to Mina Ashiro in power and strength, had his limits. Seeing that Kafka still thought of him as a muse was his line in the sand.

He slammed the mug down on the long row of sinks as he neared the other wall. Turning sharply on his heels, he fell back onto the teal painted, concrete brick wall as his knees gave out from under him. His brain felt warm, like it had been taken out of his skull and been manhandled under the hot sun for far too long. His chest felt like it was in Number 10's crushing grip all over again, which honestly felt preferable to having nothing to hold him in their arms right now. A part of Hoshina wondered if he was imagining his legs shaking or if he really was being that fucking pathetic; drinking alone, crying in a dirty dive bar bathroom, killing himself over his iron sense of pride. No part of him was delusional enough however to deny the boiling streams of tears falling down his tired eyes as they fell onto his tightly gripped phone.

With just one glance, the same comfort Kafka's art gave him rendered him a sopping mess. He was the one that told Kafka not to get attached to his team-mates, and now here he was, being reminded all over again as to why he should've taken his own advice. It was stupid, it was demeaning, and it was all his fault. Sitting here, on the floor of a place he never would have walked into before he met Kafka, one thought fought it's way through the tears and tinnitus and made him confront this one, now ever present fact about himself. Given the chance to start all over again, to have never been close to Kafka in the first place and had just investigated what he first considered to be a threat, Hoshina... wouldn't have taken it. Kaiju or not, Hoshina would never give that man up for anything.

And yet he did. Because if he really held true to what he wanted, Kafka would still be at Tachikawa, not halfway up the country in another base being placated with busy work because no one trusts him with anything important anymore. For the longest time, hell even to this night, Hoshina's mind continued to waver back and forth over whether or not he ever really had a chance to fight the powers that be. Whether he really could have helped Kafka to stay or if it all was genuinely out of his hands, then and now. Like any of it matters this late at night anyway. Beds had been made, but all Hoshina could do was wish to lie in the one he made with Kafka.

Well... as much as it killed him right at this moment, at least he had Kafka's art. Art was supposed to make people feel something anyway, right? This was just another check mark on the long list of incredible things Kafka was capable of. Taking slow, deep breaths until after the tears stopped, Hoshina prepared himself to look again. The pain of the memory was great, but forcing oneself to not feel anything was starting to be worse. Grabbing the glass of beer from the counter, Hoshina wiped the spilled tears off the screen and turned it back on.

It was just what he expected, really. The last two posts containing about eight images total were all just head shots of Hoshina with different expressions. "Okay, this is just embarrassing. Why is there so many pics of this schmuck?" Was the first post's title, a little rude but a genuine question for those unprepared for the full weight of Kafka's unyielding need to have Hoshina be his inspiration. He let out a small giggle as he took a sip of beer, remembering Kafka's weird obsession with scribbling out rough outlines of his face in the corners of anything paper-like he could get his hands on. Several pages of his notebooks dedicated to kaiju anatomy specifically were often signed with his face next to Kafka's name. Hoshina liked to tease him about it, calling it the new age version of carving initials into trees. Seeing the post sort of healed him inside just a little, knowing Kafka hasn't completely changed even with their undisclosed separation from each other.

The second post was where his tears started to threaten to fall again. It was still bust and head shots of Hoshina, but they all had a reoccurring theme of him in various stages of sleep. "I hate E V E R Y T H I N G about this... WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU KNOW WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE ASLEEP?!?!??! I hope this is just some creepy stalker fan-shit on GOD." Was the title of the second half of the post. Again a... reasonable response, considering that their relationship was never public before now. Somewhere in the deep recesses in his thoughts, Hoshina had a feeling that this was going to come around and bite him in the ass, but being three beers in made it really hard to care about problems one couldn't immediately foresee. Sure made it really easy to remember the past, so it seemed. With every side angle, every illusion of light filtering over pale peach skin in every hastily drawn rendition of happy mornings past, Hoshina couldn't escape another trip down memory lane.

Kafka used to have a horrible sleep schedule, even while in the Defense Force. He was the type of person to fight every minute getting up once he heard the wake up siren due to staying up late at night studying. Hoshina was never going to admit this, but he was hoping he was going to have a chance to somewhat abuse his relationship status with Kafka and. . . encourage a slight change to the schedule. All for his own good of course. Can't continue to be a valuable member of the Defense Force if one isn't awake enough to contribute. Come to find out, Hoshina wasn't going to have to intervene at all once it was made clear that he didn't mind being Kafka's muse.

Hoshina caught on pretty quickly that Kafka was starting to get up earlier and earlier so he could sketch him at his most vulnerable. He hardly used paper medium anymore at this point, too much to drag around which made it obvious. He was the type of person that kept his illustrations close to his chest, not wanting to let others see before he was finished. Using his phone was just more convenient all around for him, checking all the boxes in all the right ways. As a birthday gift for Kafka, Hoshina went out of his way to get a hold of a phone that had a built in stylus. Every spare second Hoshina had to snag a glance of Kafka, was every second Kafka had his nose shoved in his new phone, scrawling away at it.

Which led to these precious moments they found themselves in while hiding from the world in Hoshina's room. Kafka had started to sleep with Hoshina at his place, working late enough into the night that everyone went to bed before he did just so he could book it over to his partner's room and stay with him until before morning. If anyone was to ask either of them why he went through so much trouble and risk, they both would jokingly answer that it was all for Hoshina's benefit because he runs cold and Kafka's practically a walking space heater. Really, it was for Kafka. That man would have spent all hours of the day looking and drawing Hoshina's face if anyone let him.

And that's exactly the view Hoshina woke up to most mornings. As his awareness slowly dripped back into his mind, he could feel his body was sprawled out at odd angles over his side of the bed. When Hoshina first joked about his plan to let Kafka stay over at his section of the barracks, he noted how oddly enthused Kafka was with the idea, but became visibly dismayed once the vice captain brought up how the two of them could never fit on his measly, military issued twin mattress. It wasn't long before Hoshina intervened with some supply orders and had a second twin frame and mattress smuggled up to his room. Snugged up against the wall with his pillow crammed under his broad chest, was Kafka; lying on his stomach and was most likely sketching another picture of Hoshina asleep and awkwardly positioned.

Hoshina did his best not to stir, knowing how easy it was for Kafka to break concentration when he was doodling. Keeping his eyes in that closed looking state, he continued to watch as Kafka chewed at his upper lip in deep thought as he was prone to do if he felt like he was struggling with a particular piece. Hoshina could watch him sketch his art all day if he could. The expressions Kafka went through as he worked told a story just as vibrant as his art could be. After watching his face contort from one of irritated concentration to comically restrained victory, Hoshina couldn't hold still any longer and giggled. Catching his muse awake, Kafka moved as if he was struck with a taser and instinctively tried to shield his phone from Hoshina's amused gaze.

"Come on, let me see!" Hoshina wearily droned with a smile, "I've been posing for you for hours." He sluggishly pulled his arm closer to Kafka's shoulder and gently massaged it, making it clear that he wanted to be closer.

Kafka let out a relaxed chortle as he complied and shifted just a little closer, "Uh huh, trying so hard to "pose" you started drooling for accuracy?"

"I do not!" Hoshina sleepily countered as he pushed Kafka playfully. The two of them giggled together as they liked to do, falling into that easy pattern of living that formed naturally when they were alone.

Suddenly not content with just a shoulder touch and a warm view, Hoshina slowly stalked himself closer to his bed-mate while staying under the thin sheets. He draped his nude form over Kafka's equally naked, prone back, slotting his hips over the lower officer's round ass and burying his face into the now super heated neck. Arms were nestled under the heavy frame as Hoshina took a long snort of Kafka's natural scent. He shifted back and forth a little purely for indulging in the sensation of another's heated being underneath him. Any and all thoughts Kafka had about continuing his daily morning sketches went flying out the window as he took the wordless affection with what was hoped to be a touch of grace.

'Seriously. Is there anything other than me in there?" Hoshina placidly asked once he finished absorbing Kafka's essence

"Kinda hard to say. You're always the most interesting one in the room." Kafka answered with a slight shudder, unintentionally exposing his neck at the languid tactility overloading his senses at the moment.

Nosing at the undefended area offered to him, Hoshina wiggled out an arm and took Kafka's phone from his hand. Kafka let it happen since Hoshina was probably one of the few people in this world he would let see such personal designs. His partner never had anything truly mean to say about his work, Even some of his more critical commentary was offered up as a joke which made it all glide down more easily. Those comments were only really applied to moments when Kafka was clearly not putting all of his effort into a piece, so in the end they didn't damage anything ego-wise. Some days it felt like Hoshina was the only person Kafka could get some genuine, reliable feedback, so it made him feel all the better that there was something he could do that occasionally impressed his commander on some level. Continuing to scroll through the list of drafts saved on his phone, Hoshina let out a concerning sounding chuckle at the volume of saved images that appeared to be about him.

"Geez, it's just one after the other with you isn't it?" Hoshina commented as he pulled his head out from behind Kafka's neck to look better.

"No no, keep scrolling. I'm pretty sure I have a few pieces that are different." Kafka challenged, now just as curious as to where those images went.

"From what, last year?" Hoshina jokingly asked as he looked at his lover more pointedly.

"Noooo, hold on. There's gotta be one that's more recent." Kafka answered as he took the phone back. He quickly scrolled the page back to the top and picked one from yesterday.

"Yeah, see? Some of these have multiple images." Kafka politely informed as he moved past a sketch of Hoshina drinking coffee and instead focused on a distorted self portrait.

"What even is that?" Hoshina wondered as he tried to lean closer to the phone.

"It's supposed to be a self portrait, but I drew it from how I look in your headboard. See?" Kafka said as he held up the image to the reflective metal bars that made up the back of Hoshina's bed.

"Oh, I get it now. Distortion practice?" Hoshina observed as his eyes flickered between the image and the inspiration.

"Something like that." Kafka confirmed as he pulled his phone back to search through the rest of his drafts for more evidence that he's not solely focused on his lover.

Hoshina let out a soft hum as he watched Kafka try to defend himself, "You know, now that I think about it, there was detail missing from that piece."

"Wait, really?" I mean, I thought I was doing well with the proportions." Kafka muttered as he went back to the sketch they were looking at first.

"See? Right there." Hoshina pointed to a spot on Kafka's shoulder in the image when it was pulled back up, "There's something missing."

"Really? Not to question you or anything- you're the one with a better eye for detail after all."

"Yep, this." Hoshina interrupted and swiftly bit down on the sensitive part of Kafka's neck where it met the meat of his shoulder.

Kafka sharply gasped as he accidentally bucked into the treatment, "God, you're a menace" He muttered lovingly.

"Hmmm, you love me for it though." Hoshina groaned back after he languidly lapped at the mark it left.

Kafka returned a kiss before continuing to move through image after image. As he watched, Hoshina found his various thoughts coming back to one central theme.

"Surprised you haven't started an art blog before now." He ruminated as Kafka pulled up another sketch.

"Used to, actually. On Chatter? Back in my late high school, early Monster Sweepers days." Kafka offered openly as he tossed an unimpressed look over his shoulder.

"You're kidding." Hoshina responded with genuine astonishment, to which Kafka shook his head no with an amused smile.

"Well show me then!" Hoshina cheered enthusiastically, shimmying impossibly closer to Kafka like he was settling down to a good movie.

"I-I-I can't do that!" Kafka retorted with the blush on his face quickly creeping back over his cheeks, "I couldn't remember the password if my life depended on it."

"You don't have to log in, you still remember your username right?" Hoshina questioned, now desperate for this potential snapshot of Kafka younger in life.

"I mean... yeah?" Kafka answered shyly, "God, this is going to be so embarrassing." He muttered before he closed out of his sketching app and opened up another one.

After several retypings in the quest to remember his old high school username, Kafka eventually came across the page after backtracking from someone else's old post. It was clear from the dated visual puns in the blog banner that it had certainly been a while before he had updated anything. They both cringed a little once they saw that it had been fifteen years since he had last updated.

" 'TheBestDEFENSEIsAGoodArtist'? That's your username?" Hoshina teased with dripping malice and astonishment.

"Look it was either that or something clever with Goromon. It was the last thing Mina helped me with before... well, you know." Kafka tried to defend himself, but any move to do so collapsed under the weight of the memory.

Hoshina noticed the way his face fell just that little bit and snuggled up closer as reassurance, "Probably for the best you didn't go with the second one. Probably would have confused a lot of people to come to your page and not see anything related to it." He mentioned as he squeezed his arms around his partner's chest.

"Well, it wasn't like there wasn't any Goromon fanart from time to time. Maybe if I did, I would have had a chance to be more popular." Kafka countered dolefully.

"What did you draw anyway?" Hoshina politely asked with both curiosity and gentle encouragement.

Kafka slowly scrolled down the page to let Hoshina take in the art. It was set to show from most to least popular, making it clear that a lot of people liked his funnier depictions of kaijus. Every once in a while, something drastically different broke up the timeline. There were several anatomical pencil sketches of kaiju bodies with various layers peeled away from them. From the skin to the veins, down past the muscle and right through the core of the bones, it was a study of raw power poised in a deathly still life. There were even notes and arrows that littered the borders of the page that pointed out something that couldn't be depicted through graphite lines alone. There were several and they all varied in quality, clearly bringing to light a growing talent.

A flash of color snapped at Hoshina's attention as Kafka continued to scroll past. Shooing his finger away, the vice captain took back partial control of the phone so he could see what that last image was. It was a digital rendition of one of the larger kaiju skeletons that continued to rage through the streets of Japan. What made this one different from all the rest was the fact that it wasn't just showing the skeleton, but the damage done to the surrounding buildings as well. Over all of it was a plush blanket of foliage, lacing its way over and under the long broken rubble and the now ancient looking remains of the gargantuan threat. It had set itself apart from the other productions of Kafka's mind, not only from its content but also from a still-fresh feeling of inexplicable melancholy. Such a bright picture should have told a story about new beginnings, but the only thing Hoshina could feel from this particular work was an odd sense of desolation.

"This one is quite different." He commented as he looked at it intensely, absorbed into the alien terrarium on the other side of the digital glass.

"Yeah." Kafka scratched the side of his head and sighed with bitter sounding heaviness, "Believe it or not, that is a vent piece." he continued as he pointed a quick accusatory finger at the screen.

"A vent piece?" Hoshina questioned.

He found it was an odd subject matter to use to depict intense negative emotion. Not only that, he had a hard time picturing Kafka illustrating something so calm and serene as an outlet for whatever turbulent emotion that could be concocting inside that thick skull of his.

"Yeah." Kafka sighed again as he took back ownership of the phone, "I drew this one after my... sixth? Attempt at joining the Defense Force."

He scrolled back up a little so Hoshina could read the caption over the attached picture.

"Just got out of the Defense Force testing lab again. Just gotta wait for an answer now, but I can already tell this isn't going to end well. Got a job interview with a kaiju cleaning department in a few days since I'm leaving High School at the end of the month, so lets hope that goes better!"

"Don't you think you were jinxing yourself a little with that caption?" Hoshina tried to jokingly ask, but it was clear that Kafka was stuck relieving his childhood blues.

"At that point you get a sense of what the instructor was looking for in their recruits. They don't really hide their preferences well, even when they're just glancing in your direction." Kafka answered dejectedly as he moved away from the image.

"After that, I had stopped captioning them. I didn't even bother giving them names." Kafka continued to scroll down his page, every once in a while another, similar piece of art made itself known.

He was right. None of them were captioned. He didn't know if it was intentional, but with none of them being named it seemed to add on to the sense of grief. It almost made it feel like these pieces were abandoned, which was not like Kafka at all. Failing time and time again in such a predictable manner would obviously break anybody's will, but the outcome of such torment had created these pieces. Now with context, these illustrations had ingrained themselves into Hoshina's mind. This was the first instance of him ever learning what a broken Kafka looked like.

"Here." Kafka quietly announced, "This is the last thing I ever posted to this account." He pulled up what looked to be the roughest sketch Hoshina thought he would ever see.

This looked more like a vent piece than any of the others he had seen along the way. Quick, harsh, and dark lines were strewn all over the limited space of the sketchbook this was depicted on. From what Hoshina could deduce, it was one of the larger kaijus with nothing remarkable about its appearance. The details would have come in later for sure, but it was clear that this piece never made it to that stage. From what he could tell however, was that this one had the potential to be one of Kafka's more disturbing artworks.

Buildings were flattened all around the corpse, cracked and broken apart like several city blocks had undergone a devastating explosion. The body was lying on its back, its limbs at unnatural angles. Its stomach looked more than exposed, more so that the explosion that leveled the buildings around it had been caused by whatever was inside the beast. It didn't look flayed, more so shredded and mangled- almost beyond recognition. While the others had been depicted with at least some sense of grace among the dereliction, this was far from it. This was agony and misery made pure and raw. Hoshina was almost glad that Kafka didn't finish this one. He hadn't known that his officer had such an ability to express such pain from just a bare-bones sketch, and he hoped that Kafka would never have to again.

"Told myself if I made this final test, I would finish it." Kafka's cold and stoic words broke the trance the image had held over Hoshina at that moment. "Not hard to guess what happened."

"You finally did make it though, haven't you?" Hoshina offered as a small token of relief against the unintentional strife he didn't know he would be causing that day.

The Kaiju Alert system went off before Kafka could give back an answer.

There wasn't a day that hadn't gone by where Hoshina had wondered if there was anything better he could have said in that moment. What even was there to say? Better late than never? You made it anyway, despite everything? He knew Kafka wouldn't take any of those as consolation. After all, Kafka still hadn't made it, per se. He wasn't by Mina's side like he promised all those years ago. It didn't help Hoshina was technically standing in the way of that, and that wasn't even getting into their unapproved relationship or the whole "Defense Force's New Kaiju Pet" situation. Even if it wasn't expressed through his art, Hoshina knew that it was probably still chewing Kafka up inside.

At least their current situation hadn't caused Kafka's art to revert back to his earlier standard of subjects. That meant that there was still something he was holding onto, some semblance of hope or light that managed to drag Kafka through each day. Which was more than Hoshina could say for himself. He couldn't show it, but he had long since lost any hope for a sign that things had a chance to go back to normal. That was just the case some days, having to adjust to what could potentially be a permanent change in schedule.

Hoshina really didn't want that to be the case. If he had any true, real power, he would tell the directors to shove it and have Kafka back at Tachikawa by morning. But he couldn't. The best he could do was arrange these weekly visits under the guise of training and nothing else, and that "Nothing Else" clause was what was truly killing him on the inside. Despite the pride, despite the resentment, he wanted to see Kafka again- really see Kafka again, Not just for training but to hang out and have dinner together again, to wake up together in the morning and rush out the door before anyone could question them again. The only thing stopping it all from continuing was time...

...Or was it? Looking back through the drawings showing moments from before everything went to shit, Hoshina started asking questions he had thought he had already answered but only gave slapdash, shoddy excuses as a stopgap for the emotions he wasn't ready to deal with. Yes, they didn't know how much more time they would have together, but most normal people would take that as an excuse to do everything they could to spend more time together. The real fact of the matter was, it wasn't Hoshina using a lack of time as an excuse to hold off having the one conversation that was the key to fixing his lack-of-a-relationship-woes. It wasn't just keeping up the excuse of not wanting to further complicate their already uncertain future. At the core of it all, Hoshina just didn't want to admit that he was a petty, prideful man.

Kafka being a Kaiju didn't bother him in the slightest. If anything, he would have probably have been milking that excuse dry to weasel his way around any potential hiccups that would be stemming from his technically inappropriate relationship to his subordinate. What really bothered Hoshina the most about this whole unfortunate situation was the fact that it felt like Kafka didn't trust him enough to tell him about his situation before now! It boiled his blood some days when he remembered that Reno and Kikoru both knew about Kafka's condition before he did. He was also aware of the circumstances surrounding how those two ended up finding out, but he always felt like he was dealt a similar opportunity and somehow that information was denied anyway. They were dating! They were serious! What do you mean Kafka never felt like telling him?

It wasn't until about a month into their awkward separation treatment that Hoshina stopped and thought about why Kafka held it back from him. Even if Kafka did trust him completely, there was no guarantee it wouldn't have made things worse. Kafka could have proven seven ways from Sunday that he could be trusted to fight alongside others, but there would always be doubt. Hoshina wouldn't have been able to offer any certainty to Kafka that the captains or the directors could be trusted with his unusual situation. Hell, if Kafka had told him in the earliest days of their relationship, there might have been a chance that Hoshina would have been the one to give his partner a reason to never trust again. Solely because of the pressure from his job, of course, but if push had come to shove then... Hoshina had a feeling that things would not have ended up as passively as they are now.

In the end, Hoshina had no right to blame Kafka or hold anything against him. At this point, the silent-not-silent treatment was purely because Hoshina's pride was wounded from the insinuation. Now that fire that kept his ruefulness going was practically down to the embers. Even the resolve to not be the first to apologize was dwindling. It became clear all of a sudden that Kafka was never going to be the one to apologize for withholding information because he follows Hoshina's initiative. If he's the one acting like it's not a good time to hash out one's feelings for each other, then Kafka will sit tight and hold his tongue until Hoshina makes any sort of indication that he's ready to listen. Kafka's just as good at respecting boundaries as he is following orders, but it certainly makes it harder on Hoshina when he knows he's the one at fault for perpetuating this purgatory he didn't mean to drag Kafka into.

Screw pride and screw pettiness, Hoshina was truly missing his man tonight and if the price of having him back in his was the cost of losing face, then fine. Having to eat his own words would definitely be a step up from wallowing in a shitty bar drinking shitty beer night after night. The beer would taste better with company, but in order for that to happen he'd have to find a way to open the door to a proper apology. He didn't want to make it feel like he was only apologizing because he was lonely, he really did want to be sincere about it. Problem was, he couldn't remember a time where he sounded genuinely sincere. In his line of work, if he was found to be wrong on something it would have cost him his job. And as far as being wrong in his friendships went, well... when everything comes down to a matter of opinion, one doesn't tend to care who's right or wrong then. This really would be the first time he would have to admit that he was both sorry and wrong.

As his hand unconsciously brought the near empty beer mug to his mouth, Hoshina came to understood that he wasn't even in the right head-space to come up with anything sincere, let alone sound like it. Looks like this was just going to have to be another problem for Morning Hoshina to work out among the other million problems he usually had to deal with. Most of those problems might just end up getting shoved to the side tomorrow. Once he figures out a way to get his Kaiju boyfriend back in his arms, a lot of those problems aren't going to seem so big after then. For now though, Hoshina just felt like milking whatever time he had allotted for himself in the bar, just savoring the crappy drink and watching the shit show Narumi dug himself into tonight.

By accidentally refreshing the page, he had discovered a fresh trail of posts linked to the chain he had already made. Turns out Narumi had started an argument with another professional artist over the quality of Kafka's boredom doodles, and in retaliation had tried his had at a self portrait. It looked no better than a child's pre-school scratches, but Narumi was trying to say that there was a basis for a new, hidden talent somewhere in the mess of scribbles on their screens. Hoshina just chuckled as he saw Kafka's fiercest supporter come to his defense in near-real time. He took a couple screenshots of the conversation with the plan to hold it over Reno's head later as blackmail. Might also become a teaching tool as to when and how not to feed internet trolls, who knows?

It appears that several other members of the Third Division also couldn't sleep tonight as the likes and reblogs of more, familiar accounts began to trickle through the now popular chain of posts. A lot of them had begun to openly theorize over whether or not Kafka actually knows his Vice Captain that closely or it's all just some imagery practice. If Hoshna wasn't under the influence, he normally wouldn't have started to develop this intense feeling of being out of the loop. If Hoshina wasn't under the influence, he wouldn't have started thinking about how funny it would be to stir the pot a little. If Hoshina wasn't under the influence, he would certainly have never acted on such invasive and impish thoughts.

Picking himself off of the bathroom floor and feeling like there was nothing to loose, Hoshina took a long look at himself in the mirror. Instead of reflecting upon himself and reconsidering how damning this could turn out, he defaulted to being the one thing he and Kafka understood all too well-

-the joy of becoming a class clown.

Taking inspiration from Kafka's continued use of his image and depicting it in any way, shape, or form, Hoshina decided to shed both his jacket and shirt and tossed them carelessly onto the bathroom counter. Chugging the last of the beer, he intended for some of it to leak down the sides of his mouth and spill slightly over his chest. Twisting and shifting under the bright florescent lights, Hoshina managed to find a pose that felt vaguely suggestive enough to his likeness and still looked tasteful enough to look like something an artist would use as a reference pose. Pulling up his camera and hovering it by the side of his head, Hoshina gave himself one more once-over before he took the photo. At the last second, he remembered some of the faces Kafka had sketched out earlier at the meeting, with one in particular being a portrait of him with his tongue playfully sticking out. A face he was sure done before as far as he remembered. Replicating the face, Hoshina took the photo and posted it directly to one of Narumi's older posts from this morning, one that was more directly related to Kafka and his obsession to his Vice Captain.

He posted it with the caption-

"Tell your "Assistant" that he can have his Muse back if he can promise not to cry into his sketchbook over it."

@margoteve <- felt only right to tag you since it was your headcanon about Kafka being an artist that caused this to spiral out of control.

@iceclew <- just letting you know I posted another story. I'll port a copy over to Ao3 later tonight.

@kafkahibinomybeloved<- you were probably going to find this on your own anyway, but I just thought I'd cut out the middle man.

[treasureroffelines]

POOLVERINE FIC RECS

(Pt. 3??)

MY LINKS ARE BACK!! And it’s time for more poolverine!! I’ve been re-reading Wade’s comics and oh my god he is everything to me

[No One Likes To Be Alone by @first-and-last-neocount]

[Synergy and Entropy by ArtemisPendragon (ArtemisPendragyn)]

[This Old House by @twentyghosts]

[hollygl125]

Survivors: Vegas, After the Roller Coaster: An Epilogue

Chapters: 4/4 (+ soundtrack listing) Fandom: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation (TV 2000) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Gil Grissom/Sara Sidle Characters: Gil Grissom, Sara Sidle Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Nerds in Love, Romance, Fluff, i just need them to be happy, totally self-indulgent, CSI as Rom-Com, Emphasis on Rom, Don't Hold Your Breath for Com, F. Scott Would Say I'm a Sentimental Person Not a Romantic One, Science Nerds (Affectionate), emotional journey, Epilogue, I’m really pleased with the WHMS tie-in in this one Series: Part 13 of Survivors in the Night: A Las Vegas Love Story

Summary:

Individually and together, Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom reflect back upon their roller coaster ride—both literal and metaphorical. 💕🎢 Set during and (mostly) just after the end of season 1 of CSI: Vegas.

“We’ve survived a lot. It’s definitely been an adventure. But I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

[merakiui]

Thank you for answering that random dru and tmdg message lolol!! Honestlyy tmdg wasn't a long read for me, just the right amount. I can't lie and say I don't want more of it haha

I ALSO REALLY LOVE LONG WRITTEN WORKS BTW 😋

:D thank you for saying so!!! Truthfully, my only regret with tmdg is not turning it into a series. I considered doing so once I breached 30k words. orz I think the plot would have made for a great multi-chaptered story. It would also allow me to write more scenes of Jade being silly and in love. More chapters of semi-bonding with Floyb!!! More chapters of Reader interacting with Ace, Deuce, and Grim! But as it stands on its own as a oneshot, I think it's just as good!

[courtillyy]

i had forgotten how many notes i had written for this multichapter,, especially surrounding the transfem speedy plotline. damn i miss ritalin so much. so yeah this fic is super happening

[blitzwhore]

Have you planned more fanfics for HB? Asking for a friend xD (No seriously the one with past Blitz and his love letter was great. I need more)

Hi!! Thanks for asking 🥺 it's really motivating and encouraging to know that there are people out there who want more of your fics :)

The answer is yes, I've got two WIPs in the works right now, and I also have 6 prompts sitting in my inbox for the prompt list I have pinned. Writing is going really slowly currently because of life (work being hectic, chronic pain flaring up, recently had Covid, and other such things), but I really look forward to posting more Stolitz/Helluva Boss fanfic!

I think I'm also subconsciously waiting until after Apology Tour airs to write the kiss prompts, because after the events of The Full Moon it's very hard to envision Stolitz kissing in-universe 😂

[galacticlamps]

I'm going to uno reverse card you and say: for the fic guessing game, 'light'?

lol that's fair

apparently I talk about light a lot (go figure) so have this one that happens to be in the middle of its story's 'Oh' moment:

But perhaps, somewhere along the line, Jamie had slipped, and now . . . well now, standing on the balcony of a palace on another planet, with the Doctor dipping his head nearer just to hide his eyes from the light - nearer, and not farther, which would've been just as easy - no, now he had to admit something was different. When it had changed or whether it hadn't at all and he'd simply been too fool to realize it before he couldn't say, and it didn't matter anyway - he knew it now, and that scared him.

-

And just for kicks, under the cut I'm gonna put a longer excerpt from a totally different fic that came up while I was ctrl+f-ing 'light' in my wips - mainly because it happens to be part of a scene from a longish 'the Doctor & Jamie reunite with Zoe in 6b' story which is nowhere near completion, but feels relevant given the boxset Big Finish released last week (not that I've gotten a chance to listen to it yet, but still).

Zoe sat across from Jamie, her elbows on the table, her chin resting atop her hands - but she wasn't relaxed. She stared at him intently, and actually narrowed her eyes as he watched.

"What?" he asked, already defensive, and following through on an old self-conscious instinct, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. With no mirror in sight, he looked to the Doctor to check if he'd somehow gotten something on his face already, but he looked just as baffled. Zoe hadn't broken her concentration yet.

"I'm trying to figure out if I'm older than you," she announced, still deep in thought.

"Ah--" the Doctor began, grinning wickedly, but whether he was going to answer her or merely tease they never found out, because Jamie shot an arm out lightning quick, as if to hold him back.

"No' so fast, you. Let the girl work it out."

He finished chewing and settled himself squarely in front of her for inspection. She continued to stare. "Y'know, I'm surprised you're having such trouble telling," he taunted. "After all, how old are you now?"

She opened her mouth at first to protest that she was under no obligation to announce her own age while he continued to keep his secret, but she still thought she might figure it out - and if she couldn't, she at least had the Doctor to rely on to make Jamie tell the truth.

So she shrugged. "I'm 41. But everyone here thinks I'm 39. I was born 39 years ago, of course, but counting chronologically from the time I left the Wheel with you in the Tardis, I aged two years before the Time Lords returned me to my own time. That was twenty-one years ago, now," she added, unable to judge if the faint waver of wistfulness in her voice was truly audible, or if it was just her own imagination. Thankfully, neither of them pressed her on it.

"Well, y'see, Zoe," Jamie began slowly, still chewing his last mouthful after she finished her explanation and sat waiting calmly for his reply. The Doctor leaned forward too, seemingly intrigued, though it must only have been to see what answer Jamie would try. "I was born in 1724," he paused and washed down his food with a swig from his glass, and for a moment Zoe had the grace to assume he was just working through his calculations, as she had done. "So I'm pretty sure I'm older than you," he finished, setting the glass back down on the table triumphantly.

All at once she felt a young girl again, a devilish light in her eyes. She wanted to jump across the table and tackle him - but that wasn't what Madam Presidents did. "Why, you--"

"They don't traditionally swear at their guests either, Ms. Heriot."

She turned on the Doctor, shocked. "You read my mind," she began, more impressed than accusatory, but he did at least have the decency to look sheepish.

He coughed politely. "Only to, ah, verify your math. And I'm sure you could feel my presence there, if you think about it."

"I could but I didn't know that's what it was. You've gotten so much better at it."

"Had to," he said simply, and shrugged, his eyes downcast.

Well, there was more to that, clearly, she thought, filing his deliberately nonchalant expression away for closer inspection later - but for now she was not about to be deterred. She snapped her eyes and her attention both back to Jamie.

"Still, we both know the Doctor obviously continues to value honesty and accuracy, so surely he'll tell me how old you are, even if you won't."

"Not if I ask him not to - right, Doctor?"

"Well . . . " he began, noncommittally drawing the word out so long that Zoe actually had time to wonder what his plan was for once he ran out of vowel. Jamie looked so genuinely horrified it was downright comical, and she had to force herself not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"We're married, Doctor," he reminded him, indignant.

"Oh, but it's Zoe," he complained, sounding every bit the petulant child she remembered he could be, all those years ago. "And as far as I can remember, none of the ceremonies we ever partook in had anything in the vows about obeying. Although I might be wrong . . ." he added under his breath, scratching his head.

"Charming," Jamie grumbled.

"Well, when we've had as many weddings as we have it can be quite a lot to keep straight in your head. You know, I sometimes wonder if we might qualify for some kind of an all-time record. If we hadn't the need to be covert about so many of them, of course."

"Stop that!" she snapped, and the Doctor turned back to her, the picture of confused innocence.

"Stop what?"

"You're trying to help him without helping him, just by distracting me. Naturally, I want to hear everything about all these weddings of yours, and I will see to it that you'll be having another one while you're here, like it or not--"

"Yes ma'am," Jamie quipped, mock-serious.

"--But first, I am going to find out how old you are, James Robert McCrimmon, and if you force me to use your husband to do it, then that decision is on you."

Jamie mopped his face with his napkin and came out of it smiling. He stretched and dropped an arm around the Doctor's shoulders, perfectly relaxed. Already, Zoe felt her heart sink, but she was careful to keep her composure.

"I'm only pullin' your leg. I'm 44."

"What, really? And you expect me to just believe that?" She raised an eyebrow in challenge but then glanced at the Doctor to confirm, and when he nodded she allowed her facade to crumble, rolling her eyes. Of course she had known when she'd first laid eyes on them that they'd be cutting it close, but Jamie still had quite a bit of that boyishness about him that had made it frustrating enough being his junior the first time around, and she really thought she might genuinely have enjoyed being just a hair older than him, for a change. After all, if you had to be ripped apart from your family and sent to separate timezones to live out your lives forever wishing for an improbable reunion, it might as well be good for something. But Jamie was far too smug looking now to be pretending, and Zoe knew it. "Oh, some people have all the luck," she groaned, dropping her arms and collapsing back dejectedly against her seat.

"Aye," Jamie said, leaning in over the table to follow her, "and some people live 22 years on Earth before they meet a time traveler, then spend 5 years with him before his people erase their memory and send them home to live another 5 before he's allowed to come pick them up again, and then force the pair of 'em to've spent 12 years so far working for them. Some people, eh?" he finished hotly, swiping his glass off the table again and raising it to his mouth in one fluid motion to take a long drink. But even so, his face was not so totally obscured from view that Zoe couldn't make out the amused curl at the corner of his lips, and when she caught his gaze again the glimmer in his eye was all fondness, just as it was with Doctor's and, she knew, her own.

Yes, no matter the circumstances, it was certainly good to see them again.

[andysmuse]

Casa Musica

Casa Musica chapter two

Casa musica Chapter two: Hometown Showtime. The past two months had flown by. March was coming to an end, and the cold was finally starting to fade. Last week, the snowfall had ceased, giving way to the first signs of spring. On a beautiful evening, after a day when the early sun had graced the sky with a hint of warmth, it quietly slipped beyond the horizon. Michiel, Thomas, and Elise sat on…

[mechazushi]

Kafka Hibino

Kafka Hibino.... with visible salt and pepper side burns.

Kafka Hibino.... wearing glasses and has salt and pepper side burns.

Kafka HIbino.... in that black turtleneck and a dark brown leather jacket and also wearing glasses and has salt and pepper side burns.

Kafka Hibino.... wearing that outfit and is an Animal Biology Professor in an College Au.

Kafka Hibino..... asking out Hoshina who is an Advanced Mathematics Professor working at the same college, to have an after-work drink with him.

Slightly DRUNK Kafka Hibino... becoming very forward with an also slightly drunk Hoshina

Slightly Drunk Hoshina... immediately matching Kafka's freak tenfold and Kafka is very much fine with this.

[lily-bisque]

ＷＡＹ ＯＵＴ ＴＨＥＲＥ 𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

series masterlist

✦ ── pairing: lumberjack!sukuna x citygirl!reader

✦ ── synopsis: taking a hike, alone, in a massive forest to escape your mundane life may not have been the greatest idea you'd conjured up—a realization you'd come to soon after you managed to lose your map miles inland. but when a lumberjack who knows the land like the back of his hand offers you a place to stay, you think maybe your life isn't so tragic after all. besides, for the sake of your safety, who knows what lingers in the shadows after nightfall?

✦ ── contents: lost in the forest au, forced proximity, bantering, angst, trauma/torture aspects, minor injuries, eventual romance, eventual smut, no use of y/n, mental health and depression struggles, suicide, blood and violence, mentions of war—pls remember that this is a fictional work inspired by a comic and i am not using this to rewrite history or treat any tragedies unseriously! tags to be added.

✦ ── a/n: this is going to be my 1k followers special but i've already got a solid outline and plenty written. i believe this will end up being a multi-chapter fic. can't wait to release this, so check below the threshold for a teaser ;D

✦ ── word count: 41k/?

archive ─ playlist

volume one // womb

volume two // amateur blood

volume three // you don't mess around with slim

volume four // eternal life

volume five // todo a su tiempo

volume six // sympathy for the devil

✦ interlude // a man needs a maid

volume seven // forwards beckon rebound

✦ interlude // should have known better

volume eight // interstate love story

volume nine // ???

comment to be added to the taglist (status: open)

art by outdmilk on twt

teaser 𖠰 ✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

After getting fully dressed, you shuffled your socks on before you let out a loud hiss—a sudden piercing pressure on your ankle.

Gently setting your sock down, you sat atop a nearby rock and crossed your legs to take a closer look. 

It seemed that the thorn that poked you earlier had done more than just that—the area swelling and red. The spot, previously a microscope hole, had grown and was practically glowing and exuding a heat.

You pressed a finger against it, immediately regretting it when it sent pain spiking through your veins, the skin bulbous.

“You’re not making it out of the forest any time soon in that condition.”

You yelped with a jump, full-body flinching and swinging your head behind you to see Sukuna towering over you, eyes narrowed to slits as he eyed your injury. “Jesus. Warn a woman next time?”

He ignored you, something you’ve noticed he has a habit of doing, as he folded in half, skimming a hand over your puncture wound. A tight whimper left your lips, his calloused finger pad ghosting over it before he straightened out. “Can you walk on it?”

You attempted to pull the sock back over before you winced, heart fluttering in nerves. “I-I can try,” you stammered out, trying to maneuver it carefully before he clicked his tongue.

“Fuck, alright,” he grunted, as if mulling something over before he stepped in front of you. He crouched down on one knee, jeans digging into the mud yet he didn’t seem to care. “Hop on.”

Your maw fell slack at the sight, suddenly feeling incredibly hot. This crude and ruffish man was offering to carry you all of the sudden.

“Uh, i-it’s alright. I can walk–”

“Quit your rambling and get on.” 

You shut up at his interruption, muttering a ‘rude much?’ he didn’t acknowledge under your breath before standing to a wobble, doing your best not to bump your ankle into anything as the pain began to flare to what felt like your bones.

Oddly enough, he was practically your height on his knees, his massive form slightly intimidating you.

You brought your hands over his shoulders and clasped them in front of him, hoping he couldn’t smell the musk radiating from your sweat-soaked clothing.

As you tried to wrap your legs around his midsection, he suddenly rose, wrapping his massive hands along the underside of your thighs and straightening to his full height.

You did everything to ignore the flip of your stomach as he did so, the touch burning your skin.

Something sizzled in your mind, before you realized how leggy this man actually was. “Could make a joke about the weather up here, but it’s really quite nice,” you snickered, head ducking between his hat, cheek right beside his, as your eyes raked over his bird's eye view.

“Shut it or I’m dropping you.”

[novthirty]

🐦‍⬛ OUT OF BOUNDS — you get isekai-d into the n109 zone [series masterlist]

synopsis — the monotony of your university days is interrupted by a stroke of misfortune, one which lands you in the world of love and deepspace, the game you had been casually playing for the previous months. with no way to return home, sylus offers you the job of being his personal secretary. — a continuation of the one-shot “out of bounds”

pairing — sylus x non-mc! reader

tags — reader is not mc, isekai/transmigration, fluff, angst, mutual pining, slice of life, boss/employee relationship, slow burn

word count — 37.3k [ongoing]

a/n — turning this story into a multi-chap for sylus’s 2025 bday! to those who asked to be tagged under the one-shot, i’ve already included you in the taglist here ❤️ just lmk if you’d like to be added/removed!

ao3 | masterlist | playlist

CHAPTER ONE — DESCENT

after finding yourself in an unfortunate accident, you wake up in the world of love and deepspace. you go from burned out college student to secretary at your wit's end. wc: 4k

CHAPTER TWO — PENDULUM

spring blooms even in the barren cityscape of the n109 zone, and before you know it, you’ve carved yourself a place in sylus’s life. but like a pendulum stuck in perpetual motion, the two of you swing back and forth— growing closer and retreating with every movement. wc: 6.8k

CHAPTER THREE — COUNTDOWN

the night softens people in ways that can only be done in the haze of darkness, revealing a vulnerability too fragile for the harsh rays of the sun. you know this could be more, you know this could be everything. but the clock ticks down to what you know is inevitable. wc: 7.9k

CHAPTER FOUR — INEVITABLE

it’s hard to shine when you’re standing between the sun and the moon. wc: 18.6k

CHAPTER FIVE — TWILIGHT

coming soon!

CHAPTER SIX

coming soon!

EPILOGUE

coming soon!

—————————————————————

taglist — @mangooes @mentaltrouble2201 @animegamerfox @crazy-ink-artist @phisen @jeondyy @t4naiis @wifunozomi @munimunni @blessdunrest @rafayelridesfisheatsfish @paintedperidot @mansonofmadness @pillarofsnow @sylususeyourevolonmepls @angelichiaro @mephisto-with-a-knife @crimsonmarabou @hikaru-sama @flamedancer13 @tati-the-fangirl @ameili @poptrim @caramelizedpopcirn @cupid-gene @vvonunie @lunia-likes-pomegranet @iamawkwardandshy @tinyweebsstuff @astolary @vyntheria @theloveofnagiseishiroslife @velourmobius @beaconsxd @hon3yydew @kira-loves0905 @codedove @that-lost-one @colonelcalebs-pipsqueak @kaiii07 @bohoooitsme @everythingistaken00 @rmjace @red-raf-sy @goddexxluv @seris-the-amious @stellisangelicus-world @alhaith4ms @young-adult-summer @junrui

— main taglist is closed! for everyone else who asked to be tagged, i’ll try my best to @ everyone in a reblog 💕

note: if you requested to be tagged before it closed but your @ isn’t here, i’ve unfortunately removed it as your mention settings may be limited to certain people 💔

[dollfacefantasy]

IF I WAS A RICH GIRL PT.2 ♡

pairing: bodyguard!jason todd x fem!reader x bodyguard!dick grayson

summary: you, jason, and dick have grown closer in the time since their little competition. now that dick has been officially added to your case, new feelings crop up, and the three of you try to figure out what the next month together will really mean.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, oral sex (all receiving), fingering, threesome, nightmare, mentions of past trauma + violence, daddy issues

wc: 11.1k

a/n: hii everyone. sorry this took me so long. i'm still not sure how i feel about it, but i'm happy to finally have it out. bear with me because this chapter is leading into the rest of the story, and this will be my first multi-chapter fic. as of now, i have seven parts outlined. all that i ask is that you guys not pressure me between chapters cause that makes me feel really burnt out lol. they'll be out when they're out i promise. anyways reblogs + comments always appreciated <3

part 1 | part 3

Just as he had one week ago, Dick currently stood in the small elevator cabin watching the numbers above the door light up from left to right. With his car keys in one hand and a bag of takeout in the other, he waited for the now-familiar chime of arrival to ding.

It came only moments later. This trip felt much shorter than the first. He wasn’t buzzing with anticipation or running scenarios through his mind to prepare for what lie ahead. This time around, he knew what waited for him inside the apartment, and it wasn’t anything that caused him anxiety.

The sleek exit parted and allowed him into the penthouse. His keys jingled as he walked through the entrance hall to the double doors at the end. They were open now. From the living room, he could hear some grunting, Jason, and some laughter, you.

He rolled his eyes and shook his head. You two had been going at it when he woke up this morning, and after he joined in, for a couple hours more. He couldn’t even really be irritated that you were still doing it while he was gone. Instead, he just wondered about what kind of super stamina the both of you possessed that made it possible to be rubbing up against each other all this time later.

Though, it wasn’t like this came as a surprise to him. Since the morning of the little competition last weekend, you and Jason fucked like you used to fight. All the time you spent glaring at him and stamping your feet, now found you with your eyes rolled back as you bounced on his cock. Your pouty huffs morphed into giggly smiles and pitchy moans. And Jason’s tense demeanor had melted into the more casual one Dick was familiar with.

This seemed like the best case scenario. Compared to other jobs, this one came closer to being a vacation. Presented with this situation out of context, it would honestly have seemed more like a fever dream to Dick than anything that could have been real. Sharing a girl with Jason wasn’t something he ever really planned on, but it just kind of fell into place here. There weren’t any rules or schedules. The three of you just took it moment by moment, and so far, that worked.

He had no complaints. He still got plenty of time with you too, and he no longer had to play mediator 24/7. It was a bit amusing, how simple the solution to all Jason’s strife really turned out to be. If only he had started with this, maybe he could have saved himself that first week’s worth of headaches.

Dick entered the living room, expecting to catch you bent over the back of the sofa or spread out across the dining table, but he saw no such thing. In fact, he didn’t see you or Jason at all. He almost paused. A quick bolt of worry shot through him. Realistically, he knew the two of you were fine. Jason was more than capable, and he heard your laughter. But after years of protection orders, he still hadn’t found a way to suppress that instinct to find something wrong.

It was only seconds later he spotted you over on the other side of the room beyond the end of the couch. Your head popped up and down into his line of sight. Relief coursed through him in a rush. Crossing the wooden floor, he walked a few paces closer to see what was happening.

And he did find you on top of Jason, just not in the way he anticipated. Instead, you were parked on the younger man’s back while his body rose and fell in a set of push-ups. A grunt slipped from his lips with every flex of his biceps. From behind, you played with his hair. He’d been going at this a while if the sweat trickling down his temple and staining the collar of his t-shirt were any indicators.

“Hey, you two. Whenever you feel like getting off the floor, I brought your food,” Dick said, raising the plastic bag and giving it a light shake.

Your head zipped in his direction, eyes sparkling impossibly brighter at the mention of your dinner’s arrival. You hopped up off the muscular back supporting you. Despite wearing a cute, pink workout set, not a drop of sweat coated your skin.

Jason, meanwhile, rolled over with a quiet groan. He ran a hand over his face to wipe some of the perspiration away. “Be there in a second.”

You pranced up to Dick and wrapped him an excited hug. After nuzzling into his chest for a second, you tilted your head upwards.

“Did you get the extra rangoons?” you asked, batting your lashes at him as if there was any way he could have forgotten your special request that you’d repeated at least ten times before he left.

“Of course. Think I would’ve left the car keys behind before driving away without your rangoons,” he teased.

With a small cheer, you swiped the bag from his hand and headed in the direction of the kitchen to deal out the food.

“Wow, not even a thank you?” Dick called after you while trailing behind.

“Thank you, Dick!” you chirped.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, coming up beside you at the marble countertop. Red containers appeared one by one across the sleek surface as you unloaded them from the bag. Leaning in, he planted a gentle kiss on your cheekbone. “Bodyguards, workout partners, takeout delivery, and now teaching you manners? You got us working a tall order here, babe,” he murmured.

“I didn’t ask for all that. I think you guys just like doing extra stuff for me cause you know I make it worth your while,” you shrugged with a little smirk on your face as you placed the last box of noodles on the island.

Your haughty display was fast interrupted though as two thick arms snuck around your waist, lifting you off the ground. You squealed as Jason twisted around and placed you out of the way of the meals.

“Did I hear you say you don’t ask for any of that stuff? What were you doing earlier then?” he mocked as he stepped up to the counter and popped open a small container.

“Hey!” you pouted, trying to shove him over so you could have access to all the food again. Your feet slid on the smooth floor as you floundered against him. It took Jason literally no effort to resist your pushing. His large frame did the job all on its own. “I didn’t ask you for anything. You just wanted me on top of you.”

“Mhm, sure. I must have imagined every time you said ‘Jason, what are you doing?’ ‘Jason, I’m bored,’ ‘Jason, let me help,’” Jason imitated before shoveling a forkful of garlic-glazed beef into his mouth

You huffed and circled around to the other side of the counter to grab your bag of rangoons. “Whatever. I still didn’t ask you for anything,” you grumbled.

“Did you really need to when you took the initiative and just climbed on my back?” he mocked.

You scoffed, but both of them could see hints of a smile pulling at your lips. Since you’d become closer to them, winning or losing a minor argument didn’t have an effect on your mood. It was the mere attention that got you going.

In the midst of your back and forth, Dick grabbed the now-empty takeout bag. The plastic crinkled as he crumpled it between his hands on the way to the trash.

Jason glanced over at him. “How’d the meeting go?” he asked, playfulness fading from his expression as work became the topic of conversation.

“Good,” he nodded, reaching for a small box of his own, “We’re all set. We’ll both be assigned here for the remaining four weeks.”

“You managed to convince the old man she needs two people on babysitting duty? How’d you pull that off?” Jason asked with a raised brow.

“You’ll really both get to stay here?” you asked from your side of the island. Your eyes gleamed with hope rather than excitement, as if you still couldn’t believe it was true.

Dick answered you first with another nod before responding to Jason. “I just explained that given her eventful social life and… willful temperament, it would be more convenient on our end to have two people on her case.”

“And he believed you? He didn’t get suspicious?” you checked.

“I think he bought it. He really didn’t ask anything that gave the impression he thought something was off,” he reassured. 

To his relief, you, like your father, didn’t question his vague statements either. If you did, he’d have to figure out how to dance around the exact details of the conversation. He wasn’t really eager to rehash how your own flesh and blood spoke about you.

He thought before arriving at the Senator elect’s office that this would be an uphill battle. Those who didn’t want to use the word controlling would describe your father as protective, but no one would call the man stupid. He knew the reality of this situation just as well as Dick and Jason. There was no party in this arrangement who believed you were in real danger. So why on Earth would he agree that you needed two full-time guards when the one you already had barely did enough to justify his presence?

But the silver-haired man greeted Dick with an election-winning smile and firm handshake. He nodded along to each piece of what he said about you, as if he was absorbing every word like it was law. And when Dick reached the part about your aforementioned attitude and packed schedule, it went off without a hitch.

He eased into it, starting tentatively and bracing for pushback. “She’s adjusting now. Her and my partner are getting along, and we haven’t had any other issues since those first couple days, which is normal. Everyone takes a bit to get used to a second shadow,” he said in an attempt to keep things light. “I was only thinking she might benefit from having a detail of two since she has a few events to attend over the next few weeks and she can be… very set in her ways.”

Your father chuckled while leaning back in his leather chair. “Oh, you don’t have to sugarcoat it. I know how she can be. I love my daughter, but there’s a reason she doesn’t live with me anymore.”

Dick blinked in response at first. Logic would point to the fact that you were an adult aged into her twenties as a potential reason you might live alone. However, he figured that defending you would have aroused suspicion, so he kept his mouth shut, smirking and nodding in agreement.

“Yeah, uh… she’s something else.”

Your father nodded with a knowing laugh. “She knows how to bitch and moan till she gets exactly what she wants better than just about anyone. Think she learned it from her mother,” he sighed in a way that almost sounded fond. “You’re the expert, so if you think you need two guys to deal with her, have at it. You won’t hear any complaints out of me.”

Two guys to deal with her. Have at it.

If only he knew.

You pulled him out of the recollection with a bright smile. “Oh my gosh, this is great!” you cheered. “This is like the nicest thing he’s ever done for me. Not that he knows it. If he did, he probably woulda said no.”

Jason moved on too, going right along with your happy mood. “Great, huh? This the same girl who was doing everything she could to get me out of here just last week?”

“Yes. You’re the one who’s different. You’re someone I actually like having around now. Kinda,” you responded with a coy eyes.

For whatever reason, Dick just couldn’t share the same playful attitude. This was probably the one time in their lives that Jason had him beat on the front of being pleasant. He couldn’t pin down the exact cause, but seeing you now, with your sweet little smiles and muffled laughs after hearing someone who was supposed to protect you paint you as nothing more than an airhead, dug a dent of sadness into his normal nonchalant temperament. He knew your father wasn’t winning any awards for his parenting. However, bearing witness to his casual dismissal struck deeper than he expected.

But you and Jason continued to banter back and forth without a care in the world, so he tried to appear lighthearted for the remainder of dinner.

The three of you talked and ate in the way that had become routine after only a week. Things weren’t tense and argumentative anymore. Now that frustrations had been dealt with, it was easy to riff with one another about music you liked or movies you hated. They’d tell you the occasional story about an old case while you divulged past drama.

After the supply of food across the counter began to dwindle, the three of you worked in tandem to clear away the trash and put away any leftovers. With their help, the surface was clear in no time. You leaned back against the island, your palms flat on the smooth surface with your shoulders angled outwards.

“So…” you started, mischief swirling in your eyes as you looked between them. “What do you guys wanna do now?”

It was no secret what you were after. Your stance gave the two of them a nice view of your cleavage in that tight workout top. And how you looked between them through your lashes left no question about what kind of activities you were hoping would come next.

Jason shook his head. His face held a similar sense of trouble, only it lacked the lustful charge that motivated your own. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m gonna take a quick shower before anything else,” he said, already stepping in the direction of the stairs.

A scoff came from your lips. “What? No fun,” you said and started after him. “At least let us join…”

You reached out to touch his bicep, but Jason’s larger hand grabbed your wrist, preventing you.

“Your shower’s big but not enough for three people,” he said. “Plus, you got a bad case of wandering hands, princess. I want a quick shower. If I let you come with me, we’ll be in there till we’re both waterlogged .”

“But-” you started, your voice already getting a tad whiny.

He clicked his tongue at you, hushing you like an owner would do to their pet’s whines. “You’ve been with me all day. I’m sure Dick can take care of you for a little bit,” he said.

It was a gentle rebuff, but it was sincere. You tried one last attempt at pouting to no avail. He let go of your arm and headed off.

Your sad puffy lips tightened into a more resigned line. You were clearly intent on remaining unaffected. Only a beat passed before you turned and pranced over to Dick.

“He’s no fun,” you said as you snuck your arms around his waist for a hug.

You could be so touchy, but that wasn’t a problem for him. One of his arms slung across your shoulders while his other hand rubbed the curved space just above your ass.

“Sorry you have to stick with your second choice,” he said with a small pinch to your waist.

He meant it as a joke and nothing more. Even though you had been a bit clingier to Jason as of late, he felt no jealousy over it. It was understandable, chasing after the one who made a chase necessary. But if your face was any indication, the teasing nature of the words didn’t fully come across.

You tilted your head upwards, looking at him with a hint of real concern woven into your furrowed brows.

“You’re not my second choice,” you corrected. “I don’t have a favorite or anything. I like both you guys equally. I just know you’ll hang out with me if I want, so I don’t have to ask.” 

Your arms curled around him tighter like a pair of hungry vipers. You put your head against his chest again, right over his heart. His hand continued its gentle motions on your back while he looked down at you. He was content to leave your explanation as it was, but he could feel the unsaid words prodding at you, almost nudging at him by extension.

“I was just joking, babe. Promise,” he said and planted a kiss on the top of your head.

You glanced up at him once more. “…I just don’t want you guys to like… feel like it’s a competition or anything. I like both of you a lot, and I don’t wanna mess this up.”

“You’re not messing anything up,” he reassured without thinking about it. You seemed oddly vulnerable about this, and after earlier, he didn’t want you to have any reason to feel insecure with them. He pressed you right up against him and squeezed your shoulder. “I was just making a stupid joke. If I had a real problem, I wouldn’t be holding you like this, alright?” He smiled a little to further his point.

“Alright…” you said, nodding against his chest.

He pecked your forehead as if to punctuate the words. “Good. No more worrying about anything like that. Let’s go find something to do while he’s showering. I’m sure when he’s done he’ll be sniffing around you again.”

You smiled back at that. Rising onto your tiptoes, you stole a quick kiss from him before dropping your hand to grab his and pull him in the direction of the stairs.

“Oh my goshhhh. He’s taking FOREVER in there,” you called out, saying the last bit loud enough so that it’d be audible through the bathroom door.

For someone who claimed they wanted a “quick” shower, Jason was taking his sweet time in your bathroom. At least by your standards anyways.

Your bedroom ended up being the place for you and Dick to hang out while waiting for the third member of your trio. You preferred it for obvious reasons, but clearly so did Jason since he chose to freshen up in the ensuite rather than the bathroom down the hall.

Dick didn’t mind it either. It was the largest of the three bedrooms. The windows had the best view, showing off how the nearby river twinkled under the sunset. And at night, anyone inside got a good look at the sparkling skyline. The bed was the softest and the biggest, but best of all, it was totally yours.

Objectively, the other two were comfortable, but in here, everything smelled like you. Every surface was your favorite color. He could almost imagine you picking out each fine detail. Stepping into this room felt like stepping into a little world of your creation.

His eyes drifted around it now. After the conversation with your father earlier, he could almost see it in a new light. Everything from the elegant curtains to your glamorous vanity in the corner said you didn’t pay for it on your own. He wondered if you had to “bitch and moan” to get it the way you wanted. Or maybe you picked things based on what you thought would be acceptable. Or perhaps because it was something that brought you joy, he wasn’t involved at all.

A little huff from you brought him out of his thoughts.

“What’s he doing in there? Shaving his legs?” you grumbled, sinking back into the mountain of plush pillows behind your head. You crossed your arms and kept your eyes on the TV ahead. It played a random episode of one of your favorite shows, just something meant to be background noise.

Dick chuckled at your persistent impatience and snuck an arm around your shoulders. “You know, I doubt letting him hear how riled up waiting makes you is going to convince him to go faster. As much as you’ve gotten him to soften up, he still likes to annoy you,” he teased.

He kept you tucked to his side, his fingers running up and down the smooth skin of your thigh. You had changed out of your tight workout clothes in favor of something looser to relax in. While not as form fitting, the tiny pajamas you chose left just as much of you exposed to his eyes. His digits danced with the hem of your shorts every time they brushed the silky fabric. 

“I bet he’s jerking off in there,” you said suddenly, ignoring Dick’s statement completely. You glanced at him and then back at the bathroom door. Your eyes bore into the white wood like the mere possibility had insulted you personally.

He laughed and shook his head. “I don’t think he’s wasting time with his hand when you’re out here,” he said.

“Maybe… Or he’s doing it just to spite me,” you said, feigned accusation still present in your words.

Dick’s gaze lingered on you even after you’d settled into reluctant patience again. You met his stare with a questioning look. “What?” you asked.

He blinked, batting those lashes across his pretty blue irises. “What?” he said back.

Narrowing your eyes, you poked his cheek. “You’re being weird. You’re all quiet and staring… It’s suspicious.”

“Maybe I was just looking at how cute you are right now, all puffed up cause you can’t be patient,” he grinned.

You rolled your eyes and leaned into him a bit more, as if he could provide relief from getting flustered. “Nuh uh. I look cute all the time, so that’s not it,” you said. “You just look like something’s bothering you.”

“Nothing’s bothering me. I’m fine,” he reassured you.

“Are you sure?” you asked, clearly not satisfied. Then it was as if two little wires connected in your head. “It’s nothing about earlier, is it? My dad didn’t tell you something stupid or embarrassing and scare you off, did he?”

He shook his head with a breathy husk of a laugh. “No, nothing like that,” he denied. With how close you were to hitting the mark, he could only wonder how long ago it happened before.

“Ok... just… You know you could tell me if something was wrong. Even if it wasn’t about work or whatever. I know we’re not like friends… and we haven’t known each other that long. But you could always talk to me about real stuff if you ever needed to,” you offered.

“I know that. But I swear, nothing’s up, alright? Do you ever have one of those days where you feel more stuck in your head than usual? I think it’s just one of those,” he said with a kind smile.

You nodded, willing yourself to accept the answer. “Jason must be having one of those too. He’s been gone for like forever and a half.”

“He probably just needs a moment of peace. You are pretty insatiable, and you’ve been all over him all day, climbing on his back and grabbing his arm,” he murmured with a couple playful squeezes to your own side and arm.

Your body twitched and squirmed in response to the little grabs. The sight drew a huffed laugh from him. He’d never met someone as responsive as you. Your body would light up from a few of the most simple touches.

“I’m not worse than you guys. You both are ready to go like all the time,” you said and slid your hand into his lap, trying to find a bulge.

“There’s a difference between being ready to go and being the one who instigates,” he said, grabbing your wrist and moving your hand onto his abs instead.

You didn’t resist the adjustment. Your fingers traced the rigid muscles in his stomach. You’d felt them so many times already, seen them just as much, but they still brought you a sense of wonder. Both of their bodies did. Before them, you had limited experience, and none of it took place with people who resembled divine beings so closely.

He chuckled at the look in your eyes. “You’re too easy, baby.”

Your cheeks heated up. You tried pulling your arm back to shove his head, but he kept it right where it was.

“It’s ok. You know Jay and I think it’s cute,” he said, continuing to gently mock.

He pecked your cheek, smugness found in his every feature. Leaning in closer, he laid a few soft kisses on your throat. Your breath hitched before you tilted your head to allow him more room. The near-instant compliance with his touch had him grinning against your neck. Even while being stubborn, you wouldn’t deny yourself any attention. And to be honest, he couldn’t see himself ever in a situation where he’d withhold it from you.

He took a deep breath, letting his lungs fill with your air. His arms tightened as his mouth parted and closed against your sensitive skin. The tip of his tongue swirled around your pulse point in the way he had come to learn you liked. Your hand pressed down on his abs a little harder just as a tiny moan escaped you.

In the same way that his body put you in awe, you cast a spell totally your own over him. Being so close felt like willfully submerging himself in aphrodisiacal quicksand. You were so soft and so warm under his hands, your flesh so malleable, practically hypnotizing to grope.

His palms glided over you with reverence. They moved slowly, but with enough pressure to exemplify his growing desire. You writhed under his hands as they smoothed from your back to your hips, over your ass and then down to your thighs.

You allowed your own hand to go lax on his torso, slowly bringing it further South. The place you’d searched for a bulge before rewarded you with one now. You could feel the semi-hard outline under your fingers.

He hissed at the lazy rubs you gave it through his pants. “Always so eager for more,” he mumbled.

While he was still very much wrapped up in the feeling of you, going further tempted him just as much. He dropped one of his hands to the elastic waistband of your shorts and shoved it underneath. His fingers ducked below your panties next with the same precision. The middle one slotted between your puffy lips, seeking out your clit.

Already, you’d started to get a little wet. Dick dragged the pad of his digit through the collecting slick, relishing the clicking sound that came with it. His finger then ventured back to your little bundle of nerves. He gave it a few rubs to which your hips jerked and a whine spilled out of you.

Then the bathroom door opened. Neither one of you had even heard the shower turn off while distracted with each other. Steam poured out into the bedroom. Along with it came Jason. He stepped out, baby pink towel low around his hips, stray beads of water trickling over his scars down to his v-line. His eyes immediately landed on the two of you.

“See? So needy before, but I knew you’d have fun with Dick just fine,” Jason said. He shook his hair like a wet dog before advancing further into your room.

“Shut up. You took too long,” you whimpered, rolling your hips into Dick’s hand.

“You think so? You should’ve said something. I could hear you complaining through the door, but I don’t think it got the point across all the way,” he mocked.

He headed over to the door leading back out into the hall, and suddenly, all traces of your attitude vanished. “Wha- Where are you going?” you asked, turning your head to give him puppy eyes. Dick took advantage of the new angle and attacked your neck with his mouth again.

“Where do you think?” he asked.

Of course, you knew where he was headed - down the walkway and into the guest room with his duffel bag. Most of Dick’s stuff had migrated to your bedroom, but Jason still kept his separate. It really didn’t matter to you though; here or there, you did not want him getting dressed either way.

“Nooooo,” you whined, reaching out towards him with one grabby hand. “Don’t put clothes on.”

He almost laughed at your little display. A smile settled on his lips, and he took a few steps back in the direction of the bed. His pupils scanned over your body again, taking in the way your back arched and your heels slid against the blankets. He watched the outline of Dick’s hand pump beneath your shorts.

“I don’t know… I think Dick’s got you covered, sweetheart. Doesn’t look like you need anyone else,” he taunted, running a hand over your head.

“Need you,” you said, whimpering as Dick rubbed a little star onto your clit. “Need both of you.”

“Greedy,” Jason tutted. But he didn’t stop petting your head.

“Nuh uh,” you denied. Your gaze fell down his body, specifically to his waist where that towel remained tucked around him. It would be so easy to reach out and just…

“No?” he said and cupped your jaw, directing your eyes back to his own. “You don’t think you’re acting spoiled?”

You shook your head before looking down at his stomach again. This time you couldn’t help yourself. You extended your arm, hooking your index and middle finger over the fluffy edge of the towel. It barely took any force to tug it free.

The plush fabric vanished, pooling around his feet. Now, at your eye level, his cock hung, thick and heavy. Your pupils all but morphed into little hearts while staring at it.

He didn’t stop you from grabbing the shaft. Your fingers curled around his length and gave it a gentle tug, beckoning him closer to the mattress. For once, he went along with your desire free of protest. He boosted himself up a bit with one knee on the foamy surface. You continued stroking in time with Dick’s fingers caressing your pussy.

His cock rose to life between your digits. It grew stiffer with every twist of your hand or swipe of your thumb over the tip. You watched in amazement as you did every time, and he watched you. Something deep inside of him went wild for that innocuous fascination that would come over your face in moments like these. Jason was well aware that you weren’t a saint by any means, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to corrupt you.

On the other side of your body, Dick’s head popped up from the crook of your neck, looking up at him with lidded eyes. “Would there even be a point in putting your clothes on when she’s gonna pull ‘em off as soon as you get back?” he joked.

You didn’t even register the little joke or how Jason responded because you were so laser focused on giving him a hand job. Your own movements nearly hypnotized you. With every flick of your wrist, desire gnawed at you, begging you to get more. To take more.

“Can I suck on it?” you asked abruptly.

Jason’s hand paused on your head. He looked down at you again, taking in your dilated pupils and parted lips.

“You want me in your mouth?” he checked.

You nodded.

“Do you think you deserve me in your mouth?” he asked next.

Exasperated, you whined. “Jasonnnnnnn. Come on.” You stuck your lip out to add to your plea.

“Alright, hush,” he said, sweeping his hand around to cup your jaw. “No whining. If you want it so bad, then open up.”

The rough pad of his thumb pressed down on your bottom lip, coaxing your mouth into a cute little o. His cock throbbed as you looked up at him so sweetly. Your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, and your lids drooped slightly under the weight of your lust.

He shifted his hips forward to guide his length to your awaiting orifice. You tried to reciprocate, leaning towards him as much as you could while still Dick’s grasp.

“Ah ah, lay your head back and let me give it to you. You’ll crane your neck otherwise,” he grunted.

Shockingly enough, you obeyed without issue. You sunk back in Dick’s direction, allowing the pillow behind you to support your head. Jason continued on. His tip nudged the seam of your lips. Droplets of precum smeared on the plump skin.

It took no force to push into the wet warmth of your mouth. Your saliva coated his length, making the shaft shimmer as it slid in and out of your mouth. He could feel your tongue lazily flicking and laving against him. It was cute. Such small efforts as you laid there for him to use.

Dick continued rubbing your clit beneath your shorts, but as Jason found his rhythm with shallow thrusts, he maneuvered his fingers around to prod at your entrance instead. The slender digits applied some light pressure before slipping inside. A mewl erupted from you around Jason’s cock, but your body didn’t protest or try to shut him out. You remained lax with the sensations, allowing him to fuck two between your pulsing walls with ease.

He kissed underneath your earlobe. “Such a good girl, sweetheart. Just relax for me. We’ll keep you all filled up,” he whispered.

You whimpered at the electricity his hushed voice sent down your spine. It was all so overwhelming in the best way. You were full of them in every sense of the matter. Not only were they inside you, but they claimed each of your senses as well. Dick’s lilted voice crooned in your ear while Jason’s scent clouded your nose. You got the taste of him all over your tongue as every nerve ending on your body lit up for them.

All of it made your head spin. Your eyes drooped, and your jaw got a little lazy. Before you knew it, Jason was squeezing your cheeks to grab your attention.

“Keep it nice and wide for me, little brat. Don’t want your teeth scraping me up,” he teased.

“Sorry…” you tried to say, but with a mouthful of cock, it just came out garbled and incoherent.

However, the need to apologize fled your mind fast. The creeping sensation of release replaced it. It started to simmer as Dick curled his fingers within you, finding that sweet spot you never reached on your own.

Your hips started to quake. You rocked up and down in a desperate search for release. They both chuckled as they saw it, knowing all your signs by now.

“Are you almost there, pretty girl?” Dick cooed.

“Mhm,” you whined around Jason.

“Yeah? You wanna cum?” he goaded, coaxing you further along.

“Mhm,” you said again; this time louder, more desperate.

His fingers kept thrusting into you. Wet squelches echoed from between your thighs as your peak got closer and closer. You could see it just in front of you, within reach, the sweet, shimmery heat already lapping at you. But just as your body got ready for the final ascent, Dick pulled his digits out.

You bursted with displeased whines and agitated whimpers. In a second, you backed off Jason’s cock so you could grab at Dick’s arm.

“Whyyyy?” you pouted, trying to glare at him. Though, with your eyes all glazed from pleasure, it didn’t come off as any kind of intimidating.

“What?” he laughed, bringing his fingers to his mouth. He slid them inside and sucked them clean while maintaining eye contact with you all the while. “You know you’re still gonna get to cum. You just make it too fun to tease you,” he said once he’d pulled them back out.

The explanation did little to quell your discontent, but before you could voice any of it, a hand wrapped around your ankle and tugged you downwards on the mattress. 

Jason had walked around towards the foot of the bed in the midst of your distraction. He crawled over your legs towards the rest of your body, caressing up your calves as he went. His thumb hooked under the hem of your shirt to boost it up. As he moved, his head ducked down to lay some kisses along your belly.

“Have we left you unsatisfied so far, sweetheart?” he asked, gazing up at you through his lashes.

It was a leading question. Of course, the answer that came from your lips was a soft “no.”

“Exactly. So quit whining. You know Dick and I are gonna take care of you.”

His fingers looped over the waistband of your bottoms next. He yanked them off your legs. Tossing them to the side without a second thought. You watched his movements carefully, having a pretty good idea where he was headed. It just wasn’t something you were used to quite yet.

“Lemme return the favor for you, princess. While I’m doing that, you can do the same for Dick.”

“For what? Not letting me finish?” you huffed.

The fingers belonging to the man in questions landed on your forehead and nudged you back, putting your skull flat on the mattress. He smiled down at you stroking your cheek. 

“No one can ever say you don’t know how to hold a grudge,” he teased.

A little scowl curled on your lips. At the same time, Jason got in position between your legs. You felt his hand cup one of your thighs then the other, placing each on either one of his shoulders.

There was really no time to brace yourself before he dove in. In seconds, that petty expression was gone, wiped clean by parted lips and furrowed brows. Your back curled inward, your body coiling in response to the sudden burst of stimulation down there. Dick watched. It was obvious from the look in his pretty blue eyes that he greatly enjoyed seeing the moment the pleasure took you.

“No, she wants people to think she can hold a grudge, but she’s not as tough as she lets on,” Jason taunted, sounding almost affectionate.

That was the last you heard out of him. Before you had the chance to go back and forth, his lips were on your pussy again. He flicked his tongue over your clit, back and forth, back and forth in quick succession. Your hips bucked while your legs flailed fruitlessly, but Jason was more than strong enough to keep you in place.

A broken whine trickled from your lips. Your heels dug into the firm muscles that spanned over his back. You figured he liked it. The harder you pressed, the more fervor he seemed to have with his mouth.

Beside you, Dick shimmied down his pants and pulled them free. His cock was hard, more than ready for some attention. He gave it a few tugs. Just simple jerks of his hand to the sight of you unraveling under Jason’s skillful ministrations.

As you squirmed, your head tilted in his direction. Your eyes fell on the veiny shaft before you. You remembered what Jason had said. To take care of Dick while he took care of you.

“You ready for me, baby?” he checked, voice hushed as he pet his free hand over your head.

You nodded and opened your mouth into the same shape you had before. He did the work for you just like Jason did. Angling his hips, he tapped his tip against the corner of your mouth before pushing it in. Like usual, he was more gentle than Jason. Despite it being the same action, he handled you with more care.

He got just as much pleasure though. A hearty groan came out of him as you started to suckle on the tip. Your eyes fluttered shut. Having something in your mouth gave your attention somewhere else to go. It acted as a distraction from the bursting bliss between your thighs.

You couldn’t see it, but Jason’s eyes flitted up to your face. He watched you take Dick’s cock while his tongue drew mini figure-eights from the bottom of your slit to your cute little bundle of nerves above. Something close to obsession danced at the center of his green irises. When you weren’t looking, he didn’t bother trying to hide it.

Little whimpers still squeaked from your mouth around Dick, but Jason wanted more. Tiny sounds he had to strain his ears to hear weren’t enough. He stopped licking at you, stopped grazing his tongue across your clit. Instead, he maneuvered the wet muscle lower. He prodded it at your opening and sunk it into you. That got a nice, low moan out of you.

He fucked his tongue in and out, pressing it against your silken walls as you pressed your own against the tender ridge of Dick’s cock. He was hissing too then. The three of you created a chorus of ecstasy, a neverending feedback loop of hissing and squirming.

Jason ground his hips against the mattress as you rolled yours towards his face. He was still holding you down, but your movements got him off. Seeing how desperate you could get, how eager you were to writhe into the pleasure, it had him leaking sticky white pre onto your pretty, pristine sheets.

You could feel that burning hot peak building up inside you again. Your toes curled, and your back started to arch. You knew Dick was getting close too from the way he was panting. That and how his hips were starting to jolt forward a little more frequently.

Jason pulled his tongue out of your slick hole and put his mouth on your clit again. He wrapped his lips around the tiny bud, giving it a harsh suck. You yelped around Dick’s cock. Your whole body jerked, and your head snapped back, his saliva-coated length falling from your mouth.

“J-Jay,” you whimpered. Your hand flew down to grab at his damp hair.

He didn’t answer with words, but the feeling of your digits against his scalp got a groan out of him. His tongue continued to dance over your soaked folds. With everything he had, he worked to bring you to the edge. His fingers dug into the plush of your thighs hard, almost bracing himself as he humped the blanket under him.

Gentle as ever, Dick guided your head back in his direction so he could slip his cock between your lips again. You accepted it happily, sucking it like you had been before being interrupted. Your lips rested right against the ridge. Every little vibration from your squeaks of pleasure reverberated through him.

Those small buzzes were enough to get him to the finish. Dick came first. He sighed and tilted his head back. His hand pressed on your head, keeping you close as his shaft twitched against your tongue. Warm spurts of cum bursted into your mouth, and you had no problem swallowing all that he gave.

In the midst of Dick’s release, you hit your high as well. Just as his was coming to end, you felt something snap inside of you. A loud whine bubbled up inside your chest and left your mouth as you slowly eased off. Waves of bliss coursed through you, your body rolling in trembling waves.

Your thighs squeezed around Jason’s head, and that was when he lost it. 

He continued to devour you through it, not pulling away as euphoria surged through him. You cried out when overstimulation began to set in. Your hands weakly pushed at his head.

In a rare reversal, he listened to you. He pulled back from the junction of your thighs, departing with one final kiss to your clit. His jaw shimmered with remnants of your arousal.

You couldn’t help the way your eyes raked over him. Your small pupils drank in every detail. His tousled hair, his lidded eyes, his puffing chest, his softening cock between those thick thighs… But as your vision drifted down, your gaze landed on the mess he’d left on the plush fabric of one of your blankets.

Sitting up quickly, you grabbed it as if to inspect the sticky patch. “Jason,” you whined, accompanied by a glare.

He snatched it back. “Zip it,” he hushed as he climbed off the bed. “I’ll put it in the wash. It’ll be fine. And if not, I’m sure you can afford a new one.”

You narrowed your eyes at the tight-lipped, mocking smile he gave you. “I can, but I don’t want to. That one’s like the best.”

“Then I guess you’d just have to find better than the best,” he replied before stepping out of your bedroom.

A pouty huff came from your lips, but your eyes lingered on the door. You weren’t actually mad, of course. The wash would get the mess out, and even if it didn’t, what he said was true. You were more concerned with trying to figure out whether or not he was coming back.

On your other side, the mattress lifted with the absence of Dick’s weight. He rose from the bed and stretched his limbs out. Your head snapped in his direction, your hand reaching for his wrist.

“Where are you going?” you asked with a little pout.

He eyed you curiously. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to take a leak - if that’s alright with you.”

Your grip on him loosened as you realized you should probably reign these feelings back in. “I just was wondering like if you were coming back, or if you wanted to do something else.”

“Like?” he asked.

“I just didn’t… want you to feel pressured to like stay in here or anything. I know we all mess around and stuff, but you guys can still sleep in your own rooms if you ever want to,” you said.

His eyes narrowed. He leaned in a little, cupping your chin to direct your eye line. “Would you want us to sleep in the other rooms? Are you getting sick of sharing your bed?”

“No…”

“Do you think I want to sleep in the other room?” he asked.

That prompted a longer pause than the other two questions, but after a few seconds, you shook your head.

“Ok then. No need to worry about it. No one’s annoyed with you. If Jason or I wanted to sleep in the other rooms, we’d tell you that,” he said, leaning down to peck your lips.

With that, he walked off to the bathroom and nudged the door shut behind him. In their collective absence, you dragged yourself out of bed. You took the brief period of free time to put yourself back together and get the bed in order again.

Just as you finished putting your pillow into place, Jason strolled into the room. Without a care for all the organization you’d just done, he came over and flopped down onto your mattress. The blankets wrinkled to his shape, and the pillow you just placed toppled over. You pursed your lips in response before hopping up too and lightly slapping his bicep.

“That’s two times you’ve messed up my bed tonight,” you huffed.

His lips spread into a grin. In a flash, his arms looped around your waist as he playfully wrestled you down onto the mattress. You squirmed around, acting as if you were putting up a fight, but only a matter of seconds had gone by before he had you pinned.

Looking up at him now, you almost forgot the man you met on that first day. His green eyes appeared so much softer. His features seemed way more relaxed. He looked as unbothered as Dick sounded. Maybe you didn’t need to worry.

“We could mess it up again, you know. Maybe before Dick even comes back. I can be fast,” he teased, pecking your cheeks.

“Not fast enough,” Dick’s smooth voice cut in from behind.

That made you smile a little bit. The bathroom door clicked shut again, following it came the soft padding of his feet across the carpet. You brushed your fingertips across Jason’s cheekbone before nudging him off you.

He rolled to one side of your bed while Dick settled on the other. This was how it went most nights. You squished in the middle of their two muscular bodies.

Shifting around a bit, you grabbed the remote. Your head leaned onto Dick’s bicep while your leg overlapped with Jason’s. You could already feel sleepiness creeping up on you, but there was one more thing to decide before letting yourself drift off. Really the only thing that still caused arguments as of late.

“So… Do you guys wanna watch something?”

A few hours later, the tv was still on, broadcasting flickering patterns of light across your bedroom walls. The volume stayed low, the words of the characters on screen inaudible. Not that it mattered. You, Jason, and Dick were all fast asleep by now.

Each of you laid in the positions that had become normal to you now. Dick slept supine with one arm up, you curled into his chest, and Jason latched onto your smaller frame from behind. 

The first time this happened it was almost overwhelming to you. You’d spent the vast majority of your nights up until this point alone. The one boyfriend you had in adolescence had never been allowed to sleepover, and the few flings here and there didn’t bother to really spend the night. You were used to the spacious loneliness that came with the mattresses thrice your size.

But since Dick and Jason had taken up residence with you and divided your king sized bed into three sectors, you didn’t think you could ever go back. Without Dick’s strong heartbeat thumping below your ear, something would feel missing. The absence of soft puffs of Jason’s breath against the back of your neck would leave you cold. In only a handful of nights, you’d become acclimated to sleeping with tangled limbs and limited moving room.

Besides the barely audible chatter of the television, your bedroom was always silent at night. The penthouse was so high up, the sounds of the city below never disturbed your slumber. Cars honking, people shouting, trucks huffing. It was all so distant and muted. None of it could penetrate the peaceful haze of your dreams.

Tonight something else was responsible for that. Not just sounds, but something physical that roused you from the depths of unconsciousness.

It started as simple rustling. Just the sheets shifting against each other, the blanket being pulled from beneath one person’s weight to wrap around another’s. And then grunting followed it. It was quiet and uneven, accompanied by heavy breaths.

You didn’t wake from just that though. Only when you heard mumbling and felt more forceful movements did your eyes flutter open.

Jason’s nose wasn’t nestled against the base of your neck. That was the first thing you realized. 

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes while sitting up. Your movements came slow at first, bogged down by your body’s desire to go back to sleep. It took a few seconds to register what was happening. The glow of the tv disoriented you as your mind tried to fit everything into place.

But you soon realized the mumbling and squirming was coming from Jason.

Glancing over at him, you saw him curled up facing the opposite of you. The muscles in his back looked tense, as if bracing for some kind of impact. His legs kicked at the covers, not with their full force since he couldn’t give all his effort but still pretty hard.

You furrowed your brows as you observed for a few seconds. At first, you didn’t understand what you were looking at. But then you heard him more clearly. You could make out words like “no” and “stop” and “get off.” He made a noise that almost sounded like crying, and that was when it clicked.

He was having a nightmare.

Instantly, you scooted closer, kneeling behind his back. You brought a gentle hand down on his bicep and tried waking him with a combination of soothing strokes and weak shakes.

“Jason?” you whispered. You didn’t want him to get pissy about being woken up, but you also didn’t like watching him upset by his dreams.

He didn’t wake up from your cautious touches or quiet call, so you tried a little harder. You shook him with some actual dedication and leaned in closer.

“Jason. You’re dreaming. Wake up,” you said. Your voice remained caring and tender, but you said the words clearly. His eyes stayed shut though so you went for one more attempt. “Come onnnn. Wake up. Don’t make me get some water-”

The pitchy whine snapped his eyes open; only he didn’t awaken with the relieved gasp or tiny jolt you were expecting. Instead, he snapped at you like you’d nudged him with the barrel of a gun rather than your fingers. He flipped around and lunged. One of his hands wrapped around your throat, the other slammed your shoulder down to the mattress.

You squeaked at the blur of motion. Of course, you knew Jason was strong. It was obvious from the way he worked out and the muscles padding his body. You’d just never really felt how strong he was first hand.

This was a different kind of strength from when he fucked you. His fingers didn’t dig in just enough to mark, their pressure against your skin acted as an unspoken threat. He slammed you down with way more force than when he was just manhandling you. In a position like this, you realized how powerless you really were against him, how easy it would be for him to snap your bones or severely maim you if he felt so inclined.

You stared up at him with widened eyes. Your body trembled with a mixture of fear and confusion. Earlier, when he was on top of you, looking all soft and sweet, it seemed hard to compare him to the facade he wore around strangers. But right now, he had morphed into another creature entirely. That quick temper you saw from day one became so much more severe under pressure. It sharpened into something looking to puncture. You didn’t even want to speak his name to try and calm whatever sort of reaction you’d triggered in case the mere sound of your voice would set him off further.

Luckily for you, being throttled onto the bed had been enough to wake Dick too. He came to his senses faster than you had. The second he saw your predicament, he was up. He grabbed Jason’s shoulder and tugged him back without fear. Maybe he’d done this before.

You sat up, rubbing your throat as you scooted back to lean against the headboard. There was no internal damage that you could feel since he hadn’t actually choked you, but the sting of forming bruises along the base of your throat lingered.

“Hey, hey, hey. You were dreaming, man. No one’s here. You’re alright. She’s fine,” Dick murmured to Jason at the end of the bed.

He definitely had done this before. You could tell. The way he positioned his hands on his shoulders and made him look in his eyes. The tone he spoke with, intentionally grounding and firm without being harsh or scolding. It was practiced, tried and true. You wondered for how long had Jason needed this kind of help. For how long had he struggled with whatever caused him to lash out.

It only took a couple moments for Jason to come back down to reality with the both of you. You could nearly see his features relax back into the shape you’d grown accustomed to. His eyes softened, and although his chest still heaved with rough panting breaths, his posture relaxed. He rubbed a hand over his face before his gaze shifted to you.

For a second, he appeared almost sheepish. Though a stoic mask quickly came up to conceal that.

“Are you alright?” he rasped. “I didn’t…”

“I’m fine,” you reassured quickly. “You just startled me a little, but I’m not hurt or anything.”

He nodded, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “That’s… um that’s good,” he said. But he still wasn’t settled. Instead of returning to his previous place next to you, he made his way off the bed. “I’m sorry. I- It- I’m just gonna take a minute,” he mumbled.

“Jason, wait. You don’t have to-” you started, but he was already out the door without looking back.

Your head turned to Dick who was coming to sit next to you again. “Did I do something wrong? I didn’t mean to scare him like that. I just touched his arm and-” you tried to explain.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t your fault. You’re ok,” he said. His hands gently maneuvered your jaw around to get a look at the markings on your throat.

“Is he?” you asked. “He seemed really upset. I don’t want him thinking I’m mad or something…”

“He doesn’t think you’re mad. Promise,” Dick said softly. Once he was satisfied with his inspection of your neck, he leaned back against the headboard next to you.

You wrapped your arm around Dick’s, leaning your head on his shoulder. The two of you sat in the silence of the bedroom for a couple seconds. You hesitated before speaking again.

“Why did he get so freaked out?” you asked, voice quieter than before. You knew there was a risk you were prying into something that was none of your business, but didn’t you have a right to know after getting choked-slammed as a result of it?

“Jason… He…” Dick started, clearly contemplating whether he should share or not as well. “A few years ago, he was on a case. One of the last ones at our old firm. He was serving a protection order for this girl. And anyways, the details aren’t too important, but it didn’t go well. He got hurt. The client… she didn’t make it out.”

Your eyes widened. Suddenly, guilt for all the shit you’d given Jason upon meeting him hit you like a truck.

“I… Is that what he dreams about?” you asked.

Dick shrugged. “He’s never told me exactly. I’ve only seen him like that a few times before this, on different cases, but I didn’t think he’d had one in a long time,” he said.

“Does he blame himself for what happened?” you said.

“Of course,” he said, smiling a little despite the words. “Any time something goes wrong on a case, you blame yourself. But there was no way he could have done anything different. We had a leak within the agency that sold out their location. No one knew until it was too late.”

You frowned. This story didn’t get any better the more you learned. You tried to piece this information together with your already existing perception of Jason. Part of you just wanted to imagine what he would have been like before any of that. He probably would have been around your age. Maybe he’d be carefree like you or have a sense of humor closer to Dick’s. It didn’t really matter though. Contextualizing what was real was more important than imagining a life that would never exist.

“Should we…?” you said, tilting your head towards the door.

“No. He likes to be alone afterwards,” he answered.

Your frown worsened. Likes didn’t seem like the correct word here. You doubted he liked any of this. He was probably in his room or downstairs, moping around, feeling ashamed and isolated, wanting company and not knowing how to ask for it.

But Dick was already laying down again, so you followed in suit.

“Just give him till morning. He’ll be ok,” he told you, kissing your forehead before relaxing into the mattress again.

You did not plan on giving Jason till morning.

After lying there for a couple minutes, worry for him still nagged at you. There was no way you were gonna fall asleep like this, thinking of a new scenario every few seconds, all of which involved him lonely and in anguish.

You just waited until Dick fell asleep before creeping out of bed and slipping into the hall. Quiet as could be, you padded down the lofted walkway. You peeked into his room on the way, finding it empty and untouched except for his open duffel bag. He must have been downstairs then.

When you reached the bottom of the stairs, you found the living room and kitchen empty too. A few more paces in, however, you spotted his figure out on the balcony. He leaned against the railing towards the corner, head hanging forward. His dark hair blew to the side in the breeze outside.

Even though you knew it’d be cold, you opened the door and stepped out. A little shiver overcame you as the chilled air hit your skin. He didn’t look. Either he didn’t hear the door, or he was hoping you’d cut your losses now and go back inside.

But of course, you didn’t.

“How do you not get dizzy doing that?” you called softly as you approached him.

He glanced over in your direction. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of heights too, little brat?” he asked. Despite the nickname, his voice came out almost hollow. As if someone had carved out his usual mirth.

“Well kinda… I don’t come out here too much,” you admitted with a shrug.

In contrast to your slight aversion, you took up the place next to him, placing your forearms on the frosty steel rail.

“Why do you live in a penthouse if you don’t like heights?” he said.

“I didn’t really choose the floor,” you started. You intended to say more, but a low hum from him cut you off.

“That’s right. How could I have thought otherwise?”

He said it in the way he talked to you before, when you were just a client. When you were just a pest. It hurt a bit, you couldn’t lie. But you didn’t let it push you away. You knew he wouldn’t be in a good mood before you came down here. The time alone probably only hardened his feelings and aimed them more at himself.

“Are you ok, Jason?” you asked, soft and quiet. You reached to touch his arm; however, he put a stop to that by inching away.

“Don’t,” was all he said.

“I just-” you tried.

“I know. You just want to help. But I’m telling you don’t. I don’t need it,” he maintained.

Maybe you should have stopped there. It might have been better to just stand there with him, offer comfort by not letting him be alone even if it had to be through silence. But to be honest… the short tone and the way he interrupted your point pissed you off. You took a deep breath and gripped the railing a little tighter.

“You look like you do,” you said, trying to remain non-confrontational. “You’re out here all alone while it’s freezing.”

“Like I said, I don’t. I’m fine. I can handle myself.”

“But you don’t have to! You can tell me stuff, you know. Like real stuff. I know I’m not like your best friend or anything, but I wanna actually know you. I can listen and maybe help if you let me,” you said, starting the same spiel you gave to Dick earlier.

Only Jason didn’t want it.

“I don’t want help from you.”

Your cheeks burned at the targeted nature of the statement. It wasn’t that he didn’t want help, apparently. No. Just that he didn’t want it to be yours.

“You know you have your right to privacy, and if you really don’t wanna tell me how you feel, fine. But don’t act like I’m a goddamn stranger,” you said.

“Oh, that’s a bad word. You sure daddy lets you say that one?” he retorted.

And that stung. He’d made cracks like that before, of course, on the day you met and those that came after. Right up until that morning where you’d given him all of yourself. That was why it hurt so much when he said it now. It was why your throat tightened a little and your eyes started to sting. You thought that things were different. That he at least understood you even if he didn’t respect you.

“Why are you being such a jerk? I was just trying to help you. Just because you’re too scared to let me in, you don’t have to be rude,” you defended.

He let out a bitter laugh at that. “Oh scared? Is that what I am? You’d like that wouldn’t you?” he taunted. “Because then you’d get to be the one to fix me, and you could finally prove to me that you’re capable. You could get my approval for doing something worthwhile because you know it’ll never come from your daddy.”

The breath vanished from your lungs. You had to actively try not to cry now. Crying would only make you look more pathetic in front of him, and while he may be winning the argument, you’d be damned if you proved him right in any way.

“You barely even know me! How-” you forced out, trying to hide the way your voice cracked.

“If I barely even know you then why the fuck would I wanna talk about this stuff with you?” he said.

Your argument shriveled up on your tongue because, technically, he had a point.

“I was just offering because I thought…” you trailed off. A combination of losing and not wanting to share held you back now.

“I’m not telling you anything because I know you,” he continued. “I know you wouldn’t understand, and you never will. You’ll never know what real pain is. You’ll never have to deal with actual guilt. And I know for a fucking fact shame isn’t a thing in your life.”

You stood there, taking it all. This was the first time he was actually mean to you. Everything in the beginning had been a simmer, but now his temper was heating up. You didn’t even know what to do when he was done. You didn’t want to cower and run off with your tail between your legs, but you also didn’t want to agitate him more.

“Ok, Jason, I get it,” you said. Now yours was the voice that had been hollowed out. This was probably his first time hearing you speak without some form of whining or teasing.

He looked away, and you could tell he realized that he went a little too far. He wanted you to leave him alone but not permanently. But what was said was said. There was no way to unhear his words.

“Look…” he started, but you honestly couldn’t take any half-assed apologies right now.

“It’s fine. Just forget it,” you said, barely more than a whisper, before walking back inside.

The air in the living room was objectively warmer, but the emptiness of the place made it seem chilled. You skulked back upstairs and into your room, slipping into bed with Dick again as if you never left. Your head landed on his chest and your palm rested on the center of his abdomen. You shut your eyes in an attempt to let the sound of his beating heart drown out Jason’s words that were still bouncing around in your skull.

It didn’t really work, but one positive came along with the sadness. It suppressed your anxiety. The pain left you wanting to avoid Jason, so you weren’t at all concerned about whether he was coming back to your bed or not.

You accepted the fact that he’d probably be back in the guest room for good.

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

a beautiful little lie. [chapter 1] l Harry Castillo

Summary:  you are the personal assistant of Harry Castillo, a wealthy entrepreneur who asks you to go with him to his friend's wedding. there you meet your ex-boyfriend and things get out of hand

Warnings: fluff, a little bit of angst, friends to lovers (maybe?), one pregnant woman, some alcohol, two broken hearts, one lie

A/N: I'm not sure if I should have posted this. But I couldn't help myself because this story has been in my head for two days and if I don't get it out I'm going to go crazy. Let me know what you think and if I should continue. Thanks to the people who put up with my doubtful ranting. please be gentle with me.

your feedback is very important to me and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. I secretly hope you like this story.🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

[my masterlist][Harry Castillo masterlist] [a beautiful little lie- series masterlist]

"I told you that you should put up a signpost or sprinkle crumbs on the floor."

There was a sigh on the other end of the phone, and you smiled to yourself. You drove Harry Castillo to the brink of madness. “You’ve been to my apartment so many times, so why haven’t you learned the layout yet? You know where my office is.”

"I don't know." you replied, pouting your lip. "Maybe because it's a real maze?"

"Where are you?"

“I’m standing in front of some weird sculpture.” You looked at this piece of art, which was probably worth a few thousand dollars, for five minutes, Harry probably thought you were wandering around his penthouse.

Another sigh. He was already close to breaking down, but he tried to sound calm. His low, warm voice resonated in your receiver again. "How weird is this sculpture?"

"Weird enough."

You could barely contain your laughter when you heard a muffled "Jesus Christ." You adjusted the folders you were holding in your arms, looking around the spacious hallway. The conclusion appeared in your head that Harry would soon start looking for you himself, so you spoke up.

"I see the kitchen on the right."

"Great. So go left." He rubbed his eyes with his hand and leaned back in the chair. He could hear your footsteps in the receiver. "You should pass three rooms on the left, then turn right and..."

"Oh!"

A strange shiver ran down his spine. "What's that 'oh' supposed to mean?"

You cleared your throat. "Harry, this room is weird. I didn't expect that from you..."

"W-What? What are you talking about..."

"These whips, the leather... Jesus. And this?" There was silence for a moment. Harry thought it would take forever. "How is that supposed to fit in there? It won't fit. Or maybe..."

“What the hell?!” he shot up in his chair. “Where are you?” but out of the corner of his eye he noticed the door to his office open.

His assistant stood there, clutching a folder of documents to her chest and the most disarming smile on her face. He rolled his eyes, unsure whether he should fire her or kill her.

"Gotcha!" You chuckled and entered the office with a determined step "I brought what you asked for."

Harry Castillo, CEO of a large multi-million dollar company, watched as his assistant placed a folder of documents and Chinese takeout in front of him. It was supposed to be another Friday night, where you try to plan the coming week instead of trying your luck at bars or watching TV on the couch.

You had worked for him for almost a year, and your relationship had quickly changed from formal to friendly. Although you still called him Mr. Castillo at work, you were both more casual outside of that setting.

The job was very fulfilling, but your personal life was a complete mess. Apart from a few friends at work, there wasn't much going on there. But the pay was decent, and your boss was a really nice guy, so...

"Mark said he'd send the report tonight. That email you were waiting for also arrived." you said, sitting down on the comfortable chair in front of his desk and quickly scrolling through your phone "Mrs. Smith asked to contact you after the weekend. She has a few questions about the contract."

It wasn't until you tore your gaze away from the screen that you noticed Harry watching you intently from behind the desk, his dark eyes fixed on you. The white T-shirt hugged his broad, strong shoulders nicely, and a smile played on his lips.

"Is something wrong?" you asked uncertainly.

"I need you." Harry replied. Now a strange shiver ran down your spine and you gripped your phone tighter.

"What do you mean?"

He tilted his head without taking his gaze off you. "I need a woman."

He watched with delight as your eyes widened and your mouth parted in silent surprise. It took a lot of effort not to burst out laughing at the sight.

"A w-women?" you finally repeated in a choked voice "In what sense? To what? No! Don't tell me!"

You squeezed your eyes shut, raising your hands as if you wanted to stop him, although Harry was still sitting at his desk and still just staring at you.

Finally he decided to take pity on you. “A good friend of mine is getting married on Saturday. I want you to go with me.”

You opened one eye, then the other, and burst out laughing. “No, no, no!” you shook your head. “Good joke. I go with you to client meetings, not to your friends’ weddings. You have many friends, beautiful women, why don’t you invite any of them?”

Harry leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. He was a handsome man, and you were sure there were plenty of women who would love to go to a party like this with him.

"Maybe I've already asked them and you're the only one left, darling?"

“Ouch, that hurt.” you mumbled, squinting. “I’ll have to say no too. I don’t have…”

"I'll buy you a dress tomorrow, no problem. The wedding is in the afternoon, so we'll make it." He smiled at you as if the decision had already been made and you had no other choice.

“Harry…” You sighed. “That’s not the point. You know, I… I don’t think I’m cut out for this.” He frowned, so you tried to explain. “These people, your friends, aren’t my world. They’re always so beautiful and dazzling, and I…”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Do you think I'm some kind of higher class or something? A better species of human?”

"Can I be honest? On the Titanic you would definitely have first class. I would have been below deck."

“Jesus!” he laughed and shook his head. “I assure you, honey, you will be the most interesting person at this wedding. I know what I mean. Besides, you will be with me. If this ship sinks, you can take the door, I won’t argue with you about it.”

You shook your head, smiling slightly and not believing that you had given in to him.

The place looked like it was cut out of a wedding magazine. Your eyes moved from the crystal chandelier, to the tables covered with snow-white tablecloths, to the vases with beautiful bouquets of flowers. Soft music flowed from the corner of the room where a band made up of several professional musicians stood.

You almost jumped when someone placed a hand on your back. "Harry, don't do that." You said, feeling your heart speed up.

"I'm sorry, are you okay?" he asked, smiling friendly. He looked stunning in a well-tailored suit and styled hair. When you nodded, he led you to your table.

He could see that you were stressed. Although you looked stunning in your dress, which beautifully emphasized your curves, and many eyes were looking after you, you kept smiling nervously and were rather silent. It wasn't like you so Harry did everything to cheer you up, and he was great at it. 

He didn't leave you alone with people you didn't know for long, his arm always served as your support and he made you laugh whenever he had the chance. That evening would have passed pleasantly if not for the fact that when you were coming back from the bathroom you heard a familiar voice that froze you. Someone said your name and when you turned around you saw him.

"Daniel! What a surprise! What are you doing here?" you smiled even though you had the impression that someone had just squeezed your insides with a vice.

A tall and slim brunette approached you smiling, the suit he was wearing looked really impressive. "It's my friend's wedding. And what are you doing here? Are you a friend?"

"I'm accompanying someone." you replied.

Daniel nodded in appreciation. "I came with my wife. Do you remember Beth?"

Oh, you remembered Beth. Very well to be honest. It was for her that he left you three years ago. You followed your gaze to the place he indicated and saw a beautiful blonde with a nicely rounded belly. Something sharp must have pierced your heart, but you bravely smiled.

"Still looking for a job?" Daniel leaned slightly towards you. "A friend of mine is looking for a secretary. He runs a construction company, I can give you his number."

"Thank you, but I'm not looking for a job right now. I'm happy with what I have."

Daniel shrugged. "You've never needed much, have you?"

The words got stuck in your throat. For a few moments you didn't know what to answer, and at the same time you were afraid that whatever left your lips would be immediately turned against you. Daniel was a master at this.

Suddenly, someone said your name again and in the back of the room you noticed Harry, who was walking away from a group of elegant-looking men and heading towards you.

"It's Harry Castillo." Daniel mumbled, straightening up. "I didn't know he was here."

"Yeah, it's his good friend's wedding. We came together and..."

"You're with Harry Castillo?"

It was too easy. You knew perfectly well that you shouldn't do it, but your lips moved before your brain had time to react properly. "Yes, we're here together."

It wasn't a lie. Not completely.

"I was worried about you." Harry said, walking over to you and smiling politely at Daniel. He quickly extended his hand in greeting.

"Daniel Stevens." He introduced himself. "I'm a lawyer."

"Nice to meet you." Harry looked at you expectantly.

"Daniel and I, we've known each other for a while. And this is his wife, Beth."

A pretty blonde walked up to you and Daniel put his arm around her, straightening up proudly. A woman like her was definitely the crowning achievement of his career. You weren't cut out for this. 

Even though you kept a smile on your lips, the whole conversation felt like a speeding bus was heading towards you. Harry was as polite as ever and didn't even bat an eyelid when Daniel mentioned "She said that you are together. It must be something new, because nothing has spread around town yet."

"We want to keep it private. You understand, Daniel." Harry replied smoothly and without hesitation, placing his hand on the small of your back and looking at you fondly. "A woman like that is a treasure, I want to enjoy her before we show ourselves to the world."

Daniel nodded as if he understood what Harry meant, and Beth let out a fond sigh. After a few moments, you said goodbye and Harry led you towards the door.

“Do you want to tell me more?” he asked quietly, more amused than angry.

You shook your head. "Just throw me under the car." you muttered "Damn! I knew I shouldn't have come here."

Harry immediately sensed that something was wrong. You seemed more tense and withdrawn during the whole conversation. "Who was that?" he asked.

You took a deep breath. "My ex-boyfriend. And Beth... That's the woman he left me for. And as you can see, she's pregnant now. Wonderful, right?" you tried to laugh, but it came out so fake that you quickly fell silent.

"So that's why you told him that you and I... That we're together?"

You stopped. You looked so pathetic that his heart almost broke.

"I didn't lie to him. Not really." you finally said. "I told him that we were here together. Daniel took it differently."

“So maybe I should explain it to him?” Harry made a move as if to go back to the party and find Daniel, but you quickly grabbed his arm.

"No, please!" you groaned. "Don't make me feel even worse. This whole situation is already embarrassing enough. Daniel will forget about it by tomorrow."

"If you say so." Harry sighed and put his arm around you. "Come on, I'll take you home. It's been a long day."

You were quiet as you climbed into the backseat of his car, your gaze barely leaving the window as the driver drove you through the dark city. Harry didn't say a word either, respecting your silence. But this wasn't how he expected the evening to end.

It wasn’t until you were standing in front of your apartment that he heard your quiet voice. “Thank you, Harry. And I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

He smiled, and at the same time, a small smile appeared on your lips. He reached for your hand and squeezed it lightly. “You always have me by your side. And you can always count on me.”

"I know. Thank you."

He watched you for a moment longer, then you said goodbye to him and the driver and got out, leaving him alone.

Harry Castillo had almost everything a man his age could ever want. A thriving company that was making millions, a penthouse in the heart of New York City, and an expensive car. But the expensive suits he wore and the clothes made of the best materials couldn't hide what he really lacked. Closeness.

Although he was surrounded by many people, when the door to his 12 million apartment closed behind him, he felt really lonely. Harry was slowly approaching fifty and was starting to wonder if it wasn't a bit too late for him. Maybe he had missed a moment in his life?

Yes, he had met many beautiful women, had gone on dates, but it was never long-term, and that was exactly what he was looking for. He wanted someone who could be just his, who would love him and ask how his day was. Someone he could watch stupid movies with on the couch, go on vacation, or just be bored. Was he asking for too much?

"Do we really have to do this today? Everyone has gone home." The door to his office slammed shut, and then he heard a dull thud as you plopped down on the couch. Harry smiled to himself and turned away from the huge window that overlooked the city at night.

"We'll get this over with in a minute and then I'll drop you home. Is that okay with you?" he asked, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and rolling up the sleeves.

You rolled your eyes and sighed. "I'm not sure. I could have snuck out with the others."

"My personal assistant tells me things like that?" he frowned, but at the same time smiled and sat down next to you. "It's just some folders to look through. It'll take us an hour at most. Would you like a drink?"

You shook your head and lifted the mug of tea you had brought with you. You grabbed the first folder and flipped through it. "You have a sponsors' party this week. I've cleared the evening and morning for you."

"Thank you."

For a moment, you were both focused on your work. You were putting the next reviewed documents on the empty chair, and the room was filled with your quiet typing on the laptop keyboard. Harry took a sip of whiskey and glanced in your direction.

You were so focused that you completely ignored him. A small wrinkle appeared between your eyebrows as your eyes ran over the next lines of text.

“Would you like to go to this party with me?” he asked, breaking the silence, and when you looked at him, he added, “We’ve been having quite a bit of fun together lately.”

“Do you really think so?” you were surprised, remembering Daniel and the situation that had taken place at the wedding. “Can’t you bring one of your friends with you? You were dating Jean recently, right? What about her?”

Harry shook his head and smacked his lips. “It’s over. I don’t know if it’s even started, though.” He shrugged, and you felt sorry for him. Harry was a really great guy, even though he was your boss. Handsome, tall, well-mannered, he always made the people around him feel seen.

“Can I be honest?” you asked, putting your work aside for a moment, and Harry’s brown eyes landed on you expectantly. “I feel like you’ve jumped headfirst into a pool without even knowing how much water there is. I mean, when you meet someone and you just go for it. Expensive restaurants, gifts, flowers, weekends together… You fulfill all their dreams and whims, and yet you don’t want anything in return. I wonder where you are in all of this.”

Harry analyzed your words for a moment, until he finally spoke. "So you think I should..."

"You should really get to know someone first. And then they should get to know you too. Because you have a lot to offer, and I don't mean money or anything like that. But the real you..."

Silence fell after your words. You stared at Harry's profile, his prominent nose, the fine lines around his eyes, you noticed a few grey hairs at his temple. He was really handsome and you were surprised that you had to explain such things to him.

Finally, he moved his gaze to your face again. "How is it possible that you are still single?"

You smiled sadly. "I am a lot to handle."

"Not true. Who told you that?"

But you didn’t answer that question. Harry could tell you were sad, though you tried to hide it by looking back at your computer screen. “I think we should get back to work.” You finally said. “We don’t have much left.”

For a moment his attentive gaze rested on you, analyzing your words.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

[valeisaslut]

⭒࿐COLLIDE - c. eight

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑.

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

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

⭒ word count: 17,6k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cleared your throat, forcing the words out.

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

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

"Okay, mom." 

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

"I’m serious."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ellie finally looked at you.

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

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

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

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

"Especially then."

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

And then, finally, she muttered,

"Okay. I will."

You nodded, heart hammering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Didn’t hide.

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

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

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

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

"Then we’ll figure it out. Together."

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

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

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

You didn’t hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I promise." 

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

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

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

You both thought that was enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They couldn’t stand that she was still yours.

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

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

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

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

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

And in the next breath, she was Ellie Williams.

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

The fire the world couldn't help but chase.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn't save her from this life.

You couldn't even save yourself from this life.

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

You walked beside her, step for step.

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

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

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

At the foot of the stairs, Ellie paused.

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

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

There was only her. Only you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you let her go because you had to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were both still human. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The crowd thinned. The cameras turned away.

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

But for you, it had.

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

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

Your phone buzzed in your back pocket.

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

Ells <3

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

i don’t know how to do this without you

but i’m gonna try

i swear to god i’m gonna try

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

please say it back

im scared im gonna forget what it feels like

Your hands trembled so badly you nearly dropped the phone.

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

You:

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

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

please don’t disappear on me

please come back to me sober

im begging you

please

try

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

for us

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

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

i swear i will 

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

always.

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

But your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. 

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

Please be okay.

Please make it to the end of the tour.

Please keep your promise.

Please at least try to be sober. 

Please come back to me.

Please.

Don’t break my heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words caught, then fell.

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

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

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

“It was a hard goodbye. That’s all.”

She seemed satisfied. Moved on.

But your throat burned.

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

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

Nobody.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were the brightest star in the sky.

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

Stil, she called every night.

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

But she always called. And you always picked up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She tried, though. God, she tried.

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

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

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

And tonight, you picked up on the first ring.

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

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

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

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

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

“Debatable.”

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

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

“Are you smoking more?”

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

You raised an eyebrow.

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

“Mmhmm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ellie shifted on the bed. Looked away from you.

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

“What? Again?” you asked, frowning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Obviously.”

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

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

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

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

You didn’t want to ruin the silence.

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

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

You nodded slowly, though something tightened in your chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long’s it been like that?”

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

You didn’t say anything. Just waited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smiled, but your chest still felt tight.

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

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

She always tried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smiled, but didn’t meet her gaze.

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

“It was all I could stomach.”

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

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

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

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

Neither of you said what you were really thinking.

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

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

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

“Ellie.”

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

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

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

“It’s my stage fit!”

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

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

“Only for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

You: miss uuuu call me when you can <3

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

Still nothing.

Day two.

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

No missed calls. No texts.

Nothing.

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

You texted Jesse.

You: heyyy, everything okay? havent heard from ellie

No answer.

You texted Dina two hours later.

You: d please just tell me she’s okay

No answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You called her. Straight to voicemail.

You called again.

Straight to voicemail.

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

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

Day three.

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

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

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

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

You sent another message. And another.

i’m scared

please answer

i just need to know you’re okay

im not mad

please

No read receipt. No reply.

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

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

i’m fine

stop blowing up everyone’s phone

i just needed space, sorry babe

love you

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

Fine. Space. Love you.

Nothing real. Nothing you could hold onto.

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

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

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

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

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

Day four.

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

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

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

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

please just tell me if she’s okay

that’s all I need

please

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

she’s fine

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

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

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

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

But you cried now. For her. For yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you saw her.

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

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

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

But there was none of that.

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

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

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

And then it cut off.

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

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

At first, you laughed.

Not because it was funny. God, no.

Because it was too much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck the empire.

Fuck the perfect career.

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

She needed you.

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

"I need to fucking see her."

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

She wasn’t surprised. She knew you.

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

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

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

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

Please don’t be too late.

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

This wasn’t something anyone could shield you from.

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

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

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

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

It had always been about staying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Voices.

Shouting.

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

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

You rounded the corner and almost slammed into her.

Erin. Ellie’s assistant.

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

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

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

"Wouldn’t you like to know,"

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

She shrugged, the motion too casual, too dismissive.

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

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

"What do you mean?" you rasped.

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

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out.

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

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

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

But now you were close enough to hear everything.

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

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

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

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

And you froze.

Because that didn’t sound like her.

It didn’t sound like Ellie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say that again.”

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

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

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

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

Ellie growled, deep in her throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a pause. A charged, electric silence.

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

“You’ve been fucking lost, Ellie.”

It hit the room like a hammer.

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

"Don’t bring her into this."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And they were lies.

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

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

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

And then Dina twisted the knife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when Ellie snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A heavy silence settled like ash.

Then Jesse added, voice hoarse with something like grief.

“There are twenty thousand people out there.”

Another pause.

“And they’re all waiting for you.”

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

Couldn’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—his shoulder slammed into yours. Hard.

You staggered back, catching yourself against the wall.

He froze instantly.

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

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

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

You straightened, forcing your voice to work.

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

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

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

He shook his head, grimacing like it physically hurt.

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

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

"Then why?"

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

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

You blinked, stunned.

"What?"

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

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

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

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

Because of course she did.

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

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

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

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

"Is she really..."

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

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

"She’s not okay."

The words hung between you, heavy as lead.

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

"None of us fucking are."

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

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

And then Jesse turned.

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

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

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

The words sat between you like a goodbye.

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

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

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

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

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

Part of you didn’t want to know.

It was just you.

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

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

There she was.

Ellie.

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

Scorched. Charred black at its base.

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

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

Because Ellie’s other hand held something worse.

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

A syringe.

Full. Loaded. Shaking.

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

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

She didn’t see you at first.

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

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

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

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

And then Ellie lifted her head.

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

It was shame. It was guilt.

It was devastation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you were on her in two steps.

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t a fight. It was a collapse.

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

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

You fought.

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

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

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

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

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

Everything stopped.

You stumbled back, breath jagged, heart racing.

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

And you just stood there.

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

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

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

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

And then, softer—barely audible through your grief.

“Why wasn’t I enough?”

Ellie lifted her head.

Her eyes were bloodshot, wild, barely hers anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t have to!”

You shot back, and your voice broke wide open.

“I loved you!”

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

You stepped closer. Hands trembling. Voice trembling worse.

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

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

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

“Answer me!”

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

“I don’t know,”

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

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

“You do know.”

She looked away.

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

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

And there it was.

That look.

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

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

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

“I know!” she screamed, “But when you left—when you left—everything went fucking quiet. The world just—collapsed, and I didn’t know how to fucking stand in it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stared at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she just layed there.

Breathing like every inhale was a damnation.

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

That silence was worse than any scream.

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

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

“And now you’re here! Using he—!”

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

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

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

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

And then she whispered it.

So soft you almost didn’t hear it.

“...I didn’t want you to hate me.”

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

“I could never hate you,”

You choked, voice wrecked beyond recognition.

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

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

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

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

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

“But I hate myself,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It landed like a death sentence.

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

“What?”

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

The word barely had shape.

Because deep down, you already knew.

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

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

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

You shook your head. Hard. Desperate.

“No—you’re not—you’re not—”

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

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

Because you knew she wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ellie—”

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

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

But she pulled back like your touch scalded her.

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

She pressed her palms into her eyes, hard.

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

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

You were tired.

Exhausted.

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

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

She said it like a confession.

An apology to a god that never showed up.

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

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

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

She swallowed, and it buckled her whole body.

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

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

“It doesn’t fix me.”

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

“...But I need you.”

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

Neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed.

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

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

And then—

Then she kissed you.

Not like a lover. Like a goodbye.

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

And it wounded.

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

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

But the clock didn’t stop.

The world didn’t wait.

It never had.

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

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

There was no mercy in it.

No pity. No grace.

Just the cold, unyielding truth that time moved on.

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

You watched her walk away.

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

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

Shaky. Careful. Final.

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

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

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

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

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

But at the door, she paused.

And without turning around, she whispered,

“I’m sorry.”

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

And she chose the crowd.

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

Still. Silent. Utterly alone.

Like you always had been.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or die trying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the voice didn’t come.

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

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

Forgot who she was singing to.

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

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

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

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

And then she destroyed everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the worst part.

The world outside kept spinning. Kept demanding.

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

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

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

She’d made her choice.

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

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

She let you go because she did.

And now you were gone.

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

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

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

You spent the first day in bed.

Then two.

Then seven.

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

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

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

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

Not suspended. Not like yours.

Cancelled.

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

You stared at the screen until your eyes blurred.

She was unraveling.

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

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

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

You did the last thing you could.

You went back to the beginning.

You texted Rachel at 2:07 a.m.

get me Joel Miller’s number

It took her three minutes to reply.

ARE YOU OKAY?

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

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

You can’t just keep suspending shows.

Im really worried for you.

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

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

Ten minutes later, it appeared on your screen.

An unfamiliar area code. No name.

Just a number and the last ragged shred of hope.

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

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

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

Once. Twice. Three times.

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

You swallowed hard. Gripped the countertop to stay upright.

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

You paused. Swallowed again.

“…completely out of options.”

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

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

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

A beat of silence.

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

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

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

“She needs help.”

← 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑡.𝟷 →

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࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ 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 ;)

[crabsnpersimmons]

Have You Eaten? now on Ao3!!

welcome welcome! have you eaten?

the first story of my restaurant DCA AU Have You Eaten? is up on Ao3 now! Have You Eaten? is gonna be a series of stories, rather than a multi-chaptered work (like New 'Do, Same You) so i hope you'll enjoy the variety!

you can find the series here on Ao3

thanks to @starriegalaxy for proofreading

Note: don't worry, i haven't forgotten New 'Do, Same You, i'll be working on both at the same time because they're both near and dear to my heart and they're tonally very different, so switching between the two will give me some variety too