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valeisaslut · 28 days ago

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⭒࿐COLLIDE - c. six

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗

𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐒 & 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐃

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑣𝑒 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 →

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

⭒ synopsis: After months of blurred lines and staged headlines, the truth finally breaks through—there’s no pretending anymore. You’re with Ellie now, for real. Wrapped up in tour dates, secret kisses behind curtains, and a love that’s grown too wild to hide. The concert is electric, the afterparty dizzy with heat, and through it all, you and Ellie can’t keep your hands—or hearts—off each other. 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 12,3k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: smut, fluff, top/possesive!ellie, sub! reader, strap-on sex (r!receiving), oral sex (r!receiving), chocking, slapping, hair pulling, pet names, modern au, mention of cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, cursing, violence, afab!reader, multiple part series, MEN AND MINORS DNI likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

Disclaimer: This chapter contains references to drug use. If you're sensitive to this topic, please read with caution or consider skipping. I aim to handle it with thoughtfulness and respect.

BREAKING: ELLIE WILLIAMS & Y/N MAKE HISTORY WITH THE FIRST QUEER KISS IN GRAMMY HISTORY!!! 🔥👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩🚨

(Full emotional damage, A-list reactions, meme chaos, and internet meltdowns below. Proceed with caution.)

LOS ANGELES, CA — We tuned in for the music. We stayed for the drama. But what we got? A history-making, earth-shattering, culture-resetting moment so powerful it will be analyzed in LGBTQ+ archives, dissected in media studies courses, and quite possibly investigated by NASA—because the sheer gravity of this event sent us all into another orbit.

The 67th Annual Grammy Awards didn’t just give us winners, electrifying performances, and overpriced celebrity reactions—it delivered a full-blown revolution. The first QUEER KISS IN GRAMMY HISTORY unfolded before our very eyes, and the world has simply not been the same since.

Let’s break it down—frame by frame, reaction by reaction—because let’s be real: we are NEVER recovering from this.

THE PERFORMANCE THAT LEFT THE INTERNET IN RUINS.

🎥 [Video link attached. Side effects may include: heart palpitations, spontaneous screaming, and an urgent need to be laid to rest IMMEDIATELY.]

Our favorite agents of chaos took the stage for their highly anticipated duet of She, and within 0.2 seconds, we were all in grave, irreversible danger.

We’re talking eye contact and fleeting touches so intense they should be classified as a controlled substance. So charged they are now banned in 47 countries and counting.

At the end of the song, no warning, no buildup, not even a dramatic orchestral swell, just pure, undiluted lesbian cinema. Ellie turned to Y/N, locked eyes with her, and then—

💥 KISSED HER LIKE THEY WERE ABOUT TO BE TORN APART BY THE FORCES OF FATE. 💥

The audience? Absolutely feral. The cameras? MALFUNCTIONED. They couldn’t even keep up. Jesse and Dina, still on stage? Looking like they just witnessed a divine event.

And the celebrities?? Pure CINEMA.

Beyoncé – Shaking her head, slow clapping like she just witnessed the most powerful love story of our time. Taylor Swift – Allegedly whispering oh my god on an endless loop. Billie Eilish – Straight-up dropping her drink, mouth frozen in pure, unfiltered gay panic. Lady Gaga – Visibly screaming “MOTHERS.” Harry Styles – Nodding like a proud gay uncle.

No thoughts. No survival.

Just two sapphics rewriting history on live television.

THE ACCEPTANCE SPEECH THAT DESTROYED HUMANITY.

📸 [Clip attached. Send thoughts, prayers, and therapy bills.]

Y/N didn’t just win the Grammys—she owned them. FOUR AWARDS. A clean sweep. And as if that weren’t enough, The Fireflies won SIX. GRAMMYS. SIX. Sold-out arenas, chart-topping records, and now? A total obliteration of the competition.

But nothing—and I mean NOTHING—could have prepared us for the Category 5 emotional devastation that was Williams’ words at The Fireflies Album of the Year speech.

She stepped up to the mic, hands shaking, took one deep breath, and turned to look at Y/N with that look. The one we’ve seen a thousand times, but never like this—not this raw, not this real.

And then she said, voice steady but somehow still knocking the air out of everyone in that room:

"There are people who change you. Who tear you apart and put you back together in ways you never saw coming. And even when they annoy the shit out of you, you know—deep down—you’d be lost without them. And you are that person for me."

💀💀💀 WE WERE ALL DUG INTO GRAVES. 💀💀💀

The pause. The pause that shaved years off our collective lifespans. The pause that stretched out like the universe itself was holding its breath.

And then—

"And I just wanted to say that… that I love you."

👀👀👀 EXCUSE ME?????????? 👀👀👀

The crowd erupted. Jesse and Dina screaming in the background. A-listers clutching their chests like they had just been stabbed through the heart. The camera panning to Y/N—eyes wide, lips parted, staring into the distance like those words had just rewired her entire brain chemistry.

THE AFTERMATH: INTERNET MELTDOWN OF THE CENTURY.

✅ Twitter: Unrecoverable. Users filing for emotional compensation and group therapy. ✅ TikTok: Gone. Servers overheated on impact. Fandom historians drafting deep dives as we speak. ✅ TMZ (literally us): sprinting through the streets like it’s the Olympics of gay panic. ✅ Rolling Stone: Already calling it "the most iconic queer moment in music history." And you know what? YES.

And let’s take a moment for THE CONSERVATIVES. Fox News? Fuming. Boomers on Facebook? Typing in all caps about the ‘downfall of society.’ Every homophobe within a 50-mile radius? Visibly sweating and shaking.

Lesbians winning. History being made. Society upgraded.

AND WE. LOVE. TO. SEE. IT.

🔗NEW TMZ UPDATE: THE HAND-HOLDING, JACKET STEALING, AND CAFÉ DATE THAT FINISHED US OFF 🔥🚨

📸 [MORE Paparazzi shots and attached. If you thought you were safe, you were DEAD WRONG.]

Just when we thought we had barely survived the Grammys' emotional onslaught, Ellie and Y/N said, "Nah, stay in your casket."

Because the morning-after pap shots just dropped, and the afterglow is BLINDING.

And let’s talk TIMELINE. Not only did they spend the night together, but the afterparty photos have surfaced—whispered conversations, lingering touches, and Ellie looking at Y/N like she personally strung up the stars.

But those photos? Just the warm-up. Because the morning after, they were spotted strolling into a café, looking slow, soft, and disgustingly in love. Not their usual teasing, no performance—this was different.

This was "We-just-rewrote-history-then-I-rocked-your-world-and-now-we're-getting-coffee-like-a-married-couple" kind of energy.

🎥 THE EVIDENCE:

• Ellie leaning in too close, whispering something that had Y/N turning BRIGHT red.

• Y/N sipping coffee, still looking wrecked, while Ellie shamelessly stole bites of her croissant.

• Ellie’s oversized jacket swallowing Y/N whole. Ellie sitting across from her, smirking like she just won a championship.

Even innocent bystanders were left SHOOK. One café worker we interviewed allegedly had to take a deep breath before serving them, muttering, “the energy they have is actually too much to handle.”

And those final paparazzi shots? Our favorite rockstar holding our favorite popstar’s hand even tighter as they walked back onto the street, smiling like they just lived through the softest, most cinematic rom-com of all time.

TMZ is now officially in FULL surveillance mode. Every glance, every touch, every silent confirmation of what we already KNOW is happening—we’re tracking it ALL.

But what do YOU think? Drop your most unhinged comments below! ⬇️🔥

────────────

❤️ 20.3M — 💬 698.7K

📌 TOP COMMENTS:

@: We need a full forensic analysis of Y/N’s post-Grammys glow because sis walked out of that hotel looking RENEWED, REVIVED, AND REBORN

@: Ellie was gripping that mic like a stress ball when she said “I love you” 😭 girly was SO STRESSED SHES SUCH A LIL CUTIE

@: the way they walked into that café like they weren’t publicly obliterating us 8 hours ago 😂

@: incredible day to be gay, my folks. my skin has just cleared.

@: WHY IS NOBODY TALKING AB THE AFTERPARTY PHOTOS OMG MY PHONE IS GONNA COMBUST FROM HOW HOT THEY ARE😩😩😩😩

@: I don’t know if I wanna study this moment in an LGBTQ+ history class or frame it and hang it above my bed like a religious shrine

@: y/n wearing her jacket like a trophy while Ellie sat there looking like the cat that ate the canary??? WHEN IT'S GONNA BE MY TURN😭

@: so much stuff happened in only one day omg that’s it I’m booking therapy and a heart transplant for all of us

@: Ellie just confirmed that she can pull both Grammys and souls straight out of bodies in one night. MY ICON.

@: it’s so crazy how they went from sneaky links to BUILDING A LITERAL LEGACY IN A FEW MONTHS.

@: that afterglow was so blinding I had to turn my brightness down just to process those café pics in peace

@: Ellie looked at Y/N on that stage like she was about to risk it all, and then she DIDDDD

@: The way the cameraman ZOOMED IN SO FAST like even he knew this was about to be a HISTORICAL LESBIAN EVENT™

@: honestly, someone get these women a throne already because they’ve earned it👑

@: they look so IN LOVE MY POOR GAY HEART CANT HANDLE IT 😭😭😭

@: I just KNOW the hotel walls were whispering the AFTERMATH of that speech I fear for the structural integrity of that building

The world had shifted.

Tilted into something softer, more tangible than either of you had ever expected.

What once had been an act, a perfectly curated illusion of stolen glances and well-timed touches for the cameras, had unraveled into something neither of you could fake. Not even if you tried.

At first, it had been easy to pretend. To play the part, to let the world believe in the effortless chemistry between you—because wasn’t that what they wanted? A fantasy to buy into, a love story they could project their own desires onto. And yet, now, the line between performance and reality had blurred.

No, blurred isn’t the right word. That suggests hesitation, uncertainty.

And there was none of that anymore.

Three months had passed since the Grammys. Since that night, that breathless moment when it all came crashing down and the truth between you was undeniable. Since the weight of what you felt had finally shattered through the surface, too big, too consuming to be ignored.

And now, there was no hesitation. No careful distance or unspoken boundaries.

Now, there were real dates—ones without touches already planned or pre-approved locations for paparazzi to conveniently “stumble” upon. There were late-night drives through LA with the windows down and her hand gripping your thigh, not for show, but because she simply wanted to touch you.

There were nights—late, hazy, endless—where conversation poured like wine, deep and heady. You talked about everything: life, death, music, the past, the kind of love that makes you reckless. Words slurred by exhaustion or laughter or both, but still honest, still yours.

There were lazy mornings tangled in bed sheets, her sleepy murmurs against your shoulder, the warmth of her breath fanning over your skin as she whispered things that weren’t meant for anyone but you.

For the first time in years, she was truly living—and so were you.

And the world was still watching, unaware of that shift.

The Fireflies’ world tour had shattered expectations, selling out in record time, each venue packed with thousands of voices screaming her name before she even stepped on stage. Articles hailed it as the tour of the decade. Fans camped outside arenas for days just for the chance to be there, to witness them in real-time. Every performance was electric, every setlist a journey, every night another testament to the fact that they weren’t just musicians anymore—they were a phenomenon.

You hadn’t planned on joining the tour—not at first. Your schedules rarely aligned, and even when they did, there was always another interview, another appearance, another commitment pulling you in opposite directions.

But then, against all odds, there was an opening.

A few weeks of unclaimed time—no press circuits, no obligations, just freedom.

And when she asked you to come with her, voice soft, fingers brushing against your wrist like she wasn’t sure if she had the right to ask, you didn’t hesitate.

"Just a little longer?" she had murmured, hopeful and hesitant, eyes flickering up to yours in the dim glow of her hotel room. "I just... I want you here. Pretty please?"

And how could you have possibly said no?

It was supposed to be one show. Maybe two. A brief escape, a chance to be with her without the constant press of cameras and expectations.

But then one show turned into another. And another. And suddenly, a week had passed, then two, and you had fallen into a rhythm that felt impossible to leave behind.

Cities changed, hotel rooms blurred together, flights stretched on endlessly—but none of it mattered. Because every night, the lights dimmed, the crowd roared, and she was there, bathed in neon glow, fingers weaving magic into guitar strings. And every time she turned her head mid-song, her eyes searched for you, always, always finding yours.

Backstage, she found you first. Always.

Her hands were on you before the door even clicked shut, dragging you into dressing rooms littered with half-empty water bottles, the scent of weed and sweat still lingering in the air. Her lips ghosted over yours in stolen moments between encore and afterparty, between exhaustion and adrenaline.

"Mine," she would murmur against your lips, against your pulse, against the curve of your shoulder as she pressed impossibly close. “You’re all mine.”

And for the first time, she wasn’t saying it for anyone but you.

Now, The remnants of last night’s party still lingered in your bones—loud music, flashing lights, the lingering taste of tequila and Ellie’s lips on yours in the middle of a crowded club.

The Fireflies had played to a sold-out arena in Seattle, the kind of show that left the whole city buzzing, and the celebration that followed had been nothing short of legendary. Shots had been poured without pause, bodies had swayed in the dim glow of neon, and Ellie had kept you close the entire night.

And now, neither of you really knew what time it is. The heavy hotel curtains swallowed the daylight whole, and your phones were lost somewhere in the mess of sheets and discarded clothes. It could’ve been minutes, or hours, or forever.

The room still smelled like the food you’d ordered earlier—warm, salty, comforting. You couldn’t even remember what it was now. The half-finished plates were still sitting on the room service tray by the door, forgotten the second Ellie had pulled you back into bed.

“Mm.” She hummed against your shoulder, voice thick with sleep. “This is so nice.”

You let out a breathy laugh, fingers combing idly through her messy hair. “Yeah, it really is.”

"Kinda wish the concert wasn’t happening so I could stay in bed with you."

She propped herself up on one elbow, tracing the curve of your jaw with her knuckles before leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss to your lips.

“You should stay longer.”

You sighed, heart sinking a little. “Ellie…”

She groaned, dramatically flopping onto her back like you’d just told her the worst news imaginable. “Don’t ‘Ellie’ me. You can stay a few more days. A week, even. No one’s gonna miss you THAT much.”

You shot her a look. “If I stay longer, Rachel will actually lose her mind.”

As if on cue, your phone buzzed against the nightstand. You barely had to glance at the screen before groaning.

"Speak of the devil."

Ellie, ever the menace, snatched the phone from your hands before you could stop her. "Oh my God, let me answer it."

"Ellie, no—"

Too late. She swiped to answer and put it on speaker.

"Rachiee! Sweetheart! Light of my life! How are you?" Ellie crooned, voice dripping with mock sweetness. "We miss you sooo much!"

Rachel’s voice came through the receiver, flat and entirely unimpressed. "Put her on the phone before I destroy both of your careers."

Ellie grinned, completely unbothered. "Wow. Not even a hello? Ruuude."

She finally handed you the phone, stretching lazily like she had all the time in the world.

You sighed, bringing the phone closer to your lips as you slipped into your best fake sweet voice. “Heyyyy, Rach!”

“Finally,” Rachel huffed. “Please tell me you haven’t gone completely feral and run off with your little guitarist girlfriend permanently.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s been, like, two weeks.”

"Exactly! Two weeks! That’s forever in popstar time! Do you even remember what a red carpet looks like? What a concert is? Or have you fully transitioned into rockstar mode? Should I start booking tattoo and piercing appointments for you?"

Ellie, listening in, perked up and wiggled her eyebrows. "Ooh, now that’s an idea."

Rachel ignored her entirely. “When are you coming back? Be honest. I need to mentally prepare myself.”

You hesitated, glancing at Ellie, who was watching you with a small, hopeful smile. "I don’t know. A few more days? I still have some time before—"

"You said that last week," Rachel cut in. "I swear to God, if you ghost me again—"

"I wouldn’t ghost you," you protested. "I’d just… delay."

Rachel groaned, audibly restraining herself. "Okay, look. I’ll give you five more days. Five. That’s almost another week. Then I’m calling in reinforcements."

You narrowed your eyes. “What does that mean?”

"It means that if you’re not on a flight back by Sunday, I’m personally calling your publicist and scheduling you for back-to-back interviews until your vocal cords give out."

You gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.”

Ellie, who had been listening with great amusement, turned to you with a smirk. "Damn. Blackmail? That’s cold. Even for you, 'Chel."

Rachel sighed, clearly so done with both of you. "I’m hanging up now. Enjoy your little love tour. Don’t forget you have an actual career. Oh, and send kisses to Dina and Jesse! Bye-bye."

The call ended with a beep. You tossed your phone onto the bed with a groan, burying your face in a pillow.

"Ughhh, she’s the worst."

“She’s the best,” Ellie corrected. “But also, screw her. Stay longer.”

You rolled onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow. “You know I can’t. I’ve got promo, interviews, studio time—”

Ellie made an exaggerated gagging noise. “Ugh. Responsibility.”

“Yes, responsibility,” you teased, poking her side. “Not all of us get to run around the world playing shows and partying every night.”

Ellie scoffed. “Excuse you, we do very important work. Rock is a cultural movement.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Dina literally got so drunk two nights ago that she thought the hotel hallway was the stage and started doing an impromptu performance for the vending machine.”

Ellie snorted, fingers absentmindedly tracing lazy patterns on your bare back. “Okay, fair. But my point still stands.”

You sighed dramatically, dragging your fingers through her messy hair. “I wish I could stay forever, Els, but I can’t. Real life calls.”

Ellie made a low, disapproving noise and tightened her arms around you, pressing you flush against her. “Fine. But I’m gonna sulk about it.”

“You always sulk,” you pointed out, lips curving as you kissed her collarbone softly.

“Yeah, but now I have a reason.” Her voice dropped, husky and teasing, as she reached up and tilted your chin with two fingers.

Her thumb dragged lazily over your lower lip, eyes flicking between your mouth and your gaze before she kissed you—slow, deep, like she was trying to rewrite your entire schedule with just her lips.

And honestly? It was almost working.

A soft, pleased sound slipped from your throat as she deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against yours in a way that made warmth pool low in your stomach. Your hands smoothed over her shoulders, nails grazing her skin just to hear the way her breath hitched against your lips.

You grinned and, without breaking the kiss, shifted to straddle her waist, rolling her onto her back in one smooth movement. Ellie let out a small, surprised noise but didn’t hesitate to settle beneath you, her hands sliding down your back, lingering before gripping your ass in a way that made you shiver.

“You’re trying to distract me.” she murmured, voice low, teasing. But you could feel how her fingers flexed against you, betraying the nonchalance in her tone.

You hummed, dragging your lips along the sharp line of her jaw, letting your teeth scrape just enough to make her exhale sharply through her nose. Then you kissed down the column of her throat, warm and wet and slow, biting down lightly at the spot just beneath her pulse point.

"Is it working?" you whispered sultrily against her skin before rolling your hips down against hers—slow and completely on purpose.

A sharp inhale. A low groan. Ellie’s hands gripped your ass tighter, fingers flexing like she was debating whether to pull you closer or pin you in place.

“Fucking hell,” she muttered, voice rough, head tilting back slightly as your mouth dragged even lower. “If this is your idea of distraction, then—”

And then.

It happened.

The door. The godforsaken door.

It slammed open so hard it bounced off the wall, and before you could even process what was happening—

“WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FU—”

Ellie jolted so violently she nearly kneed you in the stomach, hands gripping your waist like she was about to physically take you down with her in some tragic last-ditch effort to escape. Unfortunately, gravity had other plans.

In her desperate attempt to react—poorly, at that—she twisted awkwardly, sending both of you toppling off the bed in a tangle of limbs, sheets, and very bad decision-making skills.

You hit the floor with a thud, sprawled half on top of Ellie, dazed and breathless.

Not your most dignified moment.

Jesse stood in the doorway, made a strangled choking noise, and immediately shielded his eyes like he had witnessed a murder. Dina was right behind him, one foot in the room before she sensed the absolute depravity she had just walked into—and immediately spun to face the wall like she was repenting for her sins.

“Oh my fucking GOD.” Dina gasped so dramatically she sounded like she was about to faint.

“ARE YOU BOTH SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!” Jesse practically howled, clutching his head like he had just suffered irreversible psychic damage. “DO YOU KNOW HOW TRAUMATIZING THIS IS FOR ME? I CAN NEVER UNSEE THIS. EVER.”

Ellie, still flat on her back beneath you, scrambled for the sheets like a soldier diving for cover, yanking them over both of you in a half-assed attempt at modesty. You, frozen in pure horror, tried to adjust the fabric but quickly realized Ellie had essentially burritoed you into it in her blind panic.

“Ellie, let GO!” you hissed, fumbling for a better grip.

“I AM covering you!” she shot back, hands tightening protectively around the fabric. “Mostly!”

Dina, still very much facing the wall like she was in a confessional booth, smacked Jesse’s arm violently. “I told you to knock! But noooo, you just had to be all bro-y about it—”

Meanwhile, you and Ellie were still locked in a silent but intense tug-of-war with the sheets

"I DIDN’T THINK I’D HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT NUDITY AT NOON ON A WEDNESDAY!" Jesse shrieked. "I THOUGHT WE WERE GETTING READY FOR SOUND CHECK."

Ellie, wild-eyed and defensive, shot back, “WELL, WE HAD OTHER PLANS, JESSE.”

“YEAH, NO SHIT.”

Jesse, still covering his face, took a cautious step backward. “I swear to God, if I ever—EVER—walk into something like this again, I’m deleting both of your numbers. I’ll pretend I never met you. I’ll move to another state.”

“You literally didn’t even see anything!” Ellie argued, still clutching the poor, wrinkled sheets against her chest like a scandalized Victorian widow.

“I SAW ENOUGH.” Jesse wheezed, voice cracking under the weight of his trauma.

Dina, still facing the wall, inhaled sharply through her nose. “Both of you. Clothes. Now.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow, stubbornly holding onto the sheets. “You’re both still in the room.”

“BECAUSE YOU HAVEN’T LET US LEAVE.”

“No one’s stopping you!” you pointed out, voice still slightly breathless from the absolute whirlwind of events.

Dina turned, grabbed Jesse by the sleeve like an annoyed babysitter, and yanked him toward the door. “We’re leaving. Right now.”

“Gladly.”

With one last, suffering groan, Jesse practically launched himself out of the room. Dina followed, but not before pausing in the doorway to shoot you both one last, deeply exasperated glare—like she was seriously reconsidering all of her life choices up until this exact moment.

Then, just as the door was swinging shut behind them—

THUD.

A loud, resounding bang as Jesse, in his blind panic to escape, ran face-first into the hallway wall.

A muffled curse. A few seconds of silence. Then hurried footsteps as they both disappeared down the hall.

The room was finally, blessedly quiet.

Ellie exhaled slowly, running a hand down her face before turning to you with an infuriating smirk.

“So, uh…” She nudged your thigh under the sheets, eyes glinting with amusement. "Guess we should… actually get dressed before the show."

Backstage hums like it’s wired to a live wire—techs zigzagging across the floor, lights blinking, last-minute mic checks echoing off the walls. Someone’s blasting the opener’s tracklist through a crackling monitor, but it’s all background noise. Your eyes are locked on Ellie.

She’s perched on a flight case, guitar slung across her chest, head down as she tunes with the kind of focus that could bend time. Calm. Steady. Jesse lounges nearby, casually spinning a drumstick between his fingers while Dina's aggressively fiddling with his in-ear like it personally betrayed her.

When you walk in, all three of them look up like they just saw a ghost—and unfortunately, they have receipts.

“Well, well,” Jesse says, eyes narrowing. “Survivor number two has entered the building.”

Dina doesn’t even blink. “Jesus. I thought I was past it. But nope. Flashbacks."

“You barged in!” you protest, cheeks already on fire.

“You didn’t lock the door!” Jesse counters.

“We did!”

“It clicked. That’s not locked.”

“Also, we thought you were sleeping,” Dina adds. “We didn’t expect National Geographic: Homoerotic Edition.”

Ellie groans, dropping her pick and muttering, “Y'all are insufferable.”

You cover your face. “I hate you both of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Jesse says. “You love us. Just maybe not as much as you love straddling our frontwoman while the blinds are open.”

“Yep. Blinds OPEN. Some poor guy on the third floor probably thought HBO was filming a new season of Euphoria.”

Ellie laughs under her breath, shaking her head as you shuffle towards her, mortified. She meets you halfway, her fingers brushing yours for just a second—quiet, grounding.

“They’ll get bored eventually,” she murmurs.

“Will we?” Jesse calls.

“Absolutely not,” Dina answers instantly. “I’ve already started the group chat. Title: Naked & Afraid: Ellie and Y/N Edition. First meme drops at midnight.”

You groan. “I’m leaving.”

“No, you’re not,” Ellie says, bumping her hip against yours. “You like it too much.”

Someone yells five minutes from down the hall, and just like that, the air shifts. The jokes fade into muscle memory.

Jesse rises, spinning his sticks once before tucking them into his waistband. Dina slings her bass over his shoulder, jaw tightening as she gets in the zone. Ellie adjusts her strap and rolls her shoulders back, her whole body going still in that focused, ready way she always does before a show.

You step in front of her, ignoring the flutter in your chest. There’s a stray curl falling over her forehead, and you push it back gently, letting your fingers linger. She leans into the touch like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered.

“Kill it out there, love” you whisper.

She gives you that and stupidly hot half-smile that does unspeakable things to your heart. “For you? Always.”

Then she turns—and walks straight into the flood of stage lights, swallowed by the roar of thousands screaming her name.

The concert unfolds in a blur of sound and color, but Ellie... Ellie is impossible to blur.

She commands the stage like she was born beneath those lights—like the spotlight is her natural habitat, and the rest of the world just orbits her. The crowd knows it. Feeds off it. They scream for her until their vocal chords give out, hands lifted like reaching for something divine, faces lit up with the kind of awe you don’t fake.

Gold and crimson lights pour down from above, painting her in fire as her voice cuts through the air—sharp, aching, alive.

You’ve seen her play before. From the front row, from the wings, from the back of dim green rooms watching through grainy monitors. But somehow, it always feels like the first time. Like something’s knocking the wind out of you and you can’t stop chasing the feeling.

Because watching Ellie on stage is like falling in love in real time. Over and over again. Like your heart’s being rewritten to the rhythm of her guitar.

Behind her, Jesse is all swagger and muscle memory, pounding rhythm into the floor with a grin like he knows he’s killing it. Dina moves with that quiet, lethal grace—cool, controlled, grounding them all like gravity in a black tank top and boots. They’re tight, messy, magnetic. They’ve done this a thousand times, but tonight, they’re alive in a different way. Lit up from the inside.

And Ellie—she’s the center of it all. The fuse. The flame.

And even with thousands of voices calling for her, she still finds you.

Over and over, her gaze drifts sideways—to the shadows where you stand. A glance. A smirk. A lyric delivered softer than the rest, like a note passed under the table. Like a secret. Like a dare.

Then, between songs, just as the crowd’s scream builds like thunder, she edges closer to your side of the stage. Not enough to draw attention—just enough that only you can see the mischief in her eyes. That familiar, infuriating, heart-shattering little grin.

She leans in slightly, eyes locked on yours, and mouths it like a sin:

“You’re the only one I’m singing to.”

And you feel it—low in your stomach, high in your throat, blooming warm across your chest. Like she’s kissing you without ever touching you. Like she’s pulling you under with a single look.

She holds your gaze a second longer—just long enough to ruin you—then turns back to the mic, her voice crashing into the next lyric like she never stopped.

But you’re still standing there, heart pounding like a kick drum, skin buzzing with everything unsaid.

And you'd fall for her a thousand more times just to feel this again.

The moment your car pulls up to the club, you feel it—that wild, charged buzz in the air. It’s the afterparty, pulsing with leftover adrenaline from the show, and the second you step out, it’s like a spotlight snaps on. The crowd turns, eyes finding you instantly, tracking you like heat-seeking missiles.

Seattle’s nightlife is alive around you, neon lights cutting through the misty darkness, reflecting off the slick pavement like broken glass. The city hums, thick with movement, sound, heat. The bass from inside the club thrums through the walls, a deep, pounding heartbeat that seeps into your skin.

But it’s nothing compared to the frenzy waiting outside.

Jesse steps out first, rolling his shoulders before throwing an arm around Dina’s shoulders. The second they hit the pavement, the flashes start. A rapid-fire onslaught of white light, camera shutters clicking in sync with the shouts already building.

Ellie exhales sharply, jaw tight, fingers twitching at her side. She’s used to this—so are you—but that doesn’t mean you like it.

“Y/N! Over here!” ““Ellie, is it hard performing love songs with your girlfriend in the front row?” “Y/N did she sing every song just for you or what?” “Huge night for both of you—what’s next for music’s golden couple?”

Her hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight, grounding herself in you.

And then—

“Ellie! You cool with dating someone who buys their awards?”

The words slice through the chaos like a blade.

The crowd keeps moving, the cameras keep flashing, but to you, everything goes still.

Ellie falters mid-step.

It’s small—so small that no one else would notice—but you feel it. The way her grip tightens. The way her muscles go rigid beside you.

She turns her head slowly, a deliberate, calculated motion. The kind of slow that sets alarms ringing in your head. The kind that means whoever just spoke? They just fucked up.

Ellie’s voice is low, but somehow still cuts clean through the noise. “The fuck did you just say?”

The paparazzi doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t back down. If anything, his smirk widens, like he’s enjoying this. Like this is sport. He shifts his camera, leveling his gaze at you like you’re an exhibit on display.

“Just saying, must be nice, huh? All that talent in the world, and yet—" He tilts his head, voice dripping with false sympathy. "Guess it helps when the game’s already rigged in your favor.”

Your stomach knots, but you don’t flinch. You’ve been in this industry long enough to give him what he wants—too good at swallowing the burn and keeping a straight face through it.

Ellie, though?

Ellie doesn’t give a fuck about playing nice.

“You wanna say that again?” Her voice is louder now, razor-sharp, dangerous.

Jesse mutters, “Oh, fuck,” and shifts closer. Dina watches, eyes flicking between you and Ellie, lips pressed into a tight line.

But the guy isn’t done. He shrugs, feigning innocence.

“No disrespect, I just call it like I see it. Cute little popstar, riding high on all those industry favors. And hey, gotta give her credit—" his smirk deepens, cruel and cutting, "—she knows how to sell it. Flash a little skin, make the right people happy, and suddenly, she’s the biggest thing in the world.”

That’s when Ellie moves.

One second, she’s beside you. The next, she’s lunging.

Jesse barely catches her in time, his hands locking around her shoulders, yanking her back as she strains against him.

"You motherfucker!—" Ellie’s voice is a snarl, raw, venomous.

The pap flinches, just slightly, but he covers it with another smirk. “Damn, protective, huh?” He raises his camera. “Let’s get a shot of this. ‘Ellie Williams Loses It Over Question About Y/N’s Career’—catchy, huh?”

Ellie lunges again, this time so violently that Jesse stumbles back.

“You better shut the fuck up before I smash that camera over your fucking head.”

You grab her arm, your voice urgent. “Ellie, he’s trying to get a rise out of you. Don't listen.”

But she doesn’t budge. Her chest rises and falls in harsh, uneven breaths, shoulders squared, body thrumming with tension.

“Jesus, relax. No need to get your panties in a twist, sweetheart.”

His voice drips with mock sympathy as his gaze drags disgustingly slow down your body.

“I get it, though. She’s got the look, right? That pretty little face, those tight outfits—” He whistles, low and slow. “No wonder she’s everybody’s favorite.”

The he sneers, eyes flicking over you with open malice.

“What a shame. All that effort to make you every guy’s wet dream, and you’d rather be some dyke’s lapdog.”

And that’s the last fucking straw.

“ELLIE!” your voice rips out of you, but it’s too late.

Ellie doesn’t pause. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t think.

Her fist connects with his face so fast, so clean, it barely looks real—until the sound hits. A brutal crack that slices through the chaos like a lightning strike.

The pap stumbles back with a choked grunt, hands flying to his face just as blood gushes between his fingers. He screams something garbled—half words, all rage—but Ellie’s already stepping forward, eyes blazing.

Jesse lunges forward, shoving Ellie back as the guy staggers, his fury bleeding through his shock. “You crazy fucking bitch!”

“You talk like anyone gives a fuck what you think,” she growls, her voice low and ragged, somehow cutting clean through the shouting, the flashes, the chaos. “You’re just a fucking pussy with a camera and a hard-on for women way out of your league.”

Security’s shouting now. Dina’s beside you, tense, pulling at your arm. Jesse’s got both hands on Ellie, holding her back as she surges forward again.

“Go write your shitty headline,” she growls. “And make sure you put in big bold letters that a dyke broke your fucking nose for talking shit about her girl.”

The pap takes a staggering step back, visibly shaken now—rage giving way to fear.

Dina grips your arm tighter, pulling you. “We need to go. Now.”

More cameras are snapping, more voices yelling. Security starts moving in, the club’s bouncers stepping forward to break things up.

You reach out, grabbing Ellie’s hand. Her skin is hot, trembling. You squeeze. “Ellie,” you whisper, urgent, steady. “Come on. Let's go.”

For a second, she doesn’t move.

And then her eyes meet yours—something in her expression cracking, softening just enough—and she exhales like it’s the first breath she’s taken since she swung.

She nods, lets you pull her away.

Inside, the club is dark and loud, bass shaking the walls, lights slicing through bodies in flashes of color. It should feel overwhelming—but next to the chaos outside, it feels like sanctuary.

Ellie doesn’t let go of your hand.

Not for a second.

Dina exhales, shaking off the tension. “Jesus, Williams. You wanna take it down a notch?”

“Take it down a notch?” she huffs, still flexing her fingers like she’s trying to shake out the ghost of impact. “He’s lucky I didn’t fucking kill him.”

Your grip tightens around her hand, tugging her close as you move through the crowd. She’s still wound tight, shoulders stiff, adrenaline thrumming through her.

You lean in, voice low against her ear. "Ellie, what the hell was that?"

She snorts, but the tension in her jaw doesn’t ease. "What? He was a piece of shit."

"Yeah, he was. And that last thing? He fucking had it coming." You exhale, shaking your head. "But you punched a pap, Els. This is gonna be everywhere by morning.”

Ellie tilts her head, lips curling at the edges. "You think I care?"

You glance at her knuckles, still faintly red, and sigh. "I think you’re impossible."

Ellie grins, sharp, wicked. "Nah, if I was really trying, I’d be in cuffs right now." Then, after a beat, she smirks. "And not the fun kind."

Despite yourself, you huff a laugh.

Ellie watches you for a moment, something shifting in her expression. Then, quieter, she mutters, “You know all he said was bullshit, right?”

Your breath catches.

Because, of course, you know that. You’ve heard worse. You’ve been in this game long enough to have every insult thrown at you from every angle.

But hearing Ellie say it—hearing the fire still lingering in her voice, the protectiveness laced beneath her irritation—makes something warm curl in your chest.

You nod. “I know.”

She watches you closely, eyes scanning your face like she’s searching for something—any flicker of doubt, any sign that the words got to you. And if she finds even a hint of it, you know she’ll march right back out there and finish what she started.

So you reach up, fingers grazing her jaw, tracing along the sharp line of it, your touch gentle enough to soften the tension still coiled in her muscles.

“Still, you didn’t have to do all that.”

Ellie exhales sharply, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Are you serious right now?” Her voice is low, incredulous. “You think I was just gonna stand there and let that piece of shit talk about you like that?”

You sigh, dragging a hand through your hair. “No, but Ellie—now the headlines are gonna be all about this. Not about the concert, not about us. Just about you throwing a punch.”

Ellie scoffs, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, still crackling with leftover adrenaline. “Good. Let ‘em talk. Maybe next time they’ll think twice before running their fucking mouths.”

You groan, rubbing your temple. “You are actually insane.”

She shrugs, entirely unbothered. “Takes one to love one.”

You shoot her a look, but there’s no real bite behind it. Just exasperation… and something else. Something warmer. Deeper.

“Yeah. You’re lucky I love you.”

Her grin softens, just slightly. That fire in her eyes doesn’t go anywhere, but there’s something gentler flickering underneath now—something only you get to see. Her hands slide down to your waist, fingertips pressing into your sides just tight enough to make your breath catch.

Her voice dips to a low, dangerous murmur, her lips brushing your ear like a secret she only wants you to hear.

“No one gets to talk about you like that. Not to your face, and sure as hell not behind it. Not while i'm breathing.”

You swallow, the words sending a bolt of heat straight to your core.

You should probably be embarrassed by how instantly and shamelessly turned on that made you.

Instead, you blink up at her, pulse rabbiting. “Is that so?”

She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and there’s something in her expression—protective, defiant, maybe even a little wild.

“I don’t care who’s watching. I don’t care what they write. You’re mine. That’s the only headline I give a shit about.”

Your stomach flips, heat curling deep and low. Your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “You got a problem with being this obsessed?”

She tilts her head, smirking. “Not if you don’t.”

You pretend to think, tapping a finger against your chin. “Mmm… no, actually, I think I love it.”

Ellie huffs a laugh, brushing her nose against yours, eyes bright with something fierce. “Good. Because if something like that happens again?” Her grip tightens, her voice dropping to a gravelly promise. “I won’t stop at just one punch.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “You’re gonna get us both banned from every club in the country.”

Ellie grins wider, leans in like she’s about to kiss you, then whispers, “Worth it.”

And somehow, despite the chaos, the cameras, and the aching pull of everything else—you believe her.

The bass is still pulsing through the floor by the time you, Ellie, Dina, and Jesse regroup at the back of the club, far from the neon-lit drama near the entrance. Whatever happened with that asshole earlier is already fading into something distant, something half-laughed about under the thrum of low lighting and too many drinks.

You sink into the cracked leather booth, a drink in your hand that you definitely didn’t order, but Jesse shoved it toward you with a knowing smirk, so you drink it anyway. The ice clinks as you lean back, legs draped over Ellie’s lap. She doesn’t complain—just slides her hand over your thigh, casual, possessive, warm.

Dina’s laughing at something Jesse said, her curls wild under the strobe lights, eyes glassy from champagne and whatever she bummed off a stranger in the VIP section. “I swear to God, one of those paparazzi looked like he was about to cry when Ellie went full rage-mode.”

“His lens was shaking,” Jesse adds, holding his hands up like he’s gripping a camera. He mimics the tremble dramatically, then makes a wet, exaggerated sob. “She’s so scary.”

Ellie takes a slow drag from the blunt, eyes half-lidded, then exhales a thin stream of smoke towards the ceiling, like she’s bored with the entire planet. “Good. Maybe next time they’ll think twice before running their mouths for clicks like the desperate little bitches they are.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. There’s a glow in her, something loose and dangerous, but it’s not sharp like it sometimes is—it’s smooth, easy, like a song settling into the perfect rhythm. Her thumb moves in slow, lazy circles against your thigh, almost absentminded, like you’re her anchor. Like she needs the contact.

She’s watching you again.

She does that a lot. You’d noticed it before, but lately, it’s been different. Less teasing, more intent.

Like she’s trying to hold on to something that might slip through her fingers if she blinks.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you say, trying to keep your tone dry.

“Like what?” she murmurs, head tilting, that smirk already tugging at her mouth.

“Like you’re trying to decide if you want to kiss me or eat me alive.”

Ellie grins, leaning in, her breath warm against your skin. “Why choose?”

Jesse snorts beside you, slinging an arm over your shoulders, shaking you playfully. “Oh my God, you two are giving me PTSD about today’s incident. Can we please do something else before someone starts dry-humping on the furniture?”

You roll your eyes, a smile pulling at your lips, and reach for your drink. The last sip burns as you swallow it down, warmth spreading through your chest.

And that’s when you see it.

The small, discreet bag between Ellie’s fingers.

It’s quick. Effortless. No theatrics, no hesitation—just an easy flick of her wrist, tapping a neat, familiar line onto the back of her hand before lifting it to her nose. A sharp, practiced inhale. Blink, exhale. Done.

Dina follows suit, just as fluid. Jesse, already smirking, dips his pinky into the powder, rubbing it against his gums before tipping his head back with a satisfied hum.

It happens in seconds. Like breathing.

Ellie barely reacts, barely changes—just lets it settle into her system with an easy stretch of her neck, fingers drumming lazily on the table. Then she turns to you, smirking like nothing happened.

“You want some?”

You freeze for half a second.

It’s so casual. So normal. They’re not sneaking around, not whispering about it in some dimly lit back room. They’re doing it here, in the open, in a VIP booth where anyone with eyes could see.

And no one cares.

You glance between them, heartbeat ticking up. Jesse and Dina are already moving on, Jesse stretching like he just cracked his back, Dina stirring her drink. Ellie just watches you, waiting, tapping the blunt against the edge of the ashtray.

The whole thing is so… easy.

Your stomach tugs.

You shake your head. “I’m good.”

Dina grins, bumping her knee against yours. “You sure? Might take the edge off.”

You scoff, shifting back against the booth. “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

They laugh like it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard all night, like you just made a joke.

Maybe, to them, you did.

Jesse raises a brow, looking you over. “Wait, hold on.” He squints. “You really don’t do anything?”

You frown. “I drink. I smoke."

“Barely.”

Ellie tilts her head, amusement tugging at her mouth. “Love.” She gestures vaguely between them, between Jesse rubbing his gums and Dina fixing her lip gloss. “You really never noticed?”

You blink. “Noticed?”

Ellie exhales a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You never even thought about it?”

Jesse huffs. “Come on. Like we’re that subtle.”

Dina hums, sipping her drink. “I mean, think about it. Late nights, early flights, rehearsals, shows, interviews, afterparties—it’s a lot. You kinda have to even the playing field, y’know?”

Jesse gestures between the three of them. “It’s not even a thing. It’s just… part of it.”

Ellie shrugs, flicking ash from her blunt. “Part of the job.”

You stare at them.

You know this kind of thing happens. You’ve heard the stories, seen the headlines.

But it’s different when it’s right in front of you.

When it’s Ellie.

She’s watching you now, eyes a little sharper, movements a little looser. Reading you.

And you’re trying to read her back.

You let out a slow breath. “I just never... thought about it, I guess.”

Ellie leans forward, chin resting on her hand, smirking. “You’ve been in this industry for how long, and you never noticed?”

Jesse snorts, shaking his head. “Better question—how the hell have you never tried it?”

You blink. “I just… haven’t.”

Dina gives you a look like you just told her you’ve never had coffee before. “Not even once?”

Jesse whistles low, shaking his head. “That’s crazy.”

Ellie raises a brow. “Babe. Every celebrity does it.”

You roll your eyes. “Not every celebrity.”

Jesse holds up his hands, ticking off on his fingers. “Actors, musicians, models, producers—every single one.”

Dina leans in. “You’d be surprised. The clean-cut ones? The ones with all the brand deals and wholesome PR campaigns? Yeah. Especially them.”

Ellie smirks, exhaling smoke. “You think the people pulling sixteen-hour shoots and touring for months straight are just running on coffee and vibes?”

Dina swirls the ice in her glass. “Not saying you have to, but… if you’re really gonna be in this world, you should probably at least not be surprised about it.”

You exhale, pressing your tongue against the inside of your cheek.

They’re not pressuring you.

But they’re looking at you like you’re the weird one here. Like you’re missing something.

You let out a slow breath. “I guess I just figured…” You trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence.

Ellie tilts her head. “Figured what?”

You swallow. “That you guys didn’t—” You shake your head. “I don’t know. That you didn’t need to.”

Dina gives a soft, almost pitying smile. “It’s not about need.”

Jesse gestures vaguely. “It’s just what it is.”

Ellie watches you for a second longer, then reaches for your hand. Her fingers trace slow, lazy circles against your thigh.

"Look," she says, voice quieter now, just for you. "If this bothers you, I—"

"I didn’t say that." You squeeze her fingers before she can finish, grounding her right back. "I just… wanted to know."

Ellie tilts her head, searching your expression, reading you the way she always does. You can see the wheels turning in her head, trying to figure out where you're going with this.

After a moment, she exhales through her nose and smirks, though there’s something softer underneath it. "Babe, it’s not a big deal. I promise."

You hesitate, glancing between her and the others. Jesse and Dina are talking between themselves now, already moving on like this is the most normal thing in the world. And maybe, to them, it is.

Ellie squeezes your hand, bringing you back to her. "It’s just casual. I mean, fuck, it’s not like we’re doing lines off the bathroom floor or some shit." She grins, trying to ease the moment, but there’s a carefulness to the way she’s looking at you.

You exhale through your nose, tilting your head. "So, what? You just do it… sometimes?"

Ellie shrugs, leaning back against the booth. "Yeah. When it fits. Long nights, afterparties, when there’s, like, a million things happening and I don’t wanna feel like a corpse the next morning."

You press your lips together. "And it never…" You trail off, not really sure how to finish that.

Ellie’s smile falters slightly, just for a second, before she shakes her head. "It never what?"

You hesitate, but then—fuck it. "...Gets out of hand?"

Ellie’s brows lift slightly, like she wasn’t expecting you to go there. Then she snorts, shaking her head. "Jesus, babe. No."

"You sure?"

Ellie leans in, eyes flicking between yours. "I swear." She taps her fingers against your thigh, deliberate, measured. "This isn’t some cautionary tale. I’m not about to spiral and throw my career away."

She smirks, but it’s small, almost like she’s testing to see if you’ll smile back. "I know what I’m doing."

You watch her for a second, taking in the way she holds herself—calm, easy, unbothered.

It’s not like she’s high out of her mind.

She’s still Ellie.

The same one you love.

But still…

"I just never thought you…" You shake your head. "I don’t know. Needed it."

Ellie tugs at your fingers. "I don’t need it. It’s not like that."

"But you do it."

Ellie lifts a brow, a teasing lilt creeping into her voice. "And you drink. Same shit, different form."

You roll your eyes. "Not the same."

Ellie shrugs, smirking. "Depends who you ask."

Before you can argue, Jesse leans in, elbows on the table, like he’s just caught the tail end of something interesting. "What, is she giving you the responsible popstar speech?"

Ellie grins, nudging your knee. "Trying to."

Dina hums, sipping her drink. "Classic. Like when someone tries to pretend they’re above caffeine until they pull their third all-nighter and suddenly they’re double-fisting espresso shots."

Jesse snickers. "Or like when someone says they’re not a smoker, but you catch them bumming cigarettes when they’re drunk."

Dina points at him. "Exactly."

Ellie turns back to you, smirk still in place. "It’s not some dramatic, life-ruining thing, love. It’s just a thing."

You hold her gaze, searching for something—some flicker of doubt, some hesitation.

There isn’t any.

She believes what she’s saying.

And maybe she’s right.

Maybe you’re just making this into something it isn’t.

Maybe it really is just part of the world you’re both in.

A part you never noticed before.

A part you’ll have to get used to.

You exhale, slow, measured, and give Ellie’s fingers one last squeeze before pulling back.

"Alright."

Ellie watches you for a second longer, then nods, satisfied. "Alright."

And just like that, it’s done. No tension, no fight. Just a question asked and an answer given. A conversation tucked away, filed under things that don’t need to be thought about too hard.

Just another unspoken rule of the world you’ve found yourself in—the world of flashing cameras and private booths, of long nights and endless afterparties, of things done in the quiet corners where no one is really looking. It’s not a scandal, not a secret, not something to sound the alarms over. It’s just a thing. A thing that happens, a thing that exists. A thing you tell yourself doesn’t change anything.

Because Ellie is still Ellie. And you are still you.

And yet—something lingers. A feeling you can’t quite shake, something threading itself between the words left unsaid. Like a song playing in the background, too quiet to fully catch, but impossible to ignore.

Because if it were really nothing, if it were really just a thing, then why does the room feel different now? Why does the space between you seem stretched just a little thinner, pulled a little tighter? Like a thread has been tugged loose, unraveling something neither of you are ready to acknowledge.

This world is big. Bigger than you ever imagined.

And maybe, just maybe, some things are easier to pretend not to see.

And for a second—just a second—you forget.

The flashing cameras. The too-loud whispers. The weight of something unsaid curling at the back of your mind, asking questions you don’t want to answer.

And the other thing—the thing that made your stomach flip earlier—

That?

You push it under the surface.

Bury it beneath the music, beneath the flashing lights, beneath the warmth of Ellie’s hands on your waist.

Because what’s the point in thinking about it?

They’re used to this. They’ve got it controlled. It’s not a big deal.

So you don’t think about it.

You don’t let it pull at the edges of your mind.

You just dance, you just drink, you just laugh, and you tell yourself that's enough.

The music pulses through your body, a bone-deep rhythm that makes it impossible to focus on anything except the moment. Or maybe that’s just the liquor. The shots Jesse kept handing you. The heat of the dance floor, the press of bodies, the slick feeling of how Ellie keeps you close, always touching: a hand ghosting your hip, her fingers brushing the nape of your neck, her mouth near your ear, murmuring things too filthy or too sweet to repeat.

There’s a hum in your veins—not quite sobriety, not quite drunk. Just a loose, liquid feeling, like you could float if you let yourself.

She spins you lazily at one point, grinning like a hopelessly in love idiot, and you crash back into her chest with a laugh, breathless and dizzy. You don’t even notice the phones pointed your way anymore.

Ellie’s mouth brushes against your ear. “You’re killing me in that dress,” she murmurs, voice just barely audible over the music.

You smirk, tilting your head back to expose your neck, teasing. “Good. I want it to be slow and dramatic. Maybe in the middle of one of your solos.”

Ellie laughs, warm and real, pressing a lingering kiss to the curve of your jaw. You feel her smirk against your skin.

Nearby, Jesse and Dina reappear, looking equally buzzed and glowing under the club lights. Jesse immediately slings an arm over your shoulders, shaking you slightly. “Alright, pop princess, you’ve been hogging our frontwoman all night. Let’s make some bad decisions.”

Ellie scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, like the ones you made on stage tonight?”

Jesse places a dramatic hand over his chest. “I was in the moment.”

“You almost fell off the drum riser,” Dina deadpans, sipping her drink.

“Almost,” Jesse corrects, pointing at her.

Dina just grins and flicks his ear.

The four of you dissolve into laughter—the kind that bubbles out of you too fast, too loud, soaked in tequila and something looser, softer. The kind that only happens after too much truth has already slipped out between kisses and choruses.

And then it hits you.

You grab Dina’s hand. “Come with me.”

She stumbles a little as you yank her through the crowd, weaving past bodies lit in flickers of purple and gold, right up to the DJ booth.

The DJ is tall, lanky, with bright blue hair that glows under the LEDs and round sunglasses that haven’t left his face all night, despite being, very obviously, inside.

“You got a request?” he asks, smirking.

You lean against the booth, grin lazy. “Play something off Louder Than Fate.”

He turns his head to eye you with practiced disinterest—until he really sees you. He freezes. His fingers go still on the mixer, eyes narrowing slightly. Then his jaw drops.

“No. Fucking. Way.”

You tilt your head, amused.

He points like he’s just put something together. “You’re Y/N.”

“In the flesh,” you say, leaning into the booth, smug and a little buzzed.

“And you came with The Fireflies?” His gaze darts past you, searching the crowd until he locks onto Ellie, who’s standing with a drink in hand, shirt sticking to her back, lip caught between her teeth like she already knows you’re up to something. Neon halos her hair. She looks like trouble in the kind of way that writes its own songs.

“Holy shit,” he mutters. Then, quickly, “Yo, I need a picture.”

You laugh. “Sure. You play my songs.”

His grin is instant. “That’s how it is?”

“Celebrity tax.”

He groans dramatically, already queuing up a track. “Y’all are savages.”

He leans in, voice conspiratorial. “Think she’d let me grab a photo too?”

You glance back at Ellie. Smirk.

“Keep the setlist good, and we’ll think about it.”

The DJ groans like he’s being tortured. “Y’all celebrities are ruthless.”

But the grin never leaves his face as the opening riff of I Bet That You Look Good on the Dancefloor (click to hear) slams through the speakers.

The reaction is nuclear.

The club erupts.

The energy flips like a switch—higher, wilder, like everyone in the room has been waiting all night for this exact song. Bodies surge toward the center, arms shoot up, and the lyrics are shouted before the first verse even hits.

Back in the crowd, Ellie’s head snaps up. She sees you at the booth and just grins, shaking her head like: You little shit.

Jesse lets out a roar, throwing both arms in the air like he’s in a mosh pit. Dina yanks you into a triumphant hug, both of you practically vibrating with joy, and then you’re sprinting back into the thick of it—into the chaos you caused.

“Wait!” the DJ calls after you. “Do I still get my picture?”

“Keep playing bangers and we’ll talk!” you shout, already disappearing into the storm of bodies.

The moment stretches, long and bright and loud.

You sprint back to the floor, twisting through the chaos until you find Ellie.

She’s already reaching for you.

Already pulling you in like gravity.

“Hijacking the DJ?” Ellie says as she pulls you into her chest, her voice low, a little slurred from the tequila, vibrating straight through your ribs.

You laugh, looping your arms around her neck, flushed and breathless from the rush of dancing and impulse and her. “Just wanted to hear something good.”

Ellie leans in, her breath hot against your ear, her words dipped in amusement. “You know I wrote this song about you, right?”

You blink, confused, and then let out a scoff of disbelief. “You did not.”

“I did. Swear on my favorite guitar.”

You pull back just enough to see her face. “You’re kidding.”

She raises an eyebrow, amused. “Come on. Think about it. ‘Stop making the eyes at me and I’ll stop making the eyes at you’? You don’t remember the night we met?”

Your stomach does a slow, stunned flip.

“You were at the bar, trying so hard not to look at me. Kept turning away like I wouldn’t notice you watching. And I remember just... freezing. You looked unreal. Like—fuck.” She exhales a laugh. “You were the hottest girl I’d ever seen in my life.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“You were drinking some radioactive shit—bright green, probably illegal in five countries.”

“Tequila with lime,” you say automatically, almost dazed.

“Right. And before I knew it—”

“We were outside,” you finish for her, voice soft.

Ellie nods. “Heading to my hotel.”

Outside the bar. On the sidewalk. Where she’d stopped you halfway through a flirty, messy laugh and kissed you so hard it rewired something in your brain.

“You were freezing in that little red dress,” she says, her voice dipping a little, remembering. “Arms all tight across your chest, shoulders hunched like you were trying to hold yourself together.”

You blink. “Wait—that’s why you gave me your jacket? I thought you were trying to be cool.”

“I was trying to be cool. But I was also trying to keep you from turning into a popsicle before we got to the room.” Ellie nods, smug. “That line? ‘Your shoulders are frozen’? It’s not metaphor. It’s literally what I said while trying not to stare at your tits.”

You laugh, hiding your face against her shoulder. “That was so long ago.”

“And I still think about it,” she murmurs, her voice quieter now, fingers trailing lazily along your spine.

You glance up at her, heart thudding a little too hard against your ribs. “You didn’t even like me back then.”

Ellie gives you a look. One that’s sharp and tender and a little too honest.

“Didn’t I?”

You open your mouth—but nothing comes out. Because you know better now. You know what was tucked into all those half-finished demos and unsent voice memos. You know what she never said out loud but always let slip in the bridge.

You remember the nights you’d crawl into each other’s hotel rooms, hearts too full, too afraid, too something—and the mornings after, where you both pretended it didn’t mean anything. Pretended it was casual. Temporary. Disposable. Fake.

And then you’d each go write another verse you’d never show the other.

“How many songs did you write about me?” you ask, softer now. Your voice is low, nearly drowned by the music and the crowd. “I only guessed For Your Love.”

Ellie smiles, slow and a little dangerous. “Half the album.”

You freeze.

“What?”

She shrugs, like it’s nothing. “R U Mine? was about you. Fell In love with a girl? So obviously about you. So was See You Soon. I wrote that after you ghosted me for a week and I convinced myself you didn’t feel the same. And I could go on and on”

You’re staring at her like she’s just confessed to a crime. “You never said anything.”

“You never asked.” She shrugs, but her voice is gentler now. “Besides, Jesse kept calling me pathetic. He made me write My Own Summer just to get it out of my system.”

“Did it work?”

Ellie snorts. “No. I literally started the song with "Hey you, big star".”

Before you can even think of something to say—something clever or biting or half-sarcastic like you used to—the beat drops out. The energy shifts.

The lights dim to a sultry haze of violet and gold. And then—

That synth. Your synth.

Smooth and slow, thick as honey, spilling through the room with the kind of deliberate seduction only a song that means something real can pull off.

You’re singing the lyrics under your breath before you can stop.

“I'm so into you... I can barely breathe…”

Into you.

The opening lines melt through the room like syrup, and the crowd responds instantly. Bodies turn. Sway. The mood shifts—less chaotic, more sensual. The lights dim down to a violet haze, and the bass settles into something you can feel in your ribs.

Ellie looks at you like she’s time-traveling. Like she’s hearing the lyrics for the first time and understanding what they meant all along. In the way someone does when they remember something visceral.

“And all I wanna do… is to fall in deep…”

She keeps watching you with that half-lidded stare—the one that used to drive you insane when you were pretending you didn’t want her. When she’d sit on your hotel bed, tuning her guitar in nothing but a sports bra and boxers, and ask you for feedback on a verse that was clearly about the way you moaned.

She leans in close, her mouth grazing the shell of your ear.

“You really let them play this one?”

You shake your head, voice tight. “I didn’t. DJ picked it. Guess he knew exactly what he was doing.”

Ellie scoffs softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Or maybe,” she murmurs, “you just get everything you want.”

Her hand slides down your spine, a warm line anchoring you to her in the middle of all the noise.

You take a breath. It doesn’t help.

You exhale. “You knew it was about you, right?”

She doesn’t even blink. “I knew before you finished writing it.”

“You wanna know the worst part?” you murmur, quieter now. “That wasn’t the first one.”

“I know.”

You blink at her. “You do?”

“Yeah.” Ellie’s fingers drag slowly up your bare arm, warm and deliberate.

“Shameless was the first one that tipped me off. Then Touch it. Don’t Blame Me wrecked me a little. But Southbound?” She gives you a pointed look. “That’s when I knew for sure. And that’s when I texted you.”

You groan instantly, burying your face in your hands. “Oh my god. Please don’t bring up Southbound—”

She laughs, eyes gleaming. “You wrote a song about going southbound on someone, and then included that track—our track—like it accidentally fell into the folder during mixing.”

You peek through your fingers. “It fit the concept…”

“It absolutely did not. Your whole album is pop ballads and moody synths, and then suddenly we get this dark, throbbing, sex-drenched detour with breathy vocals and moaning layered under the chorus.”

“I edited it—”

“You didn’t,” she cuts in. “That pitch analysis on TikTok? Mortifying. You even left in the part where you gasped my name and laughed after.”

“I thought it sounded natural!”

“It sounded like porn, babe.”

You groan again, louder this time. “I hate everything.”

“No you don’t.” She moves in closer, her voice dropping, teasing. “You love that it went viral. You love that people know how you sound when you—”

“Ellie.”

She smirks. “—sing, obviously. What else would I mean?”

You glare at her through the haze of embarrassment, but your heart is thudding too hard for it to land. Because underneath the jokes, the heat, the teasing… you know what she’s saying. You know what she heard in those lyrics, in that bridge, in the vocal layering you obsessed over at 3am because it needed to feel exactly like her hands on your skin.

You wanted her to notice. You always did.

Ellie tilts her head, studying you like she’s still discovering you, even after all this time.

“You wrote about me,” she says quietly. “Again and again.”

You nod. “Every time I saw you, I wrote another verse.”

She doesn’t speak for a moment. Just brushes her thumb over the inside of your wrist, like she’s reading you in braille.

Then, softly: “God, we're pathetic”

“No,” you say. “We’re artists.”

She snorts. “That’s even worse.”

You laugh, but it’s shaky. “Yeah. But at least the music’s good.”

She pulls you closer, presses her forehead to yours. You close your eyes.

And then she kisses you.

Right there in the middle of the dance floor, while your song plays in the background like a confession you’ve already made. Her lips are soft, sure, and full of every verse you didn’t dare share until now. And when you finally pull back, she’s smiling in that slow, crooked way that means she’s already plotting something.

“I’m gonna write another one about you,” she says, breath warm against your cheek.

You smirk. “Make it the horny kind. Those go platinum.”

Ellie laughs, rough and gorgeous. “Fine. But the bridge is gonna be disgusting.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

Then she kisses you again—harder this time—and the lights flicker violet across her skin, and this time you don’t think about the people watching.

You just think about her hands on your waist, your voice in the speakers, and the sound of your own heartbeat finally, finally syncing with hers.

The night is a blur of neon lights and bad decisions, smeared like lipstick across the face of the city. It stretches out in front of you like a fever dream—loud, sweaty, glitter-soaked chaos that you somehow keep surviving. The four of you are well past tipsy, teetering on the edge of blackout like it’s a competitive sport, and you're definitely winning.

Ellie hasn’t let go of you all night. She’s glued to your side like she’s afraid someone’s going to walk off with you. Hands constantly touching—your hip, your thigh, the inside of your wrist. Brushing your collarbone like it’s a secret. And her eyes? Locked on you like she’s trying to memorize your face for later, just in case the tequila wipes everything else clean.

Jesse is conducting what he refers to as a "scientific study," stacking coasters on Dina’s head while she argues with the bartender about whether or not he looks like Pedro Pascal. It gets to six before she slaps them all off with a growl and tries to shove one directly into Jesse’s mouth.

“You’re so fucking ANNOYING,” she huffs, palm in his face, shoving him back into the booth.

Jesse just grins, pleased with himself. “You love me.”

“You’re on thin fucking ice.”

At some point, the club starts closing down around you. Lights go up, music down, and suddenly everything looks a lot more chaotic under full illumination. You're all blinking into the brightness like newborns.

And then—because you're either brave or just phenomenally stupid—someone suggests walking back to the hotel. Probably you.

So you do.

Jesse insists on leading the way like he's your drunk, wobbly tour guide. “To our left,” he slurs, gesturing at a dented trash can, “A beautiful relic of modern civilization. Observe its curves. Its majesty.”

“Shut up,” Dina wheezes, clutching your arm, nearly bent over in laughter. “My stomach hurts.”

Ellie snickers beside you, steady despite the way she keeps tugging you closer, like you’re the thing keeping her upright. “Jesse, if you fall into that thing, I’m leaving you there.”

“You’re such a bad friend,” Jesse grumbles, immediately tripping over the curb like it heard him talking shit.

You nearly faceplant too, but Ellie’s there before you even tilt forward, wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you close with a smirk. “Careful, rockstar.”

You lean into her, cheek against her shoulder, grinning. “M’not a rockstar.”

She tilts her head like she’s genuinely thinking it over. “Right. Just the biggest popstar on the planet.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you mutter, rolling your eyes—but you’re smiling like a fool.

By the time you crash through the hotel lobby doors, you’re a full-blown public safety hazard. Dina’s ping-ponging between furniture like a malfunctioning Roomba, pausing only to yell, “I’m fine!” every time she careens off a decorative pillar.

Jesse’s found a captive audience in the night desk clerk and is passionately explaining how, if he “just had the right mentor,” he could absolutely become a professional stuntman—like, today. He even does a high kick for emphasis, nearly pulling something in the process.

Meanwhile, Ellie has given up entirely on decorum. The you both step in the elevator, she pins you to the mirrored wall with all the subtlety of a horny teenager in a bad coming-of-age film. Her hands sliding under your dress with the kind of urgency that suggests she’s forgotten other people exist entirely.

“You,” she breathes, voice rough and drunk and worshipful, “are so fucking pretty.”

"And you," You let out a soft laugh, tipping your head back. “are so fucking drunk.”

Ellie grins, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

You don’t even remember who kissed who—it’s just tequila and heat and breathless laughter, her lips tasting like whatever cocktail you last shared and her fingers curling into the fabric at your hips like she’ll die if she lets go.

Somewhere behind you, as the elevator doors start to close—

“DON’T FORGET TO HYDRATE AFTER ALL THE RAW, ANIMALISTIC SEX!” Jesse hollers, practically singing it like a PSA.

Dina nearly doubles over beside him, wheezing. “DESTROY HER, ELLIE! I WANNA HEAR THAT HEADBOARD FROM THE LOBBY!”

Ellie chokes on a laugh, flips them off with both hands this time, and buries her face in your neck. “I hate them,” she mutters, giggling uncontrollably. “I actually hate them.”

But her hands are sliding under your dress again.

“I think they’re rooting for us,” you breathe, grinning.

“Yeah, well…” she nips your jaw gently. “They’re not the ones about to get lucky.”

The elevator dings, and the two of you spill out into the hallway like a disaster in motion—tipsy, breathless, half-sober and wholly tangled. You’re giggling too hard to walk in a straight line, stumbling into the wall, then into Ellie, who nearly takes you both down with her.

“Key,” she mutters, smacking at the pockets of her leather jacket with the urgency of someone searching for buried treasure.

“You’re making this impossible,” she grumbles, squinting down at the card in her hand like it personally wronged her—because you’re behind her now, arms looped snug around her waist, lips brushing over the side of her neck in a slow tease.

“I believe in you,” you murmur solemnly, the kind of mock-serious declaration only achievable at this level of inebriation.

“That’s not helping!”

She finally gets the card to register on the third try—barely. The lock beeps with mercy, and Ellie stumbles into the room backwards, yanking you in with her by the lapels of your coat. You trip over each other’s feet in the dark, colliding into the bed in a clumsy sprawl of limbs and laughter.

You land in a heap—half on the mattress, half on each other—laughing so hard you can barely breathe, tangled up like it’s instinct, like the world has always ended this way: with Ellie’s arms around you, her face buried in your neck, and both of you drunk off more than just alcohol.

Ellie doesn’t bother sitting up—just pulls you down into her like gravity, lips already finding yours with a hunger that hits you like a wave. It’s messy and hot, teeth clashing, laughter spilling into breathless moans.

It tastes like tequila, your lip gloss and the kind of recklessness that only happens when you’re too far gone to pretend you’re not completely obsessed with each other.

The alcohol makes everything heavier—your limbs, your breath, the way her hands roam like they’ve been dying to for hours. She’s everywhere at once: sliding under your dress, up your back, into your hair.

“Fuck,” she mutters into your mouth, her voice low and rough. Her head tips back against the pillows, eyes flicking over you like she can’t believe you’re real. “Look at you.”

You laugh softly, pressing kisses to her neck, her jaw, the edge of her smile. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“I can’t,” she breathes, catching your face between her hands. “You’re drive me insane.”

You kiss her deeper this time—less playful, more desperate. You shift in her lap, your dress riding high on your thighs, and her hands slide up under the fabric like she owns you.

“Take this off,” she mutters, tugging clumsily at the hem.

“You first,” you whisper, tugging her shirt over her head. It sticks a little, and you both laugh trying to get it off, her hair a mess and her eyes glazed over with want. You reach for the zipper of your dress next, dragging it down slow, teasing.

Ellie groans when it slips off your shoulders, her gaze dark and locked on your chest like she’s never seen anything better. “Fuck me,” she says, almost reverent.

She pulls you close again and kisses down your throat, over your collarbone, her lips trailing fire in their wake. Then her mouth closes over your breast and you gasp, hips stuttering against her thigh, as she sucks—slow and filthy—teeth grazing just enough to make your breath hitch before her tongue soothes the mark.

But she doesn’t stop there.

Her mouth roams, leaving kiss after kiss, then deeper, darker sucks—her signature stamped into your skin. She bites, just hard enough to make you gasp, then kisses the spot better, her hands roaming freely over your body like she’s trying to memorize every inch. Hickeys bloom across your collarbones, your neck, the softest parts of your chest—every mark a reminder that she was there, that this happened.

One hand stays gripped tight on your ass, the other tangled in your hair, guiding you, holding you still like she doesn’t want to miss a second of watching you fall apart.

You curse under your breath, head falling back as her mouth drags lower again, her teeth grazing another spot just above your heart.

You gasp, clutching at her shoulders, her hair, anything you can reach. “Ellie—fuck, you’re gonna leave marks.”

“Good,” she growls against your skin. “Wanna see them tomorrow. Wanna know I did this.”

You grind down without meaning to, and she groans, mouth hot and possessive as it finds the other breast with the same hungry focus.

“You're so fucking hot,” she mumbles, lips brushing the edge of another bruise she just left. “I could do this all night.”

You're not even sure what you say in response—it's just a noise, half-whimper, half-laugh, your fingers threading through her hair, your body buzzing under every kiss, every bite, every mark she paints into your skin.

When she finally looks up at you again, her lips are wet, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes blown wide with nothing but want. “C'mere,” she says, voice wrecked.

Ellie shifts lower on the bed, settling between your thighs like she’s been there a hundred times and never got tired of it. Her palms press against the inside of your legs, coaxing them open with slow, steady pressure. She looks up at you from under her lashes—flushed, breathless, reverent.

Her voice is soft but rough with heat. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

You can’t answer. Your throat’s too tight, your heart’s pounding too hard. All you can do is nod, your fingers curled in the sheets, already trembling with anticipation.

She kisses the inside of your thigh first. Then again, a little higher. And again. Her mouth trails up until she’s exhaling warm against you, her breath ghosting over where you’re aching for her most. You twitch, and she smiles.

“Relax,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

And maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s her voice, but you melt into the mattress, pliant and aching, thighs trembling with anticipation.

When she finally leans in, her breath is warm against your skin, and you shudder. Then her tongue flicks out, just barely, a teasing stroke that makes your hips twitch. She hums at the reaction, hands tightening on your thighs.

She starts slow. Long, deliberate licks that make your head spin. Her tongue traces every inch of you like she’s mapping it to memory—each movement unhurried, deliberate. It’s not just about getting you off. It’s about making you feel every second of it.

It's the kind of touch that says I know you. The kind of touch that makes you feel known.

And then she does something that makes your breath catch completely.

You feel her tongue shift—patterned, careful—and realize she’s spelling something.

E. A slow upward curve, then back down and across.

L. Two smooth strokes, top to bottom, then across.

You gasp, hips bucking slightly, but she doesn’t let up. Doesn’t even flinch.

L. Slower this time, as if she’s enjoying the way your thighs tense around her shoulders, the way your hands fist in the sheets.

I. A single confident stroke. Clean. Sharp. Precise.

E. Again. A bit sloppier now, a little rushed, like even she’s getting impatient.

“Jesus,” you breathe, fingers threading into her hair like you’re trying to anchor yourself. “Did you just spell your fucking name?”

She pulls back for half a second—just enough to flash you a crooked grin, lips glistening, eyes dark. “Damn right I did.”

You let out a breathless laugh, somewhere between disbelief and arousal. “You’re such a showoff.”

“Yeah. Gotta make sure you remember it.”

You grip the sheets tighter. “Like I'll ever forget.”

Ellie just smirks and dives back in—deeper now, hungrier. She wraps her arms around your thighs and locks you in place like she has no intention of letting you go until you’ve completely unraveled.

Her mouth works you open with maddening precision—tongue circling, flicking, pressing in slow waves. She licks into you like she’s starving, like there’s nothing else in the world worth tasting. And when her lips wrap around you and she sucks, slow and deep, you swear you see stars.

You moan her name, not caring how loud it is. She groans in response, the vibration shooting through your whole body, making your back arch off the bed. You’re panting now, thighs trembling around her, heartbeat wild in your chest.

She hums again, smug and wrecked and totally in control. You feel her shift. One hand leaves your thigh and slides down, slow and steady. Her fingers trail through the mess she’s already made of you, slick and hot and ready.

Then one finger slips inside—deep, confident, curling just right.

You cry out, back arching, your whole body jolting with the shock of it. She doesn’t let up—her mouth still moving against you, tongue stroking in time with the rhythm of her fingers. It’s like she’s everywhere at once—her mouth, her hands, the weight of her body pinning you in place.

“Ellie,” you gasp, and it sounds wrecked, wild. “Fuck—”

“I’ve got you,” she says again, but this time it’s lower, darker, like a promise. “Let go, baby. Let me.”

She pushes in deeper, adds a second finger, the stretch making your eyes roll back. Her tongue never stops, her mouth working you with maddening, perfect precision. She moves slow and steady, curling her fingers just right, dragging them over that spot that makes your whole body lock up.

You’re shaking now, gasping, barely tethered to the world.

“You feel so fucking good,” Ellie breathes against you, voice reverent, ruined. “So wet f'me.”

She starts moving faster—mouth and fingers in perfect rhythm—sucking, licking, curling inside you like she knows exactly what you need before you can even ask for it.

The pressure builds and builds and then suddenly crests—hot, explosive, overwhelming. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, tearing the air from your lungs. You cry out her name, fingers clawing at her shoulders, your whole body locked in ecstasy.

She doesn’t stop right away—keeps helping you through it, slow and soothing now, like she’s savoring the way you fall apart for her. Like she’s proud of it. When she finally pulls back, her mouth is slick, her chin glistening as she cleans her fingers with her mouth, expression dazed and hungry and smug as hell.

She crawls back up over you and kisses your neck, your collarbone, your jaw.

You’re wrecked—body humming, chest rising and falling like you’ve run a marathon—but she still climbs up the bed like a woman on a mission, pulling you close, cradling your face in her hands like you’re the most precious thing she’s ever touched.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe, voice hoarse, your fingers tangled in her hair. “You’re...”

Ellie kisses you—deep and slow, tongue sliding against yours, letting you taste yourself on her mouth.

“I know,” she says smugly when she pulls back, brushing her thumb over your cheekbone. “I’m incredible.”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re so full of me.” She smirks, eyes gleaming with heat and mischief. “We’re both winning.”

You groan and drag her in for another kiss, already aching again and not even remotely ready for it to be over.

Ellie seems to feel the same way.

Because her hand’s already sliding back between your legs—gentler this time, just a soft, teasing brush of her fingers—and her voice drops to a whisper against your lips.

“Think you’ve got one more in you?”

You don’t even hesitate.

“For you?” You kiss her again, biting her lip just hard enough to make her growl. “Always.”

Ellie’s mouth is still hot on your skin when she pulls back, eyes burning as she looks down at you.

“Turn over,” she says, voice low and wrecked. Commanding.

You don’t hesitate. You roll onto your forearms and knees, heart pounding, skin flushed. The sheets are cool beneath you, but every inch of you feels overheated from the inside out.

You hear her moving behind you, the soft rustle of straps and leather and breath. When she runs a hand up your back—slow and firm—you arch instinctively, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

Ellie moves with purpose—hands rough as they roam over your ass, up your back, into your hair. Then her hands are back, gripping your waist so tight it borders on bruising.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. “Fucking perfect like this.”

You try to turn your head to look at her, but her hand slides up and wraps around your throat—firm, commanding, never cruel. She doesn’t squeeze, just holds you there, grounding you, controlling the space between anticipation and impact.

Your breath catches, a broken little sound tearing from your throat.

"Fuck," she groans, and you feel her lean in, her mouth dragging hot and slow along the back of your neck. "You make me lose my mind."

She snaps her hips forward, and even though you were bracing for it, the stretch still punches a sound out of you—deep and surprised and wild. Her free hand spreads over your lower back, keeping you steady, keeping you hers.

“Atta girl,” she breathes, voice frayed and thick with want. “Take it.”

You do. You take every inch, the air knocked from your lungs with every sharp thrust. It’s rough, almost feral, but there’s something reverent behind it—like she’s worshiping you with every motion, even if her grip is bruising and her rhythm relentless.

Your hands claw at the sheets, legs trembling, moaning into the mattress with every snap of her hips.

Then her hand tightens at your throat, just slightly, and your world narrows to her body, her heat, her voice in your ear—low and filthy and full of awe.

“Been wanting you to be mine for so long,” she pants. “Thinking about it every time you smiled at me like I didn’t wreck you the night before. Every time you said it was fake.”

You whimper, the words hitting harder than anything else. Your whole body tenses, overwhelmed, your head falling forward.

Ellie leans down, lips dragging along your shoulder as she slows just enough to make you feel it. “But you’re mine now. You know that, right?”

You nod, the motion barely there, desperate and delirious. “Yes.”

She groans—guttural and raw—and slaps your ass hard enough to make you jolt.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you cry out, wrecked and breathless. “I’m yours, Ellie.”

And then she thrusts deeper, slower, like the words wrecked her a little, like she’s not just fucking you now—she’s feeling you. Claiming you, not just with her body but with every part of her that’s ever been yours.

Her grip on your throat tightens just a little—not enough to scare, just enough to make you feel it. Her hips drive into you harder now, the bed rocking with the force of it, every thrust a sharp reminder of how much you want her, how much you need her.

The rhythm grows more frantic—sharp, breathless, urgent. Each thrust sends the headboard thudding against the wall in time with your gasps, a steady, relentless beat that fills the room along with the wet sound of skin against skin and the guttural way Ellie moans your name.

Your hands grip the sheets, the mattress, anything you can reach, but nothing grounds you like her. Nothing anchors you the way she does when one hand slips into your hair, tangling tight, and yanks you back with just enough force to make your breath catch.

She pulls you upright, flush against her chest, her mouth hot and open at your shoulder, your neck. The strap presses deeper inside you at the new angle, and your entire body shudders.

“Look at me,” she pants, voice ragged, forehead pressed to your temple. Her grip stays firm in your hair, holding you steady as her other hand slides possessively up your stomach, over your ribs, to cup your breast. “I want you to know exactly who’s fucking you.”

You can barely breathe, barely speak—but you nod, gasping as your body rocks against hers, every thrust dragging a helpless sound from your throat.

The headboard bangs louder now, the whole bed creaking beneath the force of it. But neither of you care. Ellie’s everywhere—her scent, her voice, the heat of her skin against your back, the way she’s buried so deep inside you it feels like she’s burned into your bones.

And even in all the chaos, the sweat and the noise and the wild, reckless pleasure of it, there’s something underneath it all—something tender. The way her lips find your shoulder in between every gasp. The way her voice breaks when she says your name like it’s the only word she knows.

Like loving you is the most dangerous, beautiful thing she’s ever done.

You’re falling apart—moaning, gasping, trying to stay upright as pleasure surges hot and overwhelming through your veins. Ellie’s cursing behind you, rhythm breaking, voice rough and wrecked and beautiful.

When it happens—when the second orgasm crashes over you like a wave—you scream her name, body convulsing, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs. And she keeps going through it, fucking you through every aftershock, like she can’t bear to let the moment go.

Eventually, you both collapse—your body limp and trembling, hers heavy against your back, breath ragged against your shoulder.

For a while, it’s just the sound of your breathing, tangled limbs, sweat-slick skin.

Then she turns your face gently to hers and kisses you—slow and deep and tender, like a promise. Like a confession.

“I love you,” she whispers, quiet and raw.

And you don't hesitate.

Not even a second.

“I love you too.”

Ellie is dead asleep beside you, her body heavy with exhaustion, arm still draped over your waist like she fell asleep mid-claim. Her breath is slow and steady against your shoulder, hair a tousled mess over the pillow, lips parted just slightly. She looks peaceful—blissfully unaware of the storm still quietly buzzing beneath your skin.

You lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, blankets tangled around your legs, your heart still not entirely calmed. The room smells like sex and sweat and her perfume, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you in the moment. But the silence starts to stretch. And somewhere between the warmth of her skin and the cooling air on yours, your mind slips.

You think of the club. The lights. The music. The drinks. The way she kissed you like you were everything she has ever wanted. The way her hand had slid into yours. The way her eyes had sparkled when she made you laugh.

And then—brief and sharp like a static jolt—you remember the booth. That little baggie. That casual, practiced motion. A snort. A wipe of her nose. The way she’d looked at you right after—like it was nothing.

Because to her, it was nothing.

You swallow hard and turn onto your side, facing away from her. The sheets feel too heavy suddenly, like they’re pressing into your chest. But you force your breath to slow, your eyes to close. You remind yourself that she’s here, asleep next to you. That tonight was good. That everything feels okay right now.

It’s not a big deal.

Just a moment. Just something that happened.

You tell yourself again, and again, and again, until the lie starts to sound almost true.

And eventually—maybe out of exhaustion, maybe out of denial—you let yourself drift off, wrapped in the illusion of safety, in the warmth of her body curled unconsciously into yours.

Because loving her feels so easy.

And forgetting?

Even easier.

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

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ I did like 30 proofreads, but there might still be a few grammar mistakes here and there—sorry in advance, english isn't my first language and I will be happy to receive constructive criticism!.

Please leave a comment if you’re interested in being on the permanent taglist for this series!

see ya'll soon, stay tuned ;)

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moonrab · 2 years ago

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bitches see anything that remind them of their childhood in the south and tear up

#it’s me #i’m bitches #i’m talking magnolia trees #honeysuckle #fireflies #the smell of cigarette smoke #trees being on either side of the road instead of fields #a blossoming wisteria #fields of kudzu #anyways starting a new tag dedicated to being back home #i missed it #home

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jezebelblues · 3 months ago

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𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 | 𝐇.𝐒 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐦 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐘𝐍 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭.

𝐂𝐖: requested exrry blurb (thank u anon!), slight angst, happy ending, fem!reader, actress!reader, unedited.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 5k

❏ HI ! it’s been such a long time :( but i’m hoping i’m finally through with writers block. i feel like this doesn’t exactlyyyy fit anon’s request but i hope u liked it even a lil bit! i’m not 100% happy w this but i really wanna get something out so this will just have to suffice. missed yall <3

masterlist

there are moments in every love story when the world rearranges itself, tilts just enough to change the course of everything. it's the way a cigarette burns unevenly when the wind interferes, how a misplaced step shifts the dancer's rhythm, or the way a train leaves the station one minute too soon. for harry and YN, their love had been both a symphony and a storm, a masterpiece constructed on fragile scaffolding. in its final act, it had unraveled quietly, with only the sound of two hearts breaking in unison.

they hadn’t spoken in two years. two years of silences punctuated only by the occasional headline, the brush of a photo on a magazine rack, his voice threading through the speakers of a café. the world, it seemed, refused to let her forget him. but there he was now, not a photograph or a memory, but him. real, palpable, standing at the edge of her periphery like a ghost who hadn’t yet decided if it would haunt her or let her go.

YN leaned against the balustrade, clutching a glass of something that tasted more sour than it should have. the event itself was a haze of champagne flutes and low conversations, an industry soirée dripping in muted opulence. her dress was a deep shade of dusk, clinging to her like a second skin, and she felt beautiful in it—had felt beautiful in it—until she saw him.

harry was dressed as he always was: an effortless mosaic of contradictions. the suit was tailored to perfection, but his hair, unruly curls with the hint of rebellion, softened the sharp edges. there was no mistaking the tilt of his head, the way his eyes skimmed the room with an almost reluctant ease. she wondered if he’d seen her yet, if he’d feel that same quiet thrum in his chest when he did.

as if on cue, his eyes met hers.

the evening wasn’t designed for heartache. the sky, opalescent and blushing, rippled with the soft hues of twilight. lights strung through the manicured gardens of the estate flickered like fireflies caught in some eternal dance, glasses catching the shimmer like constellations in orbit. laughter rippled through the space, every corner alive with movement and conversation, yet harry could feel only the staccato of his pulse, sharp and relentless.

he wasn't supposed to see her tonight. it wasn't part of the plan—then again, plans were always shaky things when it came to them, built on the hope that tomorrow wouldn't bring a gust strong enough to dismantle it all.

it wasn’t a moment of cinematic epiphany. there was no gasp, no clinking glass slipping from trembling fingers. it was quieter than that, heavier. their eyes had met, and the weight of two years folded between them like a tide coming in—inevitable, undeniable.

his gaze dropped to her hands, searching for a ring, as though her life might have accelerated in the time since they'd parted. nothing. his chest tightened with something unnamable—relief? regret? both?

the last time they’d been in the same room, the air had been filled with shouting and static. their words had ricocheted off walls that had once heard laughter. they had been too much and not enough, two meteors colliding, destroying everything they touched in their desperate attempt to remain whole.

she loved him. god, how she had loved him. loves.

their love had been big. not in the way people tell stories about epic romances, but in the way it consumed everything around it. they fought like gods waging war. they loved like the first spring after a century of winter. they tore each other apart and put each other back together, over and over, until they couldn't remember what they had looked like before.

they stood like that for what felt like hours but must've been seconds, suspended in a quiet kind of agony. the people around them blurred into shapes, the air alive with the hum of champagne-fueled conversations and the laughter of people who had no concept of loss beyond the polite kind—misplaced keys, a delayed flight, the end of a film they'd rather not have finished. the only thing that seemed real was the chasm between them—filled with every moment they'd ever shared, every word spoken and unspoken, every touch and tear and promise.

he was walking toward her now. she could feel it in her chest before she saw it—the air shifting, the atoms around her realigning themselves to make room for his presence.

YN was radiant, in the way she always had been— light incarnate. her eyes, the same shade of longing he remembered, tried not to meet his own, but of course, they did. she's only human, and humans have always been drawn to the things that ruin them.

“YN.” he breathed when he was close enough, her name falling from his lips like a prayer he wasn’t sure he was allowed to utter.

“harry.” his name tasted unfamiliar on her tongue, like a word spoken in a foreign language after years of disuse.

there were too many things she wanted to say, too many memories fighting to rise to the surface. she remembered the way his hands had once mapped her skin like a cartographer desperate to chart every inch. she remembered mornings spent tangled in sheets, the sunlight spilling over their laughter. she remembered the fights, the nights spent in separate rooms, the echoes of their own voices loud in the spaces between them.

“you look—” he started, then stopped, as though the right words had slipped through his fingers.

“so do you.”

silence bloomed between them, heavy and awkward, like a third presence neither of them invited. she takes a sip of her drink to fill it, but the taste is sour, bitter. or maybe that's just her.

he couldn’t tell how long they just stood there. time had a way of folding in on itself since her, the days bleeding into nights, the minutes stretching and collapsing all at once. einstein once said time was relative, but harry was sure he hadn't meant this.

his lips parted, “i didn’t think you’d be here.”

“neither did i.”

the truth was, she almost hadn’t come. it was only her publicist’s insistence that had dragged her out of her apartment and into this room filled with people who didn’t really know her. but now, standing here in front of him, she wondered if some part of her had known—had hoped.

there was a question hanging in the air between them, not uttered, but loud enough to fill the silence. had they made a mistake?

he remembers how they agreed it was for the best—right person, wrong time. they'd parted with a kiss that tasted of salt and regret, a mutual agreement born not out of lack of love, but out of too much of it.

but how could it be for the best when the air at home still smelled like her, when her name was stitched into the fabric of every song he wrote? he thought of the way she used to rest her head against his chest at night, the way her fingers traced lazy patterns along his skin, as if she were memorizing him in braille. the intimacy of it—the quiet kind, the kind that felt like forever—had undone him. no one ever teaches you how to live without forever.

the first time they met, they were children pretending to be adults. a festival in the desert, both of them younger and wilder, sweat-soaked and sunburnt and drunk on music. they danced in a crowd of thousands, but it felt like the earth shrank to the size of a postage stamp, and they were the only two people left. he had kissed her that night, tequila and the promise of something infinite lingering on his tongue.

“i’ve missed you,” he admitted, so softly she almost didn’t hear it.

her heart stuttered, the words settling into the cracks she hadn’t known were still there. “me too.”

and just like that, the world rearranged itself again.

it had been three days, but the memory of her face still lingered on the edges of harry’s consciousness like the afterimage of a camera flash. no matter how many times he blinked, it refused to fade. he felt haunted—not in the dramatic sense of ghosts rattling chains, but in the quiet, insidious way grief lingers, reshaping the air around it. she had looked beautiful, devastatingly so. and when their eyes had met, he swore he felt time buckle under the weight of something he couldn’t acknowledge, not yet.

it was morning now, or what passed for it in january—a hesitant kind of light filtering through the clouds, pale and thin like it didn’t quite belong. harry sat at his kitchen table, a cup of tea cooling between his hands. the mug had been a gift from gemma years ago, the words world’s okayest brother faded from too many cycles through the dishwasher. he liked its imperfection, the way it felt worn and familiar. it reminded him of things that didn’t change, which was a comfort on days like these.

the newspapers were spread out in front of him, though he wasn’t reading them. his eyes kept drifting to the same headline over and over: YN stuns at charity gala, sparking reunion rumors. there was a picture, of course. she was outside, her dress a shadow clinging to her frame, her gaze distant and heavy with thoughts he couldn’t begin to guess at.

it was cruel, he thought, how the world always seemed to capture her in a way that felt so achingly intimate. even in the stillness of a photograph, she looked alive, as though she might step off the page and straight into his arms.

but she wouldn’t.

he hadn’t expected to see her, not after all this time. the last two years had been a lesson in avoidance—of places she might be, of mutual friends who still spoke her name with a fondness that made his chest ache. he had buried himself in work, in music, in anything that might fill the spaces she had left behind. and for a while, it had worked. or at least, it had felt like it did.

until three days ago.

“you’re brooding.”

the voice startled him, and he looked up to find jeff standing in the doorway, a coffee cup in one hand and a knowing look in the other.

“morning to you, too,” harry muttered, running a hand through his hair.

he raised an eyebrow. “you’ve been staring at that paper for the better part of an hour. do you want to talk about it, or should i just pretend i don’t notice?”

“not much to talk about, yeah?”

“uh-huh.” he set his coffee down and slid into the chair opposite him. “you saw her.”

“yeah.”

“and?”

harry sighed, “i dunno. s’like… seeing her again made everything i’ve been trying to forget just resurface. two fucking years of nothing and then—” he gestured vaguely, another sigh falling from his lips.

“you still care about her.”

“‘course i do,” harry said, almost sharply. “but that doesn’t mean it changes anything. timing wasn’t right—we missed out.”

jeff studied him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. “you know, timing’s a funny thing. but things do change, harry. don’t lose something you never needed to lose in the first place.”

the words hit harder than harry wanted to admit. he didn’t respond, instead lifting his mug to his lips and taking a long sip.

the tea had gone cold.

–

the email arrived in the late afternoon, slipping into her inbox like an intruder she hadn’t invited. YN stared at the screen for a long time, her tea cooling on the windowsill beside her. she didn’t open it right away; instead, she just sat there, the glow of her laptop casting faint shadows on the walls of her living room.

harry’s name stared back at her, bold and impossible to ignore. two years of silence, and now this.

the day had started out quiet. she’d spent the morning working through a script, her highlighter uncapping and capping in time with the low hum of the music she had on in the background. a storm had rolled in sometime around noon, the sky turning the color of damp stone. she liked storms—their chaos, the way they reminded her of things bigger than herself.

she didn’t like this.

her thumb hovered over the trackpad, indecisive. opening the email felt like a betrayal of all the walls she’d built, but leaving it unread felt equally unbearable. the memory of seeing him at the gala, standing there like something carved out of memory and moonlight, tugged at her resolve.

so, she clicked.

subject: reaching out

from: hs@—

to: YN@—

i wasn’t sure if this was still your email. if it’s not, i guess someone else is reading this, which would be… awkward. but if it is you, then: hey.

i know it’s been a while. seeing you the other night caught me off guard. in a good way. you looked beautiful. not that that’s news or anything, but still. it felt worth saying.

i’ve been thinking about you. not in a way that expects anything, just thinking. like in the way you’re in the lyrics i write without thinking. or when i see a blank sheet of paper i think of the origami you’d make on a whim.

this probably sounds ridiculous. i don’t really know what i’m trying to say. maybe just that it was good to see you.

for old times sake: all my stars and moons,

all my stars and moons.

he used to say it with a lopsided smile, his voice soft, reverent, like it was the only way he could capture what she meant to him.

it wasn't just an i love you—it was a promise, a vow that she had been his beginning and his end. her reply had always been equally unorthodox, a kind of shared language only they understood.

she read the email twice, then a third time, the words tumbling through her mind like loose change in a pocket.

it wasn’t much. it wasn’t an apology or an admission or even an invitation. but it was something—a crack in the silence, a thread pulled loose from fabric.

her fingers hovered over the keyboard, her mind a cacophony of what-ifs. she didn’t know what to say—didn’t know if she should say anything.

the cursor blinked at her, patient and unyielding. YN rested her chin in her hand, staring at the blank reply box as if it might conjure the words for her. the storm outside continued its symphony, wind rattling the windowpanes in uneven bursts. it felt fitting—this chaotic, uncertain moment mirrored by the world beyond her walls.

she had typed and deleted half a dozen responses already, each one feeling either too much or not enough.

harry, she’d started, but even his name felt loaded, like a weight she couldn’t quite lift.

it’s good to hear from you. no, too polite, too distant, too not them.

why now? the most honest question, but also the one she didn’t have the courage to ask outright.

she leaned back in her chair, exhaling sharply. part of her wanted to ignore it. to close her laptop, pour another cup of tea, and pretend she hadn’t read it. but that wasn’t who she was—not with him.

because no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much they had broken each other, there was still that small, stubborn part of her that believed in the rightness of them.

she let her fingers hover over the keyboard, her thoughts coalescing into something that felt almost like clarity.

harry,

it is still my email. though if it weren’t, i’d like to think whoever got this would’ve found it endearing.

i don’t know how to describe how it felt seeing you again. unexpected doesn’t feel like enough. i wasn’t ready for it, i guess. not that anyone’s ever really ready to run into their past like that. believe me when i say that you looked even more beautiful.

your email was nice to read, though i’m not sure how to respond to it. i don’t know if i have the right words anymore, or if i ever did. but i’ve been thinking about you too. i’m not sure that ever really stopped, if i’m honest. it’s strange, isn’t it? how someone can take up so much space in your mind, even after so much time has passed.

it’s hard to know what else to say. part of me wonders if we made a mistake. you’re making me remember paper cranes on your coffee table, of mornings where the sunlight always seemed brighter on your side of the bed. remembering makes it harder to pretend like none of it mattered.

but it did. it still does. in ways i can't always explain, and maybe that's why i don't know how to respond. anyway, i guess i just wanted to say that it was good to see you, too.

forever and a day,

YN.

her finger hovered over the send button, her heart hammering in her chest. there was no taking it back once it was gone, no undoing the vulnerability she had laid bare. but she clicked it anyway, the whoosh of the email sending ringing loud in the quiet of her apartment.

forever and a day.

it had been her answer to him, her way of telling him that love wasn't bound by time or space, that it was infinite. it had been their secret, the thread woven through the chaos of their lives.

she didn’t know what would come next. maybe nothing. maybe everything. so, she waited—which only let things unravel further.

the emails became their lifeline over the past few days, a tenuous thread bridging the gap between the past and whatever they were doing now. it had started cautiously—polite acknowledgments, carefully chosen words that skirted too close to old wounds. but as the hours and days wore on, their messages grew longer, softer, laced with the quiet intimacy of people rediscovering the shape of each other.

harry had spent more time staring at his screen than he cared to admit, his fingers hovering over the keys as he tried to balance honesty with restraint. they wrote about everything and nothing—her latest film, a quiet piece shot in the polish countryside, his afternoons spent in the studio, the strange emptiness of passing the time during a break.

sometimes, they slipped into the past. little anecdotes laced with humor or wistfulness, as though they were tiptoeing around the weight of what they’d once shared. he’d told her about the tulips he passed by in the shop one evening, how it made him think of her, if he’d ever buy such a thing for her again—and she’d replied with a teasing remark about how he’d always overthought these things.

it felt natural in a way neither of them had anticipated, like a rhythm they’d rediscovered without meaning to. but beneath the easy flow of words, there was a tension—an unspoken question threading its way through every sentence: what now?

and then, her last email.

he’d read it three times before he noticed the address tucked neatly at the bottom, like an afterthought.

subject: RE: late night thoughts

from: YN@—

to: hs@—

i don’t know why i’m telling you this, but the tulips? i would’ve liked them :)

anyway, you’re right! it’s easier to write like this, but it also feels a bit ridiculous, doesn’t it? like we’re pen pals in some old novel. maybe we should talk.

here’s my address. i’ve moved since before everything happened between us. if you’re ever around, stop by. no pressure though.

harry had laughed aloud when he saw it, shaking his head in disbelief. she hadn’t given him her number, but her address? it was such a maddeningly her thing to do.

he stared at the screen for a while afterward, debating what it meant, whether he should go, what he’d say if he did. and then, as if fate had decided for him, he found himself standing in another flower shop the next afternoon, staring at a display of tulips.

the shopkeeper had been kind, if a bit amused by his indecision. “you can’t go wrong with red,” she’d said, handing him a bunch wrapped in simple brown paper. “everyone likes red, yeah?”

he’d nodded, though his mind had been elsewhere, spiraling through a thousand scenarios of how this meeting might go.

and now, here he was, standing outside her building with the flowers clutched in one hand, his other hand shoved into the pocket of his coat.

he felt ridiculous. what was he doing here, showing up like this? but the thought of turning back felt worse. he buzzed her apartment, his heart pounding as he waited for her voice to crackle through the intercom.

“hello?”

“oh, YN. hi! it’s harry.”

a pause and the breathiest giggle, so quiet harry wasn’t sure if it was her or the crackle of the intercom. “come up.”

once up, she opened the door before he could knock, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of her apartment. she looked different and yet entirely the same—her hair pulled back, her sweater falling loosely over her frame, the kind of effortless beauty that had always undone him.

“hi.”

“hi,” he echoed, offering her a tentative smile.

she glanced at the tulips in his hand, her lips twitching into a small, knowing grin. “you brought flowers.”

“yeah,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “thought about daisies. or lilies. but tulips–”

“you overthought it.”

“probably,” he said, handing them to her. “but you said you would’ve liked them.”

she took the flowers, her fingers brushing his briefly. “i do.”

he hesitated, shifting on his feet. “you didn’t give me your number, but you gave me your address. thought that was funny.”

her laugh was soft, almost shy. “guess i figured if you wanted to talk, you’d show up.”

“and here i am.”

“here you are.”

she stepped aside, letting him in, her apartment warm and inviting in contrast to the chill outside. the space was a bit small but full of character—books stacked haphazardly on shelves, a record player in the corner, the faint scent of tea lingering in the air.

“s’bigger than the last one.”

she hummed, setting the tulips on the counter and reaching for a vase. “it’s cozy.”

he watched her move, his chest tightening at the familiarity of it all—the way she tilted her head when she was concentrating, the slight curve of her mouth as she arranged the flowers.

“i’m surprised you actually came over.”

“‘course i did,” he said, his gaze steady. “you asked.”

“i didn’t think you would.”

he frowned slightly, “oh,” he paused, “why not?”

she shrugged, turning back to the flowers. “it’s been a long time, i guess. people change.”

“how much d’you think changes in two years?”

her hands stilled, her fingers brushing against the edge of a petal. she didn’t look at him, but he could see the way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath caught.

“i don’t know what this is,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“s’just us talking. that’s all.”

they settled at the island in her kitchen eventually, stools drawn close but not close enough. it wasn’t purposeful—not exactly—but the gap between them felt intentional in its own way, a hesitation they hadn’t yet learned how to breach.

the space was quiet, save for the soft hum of the rain outside and the faint creak of the wood beneath them. the overhead light pooled in warm, golden tones across the countertop, casting long shadows that blurred the edges of the moment.

YN fit into the space like she always did—carefully, like she was trying to take up less room than she was owed. one knee tucked against her chest, her arms wrapped loosely around it, while her other leg dangled from the stool, her toes brushing just lightly against the floor. she turned slightly, her side leaning against the edge of the island, her eyes steady but unreadable.

his own body had never been built for this kind of furniture—too long limbs, too much of him for the delicate frame of the stool. he had to spread his legs wide, one foot braced against the floor to keep himself steady, his elbows resting on the countertop. his fingers toyed with the lip of a glass left abandoned,something to keep them occupied, something to keep them from reaching for her.

and then she said it.

“you’ve written songs about me.”

a statement, not a question. a fact pulled from the quiet places of their past, dusted off and placed between them like an offering.

harry felt the heat climb his neck before he could stop it, the corners of his mouth betraying him with the telltale pull of a smile. a man of twenty-nine reduced to something pink-cheeked and bashful, like a schoolboy caught in the act. his dimples carved deep, his fingers tightening around the glass as if he could pour all of his flustered energy into the curve of it.

“see that head of yours hasn’t gotten any smaller.”

his voice came easy, light with humor, a well-aimed deflection meant to soften the truth. but the truth was written all over him, in the way his gaze lingered, in the way his body angled toward hers as if he couldn’t help but close the distance.

she laughed, and the sound curled into his chest, tucked itself between his ribs like something meant to live there. her cheeks had gone pink too, though whether from the warmth of the room or the warmth of his attention, he wasn’t sure.

she pressed her temple against her knee, a slow, knowing smile stretching across her lips before she murmured—“red wine and ginger ale.”

it was enough to knock the breath from him, to make something stir deep in his gut, something familiar, aching, unshakable.

his grip tightened around the glass, knuckles going white. because of course she remembered. of course she had caught that line, plucked it from the verse and turned it over in her palm like a rare coin.

it had been a memory—hers, theirs, tucked into the lyrics like a secret, hidden in plain sight.

a dinner in chiswick, years ago, where he had ordered exactly that, red wine with ginger ale, because he liked the way the bitterness and sweetness met on his tongue. she had looked at him like he’d just confessed to some great crime, her nose scrunching, her lips parting in that wide-eyed, incredulous way.

“you’re disgusting.”

he had laughed, offered her a sip, only for her to recoil in mock horror. and later, in the taxi home, when he had kissed her, her lips had curled into a smile against his, and she had whispered against his mouth—

“m’never letting you live it down, baby.”

and she hadn’t. for months. for years. because she had hated the drink, but she had loved him, and that was enough.

and now, here she was, saying it back to him, plucking the words from a song meant for millions and holding them up to the light, a knowing glint in her gaze.

“you remember that?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost disbelieving.

“i remember everything.”

the words settled in his stomach, warm and heavy. he stared at her for a long moment, the air between them stretching thin.

he could still taste the memory of her, even now. and he wonders if she knows she’s still his favorite lyric.

time continued to stretch around them, hesitated words and heavy pauses, stolen glances and knuckles that barely grazed each other in fleeting touches.

they moved after that, standing from the stools as if a forced step back would be enough space to stop what hummed between them.

she turned to face him, her eyes searching his. for a moment, the air felt electric, heavy with everything they weren’t saying.

she lingered there, before her body angled toward the window as though she might drift outside. the soft light overhead caught the lines of her face, the curve of her shoulders.

she was beautiful in the way the stars were—distant but unmistakably present, a quiet inevitability against the darkness.

and just like the stars, she had always been there, even when he couldn't see her.

he crossed the room slowly, as though afraid that the floor might give out beneath him. his hands were empty now, his thoughts stripped bare. she turned slightly as he came closer, her eyes meeting his, and he could feel the pull of her, the way she seemed to realign the very fabric of the air between them.

YN could feel it, the frequency only the two of them could hear, a static that crackles in the air between bodies too familiar to be strangers, too distant to be anything else. the static that translated into pins and needles along their lips. the static, buzzing heat in their chest, not fire, not yet—but the ember that never fully died, flickering in the place where love was buried but never truly laid to rest.

"you came back.” she echoed from before, though it was less saturated in disbelief but rather dripping with solace.

he looked up, his throat tightening—the ache of déjà vu wrapped in silk. his body remembers before his mind does—remembers the press of his palm against the small of her back, the weight of his mouth against hers, the way her breath used to tremble when she whispered his name.

you never left he wanted to say, but the syllables tangled in his throat, thick as honey, heavy as grief. because she hadn’t—not really. she lingered in each pause between heartbeats, in the empty quiet of rooms too big and beds too cold.

so, he keeps his mouth shut. he leans in, nose barely grazing hers. she can feel the flutter of his eyelashes against her cheek as his head tilts, he can feel the tremble of her breath.

he was merely a shipwreck, his body leaning toward the tide even as his mind screamed to stay ashore. but the tide is warm, and the tide is her, and oh—how easy it would be to drown again.

the collapse of distance, the death of restraint.

the air between them is thick with ruin and remembrance, a graveyard of every night they spent apart, every moment they spent pretending this wasn’t inevitable.

but the body is merciless in its remembering.

her breath stutters again as his fingertips ghost over her jaw, tracing the path of old devotion, the map of a love that never truly faded. it’s not a hesitation, not a question—it’s reverence, the final breath before a prayer is spoken. and then—

then he kisses her.

it’s not soft, not gentle. it’s every unsaid word, every agonizing hour, every night spent staring at the ceiling wondering if the she felt it too. it’s the pull of gravity, of fate, of something written into constellations.

his mouth slants over hers like a plea, like an apology, like a man succumbing. and she—she meets him with a hunger that borders on violent, fingers fisting in his collar, dragging him closer, closer, as if she could consume him, as if she could crawl inside his ribs and carve her name there all over again.

it tasted like champagne and ripe fruit, like summer bursting behind teeth and getting stuck there. peaches, maybe, or strawberries picked in the height of july. his tongue slid against hers like silk against satin, heady—red wine drunk too quickly, the dizzied sweetness of berries crushed between thumb and forefinger.

it didn’t seek, did not demand; it reclaimed, a vow remade in flesh.

his tongue curled, coaxed, tangled in the wet heat of her mouth. it was slow, decadent—the first pull of opium in the lungs, the hush of velvet being drawn through greedy fingers.

and when he deepened it—when he pulled her flush, let the kiss bleed into something savored, something syrup-thick, cursive against the roof of her mouth—she tasted it:

forgiveness, the hands of a clock rewinding.

not spoken, not granted, but exchanged in the language of tongue and teeth. of breath shared between gasps, of bodies rediscovering the art of belonging.

when they part, it is not for lack of wanting.

it’s for breath, for sanity, for the simple fear that if they do not stop now, they never will. she licked her lips—not to rid herself of him, but to commit him to memory.

"YN.” he murmured, her name nothing more than a breath, a vow, a benediction.

she swallowed, throat tight, her pulse a bird trapped beneath her skin. she wanted to say something, anything—wanted to capture this moment in words before it slipped through her fingers like sand.

but there was no language for this.

there was no word for what it meant to be kissed like that—like time had never moved forward, like they had never parted, like the years apart were nothing more than a cruel trick of the universe. no word for the way his tongue had found hers, the way he had kissed her not just with his lips, but with the sum of his longing, the marrow-deep ache of missing her. no word for the way she had melted into him, the way her mouth had answered his like it had been waiting all this time.

so she didn’t speak.

instead, she pressed her fingers against his mouth, feeling the shape of his lips beneath them, like trying to hold onto a dream before waking. and maybe he understood, because he only smiled—soft, knowing, his hands still firm against her skin.

all my stars and moons, he had said once.

forever and a day, she had answered.

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles blurb #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry edward styles #harry styles concept #harry styles au #harry styles angst #exrry

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macabrebatz · 2 months ago

Text

WHAT THE SLASHERS SMELL LIKE

Except I get too realistic and carried away

Author’s Note: No seriously. I got carried away. Didn’t intend to write for this many slashers but the thoughts kept coming. If you all want a part 2, let me know!

Characters: Jason Voorhees, Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, Rufus “RJ” Firefly Jr., Baby Firefly, Otis B. Driftwood, Captain Spaulding, Pinhead, Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, Bubba Sawyer, Thomas Hewitt, Art the Clown, Michael Myers, Freddy Krueger, Ash Williams (I know he’s not a slasher, shush), Billy Lenz, Brahms Heelshire, Mitch/The Ghost, The Driller Killer

Warnings/tags: Realistic takes on the body odor & hygiene of various horror characters, mention of sex on Freddy’s part (and alluded to in Otis’s part), gender neutral reader, not beta read

Word count: 1.7k

Jason Voorhees

Jason smells bad. Like really bad. He smells like mud, mildew, blood, and a rotting corpse that’s been soaking in lake water. It takes a long time to be in such close proximity to him. Personal hygiene isn’t his strong suit at all. But once you come along he’ll definitely try. His clothes can be changed and washed but Jason’s body stinks in a way that a shower and soap simply can’t fix (at least not fully). It’s possible to get the smell toned down to somewhat tolerable levels. But realistically I think he’ll always have a bit of a smell to him.

Bo Sinclair

Bo, for the most part, smells fine. He takes regular showers, washes his hair with a generic shampoo, brushes his teeth, etc. When he hasn’t been working, he’ll smell like cheap cologne and whatever scented soap you keep in the shower. But if he’s been working at the mechanic shop he’ll come home smelling like sweat, oil, and gasoline (and blood if he’s killed someone that day). There’s also always a faint smell of cigarettes. The smell seems to have seeped into his clothes permanently after many years of smoking. You don’t have to coax him to shower, he heads there without a fight. After a long day, a shower can make him feel better anyway.

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent doesn’t smell too bad but he doesn’t always smell great. He often smells like beeswax, which isn’t a bad smell. But he can get quite sweaty as well and doesn’t shower as frequently as Bo. So it’s not the best smell combo. I mean, he’s constantly working in a hot basement/workshop…in a sweater…in a mask…with long hair……in Louisiana. Yeah, sweating is a common occurrence. He’ll probably increase his amount of showers for you. He gets so caught up in sculpting that he forgets sometimes though.

Lester Sinclair

Lester is the worst Sinclair brother when it comes to smell and hygiene. When you first meet him smells like roadkill, sweat, and dirt. His hygiene isn’t great. He doesn’t shower often, nor brush his teeth often. But when you come along he definitely starts caring about his hygiene more. He’ll take showers and brush his teeth. Maybe he’ll wash his clothes more…maybe.

Rufus “RJ” Firefly Jr.

Rufus smells fine for the most part. He showers regularly and uses deodorant. By the end of the day though he might have a slight musky smell to him but nothing too bad usually. Sometimes he would stink after working on cars all day in the Texas heat. He’d come home smelling like sweat and oil and you might have to ask him to take a shower. Occasionally he’d have a faint smell of beer or whatever alcohol was lying around on his clothes.

Baby Firefly

Baby takes frequent showers and bubble baths (when she’s not on the run with the family). She likes soap with a fruity scent, often opting for something that smells of berries. Sometimes she’d smell like blood but usually, she’d smell rather good. She has a variety of different perfumes snagged from the luggage of different victims. Just like her soap, she often goes for things with more of a fruit scent.

Otis B. Driftwood

Otis doesn’t smell good often. In fact, a lot of the time he smells straight-up bad. Like corpses, blood, alcohol, and tobacco. Otis does take showers though so the smell is temporary. He doesn’t take them often though and sometimes you’ll have to ask him (or mildly threaten him) to shower. If he’s being stubborn and you really, really want him to shower then you can coax him by getting in the shower and asking him to join you. He’ll never say no to that offer.

Captain Spaulding

Captain Spaulding smells okay usually. He’s not the best smelling out of the Firefly family but he’s not that bad. He often smells like fried chicken from making it so often at his shop. There are some faint hints of alcohol, blood, and maybe even cigarettes. His dental hygiene isn’t great but he does take somewhat regular showers.

Pinhead

Pinhead smells like blood, leather, and metal. It’s not an overbearing smell like some of the other slashers but it’s there. You can smell it when you hug him close. I don’t think he gets very sweaty. Honestly, do Cenobites even sweat? He doesn’t shower, doesn’t brush his teeth. Hell, he barely even removes the leather he wears. He’s not human and he doesn’t care about human concepts of hygiene.

Hannibal Lecter

Hannibal smells really, really good. He takes regular showers, wears deodorant, and brushes his teeth twice a day. He sometimes splurges on more expensive shampoos, soap, and cologne. He goes for colognes with woody scents. Sometimes there’s a small hint of vanilla thrown in. A majority of the time he smells really fresh. He doesn’t often smell like blood because he takes the cleanup process very seriously. Occasionally the smell of whatever he’s been cooking might linger on his clothes.

Will Graham

Will also smells good for the most part. He often smells like the outdoors and cheap cologne. He obviously has a big sweating problem so that can make him not smell as great. But he takes regular showers, especially when he’s been sweating a lot. He likes to smell good but he doesn’t give it much thought.

Bubba Sawyer

Bubba often smells like sweat, meat, and a heavy dose of decomposing bodies. Showers are infrequent but not nonexistent. When he does shower he smells fine but that smell can quickly disappear in the Texas heat, especially if the Sawyers are dealing with unwanted visitors. He doesn’t really notice the smell unless it’s pointed out and he’ll shower and change clothes if needed.

Thomas Hewitt

Much like Bubba, there’s often a smell of sweat, meat, and blood. In fact, those smells are stronger on Thomas compared to Bubba. He’s a rather musky guy. He doesn’t shower frequently. It’s a rare occurrence. But when you’re in the picture he might do a little better hygiene-wise, especially after a heavy dose of scolding from Luda Mae. And he’ll smell better (probably never great though).

Art the Clown

Oh, don’t get me started. Probably one of the worst-smelling slashers out of the bunch. Art smells like shit. Literally. And blood. And not just a little blood. The smell can be so strong sometimes that you swear you can taste iron on your tongue. Sometimes he’ll have faint scents of gunpowder and oil but those smells are often overpowered by others. Surprisingly though, Art isn’t that opposed to showers. He does the absolute bare minimum though, just standing in the water and rinsing off the remnants of his victims. He doesn’t mind getting all of that off of him but he’s not doing it to smell better. If anything, he likes the smell.

Michael Myers

He smells bad. Whether we’re talking about the OG or the RZ version, I can’t imagine this man smelling good when you first come across him. He smells like a corpse. It overpowers any other smell there could be on him. He doesn’t shower, he’ll wear the same coveralls for years if they last him that long. Hygiene is the last of his priorities and he’s not easily convinced at all to bathe or wash his clothes. Maybe (and that’s a very strong MAYBE) you could entice him to do something about the smell. It’ll definitely be a trade-off. He won’t give in easily.

Freddy Krueger

Freddy doesn’t smell great. He smells like ash and burnt skin. He almost smells like a campfire but with the added smell of blood and death. The smell is always there. It’s kind of permanent. And no, he won’t be showering. Don’t even suggest it because he’ll laugh in your face. It’s not that he’s against it, he just doesn’t want to nor does he feel the need to. The only way he’ll get in the shower is to have shower sex and that’s it.

Ash Williams

Ash smells good 90% of the time. He smells like pine shampoo, aftershave, and whatever cologne he wears. It’s not expensive but it smells nice. The other 10% of the time (when he’s hacking away at deadites), he smells like a mixture of gasoline, oil, blood, and whatever hellish smells come out of deadites. It’s not great and he’s aware of it. The last thing he wants is to be covered in brains but it’s just another day in his life. He honestly can’t wait to shower it all off.

Brahms Heelshire

Upon first meeting him, Brahms didn’t smell good. He smelled like a combination of sweat, dust, mothballs, and mildew. A direct result of constantly staying in the walls and lack of showering. If the smell bothers you though, Brahms is more willing to bathe than most slashers. He can be stubborn sometimes but he rarely puts up a fight.

Billy Lenz

Much like Brahms, Billy has a strong odor of dust, mothballs, and whatever other lingering smells are in an attic. Old boxed-up books, cardboard, mildew, the faintest smell of cologne (not sure if it’s his or it's just rubbed off from some clothes in the attic). The smells have stuck to his clothes and he doesn’t wash that sweater. He won’t put up a fight if the smell bothers you though. He’ll happily take a shower for you.

Mitch/The Ghost

Mitch smells fine…usually. He showers regularly, wears deodorant, etc. He usually smells of whatever soap is in the shower. The only time that he ever really smells bad is after long nights of running the Haunt in October. On those nights he’ll smell strongly of blood, corpses, and whatever acid they use to dispose of all the unlucky haunt visitors. Other than that, he smells fine the rest of the year.

The Driller Killer

The Driller Killer smells like cigarettes, leather, and blood. He smokes often. It’s not like he’s going to get sick from them (not 100% he can even die). Sometimes when you hug him, you swear you can smell the faint scent of a woody cologne. Or maybe it’s his hair gel. You’re not fully sure. But there’s definitely something there.

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bosinclairsgff · 1 year ago

Text

What the slashers smell like

Warnings: this is realistic lol

Includes: Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair, Otis Driftwood, Baby Firefly, Amanda Young, Mark Hoffman, RZ Michael Myers, The Grabber, Thomas Hewitt

A/n yes I realize this may be just a bit weird

- He smells like grease, sweat, and a cheap cologne. Of course there’s a hint of iron on him most days buts it’s just faint enough to miss. Bo definitely washes his hair with soap. He also reeks of cigarettes.

- This man is musky I’m sorry. He probably doesn’t shower a lot. His hair is very greasy, all the time. He usually smells like a moldy basement and sweat. With a waxy smell (duh).

- This man smells like blood, sweat, alcohol and a man who hasn’t showered in YEARS. He is stinky sorry girls. He also smells like piss.

- Baby takes better care of herself than Otis does. She smells like alcohol, blood and maybe I cheap perfume she stole from one of her many victims. Something floral.

- She takes regular showers so she’s not stinky. Amanda doesn’t care what shampoo she uses so she probably smells like coconut or vanilla, whatever she found at the store. I say she most likely doesn’t drown herself in perfumes. However there’s slight irony smell about her most days.

- This man smells like a expensive cologne he bought years ago and still hasn’t used it all. Also, he DEFINITELY uses three in one shampoo, conditioner and soap.

- He smells awful. Reeks of death and literal shit. Michael kills humans and animals, he’s stinky guys. He doesn’t know how to take care of his hygiene. His breath is AWFUL to.

- Albert loves being clean and well kept. He showers regularly, brushes his teeth regularly and wears a nice cologne. His cologne smells like old spice.

- Another stinky boy! He does not shower, ever. Maybe he’ll take a bath? I doubt it though. Thomas smells like blood, human shit and pure musk. You know how in cartoons when someone stinks there’s a green cloud? Yeah, that would be him.

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b1eedthefreak · 10 days ago

Text

I Like It

daryl x sunshine!girly!reader

requested :3

⸻

When you first arrived at Alexandria, the world didn’t feel real anymore. The fences were too clean. The houses had welcome mats. There were kids riding bikes and fresh baked bread and dinner parties and beds with more than one pillow. It felt like a dream… or a trap.

But you smiled anyway.

You smiled through the awkward glances. Through the whispers. Through the way the townspeople looked at your fuzzy slippers like they were some kind of apocalyptic sin. You smiled because it was all you knew how to do. Because if you didn’t, you’d cry. And if you cried, you might never stop.

So you always had your hair done and painted your nails with Carol. You found a lip gloss that had survived the fall of civilization and you wore it proudly. You cleaned your new porch with a pink rag and a humming tune. And when you saw him, grimy, brooding, arms crossed and expression unreadable, you smiled at him too.

“Hi!” you’d said, the first time. That was all.

He stared for a second. Grunted. Walked off.

You beamed anyway.

It became a routine. You’d bounce up to him with a new dress, a new story, a new flower tucked behind your ear, and he’d grunt. Maybe say a few words if you were lucky.

“You always this loud?” he’d mutter.

“Only when you’re around!” you’d chirp.

You thought maybe he hated you. He always looked annoyed. Always acted like you were the most unbearable person on the planet. But then… he never left. Never told you to stop. Never moved too far away.

And you caught him looking. A lot.

That week, there was a party.

It was thrown for Aaron’s birthday, but you didn’t need a reason to dress up. You wore a short white sundress with ruffled sleeves and little embroidered cherries across the front. Your hair was done perfect. Your lips glossed. You felt like a girl again, not a survivor.

Daryl walked in late, shoulders tense. He didn’t take his vest off. Didn’t smile. Just found a wall to lean on and stayed there, arms crossed, jaw tight.

You grabbed two plastic cups of wine and made your way through the crowd like a mission.

He saw you coming. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”

“Don’t gotta,” he said, taking the cup anyway.

You giggled, sipping yours. “You don’t dance, do you?”

Daryl gave you a look.

“You’re missing out,” you teased. “I’m an excellent dancer. Could teach you. First one’s free.”

“No.”

“Not even for me?” you pouted.

He scoffed. “Especially not for you.”

You gasped dramatically. “You’re such a liar Daryl!”

That made him choke a little on the wine, looking away with a grumble. “Shut up.”

You found him again later, sitting on the porch steps outside. The music was muffled through the walls. Fireflies blinked in the grass. He looked more relaxed in the dark, away from the crowd, cigarette burning low between his fingers.

You sat beside him without a word, your bare legs curling under you, your dress rustling softly in the night breeze.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Then,

“…Ain’t cold?” he asked, eyeing your legs.

You smiled. “Trying to say I’m underdressed?”

He shrugged. “You’re always wearin’ somethin’ short or shiny.”

“Because it makes me happy.” you said simply.

He blinked. Didn’t argue.

“I like dressing up,” you continued, gently. “Even now. Maybe especially now. I like being girly. I like being soft. I like feeling like myself, you know? It’s not… it’s not for anyone else. I just wanna bring light into the world. ’Cause if I don’t, who will?”

Daryl looked down at the cigarette between his fingers, then out across the empty street. His voice was quiet.

“Yeah… I like it.”

You turned your head so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash.

“Wait—what?!”

“I said I like it,” he muttered.

Your eyes lit up.

“I knew it,” you grinned, jabbing him in the arm. “I KNEW it. I KNEW it, I KNEW it, I knew it!”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, shaking his head, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

“The whole reason I brought it up was to get it out of you,” you said triumphantly, “because I KNEW you liked my skirts and my lip gloss and my cute little outfits and—”

He groaned and dropped his head back. “Shoulda never said nothin’.”

“But you did!”

“Regretin’ it.”

“You do like me!”

He made a strangled noise, but didn’t deny it.

You scooted closer, your shoulder brushing his. The porch light caught the shimmer of your lip gloss when you smiled.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me be soft around you.”

Daryl glanced at you, eyes a little softer now. “Ain’t lettin’ you. Just like that you are.”

Your heart fluttered so hard it almost hurt.

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

And for once, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just let you stay there.

⸻

a/n okay guys i’m working on all the requests right now please bare with me :3

#daryl dixon #the walking dead #twd daryl #daryl dixon imagines #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x reader #norman reedus #norman reedus x reader #twd fanfiction

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haeryna · 1 year ago

Text

thinking about idol!gojo and rockstar!geto (tw: mentions of underage drinking, implied abandonment, implied homophobia from gojo's parents, vague mentions of illness)

how you three, along with shoko, lived in the same ratty small town in the middle of nowhere. you'd moved when you were six, all shy and scared of the house your parents had moved to in order to help your sick grandmother that you barely remembered because the last time you'd seen her was when you were four. you were from the city; you'd never seen fireflies, or grass that stretched out as far as your eyes could see, and so when you saw the first firefly appear just as the sky turned to dusk, how were you supposed to resist it?

so you chased it down to the creek, all smiles and filled with excitement, until you realized it was dark, and you were in the forest, and you were scared. you couldn't help but start to cry, and that's where geto found you.

"are you lost?"

sniffling, you peered up at the dark haired boy, whose soft brown eyes filled with a sort of concern. "y-yeah," you hiccupped, and geto offers up a gentle smile. "it's okay, i know the way back."

and so, you'd taken his hand, let him tug you out of the creek bed, and lead you back toward the house that still didn't quite feel like home. you'd learn, his name was suguru. suguru geto, and wherever suguru geto was, satoru gojo was never too far behind (although you didn't know that, yet).

"you crying?"

you'd let out a startled yelp, still clinging to suguru's hand, twisting to look at the other boy who was staring at you with unrestrained curiosity. even at the age of six, you found him beautiful, with the piercing blue of his eyes, and the soft white down of his hair, even as he mocked you. satoru hadn't known how else to express the sort of silent jealousy that had torn its way through his chest once he saw you holding suguru's hand.

the two of you bickered, all the way back until they left you at your front door, much to suguru's displeasure. yet satoru was beaming; nobody but suguru and shoko dared to speak to him that way. he was too young to understand the way his heart seemed to churn every moment he saw you after .

later, you would meet shoko ieiri, who instantly took a liking to you, defending you with the stubbornness of an older sister you never had.

later, you would realize just how beautiful suguru and satoru were, as they grew. you were the one who pierced suguru's ears (a decision made at 1am in his basement), who bought satoru his first eyeshadow palette (his parents would have died if they'd ever see him use it). and it was eventually you who brought them into music, as you stared up at the ceiling of suguru's basement. the lights grew hazy as you blinked up at them, empty bottles of stolen beer surround you. suguru and shoko were busy smoking a pack of (also stolen) cigarettes, and satoru was on his phone.

"what if we like. made a band?"

you were only 16, and dreamed of leaving the small town you'd moved to. the temporary stay had turned permanent after your grandmother had inevitably passed. shoko immediately snorted. "i love you, but i can't sing for shit."

but you were persistent. you thrifted an old guitar that you gave to suguru as a birthday present, encouraged satoru's angelic singing.

you should have known they would outgrow you.

you're 21 now, still living in the old house, taking care of your parents. the dreams you'd had years ago turned into ash in your mouth. even shoko had left, off to pursue medical school.

you can't stomach looking at the news anymore. satoru has broken into the idol industry, creating equal amounts of chart toppers and scandals. an idol like that only comes once every one hundred years, they say. with the way he moves, the way he acts, you're inclined to believe it.

(when you watch him for the first time, on some variety show, you see him, see the way they've done his makeup, and you're brought back to sitting on the couch, telling him to stop moving or he'll mess up the eyeshadow you attempting to apply. you wonder if his parents were furious at the decision. you wonder where the eyeshadow palette you gave him went. did he take it with him before he left for good? bile rises heavy in your throat, and you shut off the television, unable to stomach it any longer.)

the radio is equally as traitorous. you know suguru has been dominating the indie charts, to the point where it's simply suguru and satoru competing against each other. you hate how whenever you go to the local bakery, you can hear his voice again playing through the speakers. hate how when you make the long drive to pick up your parents' medicine, how you can hear him through your car's speakers. it feels intimate in a way that you cannot bear.

(still, you hear the guitar and remember the look in his eyes when you gifted him the one you'd found in the thrift store. suguru had treated it reverently, telling you with an earnest sort of smile that, "the first song i write will be for you." he's traded out acoustics for rock. he has no need for that guitar anymore, you think absentmindedly. just like he no longer needed you.)

but what you don't know is that every time satoru's makeup artist gets to his eyes, he has to keep them firmly shut or else he'd burst into tears. she didn't do it like you. she never would. every time he steps onto the stage, he looks for you, though he knows he'll never find you. it never stops him from looking. how he sings his heart out in the hopes you'll hear him, unaware that despite his popularity, you avoid his music like it's deadly.

what you don't know is that every time suguru writes, he realizes how he lied to you. "the first song i'll write will be for you," he remembers, and yet now every song he writes is about you. now, girls he doesn't even know, screams his name, screams along to his songs that he wrote for you. they pretend that they're the girl who was left behind, the girl that he's never stopped loving.

(he'll never forget the way your hand fit into his, how even at the age of six he knew that you were the only one who ever had his heart along with satoru)

how on days he misses you particularly badly, the piercings you'd given him burns. he writes his love into his music, the music that you shut off every time you hear it come on the radio.

it changes nothing, if they come back, you tell yourself. suguru and satoru have each other. they don't need you.

but one day they do come back, come back for you, and it changes everything.

#haerinwrites #satosugu x reader #suguru geto x reader #satoru gojo x reader #jjk angst #jjk x reader #satosugu #suguru x reader #geto x reader #satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #you cannot tell me gojo would not be a kpop idol he is so bbygirl #i need indie singer geto so bad. not want. need.

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alexa-yukiyu · 10 months ago

Note

Could i please request a fem!child!reader who's picked up swearing with the whitebeard pirates?

Reader sorta knows what it means but also doesn't,

Also flips people off mid convo, (doesn't know what means but thinks it's funny.)

And when she gets angry/annoyed she is kinda a savage, like I can imagine reader with ace (and any other characters) then a group of pirates starts threatening them but reader is just going ham with the insults.

Puppy Escapes ( Shanks x gn!reader x Whitebeard pirates)

Part 1 ( Can also be read as a stand alone)

A/N I am combining these two requests, I kinda change some buts since I would be crushed if Dokucha actually rejected their families love so they came back with something else knstead! Iy’all seemef to like the first one so hopefully you like this one to, I think I COOKED just like Shanks is gonna be COOKED 😂

Reader here is replaced by Dokucha which stands for reader in japanese

Dividers by @/drink the sky and @/firefly-graphics

Shanks stared owlishly at the child before them, having just found them in one of the many crow-nests that composed the Red force.

"Boss, what is it?" he heard Lucky call from the ship's Deck.

"My doom," he replied morbidly, fully jumping into the crow's nest and kneeling down next to the child who had the courtesy of at least looking remorseful.

"Dokuchaaaa," he called, stretching the last syllables of their name as they noticed them trying to avoid his stare.

The child, who by now had turned into a flustered mess, both at the fact that they had been busted and that they had gotten busted by the man with whom they were infatuated.

"What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see Mister Shanks again," they mutter.

Shanks lets out a huff but cannot help to give the child a slight grin.

"Your brothers banned you from seeing me again?" he asked, letting out a small laugh as they nodded sadly.

"You know they really won't be happy with this."

"I don't care! Big brothers were being meanies! I just wanted to see Mister Shanks, but they won't let me! I hate them!" they exclaimed

"Come on, Dokucha, I know you don't mean that, do ya?"

"No... I don't," they sniffled.

"It's okay, I know you love your brothers; they love you too. They just worry for you."

"I love them b-but I also love Mister Shanks," they called as they burst into tears and ran towards the man.

"There, There, it's alright," he whispered as he patted the child's back, calming them down as he made his way down the crow's nest, the child held tightly in his hands.

"Come on now, why are you crying?"

"B-Because I said that I hated my brothers! I didn't mean it! I love them so much!" They sobbed

Shanks let a small snicker at their troubles as he continued to rub their back.

"They're gonna be mad at Mister Shanks now, and I won't be able to see you!"

"Already breaking hearts, boss?" Yassop merrily called, letting another belly laugh as his Captain just rolled his eyes at his statement

"Listen, Dokucha, don't worry about that. We will get something figured out, but for now, how about you enjoy your time here? What do you say? Want to be my assistant today?"

They rubbed their eyes furiously at their statement, trying to erase the remains of their previous outbursts, a few rogue sniffles still escaping them, much to their chagrin.

"I get to be Mister Shanks's Assistant?"

"Think you're up for it?" he questioned, lowering them to the floor and continuing to hold their hand.

"Yes, I'm up for anything that Mister Shanks asks of me!" They happily agreed

"Hear that, Beck? I got me an assistant, and they actually appreciate me."

Said man, rolled his eyes as he shook the ashes from the tip of his cigarette, bringing it back to his lips and glancing at the pair

"Better escape while you can; that one right there is a hassle. Too high-maintenance"

"Hah?!"

"Yes, But he's a handsome hassle!" Dokucha piped back with a grin as they hugged his much larger hand against their cheek.

"O-Oi, are you insulting me or complimenting me here?!" Shanks cried

"Now you've done it, Akagami!" Ace growls, jumping into the Red Force, followed promptly by Thatch once it had pulled closer to the Moby Dick

"I don't care if you're my brother's savior; you're not getting away with stealing my baby sibling!"

"Now, Now it was just a misunderstanding," He calls a laidback smile on his face as the young men stomp his way.

"Like hell it was!" Ace hollers, reeling a fire-filled fist.

"Brother Portgas D Ace!" Dokucha calls, halting the man on his step

"Oh, Looks like you're in trouble now," Shanks calls, covering his snickers with his hand as the child marched to the nervous fire user.

"Don't you dare hurt Mister Shanks!"

"Why not Dokucha?! This creep stole you from us," Thatch cried.

"Because you'll damage his pretty face!"

"That's the only reason?!" Shanks exclaimed mortified

"Of course not, Mister Shanks! it's because I love Mister Shanks!" They exclaimed, running his way and attaching themselves to his leg, much to the horror of the two commanders

"I'm not sure if that makes it better," he huffs out.

"Dokucha..." Thatch cries, falling on his knees as tears begin to fall down his face comically

"I think this time my heart is really broken," he sobs.

"Hey, Dokucha, I will see you later, okay? It's time to go back now," he murmurs as he kneels beside the kid.

" B-But I don't want to leave Mister Shanks," They cried, their tiny hands clenching into fists as small tears began to pool at the edge of their eyes.

"I will see you again, okay? I think your brothers really need you now."

"They need me?" they questioned, glancing at the irate Ace and a still knelt Thatch.

"Of course, they need someone to keep them in line, think you can do that? It's your next task as my assistant."

"Leave it to me, Mister Shanks!" they exclaimed, wiping off their tears as a determined look appeared on their face.

"Atta Kid," He cheered, rubbing their head.

"I will see you soon, okay?"

"Like We will let that fucking happen" Thach growls pulling out his swords

"Alright, enough of this," A voice cuts in

"Akagami, please return our sibling to us, Ace; Thatch, we're done here," Marco orders as he lands on the ship's bow, causing the Red Force to sink slightly, bouncing back to the waves as it tried to withstand the sudden arrival.

"Ah, Marco, it's not too late, you know; how about you join me and bring your sibling with you."

"Screw off, Red-haired," he answered scowling as the Captain just sent a grin his way, giving his last goodbyes to the small kid as they ran to the Chef, who hugged them tightly, rubbing their cheeks together ask he continued repeating how much they missed them as he made his way back to their galleon.

"You are grounded."

"But Papaw!" they whine, looking up at the old giant.

"Not buts. You are grounded for a week, and that is final. For the following week, you will be accompanied by either me or one of your brothers at all times."

"But that's so fucking unfair!"

"..."

"MY BABY, they tainted you!!" Thatch cried, shaking the child with tears cascading down his face

"Brother Thatch?" they question, confused, their mind becoming dizzy at the motion.

"Stop it, you idiot," Marco called, hitting the back of Thatc's head, causing the latter to release Dokucha only to turn to him with a scowl.

"Damn you, Marco! Let me lament myself; they have tarnished their pure heart," he cried, throwing himself on the ground once again.

"...I'm going to kill him. I am going to roast him alive and give the fishes a barbecued meal of a lifetime," Ace growled.

"What the hell is going on?" Dokucha cried.

"Dokucha, stop," Marco called a stern tone in his voice.

"You brat, where did you learn those words from? Was it from Akagami's crew?"

"Ah? I heard Mister Shanks say those words-

"Ace. Let's prepare for that barbecue. I will have them fillet for this," The Chef murmured, a dark aura surrounding him.

"But since Big Brothers say them a lot, I thought it was okay..."

"..."

"Dokucha, who exactly did you hear say those words?" Whitebeard asked, a glare in his eye as he questioned them

"Big brother Thatch and Big brother Ace!" they cheered.

"..."

"Dokucha. Will you go find Vista for now? Do not leave his side; you are still grounded, Marco called, watching as they stomped off with a pout on their face.

"Assholes," They mutter.

"Keep it up. You just earned another week of being grounded," Marco called.

"But Brother Marco, I don't know what words I can't say!"

"We will continue this discussion later. For now, if you don't know what it means, then you don't say it understood."

"Okay.." they mutter, walking away to find the swordsman.

"Marco, make sure you have the clinic ready," Whitebeard called as he glared down the two wide-eyed and sweating commanders.

"Will do pops."

"Ah-wait..wait a second Pops-

That day screaming and pleas for mercy from the two commanders reverberated across the sea, reaching the ears of the Red Force vessel as they departed from the Moby Dick's location.

"Hmm, looks like that old man found out who was responsible for the child's colorful language," hums Shanks as he leans back on the chair he laid on, downing a cup of sake as he did.

Here we go! Guess Shanks is not the only one getting Cooked! Good thing they have a express healer on watch! Thatch and Ace will definitely need them!

Taglist:

@Imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

@h0n3y-l3m0n05

535 notes · View notes

pedrosyouknowwhat · 3 months ago

Text

Catching fireflies

Trilogy masterlist

Pairings: Dark! Joel Miller x Fem! Reader

Chapter warnings: Dead dove do not eat, dubcon borders noncon, coercion, manipulation, age gap (reader is 19-20 and Joel is 56), unprotected p in v, alcohol consumption, pussy slapping, mention of blood, virginity loss, creampie, inexperienced reader

You slouched over the bar, giggled resonating with the loud, thumping music.

"Aw come on Jerry, you know me since I was a kid!" You pushed, fingers brushing against the worn wood, sticky with years of spilled whiskey; the old bartender chuckle hoarsely. The banter was playful, a brief respite the people of Jackson allowed themselves in the ruckus of the Apocalypse, some glee.

"The world may be fucked up, but you are still underage." He answered, cheeks tinted both from the laughing and the unforgiving summer heat.

Another drunken citizen chirped in, telling the man to give you a drink. Although you knew his intentions were far from kind, you allowed him to fuel the laughter. You hid your uneasiness deep down as you tugged your flowy skirt down your thighs.

The door bell clinked open, but before you could turn around and see, a cup of lemonade was placed in front of you. You inspected the drink with feigned offense.

"Come on Jerry, just one beer." You pleaded, doing your best puppy dog eyes.

"You want Maria to kill me?" He excused, and you rolled your eyes at the excuse you have heard a thousand times.

Like when you asked a boy to be your boyfriend, or when you ask for Tommy to bring you a pretty dress. It all resorted to your mother, well adopted mother; she had taken care of you after your mother died in the outbreak, but it also meant the community held you as some kind of baby Jesus. Always no, always strict.

"Well, Maria can't kill me." You heard a deep seated, growly chuckle behind you, and you peeked over your shoulder.

A man with dark pepper and salt hair, broad shoulder and big, brown eyes. He held a smirk, adorned by a thick, well trimmed, beard that matched his hair. It clicked a tad too late, the resemblance.

"Joel Miller, what are you doing here?" Jerry greeted with a laugh, making the man's gaze lift from you.

"Decided to stick to one place at a time." He explained, nearing the counter. He nudged towards you with his head. "Give her something, on my tab, come on."

Jerry's smile turn into a scowl as he added cheap vodka to your lemonade, and you squealed in excitement, muttering a chant of thank you's to him. You almost forgot about Joel beside you as you sipped the straw.

"So you are, Maria's girl?" He asked, and your eyes shot to him, as a child caught stealing candy.

"Well yes," you sputtered. "Adopted." You added, but it felt weird to clarify.

"Well I'm lucky you are not my niece."

You giggled slightly, was that a compliment?

"Or else you wouldn't be buying me drinks?" you said, and it came out flirtier than you thought. He hummed in response, and the way his shoulders rose sent a tingle through your body.

He's like twice my age. You thought, and that was enough to slip you right out of your giddy trance. You started thinking of excuses to ditch him and head back to your friends, fumbling with the fear of coming off as rude. But the way his eyes lingered on your white lacey dress beneath the thick denim jacket made you unease.

He asked Jerry for a beer, turning to you with a sip. "Wanna go outside?"

Your lips fell apart but words didn't spill, and you head just nodded. Okay, I'll go outside and then tell him I need to go back to my friends. But as you felt lingering stares into the summer night, Joel maimed you with conversation.

He was intriguing to say the least, speaking in short, concise sentences that kept stringing questions into your mind. He spread against a bench as you sat on the edge of the seat, interrogating him in his many adventures.

"There are some things a young thing like you can't hear." He excused, lighting a cigarette between his thick chapped lips. You whined, catching his attention.

Soon enough you were laying your head on your hand against the bench, eyes fluttering as you mustered to keep asking him, keep him talking. His accent was thick, similar to Tommy's.

"Someone's getting tired?" You heard once your eyes were shut, you hummed in response. "Let me take you home."

You questioned if Maria or Tommy would get mad as you walked up the cobblestone, then you laughed at yourself. It was Tommy's brother, the one you have heard stories almost all your life, although having met him randomly, you doubted they'll get mad if they saw him walking you up to your door.

Still, you peeked to the house beside you, checking that the lights were off before turning to face him.

"Well thank you, Joel?" You smiled curtly, waiting for him to leave before opening the door.

"Nice thing you got here, gonna let me in?"

The question felt weird, suggestive.

"You need something?" You asked, a bit more abruptly than you wanted it to come off, but tiredness seeped into you.

Joel blinked, his brows drawing together. "I must be doin’ somethin’ wrong. Pretty girls usually don’t leave me out in the cold." He explained, perhaps way to bitterly. You feel your cheeks warm up as you look around, seeing no one. "but I guess you are too young for that, right?"

You felt yourself cringe at how dumb you felt, young felt almost like an insult. Your gaze fell to your feet, seeing his rugged leather boots.

"it's okay baby," He sighed, and the word slipped out of his tongue effortlessly. "everyone got a first time."

The slight relief that had washed over you dissipated, as if burnt by the heat of his gaze, and everything that had been told of men poured into your mind.

"I-I am not that type of girl." You spluttered, and instantly cursed to yourself.

Joel sniggered, and you felt small in front of his thick, broad body. damn, you had to crane your neck to look at his face.

"Oh I know baby," He drawled, and his hand slowly came up to your face, tucking a strand behind your ear. The word rolled out, sending shivers down your spine. "Just wanted to know you got onto bed safely, and you don't, you know, sleep in the couch- you look so tired."

You nodded, biting your lip. Hastily, you opened the door and turn on the lights. It was pretty small, but it worked; Tommy and Maria wanted you to have your own house, being perhaps to crowded in theirs, but they still wanted to keep you close.

"There's juice on the fridge," You offered timidly, looking how his big figure looked almost comical in your house. "I'm going to change, um, I think I'm good now."

He didn't answer, boots thumping against the floor boards as he observed the pictures over the fireplace. You shrugged to yourself, slipping into your bedroom.

You wondered if he was still there as you changed into your pijama set, something that was sewn for you by Maria, and layered a hoodie on top to check is he was still there.

To no one's surprise, he was, leaning over the wall as is waiting for you.

"I'm going to sleep now," You laugh dryly, pointing to your bedroom as if clarifying you weren't sleeping on the couch.

He looked pretty, and you felt weird for thinking that of a man so much older. He stalled, looking at your for a bit longer.

"Come here," He commanded, and you felt yourself freeze. he saw you, your doe eyed look as you stared at him, pleadingly. "come here baby, I don't bite."

He's Tommy's brother, I know Tommy since I was ten, come on.

You walked over to him, bare feet almost tripping over each other. You stopped a feet away from him, looking expectantly. He rose from the wall, closing the distance between the two of you.

"You are a pretty girl, you know that right?" He told you, and you felt yourself blush as you nodded, weakly. "words, baby."

"Yes, Joel." You answered; a smile tugged once again at his lips, pleased.

"And I'm telling you this for you to take care of yourself, okay?"

You repeated the answer, seeing his chest slightly swell at your obedience.

"You can't let men enter your house like this." He explained, and your brows knitted together in confusion. "They can get... wrong ideas, alright baby?"

"I'm sorry." You said, although you weren't; you were confused.

"Sweet innocent thing," He drawled, and his hand rose to cradle your cheek, forcing you to look into his deep, dark eyes. They looked almost black in the dim lighting. "Have you ever had your first kiss?"

The question struck you, and you felt shame; his touch felt deceiving. As if he was mocking. You shook your head, and he tutted.

"No, Joel." You mumbled, questioning why you kept repeating his name after each answer.

His smile turn into a grin, hand now cupping your jaw.

"Gonna help you with that, just so you-wake up, a bit-darling, alright?"

Before you could even wonder what he meant, his grip became tighter as he pulled you closer, lips clashing into yours. You gasped, and he slipped his tongue into your mouth, as if searching for yours. His free hand coiled around your waist, pushing you closer and your hands felt onto his chest. His finger trailed closer to your neck, keeping you in place as he ravaged your mouth.

He let go, leaving your breathless, chest heaving as you gazed up to him in shock. His mouth was twisted into a hungry snarl as he came down to whisper in your ear. "Don't tell them about this, baby."

You woke up the next day believing it was a dream, a twisted and weird dream or perhaps that one glass you had drunk, but when Maria told you to come over for dinner, to celebrate Joel's welcome into the community, and you felt his piercing stare on yours, you knew you hadn't dreamed it. You were quiet at dinner, letting them speak and catch up; Joel was more talkative than you remembered.

You wanted to isolate the incident at your house, to think it was just him genuinely teaching you something, but a fire rose through you each time you were captive to those big, puppy dog eyes. You hadn't kiss anyone since him, and the feeling lingered in your lips. You found yourself thinking about him, about his thick body.

He wasn't teasing as usual around the others, perhaps grumpier with them. He flashed you small smiles and pats in the back, and he supplied all your drinks from the bar, telling you to "go get lost kid" each time he saw you begging by the counter. His change of demeanor made you wonder, if you weren't good enough or mature enough; you had never thought that, not until Joel Miller appeared in your life.

The doubt had crept over you for too long before you gathered your bravery and decided to sneak out to see him; his house stayed on the farther side of town, the one were less people were around. You slipped through back yards and trees the way day, questioning what exactly you were planning until you came face to face with him, sitting in his porch with a guitar on his hand.

"Hi." You greeted, breathless.

"Baby, what are you doing here?" He asked, and hearing the nickname once again made you gush. He looked around, perhaps worried, as he beckoned you to come closer.

"I-I wanted to see you." You confessed, shamefully, and before you sat down he stood up, nudging to the house.

"Come in, can't have you out here."

You followed him inside, jumping when he neared you as soon as the door slam shut. His hands made their way to your hips, impatiently; you got whiff of his cologne, leather and eucalyptus. You wide-eyedly looked up at him, hands pressing into his flannel. You liked his hair that way, slicked back, fresh from the shower.

"Why did you kiss me the other night?" You muttered.

You saw him hesitate with words, struggle, bite his lip as if he was trying to keep his words in. You suddenly felt overly conscious of the way your jacket draped over your body, of the way your jean shorts clung around your thighs and the low cut of your tank top; perhaps you didn't look as good as you expected.

"Baby, don't do this to me." He pleaded, although it sounder more like a demand.

"Please." You begged, fingers latching on tighter.

"It's wrong baby, so wrong." he growled, eyes dipping to your lips. You almost whined at the tone.

Your head cocked to the side, tears brimming in your eyes; what was wrong with you? He just kissed you.

"But why?" You whined; his grip tightened around you.

"Tommy would kill me." He grunted, head turning to look around, evading your eyes, evading you; still his grip persisted, as if holding you in place. "If he found out that- that I like you this much-"

"You like me?" You implore, lips tugging into a small, goofy smile.

He looked at you like a man starved, a man punished. "Oh baby," He panted, pressing your body to his. "I really like you, but Tommy would-"

Each time he repeated his name it irked you, like a scratched record. You cut him short. "Tommy won't know."

His tortured eyes soften, a glint of... hope? ignited. You battled the guilt setting in the back of your brain, the promise you had made despite everything Tommy and Maria had given you.

"You wouldn't tell him?" He questioned, voice as soft as silk.

"No," You spoke quickly, scared he might slip from your grasp. "I-I like you too, Joel."

He let out a small chuckle, and you felt lighter. You allowed yourself to chuckle too, and he called your name softly, you hummed in response.

"No one can know baby, alright?" He told you, hand cupping your cheek. You wanted to savor the tenderness of the moment, but his lips were on yours quickly.

It wasn't your first kiss now, and it was frankly more expected than the other; you attempted to keep up with his demanding pace, lips barely parting to allow his tongue to slip in and taste you. His mouth "o"ed against yours, hungrily as your felt his grip on the nape of your neck.

Suddenly his body was pushing you, your feet stumbling as he guided you. Against a wall? the table? your mind buzzed, attempting to find an answer to what he was doing before your knees buckled into the couch, the stripey green fabric cushioning your fall.

His body fell onto you, settling his thick torso between your legs as he pulled away briefly; his hair had messed up a bit, his lips pink from his assault, and his eyes furrowed like some animal; everything about his gaze felt predatory.

He fixed himself in his forearms, rubbing the zipper of his dark jeans into your clothed core, sending a gaspy whine out of you.

"J-Joel?" You muttered as his face hid in the crook of your neck, placing open-mouthed kisses against your blazing skin. He grunted in response, a paw sliding up your thighs; panic brewed in you. "Joel I don't-um-"

He unslotted himself from you, face mere inches away as he looked at you. Joel looked angry, but he couldn't possibly be, right?

"I'm not ready for that." You admitted, like a sinner repenting.

His gaze left you, looking at the empty table, huffing. You felt tears kiss the brim of your eyes, scared to have offended him once again.

"It's fine baby," He grunted, but it felt like it wasn't. He slightly shifted, inches away from you.

"I'm sorry," You choked, doubting to confess further. "I have never done t-that."

You caught his gaze, a small grin on his lips. "It's fine baby," He repeated, and his eyes lighted a bit. "just promise me somethin', alright?"

"Yes, yes." You nodded, fearing he was going to ask you something you won't like. Like forgetting him.

"Promise me I'll be your first."

A month had passed since you sealed your fate, like some sacrificial lamb. You felt as if you were being prepared for it too, Joel slipping into your home late at night, after a long day of practically ignoring you, and kissing your breathless against your walls, your couch and your bed. His hand had wondered over your clothed core a handful of times, hushing your worry by telling you he "Just wanted to see something".

An event that burn into your mind was one night where he was particularly agitated, grasping you roughly as usual. As his hips rutted into the mattress, he whispered something into your ear that sent shivers down your spine.

"Let me see her." He panted, seeing how your eyes narrowed as if you were wincing in doubt. "Please, baby."

His pleads were answered with a small nod that could be mistaken as anything else; you allowed him to bend you over the bed, as you allowed him to touch in places Maria had told you not to allow anyone to touch you. His calloused finger tips pulled down your pijama pants along with your white, sodden panties.

"For a girl that tells me she isn't ready, you are soaking wet baby." He commented, hand splaying in your ass. You felt your core clench at his words.

The light buzz of the zipper woke you up from your trance, and his name bubbled in your throat. "Relax baby, ain't gonna put it in."

You felt the wooden frame of the bed dig at your hips as the dim moonlight casted shadows around the room. You waited, silently, until you heard low, familiar groans behind you. You didn't want to look behind your back, his tightening grip on your ass sending cold sweet along your skin.

His grunts were vivid in your ear against the silence of the night, and you closed your eyes until it was over, despite not knowing for how long he could go. You were on the edge of falling asleep, the only thing keeping you away was the burning pinch on your skin. He became louder, you begged he would just shut up. Something ran across your mind, if it was even appropriate to ask him when was it over.

As a horrible wish you felt hot ropes lather against your backside, slipping through crevices, leaving a sticky trail. He let go of you, panting as his knees cracked, floorboards accompanying the sound.

You didn't want to move, in fear that his waste would dirty things up. You failed to hear him leave and come back, the cooling sensation of a wet rag cleaning the flaky stickiness on your skin being a strange delight.

"You are so good for me, baby." He praised, and your heart swelled. You flashed him a small smile as the waistband snapped back in place. "Gonna take you to a date tomorrow, you'd like that baby?"

You spent every waking hour thinking about that; he told Tommy he needed help running some errands, a bit of hunting here and there, something like that. You were almost sure Tommy only said yes because of how your face lit up at the mention of leaving the fortress of Jackson for a few hours.

A gentle breeze stroked your cheek, warmed by the setting sand as Joel took your delicate hands in his tanned, calloused ones. His figure was darkened by the rays that blinded you. Your cow girl boots padded on the uneasy ground, long grass stroking your legs as the cherry print sundress flowed.

"Where are you taking me, Mr Miller?" You asked with a sly chuckle, slightly unsettled by the normalcy of it all; it felt almost like before the outbreak. The nickname rolled down your tongue teasingly.

"Just a date," He answered shortly, leading you into a emptier valley. You gasped at the sight. "over here."

Sure, the blanket was the usual he kept at the back of his truck, and there wasn't a champagne bottle, or flowers or food, just a half empty bottle of whiskey. But the effort overwhelmed you.

You had expected more when he told you to wait in the car, but it was enough to make you jump into his thick arms.

"Oh thank you," You almost sobbed, chest heaving. You separated yourself to look into his eyes, but the dark browns skimmed down your neckline as he stepped back into the blanket. "You are so sweet, I-"

He landed with a slight thud into the ruddy blanket, and pulled you on top of him.

"Anything for my baby." he mumbled, propping you on top of him. A hand tangling into your hair as he pushed your lips into his, tongue slipping into your mouth as he grabbed a fistful of your ass. You yelped, pulling away.

His expression soured, eyebrows knitting together as you let out a slight giggle, attempting to dissipate the tension.

"Are we going to watch the sunset?" You asked eagerly as you slipped out of his lap, and he fisted the whiskey bottle. Haphazardly, he opened it and took a swig before nudging it into your arm. "Oh, I have never drank whiskey-"

"Come on baby, it won't kill you." He cut you short. You allowed it to burn it's way into you, perhaps scared of displeasing him.

Soon you were even more giggly as you draped yourself over the blanket. Joel's scowl had dissipated, and he was once again singing sweet things into your ear.

"You are so pretty," He mumbled against your neck, placing tender, testing kisses. "Such a pity you are so young."

You grunted at his words, playfully glaring at him. "What do you mean?"

Because what could he mean? You were basically dating, if you knew anything about that; he took you on dates away from Jackson, preaching about privacy, and he visited you late at night, through the backdoor.

He let out a dry laugh as he took one glance into the sky, now painted a light blue as the sun cast it's last goodbyes. You propped yourself in your elbows, getting a better look on his pepper and salt hair and thick beard.

"You are too young for me," he repeated, and you felt nervous by the way he evaded your eyes. "too innocent-"

"I'm not innocent." You almost barked, hand slapping against your lips as you realized how quickly you had said it. "I mean-I don't see how that is a problem."

He finally looked at you with a down turned smile, as if assessing you.

"Come on baby," He nagged, stroking your cheek. "a man like me has, I don't know how to say this, but needs."

You knew what he meant, and it scared you. He had tried a month ago, when you have started dating, and you panicked. He had taken you home for the bar, and perhaps you understood it; that was what people usually do, at least he had told you that. And he was respectful about it too, any time his hand would slip up your thigh, you just had to give him a tight lipped smile for him to stop.

But he was right. Men had needs. Everyone told you about it, most of the time it was a warning, to not be so naive, because men could do and would do bad things to you, just because of these needs.

But Joel wasn't like those men, he was good, he was nice, he even brought you gifts every time he went out for munitions, like what looked like really expensive underwear.

"I know," You spoke slowly, slurred by the amount of whiskey you had taken. "I-I can do it."

A smile appeared on his lips, and once again he looked so sweet when happy.

"You sure baby?" He asked, but his body was already falling on top of yours. The rough fabric of his jeans slide through your thighs, and you felt his zipper line up against your core. "You'll make me the happiest man alive."

It felt sudden, but you had literally told him you were willing to do it, you thought.

He had jumped over you like a coyote over his pray, placing open mouthed kisses over you as his hand palmed over you. He pulled your panties to the side, fingers playing with the slickness you had deprived him off for so long.

His finger prints traced over your fleshy bit, the button that stood at the top of your slit, the one that throbbed when he pressed himself to you. You whined, his ministrations a bit too rough, too intense as you felt as if you were being electrocuted.

You gasped when his thick finger broke into you, a sting following its path. "So tight baby," He mumbled by your shoulder, your eyelids shooting close in pain. "have to open you up for my cock."

The way he said it made you felt even more dirty, but he was he one staining you, and if he liked it that much, it couldn't be so bad, right?

His wet finger left your cunt to fiddle with his belt, you heard the clunk zip sounds along his grunts as he lowered his jeans.

"Take a look baby," He called, and you slowly peeked your eyes opened to look between his legs.

In his hand he held his cock. It's red hot tip weep sadly, veins decorating its side; it was longer than his fist, and thicker than any vegetable you have seen around. A weird comparison, but it was all you thought at the moment.

You head begun to shake, eyes shooting pleadingly at him. "Joel, it's not gonna- is it even gonna fit?"

He chuckled, proudly, as his hand continued to pump precum around it. "It's supposed to baby, your body is made for that."

You nodded, biting your lower lip; he knew better than you. You felt the urge to ask him if he had done this before, but it was probably stupid.

"Lay down baby," He ordered, and you slowly plopped back onto your back. "Spread this legs nice and wide for me."

He saw you doubt, so he forced his body between them, hands at your knees. He laughed about something, looking down between your bodies. You felt the hot tip heavy against you, against the opening. Your hands clenched the blanket beneath you, knuckles turning white, and he pushed in.

Pressure, pressure, pain.

You yelped painfully as you felt the intrusion, body jolting away on instinct. He tutted at you, hands gripping your hips tightly.

"Baby, now we gotta put it in again." He scolded, your head swag from side to side, scared of muttering the words. You fought against his grip. "Stay still."

He growled the last part, and your heart hammered against your chest. You felt searing pain once again, as he pushed in. Your lips parted and a hoarse scream came out, surprising you.

A hand that could break your neck slapped against it, keeping your head still. He met your terrified eyes, tears rolling down your temples form the pain.

"God baby you wanna get us killed?" He barked lowly. "It's going to hurt more if you keep squirming; gonna do this quickly, rip the bandage, alright baby? promise you'll like it afterwards."

He kept talking, but your mind went blank with white hot pain as you felt his hips flush against yours as the agony stilled for a second. It all came back, crushing you as you heard his deep seated moan, your thighs fought against it, shutting close against his torso.

"Take it," He groaned, unlike his usual sweet demeanor. "Take it like a good girl, my good girl."

His hand still clasped over your mouth, and through your blurry eyes you could see his face, hear him; he was happy, he liked it. The praise went straight to your cunt, allowing some ache to dull.

He was going at it for hours, the sun now long gone as all you could do was feel him; the drag of your cock in and out in quick hard motions, his wandering hands pulling down your dress to lick and suck at your neck. And you heard him too, his groans and grunts and the dirty words he shot at you, becoming dirtier and rougher with each thrust.

"Taking my cock so good, bad girl."

"Such a whore, fucking an old man like me, huh?"

"Stop fucking whining, you love it, little perfect slut."

It became too much, any pleasure his strokes could cause disappearing as he lifted your ass off the ground to fuck into you. You whined, feeling the pressure on your clit, a throbbing. A hand came down upon your sensitive skin, slapping there.

You chanted his name, feeling sweat bead against your skin as he gave you blow after blow, sending you clenching around his cock.

"Gonna cum around my cock, huh baby? as I'm slapping your little pussy?" He questioned, and you blabbered a yes.

His thumb begun revolving around your soft point, the rest of his hand pressing down on your abdomen. You allowed the foreign feeling to take over you as his cock thrust up into you, hitting a spongy spot that sent your back curling against the ground.

"J-joel!" You whined, shrieking as you came undone under him.

Any muscle that tensed came undone too, cramping against you as Joel picked up your thighs, pressing them against your chest as he gave precise fucks into you.

"Gonna cum inside of you," He growled. "Fill you nice and deep, baby."

His body weight fell on top of you, stretching your legs even further as you felt his cock twitch inside you. The wetness spilled further inside you, and you quietly listened to his staggered breaths as you came down from your high.

The blood hadn't dried off the blanket as he said it was getting late and walked you to the truck. You waddled, slight pain in your lower belly as you followed him.

"Wasn't that bad, right baby?" He asked you, the light of the truck illuminating his face in a warm glow. His hair was messy, damp with sweat, and he lit a cigarette between his lips.

"It was good." You smiled absentmindedly. "Thank you, Joel."

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