#every new chapter I mean to make this post

[linkspooky]

CHIHIRO IS NOT A HERO

So once again it's time to make a post where it seems like I'm hating on everyone's favorite character. Chihiro is a pretty unique main character, and unlike the main characters of most revenge centered storylines a lot of time goes to developing Chihiro's soft side. He spends the first arc trying to protect a child, in the auction arc he gives up the tool of his revenge to protect Hakuri and even goes out of his way to lecture Hakuri's father for abusing his son. There is a lot of humanity and depth to Chihiro's character and a lot of people use that to ignore the darker parts of his character.

At the same time Chihiro is a mass murderer with a body count in the hundreds at this point. One redditor has the count at about 203 people and it's probably only grown since then.

Chihiro slaughters people en masse without the slightest hint of hesitation or remorse. They're all crimminals yes, low level mooks for the Samura organization or servants of the Sazanami family or whoever Chihiro is fighting this week but that's still 200 human lives. And I'm pretty sure not every single one of the people Chihiro killed kicked puppies every single morning, drank, then went home to beat their wives and children.

Over two hundred people who could have turned a new leaf and done some good for the world if they had lived, who probably had family members or loved ones are all dead and the only reason that we don't really feel this number is the story never really stops to dwell on them. Imagine if Chihiro beheaded one of these guys and then it launched into a five chapter flashback about how this man was just hard on money because he went through so much misfortune in life and he needed money to pay for his wife's cancer treatments, and then in the last chapter of the flashback as the man dies it cuts to the doctor pulling the plug and letting the man's wife die because he wasn't there to make the payment.

If we got to see the story from any of the hundreds of faceless people that Chihiro killed, then Chihiro would kind of come off looking like an asshole but we don't really see that because the story is mostly centered on Chihiro. This is what I mean when I use the term "Protagonist-centered Morality", it's always good to try to pay attention to the way that the story uses framing to support or question the protagonist's actions.

One of the first secnes in Kill Bill is the Bride killing a little girl's mother in front of her, as revenge for what the mother Copperhead did to her years ago. If the story were told from the point of view of the little girl rather than the Bride, the daughter wouldn't care about the Bride's motivation she'd only be focused on avenging the death of her mother. The same way that the Bride can't see that she is actively creating a new victim by depriving a child of a mother, to pursue her own path of revenge.

"Protagonist-Centered Morality" is a term I use when a story wants us not to question the morals of a protagonist, so they tend to cheat using perspective or framing to make it so the protagonist is always in the right. In the example above, you don't really question the Bride's action of killing Coppheread because her daughter never shows up again.

However, I think Kagurabachi is aware of protagonist centered morality and has been trying to subvert it from the get go. The narrative is just attempting to use subtler methods to call out the fact that Chihiro's revenge is not moral or just, and also is incredibly short sighted.

This begins even in the first arc of the story, where Chihiro is forced to acknowledge that while he believed his father created the enchanted blades as tools used to protect others, someone else could interpret those swords as just tools for death and destruction.

The fight ends with Chihiro being forced to agree with the remorseless killer that yes, these swords which Chihiro had always told himself his father created to protect others and defeat evil are ultimately just killing tools.

Chihiro has to accept a point of view that is contrary to his own, and has to conclude that their point of view is equally as valid because despite the fact that Chihiro personally knew his father and knew his father's intentions in creating the swords what he created were nonetheless weapons of mass destruction and it's easy to see how a complete outsider can only see these weapons as what they were created to be... you know... weapons.

Chihiro until this point didn't want to deal with the morality that if you are going to make a weapon, you usually intend for that weapon to be used to kill someone else. Which is something his father even tried to stress upon him up until he died.

The story doesn't have a problem with protagonist centered morality, in fact as I'm highlighting above the very first arc the story is asking the question "How are you any different from this remorseless mass murderer, huh Chihiro?" However, Chihiro himself suffers from a case of protagonist centered morality. Or you could call it egocentrism. Or just plain old fashioned self-righteousness.

Regardless, Chihiro despite being a character who exists in a morally gray place, killing hundreds of people to get his hands on the magical swords so they won't be used to hurt even more people - Chihiro himself has a very black and white sense of morality. In spite of the fact Chihiro is using these powerful swords to rip hundreds of people limb from limb in the most brutal fashion possible, he answers with a simple "These swords exist to defeat evil and protect the weak."

I will give credit never does Chihiro see himself as aligned on the side of good. From the first chapter onward he aligns himself on the side of the monsters, he is an insane person, he is an evil fighting a greater evil.

At no point does Chihiro ever claim that his actions are good, but he does think they are justified. Which are two different things. Chihiro is never on the side of angels, he says multiple times he believes he will be going to hell after all of this is done, however despite knowing what he is doing is wrong he can willfully justify all the people he has killed to himself. He believes deep down that his actions still fall in line with defeating evil, and protecting the weak.

The moments that Chihiro hesitates are when he is not able to see his enemies as an absolute evil to be slaughtered. Chihiro chides himself for feeling empathy for the other members of the Sazanami family and hesitating because he could understand how much they desired to live up to the expectations of their father.

This is a good thing, it's Chihiro's empathy that leads him to occasionally put his revenge aside to help people like the little girl in the first arc and Hakuri. It's this humanity that the story stresses over and over again that makes him a likable character, but for Chihiro seeing any humanity in his enemies is a problem because he needs to be able to do whatever is necessary in order to destroy evil.

Which means Chihiro can't fight unless he sees his enemy as an absolute evil that needs to be exterminated.

This is of course something which the story the story challenges Chihiro on in every successive arc, but it is also his central and most damning flaw. Chihiro narratives his pain in order to cope. He grew up on hearing the story of his father and the men who fought the war wielding the enchanted blades as heroes. He immortalizes his dead father in those stories.

This has led Chihiro to construct a story where he is the protagonist, fighting evil. He may not be the good guy, but the guys he is fighting are still an unquestionable evil that needs to be exterminated for the good of everyone. In spite of the fact that Chihiro is one mass murderer, hunting down other mass murderers Chihiro still tries to divide the world into good and evil, the innocent and the guilty. If he can justify what he's doing as fighting evil then he doesn't have to stop and question his own actions and keep following his revenge story right to the end.

There's a scene in the new Daredevil show where the Punisher, famed revenge based Marvel anti-hero is surprised that the cops are a huge fan of him and have started shooting performing executions of criminals in his name. Despite the fact that the Punisher's entire character and motive revolves around him dubbing himself judge, jury and executioner of whatever criminal he has decided to kill he is surprised that the cops would take after his example. That's basically Chihiro's entire character in a nut shell.

Chihiro does step by step accept other people's points of view even when they contradict with his own all the way from the first arc, but it also always ends with: "Yeah, but I'm gonna kill you anyway."

Even when Chihiro acknowledges the humanity of the people he's fighting against, the only way he knows how to deal with the situation is to cut them down with thicker bloodlust. There's no peaceful resolution or de-escalation in Chihiro's world, he is trying to break the cycle of violence with even more violence.

It reminds me of one of my quotes from Critical Role.

My friends, I have just taken an audience with the Raven Queen who has snuffed any hope of my redemption, for which I am truly grateful. With new clarity, I can finally see my life as a series of compounding, poor choices. There was nothing I could've done to save my family, yet I still sold my soul in search of vengeance. Later I allowed Ripley to leave, knowing full well she was a greater threat to the world than the Briarwoods would ever be. I traded the world's safety for the belief that I could murder my way to peace; that if I could be a greater horror, it would bring my family back. Once this lie was shattered I scrambled to find a solution, to make a deal, to undo my mistakes and balance the scales. I now understand that there are no scales, there is no redemption, and no ledger that judges me good or evil. I am free to simply be myself and live with the terrible mistakes I've made.

Chihiro believes the lie that he can murder his way to peace and mind, that if he can be a greater horror than the horror he's experienced then he can somehow right the wrong of his father's death.

Chihiro does entertain the idea that he is not much different than the enemies he's fighting over and over again, but he always falls back on a similiar justification.

Hiruhiko is the opposite of Chihiro in a way. Chihiro was raised by a loving father with stories of his father's heroism in order to give him ideals to aspire to. Hiruhiko is a child assassin, who committed his first murder at a young age raised with absolutely nothing else, just a tool who sees no meaning in life or death.

Yet, at the same time they are both children who's childhoods were taken away from them. They are children who were once innocent but have been now groomed into murderers. They are children who experienced a horrific violence at a young age that make it impossible for them to go back to a normal life. They are children who don't even know what it means to go to school, or to hang out with friends.

Hiruhiko can see this similarity between them while Chihiro doesn't, because again of the way they are inversions of one another. Hiruhiko has nothing, no ideals, no close friends, so he seeks them out. He wants friendship because he's never experienced that before in his life. He seeks out something other than death and destruction, connection with a human being even if he can only understand it through the lens of death because that's all he knows.

On the other hand Chihiro is someone how has friendship, and connections to other people, he has love in his life that he deliberately chooses to ignore in his pursuit of revenge. Chihiro has that love and throws it away because it makes him a better killer, and that is why they are opposites. We all make fun of the "every day I wake up with fresh hatred" quote, but that is literally what he is doing. Chihiro is deliberately stamping out any empathy he might feel for his enemies at every opportunity so he can continue cutting them up into hundreds of pieces.

It's all the more alarming because Chihiro is willing to amend his viewpoints. He is starting to question on some level that maybe the people he thought were heroes weren't heroes after all, and he is listening to Samura who says that no matter what his actions are he's going to hell because killing is an absolute wrong. In fact what he respects about Samura is that he was willing to go to hell in order to do the right thing and protect other people.

However, the point remains that Chihiro doesn't really know any way to peace other than slaughtering his enemies. The thought of de-escalation, or healing never even occurs to him. Even Chihiro's respect for Samura's resolve to go to hell for his sins ignores the fact that maybe Samura can be forgiven. Maybe he can turn over another leaf and work to right his wrongs rather than just going to hell forever and being tortured for his sins. Chihiro is so wrapped up in this narrative of justice and punishment for both himself and others he's completely forgotten that forgiveness and healing exists.

Even Chihiro's current stance that he knows that he is a bad guy and will be going to hell for his murders but he intends to take the rest of the bad guy's with him is incredibly toxic and paralleled by Samura himself.

Chihiro's morality is probably the closest to Samura's right now, the man willing to sacrifice both himself and the other sword wielders for the greater good of preventing another nuke from dropping. However, as righteous as Samura is he is also literally blind.

Samura's belief that if he kills all of the sword wielders and then dies himself, going to hell with the Hishaku will be the utlimate good he can achieve with his life ignores the feelings of his daughter. Samura walked all over his daughter's desire to stay with him, deliberately abandoning her and then erasing all memory that he ever existed from her.

It underlines what I'm trying to get at, there may be a certain amount of selflessness in Chihiro and Samura choosing to walk to hell in order to punish the evil of the world but there's no love or empathy on that path. If you choose the path of revenge, then there's no redemption for you or your enemy.

While Chihiro's line of thinking has progressed to Samura's thinking, that he is not a hero, that murder is evil and what he's ultimately doing is evil to serve a perceived greater good he still does not see any alternative pathway he could take besides walking the road to hell.

However, even if Chihiro and Samura were able to accomplish their goals and the only people they sacrificed in the end were themselves that still wouldn't be a good thing because you can't end the cycle of revenge with more revenge. That cycle is just going to keep cycling. You can't murder your way to peace.

This is shown to us in the horrible secret of the war that Samura was made aware of but Chihiro has not yet.

The the people who invaded japan weren't actually monsters to be eliminated but a nation full of people who surrendered, and who were then mass murdered after signing a peace treaty.

This is the extreme to where Samura and Chihiro's logic of becoming evil to fight evil leads. If there's no surrender no chance for a peaceful reconcilitation or an understanding of both sides, then the conflict is just going to keep escalating until one side completely wipes out the other.

And this is where I'm going to use my famous powers of clairyvoyance for a prediction.

This kid right here who's shown cowering in his mother's arms right before the peace treaties were signed. I am goign to bet that this kid is still alive and that he's actually Yura. The big twist we're going to build up to during the confrontation between Yura and Chihiro is that Yura is the last surviving member of that island nation that was wiped out, and his current plans are revenge for what happened to his people.

At that point whose revenge is right? Or maybe, just maybe... the point is revenge is never right.

[thesoftgirlguide]

A Guide To Guarding Your Mind 𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡

Protecting Your Energy from Outside Limiting Beliefs

Hey loves, it’s been a while…

Life got a little loud, and I had to take a step back to realign, recharge, and reconnect. But I missed you. And I’m so happy to say: we’re back to regular programming.

If you’ve been waiting for another chapter in A Soft Girl’s Guide to Life, thank you for your patience. Today’s post is one that I’ve been thinking about for a while now. So let’s get into it.

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ───

I always thought the hardest part of rejecting limiting beliefs was fighting the ones inside me. You know, those sneaky thoughts that try to convince you you’re not worthy of the life you want? But lately, I’ve been realizing there’s another layer no one really talks about. What do you do when the limiting beliefs are coming from someone and something else? And worse, when they’re being pushed on you?

Last week, I found myself in a conversation that honestly left me stunned. A coworker asked me what advice I’d give someone if their husband cheated. Without thinking twice, I said, “Leave. A cheating man is undeserving of her.”

Apparently, that was the wrong answer. He berated me, telling me that meant I was against love, that women should fight for their marriages, and that if it was “that easy” to walk away, then it clearly wasn’t love to begin with.

But I couldn’t help but ask: Why should the same love that didn’t stop him from cheating be the reason she has to fight? Why didn’t he fight his urges? Why is the burden always on women to forgive and “make it work?”

Another coworker—a woman this time—jumped in. She’s married. And she was so convinced that cheating is “normal.” She’s already accepted that she will never be “enough,” that at some point, her husband will get bored and go looking for whatever she lacks. And for some reason, she really thought I should adopt that same mindset.

She wasn’t just sharing her experience. She was trying to push her limiting beliefs onto me. She wanted me to settle for less because she already has.

⋆˚࿔ To you, dear reader 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Just because someone else has accepted a belief as truth doesn’t mean you have to. Not every opinion is meant for your spirit. Not every mindset belongs in your mind.

We talk a lot about mindset work as something that starts and ends within us. But let’s not forget, new beliefs are often born from what we allow ourselves to absorb. If someone keeps repeating that you’re not enough… that relationships must come with pain… that dreams are unrealistic… and you don’t actively reject it, those words start to take root.

This is how other people’s limiting beliefs slowly become your own.

And that’s why you have to be intentional. Intentional about what you accept. Intentional about the people you spend time with. Intentional about what conversations you allow to take up space in your day, and more importantly, your energy.

It’s okay to step away. It’s okay to go quiet in a room that no longer feels safe for your spirit. It’s okay to not explain yourself. You do not have to argue. You do not have to convince someone who’s already settled for less that more is possible.

Protecting your mind is part of manifestation.

You can’t build your dream life while entertaining voices that don’t believe it’s even possible.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

If you’ve ever felt like the only one refusing to settle… the only one protecting your peace… the only one rewriting what love, life, and worthiness look like—just know, you’re not alone anymore.

I created a community for women just like you: women who feel deeply, love intentionally, and are done letting the world harden them. Join us now.

[minniiaa]

Thank fucking god one piece tumblr is mostly a safe space because holy shit twitter is hell. These people bitching and moaning about Luffy laughing and being happy in G5 (AGAIN) saying it “ruins the story”

DO YOU MOTHERFUCKERS EVEN READ THE STORY? HE IS JOY. BOY. HE BRINGS JOY AND LAUGHTER TO THE PEOPLE THROUGH FREEDOM. DO YOU THINK HES JUST GONNA POP OFF ALL SERIOUS IN THIS FORM?

Luffy it at his freest in G5. He is overflowing with happiness as he uses his abilities to save and protect people. Why wouldn’t he be happy? We already had many arcs where Luffy was serious and even distraught when he couldn’t protect those he cared about. Those days are over and he now has the strength he always wanted. Let him be fucking happy. If you want to be miserable go read pre-TS and cry.

Now let’s be real. If you had all the powers in the world wouldn’t you do some wacky shit? I would be causing chaos and fucking around with anyone I could because it’s FUN. The Kaido fight had me smiling at my tv like a stupid idiot. I felt like I was a kid again watching Looney Tunes again (which I grew up on and loved dearly) Maybe these zoomer fucks have just never watched a cartoon in their life because their heads are too buried in their ipads or playing fortnite . Or flip side these people are just sad, lonely millennials and genx who are so dead inside they forgot what it’s like to be silly and joyful.

Also, the final island is called LAUGHtale. Rodger, King of the Pirates LAUGHED when he found the one piece. This whole beautiful decades spanning tale is ground in LAUGHTER. Don’t try to sully that just because you haven’t laughed in years and you hate your family and dead end job. Let others be happy. Try and be happy yourself. Go ahead, just laugh until you cry. You will be amazed at how good it makes you feel.

Yes I am mean, no I do not care. I am in my high tower of happiness and laughter enjoying life and my favorite series. If you want to be miserable and serious go watch/read jjk and don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out. We don’t need you and Oda doesn’t either ✌🏼

me laughing at the haters:

[quibbs126]

Do you ever have that situation where you just got into a series, and you want to speculate about it and/or analyze the characters, but also that means putting your thoughts out there to people who have been big fans of the series for years, and you just got here like a couple weeks ago at best? And so like, you don’t want to because you feel like some random dude who just showed up and inserted themselves into someone else’s conversation, and you have no right to talk about it with them? And so you don’t?

That’s me every time I get into a new fandom. And currently that’s Berserk for me

[sketchtastrophee]

old art again!! this time a rough animation of sawyer and yarnaby 😎 (looks better if u click to view 😭)

im working on a short ppt animation rn. im thinking i should post it to my youtube channel, though im not sure if people here would see it. i think i can link videos on here?? idk

okay I'm gonna talk abt more chapter 4 stuff.. this time about prototype's previous identity.. ch4 spoilers and also a theory below..

hiding the solo yarnaby under here LOL

people theorized 1006 was elliot, which was recently disproven in the chapter 4 tape where poppy refers to elliot as her dad and wishes he were there. in the same tape she addresses prototype as a completely different person. also recall that elliot died in the 90s, meanwhile prototype met theo in 1989. so yeah, they aren't the same person

I've also seen people say rich is prototype, which cannot be true either. in a ch4 tape he speaks to one of the employees under his supervision. the kid mentions his coworkers joking about him going missing. before the bbi, it would not make sense for this to be a common rumor at the company, which means this tape had to happen after harley was hired in 1990; at a time when the company would have a reason to silence people

prototype existed in 1989 at the minimum, but considering he says "it's always been about you and me" to poppy, he's likely the prototype of HER. she's elliots daughter, she died in the 60s, meaning prototype was probably created around that time as well.

this means that rich can't be the prototype because he was human long after prototype was made

if you want my take on who prototype truly is, i'd say his identity doesn't necessarily matter. i don't mean to say his origins aren't important, just that his name and specific role in the past probably doesn't mean anything in the long run. i've never believed he was elliot or rich, and maybe in the future i'll be proven wrong but for now i'll tell you the theory i've had since june of last year

elliot's daughter dies in the 60s. he divorced his wife in 1930, so his daughter is probably in her 30s when she dies. she gets sick or injured, maybe she's actively dying or already dead by the time elliot begins his research. he looks for ways to bring her back, but it doesn't work on the rats (as he mentioned a note in the 2nd chapter)

so what does he do? he tries it on something bigger as he said he would: a human. of course he's not going to try this experimental method on his own daughter, even if she's already dead, so he finds someone else to use it on. we know that elliot wasn't evil or anything, so it's unlikely he killed anybody to use for the experiment. considering the orphanage isn't open yet (it opened in the 70s, not the 60s), prototype probably wasn't an orphan child either. if i run with my simple version of the theory, elliot may have dug up a body in a graveyard and used that. maybe a fresh one, who knows. he tried it, it worked, then he revived his daughter with the same method.

this is likely what harley wanted to know about in the chapter 3 tape (the "i learn something new about you every day" one), and also what prototype is asking harley to figure out in the ch4 tape they're both in. in that case, sawyer never actually figured out how to revive people with the poppy substance. sure, he can transfer people into the toys, but he can't bring anybody back to life

more reason to believe prototype and poppy are of the same "batch" is because it seems they are the only two who don't need food. it's outright stated about him in the ch1 trailer, and insinuated with her saying the "toys will starve otherwise" when she's talking about how nasty them eating humans is. she refers to them, not herself. her and prototype are probably the only 2 who were ever brought back from the dead, which circles back around to his monologue and gives meaning to the "it's always been about you and me, poppy. what we are". when i heard him say that i felt like my theory was lowk confirmed 😭😭

no guarantee this is right, but it's been my guess for a long time

[softaestluv]

You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.

Mechanic! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!reader

This chapter does contain explicit smut, 18+ content!

Tags: Rough sex, Unprotected sex, Creampie, Paying for services with sex, Vaginal fingering, Oral sex, Office sex, dirty, greasy, grimy, sweaty, mechanic

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4 (final part!) Ao3

A kiss, brush of lips, tongues and teeth.

Wandering hands, firm and steady on your hips— possessive, greedy.

Heavy eyes and shallow lungfuls, trembling fingers and a drowning pulse.

Scorching fever, yearning, aching for something more.

Every morning before work, languid kisses pressed between the oil and cloth fabric of Simon’s truck seats. Awkward angles and smashed positions. A clean Simon, all mouth wash and redwood soap, taste of morning tea on his tongue. Sweeter and longer kisses, gentle hands and a smoothing tongue, soft voice and honeyed croons.

Swoops butterflies low in your core, tightening your chest, hiding smiles between his lips.

Every evening when he picks you up from work, frantic kisses pressed against your front door and his broad chest. Indecent, shaming your neighbors with such a desperate act. Your mechanic Simon, dirty, filthy; sweaty and stained, salty on your tongue. Rough and brutal kisses, pinching hands and clashing teeth, deep timbre and gritted demands.

Burns warmth in your core, nudging your thighs together for any stimulation, quiet gasps and mewls swallowed between his lips.

Never more, never any less.

The first time he dropped you off at work, you were hesitant, swallowing over a thick lump in your throat because you wanted more from the night before. You didn’t know how to ask, or if you even should.

His fingers were reassuring when he held your chin, a murmured, ‘have a good day f’me, okay?’

Then he had stamped a kiss against your mouth. It was supposed to be chaste, you knew that, but you didn’t want it to end just yet, didn’t quite get your fill. You probably shouldn’t have made out in the parking lot of your job or perched yourself in his lap either, but you did. Scratched at the insistent craving in your lungs before running into your work building late.

When he had walked you to your front door after picking you up, you wanted to invite him in, you did invite him in. He declined, shaking his head with a soft chuckle, and a brush of his knuckle against your cheek— just droppin’ you off sweet’art.

And like a man contradicting his words, he pressed you flat against the wood of your door, drowned you in his saliva, dragging his mouth, fangs and all, against yours feverishly each time. Barely managing to pull away to bid you farewell.

It went on for a week, mindlessly feeding your fire with make out sessions in his truck and your porch, like two desperate teenagers trying to quench their thirst.

A week was all it took for Simon to fix your truck, had your engine running like new, but a gnawing itch dug at the back of your skull as you stood in his office. You couldn’t find it in yourself to be excited, not with the imminent lack of pre-work kisses and murmurs, any post-work bites and promises in your future.

As if your truck being fixed was the end of it.

A knot formed in the pit of your stomach as you aimlessly nodded along, pinching your lips between your teeth as Simon explained the work he did on your truck. You didn’t really care, your shitty old pick up was the last thing on your mind, even more so when he kept talking with his hands, thick fingers spread wide with each gesture, dipping into even thicker wrists. Solid forearms, veins curled over each curve, right up to each bicep.

Covered in stains— “Y’alright, bird?”

Your mouth fell open, darting your eyes back to his, “Yeah, yeah I-,” you fluttered your lashes, taking a deep breath, “So, what happens now?”

You mean between you and him, not your stupid truck, and you’re sure he knows that, but all he does is huff a laugh, closing the thin distance between the two of you. Bullies you right up against his desk without a care, hands landing on either side of your hips, consequently boxing you in.

“Well,” He pauses, bending his head to the crook of your neck, brushing the bridge of his nose up the delicate skin, drawing rapid goosebumps, “You still owe me f’my services.”

“A twirl?” You breathe, unsure.

“Go on, then.”

It’s hard to spin eloquently caged against his broad chest and the desk, but he doesn’t seem to mind when the plush of your body rubs against the front of his coveralls. Stopping you when your ass faces him just like he always does with a sturdy hand on your hip, except this time you’re pressed right up against his slowly thickening cock.

Your poor cunt, greedy and desperate clenches around nothing over his bulge. You’re sure he can feel it because he exhales a fucking deep chuckle, blurs your eyes with embarrassment.

And then those same hands are nudging you forward, your palms falling flat against the wood with a gasp as he lays his chest over your back. He’s warm against your cool skin, working in the sweltering garage all day while you sat in his conditioned office. The contrast stings your flesh, makes you painfully aware how hard he had been working to fix your truck. The callouses and scars on his hands evident enough, and the thought suddenly makes every touch even more searing. Taking care of your shitty inconveniences without a second thought.

His fingers skim the seam of your pencil skirt, trailing just a little lower to trace against your knee, rakes chills down your legs, “Had t’work a little harder this time.”

You inhale a sharp breath between your front teeth, “Yeah?”

“Mmh, gonna have to do more than just a little spin, love.” He hums, slowly hitching the fabric of your skirt to your hips.

“Yeah?” You repeat, your default answer when his hands are on you.

Simon laughs again, vibrates your back, “Yeah, baby.”

He hooks his fingers in your ruby red panties and tugs them down your thighs. A sticky string of your arousal clings to the fabric, beads in two when the material pools at your feet.

“Let’s see,” He purrs, “Did two oil changes free of charge.”

His hand smooths against the swell of your ass, thumb resting just under the curve, kneading the flesh gently before leaning back. Drags his eyes steady over your ass, and spreads your pussy open with a stamp of his thumb. You squeak, a bit humiliated at your compromising position; it makes an unbearable warmth bloom down your chest, but you like it.

Can’t do anything but like it when he’s ripping the stitches of your vulnerable flesh bit by bit with the reverence in his irises, the hunger seeping into his almond-shaped eyes as he stares at your pussy.

His thumb sweeps through the seams of your pussy and brushes right up against your sensitive clit. He’s firm on the puffy mound, petting confident strokes against the bead, makes you stutter over your breaths with each new shape like he fucking knew how you liked it already. Your legs spread wider at that, head nodding forward against your chest as you succumb, surrender to the sensation.

This is what you had been waiting for. This. His stained fingers on your clit, drooling over his thick digits.

You had been so well-behaved, let him trace your figure with teasing hands, make you late to work every morning, unfocused and wet in the chair in your office, leave you a breathless mess against your front door, so you like to think you deserve this. Deserve to lay against his desk and let him do whatever he wants to you.

“Fixed your air con.” A finger presses into your poor empty cunt.

Your fingernails dig into the wood.

“Got you a new set of tires.” A second finger joins the other.

A moan scrapes against the back of your throat, pushed straight out from the stretch, knees bumping against the desk as you slump slightly.

The first several drags are slow, using the time to coat his fingers in your slick, agonizing to the insatiable ache you need absolutely smothered. Your puffy walls clamp onto his fingers, using your pussy to ask him to press harder, deeper, further, just like you know his deft fingers can.

He gives you exactly what you want, but he makes an embarrassing show of it. Curls his fingers right where he needs to make your pussy squelch loudly, pulls them out just so he can see your slick cling to his skin, connecting the two of you with a dribbled string. Smears it on your pussy, swiping your clit with each movement over and over again.

Then, he follows the string straight to the source, licks around the digits buried in your sopping folds. You’re already wet, a sticky mess, and it only gets worse when soft lips encase your clit. Your knees out right buckle under you, body weight slumped against the desk when his teeth brush against the bead, coaxing your clit out of the hood by nipping, sucking, toying with it while he plunges his fingers deep.

Yeah, yeah, this is what you deserve.

You’re so close off that, gooey, tacky delicious honey washing over you, panting and shaking under him, toes curled uncomfortably in your heels. Your moans echo off the thin walls, and you struggle to remember if Johnny was still in the shop before Simon bent you over his desk within the brink of an orgasm.

The thought leaves your mind as soon as the strokes turn languid, nothing but really hooking his fingers in your walls as a placeholder while he unbuckles his coveralls. You whine, protesting even though the sound of clanking metal promises a better outcome, something bigger, thicker, because you were so fucking close.

He shushes you, tutting his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “None of tha’, takin’ what you owe me.”

His words make you moan, bobbing your head, yeah, yes, you’ll let him take as much as he wants if he keeps your pussy stuffed. You fidget heel to heel in anticipation, looking over your shoulder to watch. It’s a sight, all beefy muscle, tan lines and freckles, damp chest hair and pubes. Every move is determined, fueled with a purpose, shown in the way his arms flex, his brows furrowed.

You practically fall flat against the desk when you see him free his cock, fat and reddened, leaking with precum. The shaft is thick, a slight curve to it, barely fits in the palm of his massive hand. But all you can focus on is the girth, smacks hard against his fucking belly button.

“And now your bloody engine.”

His cockhead pressed to your entrance.

“Tell me, sweet’art, how’d you plan on payin’ all that?”

“With this,” You whine, arching your back, so your pussy rubs right up against his tip.

He hums, hand on your back pressing your hips flat against the desk, so your cheek is flush with it, “You mean this pretty little cunt, huh?”

You nod pathetically, scratching your skin against the wood because you don’t think you quite have it in you to use your words, confess that you’re willing to use your pussy. And he doesn’t push for you to, takes it as a good enough answer.

The stretch stings, makes tears well in your eyes, but it’s hurts so good. You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on the burn, really drown yourself in the feeling of being so full. It’s a slow start, shaping your spongy walls to take his full length, moist lips mapping shapes against your neck in encouragement to take it all.

You think you’re ready for it, clenching around him, bucking your hips and pleading with quiet words for more— please Simon, I can take it.

Then, he’s just fucking brutal, unforgiving.

Your teeth knock together with the first determined thrust, your eyes snapping open in shock because you were not ready for that. It tears the breath straight out of you, hurts your lungs from the force. Rips a cry of his name from your core, your chest, your throat because you’re sure you’ve never been fucked like this.

Each thrust is harsher than the last, hip bones painfully slammed into the desk with each smack of his cock. The sound of his balls slapping against your flesh, loud and obscene, echoes how aggressive he’s really fucking you.

The gooey honey from his fingers and tongue turns to white, hot, searing pleasure. Borderline painful, as he forces you to take it with no where to run, so you just lay there and take it like a good paying costumer. Accept the onslaught until his hand bands around your throat, curls around the small muscle, and arches your back as much as you physically can so his mouth can press hot against your ear.

“D’ya think I’d jus’ be done with you too?”

You nod, squeak a strained ‘yes’ because you had thought that. Anxiety pinched your chest before his cock split you in two, before he made you his.

“Can’t get rid o’me that easy, sweet’art,” Simon grits through each word, “Work in grease and grime; you’re stuck with me now, baby.”

The words remind you of how dirty he is, how dirty you are for liking that fact. Even more so when his other hand tugs your shirt and bra low, digging indents into your breasts, and you can see how filthy his hand is from work— the same hand that was buried in your pussy moments ago.

Oil, dirt, sweat, grease and grime smeared on your skin, all over your dainty skirt and white blouse. Marking you as his in more ways than the dark hickeys he leaves on your neck and bruised fingertips on your hips.

It numbs your thoughts to nothing but the way you know his cock is just as filthy. Fucking you into a slippery, sticky mess with each rut of his hips. And then he hoists your foot onto the desk, hits a gummy spot that has you arching, quivering in his grasps. Blinding you and consuming you whole.

Your body decides that’s all you can take, squeezing so tightly around Simon as your orgasm becomes ferocious and unbearable. You seize up, Simon dropping his forehead against your shoulder as he tries to fuck you good and well through it, cussing under his breath. Everything’s fuzzy, blurry, and hazy; you’re dizzy, every part of your body melted into the sensory receptors of your body.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it, what words you’re saying, but you’re babbling for him to finish in you, cum inside you, taint your delicate flesh with every thing he possibly can.

It’s a few more shallow thrusts before his fingers are digging harsh into your hips, sharp teeth pinching against your shoulder. Warms your already scorching cunt with his spend, bucking his hips deeper with each new spurt.

Even after you milked him for all he’s worth, he rocks his cock into you again and again. Slower, softer, more careful from the way he was just bruising your cervix seconds ago. Relishes in the way your folds flutter overstimulated around him, middle and index finger tracing around where the two of you meet, where your pussy stretches so pretty for him, like he doesn’t want to slip out just yet.

Your fingers tangle into his on your hip, “Don’t think I paid my full debt yet. If you take me home, I can really show you how grateful I am.”

You’ve never seen him speed faster to your house, ripping the keys from your grasps when he deems you took long enough to open your door. It makes you laugh, finding it quite hilarious how eager he is to fuck you all night, a trucks engine worth of orgasms.

That night you let him fuck your mouth, slobbering and choking over his fat cock as he carves the shape into the back of your throat. Sucking the salty taste clean from him.

When morning comes he fucks you again, even though your pussy is sore and swollen, your muscles contracting painfully with each movement from overuse. The way he coaxes your orgasm out of you is worth it all, the way he kisses you goodbye soft and sweet after a shower at the door is even more so.

His promises to return later that night with his thumb rubbing tender strokes behind your ear are even better. Except this time you don’t have a theoretical debt to pay or a shitty pick-up, just a simple guarantee.

masterlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

[svenjaliv]

This feels like a good time to post a reminder about the NaNo-inspired spreadsheet I made, based on the old website:

It's available here for download - free if you want, any support is appreciated because it means I can keep making trackers and helps with my website costs, but I know times are tough for a lot of us. I've also put it up on Google Sheets here, but it looks a little different because the fancier chart effects aren't supported. You'll have to download it or make a copy to be able to use it. (Please don't ask me for edit access, that won't work. File > Make a copy, and you'll have it on your own Google Drive.)

I also made this in four other designs, available here. They all come with character and plot development sheets, and pages for novel info, chapters, timeline, etc. And there are versions for every month, so we're not confined to November!

And finally, because I always loved seeing everyone's word counts and accountability really helps me personally, I made a basic spreadsheet that you can use as a group to collectively track word counts or goals. This version's made for up to 8 people. Again you'll have to make a copy in your Drive to use it, and you'll need to give edit access to your whole group as well.

If there's interest, I'll keep making these as well for each new month. I can also expand it or add more columns/features, so feel free to let me know if you're interested and what you'd like to see!

[lucrezianoin]

How to bookbind your fanfic!

Part 1: From AO3 to printing

The necessary first step is turning your AO3 fanfic into booklets. Your whole book will be a bunch of booklets piled on top of each others and stitched together.

Booklet examples:

Btw, this is the official Word tutorial on how to make a booklet.

You can see there are different options. I usually do 8 pages, which is what you will see in the video. This means that a booklet of 8 pages is two sheets of paper, printed front and back, folded and one put inside the other. To have your word pages in the correct order you will need to format your word document.

Everything is in the video but here is the text for easy reading (btw the fanfic I used is Exit by schwutthing, an amazing Valjean/Javert fic)

Do not download the fanfic on AO3. Click on "Entire work" and copy paste it on word.

Format your word document. Click on File-> Margins. Select "Multiple pages: Book fold" and "Sheets per booklet: 8". Put "Gutter" to 1cm.

Double click on the empty area just above your text, on a random page of the document. This will make the "Do not download the fanfic on AO3. Click on "Entire work" and copy paste it on word.

Format your word document. Click on File-> Margins. Select "Multiple pages: Book fold" and "Sheets per booklet: 8". Put "Gutter" to 1cm.

Double click on the empty area just above your text, on a random page of the document. This will make the "Header and Footer" option appear. You can click on "Footer" and select the format for the pages' number. Always add the pages number, it will make your life easier.

Now you can justify your book. I usually justify (select all text with CTRL+A and click on Justify), but keep in mind that some documents might not enjoy passing through "justify" so double check your final document. For example, if there are lines of poetry and the author wrote into the next line without starting a new paragraph the justify option will make it weird.

Make your book pretty! I added some illustrations and blank pages. I also made the title of the fanfic bigger.

Fix the chapters' titles and notes. I clicked on Home-> Find and searched for "Chapter", so I could select on each chapter title and make it bold, and also delete the "Chapter text" added just after. You can do the same with "notes" in case you want to delete notes.

Now it is time to print! I prefer to save in pdf before, so I will do that.

IF YOU HAVE A PRINTER THAT DOES NOT PRINT BOTH SIDES

Click on print

Select "Microsoft print to pdf"

Select "Manually print on both sides"

This will create two different files pdf, one for the front pages, and one for the back pages.

Click on the file for the front pages and print them all. Do not panic if you see the pages number all over it.

Now take your printed (only on one side) block of pages and load it into your printer again, making sure that you will now print on the blank back. Open your back pages pdf file and print.

(you can do a trial with a few pages to see if everything is lining up correctly).

IF YOU HAVE A PRINTER THAT PRINT BOTH SIDES

"Click on print

Select "Microsoft print to pdf"

Select "Print on one side"

This will create a single pdf that you can print on your both-sides printer. You will see that the page are not in the order you had on the word document, but the whole file will start with page 8 (see video).

Now print!

What you want is this:

You can see that on the front you have page 8 first, page 1 after, because when folded it will end up with page 1 at the start of your booklet! And on the back of this first sheet you have 7 and 2, that will end up in the correct position.

Now you will have a lot of pages... time to fold and create your booklet! Every two sheets... you will fold as you see above.

Next post will be specifically about folding the booklet, making the holes and sewing them together.

[valeisaslut]

⭒࿐COLLIDE - c. seven

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑖𝑥 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 →

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

⭒ synopsis: After three wild, blissfully chaotic weeks with Ellie and the Fireflies, you return to start your own tour, still reeling from the rush. But something’s different now. You saw it, that fleeting moment of truth, the one that cracked everything wide open. No matter how tightly she held you, how fiercely she kissed you, a piece of her was slipping away. And love—no matter how loud, no matter how pure—can’t quiet everything forever. 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 13,6k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: angst, some fluff to...balance, suggestive, very sensitive topics, pet names, modern au, mention of cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, cursing, violence, fighting, afab!reader, multiple part series, MEN AND MINORS DNI likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

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

ELLIE WILLIAMS PUNCHES PAPARAZZO OUTSIDE SEATTLE NIGHTCLUB — VIDEO GOES VIRAL, FANS DIVIDED

April 18, 2025 | Seattle, WA

⚠️ This article’s taking a more serious tone than our usual headlines — and for good reason.

Fireflies’ frontwoman and rock powerhouse Ellie Williams was caught on camera throwing a punch — and we do mean a real, no-holds-barred right hook — at a paparazzo outside trendy celeb club The District Lounge in Seattle last night.

The altercation went down just past 1 a.m., as Williams was leaving the venue with her bandmates and partner, chart-topping pop sensation Y/N after what looked like a celebratory post-concert night out. According to several eyewitnesses, the vibe was “super sweet, lots of handholding and smiles” — that is, until everything flipped.

In footage that’s now everywhere online, paparazzis are shouting questions at the couple. Nothing unusual at first, until one of them lobs this one:

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

👀 In the video, Ellie visibly tenses up. A tense exchange follows. Voices are raised. Then, without warning, Ellie lunges and lands a clean punch right to the guy’s face. Blood. Chaos. Screaming. Flashes.

Security, bandmates, and Y/N immediately intervened to pull Ellie back, while her team rushed to calm things down. 

At first, reactions online were mixed. Some fans were stunned at Ellie’s reaction. Others defended her.

But just a few hours later, everything changed — because a second video surfaced, with clear, unedited audio of what the paparazzi actually said.

And… yikes.

In the new clip, the pap doesn’t just question Y/N’s success — he launches into a disgusting tirade of misogynistic, objectifying, and homophobic comments. He makes suggestive comments about her appearance, and implies that her success is due to sexual favors, not talent. Just as we thought he was done, he ends it calling Ellie a homophobic slur.

“Cute little popstar riding high on all those industry favors... Flash a little skin, make the right people happy...” “What a shame. All that effort to make you every guy’s wet dream, and you’d rather be some d***’s lapdog.”

The moment that slur hits, the internet flips. 

And #TeamEllie began trending within minutes.

Public Reaction:

@: “not ellie doing what security should’ve done 💅”

@: “I watched that video with my jaw on the FLOOR. protect y/n at all costs.”

@: “if u say ‘violence is never the answer’ after hearing that clip, you’re part of the problem”

@: “ellie williams punched a homophobe in the face and walked back into the club holding her girl’s hand. that’s my roman empire.”

Even some fellow celebs took to their stories and comments sections, labeling the pap’s behavior “disgusting,” “predatory,” and “absolutely deserving of backlash.”

What We Know:

• Neither Ellie nor Y/N has released a public statement.

• The paparazzi has not been identified, but sources say his agency is reviewing the incident.

• No official charges have been filed.

While TMZ does not condone violence of any kind, especially in heated public spaces where things can escalate fast, we also believe it’s critical to state this plainly:

We do not condone homophobia, misogyny, or hate speech — not from fans, not from press. What was said to Y/N in that moment was unacceptable, dehumanizing, and crosses far beyond the line of standard paparazzi antics.

Celebrities are not immune to human emotion. And when you push someone to their limit —especially by targeting their identity or their partner— there can be consequences.

We’ll continue to follow this story as it develops.

But what do YOU think? Drop your opinions below! ⬇️

────────────

❤️ 22.5M — 💬 892.9K

The jet hums softly beneath you, that kind of low, omnipresent vibration that feels less like noise and more like a lullaby. Thirty thousand feet in the air, everything feels a little less real. A little safer. Like you’ve floated out of your real life and landed in a quieter, more luxurious version of it.

The scent of citrus and something faintly botanical wafts from a sleek little diffuser perched discreetly near the minibar. It’s probably eucalyptus harvested at midnight under a full moon or something equally stupid. You can’t decide if it smells relaxing, rich, or just ridiculous.

You’re tucked by the window, blanketed in something cream-colored and cashmere-soft, your fuzzy socks peeking out from under the edge of your seat like the world's coziest fashion statement. Outside, the sky stretches out like a watercolored daydream—petal pinks melting into pale amber, the slow golden creep of a sunrise bleeding across the clouds.

But inside, the vibe is decidedly less serene.

Across the aisle, Jesse and Dina are arguing over how best to saber a champagne bottle using a butter knife and, apparently, sheer force of will.

“No, no, angle it towards the ceiling like this,” he insists, adjusting his stance like a fencing champion. “It’s all in the wrist. Champagne knows when you’re confident.”

“It also knows when you’re an idiot,” Dina mutters, rubbing her temple, still wearing smudged eyeliner and an oversized hoodie that reaches her knees. “This is how rich people die. Decapitated in a jet.”

And in the middle of it all: Ellie is somehow both the most composed and the most ridiculous person in the place.

She’s curled up beside you, a warm, sleepy weight pressed along your side. Hood pulled low over her face like a sleep mask, one leg draped lazily over yours, a half-eaten bag of peanut M&Ms cradled in her lap. She’s working her way through them with the unhurried satisfaction of someone who’s conquered the world and now just wants sugar.

She only picks the blue ones, of course—Ellie never eats the others. Something about the taste. Or the vibe. She’s never explained it, and you’ve never asked.

There’s a faint line of your lip gloss still smudged on the corner of her mouth from earlier. She hasn’t noticed. And you’re not going to tell her.

“They’re gonna kill themselves,” you murmur, tucking a strand of her messy mullet back under the edge of her hood.

Ellie doesn’t even open her eyes. Her voice is thick with sleep, slurred slightly, curling around the words like smoke. “Let ‘em. Natural selection.”

You blink down at her, grinning.“You say that now, but when we plummet to our deaths because he put a hole in the ceiling with a $1000 bottle of Dom—”

“I had sex three times last night,” she cuts in, matter-of-fact, like she’s announcing the weather. “With you. The most gorgeous woman on Earth. I’ve lived a full life. Let the plane crash. I die a legend.”

You choke on a laugh. “You’re disgusting.”

She shifts slightly, head nudging closer to your collarbone, hoodie slipping to reveal a sliver of her temple. “You didn’t think I was disgusting when I—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” you warn, slapping your hand softly but surely over her mouth mid-thought.

And she just licks your palm.

You yelp, yanking your hand back like she’s electrocuted you, wiping it exaggeratedly on the blanket. She’s grinning now, all mischief and molars, the corner of her mouth sticky with M&M shell dust.

“Oh, now you’re disgusted?” she teases. “You were singing a different tune last night. In B major, specifically.”

From across the aisle, Jesse groans like he’s being personally victimized.

“Jesus Christ. Can you two not be horny for five consecutive minutes?”

“Yeah. Some of us are just trying to open a champagne and disassociate like God intended.” Dina adds dryly. “Not listen to the live audiobook of Fifty Shades of Gay.”

You press your nose into Ellie’s hair to hide your grin. She smells like cheap hotel shampoo and your vanilla body lotion—the one she fake-gagged at when you first let her use it, then promptly stole.

“Wow,” Ellie sighs into your shoulder. “Is this what oppression feels like? Deeply homophobic.”

Then, quieter, like she’s already halfway back to sleep: “I’m so tired. Why do I even talk?”

You kiss the top of her head, slow and lingering, your fingers trailing through her hair. She melts into your side with a little hum, drawing slow circles on your thigh with the pad of her finger.

Then Jesse speaks, a rare note of sincerity slipping in beneath the banter. “Wait—so this really is your last stop, huh?”

You glance down at Ellie, who doesn’t lift her head. She just tucks herself tighter into your side, as if she could physically stop time that way.

You nod. “Yeah. Rachel’s sending a jet tomorrow morning. LA stuff. Obligations. Capitalism.”

There’s a quiet beat. Not awkward, just... still. Like everyone’s aware something is ending.

“Damn,” Jesse says. “Everything’s gonna be way less fun without you.”

Dina nods, more solemn than usual. “We’ll miss you. And not just because Ellie turns into a sulky feral cat when you’re gone.”

“I do not—” Ellie mumbles, not even bothering to lift her head.

Your phone buzzes, cutting through the moment, and you squint at the screen. Rachel.

With a sigh, you answer. “Hey, Rach.”

“Hey there, my little sunshine!” she says, entirely too awake for someone who’s probably had three espressos and fifty emails already. “Just reminding you—your jet’s wheels-up at nine sharp. Your makeup artist has already texted me twice threatening to quit if you show up looking even one percent post-tour hungover.”

You glance down at Ellie, who’s giving you the most pitiful don’t go expression a human face has ever made.

“I know. I’ll be there.”

“Okay, good. Because your girlfriend may look harmless to you, but I know she’s plotting how to trap you in a guitar case and sneak you into the next city.”

"She’s surprisingly strong when she wants something,” you whisper, then louder: “Ellie, are you going to kidnap me?”

“Mmmmno,” she murmurs into your chest. “Just… light hostage vibes.”

Rachel sighs. “Tell her I’m not above slapping her with a custody agreement.”

You laugh, just when Rachel adds, softer now:

“By the way... I saw the full video. From last night. At the club.”

You go still. So does Ellie.

“What that fucker said to you? Completely disgusting. I don’t care how famous you are, you didn't deserve that, darling. And Ellie—what she did—I get it. I really do. I’m glad it came out.” 

You glance down. She's just looking at you, her face soft in that way that makes your chest feel like it's made of melted marshmallow. 

“I’m glad it came out too,” you say quietly.

“And legally, I’m supposed to say we don’t condone violence,” Rachel adds. “But emotionally? If that guy wanted to insult someone’s girlfriend and walk away unpunched, he should’ve picked literally anyone else.”

You grin. “Love you too, Rach.”

“Be ready at nine. And if Ellie tries to hijack the jet, I will sue.”

You hang up just as the champagne finally gives in to Jesse’s abuse and pops open with a triumphant bang. Foam sprays in a glorious arc over the floor. 

“CHAMPAGNE FOR THE HOMOSEXUALS!” he crows, waving the bottle like he’s just conquered France. Champagne rains down. The carpet will never be the same. 

He pours it in four flutes, sloshing liquid everywhere. “To tragic long-distance lesbians!”

Ellie doesn’t even flinch.

“May your FaceTimes be horny and your WiFi strong!” Dina adds, raising her glass. 

You run a hand through her hair, slow and soothing, fingers tracing little arcs at her scalp until her eyes flutter shut again. Her legs are still flung over yours. 

Jesse and Dina go back to arguing over whether champagne counts as hydration, the light outside the windows shifting from gold to ivory, and your heart tugs a little tighter with every second you get closer to destination.

Because this is it. The last city. The last show. And after that—separate schedules. Separate beds. Separate time zones.

But for now, there’s warmth in your lap, fingers tracing little hearts on your thigh, and Ellie’s voice, sleepy and full of love, murmuring, “You better text me every five seconds when you leave or I’ll write a diss track about you.”

You smile, lean down, kiss her temple.

And wonder how the hell you’re supposed to say goodbye to all of this.

You were still floating.

Wrapped in a soft white robe, toes curling into plush carpet, skin warm from the shower. You’d been riding that same hazy high since the second your body sank into Ellie’s that morning. Since her sleep-heavy whispers in the jet, her fingers sneaking under your hoodie like she couldn’t bear to be apart for even a second.

Everything felt gilded.

Even the sky over Chicago had looked touched by something holy—petal-pink sky streaked with gold, the first light of sunrise slicing through clouds like God had a soft spot for lesbians in love.

You laughed at everything, let Ellie feed you strawberries from the minibar, see you try on three different outfits for soundcheck even though you weren’t performing. She watched you the whole time like she couldn’t believe you were real. Like she still couldn’t believe she got to keep you.

And you swore she looked younger when she smiled. Softer.

Safe.

You watched her do eyeliner in the bathroom mirror with the door cracked open, singing under her breath. When she noticed you watching, she winked. Bit her lip. Said something low and so filthy it made you drop your lip gloss and hit the floor.

You loved her like a lunatic.

So when the tour bus pulled up to the venue, and her fingers laced through yours like second nature, when she pressed her mouth to the inside of your wrist and whispered, “You’re mine forever” it felt like a promise.

It felt like a future you could touch.

These three weeks with them—Ellie, Jesse, Dina, the whole chaotic whirlwind of the Fireflies—had felt like a dream. As if you’d slipped out of your own life and landed in someone else’s movie. Every moment larger than life, every night louder, brighter than the last.

The kind of fantasy you never think you’ll get to live. Laughter on tour buses, tequila-fueled karaoke, whispered secrets in hotel bathtubs, kisses stolen between soundcheck and stage lights. It didn’t feel real, not exactly—but it felt right.

It made sense in your bones.

Love had never been this wild or this sweet or this completely yours. You never thought it could be like this, hadn’t even dare to imagine it. Too consuming to be anything but real, burning too bright to be ordinary.

But even the brightest dreams have to end.

And you woke up from this one when you stepped backstage.

You hadn’t been gone for more than a minute. Just a quick trip to the bathroom to touch up your lipgloss, glance in the mirror and remind yourself who you are. You could still hear her voice echoing in your ears, her laughter against your skin. You were thinking about what you’d say when the set was over, how you’d pull her into the dressing room and kiss her until she forgot the world.

Until you stepped back inside and saw it.

Saw Ellie hunched over the scratched-up dressing room table, her hair falling into her face, the curve of her shoulders tense and focused.

She didn’t see you.

Her fingers moved fast—too fast—rolling a crumpled dollar bill with the kind of precision that only comes from repetition.

A credit card lay beside a neat, unforgiving line of white powder. It caught the light like something sacred.

Or damning.

Your chest locked so tight it hurt to breathe.

But it wasn’t shock. That was the thing.

Because you’d seen this before and chose to forget.

You told yourself it wasn’t real. Told yourself she was just tired, just wired, just celebrating. You buried it deep beneath the way she danced with you under the lights, the way she kissed you. You let the fantasy carry you through the night.

But now it’s here.

Right in front of you again.

In the cold light of the dressing room, with the crowd screaming just beyond the concrete walls and the countdown to showtime ticking louder with every passing second—and there’s no forgetting this time.

You take a step back. No one notices.

The crew moves around her like it’s normal. Like they've seen it more times that they could count.

Jesse’s crouched over a pedalboard, fingers moving with too much precision, like if he keeps his hands busy enough, he won’t have to feel anything. His jaw is locked, tight enough to ache. Shoulders pulled into a straight line that screams tension, restraint.

Dina’s by the far wall, arms crossed so hard it looks painful. She’s biting the inside of her cheek, staring at a spot above Ellie’s head like she’s afraid of what’ll happen if she actually looks at her. Like if she looks, she might scream.

But they don’t stop her.

Because they never do.

And that—that’s what finally breaks something open inside you. Not the act. Not the sound of Ellie sniffing hard, or the way she wiped her nose like she was brushing off crumbs. Not the way she smirked after like she was invincible.

No.

It was the ease.

The casual rhythm of it. Like brushing her teeth or tuning her guitar. Like muscle memory.

The crack comes from across the room—“Three minutes!”—sharp and sudden, like a gunshot through glass.

Ellie straightens, fast she could. Licks her thumb. Swipes it beneath her nose with a practiced flick, then drags the edge of her hand across it, clearing the residue. She exhales through her nose, sharp and fast. Not even subtle.

Then she turns, sees you—and smiles.

Doesn’t see the way your body’s gone rigid. Doesn’t register the silence stretching thin in the air between you. Doesn’t know what you walked in on. What you saw. What you can’t unsee.

To her, nothing’s changed.

She crosses the room fast, too fast. Movements jerky and precise all at once. Her pupils are blown wide and her jaw ticks as she swallows, hard. The skin beneath her cheekbones is flushed, feverish. She’s jittery, bouncing on the balls of her feet even as she moves toward you like gravity doesn’t quite apply.

And then she’s in front of you—pressing up close, sliding an arm around your waist like it’s nothing. Like you’re still her girl. Her anchor. Her steady place. Her fingers hook into the belt loop of your jeans like they’ve done a hundred times before.

You don’t melt into the touch. You don’t lean in like you always do.

You feel weightless instead of held. Like a balloon someone let go of.

Her voice comes soft, lazy against your neck, low and sweet like nothing's wrong. 

“I love when you watch me, babe,” she murmurs, grin curling against your skin. “But you’re staring.”

You should say something. You should pull away.

Should tell her this isn’t okay. That you’re not okay.

Ask her If this is just because of the show. If it's just a thing she sometimes does but doesn't impact on her life.

Or if she actually needs it.

But your voice is gone.

So you smile, slow and hollow, and whisper.

“Guess I just can’t help it.”

She pecks the corner of your mouth, quick and careless, already halfway gone.

You watch her sling her guitar over her shoulder, crack her knuckles, bounce on her heels like she’s itching for a fight.

“One minute!”

The lights dim. The crowd roars. A swell of sound like thunder. Dina brushes past you, eyes on the stage. Jesse lingers just a beat longer, nodding once—solemn, steady, like he’s trying to ground you with the gesture alone.

But you don’t move. You just look at them.

And then it happens—in a flash, in the space of a single breath.

They see it.

Your expression. Your eyes. The way you’re not cheering them, not giving Ellie a good luck kiss, not reaching for your phone or your heart. The way your body has gone still in a room full of motion.

Jesse’s mouth tightens. Dina freezes mid-step, like she’s been caught in a spotlight. And there, in the half-second where they both turn to face you fully, it clicks:

You saw it.

Their eyes flick to each other—worried, grim, like a silent conversation just passed between them. Then, without a word, they turn and head toward the stage.

And Ellie—blissfully unaware of the silent collapse behind her—glances back just before the lights explode to life.

She flashes that grin, that signature wink. All teeth, all swagger, all smoldering charisma.

All fallout waiting to happen.

And then shes gone.

The moment she steps into the lights, the crowd erupts—one deafening, all-consuming roar that shakes the walls and vibrates through the floor. It climbs up your legs and punches into your chest like a second heartbeat.

But you're left behind, stuck in the wreckage, the echo of her still clinging to your skin like static. Your heart is unraveling in silence—thread by thread, stitch by delicate stitch—until it’s not a heart anymore, just a tangle of raw nerve endings and everything you were too afraid to feel until now.

The taste of her kiss still lingers, seared into your mouth like a brand—sweet, cruel, permanent. You can’t spit it out. You can’t swallow it down. It just stays, like smoke in a burning house.

You tell yourself to stay calm.

To breathe.

Because suddenly, you're standing in two versions of the same story—one where you’re the love of her life, and one where you’re just a soft, warm distraction.

Something she clings to so she doesn’t have to face the wreckage she’s making of herself.

Dina’s bass thrums in, low and powerful, followed by Jesse’s sharp crash of drums, and then there’s Ellie—center stage, gripping the mic stand with one hand, head tilting back as if she’s offering herself to the crowd. Like she was built to be devoured by it.

She looks alive.

No—more than that. She looks holy. Like every scar on her has been turned into gold under the spotlight. The weight in her limbs from just minutes ago, the haze in her eyes, the quiet shake in her fingers—it’s all gone. Burned up. Erased. Replaced by that wild, magnetic energy she wears like armor. The kind that drives fans into hysteria, that sells out arenas and sparks rumors.

That the world mistakes for magic.

And you watch her. You watch the way she throws herself into the music like her body isn’t something that can break. How she bends into every note, every chord, like she’s summoning something from her bones. How she moves like she’s high on the sound, not anything else.

Laughing between verses, sweat-drenched and radiant, eyes wild as she spins and shouts something into Dina’s mic. The crowd eats it up. She tips her head back and screams into the chorus, and the lights cut through the fog like blades.

She's a storm. A fucking supernova. 

And the audience is too busy falling in love with her to notice she's burning herself alive to keep the fire going. 

Song after song goes by in a rush of light and sound and screaming. Ellie stands at the edge of the stage, panting, soaked in sweat, short auburn locks stuck to her face.

It happened in the middle of a guitar solo—raw, jagged, teeth-bared. The lights strobed red and white, and the crowd surged like a living, breathing wave beneath her. Ellie stepped forward, sweat-slick and electric, the strap of her guitar cutting across her shoulder, her eyes wild with something feral.

That’s when she saw it.

A lesbian pride flag, waving high in the pit, just behind the barricade. The colors were unmistakable—sunset stripes of orange and pink, bold and unbothered. She smirked.

Without missing a beat, she bent low and grabbed it gently between her teeth, her fingers still flying along the fretboard. The camera feeds caught it instantly and blew it up across the arena screen.

The fifty thousand people crowd screamed like it was gospel.

She held it there for five full seconds—her mouth half-curled around it like a promise, like a war cry, like a fuck-you to everyone who had ever tried to shame her for it.

Then she spit it out.

Straightened.

And grabbed the mic—grinning, breathless, eyes blazing.

The crowd was already losing their minds when she let the flag fall from her mout. She grabbed the mic, breathless, smirking like she could set the world on fire and enjoy watching it burn.

“I’ve never been ashamed of who I am,” she said, voice echoing through the roar. “Not for a second. Not for loving her. Not for being loud about it.”

The cheers rose, thunderous. She paced the stage like she owned it—like she was hunting something.

“So yeah—I hit him.” She laughed, bitter and wild. “And I’d do it again. Twice as hard. With a fucking smile.”

The crowd erupted.

Ellie raised a hand, cutting through the noise.

Her lip curled into something wicked, triumphant.

“And if you’ve got a problem with that, find a new fucking show.”

Then she slammed back into the solo—louder, messier, holy. Her guitar howled like a riot. The spotlight caught the edge of her jaw, the spit on her lips, the fire in her eyes.

She was a storm. She was the siren warning before it hits.

“Thank you, Chicago!” she shouted when the solo ended, breath ragged, grinning like the night had finally caught up to her. “You guys are fucking insane!”

The crowd didn’t howl—they roared.

And she scans thru it like she’s memorizing the shape of this moment—then turns, eyes locking with yours in the wings.

A smile breaks slow across her face, wicked and soft all at once.

She leans into the mic, breathless but grinning.

“And shoutout to my girl backstage—lookin’ like sin, as always.” Her voice dropped into a smoky purr, teasing and wicked. “I’d write you a thousand songs if that means I get to kiss you after every show."

The crowd erupts again. Dina smirks, shaking her head, Jesse lets out a wolf whistle. Ellie laughs, radiant and reckless, and dives into the next.

Loving Ellie felt like fire—but you didn’t realize she was the one in flames.

You were just standing there, too mesmerized by the glow and the warmth to notice it was burning.

The moment the last note fades, the enormous crowd is still screaming, the lights still flashing, Ellie drops her guitar and walks straight off the stage. Not a bow, not a wave—just a beeline for you, eyes locked, raw and unguarded bleeding through the remnants of the performance.

And then she’s there.

Her hands cup your face, and before you can say anything, she kisses you. Hard, grateful, almost desperate. The kind of kiss that says, I made it. I’m still here. Her lips taste like sweat and adrenaline and something bitter you don’t want to name.

When she pulls back, she’s still breathing hard, her forehead pressed to yours.

“Caught you staring.” she teases gently.

“Can you blame me?” you say softly, trying to play it cool in front of her, to act as you always did. “You shoved a lesbian flag in your mouth, called out that asshole and made the entire arena scream your name. You were electric out there. I don’t think I blinked once.”

Her face shifts, the grin softening into something almost shy. All the edge, all the fire from the stage—gone in a blink.

She leans in and kisses your forehead like it’s a promise. Then your cheek. Then the tip of your nose, grinning now.

“You blow my mind, you know that?” she murmurs, voice low and reverent. “Every time I think I’ve hit the ceiling with how much I love you, you come along and tear the whole roof off.”

I love you too, you want to say.

But your throat is thick.

She’s pulled away before you can respond, called back by the crew for something—photos, signatures, maybe just the last wave before they wrap up the night.

The echo of Ellie’s kiss still lingers like heat on your mouth when Jesse and Dina step in beside you—quiet, hesitant, like they know what’s coming. Like they were waiting to speak to you. Try to explain.

You don’t look at them right away. You keep your eyes on the stage, where the tech crew is already beginning to break everything down. Lights dimming. Pedals unplugged. The calm after the storm.

And your voice comes out calmer than you expect. But sharp like broken glass.

“I saw her before the show.”

Neither of them respond.

“But she didn’t see me," your voice is shaprer now. “I walked in on her.”

You glance between them.

“Using. Again.”

The silence snaps taut, a wire stretched too far. Jesse shifts his weight like the floor’s become unstable. Dina doesn’t move, just exhales through her nose, eyes narrowing like she’s bracing for impact.

“Because I saw it last night too” you go on, steadier than you feel. “At the club. In that booth. With both of you. And I let it go.”

You’re shaking now, just a little. But the words don’t stop.

“I let it go because I wanted to. Because I wanted to believe you when you told me it wasn’t a big deal. And I didn’t want it to be real.”

You look at them in the eye, and your voice comes out razor-clean.

“But you lied to me.”

Dina flinches. Jesse looks down.

“You both stood there and told me it was nothing. That this was normal between you. Like I was overreacting. Like I was just some dramatic girlfriend who didn’t get it.”

Your voice catches, but you push through it.

“So I stayed quiet.” You take a step forward. “But I’m not gonna stay quiet now.”

Your eyes are on them, unwavering.

“Doing coke isn’t fucking normal.”

“We didn’t mean it like that,” Jesse says finally, his voice low and frayed. “We were trying to—”

“What?” you cut in. “Protect me? Or protect her?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

Dina folds her arms across her chest. Her voice is flat but her eyes are burning. “Both,” she says. “We were trying to protect both of you.”

You stare at her.

“Ellie told us not to say anything. She made us promise. Said you were the only good thing she had that wasn’t touched by it. She didn’t want to drag you into the mess, to see that–"

She cuts herself before she could finish the sentence, then meets your eyes. “We just didn’t want to scare you off. It's always been… manageable."

You shake your head. “Doesn’t look manageable to me.”

“You are right,” Jesse agrees. “It’s not. Not anymore.”

There’s a pause, and it sits heavy between the three of you, a silence filled with all the things you didn’t say before. The things you’re only saying now because it’s too late to pretend anymore.

“She’s using more,” Dina admits, softer now. “More often. Less careful. Like… like maybe she doesn’t care if someone sees.”

“She used to hide it,” Jesse adds. “Back when she cared about being seen. But now, even in front of you—”

He stops.

Dina’s eyes are full of guilt. “She’s not trying to hurt you.”

“I know,” you say, and your voice finally cracks.

“But she is.”

For a moment, the only sound is the clatter of gear being packed into cases, the low hum of the venue emptying out, the echo of your own heartbeat.

Dina steps a little closer. “She loves you. You know that, right?”

“And I love her,” you say—because it’s still true, even now. “But you’ve known her longer. So tell me the truth.”

“How long has this been going on?”

Jesse drags a hand down his face, slow and heavy, exhausted. Like the weight of the answer is already too much.

“It’s been like this since the band blew up,” he says, voice low. “Way before you.”

You stare at him, something bitter rising in your chest.

“And you just… let it happen?”

“No,” Dina snaps, too fast, too defensive. Her arms are crossed tight over her chest now. “We didn’t let anything happen.”

She glances at Jesse, then back at you. Her voice softens, but the edge doesn’t leave it.

“We flushed her stash. More than once. We’ve cornered her, begged her, screamed at her. Jesse threatened to walk once. I threatened worse. None of it stuck.”

“She’s Ellie,” Jesse mutters, like it’s both an explanation and a curse. “You don’t tell her to stop. You ask. You plead. And she looks you in the eye, promises she’ll try. And then a week later, she’s back at it like nothing happened.”

You feel the words crack open inside you. It’s like your ribs are trying to hold something in that doesn’t want to stay quiet anymore.

“She’s spiraling,” you whisper. “And it’s like she doesn't even care about anything... not even about me.”

“She cares,” Jesse says, quick and certain. “You don’t get it—she cares so much about you it kills her.”

“But I think she’s past pretending,” Dina says, her voice quieter now. “I think she doesn’t believe she can stop anymore.”

The words sit between you like ash. You breathe them in.

“She looks at me like I’m everything. And still…” you murmur, more to yourself than to them. 

Still, she used. Still, she smiled. Still, she kissed you like nothing had happened.

You shake your head, trying to breathe through the ache in your throat.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

Your voice is raw. Fragile. Half a question, half a cry.

But neither of them answer.

Because they’ve asked themselves that same question a hundred times. And it still keeps them up at night.

You meet their eyes again, and in a second, all the puzzle pieces rearrange themselves into a picture you wish you’d never seen.

She never let you go through the pockets of her jeans or jackets. Always smacked your hand away with a crooked little grin, called you nosy, told you “you’re not ready for the things I hide back there, babe.” You thought it was a joke. A line. Something flirty and mysterious and hers.

The quick trips to the bathroom at dinners, at rehearsals, backstage, after parties. The way she’d come back with her pupils blown wide, swallowing the green whole. How she’d press in close, breathing too fast, too sharp against your jaw, fingers restless like they needed something to do.

And you—god, stupid you—drunk on her, dumb with love, thought it was because of you. That you were the reason she was vibrating.

And Jesse. The way his jaw would tighten. How his eyes would dart to Dina, something silent passing between them. Dina, arms crossed, lips pressed together like she wanted to say something but didn’t.

The way she looked at them at those times. Not just like best friends. Not just like bandmates. Like they were co-conspirators. Survivors. Three soldiers in the same quiet, losing war. You thought it was history. Time. The kind of bond forged through sleepless nights and highschool stories and green room breakdowns.

But now you see it for what it is.

A secret. A loaded silence they all agreed to carry.

And you—

You're the only new one here.

You’re the girlfriend. The popstar. The one Ellie writes songs about and kisses in front of cameras. The one she calls her muse. The one she pulled into the eye of the storm with a smile and hands that never once shook when they touched you.

But you’re also the outsider. The one who didn’t know.

The one who walked into this too late.

You thought you were learning her. Thought every kiss was a key, every touch a map. You believed you were peeling her open slowly, gently, memorizing every scar and secret like scripture. You thought you’d earned your place in her world, carved it out with true, pure love.

You thought she’d changed. For you. With you. Because of you.

But this—this is the same Ellie who kissed the curve of your hip like it was sacred, who whispered that she’d never needed anyone the way she needed you—like you were heaven, or jesus, or god himself. The same girl who once said she’d kill for you, eyes clear and serious like she wasn’t speaking in metaphor.

Who scrawled I would burn up the world just to keep you warm on hotel stationery and tucked it into the back pocket of your jeans when she thought you wouldn’t notice.

The same Ellie who stood on the biggest stage in the world, held a Grammy in one hand and said I love you into the mic with the other.

Unflinching, unashamed, hers and yours and the world’s all at once.

And yet—this is her too.

An addict.

You said goodbye just after sunrise, under a sky that looked like it was trying its best not to cry.

The city still slept as you stood outside the hotel, the wind gentle, the air cool enough to make you shiver—but it wasn’t the cold that made you hold on so tightly to her.

You hadn’t slept at all. Not a second. You’d spent the whole night watching her instead—curled on her side, lashes casting soft shadows across her cheeks, one arm flung across your stomach like instinct.

You studied every freckle, every scar, every breath, trying to memorize the shape of her in the dark. Thinking about everything. About the dizzy, golden magic of the past three weeks. About the lines she’d crossed and the ones you couldn’t.

About the terrifying, beautiful ache of loving someone who made you feel like you were on fire and safe in the same breath.

About the weight she carried behind that easy grin. The fractures hidden beneath the spotlight. The quiet ways she unraveled when no one was watching.

You hadn’t wanted to believe it before. You wanted to believe she was past the messy headlines. That loving you had changed something. But last night stripped that illusion bare.

And lying beside her in the dark, you realized how much she’d been hiding—how long she’d been carrying it alone.

And realized the truth you’d only just started to see clearly.

“I’ll get your suitcase,” she murmured, her thumb brushing gently along your cheekbone as she pushed your thoughts aside. “You always overpack, and I’m not letting some idiot driver toss it around.”

You tried to smile, your throat too tight to speak, just nodding as she gave you one last look—like she didn’t want to turn away. And then she did. Shoulders hunched, disappearing around the corner of the hotel.

Jesse pulled you into a hug that said more than words could. His voice was gruff when he said, “Don’t be a stranger, alright?” and you nodded, your arms still around him.

Then Dina stepped forward and opened her arms without a word. You collapsed into her, your body giving in to everything it had been holding back.

“I’m scared,” you whispered into her shoulder.

“I know,” she said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I am too.”

You pulled back, eyes wet, throat burning. And you looked at both of them—really looked.

“Promise me something.”

Jesse straightened. Dina’s brows knit.

“I want updates,” you said. “On her. On this.” You gestured vaguely, helplessly, as if the air between you held the weight of it all. “I don’t care how small. I need to know if she’s okay. I need to know if she gets worse. You have to tell me.”

They exchanged a glance—heavy, guilty, threaded with something like relief.

“We promise,” Jesse said, quiet.

“You have our numbers. Use them. Anytime.” Dina added.

Your mouth trembled. You nodded. You weren’t even trying to hide how hard you were crying now. It didn’t feel worth it, pretending anymore.

And then Ellie came back.

She smiled when she saw you—soft and crooked, a little lopsided. Even now. Even like this. But the moment she caught sight of your tear-streaked face, the smile faltered, melting into something quieter. Something concerned.

“Hey,” she said, sliding both arms around your waist, anchoring you to her like she could keep the whole world from tilting. “What’d I miss?”

You shook your head, swiping quickly at your cheeks, trying to steady your breath.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” she murmured, gentle but firm, her voice dipping as she leaned in close. “Talk to me.”

You looked at her for a long time. At the girl who wrote you love songs and bruised your lips with kisses that always felt like need. At the girl who lit up entire arenas with nothing but a guitar and a grin. At the girl whose heart felt too big and too broken for her own chest.

“I’m just scared,” you whispered. “And I love you so much it hurts.”

And maybe you didn’t mean to say it quite like that—but a little bit of truth slipped out with it.

Ellie’s jaw tightened, the muscle in her face fluttering as though she was fighting something inside, something unsaid.

For a moment, her eyes glistened, her lips parted like she might break open, like she might finally let it spill. Like she might finally let herself cry, break, show vulnerability.

But she didn’t. Because she never did.

Instead, she wrapped her arms around your waist—like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart. Her forehead pressed against yours, and her breath lingered, warm against your lips. The way her voice dropped, rough and intimate, carried the weight of something she couldn’t say aloud, even when it was all there in the silence between you.

“I love you,” she whispered, fierce and unguarded. “I fucking love you. You’re everything to me.”

"I love you too, Ellie. So much."

You said it because it was true. Because you did. You always would. There was never a question in that.

And when you kissed her, it was slow—each second drawn out, as if trying to capture the fragile, sacred moment before the world outside came crashing back in.

Your lips moved against hers with a kind of desperate reverence, as if you could hold on to this part of her, this part of you, forever. She kissed you back with equal gravity, as if the act of breathing you in could somehow keep everything from slipping away.

When you finally pulled apart, it felt like tearing something fragile—like the delicate ripping of Velcro, each piece of your soul protesting the separation.

But you still let her go.

Now, high above the clouds, somewhere between here and Los Angeles, you sit in the quiet hum of the plane, staring out the window as if the expanse of the sky could clear the storm inside your head.

Your eyes sting, makeup smudged beneath them, and the dull ache behind your ribs sits heavy, as if something was left behind that no altitude or distance could ever change.

Your team is scattered further back in the cabin, giving you the space you didn’t ask for but didn’t know how to fight for. But no matter how far they sit, no matter how many miles the plane cuts across the sky, there’s never enough distance to outrun the mess inside your chest.

For the next two months, you and Ellie keep in touch.

Even when you’re stretched across time zones and cities blur into each other like watercolor, you find her in the quiet in-between. Maybe she finds you. She’s good at slipping into the cracks—those brief pauses before soundcheck, between red carpets and press junkets and late-night flights. She folds herself into your life like a prayer.

And God, do you need her.

You’re flying city to city so fast you’ve stopped keeping track. Wake up in Madrid, fall asleep in Amsterdam, wake again in Zurich. Or maybe it was Prague. You can't remember. You're too tired to try. The plane-bus-concert cycle is relentless. Interviews. Photo shoots. Wardrobe fittings. Makeup chairs. Hotel hallways. Red carpets where you smile so hard your jaw locks. 

You haven't slept more than four hours in a row since Seattle. You barely remember what a full meal feels like. Sometimes you forget to eat entirely. You drink coffee like it's your lifeline. Red Bull like it's holy water. There’s always someone waiting for you backstage, always something pulling you forward.

You're playing to crowds of thousands and thousands, the biggest tour of your career, your face plastered across LED screens and magazine covers and glowing billboards. People scream your name like it’s a religion. It should feel like everything. 

But it only really hits when your phone buzzes and her name lights up the screen.

A notification from her is better than rest. A blurry selfie of her in bed, flipping off the camera. A close-up of a cat she found on the street’s paw. A twenty-second voice memo where she’s just humming a tune that reminds her of you. A picture of a crumpled napkin with your lipstick where she wrote “proof of god.” A voicemail at 3 a.m., slurred and sweet: “Can’t sleep. Miss you like hell. Also I found one of your earrings under my pillow, so. I’m keeping it.”

One night she sent a photo of a hoodie you left behind, sleeves curled up like it missed the shape of you, with no caption at all. You stared at it for ten minutes straight, your throat locked tight.

She sends stupid videos too—her lip-syncing dramatically to your old songs, filming her breakfast and saying “for you, m’lady.” And every time she makes you laugh, even when you’re so bone-tired you want to cry. Especially then.

You send her things, too. Snippets of half-sung lyrics. A picture of your hand on your mic, rings catching the light, “thinking of you” typed underneath. A photo of the hotel’s bathroom mirror with her name traced in the fog. A sweaty selfie at 2 a.m. from your green room mirror with the caption “wanna crawl inside your bed and sleep for a year.”

You say I miss you in the middle of sold-out stadiums and whisper I love you into bathroom stalls like it’s a secret only the two of you get to keep.

The FaceTimes keep you sane. Or make you crazier, depending on the night. Sometimes they’re tender. Quiet. You both lie in bed, barely speaking, just watching each other breathe. Other times they’re desperate. Dirty. Her voice low, teasing, her lip caught between her teeth. She tells you exactly what she’d do if she were there. You tell her to stop. You beg her not to. You tell her to keep going. You press your face into your pillow and think of her fingers, her mouth, the way she says your name when no one else is around.

But even in all of that intimacy, there’s something else.

A shadow behind her voice.

You’ve seen it. And you can’t unsee it now, not even if you want to. The version of Ellie who looks you in the eye and lies without blinking. 

So when she texts you too late or too early or not at all, your stomach twists. When her messages are too manic or too hollow or too okay, your skin itches.

You feel it. That tug in your gut. That instinct you’ve learned to trust. She’s sometimes distant, even when she’s on the screen in front of you. Her laugh is still real, but sometimes it’s just a second too late. Sometimes her eyes don’t match the tone of her voice. Sometimes she’s too bright, too fast, too much.

You start checking in with Jesse. With Dina. Almost everyday. 

Is she okay?

And every time, the replies are the same.

She’s okay. Same Ellie as always.

We’re keeping an eye on her.

She’s got people around. She’s not alone.

Just tired from the show, but she’ll be fine.

You want more. You want honesty. But a part of you is too scared to dig deeper. Like maybe if you ask the wrong question, you’ll hear the answer you’ve been dreading all along.

They tell you they’ve been staying close. That they’re not letting her drift. Entering her hotel room uninvited. Watching her to make sure she’s eating her food. Making sure she sleeps. “We’re not giving her room to spiral,” Jesse once texted.

But the truth is, they’re worried too. You can feel it between the lines.

Still, you don’t push it. Not yet.

You’re afraid. Because what if asking breaks whatever fragile thing still holds the two of you together?

You want to say the words, ask the questions, look her in the face and say Tell me the truth.

But not like this. Not over FaceTime. Not across an ocean or a tour bus or a thousand screaming fans.

You’ll do it when you’re both in the same room, when the air feels real, when her eyes can’t hide behind a screen.

So instead, you talk about anything else.

You tell her about the fan in London who held up a sign that said FUCK ME, I’LL FIGHT ELLIE FOR IT. About the rooftop party in Rome where everyone was too rich and too boring. About the moment on stage in Stockholm when your voice cracked and the whole arena still sang the lyrics back to you like it didn’t matter.

And she listens. She laughs. She tells you she’s proud of you. She tells you she loves you.

And every night, you whisper it back.

You fall asleep with her voice ringing in your ears.

And still—still—when the lights are off and the glam is stripped away and the door to your suite clicks shut behind you, it’s not the tour or the pressure or the headlines that keep you awake.

It’s her.

The things she’s not saying. 

The parts of her you’re still trying to understand.

You were mid-set when it happened. Madison Square Garden. Sold out. Thirty thousand fans screaming your name like it meant something sacred. The lights were high and golden, bathing the crowd in a celestial glow, and the room felt like it might burst from the sheer volume of your voice.

Your performance outfit was stunning—purple, glittery, loud—a short, structured velvet bodysuit that shimmered with silver and lavender flecks when you turned, sheer mesh across your arms, delicate rhinestones scattered like stars. The fabric clung to your hips and shimmered every time you moved, catching the fluorescent backstage lights like it was made to be stared at.

And then—

She was there.

Not out front. Not center-left in the pit. Backstage. Quiet. Subtle. A shadow at first, just a figure hovering behind the curtain near the monitors, half-obscured by crew and security and the buzz of production.

But you knew her shape. Knew the way her shoulders slouched, the way she tucked her hands into the sleeves of her hoodie, the way her gaze pinned you like it was a tether.

You were halfway through a song when you caught her in the wings.

It knocked the wind out of you.

Two months of imagining this exact moment—what she’d look like, what you’d say, how you’d run to her, wrap yourself around her like armor—and yet, when it happened, all you could do was stare.

She had her hood up, but her hair stuck out in soft tufts, her mouth curled into that impossible half-smile. Her arms were crossed, her stance loose and casual like she belonged there. Like she’d never been gone.

She nodded once when she saw you see her. That was it.

Your fingers shook on the guitar. You sang the next line an octave too high. Your crew didn’t miss a beat, but your heart was a fucking drumline.

Your throat closed. You wanted to cry. You almost did.

But the music pulled you forward. One chord to the next, like a rope in a storm. And you kept glancing toward her like you didn’t trust she was real. Like she might vanish if you looked away too long.

She didn’t vanish.

When the song ended, you stepped back from the mic. The crowd was screaming. You turned your face to the side, toward the wings.

There she was. Closer now. Leaning against the side rig, arms still crossed, but her eyes soft. Tired. Open.

You laughed, breathless and a little wild, and said into the mic, “I—I wasn’t ready for that.”

The crowd screamed louder.

“She’s here,” you added, and your voice cracked. You bit your lip and looked down. “Holy shit, she’s actually here.”

The crowd didn’t know what you meant, not really. But they knew emotion when they saw it. They felt it in the tremble of your voice, the sheen in your eyes, the way your hand pressed to your chest like you were trying to keep your heart from breaking free.

“She surprised me,” you said. “And I swear to God, I think I’m about to cry.”

You caught her eyes again.

She smiled. That rare one—all teeth.

You stepped out of the spotlight, unstrapping your guitar with careful fingers. It wasn’t part of this one so you passed it off to a waiting crew member at the edge of the stage, hands shaking.

Then you stepped back into the center and wrapped your fingers around the mic like it was the only thing holding you up.

The lights shifted. Soft amber. A slow burn.

“I wrote this one for her,” you said, quieter now. “And I’ve sung it a hundred times. But tonight, she’s actually here to hear it. So… yeah.”

You didn’t say her name. You didn’t have to.

And of course the song was Don’t Blame Me.

Your voice carried the first verse like a confession, soft and deliberate. The crowd echoed the words in a hush, reverent and low, but your eyes stayed fixed on the darkened wing of the stage—where you knew she stood, just out of the light.

Every word was for her. Every note pulled from a place only she had ever been brave enough to touch. It felt like casting a spell, like bleeding out in real time—love and grief and hunger braided into melody, offered up without apology.

When the final chorus came, you let yourself break open.

And when the last note faded—when the crowd exploded and the lights fell—you stepped back from the mic, chest heaving, and looked toward the shadows.

She was gone.

Your heart lurched.

But then you felt it. A whisper of motion behind you. A rustle near the side stairs. You turned your head.

Ellie was stepping onto the stage.

Not fast—slow, careful, like even she wasn’t sure if this was real. Her head ducked, her hands curled into the sleeves of her hoodie, boots heavy on the floor. You saw her chest rise with a breath, and then she looked up—and grinned.

The crowd exploded.

Not a scream. A detonation. Deafening, chaotic, a wall of sound that hit you so hard your knees almost buckled.

Your mouth fell open. Your heart launched itself straight into your throat. 

She jogged the last few steps, her smile breaking wide and stunned like she couldn’t believe it either. And before you could even take a breath, she was on you—throwing her arms around your shoulders, crashing into your chest.

Your arms wrapped around her without thinking, instinct, muscle memory. One hand in her hair, the other clutching the back of her hoodie like if you let go, she’d disappear.

She smelled the same. Exactly the same—cigarettes and pine and the expensive shampoo she stole from your bathroom. Sweat. Leather. Ellie.

“God, I missed you so much,” she breathed, right against your ear, her voice almost lost in the roar.

You choked on a sound, eyes squeezing shut. “You came,” you said, or maybe sobbed—you couldn’t tell. Couldn’t hear yourself.

Your mic was off. The music was gone. It was just the two of you on a stage shaking with the force of thirty thousand people screaming your names.

Ellie leaned back, her hands still on your cheeks, her thumbs brushing at tears you didn’t realize had fallen. She looked flushed, damp from backstage, eyeliner smudged under her lashes—but alive. Radiant. Electric.

“Of course I fucking did,” she said, loud enough that you heard it over everything. And she laughed—wild and breathless—and then leaned in and kissed you.

Not careful. Not shy. 

She kissed you like you were oxygen and she’d been drowning for months—like nothing else could fill her lungs but you.

The scream rose like a wave crashing overhead, a tidal surge of sound and lights and limbs. You felt it in your bones. Your chest. The soles of your feet. But none of it mattered.

You clutched at her hoodie, pulled her closer. The kiss broke and you pressed your forehead to hers, laughing, gasping, shaking from the inside out.

And Ellie’s smile split wide, fierce and sure and a little glassy-eyed.

The adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet.

Not from the show. Not from the kiss onstage. Not even from the way Ellie had dragged you into that backstage bathroom like she couldn’t breathe without you—spun you against the stall door and kissed you senseless, like her life depended on it.

Her hands were frantic, trembling as they pushed up the hem of your bodysuit, snagging on sequins, slipping beneath mesh and rhinestones like she couldn’t get to you fast enough.

“I missed you so fucking much,” she’d breathed, voice hoarse and shaking. “I need you right now—please.”

You barely got the door locked before she dropped to her knees on the cold tile, her palms splayed against your thighs, her mouth hot and everywhere at once—desperate and reverent, trying to memorize every inch of you all over again.

Your legs trembled, fingers digging into the stall door for balance as her name left your lips in a broken whisper. Your lip gloss smeared across your cheek where she’d kissed you too hard. Glitter clung to the sweat on your collarbones, catching in the low light like stars.

You came with a hand over your mouth and her name pressed to your tongue, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your teeth. And when she stood, kissed you with swollen lips and glassy eyes, she looked like a girl who’d just come up for air.

Now you were curled up in the back of a car with her, the night stretching out in headlights and city blur. You’d changed before coming back to the hotel—switched out the stagewear for something more comfortable. A vintage tee, baggy sweatpants, your hair tied up in a rushed knot at the nape of your neck. And still, she looked at you like you were the main event. Like you were the show.

Your legs were stretched over her lap, your skin still warm from the show and her. Ellie’s hand rested on your thigh, her thumb moving slow, lazy circles just above your knee. Your fingers traced soft shapes along her forearm, brushing the tattoo you loved most.

“I can’t believe I fucking pulled it off,” she said, running a hand through her hair. “I’ve been planning this for, like, weeks. Jesse helped me book the flight. Dina almost spoiled it to you three times.”

“And I can’t believe you’re actually here,” you breathed.

She shrugged, but there was heat in her cheeks. “Had to find a window. The label’s got me all over the place—next show’s in London in two days. I have to fly out tomorrow night.”

“One whole day,” you repeated softly, your voice catching a little.

“I know,” she said, getting closer. “It’s nothing. But it’s something.”

You nodded, heart pulling tight. “It’s everything.”

Ellie smiled like you’d handed her the sun. “I didn’t wanna go another month without seeing you. I tried to hold out. I really did. But then I saw your tour schedule and you were gonna be in New York for three nights, and I just—fuck, I missed you.”

Her voice cracked a little, and she scratched the back of her neck, looking suddenly shy. “I missed you so bad it made me stupid.”

You reached out and caught her hand, laced your fingers through hers.

“You’re not stupid.”

“I am. I’m stupid for you.”

You laughed, that soft, dazed kind of laugh that came from relief and wonder all tangled up. “So you flew out just to see me?”

“I flew out because I needed to see you,” she said, her voice lower now, stripped of bravado. “I was starting to forget what it felt like—just being near you. Talking without a screen in the way. I don’t care if it’s only one day. I’ll take whatever you’ll give me.”

And God, you would give her the whole world if she asked.

You reached for her without thinking, fisting the front of her hoodie and tugging her closer. Your arms looped around her neck as you kissed her—slow, aching, like it was the first time.

You couldn't stop looking at her. Couldn't stop touching her. Brushed your fingers along her knuckles. Tucked her hair behind her ear. Traced the curve of her jaw like you were making sure it was really her.

The elevator ride up was fast and slow at the same time, like the universe couldn’t decide if it wanted to rush you forward or hold you still. You leaned against her shoulder, and she tilted her head to yours, and the silence between you sweeter than any song.

You dropped your overnight bag by the door, still half-dazed—adrift somewhere between the stage and this quiet hotel hallway. Your skin still hummed with the stage, your lips still tingled where she’d kissed you in the car. Everything felt a little too bright, too sharp. Like the world hadn’t come down from the high of the night either.

But then you opened the door to your suite.

The lights blinked on automatically—cool, clinical, sterile white. The kind of lighting that flattened everything out, erased warmth.

The kind that made even the most beautiful thing look a little too real.

She stepped in ahead of you, humming something tuneless, still glowing from happiness. And for a second, it was sweet. Perfect, even.

But then she turned to say something, grinning like a child, and the light caught her full in the face.

Your breath hitched.

She looked... different.

Not in a way most people would have caught. Not unless they knew her the way you did. Unless they’d spent night after night tracing every line of her face with their fingertips, memorizing the exact curve of her jaw, the softness of her cheeks.

But now—under this white, unforgiving light—there was less of her.

A tautness around her eyes. A hollowness in her cheeks. Her collarbone sharp beneath the frayed neckline of her shirt, more defined than you remembered. When she shrugged off her hoodie, it became unmistakable: her frame, thinner. Her clothes, looser. The angles of her body drawn in too tight, like someone had quietly erased the softness while you weren’t looking.

She’d lost weight.

And not in the natural, tour-life kind of way. This was different. Sudden. Stark.

A quiet, blunt force came crashing to your ribs.

Reality hit you like a bullet to the heart.

Something must have shifted on your face—just for a second, just long enough—because her grin faltered, and then she was moving toward you fast. Closing the space between you like she felt it too. She pressed her face to your neck and wrapped her arms tight around your waist, holding you like an anchor, like if she gripped you hard enough, she could keep you from floating too far away.

You held her back. Of course you did. How could you not?

She was so warm. So alive. So happy to be here. With you.

But you wanted to ask her everything.

Are you okay? Are you eating?

Are you using?

But she was kissing your throat now, murmuring in that rough-sweet voice of hers—You were so good out there. You were insane. I can’t believe I got to see you like that. Her words melted against your skin, reverent and starry-eyed, and her hands were already moving beneath your clothes like nothing had changed. Like this night was still perfect. Like she was trying to distract you.

Like you were still hers, and she was still okay.

So you didn’t say it.

Not when she looked up at you with awe in her eyes and asked, “This is everything, right? You and me?”

You nodded, even though your chest ached.

“Yeah,” you said softly, brushing a piece of hair from her face. “You and me.”

You told yourself you’d talk to her tomorrow.

You’d ask the hard questions. You’d say all the things that needed saying.

Tomorrow.

But tonight, you let her smile at you like everything was still perfect.

You let her collapse beside you, tuck herself into your side like your chest had been built to hold her. She curled into you with all the weight of someone who hadn’t slept in weeks and finally felt like she maybe could. Her fingers hooked in the hem of your shirt, her breath warm against your collarbone.

Because if this was the last moment of peace before everything cracked open again, you wanted to feel it. All of it.

Even if it hurt.

Weeks of sleepless nights finally caught up with you too, lulled to rest by the feeling of home in her arms. And the moment you whispered I love you against her collarbone, your eyelids gave out. 

She didn’t stop you. Just kissed your forehead. Turned down the lights. Let her hand settle at the small of your back and whispered I love you too into your hair like it was a secret too heavy to say out loud.

And the world went still for a while.

But hours passed. The clock slipped past midnight, and Ellie still couldn’t settle.

You could feel it—her body tense beside you, shifting under the sheets in restless bursts. Every few minutes, she’d turn, her legs tangling and untangling, breath coming in uneven huffs like her mind was too loud to quiet. She was shaking faintly, her fingers twitching every time she tried to go still.

You’d reached for her more than once, murmured a quiet “Shh, babe, it’s okay… try to sleep.” Your hand had brushed through her hair, soft and slow, trying to coax the fight out of her bones. Eventually, she stilled enough to drift off—or at least fake it well enough that you did too.

You were half-asleep then, warm and drowsy, still wrapped in the scent of her skin, the softness of her breath against your shoulder. That fragile, in-between space where everything felt safe again.

Until the shift came.

Subtle. Almost imperceptible.

Her arm, slowly unhooking from around your waist.

The mattress dipping, just slightly, with the careful weight of someone moving inch by inch, quiet as a secret.

You didn’t move, but you weren’t dreaming anymore. You were wide awake—heart pounding, eyes half-lidded, watching through the soft blur of sleep as she stood, outlined in the pale moonlight pouring through the window.

Just a tank top and boxers clinged to her frame, her hair falling loose around her face as she brushed it back with trembling fingers. Her feet made no sound against the carpet.

You watched her crouch by her bag, careful, methodical. Like she was searching for something delicate. Or dangerous.

Her hands were shaking. Not a little. Not subtly. Her whole body trembled with it—shoulders twitching, breath short, the kind of shake that came from somewhere deep in her bones.

And she didn't look back.

The bathroom door clicked shut.

Soft. Gentle.

Still, it echoed like a lock slamming into place.

At first, you didn’t panic.

You told yourself she probably just needed to pee. Or grab her phone. Maybe she was thirsty, or couldn’t sleep, or needed a second to herself—she did that sometimes. Slipped away for air, for quiet.

But something tugged at you. A low hum beneath your ribs.

Because she wasn’t just moving quietly. She was moving carefully. Like she didn’t only not want to wake you. Like she didn’t want to be caught.

And whatever she was looking for in that bag—she wasn’t just rummaging. She was searching. Intent. Focused. Her hands a little too precise, a little too desperate, as they sifted through pockets and zippers and lining.

Searching for something she couldn’t go a few hours without.

The minutes ticked on.

First two. Then three.

Then five.

And with every second that passed, your skin pulled tighter. Your mind started spinning. You sat up slowly, the cool air of the hotel room wrapping around your arms like a warning. You could hear the air conditioner humming again, a low mechanical sigh.

But no other sounds came from behind that door.

Not the sink. Not the toilet. Not the squeak of pipes or the rustle of towels.

Just silence.

Ellie didn’t do silence. Not like this. She hated mirrors. She’d said once that they made her feel like she was being watched—like something was always about to surface she couldn’t control.

So why now?

Why this kind of quiet?

You hugged your knees to your chest. The room felt colder. The sheets beside you still warm from where she’d been lying, but that warmth was starting to feel like an echo.

Then—faint.

A sniff.

Barely audible.

Your whole body stiffened.

It hit you like a memory and a prophecy all at once.

The quick trips to the bathroom at dinners, at rehearsals, backstage, after parties. The way she’d come back with her pupils blown wide, swallowing the green whole. How she’d press in close, breathing too fast, too sharp against your jaw, fingers restless like they needed something to do.

And now, here. Now, this.

You didn’t move at first.

Because if you opened that door and saw what you were afraid of.

If you saw her doing what you knew she was doing

What then?

Could you carry it? Could you carry her?

You’d loved her in every way a person could be loved. In words. In actions. In songs you wrote when she didn’t text back. In silences you filled just by holding her hand.

And now she was behind that door.

Slipping.

Another sniff.

This one sharper. Wet. The kind that echoed.

No.

You couldn’t handle it any longer.

Your whole body moved before your mind could catch up.

You were off the bed in a blink, bare feet slapping against the carpet as you crossed the room in two strides. Your hand hit the bathroom door, pushed it open so hard it smacked against the wall.

“Ellie, what—”

Crouched by the sink. One hand steadying herself on the edge of the counter. That same credit card between her fingers. Two neat lines of powder, already half-dissolved into the marble by the room’s humidity.

Time froze.

Your mouth opened but no sound came out. Your heart slammed against your chest, sick and loud, and every inch of your body went cold.

She looked up at the sound of the door. Eyes wide. Caught. The kind of look animals give when they’re cornered—ears back, blood rushing, ready to bolt.

Just for a split second, the mask slipped.

And you saw it all: the shame, the desperation, the hollow behind her irises that hadn’t been there when you first met her.

And then it was gone.

Ellie straightened like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t just been kneeling on the floor in the dark, her hair a mess, her jaw tight from clenching. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand like she could still pretend she wasn’t doing what she clearly was.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Your voice cracked halfway through, splintering somewhere between fury and disbelief.

You barely recognized the sound—thinner than you’d expected, raw with hurt. Fragile in a way that made you want to claw your own chest open just to feel something sturdier.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look ashamed or startled or even sorry. She just stood there, still as stone, saying nothing.

That somehow made it worse.

“You told me it wasn’t a problem,” your voice was shaky now, rough around the edges. “That night at the club—you looked me in the eye and said it was nothing. That you had it under control.”

“It is under control.”

She muttered, automatic and empty. Like it was a line she’d said a hundred times before and no longer believed.

“Don't you dare,” you snapped. “You said that exact same thing when you were high off your ass in that fucking booth.”

Her jaw locked. Her eyes dropped to the floor like she was searching for an escape route in the tile. 

“It was just that one—”

“No, it wasn’t,” you cut in, voice rising again. “I saw you in Chicago, too. Right before the show. You think I didn’t notice?”

And then your hand lifted, motioning helplessly towards the counter— the half-finished lines like a wound on the marble.

“You waited until I was asleep,” you said. “You snuck out of bed to do this. And now you want me to believe it’s under control?”

Her voice, when it came, was barely audible.

“I-It's not what you think, I'm not–.”

“No. I know this isn’t new, Ellie,” you said, your voice cutting hers, low and steady—like a fuse lit too close to the flame. “I know you’ve been using for a long time.”

She froze. Just for a second. But it was enough. Her jaw tensed. Her eyes didn’t meet yours.

Something flickered there—guilt, maybe. Or fear. Or both. But what came out was anger.

“They told you?” Her voice cracked sharp across the room like glass on tile. “Are you serious? What the fuck, man. What the actual fuck?!”

She ran a hand through her hair, seething. “That wasn’t theirs to say. That wasn’t—” She stopped, shaking her head. “They promised me they wouldn’t!”

“They didn’t tell me to betray you,” you said. “They told me because they’re scared. Because I’m scared, Ellie. And we’re not wrong to be.”

Silence. A hard, heavy kind that pressed in around the edges of the room. She didn’t respond—just kept her fists clenched at her sides, shoulders pulled tight like a rubber band about to snap.

Your throat burned. Your lungs felt like they were filling with cement—wet and slow and suffocating.

“You’ve even lost weight,” the words escaped before you could swallow them, signaling her body. “Not just a little. It’s in your face, your hands. It’s like you’re... disappearing.”

She flinched like you’d struck her. Her mouth opened, then closed. Her eyes darted away, to the floor, the window—anywhere but you.

“Look at me, Ellie. You’re lying to yourself if you think this is normal.”

You tried to step closer—but something stopped you. Not her. Not fear. It.

That white residue on the counter, still sitting like it belonged there.

It was almost poetic, the way it held you back. Like an invisible wall had risen between you, built from everything she wouldn’t say and everything you didn’t want to see. A line drawn in powder, pulling you apart in the most literal way.

Just looking at it made you nauseous. It was repulsive.

Not just for what it was, but for what it meant. For what it was doing to her. Your stomach churned violently, bile rising like grief in your throat. You couldn’t look at it without wanting to smash it, scatter it to hell—because how could she let this thing carve its way into her and call it control?

It wasn’t just coke. It was the thing stealing her from you, grain by grain.

So you just stood there, frozen, a foot away but miles from her. And the distance between your bodies felt like it had been carved by the drug itself.

“Do you even understand?” you asked a second later, looking away from the counter like you couldn’t handle doing it any longer. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch someone you love destroy themselves right in front of you?”

She shook her head, still not meeting your eyes.

“You don’t get it,” she muttered. “This—this is how I get through it. The tour, the pressure, the writing, the interviews, the fans, the press, the expectations—fuck, I can’t breathe half the time unless I take something.”

Her voice was bitter now, rising in defense. “You don’t know what it’s like to have everyone waiting for you to fuck up, just so they can say they saw it coming.”

“Then let them wait!” you snapped, anger rising up on your tone that you couldn't stop. “Let them fucking wait. Who cares if they see you fall? I don’t. I only care if you come back alive.”

“I need it!” she snapped even harder. "I can’t do it sober anymore! Not with the noise in my head, not when everyone wants something from me!”

“And what happens if that’s not enough anymore?!” you shouted the question harshly, your voice trembling but strong. “When a bump isn’t enough to get by—when you’re reaching for something stronger?!”

She shook her head, too fast, like the words were flies she could bat away.

"That's not gonna happen."

“No, but it can,” your chest was heaving now, heart thudding against your ribs like it was trying to claw its way out. “Can’t you see it? You’re not using it to keep up anymore. You’re using it to survive.”

Ellie scoffed, sharp and bitter. Her eyes snapped to yours, dark and wild. “Oh, what, now you’re my fucking mom? You gonna ground me next? Flush it and pretend I’m fixed?”

“Ellie—”

“No,” she snarled, stepping forward. “You wanna love me so bad? Then love this. Love the wreck. Love the part of me that gets high at 3 am just to shut my fucking brain up."

You flinched—like the words were fists.

How dare she, you thought, throat burning. How could she stand there, ask you to love someone you didn’t even recognize? Someone who’d buried the girl you fell for?

Your chest heaved, and when you blinked, the tears spilled fast and reckless, like they’d been waiting all along.

But she wasn’t done. The sight of you crying didn’t even face her.

“Don’t stand there crying and pretending you know what it feels like,” she spat. “Your whole career was glitter and perfection and people praising you for just breathing.”

“Oh,” your voice cracked, the disbelief cutting sharper than her words. “So that’s what you think of me? That it was all roses and red carpets? That I’ve never bled for any of this?”

She sneered. “Compared to me? No, you haven’t.”

“Jesus, Ellie,” you breathed, tears now spilling harder. “You don’t know shit about what I’ve been through! You never asked! You just assumed it was easier for me—”

“Because you didn’t end up like this!” she shouted, pointing to herself like she was a living caution sign. “You didn’t need coke or pills or alcohol to keep up. You’re not the one everyone expects to be fucked up!”

“Fuck off!” she snapped before you could speak again, her laugh splintering like glass. “You think this is love? Standing there crying? That’s not love. That’s guilt. You feel bad, that’s all.”

Your throat tightened. Vision blurred. But you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

It was like something else had taken hold of her, speaking through her teeth with a voice that didn’t sound like hers. Like whatever softness she’d once carried had been swallowed whole by whatever storm was raging inside her now.

Her eyes were wild, unfocused, as if she couldn’t even see you—like she was fighting a ghost you couldn’t touch, bleeding words that didn’t come from her heart, but from the place where she kept all the pain she never talked about.

It wasn’t Ellie talking.

It was the part of her that didn’t believe she deserved to be loved.

The part that pushed people away before they could leave on their own.

“I’m not crying because I feel guilty,” you said, your voice barely holding together. “I’m crying because I don’t even recognize you anymore. Somewhere along the line, I lost you—and I don’t know if you're still in there.”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. Her jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt.

“Yeah? Well, neither do I,” she snapped, her voice cracking on the edge of fury and grief. “You think I wake up feeling like myself? I don’t! I wake up every damn day wondering if this is the one where I ruin it all. Where I finally push everyone too far. I never wanted this!”

“Then stop!” you screamed back, voice frayed to the edge, pleading, begging. “Please. Ellie. Just—please stop!”

“I CAN’T!”

The words ripped from somewhere deep in her chest.

The room pulsed in the silence that followed. Her shoulders trembled. Her eyes were wild and wet. And somewhere in all that rage—somewhere behind the violence and venom—you saw it.

Fear.

You felt your whole body go still.

“You can’t…” you repeated, barely audible. “You can’t or you won’t?”

She flinched like the question burned her. 

"I-I can’t….I don’t know how,” she was now whispering, voice coming apart after the weight of her own thruth. “Since I started…I never learned how to even breathe without it.”

You crossed the threshold between you before you could stop yourself.

“Go to rehab.”

She stared at you like you’d said something absurd. Like you’d just asked her to walk into the ocean and disappear.

Those words didn’t make sense in her mind, let alone her life.

You’d cracked open a reality she wasn’t ready to live in.

“What?”

“Rehab, Ellie. You need it.”

“You want to lock me up?” she said, laughing now, dry and bitter. “Put me in some white-wall fucking center like I’m some kind of—”

“No,” you said, “I want you to live.”

Your voice was thick. The tears were back, full force, spilling now. There was no stopping them. You reached to hold her hand, cold and shaky.

“You’re vanishing in front of me. Every day. And I keep pretending you’re not. I keep pretending I don’t see it. But I do. I see you.”

She was shaking her head. Backing up again, away from your hand, away from the love you’d tried to wrap around her like a blanket.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she said, voice hoarse. “I can’t stop. Not now. I’m on tour, I’m writing, I’m performing—I’m doing everything they fucking need from me, taking care of everything—”

“And who’s taking care of you?”

That stopped her.

Her mouth stayed open, halfway to her next excuse, but no sound came out. Her eyes flicked up to yours—wide and stunned, like you’d just spoken a language she didn’t know she needed to understand.

For a second, she looked like a kid caught outside in the rain. Wet lashes. Open mouth. No shelter.

You pressed your fist to your mouth, trying to keep it together. The grief was pouring out of you, molten and wild and ancient. Like you’d tapped into something deeper than rage—something older than heartbreak.

You took a breath that felt like glass. “I love you more than anything in the world. But if you won’t stop—if you won’t try—then what the fuck am I even doing here?”

She looked at you, finally. Really looked.

And there was something in her face now—something devastated.

“I- I can't do that…” she whispered. “If I stop, everything falls apart… I fall apart.”

You crossed the space between you. You grabbed her hands, shaking in yours.

“Then let it fall,” you said, voice trembling with something that was no longer fear, but love dressed in desperation. “Let the whole fucking thing fall apart, Ellie. Stop holding it up like you owe the world something just for breathing.”

You took a step toward her, heart pounding, voice cracking open like a confession.

“Let it break. Let it shatter. I’ll be here—we’ll be here—to help you put it back together. But you have to let me in.”

She didn’t move. But her eyes—those wild, tired eyes—were locked on yours now.

“You’re not indestructible,” you whispered. “You’re not supposed to be. And if you keep pretending this doesn’t matter, if you keep pretending it’s not killing you, then one day it will.”

A beat passed. You swallowed hard.

“Face it, Ellie. Own it. Accept that you need help. Because I’m standing right here, begging you to fight for yourself the way I’m fighting for you.”

She didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you—really looked at you—like she was seeing the wreckage of herself reflected back in your eyes. Her jaw clenched, unclenched.

A war behind her ribs.

Her eyes shimmered, rimmed red and glassy—not just from the coke, not just from the screaming, but from something deeper. Something old and cracking and hollowed out. She looked like she was standing at the edge of herself, inches away from falling in.

“I can’t sleep,” she rasped. “I can’t eat. Everything tastes like ash. And I… I never meant for you to see me like this.”

Her voice broke, small and sharp, like a bone snapping under the weight of its own truth.

“Not like this. Not when I can barely look in the mirror without wanting to smash it.”

She turned her face away, jaw trembling, eyes dragging across the tile like it might offer a place to hide. Her shoulders curled inward, instinctive, protective—like a kid who learned too early how to shrink.

“I just—” she choked out. “I thought if I could just stay ahead of the spiral, I could keep everything from falling apart.”

You felt something twist deep in your chest, sharp and slow. You stepped forward, steady. Gentle. Reaching for her without touching her.

“But it is falling apart, Ellie,” you said, soft but firm. “And you’re in the middle of the wreckage, pretending it’s not real. But it is. And it’s breaking you.”

Her eyes met yours, and this time she didn’t flinch. There was no defiance in them, no bravado—just terror and love, tangled like two vines choking each other. A kind of desperate honesty that only shows up when everything else has been stripped away.

“Would you stay?” she asked, barely more than breath. “If I tried—really tried to get clean… would you still love me, even if I can’t be the version of me you thought you were getting?”

Your throat closed. You stepped in, close enough to feel the tremor in her hands, the heat off her skin. You reached up, cupped her cheek, your thumb brushing just beneath her eye.

“Ellie,” you said, your voice thick, low. “There is nothing I want more than to love you through this. To love you while you’re healing, even if it’s messy. Even if you fall. I’ll be there to help you stand back up.”

And that—that—was what cracked her open.

You saw it happen. Like glass held too long under pressure, giving way all at once.

Her breath caught, sharp and fragile. Her bottom lip trembled, and then the tears came—silent and unstoppable. They slid down her cheeks like they’d been waiting just out of sight, biding their time. They clung to her lashes, gathered in the corners of her mouth, delicate as rain on the verge of becoming flood.

You had never seen her cry before.

She looked unarmored. Exposed. Like something tender had been peeled back to the nerve.

And small—God, she looked so small. Not in body, but in spirit. Like the weight of herself had become too much to carry.

But then her eyes found yours again, and you saw something shift. Not shame, not anymore. She looked down at first, yes, but when she looked back up, it was with the realization that she had nothing to hide. That whatever cracked open inside her wasn’t weakness—it was truth. It was what remained when all the lies had been scraped clean.

She nodded once. Then again. Her whole body moved with it, like she was anchoring herself to the decision, forcing it from bone and breath and blood.

And when she finally spoke, it sounded like a vow pulled straight from the center of her.

“I’ll go.”

A pause. A breath.

“I’ll go to rehab. Not for Jesse, or Dina, or some PR fix. For you.”

She swallowed, hard.

“Because I love you. And I don’t want to lose you.”

And there it was.

Not a promise of perfection. Not a magic cure. But a beginning. The only one that mattered.

You stared at her, your chest aching.

“After the tour,” she added, softer now. “I promise. I’ll finish what I started, and then I’ll go. And I’ll really try. Because you’re the only thing that still feels real to me.”

And somehow, through the pain, you believed her.

You looked at her then—really looked at her. The pale skin stretched taut over sharp joints. Her boxers sat low on her hips, revealing the deep cut of her pelvis, the subtle dip where muscle used to be. She looked worn down to the bone, fragile in a way she never let herself be.

And yet, something in her face was still so unbearably her.

Stubborn and defiant and full of that messy, hungry love she’d always given you. 

Even now. Even like this.

“I’m scared,” you said. “You’re slipping and I can’t catch you. I keep reaching and you keep—God, you keep disappearing right in front of me.”

Your hands gripped the fabric of her shirt like you were trying to hold her soul in place.

She stepped into you then. Pressed her forehead to yours, her breath uneven.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm so fucking sorry. I swear to you—when the tour ends, I’ll get help. I’ll stop being the person who makes you cry like this.”

Your tears had blurred everything, but her face stayed in focus. The weight of her gaze. The sincerity there, bruised but real.

You nodded, slow. Not because you were convinced. But because hope—real, hard-won hope—was a muscle. And maybe this was how you started stretching it again.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Ellie,” you said, your voice low, steady despite the storm in your chest. “You don’t even have to be strong all the time. But you do have to be real—with me, yeah, but more than that… with yourself.”

She didn’t look at you right away. Her gaze dropped to the tiles like she could hide from it—hide from what she already knew.

“You have to get clean,” you said gently, "But not for me. For you. Because your life matters. Because you matter.”

Her head bobbed once—barely a nod. Then again, more certain. Tears never stopped falling from her eyes without sound.

When you reached for her, she didn’t flinch. Didn’t fight. She just melted into your arms, surrendering—shoulders shaking, face buried in your neck, the soft hitch of her breath blooming warm against your skin.

And when you kissed her, it was slow. Soft. Like reverence. Like trying to memorize a feeling before it disappeared. The kind of kiss that didn’t pretend everything would be okay, but still made a promise: I’m not leaving. Through the unraveling. Through the reckoning. Through the wreckage and what comes after.

And maybe that was the beginning.

Or maybe it was simply the first time she let go—let herself fall, not as a woman broken, but as someone bone-weary from pretending she wasn’t.

Because in that bathroom, with your arms wrapped around each other, foreheads pressed like anchors against the storm, the night unspooling around you in dark, breathless quiet—it didn’t feel like rescue. It didn’t feel like surrender.

It felt like two lives, two histories, two souls crashing into each other— and deciding to stay exactly where they collided.

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑖𝑥 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 →

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࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ Damn.... collide nation how are we feeling...... I totally understand if this chapter felt a shocking or too raw. i tried to approach the topic with as much care as i could, and i actually did a good amount of research to make it feel respectful and realistic.

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’m always open to 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 ;)

[gurugirl]

Don't Judge a Book by Its Cover | shy dom!harry

*originally posted on Patreon but due to the use of the word daddy it had to be removed*

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: No one would ever know that your shy, quiet boyfriend likes to dominate you in bed every night.

A/N: This is an apology for not having mean king out this week! I've been stressed and busy and while I've got chapter 3 mostly ready I don't want to post til it's 100%. So enjoy this fun little taste of my shy dom!harry in the meantime! xoxo

Word Count: 2.8k

Warning: smut, sub/dom dynamics (Harry's degrading but also gives praise!), daddy kink, size kink (yes always size kink)

. .

When you first met Harry you never imagined the kind of person he was under the quiet shy-guy façade. You had brought your old laptop to him in hopes that he could fix it so you wouldn’t have to buy a new one. His small computer repair shop was highly recommended. And when you saw him, well, he was something out of a dream. Tall with tan skin and light green eyes, a soft smile, dark curls, and he appeared healthy and strong.

Except he was very shy. Quiet. You explained to him the issue with your laptop and he ran a cord up to the desk and plugged it in, typed something on your keyboard, bringing up a strange screen. You watched as he did whatever he was doing and wondered if this guy had ever been laid. You soon learned just how wrong that initial perception was.

“You spend a lot of time here?” You asked in hopes of striking up a conversation.

He scrunched his brows together and looked up at you. “Uh… yeah.” And then he looked back at your screen intently.

But you didn’t stop there. If there was one thing about you it was that you could be kind of relentless. You’d get something out of him one way or another.

And oh boy did you get it. After he told you what he thought he could do to repair your laptop and that he’d have to keep it for a few days you gave him your contact information so he could call you when it was ready. From there… it was kind of a whirlwind after you asked him to hang out a few times.

You knew you could be a bit bossy and direct and so it felt like a really good fit as you got to know him the few weeks after first meeting him. He didn’t seem to mind you making all the plans and telling him what to do and when you introduced him to a couple of friends you ran into at the park one day they also noticed how quiet he was too. He was polite, but he didn’t talk much so you commented to your friends that he was just shy right in front of him and that was the first time you noticed that look from Harry. A sharp glance that made the hairs prick up on your skin. You brushed it off but wondered if he maybe didn’t like you talking about him like that in front of him. Had he been embarrassed by that? You hadn’t said anything mean or untrue but there was something in the way he looked at you that gave you pause.

And that night was the first time you had sex with him. He followed you into your apartment when you expected him to just drop you off like all the other times you'd hung out with him before.

“Oh you’re coming inside?” You grinned at him and he remained quiet as he stalked behind you until you’d opened your door and Harry slammed it closed behind him.

The Harry you knew in public had suddenly been tucked deep down into some hidden pocket and this new brooding man stood before you with dark eyes and a smirk on his face. “Did you have fun bossing me around all day? Talking about me to your friends and laughing?”

You were stunned as he moved in toward you and both of his hands ran up the back of your neck and he titled your head back. “Well? Was that fun for you?”

Swallowing you let out a shocked laugh. “Uh… I mean… I didn’t like mean to hurt your feelings… I just thought…” Of course, you couldn’t find the exact feelings and words at that moment because this was a different man standing over you gripping the back of your neck.

“Can’t spit out your words, little brat? How unusual that you suddenly can’t yammer on. I’m gonna make this easy for you. Now, you do what I say and keep your mouth closed for once. I don’t want to hear you talking back to me anymore tonight.”

And even if you wanted to you wouldn’t have been able to. You were not only stunned into silence but half the time he had his cock down your throat making you gag around him as he praised you for being so quiet for him. You hadn’t expected any of it but you fucking loved it. When he made you pull his pants down and get on your knees the first sight you caught of his dick was something unbelievable. You hadn’t realized he was going to be so immense.

But he was and he taught you a lesson that night. And that was to not judge a book by its cover. Quiet and shy in public but once the doors were closed he was a caveman who liked to dominate and spank you, spit in your mouth, and fuck you until you were nothing but a puddle of mush and silence and serenity.

You were obsessed.

You still kept up your normal daytime appearances. You were the bossy, mouthy, and outgoing girlfriend to everyone who knew you and he was the compliant, quiet, and shy boyfriend. No one had a clue. They all thought you were the one wearing the pants in the relationship. And you did it in front of everyone. You told him what to do and often would order his meals for him and talk over him if he did speak.

But he was the one in charge the moment you two were alone.

And you knew you were in for it that day. You’d gone out with some friends again for lunch and you sat on his lap with your back to him and yapped loudly to your friends about whatever. You ate his sandwich and then laughed when you pretended to realize that he was still there. “Oh god! I almost forgot you were here, you’re so quiet, Harry! You’re like a piece of furniture!” Your girlfriends laughed with you.

You felt him pinch your thigh. And not a nice little teasing pinch. A bruising one that made you jump and you turned to look at him and there it was. That look. You bit your lip and turned back to your friends and continued being a bit of a brat. You knew he’d have something to say about you calling him a piece of furniture. You couldn’t wait to see what he might do.

And it should have come as no surprise to you that when you got to his house, he had you naked and gagged, on your hands and knees while he sat in his chair with his feet on your back like you were a fucking stool for his legs. Payback for the furniture comment.

Drool was falling from your mouth and pooling on his carpet as you tried to stay steady but the longer you stayed in your position the harder it became to not wobble, especially with the way he was shifting his legs around and crossing them over your back and shoulders.

“Pathetic,” he murmured when he saw the puddle of saliva on the floor. “But it sure is nice and quiet like this. Prefer it actually.”

He read in silence for what seemed like forever until you nearly fell over and he pulled you up and dragged you between his legs, keeping you on your knees. “Pull it out and suck.”

So you did. You looked up at him as you undid his pants and he pulled the damp handkerchief from your mouth.

The moment his length was freed from his boxers he had his hand on the back of your head and pushed you down until you were gargling and sputtering around him. You kept your hands over his thighs as he bucked up and sighed.

“Fuck… all this mouth is good for is sucking cock isn’t that right?”

You couldn’t answer. But you'd have said yes if you could've.

The zipper on his jeans was irritating your chin but you’d never complain. Your face was hot and you pulled breath in through your nostrils every time you were allowed to come up for air but he pushed you down over and over again until he was satisfied with how well you’d taken him and then brought you up to look at your face. “Look at what happens to you when Daddy’s cock gets stuffed in your mouth. Just a drooling baby with her eyes all crossed. Acts all tough and bossy all day with me but can barely make a peep when my dick is in her face.”

You moaned and reached for his dick, opening your lips but he wrapped a hand around your throat and pushed you back as he stood, pulling you up with him. “Open.”

You parted your mouth and stuck your tongue out with your head tilted back just before he spit into your mouth and you kept yourself still as he inspected. “Swallow.”

Gulping down his saliva you fluttered your eyes up at him before he pushed you over the arm of his chair with your ass up and began to spank you. You jolted at each strike to your bum but the smile on your face juxtaposed the sting his palm caused your backside.

“You know you can’t get away with being a brat. Daddy’s always gonna win in the end. But you love it don’t you? Love getting put in your place.”

Harry’s cock was still swollen and thick, hanging out of the front of his pants as he groped your plush bottom and spread your cheeks, spitting a glob of saliva over your ass hole and another over your pussy. You were angled just right for him. He loved it when you were draped over his chair like this. Could see your anus and your wet pussy and could do what he wanted with you.

You squirmed your hips gently and then felt the hot skin of his tip pressing into your cunt. The first dip in always stretching tight and achy around him. You let out a pitiful cry and heard him laughing behind you. “This is Daddy’s hole isn’t it?”

He drove into you, filling your insides with inches and inches of length and girth before backing and out plunging in again.

“It’s Daddy’s!” You moaned.

Another gob of spit was dripped over your anus and then you felt him push his thumb inside. “Yes, it is. And this one too, yeah?”

“Yesss…”

His chair creaked as he pounded into your guts and your moans were muffled into the fabric of the chair as he panted in pleasure.

You loved when he stuck a finger or two in your ass while he was fucking you. It kind of held you in place because he didn’t fuck your pussy gently. It helped ground you in a way.

“My bratty girl is so sweet and obedient right now. Just offers her little holes up to me and lets me have my way because she knows she’s been naughty all day. Laughing at me, pretending she didn’t know she was sitting in my lap, eating my food...”

He groaned when he ground in, swiveling his hips in circles and sliding his thumb in, and pulling it back slightly to put more pressure on your anus. Everything was wet. Soaked. And you could hear it with every thrust he made.

Suddenly he pulled his cock out and his fingers were gone and you whined when you felt him leave your body but he didn’t give you much reprieve when you felt his hands grasp your chin and lift your face up to look at him, standing over you with that dark smile.

He slapped his heavy, wet cock into your cheek and puffed out a laugh when he did it on the other side, your arousal getting smeared on your face. “Is this what you love? Daddy’s big cock in your face?”

You gulped. “Yes. Love your cock, Daddy.”

Keeping your eyes on him he smacked his length over your mouth, popping it past your lips before pressing his hands into your cheeks, his thumb on one side and fingers on the other. “Open.”

The moment your wet lips parted he dipped into your mouth, watching the way your jaw went slack and how your lips wrapped around him. He didn’t shove himself in too far, but just enough that it had your eyes watering as you struggled to keep looking up at him.

He cooed at you and as he rocked his hips in and used his free hand to land his palm down on your sore bottom again. Your ass was still up with your hips down over the arm of the chair and you blinked trying to clear your blurry eyes. “Taste that?” Another harsh smack to your bottom.

You moaned around his cock in response.

“That’s mine. Your pussy juice that makes a mess of my cock... Mine. This ass?” He slapped your bum making you jump. “Mine. This throat and this mouth? Mine.”

You gurgled when he pressed in, grazing just the beginning of your tonsils before slipping it back out to the tip. “Everything is mine. So keep that in mind next time you mouth off to me in front of your friends.”

He pulled his cock from your lips and you gasped a breath and watched him as he tilted your neck upward uncomfortably. “Now do you want to come?”

His fingers were still smushed into your cheeks as you let out a feeble yes.

“How bad do you want it?”

He loosened up his grip so you could respond. “Please. So bad, Daddy. So fucking much. I’ll do anything. Every bit of me is yours… You own me…”

He kept his expression unreadable as you continued. “I need you. I want you to make me come. Please, Daddy. You’re everything… I'm begging you, please… I worship the ground you walk on.”

You knew the drill. He expected to hear you grovel for your orgasm. Especially after the kind of display you put on earlier. He listened to you demean yourself and praise him, beg him…

When he released your face he grunted and you felt him behind you again, this time pressing his warm, sturdy chest into your back. “Good girl, Y/n…” He pressed his cock back inside of you, slicing your through to your tummy and spreading you open as he slowly thrust.

“You always learn your lesson don’t you, baby? Need Daddy and his big cock to make it better?”

You nodded and whimpered. The delicious feel of him opening you up and sliding in would never get old.

“I know you need me, baby. Daddy needs you too. Wants to make you happy and give you the whole world… Gonna let me have that orgasm now? Gonna show me what a good girl you’ve been for me?”

He shoved his hand under your hips and found your clit, making you cry out. He knew just what you needed.

Slow strokes of his long dick wetly opened you up, his balls pressing into your skin every time he bottomed out, his deep voice in your ear. “Come for Daddy. Give Daddy your orgasm like a big girl. Come on honey…”

His voice was tight and you knew he was beckoning you to come so he could come too.

“M’gonna come… thank you, Daddy!”

You unraveled around his cock, spasming and moaning, drooling into the seat of the chair as he rolled your clit between his fingers and fucked into you so deep you saw stars. But then you felt his cock pulse and throb and he pressed his lips to the skin behind your ear and he moaned deeply as he pumped into you, relief taking over both of you.

When he pulled out he kissed your shoulder blade and pulled his briefs up his strong legs and walked away from the chair as you watched him with a pounding heart. He put some music on and pulled a book from the shelf before returning to the chair and helped you up so you could sit in his lap and he could read to you.

Your shy, quiet boyfriend was the only one who got you. The only one who understood who you really were. Deep down you were just a soft and submissive girl who wanted someone to spank her, to tell her what to do and how to do it, and then to love her and read her books and tell her she was his best girl. No one else would ever have guessed.

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[jungwnies]

F1 GRID | the end of the season '24

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri ୨ৎ : synopsis : quiet nights at the hotel after a long race

୨ৎ : genre : some are happy & some are sad ୨ৎ : tws : none ୨ৎ : word count : 2531

୨ masterlist ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : i am so proud of lando for being able to secure that wcc for mclaren, but i am SO sad seeing carlos drive in red for the last time, and seeing lewis have his last drive with mercedes :c

ʚ・max verstappen

the post-race buzz of abu dhabi had faded, leaving a quiet calm in max's hotel suite. he sprawled on the sofa, phone in hand, scrolling through memes with that trademark deadpan expression. p6 wasn't great—definitely not how he wanted to wrap the season—but the world championship trophy on his shelf said it all. he was untouchable, even on an off day.

you dropped onto the couch next to him, giving him a small smile. "not quite the result we were hoping for, huh?"

he tilted his head, barely fazed. "meh. one bad race doesn’t erase a good season." he tossed his phone onto the table, already over it. "at least now i don’t have to hear the word 'tyre degradation' for a while."

"exactly," you agreed, nudging his arm. "just endless beaches, lazy mornings, and maybe some sketchy tourist traps."

he smirked, his eyes lighting up for the first time all evening. "knowing you, that probably means camel racing or some falcon photo op where i end up holding a bird for instagram."

you laughed. "don’t pretend like you wouldn’t secretly enjoy it."

"maybe," he admitted with a faint grin. "but only if there’s good food after. priorities, you know?"

as you leaned into his side, you felt the tension melt away from him. the season was done, the pressure gone. and for once, max verstappen, the reigning world champion, was just a guy on a couch, ready to trade apexes for sunsets and podiums for bad tourist selfies.

ʚ・lewis hamilton

a bittersweet stillness filled the room—p4 after starting sixteenth was nothing short of remarkable, but tonight marked the end of an era. his last race with mercedes. the silver star that had defined his legacy, his dominance, was now in the rearview mirror.

you leaned into him, your head resting lightly on his shoulder. "what a drive, lewis," you murmured, pride laced in your voice. "it was magic out there, just like always."

he smiled faintly, his gaze fixed on the city lights beyond the window. "it felt good, you know? pushing through the field like that. it’s how i want to remember this team—fighting, always fighting." his voice was steady, but there was a weight behind it, a depth only you could hear.

"it’s hard to see this chapter end," you said softly, running your fingers along the edge of his hand. "so many years, so much history. but watching you today—watching you fight with every ounce of heart you’ve got—it’s impossible not to feel proud."

he turned to you then, his eyes warm, a quiet fire still flickering in them. "it’s sad, yeah. mercedes is family. but every journey has its end, and every end makes way for something new. it’s time. time for a new challenge."

you smiled, squeezing his hand. "and ferrari red will suit you, no doubt about it."

that earned a laugh from him, light but genuine, his shoulders finally easing. "we’ll see. it’ll be... different. but i’m ready for different. i have to be."

"you’ll thrive," you said, meeting his gaze with steady confidence. "because that’s who you are, lewis. you don’t just race—you redefine what’s possible."

he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "and having you by my side, that makes it all the better."

the evening stretched on as you reminisced about mercedes—about the victories, the struggles, the growth. there was sadness, yes, but also hope, an electric anticipation for the future. ferrari would be a new challenge, but lewis hamilton was built for challenges. and you? you’d be there, through it all, cheering him on as he wrote the next chapter of his already legendary story.

ʚ・george russell

the air in george’s hotel room was thick with emotions. lewis—his teammate, his mentor, his benchmark—was leaving for ferrari. the weight of it sat heavily on his shoulders, a silent pressure he hadn’t quite found the words to unpack.

you settled beside him on the bed, your hand resting lightly on his back. "you drove brilliantly today, george," you said softly, your tone filled with pride.

he gave you a faint smile, though his usual spark was dimmed. "thanks. it’s just... weird, you know? lewis not being here next season. he's been... well, everything. a teammate, a rival, someone to learn from."

"it’s a huge change," you agreed, your voice gentle. "but today, you showed exactly what you’re made of. you didn’t just race—you fought, george. and everyone saw it."

he turned to look at you, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "but can i really lead this team now? without him?"

you met his gaze firmly, your conviction unwavering. "you don’t have to be lewis, george. you’ve already proven you're your own kind of leader—sharp, determined, and always hungry for more. you don’t need to fill anyone’s shoes because you’re carving out your own legacy."

his shoulders relaxed slightly, the tension giving way to a spark of confidence. "it’s just... lewis set such a high bar. and stepping into that space—it’s a lot."

"you don’t need to step into his space," you reminded him with a reassuring smile. "you’ve earned your own, george. you’ve fought for it, and you’re more than ready to take the reins."

he took a deep breath, the weight on his chest easing as resolve began to take its place. "this is my chance, isn’t it? to really prove myself."

"absolutely," you said, squeezing his hand. "and i’ll be right here, every step of the way, cheering for you."

his smile widened, more genuine this time, and he leaned in to kiss you softly. "thank you, love" he murmured. "that means everything."

as the night stretched on, you stayed by his side, feeling his determination grow stronger with each passing moment. george russell was ready to rise, ready to lead, and ready to show the world exactly why he belonged at the front of the pack. and you couldn’t wait to witness it all.

ʚ・carlos sainz

arlos sank onto the balcony of his hotel suite, the cool night air brushing against his skin, a sharp contrast to the adrenaline and heat of the race. it his last race with ferrari, the team that had become more than a job.

you slipped behind him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, resting your chin lightly on him. "carlos," you said softly, your voice thick with emotion, "you were amazing today. truly incredible."

he let out a quiet sigh, leaning back into your embrace, his eyes fixed on the city lights. "yeah, it was a good one. but leaving ferrari? that’s… it’s hard. really hard."

"i know," you murmured, your cheek pressing against his. "you and charles, ferrari… it felt like it fit, like it was meant to be."

he nodded slowly, a small, wistful smile tugging at his lips. "we were a good team, weren’t we? two competitive guys who somehow managed not to kill each other every weekend," he joked, though his voice carried a faint sadness. "but, ah, next season? it’s going to feel strange not seeing his stupid smile in the garage."

you chuckled softly. "but you’ll always have the memories," you reminded him. "and you’ll make new ones, new rivalries, new podiums."

he turned to look at you, his warm brown eyes meeting yours. "do you remember my first race with ferrari?" he asked, a grin breaking through the sadness. "lando was on the podium with me. and now he’s here again for my last one. crazy, no?"

"it’s like the universe has a sense of humor," you said, your smile mirroring his. "full circle moments like that don’t just happen by chance."

he laughed softly, his shoulders relaxing a bit. "yeah, maybe. or maybe it’s just one of those little things that reminds me to enjoy the journey."

you held him close, knowing how much leaving ferrari meant to him. the passion, the heart, the pure determination he’d poured into every single lap. but you also knew that carlos was unstoppable—wherever he went, whatever he faced, he would find his way to the top.

"wherever you go, whatever happens," you said, your voice steady and filled with love, "i’ll be right there, cheering you on."

his arms wrapped around you, pulling you in tightly. "i know," he whispered, his voice thick with gratitude. "and that’s what keeps me grounded. thank you, mi amor."

ʚ・charles leclerc

the roar of the abu dhabi crowd had faded, leaving only the soft hum of the air conditioning in charles’ hotel room. he sat on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the trophy for his third-place finish. starting p19 after that engine penalty, clawing his way up to the podium—it was an extraordinary drive. but there was a weight in his gaze, a shadow of disappointment.

you sat beside him, your hand finding his. "charles," you said gently, your voice full of admiration, "that was incredible. you were on fire out there."

he offered a small smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "it wasn’t enough," he muttered, his voice heavy with frustration. "we were so close to the WCC... but mclaren just had too much."

"you did everything you could," you assured him, squeezing his hand. "no one could have driven that race better. you started from the back, charles. and you still ended up on the podium. that’s... that’s amazing."

he ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply. "i know, i know. it's just hard. we were so close. it stings."

you gently cupped his face, lifting his chin so his eyes met yours. "charles leclerc, you are one of the best out there. don’t let this one race make you forget everything you've accomplished this season. you fought for every position, you never gave up, and you made us all proud."

a real smile tugged at his lips, the weight on his shoulders easing slightly. "thank you," he whispered, leaning into your touch. "i needed that."

there was a brief pause, and a flicker of sadness passed through his eyes. "it’s gonna be strange without carlos next year," he said quietly, his voice low.

you felt a pang for him. you knew how close he and carlos were, both on and off the track. "i know," you murmured, your heart aching. "but you'll still have him as a friend. and you’ll both keep achieving incredible things."

he nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "he’s like a brother to me. it won’t be the same without him."

you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close. "i know it won’t," you whispered, running your fingers through his hair. "but i know you ,charles. you'll adapt. you’ll keep shining."

he held you tighter, drawing comfort from your embrace, "what would i do without you mon amour."

you let out a soft laugh and place a gentle peck on his lips, "you'd probably be a mess without me, i love you."

"i love you too." he told you, snuggling closer.

ʚ・lando norris

the echoes of the abu dhabi celebrations had finally faded, leaving a peaceful quiet in lando's hotel suite. he was sprawled on the sofa, the trophy resting on his chest, his eyes half-closed as a contented sigh escaped his lips. the excitement from the victory was still buzzing inside him, but a calm had settled in, like he was finally letting everything sink in.

you curled up beside him, your finger tracing the lines of the trophy. "still can't believe it, huh?" you whispered, a soft smile on your face.

lando chuckled, a grin tugging at his lips. "yeah, it's still kinda crazy. like, i feel like i'm dreaming, but don't wanna wake up."

"you were amazing today, lando," you said, your voice filled with pride. "and the whole season, really. you led mclaren to victory. it’s historic."

he grinned, his eyes lighting up. "yeah, it really is, isn’t it? bringing mclaren back to the top after all this time... feels unreal. but in the best way possible."

"you deserve all the praise," you reassured him, snuggling closer. "you’ve worked so hard, and you’ve grown so much as a driver. i'm so proud of you."

he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you in closer. "couldn’t have done it without you, honestly," he murmured, his voice warm. "you’ve been with me through all of it—my biggest supporter."

"and i always will be," you promised, feeling your heart swell. "through the wins, the losses, i’ll be right here."

he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft kiss. "and that's all i need," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

as you lay together, bathed in the soft glow of the hotel room lights, the weight of his achievement settled in. lando norris, the man who led mclaren to the top of the world again, securing the WCC after 26 years. this moment, this victory, would be something you both would remember forever. the future was bright, and you couldn’t wait for the next adventure—together.

ʚ・oscar piastri

back in the comfort of his hotel room, oscar kicked back with a grin plastered on his face, the adrenaline from the race replaced by his usual playful energy. p10 wasn’t the podium he’d wanted, but who cared? mclaren had just clinched the WCC, and that was more than enough for him.

“we did it!” he shouted, arms thrown up in the air, his grin wider than ever. “champions, baby!”

you chuckled, shaking your head at his excitement. “you guys were incredible today, oscar. especially lando, bringing home the win.”

“yeah, lando was on fire!” oscar agreed, grabbing a celebratory drink from the minibar. “though, i wouldn’t mind a podium myself…” he paused, a glint of mischief lighting up his eyes. “if it weren’t for someone deciding to use my car as a brake early on.”

you raised an eyebrow, trying to hide your smile. “ah, yes. max verstappen. saw that incident. bit of a rough start, huh?”

“rough is putting it lightly,” oscar grumbled with a smirk, taking a swig of his drink. “the guy treated me like a bowling pin! swear i saw stars, maybe even a few constellations.”

“well, you can’t deny it made for some exciting racing,” you teased, nudging him playfully.

“exciting for you, maybe,” he shot back with a grin. “i was just trying to survive out there! dodging debris, angry drivers... felt like a demolition derby.”

“but you made it through,” you pointed out. “and you contributed to the team’s victory. that’s what counts.”

he gave a dramatic nod, his humor returning full force. “true, true. who needs a podium when you’ve got bragging rights for surviving a verstappen torpedo?”

you burst out laughing, unable to hold back. “that’s the spirit babe."

as laughter filled the room, you couldn’t help but admire oscar’s resilience and ability to keep things light, even when things didn’t go his way. he might’ve been a little salty about the verstappen incident, but he was genuinely happy for the team, and that’s what made him such an asset. next season was going to be one to remember, and you couldn’t wait to see what this rising star would achieve.

© 2024 jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[talon-the-hawk]

Yandere! Batfam x Neglected Streamer! Reader

Previous Next

Chapter 2: Entertainment

TW: I mean...kinda yandere behaviour...but it's a yandere fic so like if you're not into that why are you reading this far into the post? 🥲

It started off small.

A hushed giggle from Garfield as he watched something on his phone just out of Dick's line of sight.

An amused snort as Roy scrolled his phone in boredom when chilling at one of Jason's safehouses.

Konner and Jon commenting on "a new stream they saw" while over at the manor, leaving Damian and Tim confused and oblivious.

Your popularity in the content creation community was growing rapidly by the day, with your range of viewers extending out of Gotham and moving world wide. You gained a steady community of fans, with some even sending you gifts and letters. Of course, you made sure to use a P.O box to conceal your address in case someone somehow linked you to your past life as Bruce Wayne's child. Through maintaining a semi-regular streaming schedule mixed with uploading to youtube every month left you with quite a chunk of cash in your pocket. So much infact, that you soon decided to drop the couple of college courses you were taking to pursue your content creation career full time.

With the added fame came opportunities to collab. Soon enough you were streaming with the people you used to idolize. It was almost a power trip, the way you ended up being a figure that was adored so commonly.

Adored. Shown affection, unlike when you were with them.

Surprisingly enough, Damian was the first to find out. Damain: the little brother who had taunted you endlessly, mocked you in front of everyone, and showed little remorse for any of it.

Jon was giggling on his phone, eyes stuck to his screen as he watched a youtube video of some sort during one of their many hangouts.

" Tch, can't you put that device down for one moment?" Damian huffed, looking over at the boy.

"Aw, lighten up. Come watch with me." Jon chirped, motioning for Damian to sit down next to him. He reluctantly agreed, posture still slightly too stiff as he sat down on the couch next to Jon. The youngest Kent propped his phone up in his hands, eager to show his friend the newest content creator he had found. His finger hit the play button, and it only took a couple seconds for Damian's eyes to narrow in recognition.

Surely not.

It sounded like you. There was no mistaking it, the same soft timbre that he would make choke up with tears now rang out confidently in an enrapturing way. Each word seemed to catch the complete attention of everyone who watched, bringing a sort of comfort that settled itself in his ribs.

When did they get so popular? Does Bruce know his child is building a reputation anonymously?

It was clear to Damian when he looked over at Jon that the youngest super had no idea it was you, and he supposed that made sense. Often times when Jon came over Damian made a bigger show of ostracizing you from the rest of the family. Now that he really thought about it, he realized that Jon had never really heard you speak in person. You had always tried to get out of Damian's vicinity whenever you spotted him, especially when he was with Jon.

Jon clearly saw he was lost in thought, snapping his fingers in front of Damian's face.

"Hello? Earth to Damian?"

Damian's gaze just slowly returned to the small device.

"I need to go find someone, I'll be back."

For Dick, he was doom scrolling on instagram one night after patrols when a certain reel made him pause. It was a clip one of your viewers had taken from a stream a while back, one where a fan of yours had made a huge donation. The donation requested you to share some sort of talent you had, and as per your usual antics you focused your camera on your new bedroom (still wearing a mask and sunglasses to keep yourself as unidentifiable as you could) and prepared.

"God, this is embarrassing. I actually learned how to do this a while back in order to try and impress some of my family, but that's a story for another time-" You snorted, before flipping over to walk on your hands. You did a little lap around your space before eventually standing back up, pushing the glasses back up the bridge of your nose to make sure they didn't fall.

There was no mistaking it was you, he'd recognize his baby bird anywhere. But what he wasn't prepared for was your small show of talent. He tried to recall any previous instances of you showing an interest in any sort of acrobatics, but his mind came up blank. Matter of fact, he was struggling to come up with a recollection of any of your hobbies.

Surely you've talked to him about something you were interested in before, no? He was your older brother, he should know about your hobbies.

Dick racked his brain, trying to come up with any memory of even holding a proper conversation with you, and his guilt seemed to increase every time he came up empty. He vaguely recalled a time you had asked to show him "something you thought he would like", but he had brushed it off as it was close to the time he was set to patrol.

He bit down on his bottom lip in guilt, clicking on the caption of the reel and trying to see if the person had tagged your official account. They hadn't (which honestly he found insulting, the clip was your hard work and this pathetic internet leech couldn't even be bothered to give you credit-) but in the hashtags he found what he assumed to be the same you went by on most platforms. He quickly typed it into his search bar, letting out a gasp at just how popular you seemed to be.

His baby bird was really taking after him in the entertainment industry. Although it wasn't really the same thing, Dick couldn't help but feel like he was part of your inspiration to become a famous personality.

He spent the next couple of hours carefully combing through your content, memorizing every reoccurring joke you held with your audience and how you acted as a safe space for your community.

God, he really needed to go find you and tell you how proud he was of your success.

Author's note:

Hey y'all! Dw, dw...Jason and Tim's reactions are coming soon lol :p hope you guys enjoy the chapter and please lemme know what you think! Ooh, also if you have any title recommendations for this fic, that would be baller because I've been really struggling to find one hehe!

Taglist: @vanessa-boo @jjsmeowthie @cxcilla @itsberrydreemurstuff @trashlanternfish360 @starsswaggy @legolas-the-homeschooled-elf @nickithearticorn @hallahella @lettucel0ver @kittzu @cssammyyarts @ryuushou @welpthisisboring @neverdead2 @mallowryblog @lingxio @the-dumber-scaramouche @oxionsworld @raini-sanchez @jellyedkazoo @alishii @bellethesleepypotato @icefox8155 @wizzerreblogs @darling-dearesttt @depressed--therapist @crazycaoticsimp @briceericeee

[fangharel]

we need to talk about The Silence and The Song

[PLEASE READ] edit to add: i realise that this post has been reblogged far and wide and that there is not a lot i can do about it now, but this is me trying anyway.

posting examples from the fic about my issues with its repetitive structure was careless of me, and i apologise to those of you who read it and became insecure about your own writing style. as someone who has worked with ai in academic settings, it's incredibly difficult for me to explain to you how the tone and structure of ai-generated fiction works and how, after reading enough of it, you can simply just tell. i do also realise that this is an incredibly weak argument, which is why i didn't include it when i originally wrote this post.

all that to say: there is an enormous difference between "beginner's writing" and ai writing. being repetitive as a new writer (or a seasoned one who just likes using repetition) is so normal. as is flowery/purple language. i've read hundreds of books and fics and the difference between these traits in ai-text and actual works is starkly clear. please don't feel anxious over the examples i've used in this post.

again, i apologise for any distress i have caused.

as per my last post, i have received a lot of encouragement to go public with this, and the more disappointed people i have in my dms, the angrier i get. so i will.

the silence and the song is an ancient arlathan au DA fic on ao3 by luxannaslut, and it is partly, if not entirely, written by an ai. i have no wish to be involved in any kind of fandom drama or witch hunting or bullying, but as a writer myself there are few things that piss me off more than watching people steal the work of others because they can't be fucked to write. it's disrespectful to your fellow writers, it's disrespectful to your readers, and it's disrespectful to the authors of the works the ai is stealing from.

ai is a plague that has no business being in creative spaces and you must do better.

the writing pattern

there was something very odd and monotone about the sentence structure of tsats that i couldn't quite place, so i fed chatgpt a prompt along the lines of "two people in a fantasy novel hate each other, but they secretly desire one another, and they kiss", and the screenshots above are the results. the third one is an excerpt from chapter 40 of tsats. the writing pattern is identical and it doesn't seem like the "writer" has even bothered to pretend they wrote it. if you're going to use ai, at least be sneaky about it. you know, paraphrase a little.

nonsense descriptions

"her nimble fingers worked with quiet precision" (ct. 1), "his grip firm but tender" (ct. 33), "her gown pooling around her like embers" (ct. 1).

fingers don't make sound, so what does quiet precision mean? as opposed to what? her joints cracking with every movement? how is a grip firm but tender? what does that mean? since when do embers pool?

the entire fic is littered with these adjectives that contradict each other or just straight up do not make sense, because all an ai does is generate descriptive language with no understanding of what the words it's spitting out actually mean. i could spend hours picking out examples from the seven billion pages worth of text, but i quite frankly have better things to do and would simply challenge you to try getting through a chapter or two without noticing the pattern.

repetition at structure-level

all the scenes in this fic are described in pretty much the same way. they open with purple prose vomit of the surroundings; solas is standing somewhere looking "unreadable as ever"; ellana's fiery golden molten fire copper ember ginger red hair is flowing this and that way; there's some dialogue with whoever is present and it leaves ellana feeling different variations of "something she couldn't name". this is, once again, a blatantly obvious sign of ai. below is the result of me feeding chatgpt the line "write me a scene from a fantasy novel where a woman with red hair is sitting on the ground in a magical garden at night", and side by side with that is the opening scene of the fic. make your own judgement.

repetition at word-level

this one speaks for itself. we fucking get it. her dress is orange, her hair is red, mythal's presence is heavy in the room, solas looks unreadable, compassion is sitting on her head like a crown, solas' ears are betraying him and ellana's move with every thought she thinks. we get it. the issue here is that an ai remembers the info you feed it, but not necessarily the info it shits out. if it's being told to write scene after scene of an elven woman with a gown that looks like fire doing xyz, it's going to do so with no regard for how many times the reader has already been informed of these details.

lastly: the breakneck speed

359,6k words in four weeks by a person who allegedly is employed and married and hasn't pre-written anything? no. any writer will tell you that this simply isn't possible. it absolutely infuriates me to see how much praise this "writer" gets for posting up to three full chapters in a day without anyone calling bullshit. i am pulling out my hair, you guys.

why i'm not going to live and let live this one

perhaps i would be less angry if the fic was some silly bullshit court intrigue Y/A stuff, but this is a text that handles very heavy and triggering topics such as SA, coercion, domestic abuse, and other things of the same vein. to sit back and put your feet up while having a robot write these extremely sensitive and very real human experiences with words it has stolen from texts written by actual persons is fucking heinous. the "writer" should be deeply ashamed of themselves and i'm sick and tired of watching people eat up their bs.

and on that note: the amount of people in my dm's telling me that they feel stupid and naive for not clocking this has infuriated me more than anything else. you're not foolish for this. being fed ai-generated bullshit is not what is supposed to happen on any creative platform and much less a fandom-centred one, so of course no one approaches a fic through that lens. fandom and fic writing is supposed to be about passion and the only person in this situation who needs to do better and change their behaviour is luxannaslut. polluting our creative spaces, wasting the time of your readers, and minimising the effort of actual writers who are working hard to provide content for us all to share and enjoy is vile and so, so lazy. i beg of you: do better.

[slutzforbueckers]

no. 1 pick—p.b x f!reader

pairing: paige bueckers x dallas wings!fem!reader

warnings: nothing but straight fluff

synopsis: sharing a moment with paige after being drafted.

a/n: i know i don’t really talk about the games and stuff and yes im a new fan but im genuinely so proud of paige and everything she’s accomplished. im so proud of kaitlyn and aubrey, they are so deserving. i really admire paige’s openness about her faith, her dedication, the way she lifts her peers up without thinking twice. she’s genuinely an amazing human being and i pray that she has an incredible journey in this new chapter of her life. also dont mind me using the same pictures from my last post!! i literally could not find pictures from tonight.

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

your heart was pounding against your chest, eyes filled with tears that threatened to ruin your makeup. paige had found you almost immediately, as soon as the spotlight was off of her.

"you can't cry." she shook her head, a shake to her voice that let you know she was close to crying herself. she wrapped her arms around you and pulled you into a hug, letting her head fall onto your shoulder.

"you can't tell me what to do." you laughed through the tears and pushed her back slightly so you could see her face. when you looked at her all you could see was a girl who had been through so much but continuously came back from it stronger. you had watched her go through some of the hardest things--injuries that have taken some off the court, being put in the spotlight even when she was going through things-- and you couldn't have been prouder of her. "i'm so proud of you, you're the strongest person i know."

"you're making me cry and i look so good tonight." paige jutted her lip out, her eyes softening as she looked at you, and a few tears rolled down her cheek. she never passed up an opportunity to crack a joke but she was grateful to have you, grateful that you were in her life. she delicately wiped her eyes so she didn't ruin her makeup.

"you do look good." you smiled, hands coming up to cup her face. "number one pick looks good on you."

that made her smile, wide and genuine, and she leaned in to kiss you quickly—just a gentle press of lips that carried so much love behind it. you were both vaguely aware that cameras were flashing, probably capturing every second, but neither of you cared. she was still holding your hand when a voice broke through the moment.

"paige! y/n! mind if we have a word?" a reporter asked gently, stepping up with a camera crew in tow, clearly trying not to intrude too harshly. you both shook your heads and straightened up for the cameras, laughing a bit as you ran your hands through your hair to look presentable for the cameras. the reporter turned to paige first.

"first off, congratulations!" she said, a bright smile on her face. "number one pick, how does that feel?"

paige exhaled slowly, her eyes flicking back to you for just a second before she answered. “it’s surreal,” she said, her voice a mix of nerves and pride. “i’ve worked for this my whole life. been through a lot to get here… and it means everything. i'm just... i'm thankful to my teammates, my parents, coaches, and of course y/n. they've kept me going honestly.”

you ran your hand down her forearm and interlaced your fingers, your eyes on her the entire time.

“and this moment—who’s the first person you wanted to see when it was official?”

she didn’t hesitate. “her,” she said, turning toward you with a soft grin that made your heart flip. “always her.”

the reporter chuckled, clearly loving the moment. “well, we’ve seen the two of you together on the court and off, the media loves your relationship. tell us—how important has she been in your journey to this point?”

paige’s smile shifted, more tender now. “she’s my rock,” she said simply. “she’s the one who saw me on the bad days, when I couldn’t walk without pain, when I doubted if I’d ever be back. she believed in me even when i didn’t. tonight isn’t just for me—it’s for her too.”

you felt your throat tighten at her words, and when the reporter looked to you, you tried your best to hold it together. “she’s the hardest-working person I know. i've never met someone so determined like paige is. she's been through so much and i—i really couldn't be more proud of her."

paige squeezed your hand again, and the camera caught it all—the subtle touch, the glances, the smile that only ever appeared when she was looking at you.

"okay, one last question before we leave." the reporter looked down and her watch for a split second before turning back to you. "how do you feel about having her with you in dallas?"

"oh god," you laughed. "i'm excited, to be honest. you know, we played together at upon before i came here and i'm just glad we get to continue our journey together."

"well, we're excited to see you two together again." the reporter gave you both a smile and thanked you for your time, turning around to her camera crew and directing them to another player.

when it was just the two of you, you turned your attention to paige and gave her a look, pointing a finger at her. "don't think i'm gonna go easy on you either."

"i hope not." she grinned, pulling you in and pressing another kiss to your lips, longer this time but not long enough to draw attention.

her hands gave a light squeeze to your waist, a silent promise that no matter what happened you would always have each other.

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

[viceroywrites]

deja vu - part 1

i decided to make a full-fledged multi-chapter fic out of this idea that i posted a few days ago with a cyoa ending potentially

thanks so much to everyone who showed so much love for it and hope you enjoy this series!

this is my first time writing for gravity falls so i hope to do it justice!

planning out your road trip through the pacific northwest, you find yourself inexplicably drawn to the town of gravity falls.

little did you know that this town held more memories than you could have possibly imagined.

too bad you didn't remember any of them.

stan x fem!reader/ford x fem!reader

original fic idea | part two

tag list: @awitchersbard / @theilluminatidragonqueen / @jazzypop-op/ @maryclanders/ @chaimshelii /

@starship606/ @swimmingrascalbatdragon / @stanfordsbaby

He wasn’t in bed.

You woke up in the middle of the night to find the space beside you empty, the blankets cool to touch, indicating that a warm body had not even slipped into the sheets. Begrudgingly, you slip out of the warm comfort of your bed to search for your lover.

Your bare feet pad against the wood floorboards, creaking with each step you take. Your fingers balancing a candle that you used to illuminate the way, too lazy to try and turn on the lights. 

You descend down to the basement, pushing open the metal door that reveals an intricate lab full of oddities and gadgets with a triangle shaped portal looming just behind the glass window. You let out a yawn, approaching the figure that had his back turned towards you. His six-fingers spin the pen in his hand effortlessly as he rests his chin in the palm of his hand.

Your soft yet groggy voice calls out as you place your hand on his shoulder, “Ford, come to bed. Your research will be here in the morning.”

Stanford jumps at your sudden touch before relaxing when he hears the sound of your voice. He puts his pen down, placing his hand over yours with his thumb running soothingly over the back of your hand, “I’ll be there soon, just head back upstairs. I just need to finish this last equation that's been driving me mad the whole day.”

“Stanford…” You say with an edge to your voice, knowing that he could easily stay up the rest of the night working tirelessly on this portal that he had been working on for the past few months.

“Alright… I concede. You win this round, my dear.” Ford sighs, turning to face you finally with a tired smile. He gets up from his seat, pressing a soft kiss against the top of your head before following you up the stairs but not before looking back at the portal.

-

You had the dream again.

It always starts the same. Walking down a staircase, the floorboards creaked with each step you took. Your eyelids feel heavy almost as if you’re resisting the urge to fall asleep. Your feet carrying you down to a basement. The warm flames of the candle you hold illuminating the way.

Your fingertips push the cool metal frame of the door to reveal a figure sitting in front of a desk, facing away from you. Your hand reaches out to touch their shoulder and as they turn around to reveal their face to you, you awaken.

Your eyes open abruptly, staring at the dark ceiling as your alarm echoes through the empty room. Slowly sitting up in bed, you instinctively reach across to turn off your alarm and turn on your lamp before your hand reaches to open the drawer of your bedside table, feeling around for something. Your fingertips brush against leather and wrap around the item, pulling it out to reveal a journal.

These dreams happened almost every night over the years. It had gotten to a point where you started logging them, just trying to find any pattern or meaning behind them.

You turn to the page labeled ‘The Basement’ - adding another tally mark in the margins that you used to keep track of the frequency of each dream. You close your eyes, trying to conjure up any distinguishable features from this mystery person but nothing new arises. 

Sighing, you shut the leather-bound journal, putting it to the side.

Now was not the time to be worrying about your cryptic dreams, you were supposed to be getting ready for the trip you had been planning for the past few months. 

A road trip through the Pacific Northwest, starting in Northern California and making your way up to Seattle.

You hop out of bed to start getting ready for your journey ahead. After completing your morning routine and slipping on some comfortable clothing for the long drive, you make your way to the kitchen, grabbing the map that was stuck to the fridge with a magnet from your alma mater, Backupsmore. 

Having already packed your bags into the car the night before, your feet make a beeline out the door, wanting to hit the road before sunrise to give you enough time to hit the places you wanted to visit on the way up to your final destination for the day, Portland. 

Unraveling the map in your lap, your eyes scan over it, reviewing over the route you had planned out today. Your gaze lingered on one particular spot you had circled closer to Portland that was unlike any of the stops you had chosen.

Gravity Falls.

You couldn’t explain what drew you in to choose this town to stop in out of all the surrounding towns near Portland. You knew that you had an old friend, Fiddleford, who had moved out to this area to do research. You had even visited him once during his time out there. However, you hadn’t heard from Fiddleford in years, correspondence seemingly dropping off as he stopped answering your calls and your letters always ended up returning to you.

Trying to push aside thoughts of your lost connection, you put your car in reverse, pulling out of your parking spot and heading out onto the open road. The winding roads take you through the lush forests that enveloped the region. As each hour passed, you could see the sun slowly starting to make its way up the horizon and decided to stop to watch the sunrise at Redwood National Park. 

After the brief stop that you used to stretch your legs and grab a cup of coffee, you make your way back on the road. Your original plan was to stop at almost every National Park on the way up to Oregon but after hitting a pocket of traffic that put you behind a whole hour, you decide to skip a few stops and make your way directly to the town of Gravity Falls, figuring it would be your last stop with the remaining amount of daylight you had left.

Unfortunately, you had hit another bump in the road, pretty much derailing the first day of your methodically planned out trip.

Your car had suddenly stopped in the middle of the forest about five miles out from the town.

Cursing under your breath, you step out to assess the cause of your delay. Your hands pop open the hood of your car, breathing a slight sigh of relief when you don’t see any steam or smoke. Figuring that the most likely cause is the battery dying on you, you pull out your phone, trying to look up the nearest towing company to hopefully bring you into town to get it looked at.

As you’re waiting for the screen to load due to the poor signal out in this forested area, a gruff voice calls out, asking if you need a hand.

You look up to see a red convertible with the phrase ‘El Diablo’ etched on the side on the other side of the road. Its owner, a man with gray hair, glasses and a stubbled yet chiseled jawline, wearing a black tank, a shiny medallion that sat on his exposed graying chest hairs, and a brown leather jacket, stares back at you, one hand on the steering wheel while his arm dangles lazily outside of the rolled down window.

You pause, taken aback as something about his features seems… familiar. You quickly snap out of your stupor, realizing you’ve just been standing there in silence.

"Uhm… yeah if you have jumper cables, I just need to get my car running to get to the next town and hopefully get a replacement battery,” You reply, figuring this option would be way cheaper than hiring a whole tow truck.

"Of course, I have jumper cables, toots - look at my car, you think I haven't been stranded out here myself." The stranger chuckles, making an effortless U-Turn with one hand before pulling his car close to yours. Your cheeks warm at the nickname given to you by this man you met literally seconds ago, This guy’s a total silver fox.

You step to the side to give him access to hook up the jumper cables after he fishes them out of his own trunk. You both stand in silence while he attaches the cables to your car before his deep voice cuts through, "So uh, what brings you out here? You just driving through?"

You almost chuckle at his awkward attempt to make small talk, "Sort of. I'm doing a whole road trip through the Pacific Northwest. I was gonna check out this town ahead, Gravity Falls, before I make my way up to Portland."

The older man blinks, expecting you to just be passing through the town at this time of a day. Normally, tourists only stop into town in the early hours of the day on their own journeys up north. His lips spread into a grin, pulling out a business card from his leather jacket. "Well, if you're stopping by, you gotta check out the Mystery Shack! One stop shop for mysterious oddities!"

You take the business card with a giant question mark on the front. He retreats back to his car, turning on his engine before nodding over at you as a signal for you to start up your own engine. You slip back into the car, slipping the card into your pocket before turning on the ignition. You breathe a sigh of relief as your car stutters back to life. Glancing up, you see him grinning back at you before the two of you step out of your respective vehicles.

“Thanks again for your help… sorry, I didn’t catch your name. I’m Y/N.” You say, extending your hand out in gratitude. The silver fox’s large hand envelops yours, shaking your hand firmly, “Stan Pines, nice to meet ya. It’s no problem, wouldn’t want to leave a lady like yourself stranded in the middle of the woods.”

“Do you say that to all the ladies that end up stranded in the woods?” You can’t help but tease, earning a hearty chuckle from Stan. “Well, let’s just say that’s not a common occurrence out here. So you thinkin’ about stopping by the Mystery Shack?”

You pause, stuffing your hands into your pockets as you thumb the edge of the business card Stan had given you. On one hand, you should probably be heading back on the road to make it to Portland and this Mystery Shack sounded like a tourist trap. On the other hand, the sun was starting to set and you weren’t keen on driving through the forest in the dark. Maybe it would be best if you stayed the night in this quaint town and start again the next morning. As you look up at Stan, you make your decision, deciding to appease the man who helped you so graciously.

You also had to admit you found him quite charming and curiosity got the better of you.

“Sure, lead the way.” You say with a casual shrug. Stan grins, “I’ll make sure you get a personal tour of the Mystery Shack. No need to worry about other tourists.” Your eyebrow raises in amusement before slipping into your car, “What, you know the owner?” You blink at the smirk that spreads across Stan’s lips, “Sweetheart, you’re looking at the former owner, Mr. Mystery himself.”

You bite back a giggle, “No wonder you were laying it on thick, just trying to get more tourists to visit, huh?” Stan rolls his eyes mirthfully “Hey, I was trying to lend a helping hand… though I have a good sales pitch, don’t I?” He grins, shooting finger guns towards you with a wink.

This’ll be interesting. You think to yourself as you follow behind Stan in your car, pulling into the empty lot of the Mystery Shack. You snort, seeing how the S dangles off the side spelling out Mystery Hack, before pointing it out to Stan as he exits his car. His features grimace as he grumbles out, “I noticed” before beckoning you to follow him, twirling his keys on his index finger.

Stan proceeded to give you a detailed tour of the Mystery Shack, spinning elaborate tales surrounding the variety of taxidermy animals that he had mismatched together. Despite the absurdity of it all, you can’t help but get sucked into his tales, seeing the clear passion and excitement he had for this place. You burst out into laughter at the sight of the Sascrotch to which Stan beamed at, “Good one, right? Probably one of the highlights of the Mystery Shack.”

You weaved your way through the shack, though there were certain sections of it that looked oddly familiar. Almost like you had walked down these hallways before. A wave of deja vu hit you as you walked through the doorway into the gift shop. “Usually this is the part where I try to sell people on an overpriced souvenir but I have a feeling that the whole schtick isn’t gonna work on you, is it?” Stan admits.

“Probably not but I’ll take a look around and see if there’s anything that catches my eye.” You chuckle, making your way around the space as your eyes scan the various trinkets. Your fingertips run across the mugs with question marks painted on them. You decide to use this opportunity to make small talk as you mill around the gift shop while Stan leans back against the counter, “So, you said you’re the former owner? Who owns it now?”

“One of my former employees, Soos. Kid’s been working for me since he was… well a kid. Only person with as much passion as me about this place.” Stan says, glancing over at the Employee of the Month picture that still hung behind the counter that showed a younger Soos. “What made you step down as owner?” You hum, thumbing through the t-shirt rack. 

Stan smiles fondly, “Me and my twin brother actually just got back from traveling, we’re only in town for the summer. It was always our dream to travel the world together by boat, and we finally got to make that happen.” You look up, smiling at how warmly he spoke of his brother. Stan catches you staring and crosses his arms defensively, “What?”

“Nothing,” You say, shaking your head before thumbing through the assortment of keychains and stickers that were displayed. “So twin brother, huh? What’s he like?”

“You’re sure asking a lot of questions… not sure if I should be flattered but it feels like I’m being interrogated by a government official.” Stan comments with a grin. You pause with dramatic effect before looking up and admitting, “Well technically, I do work for the government.”

Stan freezes, his stance becoming defensive as he looks you up and down, “Oh shit, really? Man, these cover-ups are getting better and better but I swear I haven’t broken any laws… recently at least.” Your warm laughter fills the room, finding the look on his face priceless, “Relax, I work for the National Parks.” Stan’s posture relaxes at the realization and he rolls his eyes, “Alright, you got me good. So what do you do? Are you like a park ranger or something?”

“No, I’m a geoscientist. I pretty much study rocks and fossils. Kinda boring day to day but sometimes I’ll come across a precious gemstone and keep it for myself… even though we’re not supposed to take anything off a dig site.” You admit sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck. “Using the government’s resources to your own advantage? I like the way you think.” Stan chuckles.

You pick out a magnet to add to your fridge when you return as a reminder of your side quest at the Mystery Shack. Stan rings you up though you notice a significant markdown in the original price after he insists on giving you the employee discount. As you walk out of the gift shop outside, you round the corner back to your car. 

Little did you know that you would run into the man that you once loved as someone with a long tan trench coat was outside fiddling with a device with his back turned to you. Stan elbows you in the arm to catch your attention, "That's my poindexter brother that I mentioned, Ford. He's always working on some geeky invention."

"You know I can hear you, Stanley?" Ford sighs, turning around to face you two.

Time slows down as he meets your eyes, memories flooding back to him before landing on the last memory he had of you - your back turning away from him, your hand slipping through his fingers after he chose to continue with his research despite your pleas.

He freezes, seeing the woman that left him all those years ago, "Y/N?" He calls out to you.

You blink, staring back at this man that you had never met before calling out your name.

Stan is just as confused as you are, looking between the two of you. 

You tilt your head in confusion, “Uhm… sorry, have we met before? How do you know my name?”

[lightseoul]

CHAPTER 9 | ALL OUT OF LUCK

w.c. 7.4k (hoo boy. i did say i would end this with a bang. i wrote and edited this in two days.)

tags. minors dni. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up (26), lots of cussing, mentions of canon-typical violence, mentions of food, mentions of physical & mental health issues, explicit...themes. y'all see for yourselves what those are

a/n. and here we are. a little over two months since i posted the masterlist in the hopes that it would motivate me to see this series through, and i actually did it!!! i poured my heart and soul into this chapter, specifically, so i hope you enjoy it and find it a great way to wrap up the story. see the end for a message <3

links. masterlist, ao3

You shoot up at the sound of a honk—a blaring sound that you think can only be from one of those humongous passenger buses that circle the city.

Except they never really pass by your neighborhood—your apartment being located in the outer peripheries of Musutafu.

So why, all of a sudden, are you hearing these noises?

Wasn’t it just recently that you shot up awake like this?

Clenching your eyes back closed, you shake your head vigorously. The dull thumping that stretches from your parietal straight to your frontal lobe is unmistakable, such is the dryness of your throat. You look to your left, letting out a sigh of relief when you see a glass of water on the nightstand. You quickly grab it and take a sip, finally eyeing your surroundings as you do so.

The room is dim—the city lights emanating through the window the only source of illumination within the four walls, enough to cast a faint glow on what you’re now sure is Bakugou’s bedroom. You’ve only been here one night, but the plush mattress beneath you feels familiar, and you’re a hundred percent sure that’s your suitcase in the corner right next to his wardrobe. The wardrobe where he retrieved the futon…last night?

You shift to be on all fours, wincing to a halt when your back screams in protest at the motion. You try to rotate your neck next, grateful when all you feel is a slight strain and a sting—like you’ve got some bruising at the front. The rest of your body seems to be working alright—fatigued, yes, but not enough to cause you a new wave of pain with every maneuver.

And so with that thought, you slowly crawl toward the foot of the bed, right until you catch a glimpse of the said futon. It’s somewhat undone—arranged exactly how you think Bakugou left it the morning of the mission. Well, how you two left it. You remember accidentally stepping on it once or twice while trying not to invade Bakugou’s personal space as you simultaneously got ready, making a mental note to fix it before you left.

You guess you never got to. Apparently, neither did Bakugou.

Which only means one thing.

It’s still D-Day.

Only then do the events from earlier today come flooding at you, and you find yourself stumbling out the door, barefoot and maybe still a little too out of it to be rushing like this.

Regardless, you burst out of the room—fully expecting the twins to be there—although you’re not hit with a sobering visual confirmation, nor are you hit with a menacing glare followed by a ripping out of your tracker, which you note has already disappeared from its spot in the middle of your chest.

Instead, what hits you is the heady yet comforting smell of ramen broth.

You glance in the direction of the kitchen, and sure enough, Bakugou’s standing there—decked out in lounge clothes under an apron with a ladle in one hand—staring at you, surprised.

“Hey,” he finally gets out after a beat of immobility, before facing back toward the stove and turning down the heat. “You’re awake.”

You nod, although he doesn’t see it with his back turned against you. You pad toward the kitchen as quietly as you can, stopping a few feet away from him where he looks so normal, like he didn’t just wrestle a murderer a couple of hours ago.

What the hell is going on?

Bakugou glances over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in question—and it just dawns on you that you said that last bit out loud—before spinning to fully face you again.

“You had an anxiety attack,” he says as a matter of factly, and you feel yourself flame. “They told me to take you home after they did first aid on the both of us.”

So, he got hurt, too.

You tamp down the shame from your breakdown and note the bandage on his cheek, right where his scar is.

Still, it’s not exactly the two of you who you’re most concerned about right now…

You gulp, willing yourself to hold Bakugou’s gaze. “What about Masaki?” you ask. “D-did he—make it?”

At that, Bakugou sighs, and it’s enough for you to know the answer. Despite yourself, you feel a surge of guilt wash over your body.

“He was rushed to the hospital,” the pro-hero explains, solemn, “But he didn’t make it.”

And when you don’t say anything: “It’s not your fault, Y/N. You didn’t kill him,” he huffs, “I did.”

You shake your head decisively, before tossing him a stern look. “You did what you had to do.”

Bakugou stares at you for a second, an inexplicable expression on his face, although you don’t get to study it further because you look away first. “Did you know he was a consul?” you inquire, suddenly feeling the obligation to change the topic.

Bakugou turns, once again busying himself with the stove. “I heard.”

You pull a stool from underneath the kitchen island and hoist yourself up into it. “Explains why he was never around in the headquarters.”

“Explains why he was never home, either,” he piles on.

You feel your brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“Apparently, he just went through a divorce and lost custody of his daughters to his ex-wife, who that guy Hiroto described to have a pretty weak quirk. Said the man always had supremacist views, but changed for the worst when the woman filed a case against him.”

Huh.

“Speaking of quirks,” Bakugou continues, stirring the broth, “I’m sure you figured it out, but his was called retaliate. He could absorb attacks, especially explosions, and redirect them with—”

“Double the power, yeah,” you finish for him.

“Quadruple if he’s feeling confident—an ironic clause for a relatively meek guy like him,” Bakugou remarks. “Explains why he still took you with him despite suspecting we were doing something behind his back. He needed your luck and was planning to blackmail you into boosting him.”

That makes you frown. “But they didn’t figure out it was actually manipulation, did they? He mentioned luck to me, too. In the car, before we went into the building.”

“No, they didn’t,” comes Bakugou’s cool response. “Masaki and the rest still thought it was luck, just that you may have been using it beyond their instruction. Plus, at that point, they already had my bombs, so they could easily dispose of me and use my life as leverage to get you to do what they said.”

Bakugou reaches for one of the condiments in the rack, lightly shaking the contents out of the container and into the soup. “Explains why they told me last night to follow suit and get dressed in normal clothes. Didn’t matter that I’d be easily identified in them—I was never gonna get to the Prime Minister’s Office anyway.”

That fucking reminds you. “Where did that bastard even take you?”

At that, Bakugou stiffens. “An industrial-grade refrigerator,” he mutters.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he spews, perhaps a bit miffed. You can tell he’s not enjoying talking about this. “I was bolted in, and Kouki disappeared before I could wrangle him into letting me out.”

You can only gawk at him as he drawls on. “Took me a while to gather enough sweat for one massive blow to break the lock.”

“H-how?” you manage to croak out.

“Push-ups,” he answers curtly, still stirring. “I lost count at around 300.”

He takes your stupefied silence as a sign to continue.

“After that, I figured the old geezer couldn’t have gotten me too far—otherwise, he would’ve depleted his capacity to conduct mass teleportation if things went south for them. I boosted myself up to get an aerial view and find a landmark, and got going when I did.”

“Were you still wearing your tracker?” you can’t help but probe.

“I had to,” Bakugou responds, “If I wanted him to come to me. When he found out I was on the move, he teleported to where I was—probably to teleport me to my death, leverage be damned—but I was faster, and he couldn’t catch up.”

“I blasted him unconscious before he could retreat and bring everyone else with him,” Bakugou says as he takes what looks to be a lid and puts it over the pot, leaving a small gap for the steam to come out. “He’s in custody now. Shitty hair’s talking to him as we speak.”

At the mention of the redhead’s nickname, you straighten up. “How is he? And Sero?” you say so quickly you almost stumble over your words, “Are they okay?”

“Yeah,” comes his prompt retort, and you find your shoulders sagging in relief. “The twins put up a fight, but they eventually had them wrapped in Sero’s tape and chased you to the elevator. But then somebody pulled the fire alarm and they got stuck.”

“It was Masaki,” you swiftly supply. “He did it just as he hauled me out of the elevator.”

Again, you watch as Bakugou visibly tenses, but he doesn’t say anything. At least, for a moment, before he sighs.

“Yeah, well, they couldn’t get out for a while because the system needed manual operation to send the elevator back to ground floor, and nobody was around to do it. They couldn’t smash their way out of there, either. Could’ve caused the entire thing to crash down.”

“Wasn’t there any other hero besides them?”

“No,” Bakugou says almost regrettably as he takes the bowl of uncooked noodles into his hands. “They thought I’d be there just as planned, so they assigned the rest of the pro-heroes involved to the rest of the schools.”

You hum in acknowledgment. “I guess that explains why they went for the twins first instead of Masaki. Maybe they thought you’d be there to handle him?”

“No, they had eyes on you,” he corrects, just as he pours the noodles into the soup. “Shitty hair said they prioritized the two because they seemed stronger than Masaki. His packing that much fucking strength came as a shock to everyone.”

You chuckle dryly. “Even you, right?”

He grunts, unamused. “Even me.”

You let yourself sit in silence as Bakugou continues to tend to what he’s cooking. It goes on like this for a little while, before it hits you belatedly.

“Did anyone else get hurt?” you suddenly ask, “You know, aside from Masaki?”

“None, unless you count property damage,” he quips, and you let out a half-hearted laugh. You can hear him smirking when he adds: “Luckily, Kirishima and the others had enough foresight to evacuate the place entirely.”

“I’m guessing you know how they did it?”

At that, Bakugou nods. “…Although, I can’t say I agree with it.”

You cock your head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“They used government surveillance information to send targeted texts to the potential victims—parents on behalf of the students, staff, employees,” he reveals, voice low. “Something about a suspension that they needed to be quiet about for their safety. Except the guards, who had to be there at the entrance.”

“But—”

“That would’ve meant Masaki and the twins would receive the message, too, I know,” he interjects. “Good thing I managed to put their names on that piece of paper. Otherwise, we would’ve been fucked.”

“No shit,” is the only thing you can mumble, head reeling from the revelation just now.

“…We barely made it, huh?” he rejoins, quiet.

“Yeah…” you reply.

A pause.

Then—

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out of the blue, startling Bakugou. You refuse to meet his gaze, though, even as you continue. “For losing it back there.”

At that, Bakugou whips to look at you, and you have no choice but to look up at him. “Hah?”

“I didn’t think I’d use everything up, and it’s been so long since I last depleted my quirk like that,” is the only thing you can get out.

You let your eyes fall to your enjoined hands in front of you. “I couldn’t control myself. I’m…sorry.”

Another pause.

“Tsk.”

Your eyes widen at the unexpected sound, and despite yourself, you find your line of vision going back to Bakugou, who’s now scowling at you.

“The only thing you should be sorry for is that unnecessary as shit apology,” he spits, before turning back to the stove. “Now, come on. Help me with the plates.”

You do just as Bakugou says and assist him.

You end up situating the placemats and cutlery just as he finished up the dish, serving it not even a few minutes later in a luxurious-looking, suspiciously Todoroki-esque bowl that you’re sure costs more than a well-functioning arm.

You try to ignore it as you navigate yourself in his kitchen, although it eventually becomes apparent that a peculiar kind of tension lingers in the air still, but you figure it’s not entirely unfathomable.

It’s only been a few hours, after all.

You repeat this like an incantation in your head—again and again until it somehow sticks—even as you quietly say your thanks and dig in. Not one word is uttered in between spoonfuls of food, the silence reminiscent of yesterday’s dinner—even though yesterday now feels like a whole month ago.

At least, that’s what you were thinking, until a booming voice erupts throughout the room, entirely juxtaposing the earlier stillness. You startle, then ease up when you realize it’s All Might’s, and that it’s merely a ringtone. Bakugou scrambles to fetch his phone from the island, although whatever urgency he had just now goes out the window when he sees the caller ID.

“It’s Asahi,” he grumbles.

You hurriedly swallow your noodles. “Aren’t you gonna answer that?”

Bakugou glares at his phone for another second before shaking his head and turning it off, walking back toward you.

“Isn’t he gonna get mad?” you ask just as he reseats himself.

“We’ve been on duty for over two weeks,” Bakugou snarls, picking back up his chopsticks. “He can kindly go fuck himself.”

That makes you snort, which earns you a smirk, although his face falls almost immediately after.

You swallow the discomfort that shoots to your throat at the sight of it.

You try not to get caught, but you secretly sneak glances for the rest of the meal, and only by the end of it do you notice that his hair’s gone back to its normal, unruly state—probably due to a shower that he took after you got home.

That, and there’s definitely something weighing him down.

You just don’t know what.

You don’t attempt to comment on it as you help him clean up the plates, or even as you start drying the dishes after he washes them beside you. He doesn’t try to start a conversation, either, focus seemingly trained solely on the task in front of him, although you know better than to believe what your eyes are telling you.

It’s that thought that ultimately emboldens you to speak up a few minutes in.

You clear your throat, eyeing him as subtly as you can. “…Something on your mind?”

To your dismay, he doesn’t answer you, only passing a plate without sparing you a single glance.

Well, then.

Despite yourself, you feel yourself deflate at his snubbing.

You had your doubts about coming forward and asking him, although that’s when the memories of the things you had to go through together came in and you thought he’d trust you enough to share—but you guess you’re getting ahead of yourself, because there’s no way he’d—

“You used your quirk on me, didn’t you?

You freeze, all thoughts wiped out from your brain.

You feel his gaze on the side of your face, but you don’t dare turn to look at him, nor do you open your mouth.

He turns away, nodding. “I knew it.”

Fuck this.

“People don’t normally notice—” you blurt, and he shifts to face you again, “—when I use it on them.”

You scratch at your cheek, feeling weirdly restless. “I think it’s only because you’re perceptive to begin with, and because you know about me and what I can do.”

“Why’d you do it?” is his immediate response, catching you off guard. You splutter, although—to your chagrin—he only raises an eyebrow at you, expression nothing less than expectant.

What the hell are you supposed to say other than the truth, then?

“Fine,” you hiss, pulling your lips into a thin line. “It was because I noticed you were getting frantic.”

At that, Bakugou’s eye twitches. “You calling me sloppy?”

“No!” you exclaim, then backtrack. “I was just—I just did what my instincts told me…”

And really, you did.

That’s all you could’ve done in that situation, for a person with your experience.

And you’re about to expound on that to a skeptical Bakugou when, to your surprise, he nods.

“Good call,” he mutters so silently, but you hear it anyway, and your eyes widen.

You must be gaping at him like he just said you are the greatest person to have ever graced the earth because he immediately looks away, embarrassed, a sudsy bowl still in hand.

“It’s stupid,” he continues, and you barely clock him having resorted to aggressively toeing his house slippers—the pair you bought for him. “I’ve never really lost my cool like that before.”

Now, that you’re not sure of.

Still, you force out a decent reaction.

“R-really?”

You’re instantly granted with a side-eye. “Don’t sound so fucking shocked.”

“It’s not that—” you choke, “It’s just that—”

“I have a short temper, I know. Sue me,” he spews, shutting you up.

“But I never let that get in the way of my work,” Bakugou pushes, suddenly serious. “Never.”

You frown, placing the plate you’ve been holding in the drying rack. “Well, they did fool us by separating us last minute,” you offer just as you look back at him, “I’d be pissed, too, getting betrayed like that.”

Bakugou doesn’t say anything in reply, opting to stare at you—borderline scowling—for what feels like a minute. He eventually sighs, and you find yourself mentally sighing at the break in eye contact as he puts down the dish he was in the middle of washing.

But then he turns to you again, face blank, and says the strangest thing.

“Tell me. Are you playing with my emotions right now?”

“What?” you cry, “No! Why would you even—”

You’re cut off when—without warning—Bakugou coaxes the towel from your hand and takes a step close, invading your space.

“Good,” he rumbles, voice low and gruff as he leans even closer. “Just wanted to make sure.”

That’s all the warning he gives you before he grabs your neck and dives in, pressing his lips firmly against yours. You instantly shut down at the contact, your body going rigid against his just like when he kissed you out of the blue this morning. But unlike earlier today, you don’t relax, and he must’ve sensed it, because he quickly pulls away, the hand that was just on your nape now resting on your shoulder.

“Shit,” Bakugou curses, a mortified look on his face. “I’m sorry, I thought—”

“No!” you interject, “I mean, it’s okay. It’s just…”

“Just what?” he breathes out, releasing you from his hold, and you don’t know if you’ve finally gone crazy, but did he just sound…hopeful?

No, he didn’t.

Which is why you muster up the courage to say the next thing.

“You’re just confused,” you finally get out, looking him straight in the eye.

His reply is instant.

“Believe me, I’m fucking not.”

That makes you frown, because why is he giving you such a hard time? You’re giving him an out, for god’s sake. A wake-up call, if you will.

That none of these is real.

And that he’s confusing make-believe with reality.

These very thoughts must be evident on your face because he studies you closely for a bit, a similar frown etched on his features. He then shakes his head, the same way he does when he’s getting impatient.

“You don’t believe me?” he finally says, and you’re about to say no, you do not, when he suddenly takes a step closer, and you find yourself stumbling back.

“What if,” another step forward for him, another one backward for you, “I tell you that I’ve been wanting to kiss the crap out of you, even when no one’s watching?”

Yet another step, and he finally stops. “Especially when no one’s watching.”

You can’t help it—you sputter, and to that, Bakugou only flashes you a devilish smirk. “Nothing?” he taunts, “You’ve got nothing to say?”

“J-just kiss?”

The second you say it, you know you fucked up.

His crimson eyes widen in surprise. “I mean, I want to fuck you, too, but—”

“No!” you cry, and he shuts up, “I mean, not like that. What I meant was, is this thing you’re feeling purely physical? Not that I think I’m all that—” you quickly disclaim, “—but is there something else, or…?”

At that, the motherfucker chuckles, and you’ve got half a mind to bury yourself in the very ground you’re standing on. But then you remember you’re on the top floor of a high-rise building, so that would only mean—

“I want to date the crap out of you, too, dumbass.”

“…Oh.”

A raised eyebrow. “Just ‘oh’?”

You flush. That was too soon of a reference.

Still, you have to respond.

“Oh, as in, oh, great,” you croak, “Because, believe it or not, I feel the same way.”

You can only watch in delight as Bakugou releases a breath you think he didn’t know he was holding, utter relief written all over his body. There’s no controlling the smile that breaches your mouth at the sight of it, earlier’s dreadful anticipation now morphing into a hoard of rabid butterflies. Bakugou sees the change in your countenance and grins.

“Does this mean I get to kiss you now? And that you won’t just stand there like a fucking corpse?”

That earns him a punch to the arm, which he takes in stride, laughing. “Can’t you just do it without teasing me?” you grumble, “You’re such a dickhead.”

“Got it, princess,” is the last (pestering) thing he says before reaching for your neck again and pulling you toward him, wasting no time in bringing your lips to his.

It doesn’t elude you that you’re still somewhat tense, but you eventually manage to will yourself to ease up just as his other hand shoots up to hold your cheek, tilting it so he can deepen the kiss. You can’t help it—you groan when he does, and he takes that as an opportunity to slowly enter your mouth with his tongue, and you squeak at the intrusion. He only laughs at that, but he doesn’t let up, his tongue seemingly having a mind of its own as it swirls and explores without restraint.

You don’t know how long this goes on—your brain filled with nothing but the sensation of Bakugou’s soft lips against yours—but he eventually pulls away, and you have to stop yourself from ogling at how debauched he looks with just his flushed face and swollen lips. You guess you aren’t any different, because Bakugou’s eyes rove over your face—hungrily—almost as if he’s drinking you in.

“You’re a good kisser,” you offer lamely, desperate for anything to fill the tense air.

At that, he coughs, as if he didn’t expect you to say that of all things. “T-thanks. You, too.”

You flash him a grateful smile, although it’s quick to falter.

A beat.

“So…” you try again, “What now?”

Bakugou looks down at his feet, suddenly shy. “I—uh, meant it, you know.”

You gulp. “Meant what?”

“That I want to fuck you.”

Shit.

“But I understand if you don’t want to, or if that’s moving too fast. It’s only been two weeks and—”

“Correction,” you cut in, “It’s been over two weeks. You said so yourself.”

That makes Bakugou pause, who only looks at you in bewilderment. “What are you trying to—”

“I’m ready,” you declare, voice nothing short of sure. “I want this.”

That seems to set something off in the pro-hero, because his entire demeanor shifts. You don’t get to comment on it before he’s back on you in an instant, encasing your lips in a searing kiss. You stagger back from the sheer force alone, grabbing onto his shirt for purchase as you stumble across the living room, not parting ways for even a second, his mouth hot against yours. He seizes you by the waist just as you almost crash into the wall, expertly maneuvering you through the door and into his bedroom, lips still molded together.

He only pulls away when you reach the foot of his bed, letting go of his grip on you to lift you bridal-style, the brazen display of effortless strength sending a shot of arousal into your veins. You loop your arms around his neck as he climbs over the mattress, inching toward the headboard before gently placing you down into the pillows. You waste no time pulling him back closer to you, initiating the kiss this time, and you think he must like that, judging by the way he groans quietly.

“What,” you mumble against his lips, “You like it when I take charge?”

“Fuck off,” he mumbles back, although he doesn’t break away, only biting your lower lip as if in punishment. You wince, but he’s quick to lave over it with his tongue. “Hurry up and—” a kiss, “—take off—” another kiss, “—mm—your clothes.”

That makes you laugh. Of course, he’d order you to strip after just cussing you out.

You don’t complain, though, lightly shoving him away so you can pull your shirt over your head. You glance at Bakugou when it’s off of you, and sure enough, he’s staring at your chest.

“Aren’t you gonna undress as well?” you ask pointedly, hoping your embarrassment isn’t showing on your face.

“Shit, right,” he blubbers, and you find yourself smiling as he hurries to take off his shirt.

Only that smile doesn’t get to last for too long before it’s instantly replaced with an ‘o’ at the sight of his ridiculously defined abs.

You point to it, honestly perturbed. “How the fuck is that even possible?”

Now that makes him laugh, the motion causing his abdominal muscles to flex and you blanch. “What if I tell you I’ve had them since high school?”

“Liar.”

Bakugou grins. “Had you known, would you have forced me to listen to your confession?”

“That’s it,” you make a move to get out of the bed but he tugs you back, flashing you a boyish smile that you don’t want to admit makes you—kinda—all weak in the knees.

“That was the last one,” he promises, still grinning, “I swear.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Why do I feel like you’re lying straight out of your ass.”

“Me?” he asks, feigning innocence as he crawls closer, towering over you again until you’re back to lying on the bed. “Never.”

“Ha ha,” you deadpan, looking anywhere but at him or his broad chest. Although, your efforts are all for naught because he lifts one hand and takes your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“Can I take off your bra?” he inquires, the earnestness in his tone almost causing you to squirm.

You thankfully don’t—you’ve decided you’ve embarrassed yourself enough for today—and instead, nod. He doesn’t bother to say anything else as he reaches for your back, and you arch—slowly, Masaki did a number on you, after all—just in time so he can feel your clasp. It takes him a second to undo it, and a few more to lift it off of you, but when he does, the first thing he says is—

“Fuck.”

You snort. “I’m guessing that you like them.”

“Obviously, dumbass,” he spits, although it’s more playful than scathing. Then, he’s back to staring, like he can’t quite believe this is happening. “Wow.”

“What, is this the first time you’ve seen boobs?” you joke—because there’s no way a guy like him has never been with a girl, at least physically—although the jesting lilt in your voice immediately dies out when his face falls and he looks away.

Shit.

There’s only one thing for you to do.

Reaching out for his nape, you tug him down until he’s only a few centimeters away, taking his lips into yours before he can protest. To your relief, he melts into your touch, back to eagerly returning the kiss in a matter of seconds. Wanting to make him feel good now more than ever, you let your other hand snake up to his hair, grabbing a fistful before pulling tentatively—as if to test the waters. You don’t end up disappointed—in fact, you’re far from it—when he groans against your mouth, louder than before. Emboldened by his generous reaction, you pull again—harder this time—and it’s your turn to be surprised when his hips buck involuntarily against your own, giving you the slightest bit of friction that’s nowhere near enough.

You rub your thighs together in an attempt to quell the ache as discreetly as you can, although this motion doesn’t go unnoticed by Bakugou, who withdraws ever so slightly to study you.

“You okay?”

“Yes—it’s just,” you hesitate, before deciding you owe him the truth. “…I want you.”

Whatever Bakugou expected you to say, it sure wasn’t that—and so candidly, too—because he splutters, face evidently flushing despite the dim lights. “I-I want you, too,” he says honestly, “But I should warn you, I’ve never really done this before.”

“I thought you were gonna say you were massive,” you quip.

“Yeah,” he smirks without missing a beat, and you choke, “That, too.”

You slap his chest, which you instantly regret. “You’re the worst!”

He doesn’t say anything to that, only grinning as he leans in and—to your surprise—latches his lips onto your neck. You barely stop yourself from jolting in pleasure when he finds and nips at your pulse point—no doubt leaving a mark that you’re going to have to color correct tomorrow if you don’t want to get any funny looks. To your chagrin—or delight, you don’t fucking know at this point—Bakugou doesn’t stop his assault on your neck, instead bringing one hand up to graze the skin below your breast.

Suddenly tired of all the teasing, you grab his hand yourself and place it right on your boob, smiling when a curse is immediately muttered against your neck. You don’t let go of your hold, choosing to guide him on how to grope and fondle it instead. Bakugou catches on quickly, and before you know it, he’s already playing with your nipples, twisting and pulling them just the way you like.

“You can use your mouth, too, if you want,” you tell him a few moments later, stifling a moan when he sucks on a spot at the crook of your neck one more time, before nodding and easing down so he can be face to face with your chest.

He doesn’t let you get another word in before he takes a nipple into his mouth, and this time, you can’t stop yourself—you jerk against him—which only pushes it further. He takes the opening and starts sucking, and you’ve got half a mind to push him away. You don’t, though, and you doubt you could’ve anyway, his grip on your waist unrelenting as he switches between breasts, doing all sorts of things with his tongue that have your mind swimming.

“Still think I’m the worst?” he eventually looks up and asks roguishly, lips even more swollen and glistening with saliva.

“Jury’s still out—” you hiss when he pinches a nipple, and you swat him away. “Never mind, you are the worst.”

“Even when I do this?” he drawls, and you’re about to clarify with him what he’s going off about this time, when he unexpectedly slips a finger underneath your panties, and you barely, barely manage to bite back a moan.

“Fuck,” he rasps, “you’re so wet.”

You fight back a shudder even as he traces the outline of your sex, seemingly entranced. “Are you—are you sure you’ve never done this before?”

“What, you saying I’m a liar?” is his snarky retort, although he thankfully doesn’t stop his ministrations. In fact, your question only seems to provoke him, causing him to apply more pressure.

“N-no, it’s just that, fuck—” you huff, “I-I wouldn’t be surprised if you went d-down on me and you’d be good at that, too.”

That makes Bakugou pause, and you almost whine at the loss.

But then he practically rips your underwear out of the way, and you somehow don’t find it in you to care at all. They were granny panties anyway, and you’re too engrossed in how the pro-hero urges you to open your thighs for him, and then prying them open himself when you take too long to do it.

Not to mention the look on his face when he finally sees you.

“Stop staring at me, Bakugou,” you can’t help but grumble.

“Katsuki.”

“What?”

He doesn’t shift to look at you, gaze still focused between your thighs. “Call me Katsuki.”

That’s all the foreboding he offers before he dives in and licks a long strip along your slit, and you almost scream, if not for the hand you slap over your mouth the second that he does. He’s relentless—even as you squirm and tremble underneath him—lapping on your wetness like a man who hasn’t had a drop of water for days. You jolt when he flicks his tongue right at your clit, hands instinctively shooting up to grab at his hair. But then he makes the mistake of pushing the wet muscle into your entrance, and you inadvertently pull—hard—hard enough that it causes him to groan against your core, sending a surge of vibrations straight into your pussy.

“Fuck,” you warble, looking down at Bakugou only to see him peering up at you with half-lidded eyes that’s got you almost moaning again. “Keep on doing that.”

Fortunately, Bakugou doesn’t tease you for sounding pathetic just now, only choosing to do as you say. He resumes, with renewed vigor, paying particular attention to your clit this time. He keeps on licking it, and then sucking, before licking it again, that you almost don’t notice when a finger presses against your hole. But then he’s inching it slowly and you’re suddenly all too aware of the intrusion.

The first thing that registers is that his fingers are definitely bigger than yours.

The second thing is that fuck—did he just insert a second one?

You look down to where he’s stuck to your body, but you can’t see anything beyond his head of ash-blonde hair.

But then he does a scissoring motion inside you just as he suckles at your clit, and that’s all the confirmation you need. You can’t help it—you finally moan—and you barely miss him grinning against your pussy at the sound of it.

“Fucking finally,” he breathes out, lifting his head a bit so he can speak. “I thought you were never gonna moan for me again.”

“Again?” you barely manage to answer, already missing his mouth on you. You may be out of it, but you’re certain you haven’t cracked until just now.

“Already forgot?” he goads, pulling his fingers out of you. “Let me remind you then.”

Before you can get up and coerce him to just shut up and continue what he was doing, he’s back to towering over you, smashing his lips against yours.

And then he does it—the thing he did before. The first day in your shared bedroom. You still don’t know what it is, but he does something with his tongue, or his mouth? His teeth? You don’t fucking know, but it’s coupled with his scalding hold on your body, and despite yourself, you moan.

He promptly pulls away, a proud smirk on his face.

“Now, don’t hold back,” he commands cooly as you gape at him in half offense, half shock. “I want to hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He then makes quick work of taking off his boxers, and at this point, you can only stare at him as he eases it off.

He wasn’t kidding.

If he’s noticing you practically eye-fucking him, though, he doesn’t comment on it, although the faint tinge of scarlet on his cheeks is undeniable. Instead, he only crawls over you again, right until he’s hovering over your pelvis.

Wait.

“Bakugou—” you start.

“Katsuki,” he corrects petulantly.

“Katsuki,” you force yourself to say, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious, “Let me make you feel good, too.”

“Next time,” he quickly responds, and you feel your heart lurch at the promise of a continuation. “I just need to be inside you, or I’m gonna fucking nut.”

You frown, although his honest admission sends an undeniable thrill down your spine. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he seethes, “Now, come on.”

You don’t waste another second, opening up your legs just enough for Bakugou to position himself between them. He’s got an arm propped at the side of your head to support his weight, while the other reaches down to finally grab his cock. He instantly hisses at the contact, and you don’t have to look to know it’s his pre-cum that’s dribbling down your thighs.

He then mutters a curse to himself, but it’s not exactly laced with lust just as it has been the past how many minutes.

And that’s when it hits you.

The guy is nervous.

You reach up to touch his cheek, his eyes shooting up to meet yours when you do. You offer him a small smile, one that you hope says ‘I’m alright’ and that ‘I want this’. But then you remember this is Bakugou freaking Katsuki, and the last thing he needs is to be placated.

“Relax, Katsuki,” you coo, grinning when he shoots you a glare.

“And you’re gonna have to do that on your own,” you tease, “I’m all out for today.”

That lights a flame under his ass, because the glare just now morphs into a look of determination, and one glimpse of it is enough to tell you you’re fucked.

“Spread your fucking pussy,” he growls, and you immediately do as he says. He’s back to gripping his cock in an instant, giving himself a few pumps before he’s aligning it with your entrance.

And just like that, he pushes in.

You both groan when he does, his massive dick barely breaching your hole, and yet, it already feels like your nerves are on fire. You sneak a peek at the pro-hero, and you’re glad you do, because you’re met with the glorious sight of Bakugou with his eyes clenched close, lips bit in a fierce attempt to stay quiet.

“Tell me when to move,” he rasps out, refusing to open his eyes.

“Katsuki,” you whisper, bringing your arms up to wrap them around his torso. “Look at me.”

“I can’t,” he seethes, just as you feel his cock twitch inside you. “Or else I’m gonna finish.”

Knowing better than to press him, you nod instead, before wiggling your hips slightly. That grants you a curse from him, but before he can cuss you out, you speak up.

“I think I’m ready. You can move no—” you hiss when he pushes without warning, and he freezes.

“Fuck, I’m sorr—”

“Just—slowly, Katsuki. Go on, move.”

He pushes again—slowly, this time—and you can only sit there and take it as he eases in, inch by inch—stopping sometimes when it gets a bit much for you—until he’s finally, fully sheathed in.

“Shit.”

“God.”

“You’re so fucking tight,” Bakugou grits out, head nestled within the crook of your neck. He still refuses to look at you, but apparently, that doesn’t matter as long as you’re being praised, because his comment inadvertently causes you to clamp down on his cock, and his breath hitches.

“Jesus,” he drones, burying himself further into your neck. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”

You don’t answer him, choosing to tentatively roll your hips against his instead. He moans in your ear, and this time, you can’t help but whimper.

“Move, Katsuki,” you plead, “I can’t wait anymore.”

That seems to sober him right up, because he grunts in acknowledgement, before slowly lifting himself with his arms. Only then does he opens his eyes, and it takes everything within him not to cum at the sight of you.

He knows better than to fucking give up, though—not when he’s come this far—so with renewed purpose, he starts with small, shallow thrusts that have you mewling at him and him grunting at you, until he gradually builds speed and he’s pulling almost all the way out only to slam back into you again.

He does this again and again—somehow deeper and deeper each time—all the while panting and moaning above you, until he prods at a particular spot that has you jerking violently against him, cursing. “Fuc—”

“Shit,” he freezes, “What—”

“No, no, no, no,” you cry out, clawing at his bare arms, “Don’t stop!”

At your request, Bakugou’s back to pounding into you in an instant, and you barely miss him looking at you with feral eyes before he hits the spot again, and you scream.

“Right—fuck—right there!”

At that, Bakugou rolls his hips once more and hits your G-spot squarely, and you moan.

“Right there?” he breathes out in question, chest puffing in pride as he watches you bob your head desperately, too blissed out to even care what you look like.

But then your walls are clamping down on him again, and Bakugou curses. “I’m not gonna l-last any l-longer,” he manages to get out, choosing to look at anywhere but your face.

“P-play—fuck,” you choke out, “—play with my c-clit.”

And when you don’t immediately feel his finger on your bud: “Hurry.”

That has Bakugou rushing to rub your clit, and you can only beg for more as the overwhelming feeling of his cock inside you mixes with the euphoria brought by his fingers—until you feel the tell-tale signs of your impending orgasm.

“K-Katsuki,” you shudder, “I’m gonna c-cum.”

“I’m g-gonna—” he grunts, eyes clenched closed, “—fuck—I’m gonna cum, t-too.”

“Katsuki,” you call again, and he turns his head to face your direction. “Look at me.”

And when he does—open his eyes—you roll your hips against his as best as you can, and you say it.

“Give it to me, hero.”

And just like that, he cums.

Hard.

And you cum right with him, digging your nails into his biceps as you moan, so loud you wish he’d kiss you to shut you up, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he moans with you—a strangled one that strangely sends a pang of longing straight to your chest, a longing that you can now finally admit is for the very person in your arms, who you so ardently wish would stay there, even if the mission is long over.

You don’t say any of this, though, even as he kisses your forehead before slowly pulling out, or even as he silently pads to the bathroom to get a towel so he can get you cleaned up. You thank him as he does, and watch him as he puts it away and hesitates for a moment—as if the manual he’s read about sex as a high schooler ends at physical aftercare and he’s run out of instructions.

It’s after a few more moments of awkward silence do you finally sit up and move, scooching over to make space beside you. Bakugou’s eyes trail your movement, widening when he realizes just what you’re doing. He’s stiff even as he crawls to the spot next to you, promptly taking the duvet cover that was tossed to the side in the middle of…everything, before laying it on top of your bodies.

“Thanks,” you murmur, not knowing what else to say.

“‘s nothing,” is his reply, voice equally quiet.

Neither of you says anything for a while, even as Bakugou gently tugs your head so you can rest it on his shoulder.

It’s you, though, who breaks the silence.

“You know, had I known things were gonna end this way, I would’ve just slept in the same bed as you.”

“Fucking tell me about it.”

a/n. :') first off, i want to thank you, friend, for taking a chance on this series and reading it up 'til the end. this has been the biggest endeavor i've ventured into as a writer, and it still feels surreal to me that i'm writing this now as i am about to post the last chapter. that being said, the biggest thank you to everyone who's shown love to all out of luck, especially the ones who left even just a single-worded comment. with the series having reached its end, it would mean the world to me if you let me know what you think about it / how it was for you <3 thank you so so much!!!

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 feel free to drop an ask, too—i'd love to chat with you. have a nice day!

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