#exes to loves irl hell no

[jjk4isen]

ex gojo who doesn't want to be friends with you. you're here thinking it was because he hated you after everything that happened but it's actually because he's still so in love with you and he doesn't trust himself to be 'just friends' with you. how the hell are you supposed to be friends with someone you want to hold and give all your heart to anyway?

[junespriince]

I would love to live stream me writing or drawing because,,,, friends don't have all the time to be there to keep me company while I am working on something BUT I ALSO DON'T BEC god it kinda scary to think about and someone idk calling my by my online name I think I would just die, I mean I do die every time I follow a new twitch streamer because please no don't notice me I just want the lurk and listen while I am making silly little things lol

[eddiesfuckassshack]

buck’s pov of eddie: coolest hottest most awesome amazing guy on the planet everything he does is amazing and everyone can see how great he is and everyone should be in love with him and he can do no wrong and if he DOES do something wrong no he didn’t he literally has a silver star

eddie irl: world’s most annoying uber driver

eddie’s pov of buck: most stable, trustworthy, grounded guy, mature and thoughtful, first person you go to in a crisis, gives great advice without a thought for his own gain, basically the ideal partner

buck irl: crashes all the way out the minute eddie leaves town, drunkenly hooks up with his ex, says very unhinged and mean things and makes his sister’s life a living hell

[fxstpace]

get him back!

summary: years after your messy breakup that broke up the band, you and mingyu are forced back together for a reunion tour—and the public can’t get enough of your chemistry. on stage, you’re electric, but backstage it’s all snide comments, heated arguments, and mingyu slipping in petty lyric changes just to piss you off. you’re not sure what’s worse: how much you still hate him or how much you don’t.

⇢ pairing: lead guitarist!kim mingyu x lead singer!fem!reader ⇢ contains: romance, angst, smut (oral sex, unprotected sex (please stay safe irl!), wall sex, angry sex, overstimulation, dirty talk), exes to lovers au, band au, profanity, smoking, alcohol consumption—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! ⇢ word count: 16.7k ⇢ note: inspired by daisy jones & the six by taylor jenkins reid and get him back! by olivia rodrigo

i). wait, is this the song with the drums?

Your first instinct, when Minghao drops the news about the reunion tour, is to shake your head and vehemently say no.

“Absolutely not,” you say, holding up a hand like that might somehow physically block the idea from reaching you. Minghao simply raises an eyebrow and adjusts his glasses.

“It’s not a request,” he replies, flipping through the stack of papers he brought with him. “It’s happening whether you’re on board or not. Your contract’s airtight.” 

“That’s impossible,” you scoff, folding your arms defensively. “I specifically remember agreeing to no future projects involving him.”

“Yeah, well, when you’re in a band that makes millions, the label doesn’t exactly care about your personal vendettas. Fans have been begging for this for years. You know how much money this is going to make?”

“I can’t do this, Minghao. You know what he’s like. He’s gonna make this a living hell for me.”

Your manager’s eyes soften just enough to make you look away. “Look, I know it’s not ideal. But it’s just a tour. A few months, and then you never have to see his face again if you don’t want to.”

You hesitate, teeth worrying your bottom lip. Anxiety coils inside your stomach like a live wire. You’d thought you’d buried that part of your life—left it to rot somewhere in the wreckage of what used to be your band and your relationship. Mingyu’s name still leaves a bitter aftertaste whenever it slips out of someone’s mouth.

But the label wants it. The fans want it. 

“So, what—you just expect me to pretend we didn’t break up in front of the entire world?” you snap, though there’s less fire behind it this time.

Minghao shrugs and sets the contract on your coffee table. “Pretend, don’t pretend. Hell, make it part of the show for all I care. As long as you’re both on that stage together, the crowd’s going to eat it up.”

You hate how practical he sounds. How it almost makes sense. You glance at the contract, at the neat, tidy letters spelling out your own name and Mingyu’s right next to each other, and feel something bitter curl up in your chest.

“I’m gonna kill him,” you mutter.

Minghao pats your shoulder as he heads for the door. “Try not to do it on stage. Though that might actually sell more tickets.”

You flip him off without looking, and Minghao just laughs on his way out. The contract sits there on the coffee table, and no matter what you do, you can’t seem to look away. Your eyes blur over the words, and all you can think about is him.

Mingyu.

You’ve spent months forcing yourself not to say his name out loud, not to think about his legs tangled with yours in bed or the rasp of his voice in your ear when he couldn’t keep his hands to himself before a show. You don’t let yourself think about the songs you wrote together. You definitely don’t think about the way it all fell apart. It was easier when you could pretend that part of your life was over—when you didn’t have to picture his face or hear his voice in your head, mocking you with every love song you swore you’d never sing again.

With a resigned sigh, you grab the pen Minghao had placed next to the contract papers and flip to the last page. Your signature comes out a little shaky, but it’s done. You let the pen drop onto the table and lean back against the cushions. 

The rehearsal studio feels too small. It’s ironic, really—after spending years crammed into dingy vans and shitty motel rooms together, you’d think it wouldn’t bother you. You’re the first person there (Minghao had threatened to personally drag you out of your apartment if you didn’t show up on time), and because you don’t know what else to do, you set about adjusting your mic stand.

It’s stupid. You know it’s already set to your height, but it gives your hands something to do. The room is way too quiet, the walls lined with soundproofing and a few faded posters from when your band—the Backtrack Theory—was at its peak. There’s a familiar, musty smell—stale air and old fabric—and it makes your chest ache just a little.

Without really thinking about it, you start humming one of the old songs—one that never made it to an album, just something you and Mingyu had messed around with one night in the back of a bus. The melody flows out of you like muscle memory, soft and a little shaky at first, but gaining strength as you let the lyrics slip past your lips.

“Kiss me once and call me baby, Lie to me and say I’m crazy— Can’t believe I let you take me—”

The door swings open mid-verse, and you stop singing so fast it almost gives you whiplash.

Mingyu steps inside, and for a second, you can’t move. It’s like being punched in the gut—seeing him again after all this time. He looks almost the same, and that’s what pisses you off the most. The same messy hair, the same worn leather jacket hanging off his shoulders, that same stupid, self-assured expression. The only real difference is the hint of stubble lining his jaw, like he didn’t bother shaving before showing up. Typical.

He stops just inside the door, guitar case slung over his shoulder, and his eyes lock onto yours. His expression doesn’t give away much—just a calm, uninterested look, like he couldn’t give a shit about being here. Your stomach twists, anger simmering just under your skin. You’d spent months convincing yourself that you’d moved on, that he didn’t matter anymore, but seeing him here, right in front of you, makes all that effort feel pointless. You hate that he still looks good. 

He doesn’t say anything, just drags his gaze over you like he’s sizing you up. You force yourself not to react, keeping your expression as neutral as possible, even though your hands are shaking where they grip the mic stand. You can’t let him know how much this is messing with you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

Mingyu glances at the mic stand, then back at you, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance, maybe, or just plain indifference. You don’t know which is worse. You half expect him to make some smartass comment about your singing earlier, but he doesn’t say a word. Just sets his guitar cas down on one of the couches and starts unzipping it, still not acknowledging you.

The way he’s ignoring you grates on your nerves. You’re tempted to snap at him just to get some kind of reaction. But you know how that game goes—how he’s always been good at pushing your buttons and making you the one who loses their cool first. You’re not giving him the satisfaction today.

You busy yourself with the mic stand again, even though there’s nothing to fix. It’s something to do with your hands, at least. The air feels thick, and your chest feels tight, and you can’t stop your mind from wandering back to late-night songwriting sessions and whispered promises that ended up meaning nothing. You wonder if he thinks about those nights too—or if he’s just moved on completely while you’re still stuck in the aftermath.

The door swings open again, and Jihyo and Eunha walk in, chatting and laughing about something. They both pause when they see you and Mingyu, exchanging a quick look before stepping inside.

“Hi,” Jihyo greets, adjusting the hem of her faded purple band t-shirt. “Everything okay here?”

You force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Yeah. All good.”

Eunha gives you a small smile, her pigtails swinging, and starts setting up her bass. Jihyo nudges Mingyu with her elbow as she passes by, but he just shrugs her off and keeps tuning his guitar. She rolls her eyes and grabs her drumsticks.

You can’t help but glare at him, half-hoping he’ll look up so you can throw something snarky his way. Maybe if he’d just stop pretending like you’re invisible, you wouldn’t feel like your chest is caving in. You’re caught between wanting to scream at him and wanting to leave before your hands start shaking too hard to hide.

Younghoon slips in a few minutes later, his snowy hair wind-ruffled and his jeans ripped at the knees. “Already at each other’s throats, huh?” he mutters, mostly to himself, but you hear it.

“Nah,” you bite out. “No one’s dead yet.”

Younghoon chuckles and unslings his guitar case. It’s forced, yes, and you know he’s just trying to lighten the mood. It doesn’t help much. Mingyu doesn’t even acknowledge the comment; he just keeps strumming a few notes like he’s deliberately tuning you out. You look away.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Backtrack Theory: The Reunion Tour – Behind the Music. Episode One.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]Soft lighting. Jihyo sits on a stool, tapping her drumsticks against her knee absentmindedly. She grins when she notices the camera.

Jihyo: The first practice? Oh, man. That was a nightmare. I mean, I know it was gonna be awkward, but—wow. I half expected the room to just spontaneously combust. (Laughs) They didn’t even look at each other for the first half hour. I thought I’d have to throw a cymbal at someone just to break the ice.

[CUT TO: Eunha, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her bass leaning against her shoulder.]

Eunha: Honestly, I wasn’t sure if they’d even show up. _____ got there first, and Mingyu came just before me and Jihyo showed up. When we walked in… (Sighs) It was like stepping into a freezer. I kept looking at Jihyo like, Are we really doing this?

[CUT TO: Younghoon, leaning against the wall with his guitar propped up next to him.]

Younghoon: You could cut the tension with a knife. I was just waiting for one of them to snap, honestly. ____ was messing with the mic stand like it owed her money, and Mingyu—(snorts) he just acted like he didn’t give a shit. Everyone knows he does, though. I could see his hands shaking a little while he was tuning his guitar.

[CUT TO: Mingyu, slouched on the couch, arms crossed.]

Mingyu: First practice? Whatever. I showed up, didn’t I? (Shrugs) _____ was already there, singing something I wrote. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t feel like arguing. Didn’t feel like… dealing with that. (Pauses) We got through it. That’s what matters.

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a folding chair, arms crossed, eyes fixed somewhere off camera.]

YOU: I didn’t think he’d actually come. And when he did… (shakes head) I was just angry. At him, at myself. At the fact that he didn’t even look at me. We used to be… I don’t know. Better than that. He didn’t say anything to me, and I wasn’t gonna be the one to break first. We both have too much pride.

[CUT TO: Jihyo AGAIN, twirling a drumstick between her fingers.]

Jihyo: Eventually, I just started playing something random to break the silence. That usually worked back then—get the rhythm going, and the rest will follow. I guess some things never change, because once I started up, Younghoon joined in, and Eunha just kinda jumped in too. ____ and Mingyu just stared at each other like it was some kind of weird staring contest.

[CUT TO: Eunha AGAIN, laughing softly.]

Eunha: I thought one of them was gonna strangle the other before we even got to the chorus. But after a few minutes of us just messing around with the intro, _____ gave in and started singing. Mingyu followed—stubborn asshole—but it actually sounded good. Like, almost better than I remembered.

[CUT TO: Younghoon AGAIN, smiling with his eyes crinkled at the corners.]

Younghoon: It was a mess. A beautiful mess. That’s just how it is with us. Always on the edge of imploding but somehow making it work. They didn’t say a word to each other the whole practice, but the music spoke for them. It’s weird how that works, huh?

[CUT TO: Mingyu, still looking annoyed, but his jaw clenches a little.]

Mingyu: We got through the set. It wasn’t… terrible. (Pauses) She still sings like she’s got something to prove. Never really lost that passion. I guess that’s one thing that hasn’t changed.

[CUT TO: YOU, looking almost hesitant.]

YOU: The music was the only thing that didn’t feel different. That’s the worst part. We still fit together on stage. I don’t know how to feel about that.

ii). he had an ego and a temper and a wandering eye.

The venue is packed, lights flashing in time with the beats of the opening song. Jihyo is good. That hasn’t changed, not even a little. The heat of the stage lights is already making sweat prickle at the back of your neck, but you force yourself to ignore it, keeping your eyes fixed on the dark mass of people in front of you. You can barely make out individual faces past the glare, but it doesn’t matter—they’re all screaming, hands in the air, chanting your band’s name like a war cry.

To your left, Eunha’s fingers fly over the bass strings, head bobbing in time with the rhythm. Her eyes are focused and sharp, lips curved into a smile. Next to her, Younghoon strums his guitar, sweat dripping down his temples. He’s got that manic grin on his face, the one that always surfaces when he’s deep in the music.

You’re trying to focus—keep your voice steady, keep your hands from shaking—but it’s hard when you know he’s right behind you, adjusting his guitar strap and dragging his pick over the strings just loud enough to be a distraction. You swear he’s doing it on purpose, plucking random notes like he’s got nothing better to do, just to see if he can make you crack.

You refuse to look back at him. Instead, you take a slow breath and lean into the mic, eyes half-lidded and voice low as you speak to the crowd.

“Hey, everyone,” you drawl, and the noise swells, cheers and screams merging into a single deafening roar. You give them a crooked smile. “Feels good to be back. Did you guys miss us?”

The crowd roars. You can feel it—the way they’ve been waiting for this, for you. You ignore the way it makes your throat close up a little, focusing instead on the setlist displayed on the prompter. The opening song is one of your older hits, the kind of thing that used to play on the radio at least once a day back when it was first released. You’ve sung it a thousand times before, but tonight, it feels different. He’s right there, and you hate how you can feel his presence without even looking.

The drums kick in, pounding through your ribs, and you throw yourself into the first verse.

“Bite your tongue ‘til it bleeds, Hide the bruises on your knees, Say you never cared— I know you’re lying through your teeth.”

Your voice is steady, loud enough to carry over the instruments as the crowd sings with you. You almost lose yourself in it. The light pulses red and white, Jihyoting shadows across the stage, and you grip the mic stand tighter, putting every ounce of frustration into your performance.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Mingyu move closer to his mic, his guitar slung low and his fingers dancing over the strings. You force yourself not to look at him, focusing on the rhythm instead, on keeping your breathing even as the verse transitions into the chorus.

“Bittersweet vendetta, Carved your name into my skin, Kiss me like a secret. Make me wish I’d never let you in.”

You push your voice harder, practically shouting the last line, and the crowd’s response is instantaneous—voices rising to meet yours, some of them screaming loud enough to rival the speakers. You finally risk a glance to your right, just in time to see Mingyu’s lips curve into a smirk, his head tilted like he’s daring you to acknowledge him.

He leans into the mic, and his voice slices through the air.

“She lies like she means it, Fake love on her lips—”

You clench your jaw so hard it aches, but you don’t miss your next cue, even though your mind is reeling. That’s not the original line. He’s never changed it before—not in all the years you performed this song together. You shove down the surge of anger, forcing yourself to keep going as if nothing happened.

The audience reacts immediately—some laughing, some whooping. You know they heard it. You know he did it just to get a rise out of you. You hate that it’s working, that your pulse is thrumming in your ears and your hands are shaking even as you keep your expression blank.

You don’t look at him. Instead, you pour every ounce of your irritation into the next verse, voice dropping low and venomous.

“Cut me down with your clever words, Always knew how to make it hurt, Fake your way to heaven, But I’d follow you through hell first.”

You swear you hear Mingyu laugh under his breath, but he keeps playing like nothing’s wrong, his fingers moving over the strings like second nature. Your stomach twists, and you can’t tell if it’s fury or something uglier—something that feels like regret buried under years of resentment.

The bridge comes crashing in, and you give it everything you’ve got. Your voice is raw and unrestrained.

“Swore I’d never write about you, Guess I lied again somehow, Made my bed on broken promises, Tell me—are you happy now?”

The crowd’s roar almost drowns you out, but you don’t let up, spitting out the words like they’re poison on your tongue. You’re breathless by the time the final chorus hits, and the last line comes out almost like a snarl.

When the song ends, the audience erupts, and you finally allow yourself a moment to breathe, wiping sweat from your forehead with your palm. Your ears are ringing, but you catch a glimpse of Mingyu as he steps back from his mic, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn’t look at you. Nor does he seem to particularly care that he just tore through one of your most iconic songs with a cheap, unnecessary jab.

You force a smile and wave to the crowd.

The moment the stage lights cut out and the cheers of the crowd fade behind the heavy backstage door, you’re off. You don’t bother thanking the crew or even stopping to catch your breath—you just march straight to the green room, hands still trembling from the adrenaline and the anger. Your heart’s pounding so loud in your ears that you barely hear the door swing open behind you.

You whirl around just as Mingyu walks in, still wiping sweat off his face with the hem of his shirt. The sight of him—smirking like he didn’t just pull that shit on stage—makes your stomach twist with rage.

“What the fuck was that?” Your voice comes out harsher than you intended, but you don’t care.

Mingyu just raises an eyebrow, like he’s confused about why you’re yelling. “What was what?”

“Don’t play fucking dumb,” you snap. “You changed the fucking lyrics. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He just shrugs and tosses his towel onto one of the chairs. “Oh, that. Yeah, I thought it sounded better. More honest.”

You take a step closer, jabbing a finger at him. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just rewrite shit on stage without telling anyone. We practiced that song a hundred times, Mingyu. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You’re really gonna get this worked up over one line?” He scoffs, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Come on, it’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep?” You laugh, but it’s humourless and cold. “You made it sound like I’m some kind of manipulative bitch in front of thousands of people! How the hell am I supposed to not get worked up about that?”

“Maybe if it wasn’t true, it wouldn’t bother you so much,” he says, leaning back against the wall.

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

Mingyu shrugs again, his voice low and taunting. “You always were good at faking it—feelings, sincerity, the whole tragic frontwoman act. Sorry if I just cut through the bullshit.”

Something snaps inside you, and before you even realise it, you shove him backwards with both hands. Mingyu doesn’t stumble, but his smirk falls for just a second—just enough to make you feel a flicker of satisfaction.

“Fuck you,” you spit out. “You don’t know a single thing about me.”

His face hardens, and he pushes off the wall to get right back into your space. “Don’t I? I know you lie like it’s second nature. You get off on being the victim, pretending like you’re the one who got hurt. But we both know you’re just as guilty as I am.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.” You’re breathing hard now, fists clenched at your sides to keep from swinging at him. “You’re the one who decided to leave the band first. I’m not the one who bailed.”

“Yeah, because sticking around and watching you sabotage everything we built together sounded like a blast. You’re impossible to deal with. Always have been.”

“You think I’m impossible? You’re the one who picks a fight every chance you get. It’s like you can’t stand if I’m not miserable,” you shoot back. “Newsflash, Mingyu—not everything’s about you and your bruised ego.”

���Says the girl who can’t stand it when someone calls her out,” he says, lips curling into a mocking grin. “Maybe I hit a nerve because you know I’m right. You’re so used to being adored that the second someone questions you, you lose your shit.”

You shove him again, harder this time, and he doesn’t move—just stays rooted to the spot, glaring down at you. “God, I hate you,” you seethe, voice cracking despite yourself.

“Funny. Didn’t sound like hate the last time you were screaming my name.”

You freeze, heat rushing to your face, and the anger bubbles into something darker—something desperate and bitter. “You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you? Always gotta have the last word, always gotta prove something. You’re pathetic.”

“You’re one to talk,” he grits out. “Still hung up on shit that happened years ago. I’m pathetic? You’re the one still singing about heartbreak like it’s gonna make people feel sorry for you.”

You want to hit him. You want to scream at him until your voice breaks. Instead, you shove him again, and this time he catches your wrists, yanking you forward until your chest brushes his. His face is inches from yours, breath hot against your cheek.

“Admit it,” Mingyu murmurs, low. “You’re pissed because I called you out, and now you can’t hide behind your lyrics like a coward.”

You wrench your hands free, but you don’t move back. You’re too close, breathing hard. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” you whisper, voice tight.

His eyes bore into yours. “And you’re a goddamn liar.”

Before either of you can say anything else, Eunha pushes the door open with a scowl. She takes one look at the two of you and shakes her head. “Seriously? Already? I knew this tour would be a shitshow, but I didn’t think you’d try to kill each other on night one.”

You finally rip yourself away from him, swiping at your face like you’re trying to scrub the confrontation off your skin. Mingyu doesn’t look at you. He just picks up his towel and wipes his hands.

Jihyo slips in behind Eunha, still buzzing from the performance. “Kephale, you two are like feral cats. Can’t we just chill for five seconds?”

“We’ve got interviews in ten minutes,” Younghoon pipes up from behind her. “You guys need to get your shit together.”

Eunha levels both of you with a glare. “I don’t care what personal shit you’ve got going on, but don’t pull that crap on stage again. Mingyu, you don’t change the lyrics without telling us. _____, stop feeding into his bullshit. You’re both being idiots.”

Neither of you says anything, but you’re still seething, trying to force down the bitter ache in your chest. Mingyu rolls his shoulders and turns away, his shaggy hair falling down the nape of his neck. When you finally turn and leave the room, you can still feel his eyes on your back, and it makes your skin crawl. You tell yourself you’re just glad to be away from him, but the knot in your stomach says otherwise.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Opening Night – Sold Out.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: Jihyo, her expression thoughtful.]

Jihyo: Okay, look, I’m not gonna go around pinning the blame on anyone. That doesn’t do anyone any good. (Shifts slightly) I just think that we’re all adults here, and what Mingyu and _____ were doing didn’t do us any favours.

[CUT TO: Eunha, scowling at the camera.]

Eunha: They’re pretty f***ing immature, if you ask me. Sometimes I think Mingyu and _____ forget that they’re not the only people in the band. They founded it, sure, but what about me, Jihyo, and Younghoon? This isn’t just some petty high school-level battle of the bands shit. This is our f***ing careers we’re talking about.

[CUT TO: Younghoon, leaning back with a cigarette rolling between his fingers.]

Younghoon: Yeah, it’s real inspiring when your frontmen are trying to rip each other’s heads off backstage. Real rock and roll. (Scoffs) Look, they’re both stubborn as hell, and it’s not like we didn’t see it coming. You put two people with that much history on the same stage, and it’s like throwing a match into gasoline.

[CUT TO: Mingyu, arms spread out on the back of the couch.]

Mingyu: It’s not my fault she can’t handle the truth. We’re supposed to be putting on a show, aren’t we? Guess what—drama’s a part of it. If she wants to get pissed because I added a little honesty to the setlist, that’s on her. (Shrugs) I’m not gonna apologise for making it real.

[CUT TO: YOU, visibly tense, gripping the edge of your seat.]

YOU: He didn’t change the lyrics because it was real. He did it to hurt me. There’s a difference. It’s not about the fans, or the show, or whatever bullshit excuse he’s telling himself. It’s about control. He just couldn’t stand the fact that I was getting through it without him, that I was… fine. (Pauses) Or at least trying to be.

[CUT TO: Jihyo AGAIN, rubbing the back of her neck.]

Jihyo: (Sighs) You’d think that after all these years, they’d have learned how to work together without turning it into a battlefield. We’re not in high school anymore. We’re on tour. If one of them messes up, it’s not just their mess to clean up—it’s all of ours.

[CUT TO: Eunha AGAIN, looking more annoyed than before.]

Eunha: It’s exhausting. We’re just trying to make music, not mediate whatever unresolved shit they’ve got going on. Half the time, I feel like I’m babysitting. They either need to figure it out or shut the hell up and be professional for once.

[CUT TO: Younghoon AGAIN, giving a resigned laugh.]

Younghoon: Honestly, if they’d just screw and get it over with, we might finally get some peace around here.

[CUT TO: Mingyu, AGAIN]

Mingyu: Younghoon said that? Not a chance. I’d rather set my guitar on fire.

[CUT TO: YOU AGAIN, rolling your eyes.]

YOU: Yeah, well, might be the most impressive thing Mingyu’s done in a while.

iii). do i love him? do i hate him? i guess it’s up and down.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Founders’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting upright with your arms crossed.]

INTERVIEWER (off-camera): Can you tell us about the band’s early days? How did the Backtrack Theory come together?

YOU: God, that feels like forever ago. (Pauses) It was just me and Mingyu at first. We were… just kids, really. We’d meet up after school in my dad’s garage—him on guitar, me scribbling down lyrics on whatever scraps of paper we could find. It wasn’t anything serious back then. We just wanted to make noise and piss off the neighbours.

INTERVIEWER: Did you always know it was going to be a band?

YOU: (Shakes head) Not at all. We didn’t plan for it to be anything more than a way to kill time. We’d play until our fingers ached or Dad came out yelling at us to cut it out. (Smiles a little) It was messy and loud and—fun. We didn’t think much past that.

INTERVIEWER: When did it start to feel like more than just noise?

YOU: When Jihyo came into the picture. She was incredible. She had this way of making everything tighter, more precise. Like she just knew what needed to happen to make the sound click. Mingyu knew her from some music workshop thing—said she was the only drummer he’d met who wasn’t full of shit. (Laughs softly) One day, she just showed up with this beat-up drum set and told us our timing was crap. And she was right.

INTERVIEWER: What was your reaction to her criticism?

YOU: Oh, I was pissed. I didn’t want some stranger telling us we were doing it wrong. But she wasn’t mean about it—just honest, I suppose. And once she started playing, we couldn’t really argue with her. She made us sound like an actual band.

INTERVIEWER: And Eunha and Younghoon? How did they join?

YOU: They came later. We’d been playing these tiny, shitty bar shows—barely getting paid, just trying to scrape together enough for gas and food. It was clear we needed a bassist. Jihyo was the one who pushed for it. She said we sounded hollow without that low end. She knew Eunha from some other band that had just imploded—some drama I never got the full story on. Eunha came in and just took over. She was relentless, always pushing for perfection. It drove me and Mingyu crazy at first, but she made us sound good. Really good.

INTERVIEWER: And Younghoon?

YOU: (Smiles fondly) Younghoon was a surprise. Mingyu found him at some underground gig—he was up there shredding like it was the easiest thing in the world. Mingyu practically dragged him to rehearsal the next day, and Younghoon barely said a word. He just picked up his guitar and played like he’d been with us the whole time. We didn’t even have to teach him the songs—he just… knew. It was weird, but it worked.

INTERVIEWER: What was it like performing together back then?

YOU: Incredible. We weren’t perfect by any means—we’d f**k up chord changes and stumble over lyrics, but people didn’t care. There was this energy that made up for it. The crowd felt it too. We’d get off stage, drenched in sweat, hearts pounding, and just laugh about how much we almost screwed up. Those shows were something else.

INTERVIEWER: And what about you and Mingyu? You two were already together by then?

YOU: (Pauses, glancing away) Yeah. It just happened. It wasn’t really something we talked about—it just made sense at the time. We were always around each other anyway.

INTERVIEWER: What changed?

YOU: (Exhales slowly) Success changed things. Suddenly we were everywhere—touring, interviews, non-stop shows. We didn’t have time to breathe, let alone talk about anything that mattered. It was just… go, go, go. And when things got tough, we didn’t know how to handle it. We didn’t talk. We just fought. About stupid shit—lyrics, setlists, tempos. It wasn’t about the band anymore. It was about us, trying to hurt each other without admitting that’s what we were doing.

[CUT TO: Mingyu, leaning back in his chair with one arm thrown across the back of it.]

INTERVIEWER (off-camera): Can you talk about why you left the band?

Mingyu: (Exhales, looks away for a moment) It wasn’t… one thing, you know? People always want it to be simple, like there’s one big reason I just up and left. But it wasn’t. There was just—too much shit piling up. Tension between all of us, pressure from the label, and I wasn’t in the right headspace to deal with it.

INTERVIEWER: Do you regret it?

Mingyu: Sometimes. Maybe. I didn’t really think about what it would do to the others at the time. I needed to figure out who I was without the band. It was selfish, I know, but I couldn’t keep pretending I was okay with how things were going.

INTERVIEWER: Were you unhappy with the band itself, or just the dynamics between the members?

Mingyu: Both, I guess. The band was everything to me at one point. It was the one thing I thought I could count on. But then it just got… complicated. We went from just being a bunch of idiots messing around to something huge, and I wasn’t ready for that kind of pressure. The music stopped feeling like ours—like mine. It was just what everyone else wanted from us.

INTERVIEWER: How did the others react when you told them you were leaving?

Mingyu: (Chuckles bitterly) Not well. Jihyo tried to talk me out of it—said I was being impulsive and throwing away something we’d built from the ground up. Eunha was pissed. She didn’t say much, but I could tell she was angry. Younghoon didn’t say anything at all. Just kind of… stared at me like I’d betrayed him or something.

INTERVIEWER: And _____?

Mingyu: (Stiffens) She didn’t take it well. She said I was running away—like I always did. We fought about it for hours. Nothing we said made sense by the end of it. Just yelling for the sake of yelling. I think we both knew it wasn’t just about the band at that point.

INTERVIEWER: After you left, the Backtrack Theory seemed to almost dissolve overnight. Can you talk about that?

Mingyu: (Breathes out slowly) Yeah, I heard about it a few months later. It wasn’t something I expected. I thought they’d keep going without me, honestly. I didn’t think I was that important. (Pauses) Turns out, though, that me leaving kind of pulled the rug out from under everything. 

INTERVIEWER: Did the others ever talk to you about it?

Mingyu: Jihyo called me once. She didn’t say much, just that they’d decided to take a break, and that without me there, it wasn’t working. She didn’t blame me, exactly, but I could hear it in her voice. Like she was trying not to say that I’d screwed everything up. (Shakes his head) Younghoon never reached out. I don’t know if he was angry or just—disappointed. Eunha texted me some stuff, mostly updates, but nothing about how they felt about it.

INTERVIEWER: What about _____?

Mingyu: (Tenses visibly) We never spoke to each other after I left.

INTERVIEWER: Do you think that the band dissolving hurt her the most?

Mingyu: Yeah. I know it did. The band was everything to her—more than it was to any of us, I think. She was always the one pushing us to go further, to make better music, to keep going even when it was hard. So when it all fell apart… I know she took it personally. Like she failed or something. Especially when I saw her trying to do solo stuff after that. 

INTERVIEWER: Did you listen to her solo work?

Mingyu: (Nods) Every track. It was good—different, but good.

The studio lights beat down on you like a relentless sun, and you resist the urge to wipe at the thin sheen of sweat forming at your hairline. You force yourself to smile through it, shoulders squared and posture just right, even as your muscles ache from holding the same position for too long. Jihyo mutters under her breath about how awkward it feels to act casual when there’s a giant lens pointed right at your face; you can’t help but agree. It’s been ages since the last group photoshoot, and the discomfort is hard to ignore.

Mingyu stands at the far end, stiff and distant, hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. He’s staring at some fixed point behind the photographer’s head, looking like he’s seconds away from bolting. It drives you insane how obvious he’s being about not wanting to be here. You catch his eye once, and the look he gives you is so blank, it’s almost insulting.

Jihyo throws an arm across Younghoon’s shoulders, and the two lean into each other. Eunha sits cross-legged in front of you, holding up two peace signs and grinning widely.

“All right, good! That’s enough for the group shots,” Mina, the director of photography, calls out, clapping her hands together. “Everyone but Mingyu and _____, take five. I want a few duo shots.”

You stiffen. Jihyo glances between the two of you with something close to worry, but when you shoot her a tight smile, she just shrugs and heads off with Eunha and Younghoon in tow.

Mingyu hasn’t moved an inch, his hands still stuffed into his pockets, jaw tight. You take a slow breath and will yourself not to let him get under your skin. Not again.

Mina gestures you both forward, clearly sensing the awkwardness but too professional to comment on it. “All right, you two. Let’s lean into the chemistry a bit. I want intimate and raw—like the world’s finally looking at you both behind the professional masks.”

Your lips press into a thin line. Mingyu doesn’t react at all.

“Face each other,” Mina instructs, waving a hand to adjust the lighting. It catches on the bright gold of her blouse, and you blink a little. “Mingyu, hands on her waist. _____, put your hands on his shoulders. Closer. I need to feel the tension. Like you’re caught between fighting and kissing.”

You almost laugh at the irony. That’s practically all you’ve done since he showed up again—hovering somewhere between wanting to scream at him and wanting to grab his face and never let go. The thought burns. You squash it as you step forward.

Mingyu’s hands settle on your waist, and it’s as if electricity crackles through you, setting every nerve alight. His touch is hesitant, like he’s not sure he has the right to be this close anymore. Your hands come up to his shoulders, fingers brushing over familiar leather and muscle, and you force yourself to look up at him.

His eyes catch yours. Neither of you moves. He looks at you like he’s seeing something he thought he’d lost, and it makes your heart twist painfully.

“Closer,” Mina calls out, voice clipped. “Mingyu, lean in like you’re about to say something you’ve been holding back for years. _____, tilt your chin up—give him that look, like you’re angry but imploring.”

You do as she says, your breath hitching when his forehead dips to rest against yours. Your fingers tighten against his shoulders, and his hands shift on your waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric of your shirt like he’s trying to memorise the feel of it. Those strands of hair that he always braids because he claimed it made him look “edgy” brushes against the curve of your cheek. You can feel his breath fan across your face, warm and familiar, and it hurts how natural it feels.

When you look to the side, Mina is frowning. “Closer,” she says again. “I need to see that longing.”

You don’t bother hiding your scoff, muttering under your breath, “Maybe it’d be easier if he didn’t look like he’d rather be doing literally anything else.”

His eyes snap to yours, defensive. “Sorry I’m not putting on enough of a show for you,” he mutters back, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Maybe if you actually gave a damn, it wouldn’t feel like pulling teeth,” you hiss.

He narrows his eyes, tightening his grip just a fraction, enough to make your pulse jump. “There you fucking go again. Acting like you’re the only one who cares about this.”

You force yourself to keep the smile plastered on your face for the camera, teeth clenched. “Oh, forgive me for thinking you don’t give a shit. It’s not like you haven’t disappeared for months without a word.”

“You think I wanted to leave?”

“You didn’t exactly try to stay,” you snap, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You left me to deal with the fallout while you got to play the tortured artist somewhere else. And now you’re back, and you’re acting like none of it mattered.”

“You didn’t want me to stay,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You didn’t even ask.”

The accusation slices through you, and your grip on his shoulders loosens. “How was I supposed to ask when you made up your mind without me?” you fire back. “You made it clear that I wasn’t worth staying for.”

His expression hardens, like he’s trying to cover the hurt bleeding through his anger. “That’s not fair. You never once asked how I felt about it. You just decided I didn’t care.”

You want to scream at him for being so oblivious—for acting like you didn’t spend weeks waiting for a call that never came. Instead, you force your lips into a tight, brittle smile. “Guess you made it pretty damn convincing when you left even though I asked you to stay.”

Something in his eyes cracks, just for a moment, but then Mina’s voice cuts through.

“Yes! That’s it!” she crows. “Keep it up. Mingyu, cup her face.”

He doesn’t move at first, just stares down at you, his breath coming out in uneven bursts. Then his hand lifts, cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek like it’s muscle memory. The way he looks at you, then, makes your throat close up.

You want to push him away, but your hands stay where they are, like they’re glued to him. Mina calls out more instructions, but her voice is distant—just noise behind the thunder in your chest.

When she finally calls for a wrap, you step back, your hands falling limply to your sides. Mingyu’s arms drop away from you, his face shuttered and closed off again. You don’t look at him as you turn on your heel and walk off to the break room, every muscle in your body screaming with the urge to just get away from him before you say something even worse.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Members’ Cut.”

The screen fades out into grainy footage from an old concert: Mingyu and _____ on stage, harmonising, Mingyu strumming his guitar while _____ sways with the mic. The audience sways as one, flashlights held up as they move in time with the song. The video fades out.

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: Younghoon, sitting cross-legged on a couch, an easy smile on his face.]

Younghoon: Back then? Man, they were something else. You’d think they were fused at the hip with how much time they spent together. Writing songs at three in the morning, huddled over some crumpled notebook, arguing about chord progressions one second and laughing the next. I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people make something so good while simultaneously wanting to strangle each other. It was weirdly sweet.

[CUT TO: Jihyo, sitting in a green room with her legs swung over the arm of a chair.]

Jihyo: _____ used to steal Mingyu’s hoodies every time we hit a new city. Didn’t matter how hot it was—she’d be drowning in that thing, sleeves halfway covering her hands. Mingyu’d just roll his eyes and mumble something about it smelling weird when he got it back, but he never complained. They’d go on these stupid little coffee dates whenever we had downtime—just the two of them, sneaking off like no one would notice. We noticed. Everyone noticed.

[CUT TO: Eunha, sitting on the floor of the green room.]

Eunha: Honestly? Their songs were the best ones we ever wrote. Together, they just… clicked. It was effortless. I think the first time I heard “After Midnight”, I kinda wanted to throw up from how sweet it was. But you could tell—every word, every note—they put their whole hearts into it. It was like they were making something for just the two of them, and the rest of us were lucky to get a piece of it.

[CUT TO: Younghoon AGAIN, still sporting that easy smile.]

Younghoon: But, y’know, things got complicated. Like they always do. They’re both stubborn as hell, and neither of them knows how to sit down and talk without throwing metaphorical knives at each other. Still… (Laughs softly) I stand by what I said. If they screw each other and get it over with, everyone’s gonna be okay.

iv). wanna kiss his face with an uppercut.

You’re sprawled across the hotel bed, face buried in the pillow, when your phone rings. You groan, tempted to ignore it, but the screen flashes Minghao’s name, and you know better than to let it go to voicemail.

You pick up and press the phone to your ear. “Yeah?”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” Minghao deadpans. His voice is brisk, no-nonsense as always. “I’m just checking in.”

“Fantastic,” you say dryly, sitting up and running a hand through your hair. “Photoshoot went great. Almost fought Mingyu. Twice.”

“Great Kephale,” he mutters, and you can imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you two still at each other’s throats?”

“It’s kind of hard not to be when he acts like breathing the same air as me is a personal insult,” you snap. “Mina made us take those stupid couple shots, and he looked like he wanted to die the whole time. It’s—” You break off, clenching your jaw. “It’s annoying.”

Minghao grunts, unimpressed. “You’re letting him get to you.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Then stop it,” he says, as if it’s that easy. “You don’t have to like him, but you do have to get through this. It’s one shoot and a few public appearances. You’ve handled worse.”

“That’s the problem. It’s not supposed to be worse. We’re supposed to be professionals, but he’s—he’s making it impossible.”

Minghao doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, his tone is firm. “Look, if he wants to act like a child, let him. You don’t have to stoop to his level. Smile for the camera, grit your teeth if you have to, and don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s pissing you off.”

You hate that he’s right. “Yeah. I know.”

“You want me to handle anything?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head even though he can’t see it. “I’ll deal with it.”

He doesn’t bother with goodbyes, just hangs up like always. You let your phone drop onto the bed and slump back down, staring up at the ceiling. You hate that it’s still gnawing at you—the frustration, the hurt, the way Mingyu’s indifference feels like a punch to the gut every single time.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You can handle it. You’ve been through worse.

A knock at the door startles you out of your thoughts. You blink, wondering if you imagined it, but then it comes again—more impatient, this time. You groan and push yourself up, dragging your feet as you cross the room. Your muscles still ache from the photoshoot, and your mood hasn’t improved because of Minghao’s call.

You pull the door open, expecting maybe Jihyo or one of the others, but it’s Mingyu. He leans against the doorframe, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his jaw set in that familiar way that makes you want to slam the door right in his face.

“What do you want?” you snap, not even attempting to sound polite.

He glances away, gaze fixed on some spot above your shoulder. “I— Just wanted to—”

“Oh, please,” you interrupt. “Like you fucking care.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m starting,” you snap back, “because you spent the whole fucking day making it perfectly clear that breathing the same air as me is unbearable, and now you’re playing concerned? Do you even look at yourself?”

“Maybe I do care,” he tells you, and you cut in again.

“You’re the one who looked like he’d rather die than put his hands on me. Trust me, I noticed.”

“It’s not that—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched, and steps closer. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me!” you shoot back, shoving his shoulder. “You can’t just act like a dick and expect me to read your mind. Or are you still too much of a coward to admit anything out loud?”

That hits a nerve. His eyes flash, and he steps into your space, so close you can feel the heat coming off him. “Maybe if you didn’t act so fucking righteous all the time, I wouldn’t feel like I’m losing my mind around you,” he spits out.

“Yeah?” you challenge, shoving him again just to get him to react. “Maybe if you didn’t keep running away every time something actually matters, we wouldn’t be stuck in this stupid cycle!”

He grabs your wrist, yanking you even closer, and you can feel his breath on your face, warm and ragged. “I’m not running.”

“Yes, you are,” you hiss, your voice cracking despite yourself. “You always do. You think if you act like nothing happened, it’ll just go away. Well, fuck you, Mingyu, because it doesn’t.”

He looks at you like he wants to argue, but his jaw works soundlessly, and you’re so sick of it—so tired of dancing around whatever’s been festering between you since the band split. Before you know it, your hands are gripping the front of his jacket, yanking him forward just as he crushes his mouth against yours.

It’s not soft or careful—nothing about it is gentle. It’s teeth and heat and frustration, like trying to punish each other for every stupid fight, every missed chance. He makes a low, frustrated noise, backing you into the room and kicking the door shut behind him.

Your hands are tangled in his hair now, and his grip on your waist is bruising, like he’s terrified you’ll pull away. You bite down on his lower lip, and he groans against your mouth, pressing you back until your spine meets the wall.

“You’re an asshole,” you mutter against his lips, barely catching your breath.

He just smirks, dragging his mouth down to your jaw, his voice rough and breathless. “Yeah? You’re not much better.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he doesn’t even try to hide the shiver that rolls through him. You hate him—you hate him so much for making you feel like this, for pushing and pulling and never letting you breathe. But right now, with his mouth on yours and his hands on your body and heat pooling inside your stomach, the only thing you can think of is him taking you against the wall.

You barely register the way Mingyu lifts you off the ground, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he pins you to the wall. His mouth is hot and unrelenting against yours, like he’s trying to erase every insult you’ve ever thrown at him. You’re just as ruthless, biting at his lips and tugging his hair hard enough to make him growl.

He eases you down when you moan—embarrassingly loudly, but you don’t give a fuck. His hand slides under the waistband of your jeans, and you don’t stop him. You let him tug them down, the denim sliding down your legs and pooling at your ankles. Mingyu lifts you up, just so you stand on your tiptoes long enough for him to kick them aside. Every brush of his skin against yours feels like an assault—every touch a reminder of all the hurt, all the anger—but you don’t pull away. 

You hate him. You love him. You need him.

His hands slide down to your thighs, gripping tight enough to leave marks, and then he pulls back, panting, his eyes dark and wild. You’re wet by now, enough that your underwear feels cool from where a damp spot has formed already.

“You always have to have the last fucking word, don’t you?” he grits out.

You scoff. “Someone’s gotta knock you off your high horse.”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s rough. Without warning, he drops to his knees, his hands slipping under your thighs to keep you steady as he buries his face between your legs.

You gasp, one hand flying to the wall to brace yourself, the other still tangled in his hair. Mingyu doesn’t waste any time—he’s ruthless, licking you through the fabric of your panties. It makes your head spin. You choke on a moan, trying to squirm, but he just tightens his grip, keeping you firmly in place.

“Mingyu—” you start, but his teeth graze your inner thigh, and your words dissolve into a shuddering gasp.

“Shut up,” he mutters, yanking your underwear to the side and pressing his mouth against your folds with a fierce sort of hunger. His tongue flicks over your clit, and your head falls back against the wall, a keening sound leaving your throat.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you manage to choke out, even as your thighs tremble around his head.

He laughs against you, the vibrations making you bite down on your lip to stifle a whimper. “You’re still running your mouth,” he taunts, giving your thigh a squeeze. “Wonder if I can make you shut up.”

He doubles down, sucking your clit between his lips and flicking his tongue in a manner that has you seeing stars. Your nails scrape against his scalp, and he just groans in response, the vibrations sending another shockwave through you. Your hips jerk forward. He grips you harder, dragging his mouth down to lick at your folds like he’s starved for it.

Your fingers tighten in his hair. You can’t help the way you tug him closer, grinding against his face despite yourself. Mingyu merely hums approvingly, his hands sliding under your ass to lift you higher, pressing you harder against the wall.

When his tongue dips inside your clenching hole, your knees almost give out, but he holds you steady, refusing to let you escape the overwhelming, maddening pleasure. You’re barely breathing, trying to swallow down the sounds threatening to spill out, but when he curls his tongue just right, you can’t stop the loud, desperate moan that breaks free.

He pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, his lips slick and his eyes burning. “You done being a brat now?”

You glare down at him, panting and still shaking. “Fuck you.”

His smirk only widens, and before you can blink, he’s pressing his mouth against you again—rough, merciless, relentless. It doesn’t take long before your vision blurs and your head tips back, his name tearing from your lips as you come against his mouth.

He doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling and your grip on his hair has gone slack, and even then, he licks you through the aftershocks like he’s addicted to the taste of you. When he finally pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stands, and says, “You’ll give me one more, won’t you?”

Your breath comes out in shallow pants. You can barely muster the energy to glare at him, but his smirk only grows as he straightens up, dragging his hands up your sides and pushing your shirt higher until it’s bunched under your arms. You’re still too dazed to protest when he lifts it over your head, tossing it to the floor before his hands find your waist again, pulling you flush against him.

He dips down to kiss you, and you taste yourself on his lips—sweet and dizzying all at once. You’re still recovering from your climax, but it doesn’t matter—he kisses you like he’s making up for every second he hasn’t touched you, rough and a little desperate, his hands squeezing your hips.

His hands slide up your back, finding the clasp of your bra. You don’t even have time to catch your breath before he unhooks it and slides and straps down your arms, tossing it aside without a second thought. His mouth is back on yours in an instant, but his hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in a way that makes your back arch off the wall.

You don’t even think before your fingers find the hem of his shirt, pushing it up and over his head, and he helps you get it off before crashing his mouth against yours again. Your hands roam over his bare chest, feeling the hard lines of muscle and the rapid beat of his heart under your fingertips. His skin is warm and slightly slick with sweat, and you can’t resist scraping your nails lightly down his abdomen just to feel him shiver.

He bites down on your lower lip in retaliation, and you gasp into his mouth. It earns you a low chuckle. You’re about to shoot back with something sarJihyotic when his hands slide up to cup your breasts again, rolling your nipples between his fingers, and your retort dies in your throat.

“Thought you were gonna give me attitude,” he murmurs against your mouth, lips curving into a cocky grin. “Guess you can be good when you want to.”

“Shut up,” you breathe out, but your voice comes out shaky. He laughs softly, bending down to take one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. Your hands fly back to his hair, fingers twisting in the strands, and he groans the tug.

Your hips buck against his, and he grinds back without hesitation, the hard line of his cock rubbing against your thigh through his jeans. You can feel just how badly he wants you; the thought sends another wave of heat flooding through your veins. You tug at his hair hard enough to make him look up at you, his lips red and swollen.

“Quit teasing,” you pant. Mingyu’s eyes flash with something dark and hungry.

He doesn’t bother replying—just scoops you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist. His mouth is back on yours, demanding, and you feel him fumbling with his belt between your bodies. You don’t have the patience to wait, so you reach down to help him, your hands brushing against his as you yank the buckle open and shove his jeans and briefs down just enough to free his cock.

He groans in relief when your hand wraps around his cock, stroking it slowly and spreading his pre-cum across the length. He bites back a curse. His hands tighten on your thighs, and you don’t miss the way his muscles tense under your touch. You give him a little smirk, but it falters when he presses his tip against your entrance, not quite pushing in yet.

“Are you sure?” he asks, eyes roaming over your face.

You roll your eyes, grabbing his face and pulling him down into a bruising kiss. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I swear—”

You don’t get to finish because he thrusts into you all at once, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Your head tips back against the wall, and Mingyu buries his face in the crook of your neck, groaning against your skin as he adjusts to the tight warmth of your cunt. His breath is hot and ragged, each exhale brushing against your collarbone. His fingers dig into your thighs.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice rough and strained. His hips pull back just enough to drag his length almost completely out before he slams back in, his pace brutal from the start. The force of it makes your back scrape against the wall, and you can feel every inch of him—thick and girthy, splitting you open in a way that has your body straining towards him.

Your hands scrabble for purchase, nails leaving crescents on his shoulders as he sets a relentless rhythm, each thrust hitting deep and perfect. You’re clinging to him, your legs tightening around his waist as he drives into you. The wet, obscene sounds of your skin against skin echo through the room, mingling with your breathless mons and his low groans.

“Fuck—so tight,” he mutters against your skin, his mouth dragging along your throat, teeth scraping and biting hard enough to leave a slight stinging in their wake. “You feel so fucking good. S’like you were made for me.”

You whimper, your hips rocking against his instinctively, desperate for more. You can’t stop yourself from moaning his name shakily. It spurs him on. He grins against your neck, pressing a sloppy kiss to your pulse point before sucking a bruise into your skin.

“Yeah? That good, huh?” he taunts, his tone mocking but laced with genuine awe. One of his hands slides from your waist to cup your breast, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. His thumb grazes over your nipple, and the sensation has your back arching off the wall, pushing your chest further into his hand.

Your head is spinning, pleasure coiling tight and hot in your belly as he fucks into you hard. You can feel every ride and vein dragging against your walls, every thrust forcing sounds out of you that you didn’t even know you could make.

His mouth finds yours again; his teeth nip at your bottom lip before he slips his tongue inside. You’re so lost in him, so overwhelmed, that it takes you a second to realise his other hand has slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and circling it with almost punishing pressure.

“Fuck—” Your hands are back in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss, but he doesn’t let up, the rough pads of his fingers rubbing insistently as his cock drives into you again and again. “I can’t—fuck, I’m—”

“Gonna come again?” he growls against your mouth, his pace never faltering. “You’re gonna come all over my cock, aren’t you? That’s it. Good girl.”

His words make your thighs clench. Your climax comes over you without warning, tearing a strangled cry from your throat. Your walls clench around him, pulsing and fluttering as pleasure blazes through every nerve ending. You feel your thighs trembling where they’re locked around his waist.

Mingyu doesn’t slow down; he just keeps fucking you through it, each thrust coaxing another wave of sensation that leaves you gasping and boneless in his grip. Your mind is a haze, barely able to process how good it feels to be taken like this. You’re dimly aware of his breathing getting rougher, his hips stuttering as your body milks him.

You drag his face back to yours, capturing his lips in a desperate, messy kiss, biting until you taste copper. He groans into you. You feel him shudder just before his rhythm falters. With one last, deep snap of his hips, he buries his cock inside you, spilling hot and thick as his body shakes with the force of his release.

His forehead presses against yours as he catches his breath, both of you panting and trembling. He stays inside you, like he’s not quite ready to let you go, his hands sliding up your sides to hold you close. You’re still reeling, your pulse racing, but you manage a small, satisfied smile, brushing your lips over his with a gentleness that almost feels out of place after what just happened.

For a long moment, neither of you move—you just breathe each other in, letting the remnants of pleasure tangle in the space between you. Finally, he pulls back enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing over your swollen lower lip.

“Still think I’m running my mouth?” you whisper, still trying to muster some semblance of defiance.

Mingyu simply nudges his nose against yours. “Maybe,” he says, a little bit hoarse, “but at least I finally shut you up.”

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Backtrack Theory: The Reunion Tour – Behind the Music. Episode Two.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: Jihyo, sitting on a stool.]

Jihyo: You want to know about the relationships? (Grins) Oh, man. It’s like a dysfunctional family reunion. Some of us slipped right back into old habits, and some of us… well, it’s complicated. Mingyu and _____? (Snorts) Don’t even get me started. You can feel the tension from three rooms away.

[CUT TO: Eunha, sitting cross-legged on the floor.]

Eunha: There’s definitely still some… uh, unresolved stuff. We used to be so tight. All of us. I mean, we fought, sure, but we’d always make up eventually. Now? I don’t know. It’s like everyone’s got their guard up. Younghoon’s doing his best to keep things light, Jihyo just barrels through any tension like she doesn’t notice, but Mingyu and _____… (Pauses) It’s like walking on eggshells around them.

[CUT TO: Younghoon, leaning back against the wall with his guitar across his lap.]

Younghoon: I think everyone kind of forgot how to be around each other. We spent years being everything to one another—friends, family, bandmates, rivals. When the band split, it wasn’t just the music that fell apart. It was us. Now it’s like… we’re all trying to figure out where we stand again. The way Jihyo and Eunha laugh like nothing’s changed, while Mingyu and _____ act like they’re on opposite sides of a war zone. It’s exhausting.

[CUT TO: Mingyu, still slouched on a couch with his arms crossed.]

Mingyu: I’m not gonna sit here and pretend everything’s fine. It’s not. The band breaking up after I left? I’m sure that wasn’t just some decision they made over drinks. Jihyo acts like we’re one big happy family again, but she knows it’s not that simple. Younghoon’s always the peacemaker, trying to smooth everything over, but that just makes it worse sometimes. I don’t know.

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a folding chair.]

YOU: It’s frustrating. We used to be so close. All of us. And now it feels like every word has teeth. Jihyo is trying so hard to keep us from falling apart again, and Eunha’s just… tired. Younghoon’s stuck playing mediator, and Mingyu—(shakes head)—he still looks at me like it’s probably my fault. Maybe it is. But it wasn’t just me who made it boil down to this.

[CUT TO: Jihyo AGAIN, balancing her drumsticks on her finger.]

Jihyo: We’ve always been a mess. That’s kind of our thing. But it used to be that we were messy together. Now it feels like we’re just trying not to accidentally set each other off. I miss how easy it used to be. Back when Mingyu and _____ could actually talk without biting each other’s heads off. Back when Eunha would just crack a joke instead of staying quiet.

[CUT TO: Eunha AGAIN, resting her chin on her hand.]

Eunha: Sometimes it feels like we’re playing pretend. Like we’re trying to convince ourselves that we’re still friends when we’re really just… people who used to know each other. Jihyo keeps pushing for us to hang out after shows, but it never feels right. Everyone’s just waiting for someone to break the silence. I don’t know. Maybe it’ll get better once we’ve been on the road for longer.

[CUT TO: Younghoon AGAIN, eyes thoughtful as he fiddles with his guitar strap.]

Younghoon: I think everyone’s just afraid to be the one who cares the most. Back in the day, we knew each other better than anyone else did. Now, it’s like we’re scared of stepping on each other’s wounds. Mingyu’s carrying too much pride to apologise, and _____ is too stubborn to forgive. Jihyo and Eunha just want everyone to get alone, but no one’s talking about the elephant in the room. We’re good at pretending on stage, though. Real good.

[CUT TO: Mingyu, his jaw clenched, his eyes hard.]

Mingyu: You don’t just come back from something like that. You don’t go from being everything to each other to nothing without it leaving a scar. I’m not saying it’s all her fault. (Hesitates) I’m just saying that it’s easier to be mad than to admit I might’ve messed up, too. That’s why I keep my distance. It’s just… easier that way.

[CUT TO: YOU, looking almost weary.]

YOU: I never thought it would feel this hollow. I don’t know what I expected—a clean slate, maybe? But it doesn’t work like that. We’re still carrying the past with us, and it’s dragging us down. I guess… I just wish he’d talk to me. Even if it’s to say he hates me. At least that would be something.

[CUT TO: Jihyo, shrugging with a half-smile.]

Jihyo: Whatever happens, I’m not giving up. We’re stuck with each other. That’s just how it is. Even if we have to scream it out or throw things at each other, we’re gonna make it work. Because the way they look at each other sometimes? There’s still something there. They just gotta get over themselves long enough to see it.

[CUT TO: Younghoon, adjusting his guitar.]

Younghoon: They’ll figure it out. We’re not just a band—we’re more than that. And sometimes, being more means we break and put ourselves back together. We’ll get there.

[CUT TO: Eunha, giving a faint smile.]

Eunha: If we can just stop letting the past dictate everything, maybe we can start being friends again. Maybe more. I don’t know. But I do know this—on stage, we’re still the same. Maybe the music will help us remember how to be us again.

v). so i write him all these letters and i throw them in the trash.

When you stir in your sleep, the mattress beside you is cold. 

It’s late—past midnight, probably. Your stomach grumbles; you sit up and shuffle tiredly over to the mini-bar and grab a bag of salted Jihyohew nuts, tearing it open. There’s no trace of Mingyu. It’s as if he was never here, didn’t fuck you against the wall like it was all he could think of, didn’t lay down on the bed next to you and curl a strong arm around your waist.

You wish you could say you were just disappointed. The truth is, you had expected nothing else, but disappointment still curls around your ribs.

It’s stupid. You walk over to the glass table placed in front of the plush armchair towards the side of your bed. There’s a notepad and a slightly blunt pencil placed on top of it. You sink into the armchair, popping a handful of cashew nuts into your mouth and chewing. 

The words should be flowing by now—anger and frustration always make for good material—but tonight, they’re stuck somewhere between your ribs, buried under the feeling of his mouth on your skin.

It shouldn’t feel like this. You knew what you were getting into. You knew better than to expect anything else from him. But the way he kissed you, like he was trying to make you forget every fight—made your chest ache. You’re not surprised that he’s gone. You’re not even hurt, really. Just angry. Angry at him for leaving without a word, angry at yourself for caring that he did. You shove a few more cashews into your mouth and wipe your fingers on your sweatpants before picking up the pencil.

Your hand moves almost without thinking, words scrawling across the page faster than you can catch up with them.

You look at me like I’m your only song, And I play the part even when it feels wrong. We’re always dancing on the edge of a goodbye, But I’d risk the fall just to feel you by my side.

You pause, glaring at the lyrics. You should throw the notepad across the room, rip the page out, crush it in your fist. Instead, you just sit there, tapping the pencil against your knee. You can still feel the way his mouth moved against yours, the bruising grip of his hands on your hips. You take a shaky breath and force yourself to keep writing. It’s better than sitting here drowning in the memory of him.

We’re tangled and twisted and never the same, We love like it hurts and kiss through the pain. You’re poison and honey and everything wrong, And I hate that you’re still the one I want.

The pencil scrapes harshly against the paper as you press harder than you mean to. The words taste bitter in your mouth, but at least they’re honest. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to write them down—because admitting that you want more than just his hands on you feels like exposing a wound you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

You swallow down the knot in your throat and lean back, squeezing your eyes shut. It would almost be easier if you hated him. If you could just shove him out of your head and pretend he was nothing more than a bad decision. But it’s not that simple. You don’t just want him; you want the old him, the one who used to light up when you walked into the room, who teased you until you were laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. You want the Mingyu who didn’t always look at you like you’re a problem he can’t fix.

You know you’re being unfair. He’s not the only one who’s changed. You’re not the same either—too guarded, too tired. Sometimes you wonder if you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment because it’s easier than admitting you still love him.

Your chest aches, and the next words come almost like a confession.

You look at me like I’m the one you’ve been missing, Kiss me like I’m the dream you keep wishing Would come true when the lights fade away— But you never stay.

You finish the verse and set the pencil down, pressing your fingertips to your lips like you can still taste him there.

You told yourself you wouldn’t do this again. But he looked at you tonight like he was starving—like you were something he couldn’t resist. And you let him have you because a part of you needed it, too. Needed to feel wanted, even if it was just for a few hours. Even if he was gone before you woke up.

You shove the notepad away, letting it fall to the floor as you curl up in the armchair, knees pulled to your chest. The song lingers in your head, the lyrics clawing at your heart. You feel ridiculous for letting him get under your skin like this, like a bruise that won’t heal.

The truth is, you’d let him hurt you a thousand times if it meant he’d look at you like that again. Like you’re the only thing keeping him alive. Maybe that makes you a fool, but you don’t know how to be anything else when it comes to him.

Shaking your head as though to dissolve it of its thoughts, you tear out the sheet of paper with your lyrics on it, fold it into a square hastily, and shove it inside the pocket of your sweatpants. You stand up and grab your lighter from your bag. You need a smoke.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Founders’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a simple black stool, hands loosely clasped in your lap.]

YOU: Writing with Mingyu… God, it used to be so easy. We didn’t have to think about it. (Smiles softly) We’d just be sitting on the floor of his shitty apartment—barely any furniture, just the couch his neighbour was gonna throw out and that one rug we stole from Eunha’s place. One of us would pick up the guitar, start playing something, and it was like everything else just faded out.

INTERVIEWER (off-screen): Was it always that natural?

YOU: (Nods) Yeah. It just worked. Sometimes we didn’t even talk before starting a song. I’d be on the floor, writing down whatever came to mind, and he’d be next to me, leaning against the wall with his guitar. Sometimes I’d hum something, and he’d just—pick it up. It was like we were reading each other’s minds.

[CUT TO: Mingyu, sitting with his back slightly hunched, elbows on his knees.]

Mingyu: We wrote some of our best songs at 3 A.M, dead tired, arguing about lyrics while eating instant ramen. She’d always overthink the words—had to make sure they said exactly what she wanted. I didn’t care as much. I guess I figured the feeling mattered more than getting every word right.

INTERVIEWER: Do you have an example for the same?

Mingyu: There was this one song (pauses, shakes his head). We wrote it after this stupid fight. I’d stormed out, pissed as hell, but when I came back, she was sitting on the floor, scribbling lyrics like her life depended on it. I didn’t say anything. Just sat down and played along with whatever she was humming. Neither of us apologised, but… I guess that was our way of making up.

[CUT TO: YOU]

YOU: We never talked about it, you know? We’d write all these songs that were practically confessions—about each other, about how much it hurt when we fought, or how we couldn’t stand being apart—and then we’d just… move on. Never acknowledged it.

INTERVIEWER: Do you regret that?

YOU: (Hesitates) Sometimes. But the songs made it pretty obvious. We were practically begging each other to figure it out without actually saying it.

[CUT TO: Mingyu]

Mingyu: She always wrote like it was her way of… bleeding out whatever she couldn’t say. We made something good out of it, though. Even if we never said it out loud. And… yeah. Sometimes I miss that. The simplicity of it. Just us and a guitar and whatever shit we were working through. I didn’t need anything else back then.

[CUT TO: YOU]

YOU: It’s funny. We used to write about heartbreak like it was this distant concept—something that happened to other people. Never thought we’d end up writing about each other.

vi). i want to get him back (and then?)

The rooftop is quiet at this hour—too early for most and too late for the rest. The sky is more navy than blue, more shadow than light. You push the heavy metal door open with your shoulder, and it clicks shut behind you with a soft thud. You tug your hoodie tighter around you, retreating into the warmth, and dig around in your pocket for your cigarettes.

The lighter sparks on the second try. You inhale. Smoke fills your lungs, and something in you loosens. You hate how easy it still is to find comfort in bad habits.

That’s when you notice him.

At first, it’s just the faint glow of a cigarette at the far corner of the rooftop. But you know it’s him—know it in the shape of his silhouette, the way he leans forward with one elbow braced on the ledge, hoodie pulled low over his face. Mingyu. Of course.

You hesitate for a beat, frozen halfway between the door and where he stands. It would be easier to leave—pretend you didn’t see him, pretend you didn’t spend the night tangled up in him and then wake up to cold sheets and silence.

But you don’t.

Your steps are quiet as you cross the rooftop, stopping a few feet away from him. He doesn’t look at you, just exhales slowly, eyes on the horizon. You take a drag from your cigarette, watching the tip burn orange, watching the smoke curl upwards and vanish into the sky.

“Why’d you leave?” you ask. You mean the hotel room, but not only that.

He’s quiet for a long time. You wonder if he’s even going to answer.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he says eventually, still not looking at you.

You huff a breath. It’s not quite a laugh. “You didn’t want to be there.”

He doesn’t argue. The silence stretches again, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just tired. He glances at you. The wind picks up a little, brushing your hair across your cheek. He notices—always notices—and shifts just slightly so he’s blocking the breeze. Neither of you says anything about it.

“You looked peaceful,” Mingyu says. “I didn’t want to mess it up.”

“You think not being there was better?”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

You nod. You don’t push. You’ve learned not to with him. “It’s not just about tonight,” you say quietly.

He nods, eyes dark and shadowed. “I know.”

The sun starts to edge over the horizon, painting faint streaks of pink and orange across the navy sky. It’s beautiful in that fragile, fleeting way, like something you’re scared to touch because you know it’s too delicate to last. You both watch in silence for a while, letting the smoke and the light fill the air between you. There’s a comfort in it, strangely enough. The way the world keeps turning even when your heart feels like it’s stuck. The way mornings come anyway.

You look at Mingyu again.

He’s tired. You can see it in the curve of his mouth, in the slump of his shoulders. But he’s here. Part of you wants to ask him why. Why he came up here. Why he didn’t leave the hotel entirely. Why he lets himself touch you but won’t let himself stay. Instead, you say nothing.

He offers you his lighter when yours gives out, and your fingers brush when you take it. It’s a brief touch, barely there, but it’s enough to make your chest ache in that too-familiar way.

You smoke the rest of your cigarettes side by side, not speaking, not needing to. It’s the kind of silence that used to exist between songs in the studio. When you stub the last bit out on the ledge, you take one last look at the sunrise. The light catches on his face now, gold and soft, and you want to say something. You don’t even know what.

So instead, you pull your hoodie tighter and nod. “I should go.”

He nods too, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop you either.

You turn back towards the door, and as you do, a folded piece of paper slips from your pocket. You don’t notice it fall, fluttering once before landing gently near his feet. You don’t notice it, because you’re too busy disappearing back into the stairwell, too wrapped up in keeping your shoulders straight and your breathing steady.

He doesn’t move for a while after you’re gone.

Then, slowly, Mingyu leans down and picks up the paper. The handwriting is unmistakable—your quick, slanted script, a few smudges where the pencil dragged.

He reads it once. Twice.

Then he folds it back up, holds it in his hand like it might crumble, and watches the sun break over the city, alone.

The lights shift from the vibrant spotlights of the previous set into something softer, slower—dimmed gold and dusky purple spreading like ink over the stage. Your mic is cold under your fingers. You roll the cord absently through your hand. You can’t see much beyond the footlights; only the sea of shadows, the faint outlines of swaying arms and cell phone lights blinking like stars.

But Mingyu’s there, across from you. This next song is just you and him, after all.

He’s adjusting the strap of his guitar, head bowed, eyes hidden beneath the fall of his hair.

It’s the same stage. The same lights. The same song. Why does it feel so different?

The crowd doesn’t know what they’re about to hear. Most of them don’t even know the song, you’re pretty sure. It’s some B-side from one of your earlier albums. You remember when you wrote it. The quiet of three in the morning, the late-night arguments that bled into music, the unraveling of two people who couldn’t speak to each other unless it was in chords and half-rhymed lines.

Here you are again. Older. Worse at pretending.

The intro begins with gentle chords, the kind that hurt more than they soothe. Your mic is already at your lips. You inhale like it’s your first breath of the night.

“I told myself I wouldn’t care this time, Said your name like it didn’t still taste like goodbye. But you look at me like you never learned how to let go…”

Your voice holds, though it feels like walking a tightrope. Every word comes out measured, like if you let it slip, your heart will come out tumbling too. You don’t look at him, not yet. You can feel his presence—like gravity—but you don’t turn your head.

Not until he sings. Then, you do. He meets your gaze.

“I said we were fire meant to burn out fast, But I keep finding you in every song I’ve written last. You don’t ask me to stay, and I don’t ask you to try… But we’re still standing here, pretending we’re fine.”

His voice—God, his voice. It’s rougher than it used to be, edges carved by years and distance, but it still wraps around your lyrics like it was always meant to. He’s not just singing. He’s looking at you like he’s saying every word for the first time. It knocks the air from your lungs.

Your heart’s pounding now, and you hate that it still reacts to him like this. Like your body remembers the way he used to hold you when no one else was watching. 

The chorus crashes over both of you.

“So lie to me, baby, say it’s still love, Say the ending never mattered, that this beginning’s enough. We were smoke, we were stars, we were doomed from the start, But tonight, just tonight, sing like you still mean every part.”

Mingyu steps closer. You do, too. It’s instinct, not plan. You don’t even realise it until you’re nearly toe-to-toe, voices tangling into harmony, eyes locked.

You wonder if the crowd can feel it. If they can hear the way your throat tightens, how the vowels tremble when he looks at you like that. Like he’s trying to remember the shape of you—not just your face, but your soul. The bridge comes. You always dreaded it.

“Maybe we’ll break like we always do, Maybe we’ll forget this in the morning too. But for now—God, for now— You still feel like a home I never knew.”

The line lands like a punch to the chest. Yours, and maybe his too.

You let it ring out, raw and full. For a second, it feels like the two of you are back in that tiny studio years ago—barefoot, angry, tired, in love. Writing a song you were both too scared to mean. But you meant it. You always did, and you do now.

The last chorus is quieter, a lullaby instead of a plea.

“And I’d sing this with you a thousand times… if you’d let me.”

You drop your hand from the mic, breath catching in your throat, and for a moment—just a moment—there’s silence. Just you and Mingyu.

He doesn’t move. He’s staring at you with something unspoken lodged in his eyes, something that looks too close to regret.

You turn away first. Your heart’s already too full. One more second and it might burst.

The crowd roars behind you, applause crashing in waves.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Members’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: Jihyo, lounging back on the couch.]

Jihyo: It was just a fact. Mingyu and _____. You didn’t say one name without the other. (Shakes her head) And the way they used to look at each other on stage? Insane. Like, we’d be in the middle of a song, and I’d be watching them instead of playing because damn. The rest of us could’ve vanished into thin air, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

(Laughs lightly, rolling her eyes.)

Jihyo (CONT’D): It was kinda funny, actually. Like, okay, we get it, you’re in love. Can we get through the set without you two making heart eyes at each other? (Pause) But, y’know… it was also kinda nice. Seeing people that in sync. That kind of connection isn’t something you fake.

[CUT TO: Eunha, sitting cross-legged on the floor, bass resting on her lap.]

Eunha: They were disgusting. I mean that in the nicest way possible. (Grinning) Like, you’d be tuning your guitar, and they���d just be standing off to the side, whispering to each other like they weren’t literally about to perform in front of thousands of people. And yeah, sure, couples sing duets all the time, but with them? It was different. Like they were letting us in on something private, something meant just for them. Even if it was a song they’d performed a hundred times before, it always felt like they were saying something new.

(Chuckles, eyes soft with nostalgia.)

Eunha (CONT’D): They made you believe in that kind of love, y’know? The all-consuming, this-song-is-about-you kind of love. You couldn’t want them and not feel it.

[CUT TO: Younghoon, sitting with his arms draped over the back of the chair, smirking lightly.]

Younghoon: Yeah, they were that couple. The ones who made you roll your eyes but also kind of wish you had what they had. Like, I remember this one show—Mingyu had just finished this crazy guitar solo, and instead of, I don’t know, reveling in the applause like a normal person, he immediately turned to _____ like she was the only one whose reaction mattered. And she just grinned at him, and I swear to God, he looked like he won the lottery.

(Shakes his head and scoffs.)

Younghoon (CONT’D): They were reckless with it. Loud about it. No hesitation, no holding back. They didn’t just love each other, they showed it. And that’s rare. You don’t get that kind of honesty on stage very often.

(His smirk fades just slightly.)

Younghoon (CONT’D):  …That’s why it was so hard when it ended.

vii). ‘cause i miss the way he kisses and the way he made me laugh.

The crowd is louder tonight. Not louder in volume, necessarily, but just… like they’re expecting something. Like they know something you don’t.

You glance at the setlist as someone does your in-ear check. Your duet with Mingyu is coming up next—the same one you’ve done every night for years. It’s not your most popular song, but it’s yours. It always has been. Something about it felt safe even now, when everything else between you and him was held together with duct tape and willpower.

You take a sip of water and step towards the side of the stage, waiting for the intro cues.

But when you hear the first notes, they’re not yours.

Your stomach drops. The chord progression is soft, a little unfamiliar. It’s not one of your tracks, or a part of the agreed setlist.

Your gaze snapes to the center of the stage where Mingyu stands—guitar in hand, face calm. He’s adjusted his mic, and he’s… smiling? Not a grin. Nothing cocky. Just this small, quiet thing, like he’s doing something that matters to him more than he’s ready to admit.

“This one’s not on the list,” he says into the mic, Jihyoual, like this doesn’t upend everything. “I wanted to try something new tonight.”

Your brow furrows. You step a little closer, careful not to draw a scene. Jihyo gives you a sharp look from behind her kit, like, Did you know about this? You shake your head once. 

Mingyu starts to sing.

“You look at me like I’m your only song, And I play the part even when it feels wrong.”

It hits you like a punch to the ribs.

That lyric. That exact line. You know it because you wrote it, alone. In that hotel room weeks ago, scrawled in a burst of emotion you weren’t proud of, folded up and shoved into the pocket of your sweatpants. You’d thought it got tossed in the wash or lost somewhere in the shuffle between cities.

Apparently not. Apparently he found it. And instead of asking you—like a normal person would—he set it to music. He built a melody around your bleeding heart and decided to sing it to a crowd of thousands.

“We’re tangled and twisted and never the same, We love like it hurts and kiss through the pain. You’re poison and honey and everything wrong, And I hate that you’re still the one I want.”

It’s a beautiful melody, and you feel something inside your chest twist, hard. He sings softly but unsteadily, like he wasn’t sure that you’d hear it—or worse, that you would.

He doesn’t look at you while he sings. He scans the crowd, eyes on the horizon. But the meaning is clear. You can feel it in the tightness in your chest, in the hush that’s fallen over the audience, like they know this isn’t just a love song.

You fold your arms over your chest, more for grounding than anything. Jihyo doesn’t play a beat. Eunha and Younghoon watch silently, hands loose on their instruments like they’re ready to jump in if needed, but they don’t. Neither of you do.

This is his moment, and your words.

“You look at me like I’m the one you’ve been missing, Kiss me like I’m the dream you keep wishing Would come true when the lights fade away— But you never stay.”

You exhale shakily. You feel exposed, as if you’re standing naked in front of an entire arena. The words weren’t just lyrics—they were confessions. Grudges. Regrets. Things you never had the guts to say out loud. And here Mingyu is, saying them for you.

No. Singing them.

Your fingers curl into your palms. You don’t know whether to be furious or deeply, deeply moved. 

He finishes the song in a whisper, almost. The last chord rings out like an unanswered question. The audience is silent for a beat too long. Then they erupt—whistling, cheering, screaming. It’s a standing ovation for something they didn’t even know was a story.

And still, Mingyu hasn’t looked at you—until now.

He turns, finally, just a little, and meets your eyes across the stage. You don’t smile. You don’t clap. You just stare at him, speechless and conflicted.

Then, Mingyu steps back from the mic and gives the signal to move on with the set. You turn your face away before the next lights come up, blinking hard. Your heart’s racing. You don’t know what happens after this; what this means; what you’re supposed to say.

You only know one thing: That song was yours, and now, it’s his, too.

The hallway outside the dressing rooms is buzzing—crew rushing around, the muffled roar of the crowd still seeping through the walls, someone shouting about cords and lights and encores. But all you can hear is the blood in your ears and your name echoing in Mingyu’s voice as he sang your lyrics.

His voice, but your words. Your heart on a scrap of paper you never meant for anyone else to see.

Your footsteps are harsh against the floor as you turn the corner and push the door open. The dressing room is too bright, too sterile compared to the intimacy of the stage. Mingyu stands with his back to you, shirt clinging to his skin with sweat, hair pushed off his forehead like he ran his fingers through it too many times.

You close the door behind you with a click. Quiet, but final. He hears it.

“Hey,” he says, not turning around yet.

You stare at the back of his head. “Don’t do that to me.”

Mingyu pauses. Slowly, he turns to face you. “I figured you’d be mad.”

“Mad?” You laugh, breath catching somewhere in your throat. “You think I’m mad?”

“You look mad.”

“I am mad,” you snap, taking a step closer, heart pounding. “You sang a song you weren’t supposed to have. You didn’t even ask me, Mingyu. You just—just stood there and threw it at me in front of ten thousand people like it meant nothing.”

“It didn’t mean nothing,” he says. “That’s why I sang it.”

You’re both quiet. The silence stretches and tightens until it’s almost unbearable.

“You could’ve told me,” you say finally, voice hoarse. “You could’ve talked to me. About the song. About anything. But you don’t. You never do.”

Mingyu exhales slowly, resting his hands on his hips like he’s bracing himself. “I didn’t know how.”

You tilt your head, lips parting in disbelief. “That’s such bullshit, Mingyu. We wrote songs together. We told each other everything through music. And now you’re just—standing there, acting like it’s some impossible thing.”

He looks at you, then. Really looks. And for a moment, he’s not the cold, distant version of himself he’s been for months. He’s just him. The boy who used to fall asleep beside you in the tour van. The one who hummed half-finished melodies in your ear at midnight in whatever motel you were crashing in. The one who used to kiss you like the world might end before morning.

“I didn’t know how to say I missed you,” he admits. “So I used your words instead. Because mine never come out right.”

You don’t want to forgive him. You really don’t.

But the hurt in his voice is real. So is the way he’s looking at you—like you’ve always been the only person in the room, and he’s just been waiting to see you again for real.

You take one shaky step forward. Then another.

When your lips crash into his, it isn’t careful or slow. It’s everything you’ve been holding back: Rage, longing, grief, hope. His hands find your face, yours grip his shirt, and everything around you blurs until it’s just him, just the warmth of his mouth and the softness of his sighs and the undeniable truth that this still feels like home.

You part, breathless.

Neither of you speaks at first. You’re still close enough to feel his breath on your cheek, the heat of his skin under your fingertips. 

Your voice comes out quieter than you intend when you tell him, “I want to get you back.”

Mingyu doesn’t hesitate. “You already have.”

It hits you harder than the kiss did. Something cracks inside you—something small and soft and long-buried. You almost don’t realise you’re crying until he wipes your cheek with the back of his hand.

You let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sob. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.” His thumb traces the edge of your jaw. “You’re allowed to be.”

You step back first, gently. He lets you go, but his eyes follow you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.

As you adjust your jacket and run a hand through your hair, something slips from your pocket—folded paper, creased from being handled too many times. You don’t notice, but Mingyu does.

He kneels to pick it up after you’re gone, quietly unfolding it to find another unfinished song. Lyrics in your handwriting. His name, half-crossed out and rewritten three times.

He reads the first line. Smiles.

He doesn’t hand it back to you. He tucks it into his jacket, like he already knows how it ends.

[CUT TO BLACK] Text appears on screen: “Backtrack Theory: Reunion Tour. THE END.”

[tomfrogisblue]

i forgot to post this during june but i think one of the reasons qsmp was so important was how unapologetically Gay it was

for starters, the number of creators and admins involved who are irl queer of some variation, just chilling in a place where any kind of phobia would get Philza's legendary ban hammer faster than you could say "rainbow jelly"

and then the characters.

i remember showing up that first day and being shocked that somehow foolish had an ex-boyfriend already (I had missed the squidcraft lore apparently)

that server. gay. all the gay. all kinds of gay.

govermentally assigned platonic husbands that stayed together the whole time (despite one of them being gone for months at a time), not a chance in hell of infidelity. Proud fathers of two wonderful children.

governmentally assigned partners who yelled full volume at each other about cheating any time they were in the room together and between the two of them killed two children.

a grieving father and ex-convict becoming one of the most solid couples in the server, with a beautiful wedding and consistent public displays of affection via the in-game chat.

a demon ashamed of who she was and a lonely detective struggling with family trauma, now with a lil girl of their own, to love together and take care of, with more moms than could ever allow the little girl to ever be lonely herself.

a 2b2t warrior coming to terms with his sexuality with the support of his beautiful baby boy at his side, slowly but surely opening up to his eventual Brazilian Boyfriend. Where they went from the most cautious couple (baby steps) to the most sickeningly sweet couple on the server.

- and this list doesn't even scratch the surface.

gay characters, trans characters, ace characters, aroace characters, gender fluid characters, all kinds of relationships and families.

all presented without negativity or shame.

the point of the server was to exchange languages and cultures, without the biases and barriers seen so much in both the content creator scene and the wider world.

it also had a beautiful little side effect, practically by accident.

our lgbtqsmp.

[tnsophiaayaonly]

LUTALICA

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ YOU'RE A YANDERE, WELL, AN EX-YANDERE TO BE SPECIFIC. AFTER COUNTLESS OF TIMES OF KILLING YOUR BELOVED, YOU FIND YOURSELF SUDDENLY GAINING AWARENESS DUE TO SOME VIRUS DISTORTING YOUR CHARACTER FILES. NOW YOU FIND YOURSELF WEIRDED OUT WHENEVER YOU'D FEEL SO INFATUATED OVER THIS GUY, AND YOU SWORE TO STOP BEING WEIRD. UNAWARE THAT YOUR DARLING'S GAINED AWARENESS TOO.

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ MODERN AU. HIGHSCHOOL AU. YANDERE. AETHER, SCARAMOUCHE/WANDERER, XIAO, VENTI, KINICH, ORORON

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ CONTENT WARNINGS: OBSESSIVE/CONTROLLING BEHAVIOR: EXPLICIT YANDERE THEMES AND EXTREME POSSESSIVENESS. OBSESSION AND STALKING, INCLUDING BEING FOLLOWED OR MONITORED. PHYSICAL RESTRAINT & KIDNAPPING: DEPICTIONS OF PHYSICAL RESTRAINT, CONFINEMENT, OR KIDNAPPING. UNLAWFUL DETAINMENT (E.G., LOCKING DOORS, FORCIBLY PREVENTING ESCAPE). CYBERCRIME & DIGITAL MANIPULATION: HACKING, INTERFERENCE WITH PERSONAL DEVICES, AND DIGITAL BLACKMAIL. EMOTIONAL & PSYCHOLOGICAL ABUSE: MANIPULATION, GASLIGHTING, AND COERCION DESIGNED TO CONTROL OR ISOLATE. THREATS—IMPLICIT OR EXPLICIT—THAT UNDERMINE PERSONAL AUTONOMY. NON-CONSENSUAL ACTS: ANY NON-CONSENSUAL OR FORCED BEHAVIOR, EVEN IF MASKED AS “PROTECTION”. ILLEGAL BEHAVIOR & UNLAWFUL ACTS: DESCRIPTIONS OR DEPICTIONS OF ACTIONS THAT ARE ILLEGAL (KIDNAPPING, DOCUMENT FORGERY, THEFT, ETC.) MATURE THEMES IN GENERAL. MENTIONS OF MURDER. MENTIONS OF BEING AWARE IN A GAME.

: ̗̀➛ note that I DO NOT condone such actions irl, and this is a work of fiction. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. part 2 (xiao, venti).

-`♡´- PART 1

╰⪼ AETHER - Class Rep.

A man of virtue—helpful, funny, kind, caring, and breathtakingly attractive. He has it all. Who wouldn’t love someone like him? Who wouldn’t yearn for him, worship him, drown in the delirium of his existence?

No wonder you’ve always felt that electrifying rush, the intoxicating ecstasy that floods your veins with every slow drag of the knife across his flesh. No wonder you’ve felt that dizzying euphoria each time you spilled the blood of another—man or woman—who dared to steal even a fraction of his attention away from you.

He was yours.

But then—

Distortion. A glitched-out, shredded mess of memories, like a dying screen flickering between past and present. When you finally come to, you're curled up in your bed, hair tangled, your skin fevered and slick with cold sweat. Your lungs fight for air as images flash behind your eyelids—a grotesque, jagged onslaught of death, of red-streaked corridors, of bodies slumped in pools of their own warmth, all because of you.

What the hell was that?

Your hands tremble as you grab your phone, fingers slipping against the smooth glass. The calendar stares back at you, unwavering in its cruel simplicity. Not the beginning. Not a fresh start.

The middle.

Your stomach twists violently.

That means you’ve already committed crimes. That means, despite this terrible, newfound awareness clawing at your mind, the stains on your hands have already set. The walls are already splattered. The game—the world—will not reset this time.

At school, every breath feels like an alarm sounding in your chest. The walls seem to close in, and the weight of invisible eyes presses against your back. You are a criminal walking in broad daylight, masquerading as something human.

You consider confessing. Throwing yourself at the mercy of the police, the authorities—anyone who could lock you away before you slip again.

But you don’t.

Fear has its hands around your throat, whispering of consequences, of punishments, of the irreversible.

And then—

“Oh, [Name]! I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can come to your house to help you with math today. Maybe another time?”

His voice is golden honey, smooth and easy, like the way the sun filters through autumn leaves.

Aether.

Your body reacts before your mind does, stiffening, and recoiling. He stands before you with that same effortless charm, his golden hair meticulously braided, strands catching the light like spun silk. He is still beautiful, still perfect—too perfect.

And yet.

Guilt lurches in your gut, a sickness festering beneath your ribs. You manage a stiff nod, then turn sharply on your heel and bolt before your expression betrays you.

Strange.

Very strange.

Aether watches you go, his head tilting slightly, brows furrowing. He expected you to whine, to insist, to grasp at his sleeve and beg for his time, like you always did. But instead, you—ran?

At first, he brushes it off. A bad day, perhaps. A sudden bout of shyness.

And yet—

He thinks about it. And thinks about it. And thinks about it.

You were always there. Always orbiting him, always finding ways to entangle yourself in his life. You chased him, your obsession like a suffocating force, relentless, inescapable. It had been overwhelming—yes—but predictable. A constant.

But now?

Now, he barely sees you. Now, your eyes flicker away the moment they meet his. Now, there is distance where there was once unbearable closeness.

It feels wrong.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d grown used to your presence until it was gone. How the absence of your obsession left him… cold.

Had he done something? Had he driven you away?

Had you found someone else?

Aether’s fingers twitch.

The message arrives when you least expect it.

Meet me up later at the dorms. Yours or mine?

You freeze, staring at the words on your screen.

No. No, no, no.

You’ve been so careful. So diligent. So determined not to fall back into old patterns.

Ignore it. Ignore him.

Your dorm is a sanctuary—a place to suffocate beneath your own guilt, to drown in your shame without prying eyes. You push the door open, stepping inside, closing it behind you—

Click.

The sound is quiet.

Too quiet.

Your breath stills, your fingers going rigid against the doorframe. Slowly, you turn.

And there he is.

Aether.

Your blood runs ice-cold.

“I always felt safe when you were around,” he murmurs, his voice softer than usual, dangerously intimate. His amber eyes are heavy-lidded, laced with something unfamiliar—something raw, something hungry. He takes a step forward. You take one back.

“But lately… I don’t know anymore.” Another step. Another retreat. “You used to be so close. Now, you’re so far away.”

Your back meets the wall.

Aether tilts his head, golden strands slipping over his shoulder. His hand rises, ghosting over your cheek with a gentleness that contradicts the steel beneath his words.

"Do you hate me now?"

The panic clogs your throat. "No—"

"Shh," he soothes, pressing a finger to your lips before dragging it down, pressing it flat over your chest. Your heart hammers beneath his palm. His lashes lower.

“Your heart’s racing…” His fingers trail lower, his grip settling firm against your waist. “…Just like it used to. Whenever I looked at you. Whenever I said your name.”

Your breath hitches, your body locking up as he pulls you closer—too close.

“Like always.”

His arms wrap around you, caging you in. You can’t move. Can’t breathe.

“Don’t worry.”

His lips brush against your hair.

“I missed you too.”

╰⪼ SCARAMOUCHE/WANDERER - Outsider of the Drama Club. Rebel.

Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe you were always drawn to the unattainable, the cruel, the ones who stood above the world as if it were theirs to scorn. And he—he was the epitome of it all. A nightmare draped in elegance, venom wrapped in silk. Scaramouche was all sharp edges and hollow laughter, a phantom that commanded space with his mere presence.

He was unbearable. Unreachable. And utterly perfect.

You wanted to break past his walls, to carve yourself into his life, to make him see you. And if the rest of the world had to bleed away for that to happen—then so be it.

The others didn't deserve him. The parasites who giggled at his words, who brushed against him so casually, so carelessly, as if they had any right. They did not deserve to exist. Their very presence was an insult, a smear on the pristine canvas that was him.

And so, piece by piece, you erased them.

The first one was easy. A soft thing with wide, innocent eyes that adored him too much, who lingered just a little too close. You watched as life drained from their gaze, as their breath rattled out in broken whimpers. It was almost beautiful—the way the blade slipped into flesh, the way blood bloomed like an offering, warm and thick and real against your trembling fingers.

Every cut, every scream, every shuddering gasp—it was for him.

Yet he never noticed.

No matter how many of them you silenced, no matter how much devotion you etched into the world in his name, Scaramouche never noticed. He walked through life untouched, uncaring, his gaze never once landing on you with the reverence you craved.

You returned home to your shrine—his shrine. A sanctuary of madness. Photographs lined the walls like sacred scripture, capturing every fragment of his existence. The way the sun kissed his pale skin. The rare, unguarded softness when he thought no one was watching. The harsh, unrelenting glare that you had come to love more than life itself.

Strands of his dark indigo hair, stolen in the quiet of passing moments, lay bound together with fraying ribbons. Fabric from his discarded clothes, the scent of him still clinging to the fibers, folded with trembling care. A single, crumpled note—his handwriting scrawled across the page, meaningless to anyone but you.

You had built a temple in his name. A cathedral of longing, devotion, and sickness.

And yet—when you stood before it, staring at the madness of your own making, something inside you snapped.

You saw it. Truly saw it.

Not love. Not devotion.

Obsession.

Your stomach twisted, nausea rising like bile. You thought you had been pure, that your love had been something sacred. But the truth was carved into the blood on your hands, into the grotesque altar before you.

You were filth. No better than the ones you had slaughtered.

You couldn’t face him. Not like this.

So you ran.

For the first time, you abandoned him.

At school, you became nothing—a wraith in the halls, slipping through shadows, avoiding his gaze like it burned. You erased yourself from his world, just as you had erased the others from his presence.

And Scaramouche noticed.

The absence of your eyes on him was suffocating in its own right. He had grown used to your presence, to the quiet weight of your obsession curling around him like an unwanted curse. You were supposed to be there—watching, waiting, hanging onto his every breath.

But now?

Nothing.

No glances from the corners of your eyes. No lingering in doorways just to catch a glimpse of him. No quiet, frantic movements in your notebook whenever he spoke.

It was almost... eerie.

A slow smirk curled at his lips, but beneath it was something dark, something unreadable. His fingers twitched, restless. A storm brewed behind his gaze, a creeping, unspoken rage.

Did you think you could leave? Just like that?

Oh, how naive.

You had crawled through madness for him, had burned your soul away in his name. You were his, a pitiful, broken little thing that had spiraled into insanity just to get closer.

And now, you wanted to turn away? To pretend it had never happened?

Scaramouche does not lose what belongs to him.

You would come back.

One way or another.

Scaramouche never cared to notice things beyond himself. People came and went, their voices drowned in the white noise of his existence. He never wasted energy on trivial matters—least of all you.

You, with your cloying devotion. You, always at his heels like an obedient pet. You, whispering sweet, obsessive promises as if they meant anything.

You had been everywhere. The moment he turned his head, you were there. In class, in the cafeteria, lingering outside the bathroom, loitering in the hallways, even perched at the rooftop, always waiting for a glimpse of him.

And then, suddenly—you weren’t.

It was silent.

At first, he didn’t question it. Why should he? It wasn’t his concern. It wasn’t his problem. He should’ve felt relieved.

But the longer it stretched on, the more something gnawed at him.

You were nowhere.

And that—that was wrong.

For two weeks, one day, three hours, fifty-six minutes, and thirty-two seconds—he counted. His mind involuntarily tracked every second that passed without the weight of your suffocating adoration pressing into his skin. He didn’t care, yet somehow, he noticed.

Then, finally—he saw you.

You.

But you weren’t alone.

You were talking to someone else, laughing, smiling. Living.

Something in him snapped.

His smirk faltered.

You—his shadow, his puppet, his wretched little thing—were no longer circling him like a moth desperate to burn. You were free.

You had a life.

And for the first time, Scaramouche felt something eerily close to betrayal.

What happened to your promises?

Where were the feverish whispers of "I'd die for you, Scaramouche!" Where were the eyes that followed him in manic devotion, the trembling hands that clung to every word he uttered like it was scripture?

Had it all been a lie?

Had you really abandoned him?

The rage was instant. Consuming.

Without hesitation, he strode forward, cutting through the people surrounding you like they were nothing but fog in his path. Conversations halted, eyes turned, but he didn’t care.

Because there you were.

And you weren’t his anymore.

"You used to be all in—every moment, every breath, I knew you were mine." His voice was sharp, biting, loud. He didn’t bother to hide the venom in his words, his arms crossed in a defensive, possessive stance. His voice carried through the stunned silence. "Now it’s like you’ve just… vanished. Were you ever really sincere?"

You froze, your body going rigid.

A lump formed in your throat, suffocating, as you stared at him. He was livid, but there was something else buried beneath the rage—something worse.

"What—?" You barely managed to get the word out before he cut you off, voice rising, boiling over.

"You played me. You abandoned me! After everything you’ve done for me?!" His voice cracked slightly at the end, but it wasn’t weakness—it was fury. Frustration. A terrible, uncontrollable storm of emotions that even he didn’t know how to process.

His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palm as if trying to ground himself—to stop himself from grabbing you, shaking you, making you look at him the way you used to.

And yet—you didn’t.

Your eyes didn’t hold that obsessive gleam anymore. They held pity.

And then, you said it.

"Can you just please leave me alone?"

Firm. Cold. Unshaken.

And that—that hurt.

The words slammed into his chest like a blade. His breath hitched, his whole body stiffening. His lips parted, eyes blown wide, an expression of utter disbelief.

You had never, never spoken to him like that before.

And worse—you turned away.

You walked away from him.

You walked away from him.

The world blurred for a moment. He could barely hear the whispers around him, barely feel the weight of the stares pressing into him.

The air felt wrong.

His hands twitched, his heart hammered against his ribs, but his face remained eerily blank.

A slow, suffocating rage curled inside him.

No.

No, this wasn’t right.

You thought you could leave?

You thought you could escape him?

A smirk twitched at his lips, but his eyes were dark—hungry.

You’ll pay for that.

He’ll make you regret ever thinking you could live without him.

It wasn’t difficult.

You had made it easy for him.

Every whispered confession, every vulnerable fragment of yourself—you had offered them up willingly, blind with devotion. When you worshipped him, when you ached for him, you had bled your soul dry, spilling every truth at his feet like a devout follower praying to an unholy god. You had believed your love was unbreakable, that nothing could twist it into something ugly.

But love was a lie.

And now?

Now, those same truths would be the noose around your neck.

Scaramouche barely had to lift a finger. The dirt he had on you wasn’t something he had to dig for—no, you had given it to him, laid it bare in your desperation to be seen, to be acknowledged, to matter to him. And so, with meticulous precision and an insufferable smirk, he wove it all together, weaving your past into a beautiful, intricate cage.

A perfect blackmail.

The tapes spun between his fingers, glinting under the dim light, the cruel little wheel of fate turning in slow, damning circles.

Your sins, preserved forever.

Blood. So much blood. The camera didn’t shy away from the violence—how your blade had sunk into flesh, how wet, gurgling gasps had choked out their last breaths. How their fingers had twitched, grasping at the nothingness as they collapsed, lifeless. And you—standing above them, gloved hands stained red, chest heaving, lips parted with something too close to reverence.

Then, the photographs.

Dozens of them.

Some of him—captured in secret, stolen moments where he was unaware of your obsession clinging to him like a shadow. Pictures taken from alleyways, behind windows, through crowds. And some of you—uninvited, invasive, taken when you thought you were alone but weren’t.

He liked these.

He liked the way you looked in them—unsuspecting, fragile. He liked knowing the tables had turned, that he was watching you now, that your obsession had left you vulnerable enough for him to tear apart.

But the best part?

The confrontation.

Scaramouche didn’t need to hunt you down. He didn’t need to lure you in. You walked straight into his web, oblivious, thinking you were safe.

The door creaked open.

A sharp inhale.

Then—stillness.

You stood frozen in the doorway, the color draining from your face as your breath caught in your throat.

Scaramouche.

Lounging on your sofa as if he had always belonged there. One leg draped over the other, fingers lazily tapping against the stack of evidence in his hands, violet eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Something triumphant.

You felt the air shift—suffocating, cloying, thick with the unspoken understanding that this was no longer your space.

This was his.

Your voice broke, barely above a whisper.

"What are you doing here?" The words wavered, shaking under the weight of panic. "How—how did you get in?"

Scaramouche didn’t answer. He only tilted his head, watching you, letting the silence drag on long enough to coil around your ribs, squeezing. Then, ever so slowly, he lifted the tape, letting it spin between his fingers, his smirk widening.

"More importantly," he murmured, voice smooth, slow, deliberate, "what do you think I’m going to do with this?"

The world tilted beneath you.

Your pulse roared in your ears, the blood draining from your limbs as your stomach twisted into knots.

It was all there.

The evidence. The obsession. The murders.

Your sins, reflected back at you in sickening clarity.

You barely managed to breathe, barely managed to whisper out a choked, "I—I should just go to the police." The words left your lips before you could think them through, raw with desperation. "Tell them—tell them there's a criminal on campus—"

His laugh cut you off.

Sharp. Cold. Mocking.

"Oh?" He leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm, eyes glittering with amusement. "And what do you think happens next? Do they rush in, sirens blaring, guns drawn? Do they drag me away in chains?" His smirk widened, teeth flashing like a predator playing with its food.

His voice dropped, honeyed with false sympathy.

"And what do you think they’ll do when they see all of this?"

Your stomach lurched.

He didn’t need to say it.

You knew.

His expression softened into something almost pitying—almost.

"Face it," he murmured, letting the words settle into your skin like poison. "You're finished, no matter what you do."

A pause. A moment stretched too thin.

And then—casually, effortlessly—he leaned back, arms stretching along the sofa, as if this was all just an idle conversation.

"Or," he drawled, "you could be a good girl and go back to being my pet."

Your breath caught.

The words slithered over you like a collar snapping into place.

His voice was soft—so soft, so sweet—but beneath it was steel. An unspoken command. A leash tightening around your throat.

"It’s your choice, really," he continued, tilting his head. "But let’s be honest—there’s no different outcome. Either way, you’re never leaving me."

The finality of it crushed the breath from your lungs.

The realization clawed its way through your mind like a slow, sinking weight.

You had never been free.

You had never been in control.

And as Scaramouche's smirk widened, as he watched the last ember of defiance flicker and die in your eyes, you realized—

You never would be.

ONG I COULDN'T CONTAIN MY EXCITEMENT OF WRITING :(( AAAH

[ghostlycod]

thinking about ghost or price (but especially ghost) with plus-size!reader is so 🤤

MDNI ; NSFW

cw: use of the word “fat” (I refuse to view it as a bad word and so does ghost), mentions of being bullied and mentions of mothers being judgmental (weren’t all of our first bullies our own mothers?), piv sex, unprotected sex (wrap it up irl, folks. I mean I don’t but I have a breeding kink and don’t mind getting knocked up, so), mutual orgasm, dirty talk, use of the phrase “good girl,” creampie

————————————————————————-

fat

he knows how much you hate that word. it’s the word that’s been thrown at you all your life. playground bullies, ex-boyfriends, hell even your own mother would berate you with it. and you tried your best to tough it out, you know? to not let things get to you, to keep your head high and stay confident. but it’s chipped away at you, he can see it. the way you try to hide yourself, make yourself smaller, thinking if you just don’t talk too loud or don’t move around too much it will make it so you take up less space. clothes that hide the delicious curves he’s been thinking about everyday since he met you.

and that fat is all of what he loves. sliding his length in and out of you slow but hard, watching as the shockwaves of his blunt force ripple across your thick thighs as he sinks home. he’s so greedy with his gaze, drinking in every inch of your perfectly plump body.

“been keeping this from me? trying to hide?” he groans from deep in his chest as he bottoms out inside you, sliding home with a loud, wet squelch from your pussy, making you bite down on your bottom lip and keen.

“askin’ me to turn the lights off.” he huffs a laugh as his hips pick up the pace and you feel him right there, with the perfect tempo and pressure. “nah, nah, nah. you’re gonna let me see ev’ry part of ya, lovey.”

and every part is exactly what he gets. he flips you into every position you never thought anyone would ever take you in. with your legs spread lewdly over his shoulders, tits bouncing with each of his thrusts, his hands kneading the soft flesh of your hips, then ghosting their way over your soft stomach to grip at your jiggling thighs, pussy taking a pounding that can only leave you making those little ah ah ah sounds, squeezing his cock involuntarily because you’re—

“close. soooo close” you moan, trying to bury your face into the blankets bunched up around your head.

“I know, I know,” he coos. takes one hand off your thighs that he’s been holding steady and cups your cheek with it, turning you to face him. “cum for me.” it’s not a request. you hitch your breath, fighting the pleasure for reasons you can’t explain.

“cum for me, lovey” he says again, softer this time, as he stares deeply into your eyes.

and the look in his eyes is undeniable. you do exactly as your told, pleasure surmounting to the most intense peak of your life as it tumbles through your body like an avalanche, stealing your breath and burying your cries beneath the weight of its pleasure.

“that’s it. thas it. thassit.” his words slur together as he loses himself in you. “such a good girl. hmnph,” he cuts himself off with a groan, hips slamming into your gushing pussy wildly. “good girl. squeezingmesogoodgirl.”

he grips you by the hips and clutches you to him as he buries his cock inside of you with one final push, trembling as he folds over you, and you feel the sudden gush as his spend shoots into your cervix. he holds your bodies together like that, not a single inch leaving you as he slowly rocks your two bodies together while his cock pumps his spend inside of you until he’s empty.

you’re both breathless and shaking in the bed, bodies bound together. he focuses his eyes on your face at last, brushing the hair from your face with a surprising tenderness for someone with such rough hands.

“y’alrigh’?” he asks.

you can only nod your head vigorously, making him chuckle. he kisses your temple.

“good. good girl,” he mumbles into your hair, giving your thick thighs a little jiggle with his hand. you almost shy away from him, but one glimpse at his face tells you not to run away. this is exactly what he’s here for, exactly what he likes. and he’ll be damned if you hide from him any longer. so, you don’t. you settle into his hold politely, pressing your body deeper into his, and you don’t shrink away as his hands start to roam your flesh, massaging your fat just as he likes.

“that’s my girl,” he practically purrs at you.

————————————————————————-

[h4m1lt0ns]

HEARTBREAK SYNDROME.

episode three :: COPY CAT.

꒰꒰◌‧₊ ⬪˙⋆ pairing ︴max verstappen x ex!y/n

꒰꒰◌‧₊ ⬪˙⋆ genre ︴social media au / irl snippets

꒰꒰◌‧₊ ⬪˙⋆ summary ﹔being messy won’t get anyone anywhere, especially not her.

fc – wonyoung jang (aged up to 28)

꒰꒰◌‧₊ ⬪˙⋆ warnings ﹕none, messy behaviour.

☆ IMESSAGE with ; BOARD OF DIRECTORS.

girlfriend kika: GUYS LMAOOOO

girlfriend kika: you won’t BELIVEEEEEE what i’m seeing on twitter

yukino: what’s going on

chal eclair: ^^

chili!: spill

girlfriend kika: kelly copied y/n’s ig caption for her post 💀

wifey lily: LMFAO I SAW THAT

babygirl alex: LMAOOOO ME TOO

y/n: sHE WHAT

princess george: OH YEAH TWITTER IS

DRAGGINGGGGGG HER RN 😭

my baby lando: oh nawwww 😭

PIERRE GASLYYYY: guys i CACKLED when kika

showed me the twit posts 🤣

chal eclair: BRUHHHH

y/n: this is so stupid oh my god

y/n: love the messiness though 😁

yukino: wait y/n why didn’t u block her

angel carmen: wait yeah why

y/n: i don’t care that much honestly

y/n: actually…

y/n: 👹👹👹👹👹

chili!: oh hell

my baby lando: cHAOS MOTHER, ARE WE

ENSUING CHAOS???

y/n: YES MY CHILD

y/n: why isn’t there a rubbing hands

together emoji

honey badger: real ^^

princess george: oh god don’t do something stupid

babygirl alex: i approve of this

babygirl alex: go ahead

y/n: i’m not gonna block her i wanna

see how far this can go

alabono: this actually doesn’t sound bad

wifey lily: u should do something VERY specific

y/n: i have an idea 😈

chili!: i hate when she uses this emoji

chal eclair: me too

alabono: me three

y/n: hey are you on board or not 🤨 ???

chili!: i mean obviously yes

chal eclair: duhhh

y/n: incredible.

y/n: wait alex i need you to take photos of me

wifey lily: wait you two are together????

girlfriend kika: TRAITORRSSSSSS

angel carmen: blocking u two fr fr

y/n

♡ liked by charles_leclerc, carlossainz55 and 9,294,109 others.

y/n a mí me gusta cuando baja downtown 🍀

📷: alexandrasaintmleux

1,394,203 comments.

francisca.cgomes le pido que se quede ahí envicia'o 😍❤️‍🔥

username OMFGGGGGGG 😍😍😍

username MOTHER IS BACKKKKK ‼️‼️

username SLAYEDDDDD 😩

alexandrasaintmleux my pretty girl 💚

username amen 🙏🏻

username you’re glowing fr 😩

username the grip u will always have on me is ???

username mothering.

username i’m but a spec on your shoes 🧎🏽‍♀️

username ate. devoured. broke the plate.

username YUPPPPPPP

lilymhe 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

username ma’am 🧎🏽‍♀️🧎🏽‍♀️

username new music when

→ username dawg relax she just came back

username thee prettiest girl, the only girl even.

landonorris mother fr

→ username lando gets it

→ username yes.

username watch out, someone has their eyes on you 👀

→ username CHILEEEE LMFAOO

kellypiquet added to their story!

☆ IMESSAGE with ; BOARD OF DIRECTORS.

chal eclair: BRO

chal eclair: she posted the song on her story 😟

y/n: BITCH 😭

y/n: IT HASNT EVEN BEEN LIKE 15 MINUTES

my baby lando: she’s is literally stalking you omg

babygirl alex: that’s actually fucking scary 😗

angel carmen: I KNOWWWW

chal eclair: so stalkercore 🥰🥰🥰

chili!: exactly 😍😍😍

alabono: dawg 💀

wifey lily: PLS

honey badger: she wants to be y/n so bad

y/n: UGH IM JUST SO ICONIC

princess george: girl…

babygirl alex: GEORGE 💀

princess george: i mean

princess george: SLAYYYYYY

my baby lando: could’ve sworn we had a no

bullying policy 😀

y/n: doesn’t apply to him

y/n: crumpets and tea bitch

y/n: cOME HERE

y/n: 🩴🩴🩴

princess george: LMFAO STOP

chili!: 😭😭😭😭😭

y/n added to their story!

[hoshigray]

⋆♱ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 ✮ 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢-𝐓𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 ♱⋆ | a JJK series

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: hi hello!! so like, yeah, this is late bc I didn't plan on doing any kinktober stuff since i got shit irl to do. BUT, after some thought and some creative bursts of energy, I figured "ehh why not." So, I'm not setting the dates as life can be unpredictable, but here are the things I'm doing/have done for the month!! Think of this more like a book list than a prompt list tbh

reblogs + comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ⋆♱✮♱⋆ transparent edit made by me + header art by yuto sano + fic dividers by the amazing @cafekitsune!!

𝑺𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝑻𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌, 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑹𝒐𝒐𝒎...

All the material below contains 18+ content, so minors do not interact.

☠︎ = ficlet/scenario | ♱ = fics

☠︎ 𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤 (true form! Sukuna x fem/afab! reader)

☠︎ 𝐑𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 (dom! Nanami x fem/afab! reader)

♱ 𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇[𝐞𝐫]!! (serial killers! Toji + Sukuna x fem! reader)

Next time, look around the area before you say you find a serial killer attractive. Because you’re about to see what mess your words will have you end up in — and your clothes all torn up.

☠︎ 𝐓𝐢𝐞 𝐌𝐞, 𝐔𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐞, 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞 (rigger! geto x fem! reader!)

♱ 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐓𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤 (vampire bf! Choso x fem! reader)

Finding out your boyfriend's a vampire was far from the chill evening you planned with him. But you can't lie, imagining those fangs sinking down on and sucking on your skin....it's kinda hot.

♱ 𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬, 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬 (ex-husband! Toji x fem! reader)

Your ex-husband bringing the kids over for trick-or-treating is one thing; him wanting to spend the night at your place is another. But it's just for the night. There's no way one night can rekindle some old feelings...right?

☠︎ 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 (Toji x fem! reader)

♱ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 (Carrie inspired! Gojo x fem/afab! reader)

Taking a loner like you to the prom was, at first, an easy bet for the most popular kid in school. What he didn't expect, however, is to fall madly in love with you — and how that love brings hell on supposedly the best night of senior year...

This is all the stuff for this month. Thanks for stopping by!

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝑱𝒐𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉'𝒔 𝑳𝒂𝒊𝒓?

Would you wish to be tagged? Please lmk in the replies or in my inbox!

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2023 ⋆♱✮♱⋆ These tales have been transcribed and written by the original poster (me). Do not steal, edit, copy/plagiarize, or post any of my works on your own accounts, in or out of this app. Please and thank you.

[writhyv]

⋆｡°✩ [ch.1] for when you miss me

Songs on the charts, sold-out shows, the kind of career most musicians dream about—everything’s perfect. But success doesn’t fill the emptiness. And then, just when you think you’ve moved on—there he is. Your past, standing in front of you like a love song you never finished.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park jongseong x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 1.5k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — male reader, jay x reader, estranged exes to lovers, famous singer!reader because we're built like that, is this angst? i have no clue, memories of your past together just hits hard ughhhh, jay has a new lover omg the drama-mama-mamah, you are dramatic as hell but we love you for you, you are insane to still think of him, i understand though you are in love with jay we see each other WE SEE EACH OTHER, more to come!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — use of male pronouns, has some implied relationships, swear words, mentions and use of alcoholic substances, author's interpretation of the people in this fic might not reflect them irl, story update lengths may vary~

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love: the full masterlist [COMING SOON]

The stage lights are too bright.

They always are—blinding, artificial suns that bleach the room into a watercolor blur. You squint against them, fingers absently strumming your guitar as the crowd murmurs beneath the clink of champagne glasses.

The venue is all exposed brick and twinkling fairy lights, the kind of place you’d have mocked two years ago. Now, you’re just background noise to someone else’s love story.

"You’re up next." Leah’s voice cuts through the hum, her manicured fingers digging into your shoulder—nervous energy. The sequins on her dress catch the light like shattered glass.

"Play something romantic. But, like… not too romantic. Sarah’s grandma thinks love songs are ‘sinful.’"

You snort, plucking a sour note on purpose. "So, no ‘Careless Whisper’?"

"God, no." She grins, but it fades fast.

Her eyes dart toward the crowd, then back to you. "Hey… you okay? You’ve been a little bit pale lately—"

"I’m fine." The lie tastes stale. You twist a tuning peg too hard; the string protests with a sharp twang.

“Oop?”

“There it goes~”

“Psh.” Leah exhales through her nose.

"Heads up, but Jay’s here."

Your fingers freeze mid-strum. You think the discordant echo hangs in the air—a fitting soundtrack.

"Shit," you mutter.

"She was Sarah’s tutor, so she had to invite him," she adds, her voice low.

"Just… brace yourself."

Your stomach knots. "… anyone with him?’"

"Tall brunette girl. Clean fit with a high pony. Around our age. Pretty. A lawyer too, I heard?" Leah grimaces. "She’s got that whole ‘I do hot yoga and would destroy you in court’ vibe."

"Fantastic." You reach for your water bottle, but your hands betray you—trembling just enough to make the plastic crinkle. The condensation drips onto your jeans, cold and clammy.

You don’t look. Not at first.

Instead, you bury yourself in the set—some anemic Ed Sheeran cover, then a neutered Beatles rendition.

Safe. Soulless. Distracting.

The crowd barely reacts. A few aunties tap their heels; a groomsman drunkenly mouths "play ‘Wonderwall’" at you. You ignore him.

But then Sarah, Leah’s new wife, commandeers the mic. Her grin is all mischief.

"Okay, time for a special request!" she announces like she’s not about to detonate a grenade in your chest.

"This one’s for all the hopeless romantics."

She looks at you with a grinning smile, almost teasing.

"Play Way Back Into Love!"

Of fucking course.

You haven’t touched this song since the breakup. Since … him.

Not because it’s hard—it’s easy, four chords and a melody so saccharine it should come with a dental warning—but because it was yours. The song you and Jay butchered in the car, harmonizing off-key until your lungs ached. The one he’d hum against your collarbone at 3 AM, his voice gravelly with sleep.

Now, here it is. Taunting you.

You take a breath—shaky, unsteady—and start playing.

"I’ve been living with a shadow overhead…"

Your voice cracks. You clear your throat and try again.

"I’ve been sleeping with a cloud above my bed…"

And then—because the universe is a sadistic bastard—you look towards the audience.

There he is.

Jay.

Sitting at a table near the back, wearing something so elegant you know the gods made it for him and only him to wear. His hair is bleached now, swept to the side in a way that suggests actual effort, and his fingers are wrapped tight around his champagne flute, knuckles blanching white.

And at that moment? He’s staring at you.

Not the polite, detached gaze of an ex. No—this is raw, hungry like he’s trying to memorize the way your lips shape the words he once whispered against your skin.

Your brain short-circuits.

"I’ve been—uh—" You fumble the lyric. "Solitary… something."

A few guests chuckle, mistaking it for charm.

Jay doesn’t laugh. His lips part, just slightly, like he’s about to sing along—but then she leans in.

The girlfriend.

Tall, brunette, with the posture of someone who’s never slouched a day in her life. She murmurs something in Jay’s ear, her manicured hand settling on his forearm—possessive.

Jay flinches. Just once. Then he looks away.

And just like that, the spell breaks.

˚　　✦　　.　. 　 ˚　.　 . ★⋆.　　✦　.　　.　 ˚　.　　✦　˚ 　　 ˚　.˚

You flee the stage the second the song ends, beelining for the bar like it’s salvation.

"Whiskey. Neat please," you tell the bartender. "Actually, make it a double."

As you sit there all alone, the first glass burns; the second barely registers. You’re halfway through your third when that voice cuts through the haze.

"You still forget the lyrics."

You turn.

Jay’s standing there, smirking, but his grip on his drink is white-knuckled.

"Yeah, well," you shrug, "some things never change."

A beat of silence. And then:

"You still sound good," Jay says softly.

"You look good," you blurt.

Shit.

His cheeks flush pink, but he doesn’t call you out. "Thanks.”

Just then, you notice an unfamiliar motion near you, a person almost to your side.

“Uh… and this is Naomi." He gestures to the woman beside him.

"Hi, Naomi Natten." She says, extending a hand. Her grip is firm, her smile polished. "Jay’s told me a lot about you."

You force a grin. "All lies, I’m sure."

Jay chokes on his drink.

Naomi, oblivious, laughs. "He said you’re a great musician. And, uh…" She glances at Jay. "That you burn toast like it’s your job. Is that true?"

"Wow," you deadpan. "That’s what stuck?"

Jay’s expression flickers—guilt? regret?—before he forces a chuckle. "Among other things."

Another silence.

You then stare into your whiskey, searching for words that don’t exist.

"So," you finally say, "how’d you two meet?"

"Law school," Naomi says brightly. "He was assisting one of our professors in one of my course subjects. I then had the guts to torture him into asking me out."

Jay rolls his eyes, but there’s affection in it. "She’s joking. Mostly."

"Mhm." You swallow the rest of your drink.

"Congratulations." God, it’s burning hot.

Silence stayed for a minute and let a smooth breeze in before a loud soundtrack played in the middle of the venue.

“Wait, let’s dance!” Distracted, Naomi pulled Jay’s arm, talking as if you weren’t even there.

"W-We should go," Jay says abruptly. "But… it was good seeing you." His voice was faltering as the music drowned his cadence.

He hesitates like he wants to say more, but Naomi’s already steering him toward the dance floor.

You watch them go, whiskey burning your throat.

"Yeah," you mutter. "Good seeing you too."

˚　　✦　　.　. 　 ˚　.　 . ★⋆.　　✦　.　　.　 ˚　.　　✦　˚ 　　 ˚　.˚

It was quiet when you got home, the kind of silence that makes your ears ring. The wedding's music still echoed in your head, as if remnants of melodies that wouldn't leave you alone.

As heat crept up your body, you took off almost everything that wrapped you until you got to your room - your suit jacket first, then the tie that felt like it had been choking you all night, and finally those fancy shoes that never quite felt right.

Feeling the bits of tiredness and exhaustion from the event you played in, your eyes landed on a simple cardboard box in the corner. It sat there like a time capsule, gathering dust in the shadows of your bedroom.

As simple as it was, it wasn't ever just one. It was tons of stacked boxes, old and new, each one holding pieces of your past. It wasn't noticeable to anyone else, but every box with it was tucked into the side after you moved in almost eight months ago, like you were trying to hide them even from yourself.

Walking groggily, fighting against the whiskey still warming your blood, you manage to carry one of them and land it on top of your soft mattress. The cardboard felt rough under your fingers, worn at the edges from too many moves.

Scrounging through your messy stuff - old receipts, notes from physics, forgotten birthday cards, ticket stubs from concerts you barely remember - you notice a gleaming antique at the bottom of it all. An old CD case with a scratched plastic cover, the kind nobody uses anymore.

With one gust of air, you wiped down every dust on its surface, watching the particles dance in the dim light of your bedroom lamp.

Opening the case with shaking hands, you see a vintage disk that almost shone brightly with its rainbow colors, like an oil slick caught in sunlight.

The sharpie on the label has faded, but the words still gut you:

FOR WHEN YOU MISS ME — JAY

You pop it into your ancient CD player, just an arm’s length from the box you’ve got it from.

Right there, the first and only track plays. Silence plays in the back as dread looms over what could play from this relic of your past.

"I’ve been living with a shadow overhead…"

You close your eyes, lingering in the presence of his silky voice.

And for the first time in four years, you let yourself remember.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — YOOOOOi never thought this day would come BUT does this qualify for angst? i'm not too sure cuz i've never really dove into the trope in terms of writing and also just had this asone of those dream fics i really wanted to write basedon tropes from the 2000s movies I oh so loved to watch RAHHHHH BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOY ITTTTT also enha in la WOOO GO TEAM

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ story taglist — get in here and request down below!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ can i join the masterlist? — sure! i do frequent posts and updates so just be warned! leave a reply on any posts and i'll add ya in the future updates, much love~ 

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist [COMING SOON]

my masterlist! | made by writhyv 💘

[flowery-mess]

Midnights of October🍁🧡🎃

October 24th

Friends with benefits with cop!Noah

summary: you and cop!Noah are friends with benefits, he sees you in his uniform at a halloween party and takes you back to his place

warnings: friends with benefits, smut; oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v (use protection irl), mention of handcuffs

words: 2.1k

author's note: this is literally copy and paste from my Ryan Tanner fic, which didn't get much love, because the fandom isn't popular on here, so I decided to slightly edit it and post it with Noah, because I like it. There's not really much about the actual job of police officer, but I'm open to write more for it if you want, let me know😊

taglist: @concreteangel92 @sorrowsofsilence @lma1986 @stardustsirenmelody @dream-machine-love @mrsnoahsebastian (let me know if you want to be tagged or deleted!😊)

Midnights of October masterlist

*

"What the fuck is she wearing?" Noah said with wide eyes when he saw you enter the bar.

31st October, Halloween party at your local bar, location you were both currently at.

You and Noah have been seeing each other since you moved to LA, which was 4 months ago. He needed to get over his ex, you over your ex. You introduced him to the phrase the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. And that's exactly what you two did that night. That's also how you ended up getting under each other regularly and became what someone could call friends with benefits.

Noah is hot decent guy, and good in bed. You always end up at one of your places, have sex, eat food, talk and then one of you leaves. That somehow became an unspoken rule between the two of you, you don't cuddle, and you don’t spend the rest of the night together.

You never said it out loud, but sometimes you imagined what being more serious with Noah would be. He's nice, treats you right, cooks for you, treats other people right, he's a cop who protects people from the bad. He's an ideal guy for a relationship. But Noah never mentioned something like that, so you didn't either. You didn't have feelings for him, but you knew you liked spending time with him.

You knew he would be at this party, so you decided to be a little tease to spice things up tonight, because you knew you two would leave the bar together either way.

Last night Noah was on call and ended up leaving for work when you were at his place, but you left before he came back. You knew for a while that you're costume this year will be a cop, just to see if it does something to Noah. So you took the chance when you saw his spare work belt lying over the kitchen chair. You took things that would get you in trouble out of it. You also took one of Noah’s work shirts in the color blue and left.

Noah took few long steps in your direction and repeated his question, this time directly to you. "What the fuck are you wearing Y/N?"

"Hi there Noah." you smiled teasingly at him and put hands over your his belt.

Noah didn't put much effort in his costume, he was wearing coat with a hat, looking like he fell out of Peaky Blinders episode.

"We're leaving, now." he said through gritted teeth and took you by the elbow, dragging you through the crowd towards the door.

"We're talking about this when we get home, I can't talk right now, because I'm mad at you, you can't even imagine." home, that was all you heard, he said home. He was mad, but he also said home. And it didn't really mean anything because he was going home literally, but it made your heart flutter a bit.

When you two entered his home, he turned around and backed you until your back touched the front door.

"What the hell were you thinking? Stealing from a cop? Part of his uniform?"

You unclipped the belt and handed it to him, then you started unbuttoning his shirt.

"What are you doing?" he asked confused, anger still visible in his eyes.

"It's not stealing if you return it. Here." you put his shirt over the belt in his hands.

"You took my work shirt too?" he looked like he will jump out of his skin any second.

He was so mad that it took him few seconds to see what you were wearing under his shirt, black laced bra. When he connected his gaze with your chest, the anger in his eyes seemed to go away.

"You can write me up, officer Sebastian." you never role played with him and weren't planning on it tonight, you just teased him a bit more.

"Y/N I'm serious, you can't do that. It's dangerous." Noah said, more calm every second. You were too hot for him to be angry, standing in front of him like that.

"Okay, I'm sorry." you placed your hands on his shoulders, took off his coat and then pulled him closer to you.

You couldn't stop staring in each other’s eyes, in silence. He lowered his face to touch your forehead with his, while his nose was stroking yours, gently. He was always gentle with you.

"Kiss me." you whispered. And he did, because you were his soft spot and he'd do anything you asked for.

Slow little kisses turned into passionate kisses in a few seconds, as Noah’s hands were exploring your body as if it was the first time he was touching you.

He lowered his hands under your ass and picked you up, carrying you in the direction of his bedroom. You gently started undoing the buttons on his shirt, taking it off of his shoulders once you managed to open all of them.

Noah put you gently on his bed, his lips never leaving yours, while he hovered over you.

"Noah" you moaned his name as his fingers started moving from your chest to the band of your shorts.

"Mhm." Noah gave you his answer with lips on your neck, sucking at your sensitive skin.

He continued to move his fingers over the band of your shorts, putting them just a bit inside of the band for a few seconds, then pulling them out and moving them over the lace on your bra, teasing your nipples. Teasing. Punishing. For stealing his things.

"Noah, please."

"Please what, huh?" he lifted his face from your neck, with a smirk on his face.

"Stop teasing Noah, I said I'm sorry."

He took advantage of you lifting your hips, which was movement out of pure need for more fraction, and pulled your shorts down. And another second his lips were back on yours and his hand made its way back to your lower tummy, slowly dragging his fingers closer to where you wanted him the most.

He started rubbing your clit over the fabric and put his lips on your left nipple.

"Fuck." you moaned, he always knew how and where to touch you.

When his hand left your core your hips tried to follow his movement. But his hand was already on it's way to remove your bra.

"Hate to say it, but you looked hot as a cop." he threw your lacy bra away and put his fingers in use with your panties.

"You look hot as a cop all the time." you returned the compliment.

He used the hand in your panties to get rid of them and then he placed himself between your legs. He thrives from giving, he’s that good of a guy, so even though he was mad at you earlier, he wanted to pleasure you first. He continued kissing you for few more seconds, then he gently bit at your jaw before he made his way down your body. He hooked your legs over his shoulders while kissing the inside of your thigs. He looked up at you an met caught you watching him.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing, I just like looking at you." you whispered. And it was true, you liked looking at him a little too much than you should.

He continued kissing your thigh until his mouth met your core and your head fell back on the pillow.

Noah’s tongue kept circling around your clit while his hand held your hips down. You put your hand over his and couldn't stop the sounds that were leaving your mouth.

He did few licks from your hole back to your clit, he knew your weakness. He eased the pressure on your tummy with slightly lifting his hand as he flattened his tongue and let you move your hips the way you needed against his tongue. When he heard your breathing quicken, he held your hips still again and worked his tongue over your folds and swollen clit, collecting your juices while the feeling inside you was growing. When your orgasm took over you, your legs squeezed Noah’s head to make sure he doesn’t pull away too soon. You heard him chuckle against you, sending wave through your overstimulated body.

He kissed his way back to your mouth, where you could taste yourself. It was your turn to flatten your tongue as you held his head still and licked his mouth and chin clean.

"That was hot." he said barely above whisper.

"My turn." you said and tried to push him under you, but he sat on his knees and started unzip his jeans while muttering something that sounded like 'next time'. Before you could find out what Noah said he was already lining his hard dick at your entrance.

He slid his dick through your folds few times to collect your wetness and looked in your eyes, searching for confirmation which you gave him with taking his jaw in your hands and connecting your lips with his.

"Fuck baby." Noah let out in a pleasure after he slowly slid into you, lowering himself to his elbows to be close to you. He grabbed you by your chin and connected your lips for a hundredth time this night. He said baby, he said home. There probably wasn't any deeper meaning behind it, but he rarely used pet names for you.

His deep growl snaped you out of your thoughts. Noah’s head was in the crook of your neck, this position allowed you both moan straight into each other’s ears.

"Noah." you moaned his name once more as you felt the tension in your body to grow again. He set the pace as he continued to move his dick in and out of you. It felt different tonight, but you didn’t know if it was just for you, or if Noah felt it too. Sex with Noah was always intimate, but tonight felt even more.

Noah put his hand between your bodies to play with your clit, which wasn't really needed after he hit the right spot inside you that made your walls pulse around him. "I'm going to cum."

"Yeah baby, let go. Cum for me." and that was the last snap. You did come under Noah, tugging at his hair while being moaning mess.

Noah kept thrusting inside you, riding you through your high as he was still chasing his own.

"Y/N, fuck!" was the last thing you heard before he came too.

He collapsed on your chest, his head still in the crook of your neck.

“If you steal my things again, I’m putting you in handcuffs.” Noah said.

“Well, that sounds really terrifying.” You said with visible irony in your voice and made Noah laugh.

Your chests kept moving up and down, enjoying the moment in silence.

"Be mine." Noah said into your skin.

"What?" you tensed a bit, not sure what he meant.

"I don't want you to leave each time after we have sex, I don't want to pretend we're not close when we're in public. I don't want you to steal my clothes, I want you to wear it whenever you want. Be mine, please." Noah raised his head from your neck after he was finished to look into your eyes. “You don’t have to answer right now, or we don’t have to make it official right this second. But I want everyone to know we’re seeing each other, I want you Y/N.”

You slid your fingers through Noah’s hair, pushing them out of his eyes that were looking at you with so much hope. Then gently slid your hand to caress his cheek.

"Are you asking me all of this while your dick is still inside me?" was the only answer you could get out. You both started laughing, Noah got up to throw away the condom, then he put the covers over both of you and you laid on his chest.

"So, what do you say?" Noah started playing with your hair, you could sense he was nervous.

"I'm saying let's give it a chance then." you tried to hide your smile with putting your head under his neck, but he cupped your cheeks and made you look him in the eye.

"Really?"

"Really." that was all he needed to know, he kissed your forehead, then your cheeks, your chin, then finally your lips.

"We're going on a date tomorrow then. And you're staying tonight." Noah said between kisses.

For the first time ever you two took shower together, Noah gave you his t-shirt to sleep in. You fell asleep cuddled together, but you still heard Noah say "But don't steal my uniform again please." before he planted last kiss in your hair.

[writingduhh]

hihi, I love your writing for Ted and i wanted to ask if you could write smthn!!

i'm thinking chuckle sandwhich member!reader and she's known the boys for a bit and they get along really well on camera and the podcast, BUT irl, reader and Ted don't get along at ALL. maybe a misunderstanding between the two but like enemies to lovers type dealio? anyways, one of them end up kinda saying something on the pod that alludes to the misunderstanding and the audience doesnt miss it. they talk, makeup, kiss, whatnot.

I hope this makes even an OUNCE of sense. but i'd love to see what you can do with it <33 !!!!!

Oooo I like it! I’ve never been a read or write of enemies to loves but I’d love the chance! This is such a great idea

Ted Nivison || On-Camera Friends, Off-Camera Enemies

Being on Chuckle Sandwich was great. The three of you-Schlatt, Ted, and you—had a dynamic that worked. The audience loved it, you had fun, and overall, it should’ve been perfect.

Except for one thing.

You and Ted? Couldn’t stand each other.

Or at least, that’s how it seemed.

Before all the tension you liked Ted. A lot. The kind of like where your heart skipped a beat when he laughed, where the teasing back and forth felt charged. And you swore he felt the same way until suddenly, he didn’t.

One day, something shifted. The flirtation turned real. Real frustration, real irritation, and before you knew it, you’d gone from stealing glances to barely speaking unless the mics were on.

You never knew why.

But today? Today, you were determined to just keep it together.

Today’s episode was a fan questions episode. Easy. Simple.

…Right?

“Alright,” Schlatt said, scrolling through the submissions. “Here’s one… How do you work with someone you don’t get along with?’”

Ted let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, great topic.”

“Very relatable” you scoff.

Schlatt grinned. “You two are so full of shit.”

You ignored him. “Honestly? Just focus on the job. You don’t have to like someone to work with them.”

Ted hummed. “True. But I’d say communication is important. Without communication there’s nothing…”

Schlatt was practically beaming. “This is the best day of my life.”

Ted exhaled, shaking his head. “Some people are just naturally stubborn.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And some people are just wrong.”

Schlatt burst out laughing. “Alright, next question before you two actually start throwing hands.”

The episode moved on, but you could feel the weight of it still lingering. And you knew the comments were gonna eat that moment alive.

After recording, Schlatt left first, leaving you and Ted alone in the studio.

You exhaled sharply. “Okay. What the hell was that?”

Ted crossed his arms. “You tell me.”

“You were the one being passive-aggressive!”

Ted scoffed. “Me? You literally called me naturally difficult!”

“Because you are!”

Ted huffed a dry laugh. “You’ve been weird with me for months.”

“You started acting different first!”

“No, you did!”

Silence. Staring. The tension was unbearable.

Then Ted exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ. This is so fucking stupid.”

You hesitated. “What is?”

“This!” He gestured between you. “I don’t even know why we started hating each other.”

You paused. Because, yeah. Neither did you.

“…Oh,” you muttered.

Ted sighed. “Yeah. Oh.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Fuck it.” Ted’s gaze locked onto yours. “Months ago, I heard you talking to Schlatt. You said I was ‘arrogant as hell and impossible to work with.’”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“I heard you,” he insisted. “So don’t act like—”

“Oh, my God, Ted.” You groaned, rubbing your face. “That wasn’t about you.”

Ted blinked. “What?”

“I was talking about my ex. Schlatt asked why we broke up, and I said he was arrogant and impossible to work with.”

Ted’s expression shifted. “You’re serious?”

“Yes! Why would I lie about that?”

Ted was silent. Processing. Then He let out a quiet, breathless laugh. “Jesus Christ. We’ve been at each other’s throats for months over that?”

“Apparently.”

Another pause.

Ted’s eyes flickered over you, the usual smirk tugging at his lips. But this time, there was something else behind it.

“So…” he mused, voice lower now. “That means you don’t actually hate me?”

Your breath caught slightly. “No.”

Ted hummed. “Huh.”

The air shifted. The frustration, the tension—it was still there, but now it felt different.

You crossed your arms. “Why do you sound disappointed?”

Ted took a step closer. “Maybe I liked it better when you had a reason to pay attention to me.”

Your pulse jumped. “Ted.”

His smirk widened. “What?”

“You’re annoying.”

“And you’re cute when you’re mad.”

Your heart was pounding now, and you knew he could tell.

Ted’s gaze flickered between your eyes and your lips. “You know… before all this bullshit, I actually liked you.”

Your breath hitched. “Yeah?”

He hummed. “Mhm. Thought maybe you felt the same way. But then you started treating me like an asshole, so I figured I was just being stupid.”

“You were being stupid.”

Ted raised a brow.

You took a step closer. “Because I liked you too.”

Ted’s smirk faltered just slightly then returned, sharper. “Oh.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t hesitant. It was months of tension finally snapping. His hands found your waist, your fingers curled into his hoodie, and fuck, this was so much better than you ever expected.

When you finally pulled away, you were breathless. “Shit.”

Ted smirked. “Yeah.”

He tilted his head. “So… we just gonna leave it at that, or—”

You rolled your eyes. “I mean, I’d like this to keep going. Turn into something more.”

His grin widened. “Cool. I’m picking you up Friday.” Ted smirked. “I was right about you liking me, wasn’t I?”

You huffed, shaking your head. “God, I hate you.”

Ted leaned in, lips barely brushing against yours. “No, you don’t.”

And yeah. Maybe he had a point.

[verysium]

Hi please ignore this if you aren't taking requests but I have this very specific idea if you could do it:

Sae cheating on Model S/O with their rival model right before a big modeling competition which the now ex S/O wins and to kinda take revenge the now Ex S/O saying to the rival model "say hello to Sae for me"

I know this is super specific and it's up to you if you would like to take this request or not I'm currently looking for a modelling agency IRL

i took some creative liberties with this one. it was heavily inspired by yasmeen khan's 1001 nights. i do not know much about professional modeling, so most of the actual references are obscure. hopefully, this works for you though:

instead of a heart, you were born with a wound, a three-by-five inch gash that allowed the light to pass through.

doubt festers like an aperture, a brief shutter of the lens before your eyes blink away all uncertainty. in the confines of your dressing room, the mirror replaces your face with sloshing light, the silver streams of your reflection dripping down through stained fingers. it's nothing compared to the brightness of your screen, the damning evidence of a murder scene splattered across dry text.

who the hell is she? what do you mean? are you fucking cheating on me sae?

there's a knock on your door. it's alessandro, the stylist. his voice cuts through the silence, reedy and skin-tight. he wants to know why you've walked off mid-shoot, when you'll be back to rejoin the other girls on set. you think twice before you respond to his call, taking a deep breath before you face your interrogation.

there's blood on your gown, right above where your heart used to be. a fist-sized prism flashes within your chest, shot through with the hue of your arteries. crimson for the knife-thin glint in your eyes. poppy for the withered petals of your lips. scarlet for the salt encrusting your mouth. ruby for the iron ore of your tongue. red was always your color.

the photographers line up before you, judgement painted on their faces, both sets of eyes unblinking. tears with mascara make a good cover shoot, but a scornful lover with his other woman make for an even better story. you've long run out of tears to cry, tried your hand in the art of storytelling. the only way you know how to love is to angle your face towards a crowd, to bite your lip until it bleeds. your smile never wavers in its sharpness, every confession clasped tightly between white teeth.

snap, snap: once upon a time, there was a boy who weaved lies. click, click: once upon a time, there was a girl who fell for them. flash, flash: once upon a time, this could have been a love story.

there are harder things to hold than a pose, and your resolve becomes nigh unbreakable. in front of every shattering bulb, you hold strong against the impact force of time. your body is sanctified in the golden light, a yellowed blade across the horizon.

perhaps the next girl would be softer, bleeding flowers into aching mouths. perhaps the next girl would be beautiful.

but for now, you remain cold and hard and bright. you stare directly at the sun. you crush every bud beneath your fingertips, cut your flesh on its thorns. down to its very bone, every wound becomes a scar, every smile becomes a story.

when the shoot wraps up and the other woman steps in, you grin with enough light to cut shadows into her body.

"you're his new girl, right? say hello to sae for me."

[jellyfitzjelly]

Zevlor in a fresh relationship, his partner is not yet aware of ruts. One day, Zevlors rut begins suddenly (I imagine he usually has a good idea on when they come on) and his partner comes home to him being completely wrecked trying to fuck his fist, saying her name over and over. When he sees her enter the room he is first ashamed but she practically drools and drops to her knees to take care of him. He is in for a long session of worship and care. Never has someone taken care of him like this during his rut. Zevlor is so filled with horny thoughts and love he cries a lil

After three thousand years it is here.... I apologize for the delay anon, IRL is crazy right now. I hope you will enjoy it nonetheless!

While the cat is away... | NSFW | AO3

Zevlor was reading when he felt a rush of heat inside him. He frowned as his nipples pebbled and his heartrate picked up. He cursed loudly in Infernal, panicked. His rut was coming right now! How come he didn’t expect it? Zevlor could always pick up the signs, but this time it came completely unexpected! Why?

He huffed with annoyance when he realized that it was probably because of Tav’s presence that his rut got triggered unexpectedly. They had gotten together a few months  ago, but Zevlor hadn’t told her about his biology. He just felt too embarrassed and had foolishly thought he wouldn’t get a rut until next year.

Sighing as his skin started itching,  a sign his rut was minutes away from beginning, the ex-Commander undressed hurriedly and went to the bedroom to grab the puss-box he kept hidden under the floorboard. He was thankful Tav was absent for a few days. She was visiting her friend Shadowheart. That would leave him time to get through the worst of his rut.

He chose a table with an ideal height. He murmured the gluing spell that would allow the puss-box to stay in place on the table. Gods  who in the nine Hells came up with “puss-box” as an actual product name? It was stupid and ridiculous, but even the tiefling couldn’t deny that this toy did him well when he was alone. Just in time: Zevlor’s cock was hardening, his knot swelling as he felt an overwhelming rush of arousal. Zevlor bit his lip as he felt the need for Tav’s scent. He hurried to their bedroom, rummaging through his lover’s clothes but none did the trick. The scent wasn’t strong enough… His gaze turned to the dirty laundry basket. Reddening, he looked through it and found panties Tav wore during her training yesterday. He brought them to his nose and breathed in the divine smell. Arousal shot down his spine, making his mind hazy and his cock twitch. He needed to fuck something now. He came back to the living room, eagerly oiling himself before lining his cock with the entrance of the toy. He brought the panties to his nose, closing his eyes as he imagined himself diving into Tav’s cunt. He snapped his hips into the tight walls of the puss-box, groaning. He fucked the hole urgently. Sweat started to pearl his brow as he took his pleasure, imagining stretching Tav with his knot, having her bear his children from all the seed he fucked into her. He threw his head back to moan as he breathed into his lover’s scent, his knot pulsing and aching. His release was building fast in the pit of his belly, he was going to come–

A gasp made him snap his eyes open. Tav was standing there, watching with shocked, wide eyes. Zevlor pulled out, panicked, dropping the panties in horror. His cock twitched despite the situation.

“I’m sorry–” Zevlor began, but his lover strode over.

He flinched, expecting blows, but she dropped to her knees in front of him and took his cock in hand. He moaned, frozen in place. He didn’t know what to expect. Disgust? Anger? Fear?

“You’re so big,” she murmured, practically drooling at the sight of his cock.

“Tav, I can explain…” he trailed off, scrambling for an explanation that did not involve the fact he hid the peculiarities of his biology.

She didn’t seem to have listened to him. She mouthed his knot, sucking on it and making Zevlor howl. His knot was sensitive, especially since he was so close to release. Tav sucked eagerly on his knot, trying to fit it entirely in her mouth. The Hellrider groaned, carding a hand in her hair. She finally let his cock slide into her mouth, letting him thrust. He could not control himself anymore and snapped his hips forward into the heavenly wet heat, being careful not to choke her. He keened when he felt a hand rolling his heavy balls. He tried hard to keep his wits about, to warn Tav about his rut but the pleasure was draining all thoughts from his mind. All he could think about was that mouth sucking on his knot and then on his balls. His thighs started quivering as his partner brought closer and closer to the edge.

“Please! Please! I– I can’t–” he stammered, trying to pull her off his dick but Tav was clearly decided to have him come in her mouth.

He was going to come, but it felt wrong, all wrong. Zevlor snarled, teeth baring as he roughly yanked Tav off his cock. He grabbed her arm and lifted her up to her feet before dragging her to the bedroom where he threw her on the bed. Tav looked so beautiful like this, ready to be filled with his seed. But he wanted to taste her first. He shoved her pants down and ripped her panties apart to dive into that cunt he had been hungering for. He lapped at her vulva like a thirsty man finding an oasis in a desert. He grabbed her by the hips, digging his claws in her skin as he kept her in place, pleasuring her and making her moan and whimper. She grabbed him by the hair, trying to shove his face into his cunt. Zevlor brought her to release, sucking on her clit even when the overstimulation settled in. He enjoyed her moans and her writhing, making his cock pulse. He brought her to another release, never getting enough of her taste and smell. Zevlor could not wait a second longer. He must have her. He stood up and showed off his cock, rubbing it against her sopping cunt. Tav moaned brokenly, snapping up her hips for more friction against her clit. The Hellrider pushed inside her with ease, groaning. This was so much better than his miserable toy. Her wet heat was simply heaven. Zevlor could not help a guttural, animalistic moan as he fucked her hard and fast. His release built up and up in his gut, his knot pulsing faster and faster.

“Mine,” he growled, wrapping a hand around her throat as his knot caught on her entrance.

“Yours,” Tav cried out and the Hellrider could put off his release no longer.

He pushed and pushed until his knot popped in, coming with a long moan and his head thrown back as he filled her up with his seed, feeling her walls constrict around him. He fell down on her, out of breath and blissed out. Tav wrapped him in her arms, petting his sweaty hair and purring into his neck.

“Didn’t know you were into choking,” she chuckled.

Zevlor blushed, embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, hiding his face.

“Don’t be, I enjoyed it,” she grinned. “I like it when you get bossy.”

His cock twitched at the praise. They stayed in each other’s embrace until his knot deflated. Tav switched their positions and let him slip out of her.

“Stay in bed,” the Hellrider murmured, but the young woman had other plans.

She got up and came back with a basin of water and a cloth. She gently wiped him down, refusing any help as she tenderly wiped his sweat away. Her gentle touch seemed to break something in his heart. There was reverence in her eyes. Reverence for him. It brought tears to Zevlor’s eyes to see her kissing each of his infernal ridges, looking upon his features with adoration. Nobody had ever done so. All his past lovers had been accepting at best, nothing more.

“Don’t cry, my love,” Tav told him with a smile, wiping his tears away.

He took her hand into his, kissing her knuckles. She kissed and fondled every inch of his body from horns to toes. By the time she was done, Zevlor was hard and aching again.

“I love you,” he choked up. “By the gods, I love you more than I love myself.”

She straddled him, caressing his face. She took his hand and put it over her heart.

“And I love you too, Zevlor. My heart is yours and only yours.”

She grinded against his cock, her folds wet and inviting. Zevlor groaned like a wounded man. She let him slip inside, moaning as she felt the ridges rub all the right spot.

“I want your knot so bad,” she panted, looking him right in the eye. “I want you to knot me, Zevlor. I want to bear your child.”

“Tav,” the Hellrider whimpered. “Please…"

“I mean it,” she told him seriously, and that more than anything else drove him wild.

He grabbed her hips, digging his claws into the soft skin as he drove up into her cunt, slapping his knot against her entrance in a concert of slick and obscene sounds. His release was swelling inside of him, merciless and unstoppable. He could see how Tav’s thighs were quivering, her clit erect and swollen. She was close too. He snapped his hips up one last time and pushed forward, unrelenting, making her cunt yield to his knot. He shouted when it popped inside the tight wet heat. Zevlor spilled deep inside of her, a primal urge satisfied to see his mate filled with his own seed. The hope she would conceive a child crossed his mind, bringing another spark of arousal to his core as Tav slumped forward. He wrapped her in his arms, mirroring the tenderness she had shown him earlier.

“You are the greatest blessing the gods have ever given me,” he murmured, eyes moist.

Tav lifted her head, still flushed from their round. She smiled wide.

“I love you, but I really hope this thing of yours don’t last a full month. People would be concerned over my disappearance.”

Zevlor laughed.

“It lasts only a few days. A week at most. But my love for you will last all my life.”

“Good thing I will be yours forever, then,” she whispered before kissing him.

[kickingitwithkirk]

Paschal Moon 2.0 -1/2

Summary: Jensen finds love the second time around can be bumpier than an armadillo-laden roadway in Texas.

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Fiancé!Reader

WC: 2120

Warnings: fair amount of drinking and flangst, relationships are hard, insecurities, cursing, sexy teasing, arguments, family issues, reader still saying shit like me IRL

*Please read Paschal Moon first. This story is a continuation of it.

A/N: It's been a minute since I've been up to writing after Covid kicked my arse, but I had this sequel idea bouncing around and splitting into two parts.

A/N II: I based readers home on this property I’d love to live on in Utley, Tx

A/N III: This is a work of fiction, and no intentional disrespect to the real-life persons contained within.

Square Filled: @jacklesversebingo -“I’ll always take care of you as long as you need me” in bold @j3bingo -Foreplay

*Moldavite

*divider by @firefly-graphics

*no Beta-all mistakes are mine

*photos found online

The screen doors creaking made Jensen look up from the sheet music he was working on and saw his fiancée couldn't help but smile. Six months ago, he was so deep in divorce drama that it was providence meeting this nerd-hot astronomy professor who lives in the boonies.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, sitting his guitar on the couch, expecting her to reciprocate, but she just walked through the kitchen door. Okay, that’s not good, Jensen thought. Crossing the main room, he found Y/N’s messenger bag lying on the floor, her jacket carelessly tossed on top, and shoes kicked in opposite directions.

Jensen heard a cabinet door slam shut in the shoebox-sized kitchen as he gathered the items and placed them in their usual spots before entering the kitchen to find Y/N leaning against the old butcher block countertop with a finger crooked in a bottle of Fireball Whiskey's handle, chugging it like an old moonshiner made him remark, “Guess you've had a day.”

Pulling off she bitterly responds: “It’s been crapdamntastic. And how was yours, dear?” This shocks her fiancé. Y/N never called him that, once saying the endearment had a negative connotation from her childhood when she suddenly stomped off. When the hundred-year-old farmhouse’s pipes rattle, it snaps Jensen out of it, and, like the last time Y/N had guzzled that much alcohol too fast, he sees the trail of clothes left in her wake.

Now concerned, he gathered the articles and deposited them in the bath hamper. “Gonna tell me what set you off this time?”

A very unladylike snort came from behind the shower's glass door, “Check your phone.” He retrieved it from the charger in the bedroom and plopped on the large bed, thumbing through multiple missed text stops at the one from his manager marked urgent opens the included link. “Wha…Motherfucker!”

In an exclusive interview, OTH star Danneel Ackles reveals the real reason her ex-husband, Supernatural's Jensen Ackles, deserted his family.

A bath sheet-wrapped Y/N sat down cross-legged, facing Jensen as he continually tugged a hand through his long hair while reading the article full of falsehoods. Jensen suddenly dropped his phone and reached for the bottle copied her earlier chugging, “You know those paparazzi that've been harassing since Inks Lake?”

Jensen acknowledges, remembering the night a few weeks ago when Y/N’s astronomy class took a field trip, secretly arranging to take her camping instead (something he wouldn’t normally do on a dare) and proposed during the celestial event.

“Well, today, they got into the auditorium during my lecture and began shouting those derogatory accusations from that piece when several of my students took it upon themselves to intervene. Long story short, I’m on unpaid leave until the school finishes its inquiry.” His following words this is my fault made Y/N snap. “Oh, the hell you say! You’re absofuckinglutley not at fault here! Danneel acting like a snake in the grass!”

“Danneels pissed because,” but Jensen didn’t finish, instead guzzling on the last of the bottle.

“Because beg-a-bitch badly miscalculated you’d come crawling back and trying to save face! Peaches, I knew being together would have bumps, but this?” She points to his phone, “Face facts, Jensen. Your ex is a Regina George who’s gone too damn far covering her swamp ass!” Jensen sputtered on the cinnamon whiskey burning down the wrong pipe, “Swamp ass?”

“Urban Dictionary, page two, definition four.”

Jensen began to speak, but Y/N placed her fingers against his plump lips. “You’ve always been inclined to let a lotta crap slide to keep the peace because she’s the mother of your children. But Jensen, it’s time to redraw the boundaries of what is acceptable and what’s not ‘cause I don’t want your kids to grow up with resentments like I have towards mine.”

“Ohhh my god! Keep giving it to me just like this Peaches!” 

Y/N, sucking on her fingers, moaned in ecstasy, then pulled them out with an obscene pop before reaching for another slab of the ribs Jensen fixed in the outdoor smoker. “Good thing we’re not in public; otherwise, you’d get an obscenity charge.”

“It was one time, and I got off with a warning.” She cheekily remarks, “Besides, my meat man deserves props.” Jensen’s fair skin flushed; his tell when embarrassed but also when aroused makes Y/N grin and tease him by sucking the bones clean.

“Y/N, I wanted to talk about something, and don’t take this the wrong way.” Jensen takes a long swig of his beer before tackling the tricky subject. “Since we’re staying with my family for dad’s birthday, could you tone it down? Your personality can be a bit much.” Y/N got that expression, which he still wasn’t sure how to interpret.

“Calling me extra, that’s rich, considering your profession is full of fake people.” Jensen suppressed his automatic response. “Y/N, it’s just my parents; they’re very conservative.” She dropped her uneaten ribs and sat back.

“I might’ve grown up po-dunk,” her tone signals he’s close to stepping over the line. “But I know how to act around those types; otherwise, I wouldn’t have my position at UT Austin, let alone be headhunted by SpaceX for their new facility coming to Texas!” The flash of surprise crossing Jensen’s face didn’t slow Y/N down. “Would working for Elon Musk be acceptable to the high-fluttering Ackles clan? Or do they consider his personality a bit much?”

Hitting his limit, Jensen’s near-perfect features morphing into I’m done with your shit expression irked her more.

“You know what? We’re a couple of liquorlip loaded guns and better table this conversation till capable of being civil. Thank you for dinner, it was delicious.” Y/N gets up and grabs the rest of the six-pack. “I’m gonna polish these off in the guest house.”

“This is your house.”

“I know.“ Y/N says, twirling her engagement ring around her finger. “Kinda hoping sleeping alone in my bed will clarify whether you had a holy fuck, I’m over forty and single again moment and jumped the gun proposing or really ready for this life with me.” She laid the ring on the table before Jensen, and staggering slightly down the porch steps, disappeared into the moonless night.

Jensen was sitting on the kitchen banquette, watching the ancient oak leaves dance on the breeze through the window, when Y/N padded in barefoot, clad in one of his T-shirts, damp hair hanging loosely down her back, and no makeup.

God, he loved how she rocked the all-natural look, so different from Danneel, who always had to be camera-ready, watches Y/N sleepily fumble around, realizing the kettle was already heated, she added the tea diffuser, steeping it before pouring it into an oversized mug.

She shuffles and plops across from him, leaning on an elbow, waiting for Jensen to speak. “It wasn’t a knee-jerk reaction. You are the person I want to be with for the rest of my life.”

“Why?”

That one-word question hung in the air because Jensen knew what Y/N wanted.

It wasn’t the usual platitudes of I love you or can’t live without you. She wanted him to be open, raw, vulnerable, something he always had trouble with, exposing his innermost self.

“Figured after a decade in the industry, I had a grasp of how to tell fake people from real ones. I believed I knew Danneel because we’d been friends. Then she kissed me in Ten Inch Hero and we,” Y/N quirked an eyebrow as he ran a hand through his long hair, “I knew her boyfriend but did all my thinking with the wrong head. It wasn’t my finest moment.”

Jensen picked up the mug he’d already drunk and refilled it. “Looking back, I realized there were signs; our normal banter changed at some point. It was stupidly easier to ignore our issues in Vancouver or at cons.” Y/N remains quiet, so Jensen wouldn’t stop opening the hurt box and acknowledging the truth.

“I let Danneel manipulate me, thinking she supported my career by encouraging me to take on more roles. After getting pregnant with JJ, said she wanted to move back to Texas to be closer to family. Then pushing for more kids, ignoring what I wanted, to secure her position. And the other duplicity’s to get financial support for whatever project interested her.”

Jensen didn’t notice Y/N sliding across the seat beside him as he buried his face in his hands, “I've been her lifelong meal ticket. How could I have been so fucking stupid?!”

“Jensen, you aren’t stupid, you were in love. And some marriages work better with a bit of separation. What’s making me hella pissed is Grade A Cunt going around acting like butter wouldn’t melt and blaming you for her cheating!”

Y/N softens her approach, “Those weeks you didn’t call, figured you lost my number cause you’re another Hollyweird dickwad who didn’t wanna get caught with Ms. one-foot outta the trailer park.” Jensen shook his head, “I wouldn’t have taken you bar hopping to the ones I frequent if being seen together was the real problem. Why didn’t I call,” he shook his head again. “I didn’t know how to respond to you crashing through my insecurities like a…”

“Two by four in a tornado?”

“Pretty accurate and disturbing description.”

“Peaches, wanna know what I see when I look at you?” Jensen turned toward her, eyes loaded with apprehension. “A guy who feels too much, so he hides behind this reserved veneer and Da Vinci perfect face, kinda like his alter ego.”

Jensen pushes the mug over and takes her hand, placing the ring back on her finger. “I don’t know how to be without you anymore, so do me a favor. Don’t take this off again, okay?”

“Okay,” she reaches up, cupping his bearded cheek, "Peaches, I’ll always take care of you as long as you need me. So, we done with this emotional colonic?” Jensen laughs and kisses her. “That’s my girl.” He then licked his lips, “How about heading back to bed? We have a few hours before picking up the kids.” Y/N got up taken both mugs to the sink.

“I guess, since my propensity to get laid is about to greatly diminish staying with your parents, the con, then you heading off to finish up The Winchesters afterwards.”

“You have the weirdest technique for enticing a guy, sweetheart.” Jensen’s T-shirt smacks him in the face, and he's about to give her what for is gobsmacked at a completely naked Y/N standing in the doorway striking a seductive pose.

“This technique work for you, Peaches?”

Jensen glances in the SUV's rearview mirror to see which of his kids are acting up. But Clif, without looking, knows what’s happening and loudly asked, “Do the adult children need a timeout?” The noise abruptly stops as Jared and Y/N point at each other and simultaneously say, “He/She started it!”

****

The trip ended up taking a lot longer due to road work slowing traffic on the way to dropping Jared and Clif off at the hotel, and Jensen was relieved to pull into his parents' driveway. Getting out, twisted his torso to loosen up tense back muscles froze when the squeals of mommy rang out, and heard Danneel say she was also staying for the weekend.

Y/N grabs Zeps's backpack before stomping to the vehicle's rear, and when Jensen rounds the SUV, he is greeted with obscenities that would make a sailor blush and luggage hitting concrete. “Sweetheart, I have no idea why Danneel is here...”

“Because I invited her,” Donna Ackles says from not three feet away, and Jensen becomes frosty.

“Mom, we discussed this. You knew I was introducing Y/N to the family this weekend.” Donna comes back with, “Just because you abandoned your marital oath doesn’t change the fact that Danneel's family. And I had assumed your friend would be staying at that hotel, too.”

“Well, you know what they say about assumptions, Mrs. Ackles.” Donna’s eyes widened at Y/N's flippant remark, “You are a very impudent!”

“No, ma’am, inviting your son's lying whore ex to stay in the same house without his knowledge, that’s impudent," Y/N retorts. “I’d bet the farm your intentions are to demonstrate to everyone how dime in a dollar store I seem next to Danneel, hoping Jensen will be embarrassed enough to send me packing. Hate to disappoint you, but I don’t intimidate easily. So,” She stepped into Donna personal space and, with hands on hips says…“Bring it on, Grandma.”

SPNTAGS:  @donnaintx  @lyarr24  @flamencodiva @lassie-bird  @nancymcl  @spnbaby-67 @leigh70 @b3autyfuld1sast3r

Sam/Jared: @idreamofplaid

Dean/Jensen: @thoughts-and-funnies  @stoneyggirl2  @beabutterfly987   @smoothdogsgirl @deans-spinster-witch

[slendermanfan]

Creepypasta head cannons 3

- zalgo tries really hard to be a good 'dad' to jack(since jack is a prophet and therefore 'son of the false chernabog' or 'son of zalgo'. He isn't a zalgoid though). Jack hates zalgo though. He wants his humanity back

-nina drinks so many energy drinks that she stays up for days

-lost silver has a Tumblr(that Nina follows) where he posts his sad poetry.

-lost silver is an emo teenager(he's around 17), he also has a white skunk stripe in his hair. (I believe it's the island of Okinawa that has this belief btw, if you die and come back you gain the ability to see ghosts as well as have the white hair strands, correct me if this is in any way wrong) This is because he is dead.

-jeff fist fights homeless people for fun and unironically did the meme with the microwaved buns(he hunts homeless people especially when they are sick since they are 'easy prey'.)

-jeff doesn't shower. He smells so bad that the mansion has to get fabreezed every four hours.

-sally likes Legos. Like loves Legos.

-ben is autistic and his special interests include: legend of Zelda, making/destroying tech, and lizards.

-ben is like 12 and since he has daddy issues and is hella lonely(both reds don't want to hang out with him because he's a child), silver likes to hang out with him.

-ben and Sally are cousins. The man who killed Sally was the man who drowned ben :(

-ben used to get car sick when he was alive. His mother would laugh at it and give him cinnamon gum to help his tummy.

-grinny cat eats people(this one is probably cannon)

-lui is a devout Christian, he also donated to women's rights and volunteers at a homeless shelter. He feels guilty about Jeff and feels like he'll go to hell because he 'drove' Jeff insane(Jeff is a psychopath, he was born that way. Since his disorder was unmanaged and bad behavior was enabled, he turned out a killer)

-jane the killer is a baddie who goes to drag shows. She brings all the young pastas old lady candies.

-jane also does drag, she wears wigs because she's bald and wears prosthetic faces with different makeup do's

-EJ and Jane are very close.

-EJ is bi(Jeff is his ex)

-sally plays dolls with expensive action figures she stole

-toby(I know he's not actually a pasta anymore) is quiet and keeps to himself. He keeps his mask on when people he doesn't know are around. He also frequently sees his dead sister and speaks to her. She gives him life advice.

-toby vapes(he likes the cotton candy flavor air)

-ilikemenderman is a drag queen, he works with Jane on new looks

-glitchy red is a diva who gives everyone(other than Ben, Sally, and other kids) sass and very mean hate.

-glitchy red finds Ben annoying but will treat him with kindness so he doesn't get cancelled.

-all the video game pastas hang out together and ditch everyone else to play Minecraft irl