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useblond · 2 days ago

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Uninvited ─ M.S

ᯓ★ synopsis: megan shows up at your door after months of silence, seemingly remembering you only when it’s quiet.

ᯓ★ warnings/tags: megan x gn!reader, angst & fluff, lowk toxic? idk megan and reader are just on and off, reader also folds easily even though they act tough but yk what it’s megan so its okay! (w.c: 2.7k)

ᯓ★ a/n: i wrote this at like 3 am 🙂‍↔️

Megan never knocks.

She just shows up.

But that was before.

Before the silence. Before the nights without a single message. Before your phone stayed dark for weeks — then months.

Now, the soft buzz of your phone in the dead of night is a shock. The screen glows with Megan’s name, the words simple but heavy.

Megan: you up?

Your heart drops, cold and sudden, like a stone in your chest. A flood of memories rushes in — all the times you waited, all the times you wondered if you’d ever hear from her again.

You blink, eyes wide in disbelief. Is this real? After everything, after all the silence, Megan is reaching out again?

For a moment, you just stare at the screen, breath caught, frozen between wanting to ignore it and the ache of wanting to know.

Curiosity wins.

Your thumb trembles, hovering over the keyboard before you finally type.

Y/N: door’s open

No questions. No anger. No begging. Just a quiet yes.

Megan steps inside soaked, hair clinging to her face, eyes not meeting yours. She shrugs off her hoodie and places it on the back of the kitchen chair like she still lives here. She doesn't.

You watch from the doorway, arms crossed.

“Bad night?” you ask, voice even.

Megan causally shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You nod, and the two of you fall into silence — the kind that stretches, filled with everything unsaid.

Megan sighs, flopping onto the couch and rubbing her eyes, "Tour has been so crazy! I'm so glad tomorrow is our break, it was fun obviously but damn I’m so-"

"Why are you here?" you cut.

The question doesn’t land like a slap. It lands like truth. Sudden, sharp, and overdue.

Megan pauses mid-ramble. Her legs tuck under her, fingers tightening around the hem of her jeans. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you step further into the room, arms still folded, “why are you here, with me, when you have a hotel suite downtown and a fan account dedicated to tracking your location?”

Megan shifts on the couch. “I just wanted to see you.”

“You left me, Megan.”

Megan’s mouth opens, then closes, careful with her words.

“I didn’t leave you,” she says, though even she seems unsure.

“You left,” you repeat, voice quiet, but sharp. “And you left without even letting me know. Do you know how that feels? You just disappeared, for god’s sake!”

The words hang heavy in the room.

And for a moment, it’s not night anymore.

It’s August, and the sky outside is that same unforgiving blue — too bright, too cloudless, like it doesn’t know how to grieve with you. You blink against the light leaking in through the window, but you already know she’s not there.

It’s been days since Megan left.

The bedsheets beside you are still messy where she used to sleepover, like part of you refuses to smooth them out. Her scent’s faded from the pillow. The gray hoodie she always wore? Missing. The Polaroid that used to be taped to the back of her phone — the one of you two sitting by the beach, laughing mid-take— isn’t tucked into the mirror anymore.

No note. No goodbye.

Just absence.

Then you texted once, twice, three times.

Y/N: Mei?

Y/N: Where have you been?

Y/N: Your mom can't even tell me where you are, what's going on?

The messages stayed delivered. Not read. Not answered. The day slipped into night, and you sat on the couch until your phone died in your lap, still waiting.

Meanwhile, a quarter of a world away, a dance studio tucked inside the glossy heart of Los Angeles, with black floors, fluorescent lights, mirrors from corner to corner.

Megan was kneeling against the back wall, chest still heaving from the final round of choreography drills. Sweat clung to her jaw, the collar of her shirt soaked. The rest of the girls were spread out across the floor, refilling water bottles, fixing their hair, giggling over inside jokes.

Her phone buzzed.

She didn’t check it right away — too dizzy, too sore — but when the vibrations came again, something in her stomach twisted.

She grabbed her phone off the floor and leaned her back against the cool mirror, legs sprawled out. Her thumb unlocked it, and then she saw it:

Y/N: Mei?

Y/N: Where have you been?

Y/N: Your mom can't even tell me where you are, what's going on?

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her throat tightened like she’d swallowed glass.

She blinked hard, trying not to let her vision blur. But it did. A sting behind her eyes. A tightness in her chest.

“Megan?” Lara’s voice cut through the music still playing faintly from the Bluetooth speaker. She was crouched nearby, sipping a neon sports drink, brows furrowed in concern. “You good? Someone keeps blowing up your phone.”

Megan swallowed, flipping her screen over like it burned.

“Just... someone from home,” she mumbled, wiping under her eyes quickly. “It’s nothing.”

Lara didn’t look convinced. “Is that the same girl who sent you that voice memo last week? The one you wouldn’t listen to?”

Megan gave a breathy laugh, but it was hollow. “Yeah. That’s her.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Lara softened.

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

Megan nodded.

And maybe that was worse — the fact that she wanted to talk about it. That everything in her wanted to scream, "I miss them, I love them, and I don’t know how to stop loving them knowing they probably hate me after leaving out of nowhere."

But instead she said nothing.

Instead, she tucked her phone under her thigh, leaned her head back against the mirror, and let the tears roll down quietly — the only sound now the soft thud of another practice song beginning.

Your eyes are still on her.

“The academy told me I couldn’t—”

"Let anyone know, yeah I know, I watched it.”

“And I supported you,” You continued. "After I found out where you disappeared to, knowing how much you wanted this." Your voice doesn’t raise. That’s what makes it worse. It’s calm. Measured. “I watched every teaser. I stayed up to stream your debut single the second it dropped. And I kept waiting for you to call.”

“I couldn’t—”

“No, you just didn’t.”

Megan looks like she wants to argue, but the words aren’t forming.

“You don’t text for weeks, months even. Then you show up soaked at 2 a.m. like we’re still us. Like the in-between parts don’t count.”

“I missed you.”

You laugh — soft, disbelieving. “You miss me when things are quiet. You miss me when the crowd stops screaming.”

Megan swallows hard. Her voice lowers. “I think about you all the time. Even on stage. I’ll be singing something random and suddenly I’ll remember that night in your room — when I heard you humming it as you got ready for bed because it was your favorite song.”

Your lips twitch, like the memory almost makes you soften. But it doesn’t.

“You remember me in fragments,” you say. “When you’re lonely. When the hotel lights are too bright. When none of the other girls ask how you slept.”

Megan stands slowly, barefoot on the hardwood. Her voice is gentle, almost broken. “Everything happened so fast. We were just... us. And then I became her. The one in Katseye. I didn’t know how to be both.”

“You didn’t need to be both,” you say. “You just had to choose me once in a while.”

The room stills. The rain has quieted to a hush now, like even the sky knows not to interrupt.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Megan whispers.

“You didn’t need to mean it. You just had to do it.”

The apartment is dim, lit only by the soft amber spill from the kitchen stove light and the bluish cast of streetlamps filtering through the rain-slicked windows. Outside, the city hushes — cars passing like whispers, the rain now faint.

Megan looks at you — really looks. Her throat bobs. Her hand twitches like she might reach out. But she doesn’t.

“you know, I thought maybe,” she says, “We could just pretend. For tonight. Be like us from before all this.”

She takes a hesitant step closer.

You don't respond, but you don't move away. Your arms are still crossed, back nearly brushing the hallway wall. Your breathing is quiet but shallow, like your lungs don’t quite trust what’s happening.

Megan moves gently. Slowly. She steps until there’s only a few inches left between the two of you. Her eyes flick up, searching yours, but all she finds there is exhaustion — and something else. Anger. Hurt. A wall that’s stronger than before.

Your voice breaks the silence, sharper than you intend. “Why now, Megan? After everything? You think one night can fix years of being left behind?”

Megan flinches, but doesn’t pull away. “I’m not trying to fix everything tonight,” she says softly. “I just— I missed you. I needed to be near you.”

You shake your head, bitter laughter escaping. “Missed me? You left without a word. Didn’t call. Didn’t text. Nothing. And now you show up uninvited, soaked and tired, expecting what? That I just forget?”

Megan’s voice sharpens, a flicker of frustration breaking through the sadness. “Then why did you even answer the text? Why did you open the door?” Her breath catches, voice softer now. “If you didn’t want me here, why did you let me in?”

Your fists clench. The anger twists tight in your chest, but Megan’s words hit a nerve — the question lingering between you like smoke.

"Because I'll just leave, tell me the words and I'll be out."

“Don’t say that like it’s easy. Like walking away doesn’t hurt both of us.” you retort.

Megan’s hands lift slowly, palms open, offering peace without pressure.

She leans in a little, voice warm and steady. “I don’t want to fight. Just let me hold you. For a moment.”

You hesitate, breath shaky. And your eyes dart away, then back at her.

Your hands are still at your sides, fists slowly unclenching. You don’t know what you’re reaching for — comfort, closure, or something in between — but your fingers twitch with the urge to try.

Megan’s expression softens. She doesn’t move. She just waits.

There’s a moment — one long, fragile beat — where you almost step back. Almost tell her no. Almost say this is too much, too soon, too raw. But something in her eyes — the way they’re holding your pain like it’s her own — keeps you there.

You take a slow, shaky step forward, your hands rising like they’re remembering the shape of her — not sure where to land until they settle, gently, at the small of her back.

Her hoodie’s still damp, cool against your fingers. But beneath it, she’s warm. Solid.

“This won’t be bad, right?” you whisper to yourself more than to anyone.

Megan leans back just enough to look at you. The city light catches the wetness at the corners of her eyes. She searches your face like it holds the answer to everything she’s lost. Then, softly, she kisses you.

It’s tentative. Shy. A question shaped like a touch.

And you freeze.

Just for a second.

Then something lets go — a breath, a year of tension — and you kiss her back. It’s slow. Careful. Full of heartbreak. Full of every word you wanted to scream but never did. Full of all the pieces of you Megan forgot to pack.

You both make your way to the couch in silence, every movement deliberate, as if speaking might break the spell. You fall into old rhythms — Megan reaching for the same faded blanket you used to share, you curl up on the same side you always did. The scent of detergent, worn fabric, and Megan’s rain-soaked clothes fills the space. The hum of the refrigerator feels louder than usual. The apartment is still — like the world is pausing just for you both.

You lie curled together. Your head rests just beneath her collarbone, her fingers toying with the hem of your shirt like a habit she never unlearned. Your legs tangle easily, like they never forgot how to fit.

And for a moment, it feels easy. Familiar.

But your hand trembles just slightly.

“You can’t just show up like this,” you murmur, voice fragile.

Megan nods, her words exit like a whisper, “I know.”

“I’m proud of you, Megan. Really. You’ve done things I never could imagine — you’re out there chasing your dreams, making it happen.”

Your breath falters, a flicker of sadness breaking through. “But I’m also disappointed. Disappointed that you left me behind. That you thought silence was the answer. That you chose to disappear instead of fighting with me.”

Megan’s eyes flash with pain and frustration. She shakes her head, voice breaking but firm. “What was I supposed to do, Y/N? Get caught? Get in trouble? I was trapped between losing everything I worked for or losing you. I didn’t know how to be both.”

She swallows hard, voice softer now. “I thought if I stayed quiet, it would hurt less. But I know, I'm an asshole for not saying shit." She rubs her face with both hands.

You swallow the lump in your throat, voice barely a whisper. “I just want to know if I’m still part of your dream too.”

Megan’s hand finds hers, squeezing gently. “You always have been.”

“and I need to know you’re not going to disappear again.”

Megan sighs, voice catching. “Listen I wanted to text you. So many times. But every time I started, I thought about what could happen. The academy watches everything. If they saw, I’d get in trouble — maybe worse. I was terrified I’d lose this chance. Lose everything I worked so hard for... even if it meant losing you too.”

“But I love you,” Megan whispers. “Gosh, I love you. That never changed. It was just... complicated. I didn’t want to risk this breaking completely."

You cry quietly, and Megan holds you tightly — kissing you softly, tears spilling from her own eyes.

But Megan sniffles again, brushing a stray damp strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers trace lazy circles on your forearm, hesitant but seeking comfort. “You know,” she says softly, voice still shaky, “I never got to finish telling you about that night I stayed up trying to write that stupid song for you.”

“The one where you cried because the lyrics sounded like a bad soap opera?”

Megan laughs—small, a little broken. “Yeah. I spent hours scribbling nonsense, then deleted it all because it didn’t feel real enough. I guess… I wanted it to sound perfect. Like us.”

You shift, fingers tightening around Megan’s hand. “Perfect like us never was. But maybe that’s okay.”

Megan’s head lifts just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple, eyes closing briefly. “Maybe it is.”

You dissolve into quiet laughter — the kind that doesn’t need to be loud to be real. The kind that tiptoes around the cracks but still finds its way in. Your shoulders shake gently, and the tension in the room begins to loosen — like exhaling after holding your breath too long.

You feel it first — the moment Megan relaxes against you. It’s subtle. A shift in weight. The way her body softens, no longer holding itself up, no longer bracing for rejection. Just… settling. Trusting.

But you never fully relax.

And your right not to.

You fall asleep tangled together, tucked under the weight of old memories. Megan talks about how she kept the missing polaroid in her makeup bag, how she never let the other girls borrow that hoodie, or how she still hums your favorite song when no one’s listening.

But you don’t talk about tomorrow.

The light is soft when you wake up. You reach over. The bed is cold.

You sit up slowly.

Megan’s hoodie is gone. So is her phone charger. Her shoes. Her scent.

On the kitchen table, folded in half, is a note:

i am so sorry. i wanted to stay. but wanting and being able to are not the same thing. youre still apart of my dream, the one I'm determined to reach next. god, i love you. i never stopped. don’t wait up. — M

You stare at it for a long time. The words don’t surprise you.

They hurt anyway.

You fold the letter carefully — once, then twice — then crumple it in your fist until the corners dig into your palm.

You don't cry this time. You just stand there in silence.

This time you walk to the door, locking it behind you.

And you don't even check your phone.

Some things never change.

Like the rain.

Like the silence.

Like waking up to find Megan gone —

again.

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xtraordinarygrls · 2 months ago

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LARA Music Bank Interview (250502)

#lara #katseye #lara raj #femaleidolsedit #femaleidol #tuserflora #userpcultures #usermusicdaily #*#*katseye #the recording of their performance wasnt good quality but i had to gif her

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thecchiiiiiiii · 3 days ago

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Eternity by Alex Warren – “And it feels like an eternity, since I had you here with me. Since I had to learn to be someone you don’t know. To be with you in paradise, what I wouldn’t sacrifice. Why’d you have to chase the light? To somewhere I can’t go? As I walk this world alone (Megan Skiendel x reader)

Synopsis: Megan knows you’re strong. She just wishes she were too.

Read Part I here

—☆

Megan Skiendel is fourteen again when she closes her eyes.

Megan Skiendel was fourteen when she first learned what it felt like for her ribs to split apart just to fit someone else inside.

Megan Skiendel was fourteen when she learned that water breaks could mean more than thirst. She was fourteen when she learned water breaks can not only quench thirst but also the flutter of her heart.

Fourteen when you called her Mei for the first time by the old staircase, your guitar slung loose over your shoulder like it was just another piece of you.

She never cared about water before. She’d gulp it down fast, wipe sweat from her brow, rush back into the studio before Coach could yell. But when you showed up, thin wrists, faded uniform, guitar strap fraying at the edges, she learned to savor. To linger. To watch the way your fingers danced over strings like you were coaxing secrets out of the air.

It started with that.

A stairwell that smelled like old rain and floor polish. A girl with bruised knees pretending to refill her bottle three times an hour. A song half-finished, your head bent low, hair falling over your eyes until she wanted to brush it back but never dared.

Fourteen, with a ponytail too tight, bangs stuck to her forehead with sweat, the bite of ocean salt still clinging to her collar from the morning surf before class. Her shoes squeaked on the linoleum floors, the sun burning white through dusty jalousie windows. She held her water jug to her chest like a shield.

Every step past the dance studio is mapped in her bones.

Turn left at the row of green lockers that don’t shut right. Watch your step, tile cracked near the science lab. And there, right before the stairwell that spirals down to the teachers’ parking lot, she hears you.

You’re always there first.

She pretends she doesn’t hear the guitar at first, but everyone does.

The gentle hum of strings leaking through the corridor, a sound softer than any bell ringing out final period.

You sit cross-legged two steps down from the landing, guitar balanced on your knee, sneaker tapping gently against the concrete wall. A notebook open beside you, half lyrics, half doodles. She knows. She’s seen the pages. Stars and moons and tiny stick figures of her, dancing in the margins.

She slows her steps. Always does.

Pretends to unscrew her water jug’s cap. Pretends she needs more. Pretends she isn’t staring at the sunlight caught in the strands of your hair, at the way you hunch over your guitar like it’s the only thing worth holding in this whole damn world.

The stairs at the back of the school were always too warm, too bright. The linoleum floors inside smelled of sweat and pencil shavings, but out here, where your guitar spilled notes down the concrete steps, it smelled like freedom.

Mei— she was just Megan then. The Megan that would hover by the water fountain near the stairwell. Pretending to refill a bottle that was never empty. Sometimes she’d splash cold water on her flushed face from dance practice, heart hammering at the sound of your strumming.

You always sat one step down from the landing. School uniform shirt sleeves rolled to your elbows, collar loosened, a tiny silver guitar pick necklace resting against your collarbone. The cheap guitar balanced on your knee looked too big for you but somehow like it belonged nowhere else.

You never looked up first. You’d run your fingers through a chord progression, sometimes Lauv, sometimes Coldplay, sometimes something that sounded like no one but you and then you’d tilt your head, just so, to see if she was there.

She always was.

"Hey, Mei."

She hated that name at first. Only her mother called her Mei. It made her feel childish, soft. But you— when you said it, it sounded like coming home. It slipped between your teeth like a secret you’d keep safe no matter how sharp the world got.

Hey, she’d say back, clutching her bottle. Pretending her knees weren’t shaking.

"Sit."

It was never a question. You’d pat the step beside you, that shy grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. She’d drop down so fast her bag would skid off her shoulder, bruising her hip. You’d laugh, tucking it behind her back without asking.

And there she’d sit. Chin on her knees. Shoulder pressed to yours, heat bleeding through cotton and skin. She’d watch your hands more than your eyes, long fingers, bitten nails, a scab from scraping them too hard on steel strings. She could watch forever.

Sometimes, you’d play so soft she thought you were playing only for her. Maybe you were.

—☆

She remembers your Twitter before it was your Twitter.

Just another handle floating in the sticky summer air of Honolulu, videos shot on your battered old phone. A kid on a stairwell, a guitar with peeling stickers, your voice cracked and sweet and real.

She remembers scrolling through those first videos before you ever knew she watched. Paris in the Rain. I Like Me Better.

Half verses of songs you never finished because you got distracted by the way the light hit the railing, or because you heard her shoes squeak on the floor above and forgot the lyrics.

She watched them all.

Liked every one under a throwaway account. Heart by heart.

Then you caught her once, phone in her hand, thumb hovering over the heart icon while you packed up your guitar.

She’d flushed so red you laughed. Said, "You stalking me, Mei?"

She’d shoved you, muttered something about "You wish."

But you did wish. She knows that now.

Your guitar, her guitar, too, because that’s how you made it— it tells the whole story if you look close enough.

It was an old guitar. A hand-me-down from your uncle. The varnish flaked near the soundhole. The back had a crack, sealed with duct tape and a prayer. You never cared. You said it sounded more honest that way, raw, imperfect, yours.

You’d play Lauv songs half-finished because you hated learning covers all the way through. You liked messing them up, letting your own melodies sneak in until they were yours instead.

Sometimes, when she braved looking at your face, you’d already be looking at her, grinning that lopsided grin that made her knees press together tight.

She was tracing invisible shapes on the body of your guitar, stars, hearts, a tiny moon and when you asked, "Wanna draw for real?"

She frowned. "On your guitar? Won’t it ruin it?"

You turned it over, pressing it into her lap. "It’s already mine. Make it yours too."

She stole a black Sharpie from her pencil case. Drew one tiny star near the edge of the pickguard, holding her breath. When she looked up, terrified she’d crossed a line, you only smiled.

You tipped the guitar closer, studying it with mock seriousness. Then: "Don’t stop there."

So, she didn’t. She doodled moons, planets, a tiny astronaut with a heart for a helmet. You watched her draw your heart all over the frets until the whole instrument was half yours, half hers.

It stayed that way— your music and her Sharpie maps. The softest co-ownership in a world too harsh to understand it.

—☆

She remembered when she stayed too long once.

It was a Thursday, dusk leaking like watercolor through the breezeway windows.

Dance practice ran late. Coach yelling counts in a voice that made her bones ache, mirror fogged over with sweat and breath. When she stumbled out, hair damp, knees bandaged from too many floor slides, the hallway was empty except for the hum of the janitor’s floor polisher echoing somewhere far away.

She didn’t mean to look for you.

She told herself she wouldn’t— she’d go straight home, shower, eat rice and spam and fall into bed.

But her feet knew the path without asking permission. Past the green lockers. Step over the cracked tile. Slow at the bend where the vending machine always ate her quarters. And there, the stairwell. Still warm with Honolulu air trapped in the concrete. Still humming with something soft.

You were still there.

You shouldn’t have been. Practice was long over, your homeroom lights were dark, the courtyard gates half-locked already. But there you sat, guitar propped beside you, knees pulled up, your head tipped back against the cold wall, eyes shut like you’d fallen asleep waiting for her.

She froze. Water jug still in her hand, bag sliding off her shoulder. A part of her wanted to run— to let you sleep; to pretend she didn’t feel her chest stretch tight and sweet at the thought that you’d stayed anyway. But you heard her. You always did. One eye cracked open, mouth pulling lazy at the corners.

“Hey, Mei.” Hoarse, half-asleep. Holy.

She didn’t answer. Just dropped down beside you, bag thumping the concrete. You smelled like warm fabric and salt, the ocean, still caught in your hair from the morning surf together. Her shoulder brushed yours. You didn’t move away.

Neither of you talked much that first time. She let her head tip to the side, resting just below your collarbone. You didn’t flinch. Just let your arm drop heavy around her shoulders. The guitar sat mute at your other side, strings catching the last light like threads of gold.

She listened to you breathe. Counted every shallow inhale. Wondered if your heart was as full as hers. If it ached the same way. If it was dangerous— the way hers felt dangerous, like it might rip open if you shifted closer.

Later, when the janitor rattled past with his cart, you startled. Blinked blearily down at her.

She remembers the soft panic in your voice when you whispered, “You missed your bus, Mei.”

She nodded. Didn’t care.

You stood first, brushing dust from your uniform pants, slinging your battered guitar over your shoulder like an apology you didn’t have words for. Then you held your hand out to her, palm up, callused fingers waiting.

She took it. Of course she did.

You walked her home under the yellow streetlights. Past fences blooming with bougainvillea, past yards littered with rusted bikes and surfboards propped up like lazy sentries. Your guitar case kept bumping her hip, each step a reminder that you were real and right there and warm.

When you reached her gate, you didn’t let go of her hand right away. Just stood there, rocking on your heels, your thumb brushing circles over her knuckles.

The streetlight above you flickered once, then steadied. She could see how tired you were, but you were still smiling.

“You good, Mei?” you asked. Soft. Like a secret.

She only nodded. Didn’t trust her voice not to tremble too much and spill her ribs all over your feet.

“Okay. Text me when you’re inside.”

She did. You waited by the gate until her porch light flicked on. She saw you grin when you read her message. I’m inside.

That was the first night. The first time she let her head rest where it wasn’t supposed to— against your chest, where your heart ticked like a bomb full of something too big to hold. She didn’t know then how fragile it was. Only that it was yours.

And for that hour under the stairwell hum, it felt like hers too.

—☆

After the stairwell. After the nights you both pretended practice ran late just to stay a little longer where no one asked questions. After her water bottle started running dry for real, because she kept pouring her heart into you every time you called her Mei.

There was an old plumeria tree behind the gym, where the concrete bled into untamed grass and the fence rusted at the corners, branches bent low like an umbrella just big enough for two kids with more secrets than sense.

The scent of salt and flowers braided into the air so thick she could taste it if she licked her lips. She’d pass by it every day— but with you, it became something else. A hiding place. A cathedral.

You liked it there. Said the breeze was better. Said the moon looked closer. Said the smell of the blossoms reminded you of the soap your mom still bought you in bulk because it was cheap but smelled like you were worth more.

It was under that tree, one Friday dusk, that the not-quite and the almost between you finally cracked wide open.

It was spring when you asked her to meet you there. The plumeria bloomed in small explosions of white and yellow, petals drifting down like quiet confetti. She went barefoot because you told her to. Said the earth felt softer that way. Said you’d show her something real if she trusted you.

She trusted you. She always did.

When she arrived, you were sitting cross-legged at the base of the tree, guitar propped beside you in the grass. No notebook this time. No audience but the moonlight leaking through the branches. Your hair fell into your eyes. You didn’t bother brushing it away. You just looked up at her with that shy half-smile, the one that turned her ribs to wet paper.

“Sit.” You always said it like that. Never asked. Never begged. Just trusted she would. And she did.

So she dropped her bag into the grass, pressed her knees to yours, the soles of her feet damp with dew. The air smelled sweet, flowers and sea and the sweat cooling on your collarbone.

You didn’t play at first. You talked instead, voice low, weaving words between the hum of cicadas and the distant hush of waves down the road.

You told her about the first time you picked up that guitar— how your uncle showed you three chords and how you’d played them over and over until your fingertips bled. You told her how you’d been writing something new, something just for her, but the words wouldn’t sit still in your mouth.

She remembers you saying: “I think songs are like houses, Mei. If I build one right, maybe you’ll stay in it.”

She wanted to say she already did.

That she’d moved in the moment you first called her Mei in that echoing stairwell. That every strum of your guitar felt like you laying down bricks around her heart. But she bit her tongue. Let you talk. Let you fumble. Watched you twist a blade of grass between your fingers until it broke.

She remembers you were fidgeting with your guitar pick , flipping it over your knuckles, dropping it, cursing soft. You’d skipped practice, skipped the strumming, too busy tracing circles in the dirt with your sneaker toe.

She asked if you were okay. You nodded. Then didn’t. Then laughed, sharp and nervous, like a hiccup you couldn’t swallow.

“Megan,” you’d said first— the old name. The name that felt too big on your tongue now that Mei existed.

“Can I ask you something stupid?”

She’d only shrugged, sitting cross-legged in her PE shorts, back pressed to the tree trunk that left bits of bark stuck to her hair.

“If you could pick a home,” you’d asked, voice almost eaten by the crickets, “would it be a house or a person?”

It was so you— to drop riddles when all she wanted was to hear you sing.

She’d laughed, tossed a fallen flower at your shoe. “Person, duh. Who wants to be alone in a big house?”

You’d gone so still then. The pick stopped spinning. You looked up, moonlight caught in the mess of your lashes, a softness she still tastes in her throat when she tries to sing your old songs.

“Good,” you said. Your voice cracked. You tried to swallow it down but it didn’t go.

“Pick me then, Mei.”

Three words. Pick me. And then her name. The name you gave her.

Said like they cost you your whole chest.

Said like you were sure it might kill you but worth it anyway.

She didn’t say yes out loud. Didn’t need to.

She leaned forward instead— knees knocking your knees, palms braced on the roots between you.

She pressed her forehead to yours, breath shaky enough you could feel her heart stuttering through her skin.

She did. Right there. Right then. No ring, no fancy. Just you.

You smelled like plumeria and cheap guitar polish.

She smelled like sweat and salt and want.

She said nothing. Just let her nose bump yours. Let her eyes flutter shut. Let you tilt your mouth closer, closer, until your lips brushed the corner of hers and she knew there was no going back.

You kissed her so soft it didn’t even feel like kissing. It felt like breathing for the first time without choking on it. Felt like a promise that tasted better than any vow your fourteen-year-old mouths could shape.

When you pulled back, you pressed your palm flat to your chest— like you were trying to calm something inside.

You didn’t look scared, exactly. Just tired.

Like holding that much love hurt a little too much for one night.

She touched your wrist. Felt how warm you were. How fast your pulse fluttered. How she could count the skips between each beat if she pressed hard enough.

“You okay?” she whispered.

You smiled. Small. Honest. Broke her ribs all over again. “Yeah,” you said.

“Sorry, Mei. My heart’s weird. Kinda weak. It does this sometimes.”

She didn’t understand then. Not fully.

She only knew her name sounded holy on your tongue.

She only knew she wanted to press her ear to your chest and listen to it forever, no matter how fragile it was.

So she did. She lay down in the grass under that plumeria tree, her head tucked against your ribs, your hand in her hair, your guitar humming a soft promise above you both.

She was fourteen when she decided she’d keep your heart safe.

Fourteen when she thought that meant forever.

Fourteen when she let you slip under her skin so deep, she still finds petals in her pockets years later.

After the plumeria tree, after the hush of promises too big for their small shoulders— that’s where she learned the shape of your quietest dreams.

You two were kids who tried to carve infinity into places that were always meant to slip away.

Honolulu turned into their cathedral.

School hallways were pews where she prayed quietly every day that your soft heart would hold out long enough for the next sunrise.

Your guitar was everywhere— propped up by the old plumeria behind the dunes, by the cracked tile floor of your bedroom, by her knees on the blanket you both pretended was big enough to be an island when the real ocean felt too wide.

Megan liked to slip her bare feet under your thigh when you sat cross-legged on her bedroom carpet. She’d hum nonsense while your fingers found chords on strings already tattooed with her stars. She liked to press her head to your chest, counting beats you couldn’t promise her would keep steady.

You waited for her.

That’s what everyone said behind your backs— the popular rumor they whispered in the halls like it was scandalous. "That guitar kid? They wait for Megan outside the dance studio every night."

No matter how late.

No matter if the janitor flicked the hallway lights off one by one.

No matter if your eyes drooped closed over your guitar case leaning against your shoulder.

When she pushed the door open, sweat drying in the shape of salt on her collarbones, you’d stand. Stretch sleepy arms wide, grin tucked soft between your teeth, and she’d fold herself into you like the last part of her day that made sense.

Sometimes she fell asleep right there, your heartbeat under her ear, her shoes unlaced because she knew you’d tie them for her when she woke up.

People noticed, of course they did.

Freshman year, kids notice everything. The way she left dance early with her hair half up, shoes untied.

The way you were always leaning against her locker like you owned it. The way she called you "dummy" but laughed when you tugged her bag over your shoulder and carried it yourself.

High school sweethearts— the sickening kind.

The kind who makes single people gag behind textbooks. Who make couples glare because they look too happy. Who giggle behind vending machines. Who steal fries off each other’s lunch trays. Who slow dance at birthday parties when no one else is watching. Who know each other’s parents by name. Who know each other’s secrets by heartbeat.

“Mei Mei.”

“Y/n.”

Two syllables, back and forth, like a game of catch.

You were disgusting. Everyone said so.

Grade Nine turned to Ten. You waited for her outside the dance studio every day. Sat by the stairs, sometimes half-asleep with your guitar beside you. Sometimes you’d play. Sometimes you’d scribble new lyrics in your battered notebook, waiting for the squeak of sneakers on linoleum that meant she was done.

You’d grin when you saw her, stand so fast you’d almost knock over your guitar. She’d roll her eyes, pretend she wasn’t about to melt.

You’d take her bag, sling it over your shoulder. She’d shove you, lightly, every time you called her Mei in front of other students. But she never really minded. Not when it was you.

The other kids teased you both. Called you cheesy. Called you gross. Called you goals when they thought you weren’t listening. You didn’t care. You’d hold her hand anyway— fingers laced tight, swinging between you like a secret handshake.

Sometimes, when you were feeling bold, you’d kiss her right by the lockers. Just a soft press of lips, a hush of promise, her fingers curled in your shirt. You’d grin when she pulled back, breathless, cheeks pink.

“Do I look pretty, Y/n?”

“So pretty,” you’d whisper, brushing your thumb under her eye. “How do I look, Mei Mei?”

She’d giggle. Press her forehead to yours. “So pretty.”

She remembered how you’d do that every chance you get, and savored it.

After school, the courtyard is yours.

Megan sits cross-legged on the warm grass, uniform skirt fanned around her knees.

Your guitar rests on her shins, your fingers dancing on the strings while you hum new chords into the air.

She studies you like a secret she never wants to keep, the way your lips curl when you get a line right, the way you squint at the sun because you always forget your cap at home. Sometimes you don’t sing words at all just mmm and ah and half-laughed syllables that mean this is for you, Mei, only you, always you.

She’s doodling on her science notes. Pretending to be busy.

But her pen drifts .Stars, always stars, drifting into your margins, leaking onto the back of your hand when she grabs it to draw a tiny moon near your thumb bone.

You look up at her, grin lazy, eyes soft enough to ruin her.

“Put one here too,” you say, tapping your collarbone.

She laughs, leans forward, drags the pen tip across warm skin, a tiny comet, half-smudged already.

You tilt your head back, sigh like you’re proud. “Now I’m yours twice.” —☆

Your room smelled like salt and old wood and the faint sweetness of sunscreen you always forgot to wash off your neck.

The walls were patched in posters half-falling at the corners— bands she’d never heard of before you pressed your cheap earbuds to her ear and made her listen under the covers.

A battered surfboard leaned in the corner, fin chipped, stickers peeling like sunburned skin. And always, always. Your guitar resting by your pillow like another limb.

She brings homework. You pretend to help but your head ends up in her lap, guitar half-finished beside you. She braids your hair when it’s long enough, tiny uneven plaits behind your ear. You let her doodle on your wrist with your old ballpoint pen.

Your mom peeks in sometimes— sees the two of you tangled in notebooks and laughter, shakes her head like kids, kids, kids, then shuts the door so you can stay in that soft bubble where only you and she exist.

It started with the floor. You’d both sprawl there, her hair fanned over the scratchy carpet, your notebooks spread between your elbows like a paper galaxy.

She remembers the ceiling— the tiny cracks that spiderwebbed out from the light fixture because she’d lie there, blinking at the plaster while your voice drifted soft and careful into the dusk.

Sometimes you’d strum a chord. Stop halfway through. Scribble something in the margin of a page. Tap your pencil against your knee. Curse under your breath when the word didn’t fit right. She’d giggle, toss a crumpled scrap of paper at your cheek, whisper “Try again.”

She loved you worst when you were frustrated, tongue pressed to the corner of your mouth, hair falling into your lashes.

She’d reach over, brush it back. Her fingertips would linger at your temple. You’d lean into her touch so easily it made her want to cry.

The guitar would end up half-tangled between you both— her doodles inked into its belly; your songs tucked into its strings.

Sometimes you’d roll onto your side, press your ear to her chest instead of the other way around, your hair tickling her collarbone as you whispered: “What’s it says in there, Mei? Am I in there too?”

She’d never answer. Just push your head closer until you could hear it for yourself— her heart, steady for you when yours wouldn’t behave.

Those nights always ended the same: your mother tapping soft at the door, her voice honeyed with worry: “Five more minutes, yeah? Megan’s mom’s gonna worry.”

Five more minutes always turned to fifteen. Twenty.

She’d leave with your flannel hoodie over her uniform shirt, sleeves swallowing her wrists. You’d stand barefoot at the gate, guitar pick dangling from your neck, waving like a kid seeing a ship off to sea.

Your guitar lives next to her shoes now.

Her house was quieter. Her mom loved you in that way parents do when they see their kid smile like the sun rises from someone else’s hands. You’d wash dishes after dinner, pretending not to hear Megan’s giggles behind you.

Sometimes you’d fall asleep on her couch, guitar pick necklace clutched in your fist. She’d drape a blanket over you. You’d wake up to her doodling on your hand with a pen— tiny stars and hearts, same as your guitar.

You come over after dance practice, after you walk her home in the sticky dusk. You greet her mom with a shy wave, bow your head at her dad in the hallway, slip past her brother’s teasing grin with a ‘Sup, dude and vanish into her room like you were born there.

She plays you her new choreo. Bare feet slipping on old wooden floors, hair scraped back into a bun. You clap along, off-beat, terrible timing, but she doesn’t care because your smile is better than any metronome.

When she collapses on her bed, sweat damp and giggling, you sit cross-legged on her rug and play her the scraps you wrote on the bus.

Sometimes she hums along. Sometimes she falls asleep mid-song, cheek pressed to her pillow, your melody tangled in her hair. You keep playing anyway. Until your eyelids droop. Until your heartbeat forgets how to pace itself and skips, skips, skips like it wants to catch up to hers in sleep.

Her room smelled sharper— fabric softener, the faint ghost of her mother’s jasmine perfume. Her books piled in leaning towers she’d stub her toes on at night.

Photos of her family taped crooked on her mirror, except there, wedged in the corner, one of you. Not posed, not perfect. Just you in profile, nose scrunched as you tuned a stubborn string, your name scribbled in her handwriting on the border: Mine.

You’d sit cross-legged by her bed, guitar balanced on your knee, the pick wedged between your teeth when you spoke. She’d watch from her pillow, knees tucked to her chest, every string of fairy lights above her bed flickering like it knew how holy this was.

She made you promise once to help her pass English class. You made her promise to stay awake through your dumb mnemonic songs.

So there you were — sprawled on her floor at 1 AM, notebook pages crumpled between snack wrappers, your guitar half-buried in a mess of highlighters and open textbooks.

She made flashcards. You made up songs so dumb they stuck. Benevolent became three awkward lines that made her giggle through her quiz the next morning. She failed it. You laughed so hard you nearly fell out of your seat when she told you.

You two ruined each other’s grades and didn’t care. You’d always have more tests.

You wouldn’t always have this.

Sometimes you’d make her repeat your lyrics back to you, word by word, line by line, until she giggled them out wrong and you tossed a pillow at her head.

Sometimes you’d grab her Sharpie, thrust the guitar at her with a grin: “More stars, Mei. It needs more of you.”

And she’d give you more.

Tiny constellations creeping along the wood.

A shy message hidden inside the sound hole— be soft, come home.

She’d wait until you were half-asleep, your head dropped onto her folded blanket, before tracing her finger over your wrist, counting the pulse that never felt steady enough.

So she learned your heartbeat everywhere.

On her bedroom carpet. Under the tree behind the gym. On the bleachers after practice, your guitar case wedged between your knees while she pressed her cheek to your chest and listened to that traitorous thump stutter under her palm.

She learned the skips, the stumbles. The hiccup in its rhythm when you ran too hard down the hallway to catch her after class, when you laughed too hard at her terrible puns scrawled on your notebook margins. She learned the way it sped up when she leaned in too close, nose brushing yours, breath tangled between your teeth.

She learned it best in quiet places— your room, her room, the back of the bus when you dared to fall asleep with your shoulder pressed to the window and her head tucked into the dip of your throat.

If you asked her back then— fourteen, fifteen, sixteen— what home sounded like, she’d have said it was the way your heart knocked against her ear when you were too tired to pretend it wasn’t fragile.

“It’s weak, Mei. Sometimes it skips too much. Doctors say I should watch it. But I don’t care. It’s just dumb.”

She’d press her lips to the spot right above it. Hush your mouth with her hands. Pretend if she loved you enough, it’d learn how to beat right.

She never said it out loud. Never told you how much it terrified her— the way it stuttered, the way you brushed it off like it was just another chord you hadn’t tuned yet.

So she kissed you instead.

Poured every promise into your collarbone, your jaw, the soft place behind your ear where you smelled like salt and guitar resin and her whole damn future.

You’d laugh when she pressed her head to your chest. Pretending to listen for secrets. For the drumbeat that told her you were still hers.

“Your heart’s too fast,” she’d say, worried.

“It’s your fault,” you’d grin. “Too much love in there. Nowhere to go.”

She’d slap your chest, scold you. But she’d listen again.

Just to make sure.

—☆

Megan’s first anniversary with you wasn’t flowers or fancy dinners or anything she’d seen in the dramas she watched with her mom when she was 12.

She’s now 15 with you with cheap white bread and sticky fruit and a blanket that smelled faintly of someone else’s laundry detergent— your mom’s, probably.

You’d planned it all the same way you planned everything: badly, sweetly, perfectly.

Megan still remembers how your hands fumbled with the old picnic basket you’d borrowed from your mother, the way you nearly dropped the juice box while trying to tune your guitar at the same time.

The park wasn’t special either— just a patch of grass by the sea, seagulls stalking scraps near the benches. But when she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend it was her— your own tiny kingdom.

She remembers her hand tangled in your shirt, knuckles brushing the warm skin of your side whenever the breeze tugged at the fabric.

She remembers burying her nose against your jaw, giggling when you pressed a kiss just below her ear like it was a secret only you were allowed to keep.

You laughed into her neck— a warm, soft rumble that made her skin tingle.

It felt like the whole world shrank down to that one patch of grass. The guitar balanced on their knee. Her voice tripping over the lyrics of the song they made up just for her.

“Sing it again, Mei,” you’d teased when she forgot the words halfway through.

So she did. Breathless, off-key, cheeks hot when you grinned at her like she was the only thing worth hearing.

When you kissed her, she could taste strawberries on your tongue. The ones you’d sliced so carefully at dawn, fingers sticky with juice.

You’d laughed when she licked the corner of your mouth. “Waste not, right?” you whispered, mouth brushing hers again and again until her giggles turned into tiny sighs.

The seagulls did watch you. She remembers that.

One bold one hopped right onto the edge of their blanket, cocking its head like it was offended by how close your faces were.

You throw it a scrap of crust to make it go away, but it just lingered, beady eyes catching every soft press of Megan’s lips against yours.

When you finally pulled back, hair mussed from her hands, guitar rolling off their lap and thumping onto the grass, you just laughed, forehead pressed to hers, breath still sweet with fruit and promises she still keeps somewhere under her ribs.

You didn’t have much.

Two kids with scraped knees and borrowed blankets and a guitar with more stickers than strings that stayed in tune.

But she’d never needed more than that— the warm press of your hand over hers, the taste of strawberries, your laughter in her neck, telling her without saying it: "I’d kiss you here forever if you let me."

—☆

And then there was the beach that saw things hers and your bedroom walls never did.

The beach was your favorite place.

You didn’t have money for fancy dates, so you made paradise out of cheap picnic blankets and dollar-store snacks. You’d bus to the shore, guitar strapped to your back like a second spine.

You drag her there every Friday you can. Board shorts, sunscreen, the old blanket your mom keeps in the trunk of your beat-up Civic.

It didn’t matter that it belonged to everyone else too— the tourists in sunburnt clusters, the kids with plastic buckets, the old uncles with beer bottles wedged in the sand.

When you were there, barefoot at the edge where the water nipped at your ankles, guitar slung over your shoulder like a secret only she knew how to keep, it was yours.

You’d sing to her over the sound of the waves— off-key, half-finished songs, promises buried in the sand.

You’d press kisses to her temple, her nose, the corner of her mouth. She’d laugh, shove you away, pull you back. Her hair always smelled like salt and sunscreen.

That photo. The one the eyekons found first. Her in your lap, sun turning her skin golden, your fingers tangled in her hair.

The world thinks they know what love looks like.

They don’t know this.

Summer burned your footprints into sand you swore would keep you both.

Megan would drag you into the shallows, shorts soaked through, the ocean biting at her knees. You’d beg her to come back to dry land so you could press your guitar to her damp shoulder blades and teach her how a real chord felt, but she’d just splash salt into your open grin until your laugh carried over the waves.

You stake out your spot by the big rock, the one with the rusty plaque nobody reads anymore. She runs into the surf first, squealing when the water smacks her shins cold. You linger on the sand, guitar in your lap, strumming nonsense chords just to watch her spin circles in the tide.

When she’s done, she collapses onto your blanket, drops salty kisses all over your cheeks until you squirm. You retaliate by plucking her damp hair, humming: "Salt in your hair, Mei, salt in your hair forever."

She flicks your nose. You press your forehead to hers. Both of you taste like ocean and sun.

You said you’d write an album there— sand in the fretboard, salt on your strings.

She said she’d dance beside you, barefoot, hair whipping her cheeks raw.

You believed her.

You believed everything she promised because her voice was the only thing stronger than your heartbeat.

Megan squeals when you grab her waist, spinning her until she shrieks your name so loud the waves almost swallow it. Almost. But not quite— nothing ever does.

She’s wearing your faded flannel over her swimsuit, sleeves so long they drag past her knuckles.

She calls it her “blanket.”

You tell her it smells like bad cologne and guitar strings.

She says it smells like you.

That shuts you up every time.

At night, salt still clung to her calves when she curled up under your chin. She smelled like sunscreen and wind— all of it stuck to your pillow.

You never washed it.

Even when your mom asked why your sheets always smelled like the shore.

She remembers one night clearer than all the rest, the way the bonfire spit sparks into the velvet dark, the soft hush of waves folding into the shore like a heartbeat.

You sat cross-legged in the sand, guitar balanced on your knee, head tipped back to find constellations that only made sense to you.

Megan was Mei that night— more Mei than ever, hoodie sleeves pushed past her elbows, knees tucked to her chest as she pressed closer to your side. She watched your fingers pick at the same chord until the skin wore raw. She watched you wince and keep going. She wanted to kiss the sting away but didn’t. Not yet.

You hum. She hums back, a harmony half off-key. She keeps messing up because she’s giggling too hard— you keep letting her because you love the sound more than any chord you’ll ever get right.

She asks, “What if I never leave? What if I stay right here forever?”

You flick her nose. “You’ll get sunburned, dummy.”

She pouts. Smacks your leg.

When you finally sang, it wasn’t perfect. Your voice cracked at the edges, salt wind stealing half your words. But it was yours.

Yours in the way the night air curled around it like a lullaby, yours in the way she tucked her chin onto your shoulder, soft hums slipping out when you forgot the words.

No audience but the moon, the waves, the gulls curled tight on the far rocks. Just you, your fraying guitar strap, your song half-finished but whole enough for her.

—☆

It stumbles again one night.

Like it always does.

You’re at her house. Her parents gone for groceries, brother out with friends. Just you, her, and the old guitar propped against the closet.

She makes you ramen. You sit on her counter, legs swinging, voice crooning some dumb harmony she’s trying not to grin at.

Then— a stutter. A skip.

Your breath catching like a missed chord. You clutch the edge of the sink. She catches you before you hit the floor.

You wake up on her couch, her hand pressed flat to your chest, eyes red.

*“Don’t scare me,” she whispers, voice raw.

You smile like an apology. “Sorry, Mei.”

She shifts— presses her ear right where her palm was, listening. “It’s so fast. Why’s it so fast?”

You grin, tired. “It’s you. You do that.”

She laughs.

Punches your shoulder gentle.

Then cries into your shirt because you let her.

Because she’s the only one who can.

You both sit under the plumeria on a Tuesday that tastes like rain.

She has a quiz she’s pretending to study for.

You have a melody you’re pretending not to hum.

She watches your lips move around half-words. Thinks: God, I’m so in it. I’m so gone.

You catch her staring. Blink. Smile. “What?”

She shrugs. Doesn’t say: I’d marry you right here if we were stupid enough.

You lean over. Press your ear to her chest. She startles. “What are you doing, dummy?”

You grin. Tap her sternum like you’re knocking on a door. “Making sure you’re real.”

She cups your jaw, thumb brushing the faint shadow of freckles there. “I’m real. I’m right here.”

It comes later. Quiet. Like a secret slipped under her door at midnight.

You faint once in the courtyard, after a song. Blame it on the heat. She laughs it off, rubs your back until you stir.

It happens again at the beach— knees buckling into the sand while you tune your guitar for the bonfire.

She presses your palm to her cheek, says, "Stop scaring me, dummy."

You grin. Kiss her hairline. Pretend it’s nothing.

One night, she presses her ear to your chest. Feels it stutter. Feels it race.

You tell her. Again. A reminder. Under the same plumeria tree where she first picked you.

“It’s dumb. It’s weak. For you at least.”

She fists your shirt. “Idiot.”

You laugh. Cry a little too. Kiss her slow. Slow enough to forget the clock ticking in your veins.

Some nights she’d watch you record your covers for Twitter when she’s not listening to the uneven beats of your heart.

Her head bobbing from side to side behind the camera, one leg tucked under her, chewing on a pencil cap to keep quiet while you sang.

A trail of grainy videos— you on your bedroom floor, back pressed to your bed frame, guitar balanced on your thigh. Covering Paris in the Rain. Covering Boys Like You. Covering every song that ever made you think of her.

The first videos were just you— awkward, stubborn, stubbornly sweet. Fingers fumbling sometimes, tongue tripping over words because your mind was always half on her. Messy hair. Soft grin.

You’d mess up chords, laugh, start again. Sometimes you’d talk to the camera, like a promise to a future you couldn’t see yet.

Scroll far enough and suddenly she’s there too, a giggle behind your phone, her laugh leaking into the mic.

Sometimes her knee bumps into frame. Your laugh off-camera. Her giggles. The way she teased you, made you mess up on purpose. The way she hummed along— so soft the mic barely caught her, but enough that your smile widened every time.

She giggles at the cracks, the sighs, the “Mei, stop laughing, you’re gonna ruin this take.”

She wishes she could ruin every take. Wishes she could ruin every perfect ending if it means you’d stay longer, softer, here.

And that one video.

The one that would break the internet and her open at the same time: Mei doodling on my guitar bc she said it looked sad. shows her scribbling her name in stars on your guitar while you fake-scold her from behind the lens.

She ignores you. You zoom in on her hair falling over her cheek like it’s the only horizon worth memorizing.

You filming her, cross-legged on your carpet, hair in a messy ponytail. She’s biting her tongue, trying to draw a perfect moon.

“You’re filming again?” she mumbles, glancing up.

“Yeah. Gonna be worth millions when you become a star.”

She scrunches her nose. “Shut up.”

She sticks her tongue out, goes back to drawing.

You laugh. The camera shakes. Then, your voice softer “Keep drawing. I want you all over it.”

You keep filming. The world sees the way you look at her. Like you’d set your heart on fire just to keep her warm.

And the way she looks at you— like your heartbeat could stop right there and she’d hold it in her palms so the ocean wouldn’t swallow it.

She’d look at you like that every day.

Like the sunrises that hurt the eyes, cheap diner breakfast at the end of the pier when your stomach growled louder than the gulls.

You’d order her the same thing every time; pancakes drowning in syrup she never finished.

You’d steal forkfuls when she turned to watch the surfers paddle out.

She’d pretend not to notice. She always did.

She remembers how your sand-crusted guitar leaned against the booth, how your sneakers left damp prints on the floor, how you’d hum under your breath even when your mouth was full— soft riffs, unfinished lines.

If she closed her eyes then, she’d see the sun cutting a halo around your messy hair, the syrup on your lips you’d swipe away with the back of your hand, the guitar waiting for you by the window like it was your shadow in wood and steel.

Like the ocean was pressed for her, behind a glass built by wood and steel.

Tickets crumpled in your back pocket, your hand curled tight around hers when she shivered at the blast of cold air inside.

The aquarium smelled like salt and kids’ spilled soda and the faint, clean chill of tank water. Megan remembers how cold her hands were pressed flat to the glass, how the jellyfish drifted by like tiny, glowing ghosts.

She remembers the bus ride there, too. The way your old guitar case wouldn’t fit in the overhead rack, so it kept bumping into strangers’ knees every time the bus lurched.

Megan had wanted to melt into the sticky vinyl seat out of embarrassment, but you just grinned at her, pressed the case into her lap like it was precious cargo.

“It’s our baby, Mei. Be gentle,” you teased, tapping the case like it could feel.

She’d buried her red face behind it, but she couldn’t stop the giggle that slipped out.

You planned the whole thing.

Saved up spare change from tutoring gigs and odd weekend sets at the local café. Packed the saddest picnic: a tuna mayo sandwich that leaked a little through the plastic wrap, a half-crushed juice box for her, an old metal water bottle for them.

But you also tucked her favorite candy into the side pocket of your backpack— the one she only found when you nudged her with your elbow and whispered, “Check the front pocket, Mei.”

The two of you ate sitting cross-legged by the biggest tank in the place, sneakers squeaking on the damp floor.

Stingrays floated up to the glass like they recognized her, thin white bellies brushing against the reflections of her wide eyes.

She could feel you warm at her back; arms looped loose around her waist; chin hooked over her shoulder.

You also made her stand in front of the jellyfish tank for almost an hour.

The dark curved glass, the blue glow slipping over her shoulders like a promise.

She asked you why you liked it so much— you said nothing at first, just pressed your forehead to hers and let the blue light wash you both clean.

When you spoke, it was soft enough the stingrays couldn’t overhear: “They look like your doodles, Mei. Like stars underwater.”

She wanted to say "so do you"— but the words stuck in her throat with the salt.

You smelled like sunscreen and the faint metallic tang of guitar strings.

She’d leaned back into it, feeling the rumble of your laugh in your chest when she pointed out a fish with a nose bigger than hers.

And then— quiet, casual, so soft she nearly missed it — you said, “When we’re old, we’ll come back here. You’ll have your fancy world tours, but we’ll come here. Just us. Watch fish. Kiss behind the big tank like weirdos.”

Megan had snorted, half-choked on a piece of candy, called you cheesy.

But she’d turned her face just enough to press her smile against your cheek.

She’d closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see her own reflection in the glass— so she could believe the stingrays were the only ones who knew how warm her heart felt, beating too fast in someone else’s hands.

When she thinks about it now— head tipped back against her pillow, lashes fluttering against her cheeks; it’s that quiet promise that comes back first.

The feeling of your breath on her ear, the cold glass under her palms, your stupid guitar case bruising her shins on the bus ride home.

It was the happiest she’d ever been.

And even now, if she listens hard enough, she swears she can hear you say it again— "just us. Watch fish. Kiss behind the big tank like weirdos."

God, she’d have given anything to stay there.

Just one more minute in that borrowed warmth, jellyfish drifting by like tiny heartbeats that never once skipped.

And that night, you came home, you left your guitar at home, for once.

You pressed her hand to your chest instead, just outside the gift shop, the hum of the water pumps rattling the floor.

You asked her if she could feel it— the uneven beat, the skip that scared her more than any deep water ever could.

You said, “I’m glad it’s yours, Mei. Even when it’s dumb.”

She said nothing. Just curled her fingers tighter. Thought please into your shoulder. Please, please, please.

You fall asleep first. Head heavy in her lap.

She stays awake just to press her ear to your chest one more time— listening for that soft, traitorous flutter she’s learned to fear and love in equal measure.

She whispers secrets into your hair, again: "Please stay. Please don’t go. Please don’t make me do this alone."

You dream of waves. Of stairwells. Of her voice calling your name over and over until your heart bursts just to reach her.

She was glad God heard her that night.

She would’ve crawled through hell if it meant seeing you in the light tomorrow and forever.

That week was sticky with the sun.

You wrote on napkins at the diner, on the back of her receipts, on her arm once when you ran out of paper.

You buy malasadas from that old stand behind the gas station, the one that sells out by sunset if you’re not fast enough.

Megan steals yours when you’re not looking— powdered sugar dusting her chin when you turn around, pretend-scowling.

“Mei, you little thief—”

She smears more sugar on your nose with her thumb. Kisses it off before you can wipe it away. The kid behind the stand rolls his eyes so hard he almost drops his tip jar.

You laugh too loud. She doesn’t care. She never does.

You told her you’d finish the last song before your heart called it quits.

She believed you— because she had to.

Because if she didn’t, the ocean would’ve swallowed her whole just to hold the pieces you’d drop.

Your mom’s asleep already. Your guitar sits propped on your bed, pick wedged under the strings.

Megan drags you down to the floor beside your old notebooks.

You’ve got lyrics scribbled on receipts, on the backs of math homework, on napkins from the diner two blocks down. She makes you spread them all out like a treasure map.

You two sit shoulder to shoulder, knees knocking, reading your own tiny history in ink that smudged the first time you two kissed mid-chorus.

She picks up one napkin— the one that just says: Mei’s smile = my favorite chord.

She looks at you. Looks through you. Like she’s memorizing every line, every freckle, every tiny secret your eyes can’t hide.

She curled up beside you that night— her Sharpie stars fading but still there.

She pressed her ear to your chest, hummed your half-song into your ribs like she could keep your pulse alive just by singing it back.

Then the next day; you’re waiting by the dance studio door, again. Like always.

Like every night Megan ever bruised her knees on polished wood and told herself the ache was worth it because you’d be there when she stumbled out, hair damp, feet sore, heart lighter because you’d smile at her like she’d hung the stars just for you to hum beneath.

She’s sixteen now.

Old enough to know her own ribs from the inside out.

Old enough to know what your heartbeat should feel like under her ear.

Old enough to know that every time you said, “It’s dumb, Mei, don’t worry,” she should’ve worried more.

Tonight she’s too tired to fight the limp in her ankle.

Too tired to care that her hair’s stuck to her forehead in sweaty strands.

Too tired for anything except the quiet bloom of relief when she sees you— back pressed to the pale blue wall outside Studio B, guitar balanced on your knees like it’s part of you, fingers loose on the strings, head tipped back against the concrete.

For a second, she doesn’t see it. Doesn’t feel it. For a second, she’s fourteen again and you’re just humming for her, a chord half-born in your throat, waiting for her to press her ear to your chest and giggle: “Again. Play it again for me.”

She drops her bag to the floor— the thunk of it too loud, echoing down the empty hallway like a warning bell.

You don’t flinch. Don’t blink.

Don’t lift your chin from where it’s tilted toward the ceiling tiles like you’re still tracing cracks in the plaster, dreaming up lyrics she’ll find scribbled in your notebooks later.

She crouches in front of you, knees popping, palms braced on your shins. Your skin is warm under her touch. Warm, but—

“Y/n?” she whispers, voice cracking on the edges like a note she can’t hold.

No answer. Your lashes don’t flutter.

Your lips are parted just enough to look like you’re about to tell her “Stop worrying, Mei. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

But you don’t.

She shifts closer.

Breath caught somewhere in her throat where your name always lives. She presses her palm to your collarbone first— like if she’s gentle enough, you’ll laugh awake and tease her for being dramatic.

Nothing.

So, she moves higher.

Knuckles trembling, fingers splayed wide, she cups her hand around your neck. Feels the warm skin.

The faint echo of warmth that means too late. Still, her body refuses the math of it.

Still, her hope is a childish thing, stubborn and stupid.

She leans in. Forehead to your shoulder. Her hair brushes your chin.

She presses her ear to your chest, nose buried in the soft cotton of your old hoodie— the same one she stole a hundred times, the same one that always smelled like salt and sun and a promise that your heart would always find its way home to her ribs.

She waits.

Waits.

Hopes.

Feels.

Nothing.

It should be louder than this— the absence.

It should be an earthquake in her bones, splitting her open from spine to sternum.

But instead it’s quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that eats every word she ever tucked into the hollow of your throat. The kind that hushes the world until it’s just her breathing for both of you.

"You said you’d fix it, remember? You said it was dumb. You promised me, you promised."

Her fingers fist in your shirt, knuckles white.

Her lips find the spot above your heart like they used to— soft kisses when you were scared, softer when she was, but her mouth tastes like salt this time.

Not the ocean. Not sunscreen. Just her.

Her tears drip onto your collar, soak the threadbare fabric you loved too much to throw away.

She feels the shape of your name in her mouth, and it tastes wrong without your voice there to echo it back.

A door opens down the hall— some other dancer, someone else’s laugh echoing.

Megan curls smaller. Her forehead presses to your chest again, like if she listens harder, digs deeper, buries herself inside you the way she always wanted to, maybe— maybe—

Nothing.

She wants to scream.

Wants to hit your shoulder, shake you awake, tell you she’ll never forgive you for this, for making her memorize every stutter of your heart just to rip it away like a song she can’t unlearn.

But she stays there instead. Breath trembling. Hiccupping out of her ribs in quiet sobs that taste like the last chord you’ll never play.

Megan’s there a long time before someone finds her— the girl with her ear pressed to the chest of a teenager who never learned how to stay.

The guitar slides from your lap when they pull her away, strings twanging one last note into the dark.

She carries that silence forever.

People come and go. Flowers bloom and wilt at your feet. Her family stands at her side like scaffolding, but she feels hollow anyway.

They say nice things— talented kid, sweet kid, too young, too soft. They don’t say Mei’s kid. Mei’s person. Mei’s only.

Only she gets to say that.

So she does. Over and over in her head, lips moving even when her voice fails her.

"Mine. Mine. Mine."

At the funeral, the sun was too bright— the same sun that always made your hair a halo when she watched you play by the stairs.

The same sun that burned your shoulders pink when you lugged your guitar to the beach for the fifth time that week because “Saltwater makes it honest, Mei. Guitars should be honest.”

She stood over you— or what was left of you.

The wood box too small to hold the way your arms wrapped around her, too small to hold your grin when you asked her to draw more stars on your guitar, so you’d never forget how her hands felt when they pressed your heart back together for another day, another chord.

She pressed her palm to the polished lid the same way she used to press it to your chest.

Still warm from the sun. Still cold from the inside.

You laid there still— too still for someone whose laugh used to jolt her whole world awake.

She leaned in. Fixed your hair with shaking fingers. Brushed your collar straight even though no collar would ever fit you right again.

She whispered it so soft your mother almost didn’t hear— the line that made every rib in the family snap under the weight of what they’d lost.

“Do I look pretty, Y/n?”

A tremor in her throat. The echo of your voice.

‘So pretty, Mei Mei.’

She waited for your answer. It didn’t come. Not the way she wanted.

So she answered for you. “So pretty.”

Megan Skiendel is nineteen again when she opens her eyes.

#daniela avanzini #jeong yoonchae #katseye x reader #lara raj #manon bannerman #megan skiendiel #sophia laforteza #megan skiendiel x reader #thecchi writes

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tokyicons · 22 days ago

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fawnsite · 12 days ago

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#lara raj #lara raj icons #katseye #katseye icons #katseye lara #random icons #girls icons #messy icons #icons

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rvsirene · 22 days ago

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Lara x Gabriela 🌹

#lara #lara raj #katseye #katseyeedit #katseye lara #ggnet #femaleidolsedit #femaleidols #my gifs #mine #flash tw #100+#200+#300+#400+

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beomniiz · 3 days ago

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TONIGHT ₍^. .^₎⟆ LARA RAJ

❝ I do this all because you’re my superstar. ❞

❪ ㅤ𝓲ndex ❫ ⋆˚꩜｡ ft. hs!Lara Raj x Swimmer!Reader 1616wc ⟢ 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿, mentions of drowning ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

None of Lara’s friends understood. I mean why would she suddenly show interest in swimming of all things? Lara Raj was a woman of many talents, but swimming was not one.

None of them even recall ever actually seeing her swim— and staying on the shore at the beach obviously does not count. How did the infamous Lara Raj find herself nearly drowning? Well it’s simple really.

One day as she was walking to class she saw this girl— not just any though. Her beauty was enough to turn heads, or at least in Lara’s mind, because according to her friend, the girl was a ‘two out of ten’. Although Lara’s sure she’s higher, that's besides the point.

Lara had her friend— Daniela do a little digging, it turned out that said girl was on a swim team! Which is how Lara found herself in this position, her ears ringing as she found her vision darkening.

The one familiar thing she sees is you. Was she dying? Or worse, dead already? Maybe diving head first on the first day was something not everyone could achieve, the one thing she did achieve was learning she couldn’t swim though! You on the other hand were panicking, hastily you pulled her out of the water, shaking her— even if you knew it wouldn’t really help much if she had inhaled too much water.

You kneeled next to her, placing your hands on her chest and pressed down a few times, until she gurgled up water. As she spit it out, you helped her turn her body upwards so that she wouldn’t choke on it more.

“Are you okay?” You frantically asked, even if Lara wanted to answer— she quite literally couldn’t. All Lara wanted to shrivel up and die as you continued to ask her questions. She just knew her friends would eat her up for this, especially the fact she could’ve died yet all she could think of was the way your hand rubbing her back.

Ever since that day you’ve personally made it your mission to teach her how to swim, because come on, who joins a swimming team without even knowing how to tread!

“Lara.. you’re doing it wrong, again.” you sighed, moving beside her and placing your hand on her back. “you have to relax, or else you’ll never be able to float.” you said for the third time, holding her up on her back within the water.

Undoubtedly Lara was gorgeous, but you could tell she wasn’t listening. It was the little things she would forget, her towel, to be on time, it made you truly wonder why she was even on the team.

I mean— who forgets a towel when going swimming! Lara on the other hand felt like she was on cloud nine, five days a week spending time alone with this gorgeous girl? Not only that, but was her coach— she was your main priority!

The problem arose when finals came. Lara genuinely thought swimming was for fun, not tournaments and all.

“I’m not trying to be rude here but.. I think you should let them cut you.” You said to Lara, walking into the locker rooms. “oh, uhm why?” She questioned, even if she knew the answer.

“Well, for one you can barely tread properly. Second, you're late a lot, not to mention the clothes instead of the swimsuit. Third, you're always distracted.” Oh. Was she that bad? Lara hadn’t noticed how much you’d taken note of her.

“I only joined because—” of you. The words sat on the tip of her tongue, yet she couldn’t bring herself to say them? “Daniela told me.” Oh? This made Lara look up at you, “She said you joined because you needed the community hours, but why on earth would you join if you couldn’t even swim!”

You huffed exasperated, you truly didn’t get it. “I mean there’s so many other ‘clubs’ you could have joined— origami, dance, vocal—“ Lara could see you rambling on, yet she couldn’t bring herself to tell you the truth, so she lied.

“I wanted to make friends.” She blurted out, referencing the fact that the swim team was the largest ‘club’ within the school.

“Teach me how to swim.. please.” She said, her eyes darting around the room— it’s not like she didn’t want to learn, she just hasn’t treated it seriously because she was more focused on you.

“Okay.. but we’ll have to train on weekends as well, since I don’t really have time to teach you during the week due to nationals.” You said, looking at her— you hoped she was serious, because you’d be upset if she decided to waste more of your personal time if she wasn’t.

It’s really not like you didn’t enjoy spending time with Lara, but you really didn’t have time to waste during nationals.

It’s been four days— and Lara has started to show you how much she really did want to learn. She would meet you during the weekends, where you would teach her various things.

“Okay, to float you have to try and relax all of your body- not just your upper half.” You said, holding her lower back above the water, spreading her arms out on each side, much like a starfish.

“Like this?” Lara questioned, though her lower half was still slowly sinking- which caused you to hold it back up again.

“Floating really isn’t that important, but at least you can tread water now.” You said, helping her submerge her half fully back into the water.

“Let’s call it a day for today, it’s already seven.” You added on, to which Lara nodded— “Thank you, for all of this by the way.” You hummed as you got out of the pool.

“I can walk you home.” Lara offered, which made you smile. “Sure. just let me change first.” You nodded, walking towards the showers. After you were done showering and changing, Lara was waiting outside for you, her hair still damp.

“You’re not going to dry your hair? It’ll get you sick in this breeze.” You huffed, stopping her as you took out your towel, using it to dry her hair. Lara was slightly taller than you, so she had to lean her head down a bit— her friends were never going believe this.

Maybe it was the closer proximity, or the fact you’ve been sending a lot of time together, but Lara felt more confident. “Can we.. hang out something? Outside of swimming.” She mumbled, looking down at you.

“A date?” You questioned, making Lara look away— was she asking you on a date? She wasn’t even quite sure herself, but she was quick to nod anyway.

It’s been a few weeks since then, but you’ve been so busy. Lara was benched for the season and your coach has been hounding you, so you really didn’t have time to train her anymore.

Though, this week was nationals. Lara didn’t attend any of the tournaments, until the second last one— you were up against six others, in lane five.

You didn’t notice her when you went in, but when your head emerged from the water, your lungs expanded as you gasped for air— you noticed her familiar red hair, her brown eyes staring at you.

That day you placed second, which really wasn’t bad— but it was a bummer. As you finished getting out of the shower, ready to collapse into the hotel bed, a knock on the door rang through the room.

You sighed as you opened it, scratching your head— before pausing. There stood Lara, with your jacket and a few other things.

“You did good today!” She exclaimed smiling, though it’s really not like you could bring yourself to. Second place wasn’t bad, it’s just you know within yourself that you could do better.

“put on your shoes let’s go—!” She beamed, your brows furrowed as you looked at her. “Go where?” Lara was quick to reply- “it’s a surprise.” She said, watching as you put on your shoes, before dragging you down the hotel hallways despite your protests.

Lara dragged you like, thirty minutes away! Your feet were aching by the time she stopped you, on a bridge within a park— the view was gorgeous, nonetheless.

“What are we doing here?” You questioned, still a little breathless, meanwhile Lara looked like she was unaffected by running.

“y/n.” She called out, looking at you— in times like these it was when you could truly appreciate her beauty, she was truly gorgeous.

“Thank you for helping me with swimming, I mean it, seriously.” She smiled, her hands were still interlocked with yours from the run. “Of course, I mean it was my job to teach you kind of..” You said awkwardly, you felt like shrinking under her gaze— you two have never really stood face to face like this before.

“I like you.” Lara blurted out, your widened eyes met hers— was this some cruel joke, or was she being serious? “I want to get to know you more.” She said, though you weren’t really listening.

Her words repeated like a mantra in your head, Lara Raj liked you? Suddenly the pieces started to make a bit more sense, why she would randomly join the swim team within the middle of the season with no actual commitment.

“I want to get to know you better as well.” You replied, your voice displaying some of your bewilderment— if that was even possible. Lara’s smile widened even more, if that was possible.

“Let’s go out after your final tournament tomorrow.” She beamed, to which you nodded. “On a date?” You questioned, “Yes, a date.”

#( 🐈‍⬛ ) — K4TS 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 #lara raj x reader #lara raj x fem reader #lara raj #katseye x reader #katseye x y/n #katseye x you #katseye x female reader #katseye fluff #katseye fic #katseye #katseye scenarios #katseye lara #katseye lara raj x reader #tubatu’s bookstore ୭˚. ᵎᵎ

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manonsmartini · 2 days ago

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Always Dripping — Lara Raj (18+)

✒️ explicit sexual content · oral sex · g!p power bottom!lara · multiple orgasms · spit play · anal fingering · overstimulation · aftercare (still horny) · 7th member!reader · barely any plot

Summary: In the same girl group, you and Lara are supposed to keep things professional—but behind closed doors, she fucks you like she owns you. It was supposed to be just sex. Except Lara wants more. (5.2k words)

The room still smelled like sweat and hairspray.

Rehearsal had just wrapped. Costumes were half-hung, half-forgotten. Makeup smudged, lashes uneven. Someone’s heels were kicked off near the mirrors. But none of that mattered now.

Because Lara was staring at you again.

From across the dressing room, she leaned against the wall like she didn’t care. Hair tied up but messy, damp at the edges from dancing. Her shirt was still riding up from their last number, exposing a sliver of taut, brown stomach, shimmering faintly with sweat. She hadn’t bothered pulling it down.

You tried not to look. Or maybe you wanted her to notice you looking. It was always hard to tell.

Someone cracked a joke nearby, laughter filled the space, but the tension between you and Lara was quiet, separate. Charged.

You bent down to grab your water bottle, and when you stood up, she was closer. Just a few steps. Just enough to feel the heat of her body when she passed behind you, not touching, but near enough to make your skin twitch.

“Careful,” she murmured, just for you. “You’re looking at me like you want something.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “You’re imagining things.”

She smirked, voice low. “No. I’ve already imagined it. Again. And again.”

Your heart skipped.

“Lara,” you warned under your breath.

But she didn’t back off. Her fingers brushed your lower back as she passed by. Just once. Light as air. Too casual to be scandalous. Too deliberate to be innocent.

You watched her disappear into the hallway toward her dressing room, her sweatpants slung low, waistband dipped just enough to tempt.

You told yourself you wouldn’t follow her. And for once you really didn’t.

Except when you got back home to your new dorm where each member finally got their own rooms, her knock landed soft against your door.

And when you opened it, she didn’t say a word, she just pushed you inside, her lips already parting, eyes already burning.

It’s dangerous, the way she looks at you, back resting against your headboard, one leg lazily bent, the other dangling off the bed like she’s not even trying. Her strong gaze locked on you, dark and slow, heavy with hunger but not desperation. Lara doesn’t beg.

She summons.

“Take it off,” she says softly, chin tilted like she’s bored. Her tone is quiet, a murmur, a melody, but it lands on your skin like a command.

You peel your shirt off, slow, letting your bra drop behind it. She watches your every move, lips parted just barely, her breathing already shifting. There’s a raw kind of want in her eyes, but still no urgency. She drips with control even now, stretched out in her tank top and boxers like the queen of someone else’s bed.

“Sit on my face.”

You blink.

She raises a brow. “I said… come sit on my face.”

There’s heat in your stomach, but your legs move before your brain catches up. She guides you wordlessly, fingers on your hips, pulling you up so your thighs are bracketing her head. Her warm brown hands complements beautifully against your skin as she lays back, eyes glittering.

Even now, beneath you, she looks powerful. A dominant bottom to her core.

You hesitate for half a second, and she smiles. That smug, lopsided grin that knows exactly what she’s about to do to you.

“Don’t be shy, baby. I want to taste you.”

And then her tongue is on you.

A sharp gasp leaves your mouth as her lips part around your folds, licking slow and deep, like she’s tasting something sacred. She doesn’t rush. Lara licks like she’s making a point. Her tongue flicks against your clit with a rhythm that’s both cruel and delicious, building heat slowly, layering it like silk.

You brace yourself on the headboard, hips trembling as her moans vibrate into your core. And she moans sweetly, high-pitched, almost delicate. The kind of sound that shouldn’t come from someone who acts like she could ruin you without lifting a finger.

“You taste so fucking good,” she purrs between licks. Her voice is muffled but still smug, dripping with affection and heat. “Grind on me. Come on. Ride it.”

You do. You grind on her mouth, your thighs shaking, her nose bumping your clit in perfect rhythm. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t flinch, just licks deeper, fingers digging into your hips to hold you down even as you whimper.

And when you cum, it hits fast, messy, gasping, full-bodied. You moan her name, and she just keeps going, tongue flicking through the aftershocks until you beg her to stop.

When you slide off her, panting, your thighs soaked and trembling, Lara’s face is wet, her lips swollen, her eyes wild.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and grins, voice syrupy and wrecked.

“I could eat you for hours,” she murmurs. “But I need your mouth now.”

You crawl between her legs, still catching your breath, tugging her boxers down to reveal her thick, dark cock, already hard and twitching against her stomach. She’s bigger than you remembered. Warm brown, veined, curved, leaking, a single drop sliding down the tip.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

Lara’s voice is soft again. “I know.”

She spreads her legs just slightly, enough to give you space, but not too much. She’s inviting, not offering. Still holding the reins.

You lick your lips and lower your mouth to her shaft, dragging your tongue along the underside slowly. Lara moans, high and breathy, her hand tightening in your hair.

“You’re so good at this,” she whimpers, voice so femininely soft, it makes your thighs clench again. “I love the way your mouth feels on my dick.”

You take her deeper, swirling your tongue around the head, and her hips jerk, the first time she loses composure. Still, her voice never stops.

“Deeper. Please. I want you to take all of me.”

And you do. You suck her slowly, hands working the base, watching her fall apart while still somehow holding on to that dangerous glint in her eyes. Even while moaning, Lara never really gives up control.

She doesn’t have to move to dominate you—she commands with her voice, her tension, the way she lets you worship her like a dark, divine heat.

When her abs twitch and she grits out a warning, you pull off with a wet pop.

“No,” you whisper. “Not yet.”

Her cock bobs between her thighs, slick and aching. She watches you through half-lidded eyes, breathless.

“Then sit on it,” she murmurs, smiling. “I want you to ride me until I can’t speak.”

Her cock is slick and flushed, lying against her stomach as you grind your soaked pussy along the length of it. It leaves a mess on her skin—thick, glistening trails of arousal coating the rich brown shaft. It twitches beneath you, responding to every movement, to the heat dripping from between your thighs.

Lara exhales like she’s holding back something primal.

She doesn’t say it, but her mind is burning. She loves how wet you are.

She can feel the slippery heat of you coating her, warm and silky and obscene. It makes her ache in the best way, cock heavy and pulsing, balls tightening as more precum beads at the tip.

You reach down, guiding her to your entrance. The moment the head of her cock presses against you, you both freeze—just breathing, just feeling. She’s so thick. You’re soaked, almost embarrassingly wet, but your body still stretches slowly to take her in.

Her mouth falls open when you sink down on her.

“Fuck,” she whispers, voice breaking into a whimper.

She doesn’t mean to make the noise so pretty. It just slips out—soft, vulnerable, ruined. And you feel all of it. The way her cock fills you, smooth and thick and hot, stretching you open in a way nothing else does. You can feel the subtle curve pressing against your walls, the pressure building, the slick of her precum mixing with your wetness.

She’s drenched. You’re wetter.

You bottom out, thighs pressed to hers, and just stay there for a second. She twitches inside you.

You can hear it—the squelch of your pussy clenching around her, the slick sound of your fluids mixing. It’s raw and filthy and perfect. You’re full, and Lara is pulsing inside you, lips parted, brows furrowed like she’s trying not to lose control.

Her voice comes out high and sweet, breathy and uneven. “You feel so good inside. So warm. You’re gonna fuck the cum out of me if you move like that.”

You start to grind, slow and deep, rolling your hips so her cock drags against your walls. Her moans start to break. She’s trying to stay dominant, trying to say something commanding, but her voice is laced with desperation.

In her mind, she’s losing it. She loves how tight you are. How you drip all over her, make a mess of her cock. How you ride her like you were made to. She can feel you milking her already.

You lean forward, pressing your chest to hers, letting your hips rise and fall in rhythm. Every time you drop back down, her cock sinks in deeper. Your wetness coats her completely, the creamy slick sounds filling the room.

“You’re so deep,” you pant. “It’s so wet. Can you feel how soaked I am for you?”

Lara’s nails dig into your ass, and she moans in response. Her eyes flutter shut for half a second, but she opens them again. Staring at you like she needs to memorize everything—your face, your pussy swallowing her cock, the way you tremble when her tip brushes your cervix.

You ride her harder, faster. Her stomach tenses. Your wetness starts dripping down her thighs, a mix of slick and precum and everything between. It feels endless. Messy. Perfect.

Your own orgasm starts to build again—tight and pulsing. You’re grinding down, clenching around her. She feels it. She grips your waist harder, her voice suddenly trembling.

“Fuck. You’re gonna make me—shit—don’t stop.”

You don’t. You want it. You want her to fall apart underneath you.

She tenses, thighs shaking, cock throbbing violently. And then she lets out a high, broken moan, so feminine it doesn’t match how deep she is inside you.

She cums hard.

Her cock jerks inside you as hot, thick ropes of cum spill into your pussy, coating your walls with every pulse. You can feel it—the texture of it, warm and heavy, sticky and spreading inside you. Some of it leaks out as you keep grinding, the sound of wet skin and slick fluids louder now, dripping down her shaft.

She’s still moaning, still breathless, but her voice drops into something low, shaky.

“I love how full you make me feel,” she whispers. “Keep going. I don’t want you to stop yet.”

You don’t. You chase your own orgasm, slamming your hips down harder, using her cock just as much as she uses you with her words. Her cum makes it easier—thicker, messier, and the pressure builds faster.

You cum with a cry, burying your face in her neck, pussy fluttering around her cock, pushing more of her release out onto her thighs and the sheets below.

Lara just holds you. Still inside you, cock twitching, still so hard it’s almost unfair.

She kisses your shoulder.

Your body trembles against hers, slick and flushed, still twitching around her cock as the aftershocks ripple through you.

Lara stays still beneath you, breathing heavy, one hand dragging softly down your spine. Her cock softens slightly, sliding out with a wet sound that makes you both gasp. You feel the warmth of her cum slipping out of you, thick and slow, pooling between your thighs and onto her stomach.

But she doesn’t move to clean up.

She just pulls you forward, lips brushing your chest, fingers gripping your waist again.

“Come here,” she murmurs.

You shift upward, your pussy dragging across the soft curve of her abs, slick with both your wetness and her cum. She hisses through her teeth. Her stomach flexes as you move, and you feel the texture of muscle, taut and slippery beneath you. It glides against your folds, smearing the mess between your bodies as her fingers start to rock your hips, gentle at first.

Her lips move to your neck, slow, open-mouthed kisses melting into your skin.

She licks up your throat, then down, sucking lightly between each kiss. Her mouth finds your collarbone, then lower. She nuzzles your tits, tongue teasing one nipple, then the other, sucking until the soft bites bloom into bruises.

“You’re so sensitive,” she whispers against your skin. “I can feel how wet you are. Still soaking me.”

Your hips rock harder against her abs, dragging your clit over the ridge of muscle, through the slippery, cum-coated heat. You whimper. It’s overwhelming—slippery, filthy, intimate. Her abs grind perfectly against you, the texture of her skin wet and hot, every inch of her body used to make you cum again.

And then, you feel it.

Her cock stiffens beneath you—fast and heavy—pressing up on your ass. The heat of her arousal is immediate, overwhelming.

Lara groans, voice cracking, low and dangerous.

“Fuck this.”

She shifts under you so suddenly it knocks your breath out. Strong hands grip your thighs, flipping you onto your back in one motion. Her body covers yours. Her hand grabs the base of her cock and guides it back to your entrance without a word.

She slams into you.

Hard.

You cry out, fingernails digging into her shoulders as she drives her cock deep, thrusting into you without pause, without mercy. Her hips slap against yours, her balls heavy against your ass, the sound of skin meeting skin wet and rapid, each stroke driving the air from your lungs.

Your slick explodes around her, the pressure and speed pushing her cum from earlier out around her cock, making the whole thing sloppy, loud, so fucking wet.

Lara moans, high and broken again, but her voice is tinted now with something wild.

“I need you to take it,” she pants. “I need to fill you again. I’m not done with you.”

You don’t even hesitate.

“Harder,” you beg, voice barely audible between your gasps. “Please, Lara—fuck me harder.”

Her teeth graze your shoulder.

“You want more?”

You nod, legs wrapping around her waist.

She grabs your wrists, pins them above your head. Her hips roll deeper, rougher, dick dragging through every sensitive inch of you. The texture of her shaft is slick and relentless, stretching you again and again until you feel dizzy from the fullness.

Your body bounces with each thrust, slick running down between your cheeks, soaking the sheets. You can’t think. You can’t breathe. You’re nothing but open heat and hunger and Lara’s cock pounding into you like she’s trying to ruin you.

Her voice drops to a whisper—still sweet, still feminine—but now sharp with obsession.

“You’re mine,” she says. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp.

She drives deeper.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours!”

Her cock twitches inside you, and she groans, dropping her forehead to yours. She’s so close, you can feel it, her entire body trembling above you.

And still, despite the roughness, the mess, the overstimulation, you whisper—

“More.”

You feel her start to lose rhythm, hips stuttering, cock pulsing harder inside you. She’s close. So close you can feel her release winding up, her breath hitching, moans breaking into smaller, sharper pieces. You wrap your legs tighter around her waist, trying to pull her deeper.

She slams into you again, deep and punishing.

And then—she stops.

Lara lets out a guttural, frustrated growl as she pulls out suddenly, her cock slick and twitching, the head flushed and leaking thick, hot precum.

“Fucking hell,” she breathes, voice shaking.

You whimper at the emptiness. You’re dripping—her cum, your wetness, everything sticky and hot between your thighs. Her cock drags across your slit, and it’s too much, too slippery, too good.

She leans back, straddling your hips, one hand on her cock as she slowly rubs the shaft against your pussy, not pushing in, just grinding. Her slick skin slides along your folds, smearing your juices together, pushing into your clit with every slow thrust.

She’s panting, her brows furrowed in restraint.

“You feel that?” she murmurs. “So fucking wet… I could slide in with nothing but the weight of my cock.”

You nod, body arching for her, desperate.

But she doesn’t give it to you. Not yet.

She keeps thrusting over you, cock riding the length of your slit, the mess building with every second. You’re both soaked, the head of her cock shining with your slick, trails of arousal stringing from your folds to her shaft. You can hear it—obscene, sloppy, sticky friction filling the room.

She closes her eyes, breathes hard through her nose. Trying to calm herself. To delay the explosion. To prove she’s still the one in control.

Then her eyes snap open.

She spits. Right into your mouth.

Your lips part without hesitation, and her warm saliva lands on your tongue, thick and heavy. You moan as you swallow it, tasting her, wanting more. She leans down, grabbing your jaw, her mouth crashing into yours in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss.

It’s disgusting. Perfect.

Tongues sliding against each other, breath exchanged hot and fast, spit mixing and dripping from both your mouths. She moans into you, biting your lower lip, licking into your throat like she wants to devour you.

You kiss her back just as hard, pulling her closer until your bodies are flush again.

She growls against your mouth.

“I’m not done,” she says. “Spread your legs.”

You obey, thighs parting wide as she grabs her cock and shoves back into you hard—no warning nor any hesitation. She pounds into you, rougher than before, her breath ragged, sweat dripping from her brow onto your chest.

You’re already soaked, but now the friction is loud, fast, uncontrollable. Her cock drives into you like it’s the last time, every thrust sending slick splashing out around her, coating your thighs, your ass, the sheets.

Her mouth is still on yours. She spits into you again mid-thrust, and you swallow it like it’s a promise.

“Say it,” she growls. “Say you fucking love when I use you like this.”

“I love it,” you moan. “I love your cock—please—don’t stop—”

Your voice breaks as she slams deeper, her tip kissing your cervix over and over again. Your pussy flutters around her, clenching greedily, your body so full you feel her in your stomach.

Her teeth sink into your neck, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to mark.

“I’m gonna fucking cum,” she moans. “Gonna fill you up again. You want it, don’t you?”

You’re already nodding before she finishes the sentence.

Your pussy tightens around her cock with every thrust, the walls fluttering, swollen and slick, straining to keep up with her pace. The noise between your bodies is deafening—wet, hard, relentless. Every time her hips slam into yours, it forces a loud, obscene squelch of fluids pouring out around her shaft.

“Then fucking take it.”

And this time, she doesn’t hold back.

You’re so wet it drips down your ass, spreading into the sheets below in sticky pools of cum and slick and sweat.

And Lara is fully unraveling.

Her voice is nearly gone—what used to be teasing and dominant has broken into breathy moans, choked whispers. Her brows furrow, lips parted, spit and sweat clinging to her mouth. Her cock pulses inside you with each deep thrust, the base now soaked and glossy from your combined mess.

She gasps. “I’m gonna cum—fuck—I’m gonna—”

You wrap your arms around her, hold her against your chest, and pull her in deeper. She lets out a long, sweet sounding moan into your throat, and then her cock twitches violently.

Hot cum floods into you, thick spurts shooting deep and fast, one after another, each push stuffing more inside until you can’t hold it anymore. You feel it leak out around her, spilling in slow, white streams down your crack as her cock jerks inside you, uncontrollably pulsing.

But she doesn’t stop.

She can’t.

Instead, Lara drops her full weight onto you, pressing your body into the mattress with hers, her sweaty chest sliding against your tits, her face buried in your neck, mouth open, panting into your skin.

And she keeps fucking you.

Her hips move slower now, but deeper, grinding her cock through the mess she just poured inside you, pushing it deeper, sloppier. Every thrust forces more of her cum to spill out, warm and sticky against your thighs.

You whimper into her ear. “Too much—fuck—Lara—”

She shushes you with a kiss to your throat, her voice hoarse, breath hot. “No, you can take it. You can take all of it.”

Her thighs tremble above yours. She’s twitching, her cock raw and sensitive, yet still buried deep inside you, grinding with desperate need. Her sweat slicks your stomach. Her breasts slide against yours with every movement, the heat between your bodies overwhelming.

She’s not speaking anymore—only moaning softly into your neck, her breath broken, her lips trembling where they press against your throat.

You wrap your legs around her back, locking her in. She groans, thick and needy, her cock pulsing inside you.

“You’re still hard,” you whisper, dazed, ruined, voice cracking with disbelief.

Lara doesn’t answer. She only thrusts deeper, slowly, hips stuttering from overstimulation, still chasing something deeper, darker. But you feel how much she’s trembling. She’s hanging on by a thread.

And that’s when a thought hits you.

You’re soaked. Her cum, your slick, sweat, it coats everything. Your inner thighs are drenched, your folds swollen, messy with the proof of how much you both needed this.

You slide one hand between your bodies, fingers brushing your own slit. It’s slippery, dripping, warm, perfect. You drag your fingers through the mess, coating them in your mixed fluids, and reach lower, behind her.

She flinches the moment your fingers brush over her ass.

“F-Fuck—what are you—”

But she doesn’t stop you. She doesn’t pull away.

Her body freezes above yours for half a second, and you feel her cock throb hard inside you, twitching violently, her jaw slack with shock.

You tease her rim with your fingers, slow, slick circles, letting your wetness lube her up as her hole clenches under your touch.

She moans. Loud. High-pitched, feminine, and desperate.

Her face buries deeper into your neck.

“You’re gonna drive me fucking crazy,” she pants, voice cracking. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

But you do.

You press one finger inside—slow, gentle—barely past the tip. She gasps, her whole body shuddering above yours. Her cock twitches again, thrusting instinctively deeper into your pussy. The feeling of your finger inside her, your walls squeezing her at the same time, and it breaks her rhythm completely.

She’s trying to keep fucking you, to stay in control, but her hips are grinding now, messy and frantic, her ass pushing back into your hand with each thrust. Your finger slips deeper, snug and slick, and her moans turn into whimpers.

“Please—don’t stop,” she breathes. “Just like that.”

You kiss her jaw, bite her neck, push your finger all the way in, then start to curl it slowly inside her. Her body is trembling hard now. Her cock drives in and out of you like she’s lost in it, driven purely by nerve and hunger, every thrust squelching through cum and slick that’s coating both of you, soaking the sheets below.

Your finger pumps in time with her hips, gently fingering her hole as she fucks you harder, more desperately. Her ass clenches around you, and she lets out another broken moan, buried in your skin, lost.

“Feels so fucking good—” she whines. “I’m gonna cum again—shit—don’t stop—don’t stop—”

The overstimulation hits both of you like a drug. Your pussy is spasming, sensitive and puffy, unable to stop clenching around her cock as it slides through the mixture of cum and slick. Lara’s body twitches each time your walls squeeze down.

She’s beyond words now.

Her hips start jerking erratically, not from rhythm, but need—the raw urge to keep you plugged, stuffed, marked. Every inch of her skin is slick with sweat, her scent mixing with yours, her cum mixing with your own arousal in a full-body mess.

She mouths your name again and again, lips dragging over your jaw, your neck, your ear. You feel her spit wet on your collarbone. You feel her cock throb inside you again, a second orgasm building under her breath.

“Lara, I’m gonna—” you choke.

You can feel it building. Her body is a live wire—cock swelling, muscles tightening, everything slick and hot and shaking. Her thrusts get shorter, deeper, more erratic. You finger her faster, grinding your hips up into her at the same time, giving her everything.

And then she breaks.

Lara sobs out a moan as her cock explodes inside you again, spilling a second messy, hot load into your pussy, her hole clenching tight around your fingers as her entire body convulses.

Your back arches as you shatter.

Your pussy clenches violently around her, milking her through it, forcing more cum out of her twitching cock, both of you gasping into each other’s mouths, kissing messily, biting, panting, crying out into the sweat-soaked dark.

She doesn’t stop thrusting. Even as she cums. Even as she cries out. Even as her cock throbs inside your already-stretched, cum-filled cunt.

She keeps fucking you through it, through the overstimulation, sweat dripping off her face, hips grinding, trembling, body convulsing as you hold her, buried inside and out.

She’s panting into your ear now, voice thin and wrecked.

“I’m yours. All fucking yours.”

The room is heavy with heat.

The air smells like sweat, sex, and everything you poured into each other.

You’re still wrapped around her, limbs tangled, bodies fused by slick and cum and whatever’s left of your breath.

Lara finally stops moving.

Not because she’s spent—no, her cock is still deep inside you, warm, thick, twitching—but because she knows you need it. She rests her weight on you completely, her head tucked under your chin, hair damp and wild against your neck. Her breath fans across your collarbone, hot and uneven.

“I didn’t mean to go that hard,” she murmurs, voice small and shaky.

You smile into her hair, fingers gently combing through it. “You always say that.”

She lets out a soft, breathy laugh, but it fades quickly.

Her lips move against your skin again. Kisses. Gentle, open-mouthed. Soft at first. But with every kiss, she lingers longer. Mouth pressed to your chest. Then your jaw. Then the side of your throat. Each one slower, wetter, needier.

She’s trying to be good. Gentle.

But her cock twitches again inside you, and she gasps, half surprise, half frustration.

“God, I’m still hard,” she whispers. She sounds almost embarrassed. “You really do something to me.”

You hum in response, rubbing her back. You can feel her sweat cooling on her skin, her thighs still trembling against yours.

She pulls back slightly to look at you. Her face is flushed, her hair a mess. But her eyes? They’re dark. Still hungry. Even as she holds you like you’re fragile, that look never softens.

It’s not gone. Her need.

“Every time I kiss you,” she says quietly, “it gets worse.”

You tilt your head, teasing. “Then stop kissing me.”

Her eyes narrow. She leans in and kisses you again—slow, tender, but deep. Tongue sliding against yours. It’s supposed to be sweet, but the moment your mouths connect, the heat flares right back up between you. You feel her cock throb inside you again.

She breaks the kiss with a shaky exhale.

“…See?” she says, her voice barely there. “I can’t. I literally can’t stop.”

You run your fingers down her back. “You don’t have to. Just… stay here.”

Lara nods, pressing her forehead to yours.

“I will,” she whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She stays buried inside you, even as her hips settle. Even as her hands stroke gently over your skin. She kisses your shoulder, your chest, your cheek. Not asking for more. Just… burning.

Because that’s what she is. Even in aftercare, Lara doesn’t cool down.

She just simmers.

Lara shifts her hips now and then—slow, subtle, like her body refuses to disconnect. Each movement pushes the mess deeper, making you shiver under her.

You stroke her back with one hand, the other gently resting against her waist. Her skin is hot to the touch. Still flushed. Still glistening.

“I should move,” she murmurs, not moving at all.

You hum in response, fingers curling lightly into her side. “But you won’t.”

“No,” she admits softly. “I don’t want to.”

You lie there for a few more seconds. Her breathing evens out, her heart still hammering against your chest.

Then she speaks again quietly, like the words might come apart if she says them too loud.

“I hate that we have to pretend.”

You blink slowly, surprised by her honesty. Her voice is fragile now, stripped of her usual edge. She’s no longer the dominant bottom trying to wreck you. She’s just Lara, your sweet member, brown skin flushed, her body trembling against yours.

“I hate walking past you like none of this happened,” she says. “Like I don’t think about you constantly.”

You feel her cock twitch again inside you, just a little.

“I know we’re in the group. I know we’re supposed to be professional. But I can’t even stand next to you without remembering what you sound like when you cum.”

She lifts her head, eyes glassy but sharp. Her lips hover near yours.

“You’re older. You know better,” she says, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “But you keep letting me fuck you.”

You raise your eyebrows, voice soft. “You think I let you?”

That earns a low, breathless laugh from her. She kisses you once, sweet and slow, but her hips grind into you again, like her body needs to match the weight of her confession.

“I want more than this,” she says, almost a whisper. “Not just the fucking. Not just sneaking into each other’s rooms after rehearsals.”

Her voice catches in her throat. Her cock pulses gently inside you.

“I want to take you out. Kiss your hand in public. Wake up next to you and not have to leave before anyone sees.”

Her forehead presses to yours, eyes closed now.

“And every time I say I won’t do this again… I end up buried inside you anyway. Because I can’t stay away.”

You don’t say anything at first. Your hands tighten around her, and her breath hitches again, like she’s afraid you’ll pull away.

But you don’t. Instead, you lean in and kiss her temple.

“I think about you all the time,” you whisper. “Even when I shouldn’t.”

Her throat bobs as she swallows, “I really don’t want to be your secret,” she says, “Not anymore.”

Then, quietly, with a tremble in her voice—

“But I’ll stay one, if it means I still get to have you.”

Her hips grind once more, slow and sticky. Not for climax. Just to feel close. To stay inside. To stay connected. Her cock throbs lazily, still half-hard, surrounded by the cum she filled you with. She moans softly into your neck, not even trying to hide how turned on she still is.

And even in this moment—raw, vulnerable, honest—you both know…

This isn’t the last time.

#katseye imagines #katseye x reader #katseye #katseye x female reader #katseye x fem!reader #katseye x fem reader #katseye smut #katseye lara #lara raj x female reader #lara raj x fem reader #g!p lara raj #lara raj smut #lara raj x reader #lara raj #vodka shots #katseye on the rocks #manonsmartini

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lastmidtownshow24 · 2 days ago

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this picture is so fucking funny but also sophia's quads??

#i need her secrets #oh wait its being in dance practice all day #katseye #lara raj #sophia laforteza

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opiumwings · 1 day ago

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prank'd — megan s. & lara r.

megan skiendiel & lara rajagopalan x seventh member reader – you wipe off megan and lara’s kisses – 1253 words

you had a pretty packed schedule earlier in the day, but now that everything had finally calmed down, you were just vlogging—rambling to the camera about random stuff while lounging around, fully expecting at least one of your girlfriends to show up soon.

you happened to be talking about megan when she strolled into the room.

“hi, bebe,” she said sweetly, wrapping her arms around you from the side and kissing your cheek.

you smoothly wiped it off with the back of your hand.

megan immediately pulled back, laughing. “did you just wipe my kiss off?”

“no, why would i do that?” you said, playing innocent.

she squinted suspiciously, then leaned in and kissed your cheek again.

you wiped it again, more dramatically this time.

“oh, so you just don’t fuck with me anymore?” she said, giving you a full-on stank face.

“i love you,” you said quickly, turning and planting a kiss on her cheek.

she grinned. “see how i didn’t wipe your kiss off? that’s how it’s supposed to go. it’s called respect.”

“i’m sorry,” you chuckled, pretending to be apologetic. “i didn’t mean to.”

megan narrowed her eyes and suddenly kissed you right on the lips, catching you completely off guard. you wiped that one off, too.

“why can’t you just accept my love?”

“i am accepting it,” you laughed. “you act like i didn’t just kiss you back.”

“you’re acting like my kisses are a rash,” megan pouted.

“my face is just itchy today, okay?” you said, trying to hold in your laughter.

“yeah, okay,” she muttered, clearly annoyed.

just then, lara walked in, spotting the two of you cuddled up.

“why wasn’t i invited?” she asked, already walking over.

“you’re here now,” you said, patting the space beside you. “come show some love for the vlog.”

lara plopped down next to you and leaned into the frame.

“y/n’s been rejecting my love,” megan said, wasting no time updating her.

“what’d she do?” lara asked curiously.

“she wants me to kill myself,” megan deadpanned.

“she’s lying,” you said immediately, glancing at the camera like you see what i deal with?

“they’re always like this,” lara told the viewers, shaking her head like a tired mom.

“that’s just our love language,” you shrugged.

“and lara acts like she’s not just as bad,” megan added.

“i never said i wasn’t,” lara said, flipping her hair dramatically. “but someone’s gotta be the unnie in this relationship.”

“girl, i’m older than you,” megan pointed out.

“might be true,” lara said casually, clearly not caring.

you puckered your lips at lara, and she caught the signal immediately, leaning in to kiss you.

you wiped it off before turning back to the camera.

“the fuck?” lara said, frowning and wiping her own lips.

“so it’s fuck both of us now?”

“she wiped your kiss off, too?” lara asked, glancing at megan.

“yep,” megan said, nodding with fake betrayal in her voice. “now you see what i’ve been dealing with.”

“nah, you’re not just gonna do that to me,” lara said. she grabbed your face with both hands and started kissing all over it.

you kissed her back, but the second she let go, you wiped your face again with the sleeve of your hoodie. both girls gasped in betrayal.

“you’re literally asking for a fight,” megan said, her voice low and playful.

“it’s two of us and one of her,” lara chimed in.

“what is that supposed to mean?” you asked, even though the smirk tugging at lara’s lips already had you nervous.

“i can show you better than i can tell you,” lara said smoothly, her eyes locking with megan’s.

“okay, sounds like it’s time for me to go—” you started saying to the camera, half-standing.

“you’re not going anywhere,” megan said as she grabbed your arm, lara already pushing you gently back onto the couch.

you didn’t even have time to protest before both of them were on you—megan tackling your left side, lara climbing into your lap. soft kisses landed everywhere: your cheeks, your jaw, your neck, even your collarbone when your hoodie slipped slightly off your shoulder.

“try and wipe all of these off,” lara murmured against your skin, her voice a little breathy now.

you tried to hold in a laugh, squirming under the affectionate ambush. “this is not fair. y’all are playing dirty.”

“it’s war, baby,” megan said, giggling as she planted another kiss on your forehead. “you started it.”

“this doesn’t even feel like punishment,” you said as you let your head fall back onto the cushions, breathless from laughing. “i might do it again.”

“oh, we know,” lara said, now brushing her lips against your nose. “that’s why we’re gonna make sure you really learn your lesson.”

“you better never wipe off our kisses again.” megan kissed right below your ear.

“and what if i do?” you teased, still trying to keep the act going.

“then next time it won’t be just kisses,” megan grinned.

“is that a threat or a promise?”

“yes,” lara said, smug.

you glanced at the camera, trying to compose yourself. “i’m gonna have to cut all of this out—”

“no you’re not,” lara said, taking the camera away from you. “they need to see you getting humbled.”

“hi vlog,” megan said sweetly, leaning in over your shoulder. “we just wanted to document what happens when y/n gets too cocky.”

“she thinks she’s invincible,” lara added, zooming the lens in on your face. “she’s not.”

“okay—okay! i get it, i learned my lesson!” you tried to shield your face with your hands.

“no, you didn’t,” megan laughed, taking the pillow and tossing it aside. “you love this.”

you didn’t even argue because, yeah, she was right.

lara set the camera down onto the table in front of you and settled beside you again, curling into your side. “so… you’re never wiping our kisses off again, right?”

“i mean… probably not,” you said.

“probably?” megan raised a brow.

“okay, okay! never again. i swear,” you held up your hands in defense.

“you better,” lara mumbled, her head tucked into your shoulder now, voice muffled. “we’re watching you.”

you leaned your head against hers, eyes fluttering shut from the comfort of having both of them so close. “honestly, i’ll take getting attacked like that any day.”

“you say that now,” megan smirked.

“but don’t tempt us,” lara added.

you let out a soft laugh, your fingers instinctively finding lara’s and intertwining them. “i’m not tempting anyone, i’m just appreciating the love.”

“appreciate it all you want,” megan said as she stretched her legs across your lap. “but don’t think that means you’re off the hook.”

“what does that even mean?” you asked, smiling despite yourself.

“it means,” she said, poking your thigh with her toe, “next time you act out, we’re doubling the punishment.”

“you’re both menaces,” you groaned dramatically.

“mmhm,” megan said, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. “but we’re your menaces.”

“and you love us,” lara teased, lifting your joined hands up and kissing the back of yours.

“unfortunately,” you said, teasing right back.

“wow,” lara gasped.

“that’s crazy,” megan sat up like she was offended.

“i meant unfortunately i love you too much,” you added quickly, pulling them both close again. “can’t help it.”

“smooth save,” megan said with a nod.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” lara added.

“i know.”

they rolled their eyes at the same time, but neither of them moved away.

#katseye #megan skiendiel #lara raj #katseye x reader #katseye x female reader #katseye imagines #katseye lara #katseye megan #megan skiendiel x reader #lara raj x reader #sasha.writes ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐#sasha.fics ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐

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60sgroove · 2 months ago

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katseye ✰ gnarly

#katseye #femaleidol #femaleidoledit #femadols #femadolsedit #manon bannerman #sophia laforteza #lara raj #jeong yoonchae #megan skiendiel #daniela avanzini #editsm #gifsm

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xtraordinarygrls · 18 days ago

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Lara, for Entertainment Tonight @ the KCAs

#lara #lara raj #katseye #femaleidolsedit #femaleidol #tuserflora #usercherry #userpcultures #usermusicdaily #*#*katseye #shes gorgeousssss #and i loved these custom slime shirts she and megan wore

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thecchiiiiiiii · 2 days ago

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Fresh Blood by Haiden Henderson – “The same game that we both keep losing, 'cause I want you to change, but I never do. So, who's hurting who if I keep running and running and running and running back to you? Fresh blood, but the same old story, know that I'm bad for you, but I'll keep coming back” (Daniela Avanzini x reader)

Synopsis: She's damn stubborn and she hates that she knows it because its the reason that haunts her every day.

Remember that this is FICTION only.

Read part I here

—☆

It happens halfway through the line— your hand frozen above the open page, pen hovering like it’s waiting for permission.

Your sleeves are too long again.

They always are when you’re tired, frayed cuffs swallowing your knuckles, ink staining the fabric where you keep dragging the tip across by accident. There’s cold coffee bleeding rings into the dedication stack, but you’ve stopped bothering to ask for fresh cups.

It all tastes the same after the second hour.

You hate crowds. Hate small talk. Hate the cameras blinking like tiny demands. But you do it anyway, for them. For her.

For the lie you bottled up and sold with your name stamped on its throat.

She’s here tonight. You know it before you see her.

She’s good at slipping in when you’re looking down, good at being the echo just out of reach.

She’s there now, half-hidden behind a crooked shelf of battered poetry books— secondhand spines, dog-eared regrets, someone else’s underlining. Always poetry. Always the bruised parts.

The line creeps forward. You sign the sad ending again and again: What We Never Said.

Funny.

You never did say a damn thing when it mattered. Not first. Not when she needed you to.

And when you finally did, you bled it onto paper for strangers to take home in plastic bags and cracked spines.

She watches you and you can feel her.

Like a bruise under your collar, pressing warm. She wants to laugh. So, she does.

A sharp, breathless thing that tastes like old salt. A sound only you can hear above the shuffle of receipts and polite thank-yous.

A kid stands in front of you, can’t be older than sixteen, maybe seventeen at a stretch.

Soft shoulders under a thrifted jacket two sizes too big, eyes too wide for a world like this. They look at you the way you remember looking at your first paperback on the library shelf— like you can’t possibly be real.

“Did it really have to end like that?” they ask.

Their voice is too bright for something that heavy. They glance at the stack, the dog-eared copy of your book clutched to their chest like armor.

They laugh a little, nervous. “I just… I really saw myself in the main character. Like— it felt like you wrote it just for me.”

They want you to laugh too, you can see it, the desperate hope that you’ll say something warm, something that gives them permission to believe it all ends up okay.

But you don’t.

You just stare.

Past the kid’s hopeful grin, past the cheap pendant around their neck, past the smudge of your own face reflected in the bookstore’s glass door.

Past them— to her. Always to her.

She leans into the shelf, shoulder brushing cracked bindings, her hair tumbling loose the way you always loved best. The way you used to bury your face in it to hide from the truth.

The kid shifts, shuffles their feet. Says it again, softer this time. “Did it really have to end like that?”

You don’t look at them. You don’t look at her. Your pen trembles in your grip, the dedication half-formed on the page. Your mouth sets in that hard line you learned to wear when you were twelve, the same line you wore the night you almost didn’t leave. The night you almost proved yourself right.

You say it like you’re still convincing yourself: “Yeah. It did.”

A sound cuts the quiet— her laugh, sharper this time. A single note, breaking like glass in your chest. A few heads turn but she doesn’t care. She’s never cared.

She asked you always, forehead pressed to yours on the splintered steps behind the old church, her room, yours, everywhere: Write me a happy ending, okay?

You said you would. And you did.

Just not on paper.

Because the sad ending was the only one that made sense.

The only one that fit the shape of your hands.

You sign the page, hand shaking. The kid smiles like they understand. They don’t.

They tuck the book under their arm and say thank you. They mean "thank you for seeing me". But you didn’t.

You were too busy trying to look anywhere else but at the thing that always stays.

Her.

Always her.

You breathe out when the kid disappears into the crush of bodies. You look up, just once. She’s still there— arms folded across her chest, hair half-hiding the grin that never forgave you for telling the truth too late.

She tilts her head. The soft fall of her laugh reaches you again, warm and ruinous.

You sign the next book anyway.

—☆

Dani remembers the first time she fell out of the tulip tree.

She was seven, maybe eight— wait no. She was nine, small enough to believe the branches would hold, reckless enough to keep climbing anyway.

The bark slipped under her sneakers, sap clinging to her palms. From the top, the world looked soft. Manageable. She liked it better up there— above the shouting, the polished lemon floors, the brothers with matching grins.

Up there she could pretend she was bigger than the yard, bigger than the house that always smelled like old books and your mother’s soap.

She slipped before she meant to. The thud rattled through her bones. Dirt in her mouth, grit grinding between her teeth. She tasted iron and tried not to cry.

When she blinked the sky back into focus, there you were— hovering above her, eyes wide enough to swallow the whole tree. You looked like you’d fallen too, like your ribs hurt worse than hers did.

She grinned through a split lip. Told you it only hurt a little. It wasn’t true— but she liked the way your hands trembled when you touched her chin, gentle as a promise.

She liked that you held her scrapes like proof. Proof she was here. Proof you’d carry her home, let your mother press warm towels to her knees, her scalp, her knuckles.

She liked that your brother didn’t come running. He watched from the curb, helmet in hand, mouth bent in that half-smile that said, "she always bounces".

Like he’d already decided you’d be the one to catch her every time she fell— before either of you knew what it would cost.

She never forgot the look on your face, the way you carried her weight like it was always supposed to be yours.

The way you didn’t flinch when she smeared blood on your sleeve.

The way you whispered, "Does it hurt?"— like the answer would break you.

She lied.

She always did. "No", she said, voice bright through copper taste.

And you believed her.

Every time.

She remembers your mother’s hands too. Warm water, clean towels, the way you’d sit there while your mom cleaned Dani up like she was another stray you dragged home. "What happened to you two?"

"It was my fault," you’d say.

Dani never corrected you.

Not when you took the blame so easily.

Not when your brother ruffled her hair like she was his too, like he could swoop in just long enough to look good before leaving you to patch her up.

There were crowns too.

Dandelions, weeds. She remembers your backyard— a kingdom no one else knew how to find. "I’m the queen," she told you.

"You’re my knight." You didn’t argue until your brother did.

"I’m the knight, "he said, sword stick in hand, tapping her shoulder like he owned the right to protect her.

"You were the scribe," he said.

She didn’t know what that word meant then. She knows now.

She knows exactly what she made you hold for her all these years.

—☆

She remembers the first time she danced for real— not just spinning on the cracked patio when no one was watching.

She remembers your face in the front row, sweaty palms, wide eyes, the way she mouthed don’t look away before the music started.

You never did.

You were the only one who didn’t. Not her mother with her polished lemon-clean house, not her father who clapped too slow.

Only you.

You didn’t see the trophies the way she did.

Heavy things that looked pretty on a shelf but felt like anchors when the house got too quiet.

You never asked why her room was the only place allowed to be messy.

You just sat on her bed, touched the shiny plaques, told her she’d win them anyway.

She told you it was you. That she danced better when you were there. That she’d lose on purpose if it meant you’d hold her after.

She didn’t know how to say love yet. But you heard it anyway, didn’t you?

You always did.

—☆

She remembers the fort behind the tulip tree the way some girls remember the first bra they hid in the back of a dresser.

Secret.

Clumsy.

Hers.

It started as her idea— a fortress no one else could touch.

She’d dragged you behind the house with a handful of stolen blankets, her mother yelling through the screen door to come back inside. She’d stuck her tongue out over her shoulder and kept going.

You were twelve. She was twelve. Old enough to know how to push you past your good sense. Old enough to know you’d follow.

She always liked how you followed when she ran.

You knelt in the dirt, hammer too big for your small hands, banging nails in crooked lines.

She pretended she knew how to tie the blankets between branches.

The whole thing flapped in the wind, half undone by dusk.

She remembers you turning to her, cheeks flushed, mud streaked up your arm. She remembers thinking "I could live here." Just us.

No parents. No chores. No him.

And she remembers the kiss. Barely a kiss.

A press of her mouth to yours while your hands were still braced against the plank. Quick and hot. Juice-sticky lips. The taste of dirt.

The way you went so still she thought you’d stop breathing.

She pulled back first. You stared like you’d never seen her before— which made her grin, you always look at her like that.

She remembers saying, “Don’t tell him,” voice sharp with something she didn’t have the word for yet.

You nodded, thumb brushing her lip where you’d left a bit of sugar.

When you went home that night, she lay in her bed with splinters in her palms and that kiss tucked under her tongue like a stolen coin.

"Mine. Only mine."

—☆

She remembers how it started to split.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen— secrets under blankets, sleepovers that turned into whispered I-love-yous she’d never say out loud with the lights on.

Thirteen was the year she learned how to say I choose you and make you believe it.

There’d been a fight— stupid, over who got to ride your brother’s bike down the hill first.

He was older.

Stronger.

He always won.

But when he turned his back, she yanked you behind the garage, laughter biting the inside of her cheeks.

“Let him have it,” you said. Always giving up, always folding yourself small to make room for him.

But she didn’t want him to win. She remembers grabbing your wrists, shoving her forehead to yours until you flinched.

“I’d pick you,” she hissed.

“Always you. Never him.”

You looked at her like you wanted to ask why.

You never did.

You didn’t have to.

She told you in the way she squeezed your wrists, left half-moons where her nails dug in.

She let you go. Ran out to the street. Rode the bike first. Fell. Skinned her knees bloody. But when he asked who pushed her, she pointed at herself. Mine. My choice.

Fourteen was the year she learned to wish for things she’d never say out loud.

That night behind your house, the meteor shower stinging her eyes raw.

Your brother beside her, pointing out constellations she didn’t care about. You beside her other side— notebook balanced on your knees, scribbling as if the sky would answer back.

“If you could wish for anything?” she whispered, breath ghosting your ear so he wouldn’t hear.

You said, "I wish you’d stay."

She didn’t answer because her throat closed up.

She wanted to say, "I wish you’d make me."

Wanted to drag your pen out of your hand and press it to her ribs so you’d write the promise there instead.

She slipped her fingers into yours, hidden in the grass. One squeeze for I hear you. Two squeezes for Me too.

When he laughed about the stars, she laughed too. But she only looked at you.

15 was unknown because she it was tiring to balance her split life then she'd remember you and that stupid pen.

God, will you ever pick her up instead of that pen and notebook you always seem to fill and not her?

Sixteen— the dance competitions started getting bigger. Louder. Brighter.

She remembers standing behind the heavy curtain, sweat damp on her neck, trophy dreams rattling in her bones.

She remembers your face through the glare, always right there. Your grin crooked, your hand lifting in that stupid, shy wave.

She danced for you. Always.

Her mother thought it was for the family. The trophies on the mantle.

Her father thought it was for the legacy— a perfect daughter.

But it was for you. Only you.

When she spun, she spotted your eyes first to keep her from tipping over.

When she bowed, she looked for your soft smile to remind her she was still a girl under all that perfect.

She never told you how many times she scanned the crowd first for you. How she’d whisper to her reflection, "Don’t look away."

—☆

Seventeen was the first time she realized how quickly a heart can break without even cracking open.

Biggest competition of her life. New studio. Bigger stage.

She stood in the wings, stomach twisted up like ribbon. She looked for you— as always. Her eyes skimmed the seats.

But he was there instead. Your brother. Grinning. Waving the way you did.

Holding out a rose she didn’t want because it wasn’t yours.

She danced anyway. She won anyway. But the bow felt wrong. The trophy felt cold. She told herself you were proud. She told herself maybe you’d see her later.

Maybe you’d say "I’m sorry I wasn’t there" and she’d forgive you like she always did.

But you didn’t say sorry.

You lay facedown in your bed when she came over. You didn’t even turn when she curled behind you and pressed her mouth to your spine.

She whispered, "I looked for you."

You said, "Did you find me?"

She lied: "Always."

She lied that day to you.

But then again, she lied to herself too many times to even care about the lie she told you. Maybe she should've.

Maybe then, it would have been easier laid out bare.

—☆

Eighteen was when she realized you’d never stop waiting for her to choose. And she’d never stop asking you to make it easy.

Your brother asked her out for real. Under the tulip tree. Same place she kissed you first.

She saw you— knew you were there, somewhere behind the branches. She almost turned around. Almost ran to you instead.

But she didn’t. Because you were the poem and he was the promise.

You were maybe and he was safe.

When she found you later, porch steps warm under her thighs, your cigarette ember dying between your fingers, she wanted to say, "Tell me not to."

She waited for you to say it. You didn’t.

So she said yes.

And she hated herself every time she touched his hand but felt your ghost on her mouth instead.

Your brother’s coat around her shoulders. Your poems under her pillow.

Her mother watching.

The neighbors murmuring. Perfect match. Perfect kids. Perfect together.

No one ever asked if she wanted perfect.

—☆

She remembers that night behind the church, your hands trembling on her hips, your mouth spitting promises you’d never make her keep.

"Women love women better than men can," you said, half a joke, half a truth that burned her throat when she whispered say it again.

You did. She let you.

Let you write her name in every notebook, every page bleeding into the next.

You were always the proof she didn’t know how to live without. But he— he was the excuse. The easy answer to the question she couldn’t stand to hear.

Why him?

Because you were too much.

Because she wanted simple.

Because the world would clap when she stood next to him.

Because no one would ask why her hair smelled like your shampoo when she lay down next to him at night.

She remembers the day he asked, again, like a plague.

Tulip tree roots under her feet. The fort rotting behind her back. She heard you breathing inside, she knows you were there. Of course you were.

She said okay like it didn’t taste like poison.

She crawled through your window that night anyway. She always did.

She always comes back.

And you let her. You always did.

—☆

Nineteen was your brother’s gift— a necklace small enough to disappear between her collarbones.

A chain so delicate it felt like a leash.

She opened it at the dinner table. Your mother cooed. His mother clapped. Everyone smiling, perfect. Perfect.

You slipped her a poem later. Handwritten. Smudged where your thumb had pressed too hard.

She read it in the backseat of your car. Her legs tangled over yours.

Your mouth on her shoulder where the chain dug in.

"Say it again."

"I love you."

"No — say it like you mean it."

You did. Over and over.

Until the necklace felt like a joke.

Until she couldn’t remember why she wore it except to remind herself you were always the truth she lied about.

—☆

At twenty she found the ring.

Hidden where you thought she’d never look— bottom drawer, behind your old cassettes. Small velvet box, soft with dust.

She turned it over in her palm so carefully she thought she might break the world if she closed her fist too tight. The box cheap but the promise heavy enough to knock her knees out.

She never told you.

She touched it only once.

Snapped it shut like it bit her.

You never knew she knew.

She slipped it back like it never touched her skin at all.

But that night, lying on her childhood bed while your brother’s voice echoed from the hall— she stared at the ceiling and wished.

Wished you would do it.

Wished you would ruin it for good.

Wished you’d smash the perfect picture before she had to step inside it.

You never did. You just stayed the soft landing. The arms. The lie she kept writing with your mouth on hers.

When your brother gave her his ring instead, she wore it like penance. Like a dare to herself— "Don’t look at the drawer. Don’t think about what you didn’t choose."

But she did. Every time she touched your wrist.

Every time she crawled through your window at 3 a.m., your name a prayer on her tongue.

—☆

She remembers the fight. The sink. The chipped mug.

Your brother’s voice warm and dumb with victory.

"Stand up for us," he said.

"Write something beautiful."

Like you hadn’t been writing her your whole damn life.

Like you wouldn’t choke on every word they wanted you to bless them with.

And now twenty-two. The envelope. The cardstock. The gold foil names: Him & Her.

She sat on your porch, knees bare, your old hoodie zipped halfway up. She didn’t knock because she knew you’d open the door anyway. You always did.

“I wish it was you,” she whispered, voice shaking, throat raw from all the things she’d never unlearn.

You didn’t answer. You just handed her your cigarette when your hands shook too hard to hold it.

She kissed you because that was the only thing she was ever good at— loving you in the dark where nobody could see her ruin.

You said," You were always going to choose safe."

She said, "I was always going to choose you too."

And she meant it. God, she did.

But she also knows it’s a lie. She knows it’s true. Both things can be true. That’s the worst part.

Because she’d pick him every time the lights were on.

Every time the neighbors were watching.

Every time her mother polished the trophies, and your mother set another place at the table.

But she’d pick you every night after. Every secret. Every slip of a dress on your floor. Every soft ruin she pressed into your throat.

Dani knows what she’s done. She knows what you are— the soft place, the scribe, the graveyard.

She knows she never deserved you.

She also knows she’ll crawl through your window again.

She always does.

But wishes are not choices.

And she was never brave enough to make one real.

So she stayed soft in your bed. Hard on your tongue. Forever in your notebooks.

Not yours.

Not his.

Not hers either.

Just a ghost.

A crown of splinters behind a tulip tree.

A name you’ll never stop writing.

A truth she’ll never stop hiding.

—☆

Dani hates churches. Always has.

She hates the way her heels echo off marble, the way the saints stare down like they know exactly what she’s about to do— what she’s always done.

She hates the way her dress sticks to her thighs, heavy with dirty rainwater.

She hates that the veil keeps slipping, snagging on her hairpins like it’s fighting to stay with her when she doesn’t even want it.

She hears you before she sees you— that door slamming open, the wet slap of your shoes. She swears her heart stops. It always does when you walk in.

When she turns, it’s like turning back time. You’re there— soaked to the bone, eyes so raw she wants to look away but she never does.

You stand there like you belong here. Like she was always going to wait for you to ruin this too.

You smile. Of course you fucking smile. “Don’t you look like a ghost, Dani.”

She hates how it twists in her gut— how she wants to laugh, wants to slap you, wants you to drag her down the aisle and out the fucking door.

“Get out,” she spits, but it’s too thin. It’s always too thin when it’s you.

“Make me.”

She steps forward, lace trailing behind her like a lie she’s not brave enough to bury. “He’s waiting for me.”

You snort— it’s almost cruel, but you’re shaking. She sees it. You always shake when you’re about to break her.

She knows because that what you always do to her.

“Let him wait. That’s all he’s good for, right?”

Her palm connects with your chest — a soft thud that echoes like a gunshot. “You don’t get to do this now.”

“Now?” Your laugh cracks through the church like thunder. “Now is the only fucking time left, Dani.”

She wants to scream at you— to grab your face and make you see her. “You had years. You had every chance. You never came.”

“And you never fucking asked!” Your voice bounces off marble and stained glass— saints above your heads pretending not to watch.

“You wanted me to stand outside your door like a dog,” you hiss.

“You wanted me to bleed it out, so you never had to fucking choose.”

“I did choose!” she spits back. Her chest heaves— she’s shaking so bad the lace trembles around her ribs.

“Every time you showed up, I chose you.”

“And every time you chose me, you still let him keep you!” You slam your hand against the pulpit— the wood cracks.

“You wanted me to say it first so you could pretend you weren’t fucking mine.”

She shoves you so hard your shoulder hits the marble pillar behind you. She wishes it hurt you. She wishes she could.

“I was yours!” she cries. Her fists pound your chest, useless and desperate.

“I was. And you never did a fucking thing to keep me!”

Your laugh is a ragged thing— you catch her wrists, your grip all bruises and prayers.

“What did you want, huh? You want me to crash the wedding? Burn the dress? Drag you by the fucking veil out the door?”

“Yes!” she screams— the word rips her throat raw. “Yes! I wanted you to fight for me!”

You’re so close she tastes the rain off your lips. “And I wanted you to say it first.”

She stops.

The echo of it "say it first" rattles through the nave, settles under her ribs like an old sin.

Her voice is nothing when it comes out. “Why? Why does it matter?”

“Because every time I said it first you left me standing there like an idiot,” you snap.

“Say it first. Prove you’re not gonna fucking run.”

“I don’t run—”

“Yes, you do.” Your voice is soft, deadly.

“You run every time it’s real. So fucking say it.”

She thinks of every door you knocked on. Every ‘please’ you whispered against her hair. Every ‘stay’ you never said out loud because she wouldn’t let you.

And maybe for once. Just once— she wants to give it to you. Give you the gun so you’ll pull the trigger on both of you.

Her chest heaves. Her tears taste like rain and dust and her own coffin.

“I love you.”

You flinch like it hits you— like it cuts where you wanted it to.

She pushes it deeper. Her voice breaks like glass under your shoes.

“I love you. You stupid, stubborn — I love you and I waited for you to take me. I wanted you to take me.”

Your hand fists in her hair. Her veil hits the floor. Your forehead presses to hers, your breath all heat and salt and ruin.

“Say it again.”

She chokes on a laugh— half a sob, half a vow. “I fucking love you.”

Your mouth crashes into hers, bruising, hungry, yours yours yours.

She says it again into your lips, into your teeth, into your hands tearing the pins from her hair.

And when you break the kiss, when your voice scrapes raw against her throat— “Run with me.”

She almost laughs— the happiest thing she’s ever tasted. “Take me.”

You grin like you’ve waited your whole life to hear that.

And this time when you drag her through the side door, she doesn’t look back.

—☆

Back in the bookstore, the kid is gone. The page is signed. The line moves.

You blink. Your pen scratches paper again, but the words blur at the edges.

She stands behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her laugh before you hear it— that low, secret sound she’s always saved just for you.

She leans in, one hand braced on the table beside your arm. Her hair brushes your cheek, soft as a memory. Her mouth finds your ear, her breath warm where it ghosts over your skin.

“I told you I wanted a happy ending,” she whispers, like a confession she’s tucked inside a hundred other broken promises.

You don’t look at her— you can’t. Not with the way your chest is splintering open like old wood.

Not with the way your hands remember every lie you both told to make this ending possible.

But she feels you smile, that same tired, crooked smile she’s always said she’d choose, in every version of you she was brave enough to keep.

“Guess we made one anyway,” you say, the words trembling on your tongue, your voice softer than you mean it to be.

She laughs again, quieter now. A sound only you hear beneath the rustle of paper bags and shuffling feet.

Her fingers find the back of your neck, slipping under your collar, warm, familiar, daring.

“You know it’s always you, right?” she murmurs.

“Even when it isn’t. Even when I say it isn’t.”

You close your eyes. Let the truth settle in the hollow of your throat where her lies used to live.

You lean back into her touch because you always do— the soft gravity you could never fight.

Behind you, her lips brush the edge of your jaw. The place she kissed first, the place she never really left.

“Write me another one,” she says, her voice breaking like dawn through curtains. “A better ending. One where we get it right.”

You set your pen down. You turn, just enough to see her eyes. Bright. Bruised with all the lives you could have had.

“Okay,” you whisper. “One more.”

And when she kisses you there, in the middle of the signing table, in front of strangers and stories and all the promises you couldn’t keep, it tastes like forgiveness.

Like an epilogue you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to write down right.

And when you hand the next fan their copy, there’s a gold band on your finger that matches hers— a secret written in plain sight.

#daniela avanzini #jeong yoonchae #katseye x reader #lara raj #manon bannerman #megan skiendiel #sophia laforteza #daniela avanzini x reader #thecchi writes

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