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svtiddiess · 2 days ago

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Now Baby

Synopsis: What better way to make use of the adrenaline rush from the stage than a post-concert fuck?

Pairing: Seungcheol x stylist!afab!reader

Genre: smut, established relationship, series

Rating: mature

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: penetrative sex, unprotected sex (don't do this!), creampie, exhibitionism(?), semi-public sex, orgasm denial, dom!Seungcheol, sub!reader, lemme know if I missed anything!

Note: Surprise! The celebration doesn't stop until I say so! Enjoy the final fic for the celebration, a bonus to the Quiet Baby series!

Thank you Ally @lovetaroandtaemin for beta reading!

Quiet Baby | Kneel Baby | Louder Baby | Now Baby

Click here to join my taglist!

Read on ao3

Reblogs are appreciated ♡

.ᐟMinors/blank/no age indicator blogs will be blocked.ᐟ

You rock back and forth on your heels, waiting backstage as the muffled cheers of the crowd bring a smile to your face. They're all here for Seungcheol—your Seungcheol. Even after months of being together, the thought of calling him yours still makes you giddy.

You both tried to keep your relationship a secret, but in Seventeen, secrets don't exist. The rest of the members figured it out almost instantly. Luckily, management is still in the dark—otherwise, you'd be at risk of losing your job, and that's the last thing you want (not that Seungcheol would ever let that happen).

Your eyes stay glued to the monitor as the group takes their final bow, officially wrapping up what felt like an endless concert—courtesy of their never-ending "Aju Nice" encores.

Your grin widens the moment you spot Seungcheol stepping off stage, heading straight for you. Before you can even greet him, he grabs your hand and pulls you deeper backstage.

"Cheol, where are we—" Your words cut off as he shoves you into an empty green room, locks the door, and crashes his lips against yours in a hungry kiss.

You melt into his embrace, completely consumed by the kiss—messy, heated, and desperate. His hands roam eagerly over your body, gripping and exploring every curve. A soft moan escapes your lips as his hands find your breasts, squeezing them with a hunger that sends a jolt of pleasure through you.

"I need you. Now," he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and urgent, before capturing your mouth in another searing kiss. He guides you to the couch, laying you down with a gentle yet firm insistence.

"Cheol, what if we get caught?" You whimper, your voice trembling as his lips trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck.

"Then we'll just have to finish before the others get here, baby," he smirks, his tone teasing but laced with desire before his lips crash into yours again.

A shiver runs through you as his calloused hands slide beneath your shirt, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. In one swift motion, he pulls your shirt off, leaving you exposed in just your bra. He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, and teases your bra-covered nipple with a slow, deliberate lick. A whine escapes your lips, your body arching instinctively toward his touch.

"Don't tease," you pout, your voice laced with playful frustration, drawing a low chuckle from him.

"Such a spoiled princess," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your skin as he deftly unclasps your bra, letting it fall away and leaving your chest bare.

A shiver ripples down your spine as the cool air kisses your exposed skin. Without hesitation, Seungcheol's mouth finds your nipple, his lips sealing around it as he sucks gently, his hand teasing and toying with the other. Your fingers instinctively tangle in his hair, tugging him closer and urging him to take more. A sharp whimper escapes you when he bites down, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure mixed with pain through your body.

You feel yourself growing wetter by the second, the heat between your thighs intensifying as waves of pleasure surge through you. The sensation of your damp panties clinging to your skin is almost unbearable, and your hips begin to grind against his of their own accord, desperate for more friction. Seungcheol chuckles softly at your needy state, his lips trailing a slow, deliberate path down your body, inching closer to where you need him most.

With deliberate slowness, he peels off your pants, his grin widening as he notices the obvious damp spot on your panties. "Already so wet for me," he hums, his voice thick with desire. He drags a finger over the soaked fabric, making you squirm and whine in frustration.

"Cheol, you said we should hurry," you whine, your voice trembling with need.

"Hush, baby. Or I won't let you cum," he growls, his tone both commanding and teasing. You pout at him, but he only grins in response, clearly enjoying the control he has over you.

He slowly slides your panties down, his breath catching at the sight of your glistening, exposed core. "Fuck," he mutters under his breath before slipping a finger inside you, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

You squirm instinctively as his finger begins to move, the sensation overwhelming. "Stay still," he growls, his other hand pinning you down firmly. His fingers work you with precision, curling and thrusting in a rhythm that leaves you breathless. The wet, slick sounds of his movements mix with your moans, filling the room.

A choked mewl escapes your throat when he curls his fingers just right, hitting that sweet spot that sends sparks shooting through your body. He knows you too well, and he knows exactly how to push you to the edge with practiced ease.

Your moans grow higher and more desperate as you feel yourself teetering on the brink of release. But, just as you're about to tip over, he suddenly withdraws his fingers, leaving you gasping and writhing, your orgasm ripped away before you can reach it. A loud, frustrated wail escapes you, your body trembling with unfulfilled need.

"Did you really think I'd let you cum on my fingers?" He chuckles darkly, his voice dripping with amusement. "No, baby, you're only allowed to come on my cock." With that, he pulls down his pants, freeing his hard length. The tip is flushed and glistening, beads of precum already leaking as he positions himself between your legs.

In one swift, unrelenting motion, he slams into you, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs. Your hands fly to his shoulders, gripping them tightly as if they're your only anchor. He sets a brutal, animalistic pace, each thrust driving you deeper into the haze of pleasure. His fingers dig into your hips with a possessive intensity, sure to leave bruises as a reminder of this moment later.

The air around you is thick with the heady mix of sex, sweat, and the faint trace of his cologne, overwhelming your senses and leaving you lightheaded. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry, your eyes rolling back as you surrender completely to the raw, unrelenting pleasure coursing through you.

"Perfect pussy, made just for me. Isn't that right, baby? You're meant to be fucked by me, only me," he growls between thrusts, his voice rough and possessive. All you can do is moan in response, your mind too hazy to form any coherent words.

"Did I already fuck you dumb, baby?" he teases with a low chuckle. Your only reply is another desperate moan.

Your body feels like it's melting beneath him, every thrust hitting that perfect angle that sends electric jolts of pleasure shooting through you.

Knock knock!

The sound of knocking at the door makes you choke back a gasp, your eyes widening in alarm as you glance at Seungcheol. But, he doesn't stop—if anything, his pace becomes even more relentless, his grip on your hips tightening as he drives into you with a ferocity that leaves you breathless.

Suddenly, the air feels heavier, charged with a dangerous thrill. The thought of being caught only fuels your arousal, and Seungcheol groans when your walls clench around him, as if your body is reacting to the risk.

"Shit, you're so tight," he groans, his voice strained. "Fuck, you're such a slut," he chuckles darkly, his breath hot against your ear. "You want them to come in and see how good I'm fucking you, don't you, baby?"

His words send a shiver through you, and you can't help but moan loudly, your body tightening around him again. Seungcheol groans in response, his pace quickening as if he's determined to make sure whoever's on the other side of the door knows exactly what's happening.

You try to muffle your cries, but Seungcheol won't let you. His hand snakes down to your clit, rubbing it with expert precision, drawing loud, unrestrained wails from you.

"That's it, scream my name, baby. Let them know how good I'm making you feel," he purrs, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

With a few more deep, punishing thrusts, you're pushed over the edge, crying out his name so loudly you're sure it echoes beyond the room. Seungcheol follows soon after, his own moans muffled against your neck as he spills into you, his hips stuttering as he rides out his release.

For a few moments, you both lie there, catching your breath as the intensity of the moment slowly fades. Seungcheol brushes a few strands of hair from your face, his touch surprisingly tender, before leaning in to capture your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. It's a sweet reminder of the love that underlies the passion, and you can't help but smile as you melt into it.

After pulling out, he helps you get dressed, both of you cleaning up as best as you can. Seungcheol gives you one last kiss before unlocking the door.

It swings open to reveal Minghao, his expression a mix of disgust and exasperation as he takes in the scene.

"You guys are absolutely disgusting," he scoffs, shaking his head. "You really couldn't wait until you got home? You just had to taint the room with your…horniness?"

Your face burns with embarrassment, and you instinctively hide behind Seungcheol, who only shrugs, looking far too smug for someone who just got caught.

Minghao sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I swear, it's the same thing after every single concert," he mutters, stepping past you to grab the phone he'd left behind. He shoots you both one last disapproving glare before storming out of the room.

"Cheol, you said we wouldn't get caught," you whine, your cheeks still flushed.

He laughs, pulling you close. "Don't act like you didn't enjoy it, baby," he says with a grin, sealing his words with another kiss.

And you can't help but grin back because, well…he's not wrong. You did enjoy it—a lot.

Taglist: @tinyelfperson @gyuguys @stay-tiny-things @unlikelysublimekryptonite @miyx-amour @iamawkwardandshy @codeinebelle @brownbunnyb @do-you-remember-summer-127 @sclovreina @theidontknowmehn @toplinehyunjin @gyuhao365 @mysticfairies @cherrylovescheol @cookiearmy @4shypotato @lxnnrobin @sashaaahh @xueisaaa17 @aeriyell @eshia16 @dreamingofpcy @archivistworld @kyeomiis @iwannakisspoutycheol @foxiesgf24 @livelaughloveseventeen @aliiikareed @jennwonwoo @brownsugarbaybee

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valeisaslut · 18 hours ago

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⭒࿐COLLIDE - c. two

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credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐖𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐄.

← 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑒 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑒 →

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

⭒ synopsis: One TMZ headline later, and the internet is in a full-blown meltdown. You should’ve known that sneaking out of Ellie Williams’ hotel at sunrise was a disaster waiting to happen. Now the whole world thinks you and Ellie are dating, and there’s only one way out—lean into the chaos. A fake relationship was never part of the plan, but if anyone can pull it of, it’s the two of you… right? 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 6,8k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: unserious and chaotic as HELL lmao, fake dating, mostly dialogue, memes and brainrot stuff, LOTS of cursing, pet names, fluff if you squint, use of y/n, modern au, smoking weed, mention of cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, afab!reader, multiple part series, likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

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TMZ EXCLUSIVE: Y/N’s MYSTERIOUS WALK OF SHAME… STRAIGHT OUT OF ELLIE WILLIAMS’ HOTEL? 👀🔥

Los Angeles, CA – Buckle up, internet, because today’s tea is so hot it might spontaneously combust. Early this morning, global pop sensation y/n was spotted making a very interesting exit from The Four Seasons—an exit that screamed, “I made some choices, and I’ll be dealing with the consequences (happily) later.”

Let’s paint the picture: baggy jeans (very much not hers), an oversized tee (suspiciously familiar), last-night heels, and, most importantly, the kind of walk that suggests she just lived through an... experience.🔥

VIDEO ATTACHED: y/n stepping out of The Four Seasons with the posture of someone who just discovered new life-altering truths about herself.

And now, the cherry on top? The hotel in question just happens to be the same one where rock’s reigning heartbreaker and The Fireflies' frontwoman, Ellie Williams, has been staying during the band's sold-out tour.

Yeah. Let THAT sink in.

THE NIGHT BEFORE: PURE CHAOS

Last night, the musicians were first spotted together at a private club in West Hollywood, and the energy? Dangerous. We’re talking intense eye contact, whispered words, and a proximity that had no business being that close. 👀

Sources inside the club (who, let’s be real, were probably staring way too hard) claim the two were “all over each other the entire night.” And then, like clockwork—both gone. Together.😏

PICTURE ATTACHED: y/n and Ellie at the bar, drinks in hand, leaning in so close they might as well be sharing oxygen.

Fast-forward a few hours, and one of them is leaving a luxury hotel in borrowed clothes, while the other is nowhere to be seen. Hm...

THE INTERNET: INSTANTLY UNHINGED

It’s not every day that the two of the most famous artists on the planet accidentally break the internet with a single walk of shame. It took exactly 0.2 seconds for Twitter—sorry, X—to collectively lose its mind. #YNxEllie shot to the top of the trending list faster than lighting, and the reactions? Pure, unfiltered, internet gold.

Some fans are calling it the rock-pop crossover event of the decade. Others are in full denial, muttering “it’s just a one-time thing” like a prayer (lol, sure). And then there’s the fanfic writers, who are already on their second chapter about this very moment.

Meanwhile, our two leads? Radio. Silence.

No wry Instagram stories. No cryptic tweets. No emergency PR statements. Just Ellie, cool as ever, casually liking a meme about getting your clothes stolen from “the girl you spent all night ruining.” 😭��

SO, WHAT HAPPENS NOW?

We wait. Impatiently.

Is this just an iconic but questionable decision? Will y/n post a cryptic thirst trap in retaliation? Will Ellie respond with an even more cryptic Instagram story? Or are we witnessing the birth of music’s next power couple?

One thing’s for sure—this is a story we’ll be watching very closely.

Stay tuned. 😏🔥

What do YOU think? Drop your theories in the comments below! ⬇️🔥

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@: this isn’t just a hookup. this is the lesbians Super Bowl.

@: tears in my eyes. full body worship. standing ovulation. whatever it’s called.

@: “mysterious walk of shame” NAH SHE CLOCKED IN, DID OVERTIME, AND LEFT WITH A RAISE 💀

@: not her texting the driver like “can’t feel my legs send help” 😭 icon.

@: someone check on the poor girl ellie this wasn’t a leave her paralyzed challenge

@: THE SECOND PIC. YALL. THEY LOOK SO GODDAMN FINE I’M CHEWING DRYWALL AND DRINKING THE DUST 😩

@: i need them to either hard launch or drop a sex tape at this point because my soul is restless

@: this is the most lesbian thing I’ve ever seen and I was THERE for korrasami and caitvi.

@: i just KNOW Ellie’s strap game goes absolutely feral and that walk was all the proof I needed #cravethat #scientificallyproven

@: pop mother got her back blown OUT

@: #elliehititrawandnowshestrending

@: they are either deeply in love or just HORRENDOUS at sneaky links. either way, I win.

@: tmz trynna act like we don’t instantly recognize Ellie’s entire wardrobe on her lmao

@: she defo picked those on purpose and you can't convince me otherwiseeee

@: the way we all clocked those clothes immediately like homegirl has worn that same fit 67 times this year and counting

@: Ellie dresses like a divorced dad at Home Depot but somehow y/n wearing her clothes is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen

@: one-night thing my ass. drop the collab album. drop the wedding invites. drop the baby name.

@: I have no idea what's going on but I support them!

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The studio is cold. Too cold.

You lean against the massive soundboard, eyes heavy with exhaustion as the producer fine-tunes the levels on your latest track. The bass hums through the speakers, deep and rhythmic.

You got home, showered, and walked into the studio like nothing happened. Like you weren’t still replaying everything in your head—the heat of her hands, the weight of her body, the way she— Nope. Not going there.

The only thing keeping you upright is sheer force of will and the coffee clutched in your hands, now lukewarm but still packing enough caffeine to keep your legs from betraying you in front of the expensive equipment.

But something feels off.

Nobody is looking at you.

Nobody is saying anything.

The thing is, your team is never quiet. They talk about everything—schedules, brand deals, what the fuck you’re eating for lunch—but today? Nothing. Just silence.

Not a single offhand comment. No teasing about the all-nighter you clearly pulled. Not even a glance in your direction.

Your producer is laser-focused on the track, nodding along like it holds the meaning of life. Your sound editor keeps his eyes glued to the screen, like looking anywhere else might kill him. And your assistant—sweet, terrible liar that she is—won’t stop sneaking glances at her phone, then at you, then at her phone again, like she’s watching a train wreck in real time and trying to figure out when to break the news that you’re the train.

Slowly, you set your coffee down, reach for your own phone, and unlock it, already feeling the creeping dread claw up your spine.

The second your screen lights up, it’s over. Notifications flood in. X. Instagram. Texts. Group chats blowing up like a damn stock market crash. Millions of mentions. Your name trending in bold, blaring letters.

And then you see it.

TMZ EXCLUSIVE: Y/N'S MYSTERIOUS WALK OF SHAME… STRAIGHT OUT OF ELLIE WILLIAMS’ HOTEL? 👀🔥

You suck in a breath—a sharp, audible gasp that cuts through the eerie silence.

Your assistant makes a tiny, distressed sound. Your producer visibly flinches, finally daring to glance at you. Your sound editor—wise, blessedly silent—just pauses the track.

Your fingers move faster than your brain, scrolling in blind panic. Pictures. Too many fucking pictures.

The first one is a grainy, low-lit shot of you and Ellie at the bar—bodies too close, drinks in hand, faces inches apart. The kind of tension that crackles even through a shitty phone camera. The next? A ruthless side-by-side comparison of Ellie’s Instagram post from last week. Same shirt. Same jeans. The exact ones you walked out wearing.

And then—because the universe is a cruel, twisted place—the final nail in the coffin.

A video.

Of you.

Sneaking out of her hotel.

You hit play, and instantly regret every life choice that led you there. Because why the fuck were you walking like that?!

Not just suspicious. Not just guilty. But the kind of unsteady, post-life-changing-experience walk that has the entire internet foaming at the mouth, legs barely cooperating like you just left the scene of a particularly intense crime.

Your soul exits your body, ascends to the ceiling, and refuses to come back down.

Your phone starts ringing. And you already know who it is. For a brief, fleeting moment, you consider launching the damn thing across the room.

Because of course it’s Rachel.

Your manager and professional-life mastermind. The woman who negotiates your million-dollar deals before breakfast. And, apparently, the bane of your existence right now.

You push through the studio doors without explaining a damn thing, the cool air outside hitting your face like a slap. Your head is pounding, fingers digging into your temples like you can physically massage the embarrassment out of your skull.

Your phone still vibrates in your hand. You don’t even have time to brace yourself before answering. The second you do, her voice explodes through the speaker.

“OH. MY. GOD.”

You flinch, yanking the phone away from your ear like it might physically protect you. It doesn’t. She’s still yelling, still fully spiraling, and honestly? She has every right to. Because you’re trending. Hard.

And not for your music.

“Before you say anything—”

“ARE YOU SEEING THIS? My phone has been BLOWING UP since 6 AM. Do you understand what you’ve done?!”

You sigh, shifting uncomfortably. Here we fucking go.

“Rachel, I’m so fucking sorry, I never meant for that to happen I didn’t know there were paparazzi outside the hotel! I—”

“THIS IS PERFECT.”

“—know I fucked up”

You pause mid-spiral. Blink. ��...Wait, what?”

“You heard me! This is GOLD. This is EVERYTHING. Your fans are losing their minds, the internet is eating this up, and you know what that means?”

“…That I need to delete my existence?”

“That this is going to take both of your careers to the next level.”

Your head is spinning. “Whoa—slow down. The fuck you mean?”

Rachel lets out an exaggerated sigh, like she’s explaining shapes to a toddler. “You need to be interesting. She needs damage control. You both need the press for the upcoming albums. This relationship is everything you need.”

“Relationship?” You nearly choke. “Rachel, we just hooked up. It was a one-time thing, nothing else.”

“Oh... just a one-time thing?”

“Yes!”

“Okay.”

She says it so casually you instantly know she’s about to ruin your life.

“Then fake it.”

“WHAT?”

Your soul leaves your body. Again.

“A fake relationship!” She repeats, like it’s the most normal suggestion in the world.

“Oh my god. No. NO. That’s—that’s fucking stupid!"

“Oh, come on, girl.” Rachel groans. “You would be shocked to know how many celebrity couples are fake. Like, 90% of them, and people still eat that shit up like it’s their job. It’s the most effective PR stunt in the history of PR stunts.”

“I don't care! Even if it’s fake, I don’t wanna be in a relationship with her!”

Rachel, clearly unimpressed “Be so fucking for real right now.”

“Listen” she continues, slipping into full Hollywood mastermind mode. “It’s the perfect rockstar-popstar trope that people are gonna LOVE. Some staged dates, some Instagram stories, show up to a few award shows together, write some songs about her for the album—blah, blah, blah. Then, when you both get what you want, you drop a statement about breaking up on good terms because of ‘busy schedules’ or ‘long distance’ or whatever. Boom. Done. Headlines. History.”

You exhale sharply, dragging a hand down your face, but you can already feel her words getting to you.

“Okay…that does sound kinda iconic...”

You hear her scream.

“BUT” You snap. “I seriously doubt she’s gonna be on board.”

“She has to be. That girl needs to clean up her image immediately. If she wants to keep her career afloat, she needs to say yes." Rachel doesn’t miss a beat. "Honestly, it even benefits her more than it benefits you.”

You press the phone tighter against your ear, your free hand rubbing over your face over and over again as if that’ll somehow erase this chaos unfolding in real-time.

But honestly?

What could go wrong?

So you exhale sharply again.

“Fine, fine. We’ll… debate it.”

“PERFECT! Tell me how it goes!”

There’s a short pause, just long enough for you to think—maybe—this conversation is about to take a serious turn.

And then—

“…So, how was she in bed?”

You nearly drop your phone. “RACHEL.”

“What?! It’s a valid question! I mean, I saw the walk.” A beat. Then, way too smugly “People are even making edits of your limp.”

Okay.

This is officially the worst day of your life.

“We are NOT doing this.”

“Oh, we are ABSOLUTELY doing this.”

You groan, squeezing your eyes shut. There's no escaping this.

“Was it life-changing or life-threatening? Did she break your back or fix your scoliosis?”

You stare up at the sky, silently begging for divine intervention. None comes. So, with the weight of someone who has lost everything, you exhale.

“…she made me see fucking Jesus.”

Silence. A beat.

Rachel screams so loud you nearly throw your phone at the window.

“I FUCKING KNEW IT.”

“HANGING UP NOW.”

“NO WAIT!—DID SHE—”

“BYE.”

You slam the End Call button so fast it’s a miracle your screen doesn’t crack.

Blissful, beautiful silence.

For exactly three seconds.

Buzz.

Rachel: COME BACK WE ARE NOT DONE.

Buzz.

Rachel: do I schedule a chiropractor or a priest? 😭

You turn your phone off. Permanently.

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It was late, the kind of night where the city hummed low in the background, neon signs bleeding color into the streets.

And Ellie Williams was trying to have a normal band practice.

Trying.

But it was pretty fucking hard when Jesse and Dina were staring at her like she’d just announced she was quitting music to become a full-time televangelist.

She adjusted the strap of her guitar, already irritated. “Can you guys, I don’t know, say something instead of fucking looking at me like that?”

“Oh, we’re just waiting...” Jesse said as he leaned against the drum set, taking a slow drag of his cigarette and grinning like the absolute menace he was.

Dina, perched on an amp, smirked. “Yeah. Just giving you a chance to come clean before we bring out the receipts.”

Ellie scoffed, trying to play it cool. “What receipts?”

Dina wiggled her phone in the air, smirk widening. “Seems like you’ve been very busy, rockstar.”

She barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “The fuck are you both talking about!?”

Jesse and Dina exchanged the look. The kind that made Ellie’s patience thin by the second.

Jesse sighed dramatically, putting out his cigarette on the plato like he was about to drop the biggest bombshell of the century. “Alright, since you’re playing dumb—”

He pulled out his phone with the enthusiasm of a man whose sole purpose in life was witnessing Ellie’s downfall.

“Lemme just read the best part real quick—” And clearing his throat like he was about to give a Shakespearean performance:

“‘Global superstar y/n was spotted leaving Ellie Williams’s hotel early this morning after a rumored all-night rendezvous. Fans immediately noticed the pop star's unusually relaxed wardrobe choice—’”

Dina whistled. “‘—baggy jeans and an oversized tee, both belonging to a certain someone who was seen wearing them just last week—’”

Jesse shook his head, flipping his phone around. “Nah, this is crazy. This is some Oscar-worthy shit.”

Ellie groaned the second she saw the TMZ photo—you stepping out of the hotel in her clothes. And then there was her, leaving an hour later, hoodie up like it could shield her from literally everyone, rubbing the back of her neck like some dumbass who just realized they fucked up in a romcom.

She looked guilty as hell.

He zoomed in on her face, laughing. “Yo, you look like you just realized you caught feelings.”

Dina snorted, scrolling through her phone. “Oh, they are EATING this shit up. Listen to this” —dramatic inhale— “‘They are either deeply in love or just horrendous at sneaky links. Either way, I win.’”

Jesse howled. “‘Someone check on the poor girl—Ellie, this wasn’t a ‘leave her paralyzed’ challenge.’”

Ellie groaned. “You guys—”

“OH MY GOD.” Dina gasped. “SOMEONE JUST MADE A SIDE-BY-SIDE.”

Jesse leaned in. “Caption?”

“‘WHAT IN THE SCISSOR OLYMPICS. GOLD MEDAL PERFORMANCE.”

He collapsed against the drum set, howling even harder. “Nah, this is crazy. You really let her walk outta there like that?! You KNEW what you did. You knew EXACTLY what you were doing.”

Ellie covered her face with her hands. “I hate it here.”

Jesse was thriving, nearly bouncing on his feet like a kid on Christmas morning. “Dude. You bagged y/n. Like, THE Y/N. Pop princess herself. That fine-ass woman writes songs so good they make people crash their cars.”

Dina nodded solemnly. “I crashed twice to ‘Stay.’”

Ellie shot her a look. “First of all, you shouldn’t have a license.” Then at Jesse “Second, can you fucking NOT? We just hooked up. That’s it.”

He just snorted. “Yeah? Tell that to the 40 million people who liked the tweets about it.”

Ellie groaned so loud it could’ve been mistaken for a death rattle. “This is so fucking bad.”

Jesse ignored her, grinning like an absolute menace. “Like, do you even understand the cultural impact of what you’ve done? This is like—” He gestured wildly. “—punk rock meets Billboard Hot 100 hookup of the century!”

Dina smirked. “And judging by the way she was walking? You bodied that shit.”

Ellie scowled. “She was wearing heels all night!”

Dina arched a brow. “So were you gonna say that, or are you just making that up now?”

Ellie opened her mouth. Closed it. Dragged a hand down her face.

Jesse cackled. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

She was this close to walking out.

Then, like a gift from hell, her phone started buzzing.

Your name flashed across the screen. Gasps.

Ellie panicked, immediately shoving it in her pocket.

Dina’s jaw dropped. “Did you just—DECLINE Y/N?! Are you fucking STUPID?!”

Jesse shook his head, dead serious. “No, no. Let her cook. Maybe she’s playing hard to get.”

Ellie groaned, yanking her jacket off the chair and making her way to the door. “Practice over. I hope both of you trip over a flight of stairs and eat shit all the way down.”

“Aw, so sweet of you!” Dina beamed. “We’re gonna start picking baby names as soon as you leave.”

Ellie didn’t even look back—just flipped them off on her way out like a parting gift.

The door slammed shut loudly.

A beat of silence.

Then, muffled through the wall—

“AND JESSE STOP SAYING LET HER COOK THE MEME DIED MONTHS AGO.”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP NO IT DIDN’T!”

────────────

Ellie had barely stepped out of the studio, muttering “Fucking kill me” before calling you back. As soon as you answered, she was quick to be the first one to talk.

“Before you say anything—this is not my fault.”

Your voice came through immediately.

“Ellie.”

Tone flat. Dead serious.

She hesitated. “…Yeah?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Ellie stopped dead in her tracks. Like, full-body malfunction.

Her entire fucking life flashed before her eyes. Marriage. A house. A tiny baby wrapped in a flannel onesie. Joel crying at the babyshower. Dina and Jesse as the weirdly invested godparents.

Silence.

Then—

“Oh, fuck off!”

You howled with laughter. “Not even a little panic? All I got was a one-second existential crisis?”

“Dude. Biology exists.”

Though, if she was being honest, you had her for a solid half-second. She could already hear Joel clearing his throat, preparing for his father-of-the-bride speech, could already see Jesse and Dina clicking through a PowerPoint titled "Ellie Williams: Accidentally Domesticated—A case study."

You scoffed “See, this is why you’re no fun.”

“This is why you're deranged.”

“You love it.”

“No. You need therapy.”

“I have therapy. On Thursdays. Shoutout to Linda.”

Ellie pinched the bridge of her nose. “Did you actually need something, or was this just a drive-by psychological attack?”

“Oh, you know. Just the minor issue that the entire fucking internet thinks we’re dating?”

Ellie groaned, unlocking her car with a beep. “Technically, we could just ignore it—”

“Ellie.”

“…Yeah, yeah. What’s the damage?”

“Well” you started, voice syrupy sweet, “Not only do I look like I did the world’s sluttiest walk of shame, but people also figured out those were your clothes. And, fun fact! They say you dress like a divorced dad from Home Depot.”

“Yeah, I saw.”

“No, I don’t think you understand the severity of it.” Your voice got increasingly dramatic. “People have shipping spreadsheets. They have theories. Someone made a Google doc analyzing our astrology compatibility. Ellie, we are trending #1 WORLDWIDE.”

Ellie ran a hand down her face. “This is so fucking stupid.”

“Someone said—direct quote— that this is ‘the lesbian's Super Bowl.' ”

She paused. “That one might be true tho.”

“Oh, cut the bullshit.”

Ellie grinned, leaning back. “Alright, so what’s the move? Damage control?”

A pause.

“Well…” you said, voice a little too careful, “my manager thinks we should… lean into it.”

Ellie’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

Another pause.

Then, your voice, even softer now. “Can we… talk in person?”

Ellie immediately clocked the hesitation. “Why do I feel like I’m 'bout to get scammed?”

“You’re not! I just… I’d rather explain in person.”

She exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “…Fine. Where?”

“My place.”

Ellie frowned. “Why yours?”

“Because there’s paparazzi crammed outside the Four Seasons, dumbass.”

…Fair.

She exhaled. “…Yeah. Alright.”

“Cool. I’ll send you the address.”

A beat. Then—

“…Wait” Ellie muttered. “How the fuck did you get my number?”

Silence.

“…Contacts.”

Ellie’s brows furrowed. “What does that mean? Who—”

“Doesn’t matter.” you cut in, then cleared your throat. “Anyway. Can you, uh… give me my dress back? It was custom.”

“Yeah, about that…”

“…Ellie.”

“It might still be on the floor.”

A sharp inhale. “You little shit.”

Ellie smirked as she pulled out of the parking lot.

“On my way, pop star.”

──────────── Ellie had barely knocked twice before the door swung open.

And there you were.

Standing in the dim light of your penthouse, arms crossed, drowning in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. Your hair was slightly messy, like you’d been curled up somewhere before she got here, and your skin glowed just right under the soft, golden hue of your apartment lights.

“Hey”

She exhaled, stepping inside as you shut the door behind her. She barely had time to take in the space before she realized—this was money.

The penthouse stretched wide, the kind of design meant to make people feel small. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the city skyline, headlights cutting through the night far below. The furniture was sleek, modern—gray couches, glass tables, designer pieces that looked both expensive and comfortable. A grand piano sat near the window, it's lid closed and a guitar leaning against it, used enough to make Ellie smirk.

But it was the small things that caught her eye. A candle burning low on the counter. A glass of wine next to a notebook cracked open on the coffee table, filled with lyrics. Scribbled, messy. Some lines scratched out, others rewritten in the margins.

“Jesus” she muttered, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Could’ve warned me I was walking into a fucking palace.”

“Says the millionaire.”

Her eyes flicked to you—leaning against the counter, arms crossed, mouth twitching like you were amused by her reaction.

She huffed.

“So.”

The silence stretched, just a little too thick. A weight neither of you wanted to touch.

Then, finally, you exhaled.

“My manager thinks we should fake date.”

Ellie snorted “Yeah, no shit.”

“She says it’ll be good for both of us.”

She hummed, sauntering over to the couch before sinking into it like she owned the place. Her legs spread wide, hands rubbing over her jeans, shoulders sinking into the cushions. She looked up at you, unreadable.

“And? You wanna do it?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know.” Your fingers tapped against the counter, your teeth dragged over your bottom lip. You looked… conflicted. “It’s just—ugh. The thought of staging something like this is so gross.”

You exhaled, tilting your head back. “Pretending to be into you in public? It just feels—”

A beat.

Ellie raised an eyebrow.

You hesitated.

And there it was. The shift.

“Pretending?” she repeated slowly.

You scowled. “You know what I mean.”

Ellie tilted her head, gaze flicking downward—brief, barely there—before dragging right back up like she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Do I?”

Your skin flushed, irritation prickling down your spine. She was too comfortable—slouched on your couch like it was hers, fingers drumming against her knee, wearing that look. That lazy, lopsided smirk that made your stomach clench and your heart do backflips.

You muttered. "Cut the bullshit."

Ellie watched you, green eyes sharp, the corner of her mouth curling like she already knew what you were thinking—like she could see straight through you. And maybe she could.

That was the problem.

Because this wasn’t just some business deal, some harmless PR stunt.

This was Ellie fucking Williams.

A menace. A woman who flirted like it was her second nature. Who carried herself with the kind of reckless confidence that made people love her and hate her in the same breath. She was sharp, fast-mouthed, and annoyingly charming when she wanted to be. She kissed like she had something to prove and fucked like she knew she was amazing at it.

She was the kind that didn’t just leave bruises—that left marks.

And now, you are supposed to pretend to be hers. In public. In pictures. In interviews. She’d make it look effortless, like every lingering touch and stolen glance meant everything.

Meanwhile, you’d have to grit your teeth and pretend she wasn’t already under your skin—pretend you don’t know exactly how this will end.

Ellie’s voice pulled you back.

“We can set rules.”

You blinked, exhaling sharply. “Rules?”

She nodded, resting her elbows on her knees. “Yeah. Lines we don’t cross. Shit we don’t do. Make it easier.”

You considered that. It did make sense. Setting boundaries meant this wouldn’t spiral into a complete disaster—just a controlled one.

“…Fine.”

Ellie grinned, tilting her head. “Great. Rule number one—no catching feelings.”

You scoffed, pushing off the counter and taking a sip of your wine. “Oh, trust me, Williams, that was never a problem.”

What a goddamn lie.

Ellie chuckled, dragging a hand over her jaw before settling back into the couch. She watched you a second too long, eyes flicking over you like she was deciding whether to call you on your bullshit. That fucking grin still lingered—lazy, amused.

She was enjoying this.

You exhaled slowly, setting your wine glass down with a quiet clink. “I got my own rules.”

“Let’s hear ‘em.”

You leveled her with a look. “No strings attached.”

Ellie blinked, then snorted. “Starting off strong.”

“I’m serious,” you said, arms crossing. “No getting weird about anything. We do what we have to do in public, but behind closed doors, it’s our business. No jealousy, no possessiveness.”

Ellie tilted her head, her smirk growing. “So basically, we can do whatever we want?”

You hesitated.

A fraction of a second too long.

Then nodded. “Yeah.”

There was a shift in the air. Subtle, almost imperceptible, but there. Ellie’s eyes dragged over you—slow, measured, her expression unreadable.

“…Can we still fuck, though?”

Your face didn’t waver, but your stomach clenched, a tiny, unwelcome knot forming deep in your gut.

“Yeah. But it doesn’t mean anything.”

The words landed firm, like a line drawn in the sand, but even as you said them, they felt a little off. Like something rehearsed, something you were trying a little too hard to believe.

Ellie let out a low chuckle, shaking her head. “Jesus, babe. You’re ruthless.”

“You got a problem with that?”

“Not even a little.” She stretched out, arms draping over the back of the couch, looking maddeningly at ease. “Just didn’t expect you to be the one setting that rule.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, because deep down, you weren’t sure what would piss you off more—her calling you out on your bullshit, or the fact that she might actually be right.

Ellie hummed. “Fine. No strings attached. What else?”

You rubbed your temple, thinking. “Public stuff needs to be controlled. If we’re going to be seen together, it needs to be intentional.”

Ellie nodded. “So, no sneaky paparazzi pics of us at, like, McDonald’s?”

“Exactly.”

“There goes my dream of getting papped in the drive-thru with you.”

You ignored that. “Next—if one of us wants out, we end it. No bullshit.”

Ellie’s smirk softened slightly. “Fair enough.”

The mood had shifted—just a fraction. You weren’t sure if that was a good thing or a warning sign, but at least your shoulders didn’t feel as tight anymore.

You reached for your wine again. “We also need a reason.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow.

“For why we’re suddenly together,” you clarified.

She considered it for a moment, then shrugged. “Easy. We met through mutual friends, started talking, made it official recently.”

You nodded. “Good. Vague, but believable.”

Then Ellie grinned. “So when’s our anniversary?”

“I’m breaking up with you already.”

Ellie threw her head back, laughing. “Damn. Cold as hell.”

You just smirked, watching the wine swirl in your glass, but the humor faded when Ellie leaned forward slightly, her gaze a little sharper now.

“So, just to recap,” she said, voice steady. “No feelings. No jealousy. We can fuck, but it doesn't mean anything. And if one of us wants out, we’re out.”

“…Yeah.” You swallowed, the weight of it settling between you both. “...Are you actually okay with this?”

Ellie leaned back into the couch, dragging a hand over her jaw.

Was she?

She’d done PR stunts before—appearances, interviews, the occasional fake chemistry for cameras. But a fake relationship? That was a different level of commitment. A different level of risk.

At the same time… she wasn’t exactly in a position to say no. She needed something to get the media off her ass. Headlines about bar fights, reckless behavior, and being a bad influence were piling up like a rap sheet. A carefully controlled narrative—a shiny, clean distraction—might be the only thing that kept her from burning out entirely.

But then…

She looked at you.

Drop-dead gorgeous. Smart as hell. Sharp tongue. A little mean in a way that made people want to prove themselves.

And yeah, sure—this was fake. But Ellie wasn’t fucking stupid. Fake or not, this was the kind of shit that got under her skin, settled in deep and refused to leave.

She’d made plenty of bad decisions before, walked into things knowing exactly how they would end, knowing they’d chew her up and spit her out. That was the thing about trouble. It never felt like trouble in the moment. It started as a game, as a deal, as something simple—until one day, it wasn’t. Until it had its teeth in her, until she was in too deep to pretend she didn’t care.

And this?

This had all the makings of that kind of mistake.

But she still exhaled, still ran a hand through her hair, still met your eyes without hesitation.

“Yeah” She sighed “I’m in.”

“Alright,” you murmured, swirling the wine in your glass before taking a slow sip. Then, with a smirk just shy of reckless—

“This is officially the worst decision of our lives.”

Ellie leaned back like she had all the time in the world, legs spreading wider, her grin all sharp edges. “What you mean? This is already the most stable relationship I’ve ever had.”

You scoffed, reaching for your wine again. “That’s not exactly comforting.”

Ellie shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, babe. The bar is in hell.”

You closed your eyes for a second, exhaled, then took another long drink. “God help me.”

After a few minutes, Ellie reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out a pre-rolled blunt, twirling it lazily between her fingers. She glanced up at you, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips.

“You smoke?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Ellie shrugged, biting the tip of the blunt. “What? It’s part of the rockstar lifestyle.”

You scoffed. “And I’m the popstar, so technically, I should be saying no.”

Ellie pulled out a lighter, flicking it open with a metallic click. “Live a little.”

You exhaled. “Fine. But if TMZ catches me high, I’m blaming you.”

Ellie grinned, bringing the lighter to the tip of the blunt, the paper curling as it burned. She took a slow, practiced drag, holding it deep in her lungs before exhaling smoothly, the smoke swirling toward the ceiling. Then she passed it to you.

You hesitated for a half-second before bringing it to your lips, inhaling. The burn was familiar, settling in your chest before you exhaled, watching the smoke dissipate into the dimly lit room.

Already, the tension from earlier—the ridiculous fake-dating rules, the push and pull of whatever this was—started to fade into something looser, easier.

Ellie watched you, her smirk deepening. “Damn. You’re not new to this.”

You took another hit before passing it back, lips quirking. “Told you. I just have a better PR team than you.”

Ellie chuckled, shaking her head as she took another drag.

Somehow, the conversation had spiraled.

You were both slumped against the couch, trading the last remnants of the blunt back and forth, locked in a heated debate over whether or not you’d survive a zombie apocalypse.

Ellie scoffed, waving a lazy hand. “C’mon, you wouldn’t last a week.”

“Excuse me?” You sat up, pointing at her. “I would absolutely outlive you.”

“You literally have, like, five personal assistants. You don’t even carry your own bags.”

“So? That doesn’t mean I can’t fight!”

Ellie raised an eyebrow, amused. “Alright. How would you kill a zombie?”

You blinked. “...Guns?”

Ellie groaned, shaking her head like you had just personally offended her.

“What?!”

“You’d run out of ammo in, like, a week.”

You crossed your arms. “Okay, smartass. What’s your genius survival plan?”

“Baseball bat. Blunt force trauma. Reusable, no reload time.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That’s so gross.”

Ellie shrugged. “Yeah? So is dying.”

You huffed, sinking back into the couch. “I’m sure that if I were in a zombie apocalypse, I’d be the immune one.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, flicking the blunt towards the ashtray. “Oh, shut up. I'd be the immune one. And the main character.”

You huffed, dramatically flopping back against the couch, exhaling a long, exaggerated sigh. Ellie grinned, stretching her arms behind her head.

“All that contract negotiation made me hungry.”

You snorted, swirling the last sip of wine in your glass. “You literally agreed to everything in under five minutes.”

“Exactly,” Ellie sighed. “Exhausting.”

She pulled out her phone, scrolling. “What’s the most unserious meal we could possibly order right now?”

You barely had to think. “Taco Bell.”

Ellie’s face lit up. “God, I fucking love you.”

You shot her a dry look.

“Platonically. Obviously.”

You rolled your eyes, watching as she tapped aggressively on the app. “What do you want?”

“Crunchwrap Supreme, two Doritos Locos Tacos, and a Baja Blast.”

Ellie blinked. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

“I take my Taco Bell order very seriously.”

Ellie hummed approvingly. “Respect.” She added your order to the already absurd amount of food in her cart and checked out.

By the time the Taco Bell arrived, you were both fully slumped into the couch, heavy-limbed and loose from the high. Ellie tossed the bag onto the coffee table with zero grace, nearly knocking over your very expensive candle.

“Jesus, be careful” you muttered, steadying it.

Ellie unwrapped her burrito with a crinkle of foil, smirking. “What, scared I’ll ruin your rich-person aesthetic?”

You leaned back, exhaling. “Yeah, actually. I have a brand to uphold.”

Ellie huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she took a bite. The two of you ate in a comfortable lull, the only sounds coming from the low hum of music playing from your speaker and the occasional rustle of food wrappers.

In that moment, you felt something you hadn’t felt with anyone in a long time—at ease. Because being with her was effortless.

No need to pose, fake a smile, or worry if your hair was in place. You could just exist. And there was something dangerously comfortable about that, something weirdly domestic. Like slipping into a rhythm you hadn’t even realized you’d been craving.

Ellie spoke suddenly, pulling you back, like the thought had just slipped out before she could decide if it was worth saying.

“So, why’d you start doing music?”

The question landed between you like a weight, unexpected and heavy.

You paused, mid-bite, blinking at her. She wasn’t even looking at you—just lazily pulling apart her quesadilla, like she hadn’t just cracked open something raw and unplanned.

You swallowed, shifting slightly. “I don’t know.”

A beat.

“It’s the only thing I was ever really good at.”

That got her attention. Her fingers stilled against the tortilla, her eyes flicking up—steady, unreadable.

With a quiet sigh, you set your food down. “I mean, growing up, I sucked at everything else. School, sports, whatever—I just never stuck with anything. But music?” You tilted your head, feeling the thought click into place. “That made sense. I liked how it made people feel. You write something, and suddenly, some stranger out there feels understood in a way they didn’t before. Like, for three minutes, they’re not alone.”

Ellie’s chewing slowed, her gaze lingering. “Yeah.” Her voice had dropped, more thoughtful. “That’s kinda the whole point, huh?”

You hummed, watching her. “…What about you?”

She hesitated, then leaned back into the couch, stretching like she was trying to shake something off. “Not that different, honestly.” One arm draped over the backrest, fingers tapping idly against the cushion. “Joel was always into music. Taught me how to play guitar when I was a kid, and it just kinda stuck ever since.”

Your head tilted slightly. “Joel Miller? That’s your dad, right?”

A nod. “Yeah. He’s—” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “—intense. But in a good way, mostly. He gives a shit. Probably more than I deserve.”

Your brows knitted together. “That’s a weird thing to say.”

Ellie let out a quiet chuckle, but it was dry, almost automatic. “Nah. Just being honest.”

Something about the way she said it made your chest feel tight.

You thought about pushing, about pressing your thumb against that tiny crack she’d let slip, but something told you she’d just deflect, maybe make some stupid joke to steer the conversation away.

So, instead, you sighed dramatically, letting the moment pass. “I think I’m too high for all this deep shit.”

Ellie huffed out a laugh. “Same.”

You grinned, swirling your drink. “Okay, new topic—what’s your favorite song?”

Ellie tilted her head, thinking. “Dunno. How’s that one song of yours go? That’s that me espresso?”

The room went still.

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

A deep, soul-crushing betrayal settled in your chest, a wound so profound it might never heal. Your breath caught, fingers gripping your shirt like she had physically stabbed you.

Ellie, still chewing, barely spared you a glance. “What?”

Your hands trembled. “That’s Espresso.”

Your voice dropped an octave. Near-feral.

“BY. SABRINA. CARPENTER.”

Ellie paused mid-bite, brow furrowing. “Wait… that’s not your song?”

Your jaw dropped. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

Ellie shrugged, unbothered. “I mean, y’all sound kinda similar.”

You shot up so fast from the couch it screeched against the floor. “I HOPE YOUR AMP SHORT-CIRCUITS MID-SOLO.”

Ellie’s laughter rang through the room, loud and unbothered. “Jesus. Touch some grass.”

────────────

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the weight of an arm draped over your waist.

The second was the godawful dryness in your mouth, the kind that only came from bad decisions the night before and even worse hydration choices.

Squinting against the morning light, you shifted slightly, trying to piece together where the hell you were. Your head ached, limbs heavy, the air still thick with the scent of weed.

And then, as you turned your head—

Ellie.

Dead asleep beside you.

Face buried in the couch, hair a disaster, breathing slow and steady. One arm thrown over your waist like it belonged there, her entire body half-pressed against yours, radiating warmth. Her tank top had ridden up slightly, exposing just enough of the tattoos trailing down her back to make your already-dysfunctional brain short-circuit.

It should be illegal to look that good while sleeping.

You swallowed hard, painfully aware of the way her fingers twitched slightly against your stomach. Desperate for a distraction, you forced your gaze to the rest of the room.

The coffee table was an absolute crime scene—wrappers, crumpled napkins, open sauce packets, empty Baja Blast cups, and one lonely, half-eaten quesadilla clinging to life.

You groaned softly, rubbing your face, before muscle memory had you reaching for your phone.

And that’s when the real nightmare started.

Rachel (25 Missed Calls, 17 Texts).

Your stomach immediately twisted into knots.

Dreading whatever mess you’d apparently caused, you clicked the messages.

Rachel: WAKE UP Rachel: WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP Rachel: CHECK TWITTER RIGHT NOW.

A cold dread crawled up your spine.

With the kind of slow, creeping horror usually reserved for slasher films, you opened Twitter.

And there it was.

Trending.

#y/nandEllie

#HARDLAUNCHOFTHECENTURY

Your entire body locked up.

“What the fuck?” you croaked, voice barely functioning.

Next to you, Ellie shifted, groaning as her arm tightened around your waist, pulling you in just a fraction before she mumbled into the cushion, voice thick with sleep, “Why’re you talking?”

You didn’t even process the fact that she was literally holding you because you were too busy trying not to pass out.

Instagram. You need to check instagram.

And then you saw it.

Your most recent story.

A photo of Ellie.

Sitting on the couch, head tilted down, scrolling on her phone. Messy hair, tattoos on full display, one leg tucked up like she owned the place. In front of her? The entire ungodly Taco Bell order. Wrappers, bags, napkins—absolute devastation.

And the caption, in bold, unhinged letters:

she eats like a mf frat boy but somehow still looks hot. life is unfair.

One hundred million people have already seen it.

“FUCK!”

Ellie shifted again, her fingers skimming your stomach as she let out a sleepy groan. “Dude” she mumbled. “What now?”

You turned to her, shoving the phone directly in her face, voice pure horror.

“You let me post this?!”

She blinked at the screen. Then blinked again. And then, as if the universe hadn’t already humiliated you enough, she started grinning.

It was slow at first, creeping across her face, her shoulders starting to shake—before she full-on lost it. Ellie fucking cackled. Like, sleep-rough, chest-shaking, burying-her-face-in-the-couch dying.

You smacked her arm. “THIS IS FUCKING SERIOUS!”

She barely lifted her head, still grinning like an absolute menace.

“We smoked another blunt, got drunk, and thought it would be funny.” She stretched lazily and patted your thigh, voice rough with amusement. “So, I guess we’re official now.”

You smacked her again.

────────────

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࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ I HAD SO MUCH FUN W THIS ONE LMAOOO. I went so full out with brainrot memes i realized how much i need to touch some grass. I did like 30 proofreads, but there might still be a few grammar mistakes here and there—sorry in advance, english isn't my first language and I will be happy to receive constructive criticism!.

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

see ya'll soon, stay tuned ;)

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yoomiwrites · 2 days ago

Text

Missing Ghost⁵

Summary: After losing her memory in a storm, a young Marine remembers only the name “Mihawk” and sets out to find him, convinced he holds the key to her past. As she sharpens her skills and follows his trail across countless ports, Mihawk is always just out of reach. Finally, she arrives at a port where his ship waits, knowing her answers are close.

Note: The fuck- I had this chapter and the Salty Rush chapter planned and thought Tumblr would post em? I guess I did something wrong. I'm sorry, but also hella confused??? Anyways, here is chapter 5! As you see, I've switched from "I" to "you". Hope you don't mind.

The sea stretched endlessly before you, Mihawk’s ship a dark silhouette against the shimmering blue. The waves rocked your own vessel in a steady rhythm, lulling you into a trance-like state as you trailed your fingers through the water. It was cool, refreshing—a stark contrast to the oppressive heat pressing down from above. Sweat clung to your skin, dampening the fabric of your clothes. Even the occasional gust of wind did little to relieve the stifling warmth. You exhaled slowly, watching as the water curled around your fingers before slipping away, lost to the vast ocean.

Your mind refused to settle.

The Navy.

If you had truly been a Marine, if you had worn their uniform and carried their orders, then where had they been? Why had they never found you? The town where you had lived for the past year wasn’t hidden. The Navy had docked there from time to time, their ships coming and going like they did in any other coastal settlement. If you were one of them—if you had once stood among their ranks—surely, someone would have recognized you. Someone would have come looking.

But they hadn’t.

Not once.

The thought sent an uneasy chill down your spine, cutting through the heat like a blade.

Something wasn’t right.

It would have been easy to believe you were simply forgotten. Just another nameless soldier lost at sea, written off as dead without a second thought. But something about that didn’t sit well with you. The Navy wasn’t known for abandoning their own—not unless there was a reason. And if there was a reason…

You pulled your hand from the water, watching the droplets roll off your fingertips.

Who could be trusted?

The Navy? The organization that had supposedly trained you, fought alongside you, but had done nothing when you vanished? The same group Mihawk seemed to regard with nothing more than indifference?

Or Mihawk himself?

The man who had given you the first solid truth about yourself, yet refused to tell you more? Who had looked you in the eye and confirmed you were once a Marine, but had left you to piece the rest together on your own?

You clenched your jaw. Neither option was comforting.

A gust of wind caught your sail, pushing your ship forward. Mihawk’s vessel remained steady ahead. You stared at it, at the man who had yet to acknowledge you beyond the occasional glance.

If he wanted you to prove yourself, you would.

But the nagging thought remained. Something bigger was hiding behind all of this. And you weren’t sure if you were ready to find out what it was. The thought settled uneasily in your gut. This wasn’t just a case of being forgotten. It was deliberate.

You straightened, wiping sweat from your forehead. The Navy wasn’t just ignoring you—they were avoiding you. And Mihawk, with all his cryptic silence, knew something. He had to.

Your eyes drifted to his ship ahead. He was still within sight, not far, moving at an unhurried pace as if he had all the time in the world. He always did that, didn’t he? Always stayed just close enough for you to follow but never enough to let you catch up.

Well, you were tired of chasing shadows.

With a quick adjustment to your sails, you forced your ship to pick up speed, cutting the distance between you. Mihawk didn’t react immediately, but you knew he’d noticed. He always noticed.

By the time you were nearly alongside him, he finally turned his head, golden eyes flicking to you with a quiet, unreadable expression.

You met his gaze. “You knew I would follow you. You know that I won't give up.”

A beat of silence. Then, ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smirk.

“No,” he said simply. “I expected as much.”

You exhaled sharply, frustration curling in your chest. “Then why keep running?”

Mihawk didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted, adjusting the hilt of Yoru on his back before steering his ship slightly to the side, as if giving you space to follow but keeping his own pace.

Typical.

You gritted your teeth. “You know what happened to me.” It wasn’t a question.

His expression remained unreadable. “What makes you say that?”

You gave him a flat look. “You said my name before I even knew it myself. You called me a Marine.” You narrowed your eyes. “You didn’t just know of me. You knew me.”

Silence stretched between you.

Mihawk watched you for a long moment before finally closing his eyes, exhaling through his nose. His fingers tapped idly against the wood of his ship, a subtle gesture of thought.

Then, quietly, he said, “You assume too much.”

That did it.

Anger sparked in your chest. “Then correct me,” you snapped. “Tell me what I don’t know.”

Another pause.

Mihawk opened his eyes, gaze steady, piercing, almost… testing.

For a moment, you thought he might actually say something useful.

But instead, he turned his attention forward again and simply said, “Keep up.”

Then, without another word, he sailed ahead, leaving you fuming in his wake.

The heat finally began to wane as the sun dipped toward the horizon, streaking the sky with deep oranges and purples. The air cooled, but the relief was mild at best. The damage had already been done.

Your head felt light, a dull throb pulsing behind your eyes. It was a warning, one you ignored. You had been too focused. Too determined. You hadn’t drunk enough water, hadn’t rested, hadn’t thought of anything beyond keeping up with Mihawk.

And now, as the ocean breeze brushed against your sweat-damp skin, you could feel the exhaustion sinking in, creeping into your bones like an unseen weight.

Still, you pushed forward. Mihawk’s ship remained ahead of you, a dark silhouette against the fading light. He never looked back, never hesitated, as if he knew you would keep following no matter what. And you did.

You adjusted the sails, forcing your ship to catch the wind in just the right way. The sea was calm now, carrying you forward with ease, but your vision blurred for a split second. The horizon wavered.

You blinked hard, shaking your head. No. Not now.

Gripping the wheel tighter, you locked your gaze on the ship ahead, watching, waiting—

Until you realized.

Mihawk’s ship was getting smaller.

You swallowed against the dryness in your throat. He wasn’t slowing.

No—he was pulling ahead.

Your stomach twisted. He wasn’t even moving that fast, but your arms felt sluggish, your legs heavier than before. Even the simple act of turning the wheel made your muscles ache, a sluggishness in your limbs that you hadn’t noticed creeping in.

No.

You tried to adjust the sails again, forcing your body to cooperate. But the world around you blurred for another second, your balance swaying as your head pulsed. The sounds of the waves became distant, muffled.

Mihawk’s ship drifted further and further.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to stand straighter, forcing yourself to move. But every motion felt slower than it should have been, your breath shallow and uneven.

And then—

The last sliver of his ship disappeared into the horizon.

Gone.

A choked sound caught in your throat, but before you could react, before you could do anything—

Your knees buckled.

You barely registered the way you slid down against the wood, your fingers weakly grasping at nothing. The sky above blurred into hazy streaks of color, the sound of the ocean fading into an indistinct hum.

You tried to lift your head.

Tried to move.

But your eyelids were too heavy.

Darkness took you before you even felt yourself hit the deck.

You slowly became aware of soft rustling sounds around you, pulling you from the haze of sleep. The night sky greeted your eyes—clear, crisp, and endless. For a moment, you were disoriented, the gentle rocking of the ship calming your mind, but your body remained tense as you took in your surroundings.

Mihawk stood near the sails, pulling them in with ease. His white shirt clung to his form, the fabric moving with the wind as he worked, his every movement precise and practiced. The dark waves lapped against the side of your ship, but it didn’t seem like he was in a hurry. His actions, familiar as they were, made the ship feel like his, not yours.

Your eyes followed him as he worked, your mind still spinning, the exhaustion clinging to you, making it difficult to concentrate. He looked over at you suddenly, his sharp gaze landing on you.

"You’re awake," he said, his voice as cold as ever, the edge of his tone biting through the night air.

You blinked, unsure of what to make of the situation. Wasn't this your ship? What was he doing here? Why had he come back?

Confusion clawed at your thoughts. “What… What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice hoarse with sleep and uncertainty.

Mihawk’s gaze narrowed as he finished tying off the sail. He didn’t even look at you when he replied, his words deliberate and cold.

“You’re useless on a ship.” His words cut through the night, harsh and dismissive. “Get your act together.”

You sat there, trying to make sense of his words, your confusion only deepening. “Had you... come to check on me?” you asked. The thought was absurd, yet you couldn’t help but wonder why he would return to you now.

For a brief moment, Mihawk stopped, his back still to you. Then he turned, his eyes locking with yours. There was a brief flicker of something—maybe annoyance, maybe something else—before his expression turned stone cold once more.

“No,” he replied flatly. “I didn’t come back for you.” He didn’t elaborate, and his tone made it clear that you wouldn’t get any further explanation. He seemed to relish your discomfort.

You didn’t know what to think.

"Then why are you here now? Why didn’t you just keep going?"

His eyes locked onto yours, and for a second, the silence stretched between you two, thick and heavy. Mihawk gave you a look, his lips curling in something almost resembling a smirk.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he said, voice dripping with a rare, mocking coldness. “I’m here because you can’t even manage a ship on your own.”

You swallowed hard, your heart racing with frustration. “What kind of relationship did we have?” you asked, your voice shaky. You needed answers. Something about this didn’t sit right. There had to be something more, something hidden beneath his cold exterior.

Mihawk’s gaze flickered in annoyance before he shot you a sharp look, as if your question was an insult. His eyes were piercing, like he was trying to read you, but you felt like you were nothing more than a nuisance to him.

“Are you suggesting…?” Mihawk trailed off, his voice low as his gaze flickered over you with a hint of confusion.

You could see the wheels turning in his mind, clearly puzzled by what you were implying, while his own ship was getting tugged along by yours.

You weren’t about to let it go, though. The tension built in you as you swallowed the lump in your throat. “Then why did you come back to me? Why aren’t you just on your ship? Did we have some kind of intimate relationship or something?”

He froze, his eyes narrowing as the question hit him. For a moment, there was a flicker of genuine surprise on his face, like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scoff. “No,” he snapped, but he quickly regained his composure.

His response was quick and harsh, the finality in his voice undeniable. “There was nothing between us, and there won’t ever be.”

You stood there, staring at him, wondering what had gone wrong. Why had he come back at all, if not because of something more? But his demeanor—the way he remained on your ship, treating it like his own, without a shred of hesitation or care—spoke volumes.

He didn’t move from where he stood, even though his ship was still tied to yours, a sharp contrast to the cold indifference he showed you.

"You don't need answers from me," he added, his eyes fixed on something distant now, as if he had already lost interest in this conversation.

Your words hung heavy in the air, but you knew there was no point in pushing further. His icy presence settled in the space between you, thick with the silence he had left in his wake.

But he stayed. Right there, on your ship.

You watched Mihawk as he casually worked, his every movement calculated, as though this small ship were just another extension of himself. There was no hint of urgency in his actions. It was like he was waiting for something—or perhaps just wasting time, though you'd never know it by how collected he looked.

It was becoming unbearable, this silence that hung thick in the air between you. You shifted slightly, then finally broke the stillness. "So, are you planning on getting back to your own ship anytime soon?" you asked, your voice softer than you wanted it to be, but the questions were gnawing at you.

His gaze flickered briefly toward you, but it was fleeting. "I will," he replied simply, eyes returning to the horizon, as if that was the end of the conversation. He paused, adjusting the sail with smooth efficiency before adding, "But not yet."

A frown creased your brow. "Why not?"

Mihawk barely spared you another glance as he continued his work. "I’m not in a hurry to get away," he said flatly, his voice almost indifferent. But something about the way he said it—something about the way he lingered, even now—made the air around you feel heavier.

You didn’t push for more. Not immediately. But the questions were still there, simmering beneath the surface, itching for an answer. It was ridiculous, really. He was Mihawk. Why would he care about you? Yet there he was, still present, still in your space.

He must’ve noticed the direction your thoughts were taking, for his sharp eyes flicked over to you, his expression unreadable. "You should be careful about overestimating your worth, Y/N," he said, his tone as cold as ever.

You blinked, taken aback. "What do you mean?"

He didn’t respond right away, but when he did, there was a slight edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “You’ve been unconscious for a while. I’m not going to let you die on me just when you’re starting to remember your name again.”

His words hung in the air for a moment, the weight of them settling between you like a heavy stone. He didn’t even look at you as he spoke, but you could feel the slight irritation in his words.

You were stunned for a moment. "Die on you?" you echoed. "You... came back to make sure I didn’t die?"

Mihawk finally turned his eyes on you, though his expression remained stone-cold, his gaze piercing. "Yes," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I’m not interested in watching you die after everything. Even you can’t be that stupid."

The harshness of his words made your chest tighten, but you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something—relief, maybe? That he hadn’t just abandoned you to drift aimlessly. Still, the bitterness in his voice struck you. Why would he care? Why did it matter to him?

Without waiting for a response, Mihawk turned back to his ship and gave the sail a final, sharp tug. "I’ll leave when I’m ready," he muttered, and there was a certain finality in his words. "For now, you should focus on not passing out once more."

It wasn’t a comforting reassurance, but it was something. And though you still didn’t understand why he was doing this—why he hadn’t just sailed off when he had the chance—you were beginning to realize that perhaps you weren’t entirely as alone in this vast ocean as you had first thought.

#one piece #one piece x reader #mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk

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