#most if not all of these are archive locked

[jubileedeeznuts-posting]

left longing for the stage

been thinking a lot about tamba recently since [afterlife], her yearning for the drama performance and club at her school but having it curbed by her gymnastics, then her excitement over the princess dresses and playing pretend, and then tamba worried she’ll be forgotten/won’t be remembered for who she IS but rather for her gymnastics achievements, makes me sad that she never got to explore the things she could’ve loved and how haunting that would feel being trapped in a place you’ll probably leave unless it’s in a body bag, especially in a place you’ve been scared since day one you’re an easy target, idk idk idk if im so utterly down the wrong track and shit with her but ive been thinking about her a lot recently regardless man,,,,,,,,,,,,,, tamba get behind me

[khunspikesficrecs]

Title: Same Family, Different Heir

Author: JustAnotherVariant (@justanothervariant)

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Vegas Theerapanyakul/Porsche Kittisawat

Summary:

Porsche lives a simple life; go to work, pay the bills, make sure Chay does his homework, dream of a better future for them both. When a sexy stranger named Vegas bursts into his life, Porsche is wary despite his attraction. But then Vegas begins to slither into his thoughts, his heart, and suddenly nothing is simple any more. Alternate timeline in which Gun is killed while Vegas and Macau are still very young, so kindly Uncle Korn takes them in and raises them as his own. Instead of meeting Kinn in the alleyway that night, Porsche runs into Vegas and sexy hijinks ensue....

[bribun96]

AO3 has been scraped, once again.

As of the time of this post, AO3 has been scraped by yet another shady individual looking to make a quick buck off the backs of hardworking hobby writers. This Reddit post here has all the details and the most current information. In short, if your fic URL ends in a number between 1 and 63,200,000 (inclusive), AND is not archive locked, your fic has been scraped and added to this database.

I have been trying to hold off on archive locking my fics for as long as possible, and I've managed to get by unscathed up to now. Unfortunately, my luck has run out and I am archive locking all of my current and future stories. I'm sorry to my lovelies who read and comment without an account; I love you all. But I have to do what is best for me and my work. Thank you for your understanding.

[girlfromflor]

idk if this makes sense but i couldn't stop thinking about it. omega!reader x pack!141 but simon and reader have a backstory. part 1 | part 2 | part 3

you were rescued by los vaqueros. that was all anyone knew about you. there were no files, no archives, no photos, no information at all that you were indeed a living person. the ones who believed you were real were the ones that had seen you. but that's it. the only proof that you existed came to those who stared into your lifeless eyes and got a glimpse of your seemingly cold, distant demeanor and sharp, almost unnatural reflexes. almost is the key word, because they were in fact the most natural, primal form of your being. your omega.

it has barely been a week since you were rescued and they haven’t let you stop for a second. the higher-ups transferred you from place to place. from the local hospital to the base's medical center, back to back like you were some important patient even though there was nothing wrong with you. they just had no idea what to do with you. you were a deceiver. they had no trust in you to “allow” you to the outside world because that would mean a threat to civilians. and there was no locking you away either because they liked to pretend they weren't just as worse as the ones who kept you locked in some dirty dungeon far away from humanity.

they couldn't figure out what to do. you had a way of controlling your scent with such expertise that wasn't known to trained military soldiers. most of the time you masked your omega scent well. you didn’t smell like nothing at all, a neutral almost non existent aroma lingered around you. it wasn't very different from when someone would use scent blockers and they wondered how did you learn that in the first place. it took them seven long days to get you to let go and allow an omega specialist to get a sniff of your natural scent, no manipulating involved. 

just as you could mask your scent to a non existent one, you could also make it more appealing, more seductive. it was a problem, really. it brought alphas and betas to a dizzy haze where they felt like they had to do what you wanted so you could allow them closer for as long as it was possible. you made them submit in your own, fucked up way. even the elite forces couldn't help but give in to you. you lured people in, just to whisper your way into their hearts and minds to have what you wanted. and all you ever wanted was to survive, no matter what. always.

it wasn’t long before word spread and you were faced with the reality that your future once again was stripped away from your hands and put into the care of others. people you didn’t know and that you didn’t want to be forced to get to know. people you didn’t want to meet in the first place. and you were prepared to stand your ground. you were ready to do whatever it'd take for you to feel like you took back at least a bit of control of your life. the one you've long lost. the one you so deeply yearn to have back. even if it meant war. hell, you'd chase a way to feed your needs even if that meant death.

you waited patiently, sitting down on the hospital-like bed in one of the many rooms in the base's med center, playing with your fingers to pretend you had something to do other than think. you let yourself daydream from time to time, usually you fell in the arms of your very vivid memories from the last place you used to live in – the place you've been kept pretty much your whole life, but not anymore. you weren't given options, you knew you were going to be handed to someone only for this person to decide what was going to happen. the lack of opportunities to give consent and to have control over your own life were both things you never had the privilege to have. you caught yourself overthinking more often than not. it was a cruel habit, of course, but one you rather have over suicidal ones. you used to have those too, you recall. 

you never indulged in self harm of any kind, but suicide was a regular thought of yours before you met simon. your dear, cherished best friend who you kept well hidden somewhere in the back of your mind. the last time you saw him you were helping him escape the grey walls and steel gates where you were trapped for years. the place was supposed to be a orphanage. and it was, for a while. the younger ones were adopted by loving families and, eventually, moved on from the cold, creepy place. the ones who weren't chosen, the neglected and overlooked like yourself, were left behind to grow older and to grow wiser on their own. they were left alone with the slow understanding that if they weren't picked by the time their adulthood came, they would be sold somewhere else. 

you were a teenager by the time you stumbled upon simon. the tall, threatening young alpha who seemed to be older by only a few years, maybe months. alphas and omegas were kept in separate places of the building, so imagine your surprise when you were met with his warm chest, your cheek knocking on the fabric of his hoodie as you walked without looking forward, and rather to your right where anyone could appear at any moment. it was late, probably past midnight and you had the habit of sneaking around the building to find its secret places. simon never questioned where you were really going that night, you never explained yourself either, that would feel much too forced. after a while you didn’t have to either, because simon got to know you all too well, he was glad he accidentally caught you when he did.

after a few days of pining over each other's company, you sat down beside simon during lunch. none of you said a word but it became a routine. before either of you could realize a few months had passed and you saw each other every day, the two of you developed a very deep friendship filled with care and mutual understanding. lunches turned into whole days together, the days turned into months and as you grew fonder of each other you also realized there wasn't much time left. that’s where it all started. it was you who told simon to run away, it was you who said that he could make it, that he’d find a pack, a family, a home. you showed him every single one of the alternative exits around the building, you wrote down by memory the schedule of every security guard that worked on the big gates that kept you inside. you ran with him and you fought with him – you fought for him, because when the plan went down, you gave up on your own attempt of running away to be sure that he would make it out. you did it for him, for the love you found with him – one you only ever saw in books, one you never knew you'd ever be able to experience.

the place was huge, to this day simon doesn’t know how you managed to know it all so well to help him out. he later in life realized why it was so big. the place had a hospital-like facade only to be a lot of other things from inside. it was a reformatory to the kids who were sent there to be lectured, the ones like simon. it was an orphanage to others, but he only realized that when he met you. he still remembers that night, even with all the heavy emotions that came with it. he had been woken up by a nightmare and decided to grab something to eat from the kitchen – which was forbidden, but he really didn't care –, only for his idea to be totally forgotten when a smaller being collided with his chest. after that night his nightmares seemed to be slowly but determinedly replaced by images of you,  after a few days he didn’t have sleepless nights anymore and when he realized both of you had come to terms with the fact that you were in fact friends, he didn't even have nightmares at all. although, by the time he was out of the steel gates, hidden behind a tree, scared and panicking as he watched you being dragged back to the stone cold walls of the place he knew you likely wouldn't escape any sooner, he knew he'd never sleep as calmly as he did when he had you. 

it wasn’t long before he was found. price took him in and took care of him. they had a weird alpha to alpha relationship at the beginning, but it was more than simon could've ever asked for and as he grew used to long conversations and talks about his past experiences, simon finally felt like he belonged somewhere. as he joined the first project of task force 141, simon learned how to care for others. he only ever had you who was a fragile, delicate little omega – in his mind, at least – that he avoided hurting at all cost, which meant he avoided you altogether. you cared for each other but it was you who called the shots, it was you who laid boundaries and limits, it was you who took care of him. not the other way around, like it should be – like he wanted it to be.

as the task force 141 became a solid and stable unit, it also became simon's pack. he loves john with all he has, he’s always ready to follow him to the end of the world if that means they’ll still be together. john taught him how to love kyle – sweet, loving kyle who is too kind for his own good –, in a way that felt natural. kyle deserves all the love in this world and simon slowly learned how to give that without feeling like he was going to mess everything up. it was too bad that simon only realized that he was in love with you after he met johnny. johnny came like a hurricane and brought all simon’s walls down one by one. it was johnny who helped him with the nightmares he had of you, johnny was the only one who knew the whole story – how you sacrificed everything for simon, and how he would never allow himself close to another omega who weren’t you. you were probably dead, most likely gave in to the insane torture they must have put you in and either died from it or went into distress and had to be put down somehow. he couldn’t live with any of it, he never forgave himself for what he did – he left you behind, what type of person does that? it doesn’t matter that you were both young and scared for your lives. it doesn’t matter that you purposely threw yourself on the guard that was almost catching simon, only so he could escape and you would be the one captured and dragged back inside. johnny always tried to get simon to get back to the institution and look for you, but simon always sank so fast in the idea that you were already dead that johnny stopped asking, stopped questioning. both he and kyle did a great job at keeping simon’s mind out of bad thoughts and john was there to catch him if he ever fell. now, after so many years, the only reminder that you were part of his life was the nightmares he had of the day he left you, the ones who haunted him every other week.

caught up on reminiscing about your past life, you don’t acknowledge the opening door and the heavy steps that make their way inside of the room you're currently located in. you also don’t realize someone is talking to you until a hand touches your shoulder. you are shaken back into reality at the movement, your body reacting involuntarily and getting on guard and wary for a second. it was a soft touch that you knew meant no harm, but you were distracted and vulnerable. but then again, when weren’t you vulnerable? you look up from your fingers as you quickly take in the person in front of you, a woman – a beta – she is pretty, with kind eyes and kind intentions. her black skin is as beautiful as the night sky. you can see right through her, she’s scared you will think she has any other intentions when she actually only wants you to have some peace of mind. you can see it in the slight frown of her brows and pressed lips, the edge of an overbearing desire to comfort you well masked, only the soft and comforting beta scent more apparent – if you weren’t so good with scents, you might have missed it.  

“okay…?” she takes her hand away as she asks you, the british accent catching you off guard because most of the people you came in contact with since arriving from the hospital were either mexican or american. you’re not sure what she means.

“i’m sorry, i don’t think i heard a word you said…” you answer matter-of-factly with a chuckle, wanting to ease her nerves if that meant she’d stop projecting her scent to try and calm you down. you didn’t need that.

she chuckled as well, and you could see her shoulders relaxing a bit as her hands found their way to rest inside the front pockets of her cargo pants. “you seemed distracted, so i don’t blame you,” she jokes back, the atmosphere getting easier to deal with as you both settle in a normal conversation, despite the unusual circumstances. “i said that i’m here to make sure you’re okay and see if you’re ready for the meeting.”

oh, yes, the meeting. it was the usual power speech, they made you feel like you had the opportunity to choose if you want this or not. neither you nor the pretty beta in front of you fall for it, of course. because you aren’t ‘ready’, and you don’t get to voice it. she knows that as much as you, but you know she still wants you to be okay. so you sigh, stepping out of your bed and answer, “yeah… yeah, i’m ready.”

the walk was kind of long, but it was the first time you got to walk around the base, so you took your time watching your surroundings. you realize very quickly you’re wearing a uniform, given that the plain shirts and cargo pants were a very common occurrence – the only difference was that yours were a slightly different colour. you were silently thankful for the break from the hospital gowns you had to wear for the past week. you also thanked the discreet clothing they chose, despite you being a civilian, that way you could blend well among the soldiers and, with your scent masking skills, you became so normal you almost disappeared.

it took two busy days for you to fully comprehend everything that had happened. the orphanage where you grew up was in england. you stayed there most of your life until the day – about six weeks ago – that you were transferred to las almas. a place that stayed just on the border of mexico and the united states, which meant you were transported to the other side of the world without your acknowledgement – an information now known to you, because you were told after you were moved to the base’s med center, three days after you were rescued.

“i’m sorry if that’s, uh… crossing a line… but, what is your name?” you ask the beta that is walking by your side. she hadn’t said anything since you left your previous room, so you guessed maybe she had orders to not talk with you. but that was quickly proved wrong when she gave you a quick glance and a smile formed on her lips.

“i’m sorry,” she starts, seeming like she was trying to hold in a laugh. “i was so nervous i forgot to introduce myself…” she says with a shake of her head, and you wonder if she’s a new recruit or something to be acting so sincerely. “i’m natalie, but you can call me nat.”

“shouldn’t i address you with a respectful name?” you ask, genuinely confused at the intimacy she was allowing. she then lets out a giggle.

“i’m just a recruit with superiors who get me to do their work. i guess you could say they trust me a lot.” she answers in a nonchalant, calm voice. giving you another glance as she guides you inside of a building. she gives you a wink and points to a door by the end of the hall and you understand immediately what it means. you try to keep at least some of the good atmosphere that surrounds you and natalie as you approach the door and she knocks at the wooden surface. 

there’s a moment of silence before some chairs are moved and a deep, masculine voice calls from inside for you to come in. natalie steps in first, holding the door open for you to walk right after. the wave of mixed scents knocks you out a bit, but it’s manageable. the meeting room is just what you expected, plain and organized. practical. there are three chairs being occupied around the long table. you recognize two of them. natalie walks towards the third person, who was sitting at the head of the table – a woman but an alpha, nonetheless  –, they exchange brief greetings before natalie moves to stand behind her. you try to take in her scent alone, distinguishing some floral notes under a smoky cloud, like smelling a flower while standing in front of a bonfire. it’s a pleasant mixture, it brings a sense of warmth without the uncomfortably intense scent of domination alphas usually had. her blond hair was well tied, except for her bangs that covered part of her eyebrows. she had more of a relaxed appearance compared to the other two.

the shortest one was sitting at the woman’s right, closer to the door. a beta like natalie but a man, he was the doctor that accompanied you during the week that had passed. he was polite but very reserved, he asked you to call him doc but never indulged in any other activity to help you feel at ease. you didn’t hold that against him, you rather enjoyed the silence and peace that came with it. the other one, sitting on the left side of the woman, who had an imposing figure and hard stare, was the alpha that took you away from the dirty and dimly lit basement you were being kept in. his name was alejandro, by what you remember from that day. he seemed all too eager for this meeting to be over, while the doctor remained as unfazed as he had been while treating you.

the woman offers you a seat beside the doctor, and you realize he’s only there to ease the tension of you being an unclaimed omega sharing a space with two alphas, maybe that’s the reason natalie is still here too. you take your seat, wondering how long you could keep a neutral scent of your own – it was safe but it was tiring, much like having to keep a raised arm or leg up for too long, it’d eventually give out.

“i’m kate laswell, i’m sure you’ve already been introduced to doctor ortega and to colonel alejandro vargas,” she starts, her tone purposeful and assertive, everyone in the room had their eyes on her. “i know you already answered everything you could, so i’m not going to repeat that,” she says more to ground you for what is to come. she goes through a few papers on her hand but you know she’s trying to buy time, you can smell it in the anxiety that sours the edges of her floral notes – and the worst, the empathy that causes it. “we thought of this with much care considering your situation and with unwavering intentions of solving the undeniable problem caused by our lack of success in keeping you safe as a nation and armed forces,” she takes a pause and you know she is not only talking about las almas, she is talking about your whole life. even if she wasn't part of the british military. after a sigh, she finishes. “and we’ve decided that you’ll be moved to live under the care of trained soldiers who volunteered to take care of your needs, keep you safe and offer the comfort you seek not just as an omega or an addition, but a part of the pack. if, of course, you decide to accept their offer. if you don’t, you can simply share their spaces for a while and whatever happens in the future is up to you and them, rather that is you moving on alone and starting a new life or staying with them.”

it is too much, everyone in the room knows that. you blink slowly trying to take it all in, soldiers volunteered to take you in? what kind of people do this? you can’t decide if they’re too good or too evil. your scent wavers in the air as you start to grow tired from having to deal with so many thoughts in a day. you try to appear to have some inner control and voice out your doubts. “i’m sorry ma’am, who are those who volunteered?”

“there are two packs who stepped up in your regard,” she says, eyeing the alpha on her side. “los vaqueros, which you may remember from the day they helped you out…” she says, eyes roaming your face looking for any sight of a reaction. you stayed as expressionless as you could, but your eyes flickered towards alejandro, who was already looking – boring his eyes – at you. after a pause laswell continues her small speech, “the other pack you haven’t met yet. they’re called task force 141, an elite unit just like the one who saved you, but they’re from england.”

your ear immediately perks up at that, what are they doing so far from uk? you tilt your head only slightly, lips parting to start your questions. she nods in understanding, letting you talk. instead of wasting time with non-important matters you ask what has been burning in your mind. “so, if i choose to stay with los vaqueros, we go to mexico… and if i choose task force 141, we go to england…?” you ask, sounding unsure despite the firm tone of your voice. laswell only nods, already knowing what you’ll choose. you grew up in england, after all. you turn to look at the alpha on the other side of the table, eyes full of honesty as you speak, “i’m grateful for what you did, despite knowing that it is your job…” you watch him nod, knowing what will come next. he doesn’t seem mad, he doesn’t smell angry either, so you turn back to the blond woman, her hands are grabbing the papers sprawled in the table and putting them on a pile, but her attention is on you. you eye natalie behind her, she has a small smile adorning her lips. when she notices you looking at her, she gives you a reassuring nod. you take that as a cue to voice your decision. “i’d like to go with task force 141, please.”

the plea comes involuntarily, a habit you were taught since you were very young and never really had the chance to grow out of it. laswell smiles though, happy to know you actually chose something for yourself, other than choosing the alpha who had saved you like you had something to pay back. because you felt like you did, but you also didn’t want to lose the opportunity to go back to england, even though there wasn’t home anymore. no where was, really. 

you didn’t even think about who this pack is. why they volunteered and what it meant. at least you knew alejandro had helped you, but you knew nothing about this new group or what they wanted with you. you don’t get time to panic over it, though, because the second after you finish your statement kate is muttering a ‘very well, then’ and you are being moved out of the meeting room by natalie, who says that now you’ll just have to wait a few hours before you get to meet them and that your flight to london is going to happen in a week from now – and that’s when you realize that maybe you didn’t really have a choice, because they knew from the start that you’d pick england.

a/n: let me know if you liked it! <3

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter One

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, canon-typical violence, threatening language, death of a minor character

Word Count: 4.6k

On a scavenging run, two unknown groups arrive unannounced. Through the gunfire, you’re separated, cornered, captured. A skull-faced Lieutenant makes a decision, changing your life forever.

Chapter Two

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

Eden is a home.

It is a person. A place. A community

It is the scent of old musty books, and the quiet peace before the rising dawn.

You work by candlelight in the silent hours, an open book resting on the table in front of you. Wearing gloves to protect it, you carefully turn the page, gaze scanning the faded lettering. Most of it is legible, and with some time and care, you’ll be able to replicate it on new paper with fresh ink.

Preservation.

Not of your mortal life and those that live in your community, but the preservation of humanity, culture, and human history. Five years since the world fell apart, and yet you remain, carrying on with purpose, restoring books, transcribing those that are close to falling apart, and keeping records of the years that came before.

It is enjoyable, fulfilling work but you serve a greater need to your community. Here, within your sanctuary of several hundred people, you provide them entertainment and education. The children come to you for picture books and story time, and the adults visit when they need an escape.

You are but one piece of a large whole.

“What are you doing here so early?”

You glance up, smiling at your assistant. “Could ask the same,” you laugh, pushing back from the table. Standing, you remove your gloves and set them next to the book.

Sam, your archiving assistant yawns. “Thought I’d get here early since you’re going out today with Zac and his group.” They rub at their eyes. “Shouldn’t you be at the gate already?”

“Shit,” you mutter, checking the mechanical clock hanging on the wall. Sam is right. You should be at the gate right now. “Double shit,” you groan.

Sam laughs and reaches for their own gloves. “I’ll handle this.” Putting them on, Sam settles into your chair. “We doing a refurb on this?”

“No,” you say, running around the room, grabbing your jacket and backpack. “Some of the pages are too faded. Binding is also bust.”

“Transcribe then,” murmurs Sam, gently closing the book to inspect the integrity of the cover. “Where are you going again?”

“Zac mentioned a small town they scoped out. No activity.” You walk over to Sam, yanking your jacket on. “He said there’s a library.”

Sam’s head pops up. “Seriously?”

You nod excitedly. “Said the place was locked up tight. Windows still intact.”

“Untouched?” asks Sam, eyebrows rising in surprise. You nod. Sam whistles lowly. “What a fucking find.”

“I know!” you exclaim. “Could really use some encyclopedias.”

“And dictionaries,” adds Sam longingly.

Tugging on the front of your jacket and then smoothing the front, you zip it up. “Zac said I can bring back as much as I want.”

“Did he really?” Sam shakes their head and opens the front cover of the book. “That man is sweet on you.”

“Which is why I take advantage,” you giggle.

Sam bursts out laughing. “Go. They’ll leave you behind.”

With a grin on your face and a hop to your step, you wave at Sam before heading out the side door and into the early morning. The sun is just starting to rise. Most people are still asleep or starting their day. You walk by the communal buildings where the earliest risers are preparing breakfast. You sigh when you get a whiff of what they’re cooking, wishing you could snag a meal before departing.

As you approach the gate, Zac raises his hand in greeting.

“Have I held everyone up?” you ask tentatively, glancing around.

“Not at all. Still loading up a few things. Your timing is perfect.” Zac smiles, and though you find him pleasant, nothing stirs within you. There is no lust or even romantic interest.

You observe the line of cars queued at the gate. Usually there are only one or two, but there are at least ten vehicles here including the salvaged U-Haul. “Taking a whole convoy?”

“We’re going to need it.”

“For a small town?”

Zac chuckles. “I’m dropping you off at the library. Ben will come with you.”

“I get a security detail?” you ask excitedly and Zac nods. “Fancy.”

Zac scratches at his neck, gaze roaming over the convoy. “There’s a car assembly plant a few miles outside the town. Gonna strip what we can. If things go well, we’ll come back.”

“No activity then?”

“None,” confirms Zac. “We’ve had a scouting team out there for the last two months. Not a soul has passed through.”

“That’s fortunate,” you murmur.

While your community has been largely untouched and unbothered by the outside world, there are still so many unknowns. There have been stragglers that have shown up, and while several have been accepted in and integrated, there are many more that have been turned away or shot on sight. Sometimes you think it cruel, but there are all sorts of horrors in the world now.

Ben walks around the front of the nearest car, and beams in your direction. “Hear I’m looking after you today,” he says, going in for a hug.

You accept it easily. Ben is the comedian of the community, always having a kind word and funny joke.

“And helping me haul books,” you add.

Ben winks in your direction and then turns to Zac. “We’re ready.”

Zac nods. “Load up!” he shouts.

Everyone around you heads to their designated vehicle. Engines roar and car doors slam. You follow Ben, hopping into a dusty Jeep Wrangler.

It’s several hours of open road and clear weather.

You and Ben pass the time by singing songs and playing car games. It’s a good distraction until Zac comes on over the radio and tells Ben their exit is coming up. The rest of the convoy drives on as Ben cuts away to take an exit ramp. A few more minutes and he’s coming to a stop just on the edge of town, parking the Jeep amongst a cluster of trees. The vehicle is completely hidden.

“Ready?” he asks, sliding the keys into his pocket.

“Backpack? Check. Gun? Check. Foldable wagon? Check.”

Ben blows raspberries. “Can’t forget the foldable wagon.”

You playfully smack him on the arm. “You want to haul all those books back yourself.”

“No thank you,” he mutters.

The walk is pleasant, but overall silent. Ben carries an M4AI. The arsenal back home is massive, and whenever there are trips outside the compound, the military-grade weapons come out. He keeps his head on a swivel, but other than the occasional animal sounds and the rustling of leaves, all is quiet.

“Here it is,” sighs Ben, extending one arm toward a stand-alone building at the corner of an intersection.

The library isn’t overly big. If anything, it’s what you’d expect from a small town.

“Now I know you’re excited,” he begins, slightly leaning in your direction. “But you stay close. We’re entering from the back.”

All you can do is nod eagerly, words escaping you. It’s been almost six years since you’ve been inside a library. This is a treat. It takes an insane amount of self-control to not skip all the way to the back of the building.

While the front of the building faces the intersection, behind the library is a small parking lot and two dumpsters. Ben does a slow sweep of the lot as the two of you walk toward the employee entrance. Satisfied that nothing and no one is around, Ben lowers his gun. Removing his backpack, he sets it on the ground, and rummages around inside before withdrawing lockpicks.

Adrenaline surges within you.

A few wiggles.

And then—

Click.

Grinning like an idiot, Ben slips the lockpicks into his backpack and puts it on. Grabbing his gun, he presses himself to the brick wall. Slowly, Ben opens the door with the tip of the rifle. It gives under his touch easily, the hinges even silent as the door swings inwards.

“Draw your weapon,” whispers Ben. “We need to do a sweep first.” As you reach for your Glock, Ben shakes his head. “And leave the damn wagon.”

Leaning the foldable wagon against the wall, you remove your gun from its holster. Ben enters and you follow, shifting your body to watch for anything coming up behind you. It’s a slow sweep. Starting along the wall, the two of you walk the perimeter, checking the back offices, and then finally the center-most area.

Ben comes to a stop near a collection of dusty chairs. Lowering his gun, he sighs with relief. “It’s clear.” He turns in your direction. “I’ll be keeping a lookout at the door. If anything happens, you come directly to me.”

“Got it,” you say with a mock salute.

Ben rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. “And don’t drag those books along because I know you will. Leave them.”

You stare him down but Ben doesn’t budge, matching your stare with one of his own. “I mean it. If someone or something comes barreling through the front doors, you fucking run to me. Understood?”

“Sure. Got it. Understood.”

Ben checks his watch. “We have a few hours before we’re expected back at the meet point. Take your time.” He starts to walk away, and then abruptly pivots. “Wife packed a few sandwiches. Promise I’ll share.”

You snort and wave him off. “Bring me my wagon, Ben.”

“On it,” he calls over his shoulder.

As his footfalls recede, you linger in the quiet, dusty library, taking in the significance of the moment. Six years since you’ve stood inside an actual library. Five years since the world fell apart but a year before, third places were quickly disappearing. No one could spend money when wages were low and all the government’s resources were going toward the war effort. Libraries and free spaces shuttered first, losing all their funding.

This place is precious. Special. A rare opportunity.

Of all the books in your community’s collection, they’ve all come to you by the way of others, collected on routine trips and scavenging missions like today. Since stepping inside the walls you now call home, this is the first time you’ve left it. All the stories you receive of the outside world come from the mouths of those who witness it firsthand.

Like a jubilant child, you want to run around—to touch everything. The tips of your fingers buzz with an incessant itch. But you don’t dare remove anything from the shelves. Resisting is almost physically painful as you float through the aisles, taking it all in. To remove a book off the shelf, to open it up, the smell it and feel it would be paradise.

But you know better. You do.

Disturbing them without the right tools and care might cause damage or undo exposure. What you can do is look, to read the spines, and consider your options. Once you know what you want, you’ll drag your little wagon behind you and go about taking the books you want off the shelves.

Ben does leave you alone, and you’re left to wander.

Each step is light but purposeful as you move about the space. You think of everyone back home, of their likes and dislikes, of their needs and wants. More picture books would be helpful as well as some young adult novels. Some of the women have been asking for romance and few of the older folks would like some historical nonfiction.

“Where are you?” you mutter, digging around in your jacket pockets.

Crumpled paper brushes against your fingers. Withdrawing it, you smooth it out as best you can. Using the little light available to read your scribbled penmanship, you pull the wagon behind you, mentally reordering your notes by priority.

Sam wants dictionaries, and you need to grab a set of encyclopedias. Finding the “Reference” section, you survey all your options. Dictionaries and an encyclopedia set are a must, but you also consider the selections of atlases and then the thesaurus collection. The school could really use those resources, and your wagon is large enough to accommodate a few last-minute additions.

Kneeling, you admire the different editions of encyclopedias. Some appear a little worn but otherwise fine. Even though this place hasn’t had power or temperature control in five years, the place was sealed and untouched until you and Ben. It’s likely that everything inside is fine, and all you and Sam will need to do is a rebinding.

You’re completely absorbed, so focused on the tomes in front of you, that the whisper of your name has you spinning around and reaching for your gun.

Ben has his hands up in front of him in a placating gesture. A snarky remark sizzles on your tongue. Ben brings a finger to his mouth in a gesture of silence. Whatever you were going to say dissolves, leaving behind an acrid aftertaste.

Slowly, you swivel your head from side to side but see nothing.

Ben shifts closer, leans in, a glint of fear in his eyes.

“There are people outside,” he whispers.

That’s when you hear it. Distantly, you hear a car door slam, and a muffled shout. The marrow in your bones becomes ice. There are people. There shouldn’t be people.

You swallow, mouth becoming dry. “How many?”

Ben shrugs. “Not sure. But there’s two groups.”

“Two—” You shake your head slightly as that’ll clear your racing thoughts. “What do you mean two groups?”

Ben’s mouth turns downward. It’s an I’m sorry but even that is loaded.

We’re not getting out of this.

There’s a distant hoot of laughter, and then the breaking of glass as if someone’s thrown a beer bottle. It’s still far enough away that you cling to that one comfort. But if they stick around, they might come sniffing. If that happens, you and Ben will be cornered.

Ben nods his head in the direction of the front of the library. Staying low, the two of creep toward the front of the building. There are two sets of double doors. The first set open up into the library and the secondary set of doors lead directly outside. Sandwiched between them is a small atrium. Above the doors are massive windows that bring in natural light.

Out front in the intersection are several beaten up trucks. From what you can see, it’s all men, at least a dozen or two in total. They look haggard. Mean.

“Is that them?” you ask softly.

Ben doesn’t look back at you as he answers. “Just the one. These guys came in loud.” Ben shifts slightly to glance over his shoulder at you. “Surprised you didn’t hear them.”

“Lost in my books.” Ben snorts, and returns his attention to the glass doors. “What about the second group?” you ask tentatively. “Our people?”

Ben eases back a bit. He sits down on the floor, checking over his rifle. “No. Not sure who they are.” He licks his lips, gaze focused on the gun. “They’re all in black. Militarized by the look of them. Organized.”

Two groups. Two different groups.

Ben removes the clip and checks the cartridge. “Only noticed them when one of these guys went around back.” He gestures toward the men directly outside the front doors. “Fucker came out of nowhere and knifed him. Dragged his body away too.”

“Who are they?”

Ben shrugs and rummages in his backpack for a new clip. “No fucking idea. The ones out front might be marauders or slavers or—”

He pauses, gaze growing distant.

“Or what, Ben?” you prompt.

He doesn’t answer, only readies the rifle. “All I know is we need to go.”

All this work, all this effort, suddenly gone.

Your shoulders sag as the reality of the situation sets in. “I have to leave the books. Don’t I?”

“Afraid so,” replies Ben. But he smiles, and though he’s trying, you see the strain. “Next time I’ll make sure to bring you and Sam some books.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” he affirms. “Let’s go.”

At the back door, you withdraw your Glock, posting up beside Ben. He cracks it open. Pauses. Opens it a little wider. He carefully sticks a small hand mirror out the opening. He turns it left then right then back again.

“Clear” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

He exits slowly, and then gestures with his hand. You step outside, squinting slightly as your eyes adjust to the light. Ben starts to cross the parking lot, heading for the exit furthest from the intersection.

The voices of the men are louder out here. A tiny bubble of panic blooms. Then simmers. Then boils.

There is no one around. No one. And yet—

A loud crack splits the air. The wall next to Ben explodes, tiny fragments of debris bursting outward. Ben stumbles backward. He grabs for you. And tugs.

You’re yanked to the side, and then spun around.

Time seems to slow, and yet everything occurs so quickly you don’t entirely comprehend what’s happened until Ben shoves the two of you behind a nearby dumpster.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe. “Ben. We—”

Horror floods your lungs.

Blood.

Everything. Dripping from tiny holes in Ben’s body.

“Oh my god. Ben.”

You reach for him, but there are so many impact points. Too many.

“Go,” he gasps. “Go.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

As the words leave your mouth, a barrage of bullets bite into the wall directly over your head.

“Here,” he rasps, handing you the keys to the Jeep. “Leave me and fucking run. I’ll distract them.”

Shouting breaks out nearby followed by what seems like a never-ending deluge of gunfire.

Your eyes burn. “You promised me books.”

He smiles, and there’s more red than white. “You know I always deliver on my promises.”

With a groan that’s more a cry of pain, Ben stands and reloads with a new clip.

“Go,” he whispers just as he steps out from around the dumpster, gun firing.

You turn. Take off. Gunfire follows.

It comes from everywhere, but you don’t falter, don’t pause to check your surroundings. You’re not a raging bull or an agile cheetah. You are pure frenzy, pure panic, like a rabbit running from fox teeth.

“Fucking grab her!” someone yells. “Grab her!”

You don’t know if it’s the marauders or the men all in black, but there is little reason to consider who.

Survival is paramount. Survival is eternal.

In a world like this, survival is lifeblood.

It is everything.

With lungs burning and muscles screaming, you aim for the houses, knowing you can lose them if you scuttle through the overgrown backyards.

The blow comes out of nowhere.

You witness a brief taste of freedom.

And then it’s yanked right from under you.

A body barrels into you, knocking you sideways. The ground comes up fast. You throw up your arms to protect your head and face. It cushions but protects little else. You hit hard.

“Come here,” growls a male voice. Hands are on you. Grabbing. Twisting. “Let me get a good look at you.”

You kick out. Throw your fists in all directions.

“Stop your fussing.”

A quick blow to the face and you’re circling, everything becoming temporarily blurry as the person atop you brings your vision skyward.

 “Look at you,” he laughs.

It’s one of the marauders. He smiles down at you, teeth brown and grey from decay.

“Pretty thing. Gonna look cute choking on my—”

His nefarious smile drops as the rest of him stiffens. You freeze, staring up in shock as you try to figure out what’s happened. It’s a slow unfolding. A trickle. Blood begins to pool in his mouth and then it drip drip drips onto your face.

With a soft cry, you wiggle out from under him as he tips over, falling into the grass. Scrambling backward, you start to push up onto your knees, muscles poised to keep moving.

“Don’t move.” A gun barrel presses into the back of your head. It’s still warm. “Get up.”

A pair of black boots come into view. Your gaze slowly ascends. Black boots give way to black pants to a black bullet proof vest to a black balaclava. The only part of him you can see are his eyes.

Someone grabs the back of your neck. It’s a harsh hold, and you’re yanked to your feet. You twist your neck and find another man, this one almost identical to the one in front of you. This is the other group Ben spotted, the ones tracking the marauders.

The one holding your neck squeezes and the other reaches for you. “Fucking move and I’ll shoot you.”

You remain perfectly still—perfectly silent as he pats you down. The knife in your boot is confiscated along with your Glock. When they snatch the Jeep keys, you instinctually reach to take them back.

“Told you not to fucking move.”

The man slaps your hand down and you feel the muzzle return to your head.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

He stares you down for a long moment. It gives you an opportunity to observe him, and his companion. They both wear identical all-black tactical even down to the patches attached to their biceps. The bottom one you recognize. Both American flags. The one above it is eerily similar but you can’t entirely place it. It’s an azimuthal projection of the earth but a top view from the North Pole. Beneath it are two olive branches.

The stranger’s gaze shifts to just above you. He jerks his head, and then you’re shoved forward without warning. With each of them holding an arm, you’re half-dragged back to the intersection the marauders were at.

While their rusty trucks are still there, they aren’t alone. Four armored trucks are parked in a semi-circle around the marauders’ cars. More men in all-black tactical gear prowl the area. Of the first group to arrive, those that aren’t dead have been zip tied and lined up in a row on their stomachs, faces pressed into the asphalt.

When one of them moves, they’re kicked until they fall back into compliance.

“Found this one out by the houses,” says the man holding onto your left arm.

Soldiers. They have to be. This isn’t some ragtag group. They wear uniforms, all of which are perfectly maintained. Even the armored trucks are in decent condition.

A small trio of them standing nearby turn.

The centermost soldier speaks. “A woman?” His surprise is clear. And like the two men who hold you, this man too has an American flag.

He nods toward the group of facedown marauders. “These fuckers don’t let their breeders out of their sight.”

Breeders.

You almost snarl, bite back with an insult. But you keep your mouth shut. Their intentions are unclear, and you’re without a weapon. Entirely powerless.

Survival. Always survival.

He takes a few steps forward, approaching you, gaze assessing. Behind the balaclava, he gives you a once over. “Looks healthy,” he observers. Without warning, he grabs your face. You jerk back, and he clucks his tongue. “Stop moving.”

Turning your face to the left and then to the right, the middle of his brow creases. “Open your mouth.”

You glower, and don’t comply.

He grabs your nose, shutting off your air. You gasp, mouth opening.

“Has all her teeth,” he announces, dropping his hand. “Can’t be one of theirs.”

“We need to show the Lieutenant,” says the soldier to your right.

The man before you stares, and keeps staring. “Do we?”

You don’t like the implication.

“What’s this?”

A deep, masculine voice cuts through the air. It is accented. British. Every head turns, and the soldiers straighten, shoulders back and heads held high.

The man holding your left arm speaks up. “Found her running toward the houses, Lieutenant.”

All the soldiers wear plain black balaclavas. Simple. Straightforward. But the man who steps into view has a skull face stitched into his. A fucking skull.

Instead of an American flag, it’s a Union Jack.

His brown eyes behind the mask narrow. “They don’t bring their women out.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Are their numbers that low?”

“With how we’ve been picking them off I wouldn’t be surprised.”

They bicker back and forth, arguing about you but not actually talking to you.

“I’m not with them,” you say, and they all go silent.

Skull Face glowers. “You’re not?”

“I was running from them.” You glance between the soldiers who shot the man. “They’ll tell you. They’re the ones that shot him.”

Skull Face appears unmoved. “Doesn’t mean you’re not with them.”

You laugh, and it sounds a bit hysterical. “Why would I be fucking running if I were with them? Wouldn’t I be shooting back at you?”

“No,” he replies flatly. “If you were with them, you’d be bloody running from them. Not shooting at us.”

“She has to be with them. There’s no one else here.” The man who speaks up this time is directly to Skull Face’s right. The accent is different. Scottish.

“I came with one other. Those men shot at us.”

Ben. Oh. Sweet Ben.

“And where are they?” asks Skull Face.

You swallow, knowing the truth. “Behind the library. Parking lot. Near the dumpster.”

Skull Face locks gazes with another solider and nods. Two men break off, heading in that direction. He returns his attention to you. “Who are these men?”

“What?” you ask, perplexed.

“These men.” He points to the facedown marauders. “Who are they?”

These men are strangers to you. “Slavers?” When no one confirms or denies, you guess again. “Cannibals?”

“She’s playing dumb,” mutters the Scots.

“Hush, Soap,” mutters Skull Face.  “Who are they? What name do they go by? It’s an easy question. Everyone knows it.”

You shake your head. “I—I don’t know.”

Lieutenant Skull Face leans in, lowering his voice. “If you don’t answer truthfully, you and I can have an extended chat in the back of one of these trucks.”

“She had these.” The Jeep keys are tossed, and he catches them without looking. “And this.” The Glock is presented.

Soap takes the Glock. He turns it over. “They don’t give their women weapons, Ghost.”

So, Skull Face is named Ghost. Fitting.

“No,” he agrees. “Makes it easier for them to fight back.”

The very idea sobers you.

“Who are they?” you ask, feeling safe enough to do so.

Ghost glances up from the car keys. “Your worst fucking nightmare.”

“Lieutenant!” The two men that left for the library return. Jogging forward, they speak in low voices.

Ben is not with them. Ben is—

Ghost nods and steps back. “We’re taking her with us.” The two men holding onto your arms let go and Ghost immediately grabs hold of your shoulder, pulling you forward.

“Pick three of these bastards at random,” he announces, gesturing toward the facedown men. “Put them in Delta truck. Shoot the rest.”

Ghost’s hand at your shoulder slides up, grasping the back of your neck. He leans in close—so close you can pick out the little flecks of gold in his brown irises.

“You’re riding with me.”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @glassgulls @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3

[valeisaslut]

⭒࿐COLLIDE - c. six

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐂𝐇����𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗

𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐒 & 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐃

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑣𝑒 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 →

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

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

⭒ word count: 12,3k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PERFORMANCE THAT LEFT THE INTERNET IN RUINS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the celebrities?? Pure CINEMA.

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

No thoughts. No survival.

Just two sapphics rewriting history on live television.

THE ACCEPTANCE SPEECH THAT DESTROYED HUMANITY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

💀💀💀 WE WERE ALL DUG INTO GRAVES. 💀💀💀

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

And then—

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

👀👀👀 EXCUSE ME?????????? 👀👀👀

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

THE AFTERMATH: INTERNET MELTDOWN OF THE CENTURY.

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

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

Lesbians winning. History being made. Society upgraded.

AND WE. LOVE. TO. SEE. IT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

🎥 THE EVIDENCE:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────────────

❤️ 20.3M — 💬 698.7K

📌 TOP COMMENTS:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The world had shifted.

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

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

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

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

And there was none of that anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And how could you have possibly said no?

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

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

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

Backstage, she found you first. Always.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You should stay longer.”

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

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

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

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

"Speak of the devil."

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

"Ellie, no—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.”

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

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

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

"Ughhh, she’s the worst."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And honestly? It was almost working.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then.

It happened.

The door. The godforsaken door.

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

“WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FU—”

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

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

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

Not your most dignified moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“YEAH, NO SHIT.”

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

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

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

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

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

“BECAUSE YOU HAVEN’T LET US LEAVE.”

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

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

“Gladly.”

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

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

THUD.

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

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

The room was finally, blessedly quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We did!”

“It clicked. That’s not locked.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will we?” Jesse calls.

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

You groan. “I’m leaving.”

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

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

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

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

“Kill it out there, love” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re the only one I’m singing to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

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

The words slice through the chaos like a blade.

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

Ellie falters mid-step.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ellie, though?

Ellie doesn’t give a fuck about playing nice.

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

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

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

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

That’s when Ellie moves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s the last fucking straw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a second, she doesn’t move.

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

She nods, lets you pull her away.

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

Ellie doesn’t let go of your hand.

Not for a second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Despite yourself, you huff a laugh.

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

Your breath catches.

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

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

You nod. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. You’re lucky I love you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s watching you again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s when you see it.

The small, discreet bag between Ellie’s fingers.

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

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

It happens in seconds. Like breathing.

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

“You want some?”

You freeze for half a second.

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

And no one cares.

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

The whole thing is so… easy.

Your stomach tugs.

You shake your head. “I’m good.”

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

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

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

Maybe, to them, you did.

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

You frown. “I drink. I smoke."

“Barely.”

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

You blink. “Noticed?”

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at them.

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

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

When it’s Ellie.

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

And you’re trying to read her back.

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

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

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

You blink. “I just… haven’t.”

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. “Not every celebrity.”

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

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

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

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

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

They’re not pressuring you.

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

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

Ellie tilts her head. “Figured what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You sure?"

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

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

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

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

She’s still Ellie.

The same one you love.

But still…

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

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

"But you do it."

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

You roll your eyes. "Not the same."

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

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

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

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

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

Dina points at him. "Exactly."

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

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

There isn’t any.

She believes what she’s saying.

And maybe she’s right.

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

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

A part you never noticed before.

A part you’ll have to get used to.

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

"Alright."

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

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

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

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

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

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

This world is big. Bigger than you ever imagined.

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

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

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

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

That?

You push it under the surface.

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

Because what’s the point in thinking about it?

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

So you don’t think about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Almost,” Jesse corrects, pointing at her.

Dina just grins and flicks his ear.

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

And then it hits you.

You grab Dina’s hand. “Come with me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“No. Fucking. Way.”

You tilt your head, amused.

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

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

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

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

You laugh. “Sure. You play my songs.”

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

“Celebrity tax.”

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

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

You glance back at Ellie. Smirk.

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

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

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

The reaction is nuclear.

The club erupts.

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

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

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

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

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

The moment stretches, long and bright and loud.

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

She’s already reaching for you.

Already pulling you in like gravity.

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

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

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

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

“I did. Swear on my favorite guitar.”

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

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

Your stomach does a slow, stunned flip.

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

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

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

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

“Right. And before I knew it—”

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

Ellie nods. “Heading to my hotel.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Didn’t I?”

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze.

“What?”

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

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

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

“Did it work?”

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

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

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

That synth. Your synth.

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

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

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

Into you.

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

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

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

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

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

“You really let them play this one?”

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

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

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

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

You take a breath. It doesn’t help.

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

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

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

“I know.”

You blink at her. “You do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I edited it—”

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

“I thought it sounded natural!”

“It sounded like porn, babe.”

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

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

“Ellie.”

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

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

You wanted her to notice. You always did.

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

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

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

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

Then, softly: “God, we're pathetic”

“No,” you say. “We’re artists.”

She snorts. “That’s even worse.”

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

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

And then she kisses you.

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

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

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

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

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re on thin fucking ice.”

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

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

So you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But her hands are sliding under your dress again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not helping!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she doesn’t stop there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Relax,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Gotta make sure you remember it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ellie seems to feel the same way.

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

“Think you’ve got one more in you?”

You don’t even hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you don't hesitate.

Not even a second.

“I love you too.”

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

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

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

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

Because to her, it was nothing.

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

It’s not a big deal.

Just a moment. Just something that happened.

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

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

Because loving her feels so easy.

And forgetting?

Even easier.

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

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

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

see ya'll soon, stay tuned ;)

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ how they react to you giving them flowers

ᨳ♡₊➳ feat. gojo, geto, nanami, choso, toji

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack, fluff

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: request from this ask!

₊⊹. Satoru Gojo

You hand Gojo a bouquet of flowers, fully expecting—at most—a smug little quip or maybe some insufferable flirting in return.

What you do not expect is for him to have a reaction so over-the-top that you briefly wonder if you accidentally proposed.

He gasps. Loudly. Tragic heroine energy. A hand flies to his chest like he’s been personally victimized by this act of kindness. His knees buckle. He stumbles backward as if you’ve just struck him with the sheer magnitude of your affections. “What’s the occasion? Did I forget our anniversary? Are you breaking up with me? Did you poison these? Are they funeral flowers?! Oh my god, am I the funeral? Am I already dead?"

You have to physically grab his face to stop the spiral. “Gojo. Take the flowers.”

And so he does. He delicately cradles the bouquet in his hands like it’s a newborn baby or the last piece of cheesecake on earth. His fingers tremble. His eyes widen behind his blindfold. If this were a shoujo anime, there’d be sparkles and cherry blossoms flying around him right now.

“YOU GOT THESE… FOR ME?” He sounds like a Disney princess who just found out true love exists.

“Yes?”

“LIKE… AS A GIFT???”

“Yes, Satoru.”

“BECAUSE YOU LIKE ME???”

“…Yes, Satoru.”

In true Gojo fashion, he holds the bouquet up like Simba from The Lion King and proceeds to give it a full government-mandated, 15-minute TED Talk about how this moment is historic and should be documented in the national archives. He fake-cries. He sniffs the flowers obnoxiously loudly, making a show of how deeply moved he is. At one point, he even pulls out his phone, snaps a picture of himself with the bouquet, and immediately sets it as his lock screen.

You’re about to make a sarcastic remark when he suddenly gasps again and looks at you, horrified. “Wait. WAIT. Have I been a bad boyfriend this whole time? Have I never gotten you flowers???”

“Well, I wasn’t gonna say anything, but—”

You better not be surprised when he starts giving you even bigger flower arrangements in retaliation.

“Oh, you got me a little bouquet? That’s cute,” he says a day later, as an entire truck pulls up with a floral arrangement the size of a small car. “I WIN. I LOVE YOU MORE!!!” he yells, standing triumphantly on top of the pile like a victorious gladiator.

“…This is why I don’t do nice things for you.”

₊⊹. Suguru Geto

You hand Geto a bouquet, and immediately, something feels… off. He doesn’t react. At all. Not even a blink. His expression is unreadable—like he’s either deeply moved or deeply confused, and you have absolutely no way of knowing which.

Panic sets in. Oh god. Did you miscalculate? Is he allergic? What if this is some kind of tragic backstory moment, and flowers remind him of a long-lost lover? What if you just triggered a dramatic flashback sequence?

The silence stretches on, unbearably awkward. Five seconds have never felt this long. You start sweating. Your soul briefly leaves your body.

And then—finally—he smiles. That smile. The one that makes your heart do an entire Olympic-level gymnastics routine.

He takes the bouquet with the kind of effortless grace that suggests this is a totally normal occurrence. Like people just randomly shower him with flowers every day. Like he’s some untouchable, dark-haired romance anime protagonist who was born to receive grand romantic gestures. He holds them delicately, fingers brushing over the petals with reverence. You’re convinced that this man has secretly starred in a historical drama where he played a prince.

"These… are for me?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, eyes twinkling with amusement. He looks way too pleased with himself.

You nod, hesitantly, like you’re handing a wild animal food and aren’t sure if it’ll accept it or bite your hand off. He chuckles—a low, warm sound that should be illegal—and twirls one of the flowers between his fingers.

"You’re so sweet," he says, voice soft and filled with fondness.

As time passes, you catch him treating the flowers with an almost comical level of care. He arranges them in a vase like he’s the world’s most dedicated florist, adjusting each stem with surgical precision. If a single petal looks out of place, he fixes it. If a leaf is even slightly bent, he frowns at it like a disappointed art critic.

He also starts calling you "my flower" unironically, and you’re never escaping that nickname. Ever.

₊⊹. Kento Nanami

Nanami stares at the flowers for exactly ten seconds before saying, “Why?” in the most confused voice you’ve ever heard.

It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate them. He’s just genuinely confused. You can actually see the gears turning in his head as he tries to figure out if this is some kind of hidden message.

You tell him it’s just because you love him and the moment you say that, he softens instantly. His entire posture relaxes, and you see it—that tiny, almost imperceptible smile that only you get to see.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice warm in a way that makes your stomach flip.

He puts them in a vase immediately. He is so serious about them. He waters them religiously and learns way too much about flower care overnight. This man reads care guides, watches YouTube tutorials, and probably takes notes. Every time he looks at them, he thinks about how much he loves you, and at some point, he starts drinking his coffee next to them like it’s a little morning ritual.

He also buys you a bouquet. Except it's way more expensive and has some deep, poetic meaning behind the flower choices. Because of course it does.

When the flowers you gifted him eventually die, you catch him looking a little sad. So, naturally, you get him another bouquet, and suddenly, this becomes a thing.

Nanami will never outright ask you for more flowers. But if you keep giving them to him? He’s never been happier.

₊⊹. Choso Kamo

Choso doesn’t know what to do with himself. His ears turn red. His hands hover awkwardly over the bouquet like they might explode if he touches them wrong. “For… me?” he asks, like you might be pranking him.

Once he realizes you’re serious, his grip on the bouquet tightens slightly like someone is about to take them away. He blinks at you. Blinks at the flowers. Back at you. “…What do I do with them?”

You try to explain, but he’s so invested in getting this right that he overthinks every step. “Where do I put them? Do they need a special container? What happens if they die? Will that mean I failed?”

He ends up putting them in a large water bottle because he doesn’t own a vase. The bottle label is still on. He is very proud of this solution.

He stares at the flowers in deep concentration. “You okay?” you ask.

Choso looks at you, dead serious. “I have to take care of them. You gave them to me.”

And he does. Aggressively. He researches proper water levels. He constantly moves them around to get “the right amount of sunlight.” He talks to them like they’re his children. He defends the flowers with his life. If anyone even so much as accidentally sneezes near them, Choso will glare at them like they just committed war crimes.

The next time you see him, he shyly hands you a single flower he found outside.

₊⊹. Toji Fushiguro

Toji squints at the flowers like they just personally insulted him. “What the hell am I supposed to do with these?”

You tell him they’re a gift. For him. His eyebrows go up. His expression is so deeply confused you’d think you just handed him a mortgage bill.

“…You’re givin’ me flowers?”

“Yes.”

“…Voluntarily?”

“Yes??”

“…You sure you meant to give these to me and not some poor bastard standing behind me?”

“Toji, just take the damn flowers.”

He takes them, holds them in one hand, and just stares. Like he’s waiting for them to do something. He then grabs a beer bottle from the counter, chugs the last of it in one go, fills it up with water, and shoves the flowers inside like that’s normal.

He does not own a vase. That is now the vase.

“That’s not a vase.”

“Works, don’t it?”

The worst part? He actually gets really attached to them. He won’t admit it, but he kind of likes having them around. Every time he sees them, he remembers you. He starts getting weirdly good at keeping them alive.

He plays it off like he doesn’t care, but you catch him smirking at them sometimes. He’ll be sharpening his weapons, glance at the flowers, and just... smirk. Like they’re in on something together.

If you ever get him more, he will grumble and roll his eyes—but he always keeps them.

[olderthannetfic]

@dust-to-faust

But you're already missing out on all the archive-locked fic.

There are currently 13,183,630 works on AO3.

1,277,648 you have to be logged in to see.

That's nearly 10% of the archive!

--

And in my experience, some of the best stuff is locked because it was the hot porn or the controversial and interesting takes that got the author bullied.

Seriously, everyone, do not settle for using AO3 logged out. It locks you out of good features and good works. It also encourages bullies because it makes archive-locking less attractive (so getting bullied into doing so is more of a penalty).

If you're anything more than the most casual of readers, join that queue and get yourself an account!

[jo-com]

˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞. ➛ Right Person, Wrong Time

Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

୨ৎ Summary: The story of how they fell apart, found themselves, and came back together stronger than ever—this time, for good.

୨ৎ Genre: Little Angsty but with a happy ending!

୨ৎ Note: Some grammatical errors, this also not proofread. Hope y’all enjoyyy!!

ARCHIVES ⭑.ᐟ

Oscar and Y/n have been inseparable since the very beginning—their moms were best friends long before they were even born, laying the foundation for a bond that felt written in the stars.

Their lives grew tangled in all the right ways, shaping each other in quiet, everyday moments. Oscar wouldn't be who he is without his Y/n, and the same goes for her. What they had felt like it was lifted straight from a fairytale—but not the perfect, polished kind. It was the kind with scraped knees, shared secrets, and laughter over nothing. Two innocent kids who didn’t realize that all those little moments were slowly leading them to something bigger. To love. The kind that felt inevitable.

It was like they were fated to be each others company.

...

When Oscar started racing, Y/n was alongside him— cheering him on in the sidelines. Always proud to see him reach for the sky and landing the dream he longed for.

You were beyond happy when his talents were discovered— his reputation sky rocketed in an instant. With each milestones that Oscar gained you were always there— giving him nothing but endless love and support.

But they say the good cannot coexist without the bad.

Like every story touched by magic, there’s always a storm that follows the calm. You just never expect it to hit as hard as it does. One moment, everything feels untouched, golden—and then suddenly, it doesn’t. The silence gets louder. The distance creeps in. And before you know it, you're left standing in the wreckage, wondering how something so good could break so quietly. Wondering if you ever really mattered in the way you thought you did. Questioning your place in his world, like maybe you were just passing through—while he was your entire map.

It broke you in ways you didn’t know were possible—to watch something so carefully built fall apart without warning. Years of shared memories, inside jokes, and quiet trust, all crumbling under the weight of unspoken words and arguments that never really had a point. It wasn’t one big moment, just a slow unraveling. And that’s what hurt the most. Not the shouting, not the silence—but the way it ended like it meant nothing, when to you, it meant everything.

...

Years have gone by, You were living… but were you really? Or were you just existing, moving through the days with a version of yourself that never fully came back after him? Because some goodbyes don’t echo right away—they linger, quietly, in the spaces where love used to live.

You were there present times but your mind just wonders back to the past. A past you swore you moved on from.

Whenever you scroll through your phone— headlines of him passes by... just like the memories you locked up. Clouding your mind with endless possibilities of what should have been and shouldn't have.

Seeing him happy and fine without you was tearing you apart.

...

Days later, your friend begged you to come with her to a Formula 1 event. You said no at first—too many memories, too much risk of running into him. The thought alone made your chest tighten. But she insisted, said you needed a change of scenery, something to pull you out of your head.

So there you were, standing beside her in a dress that hugged you just right, the kind you wouldn’t normally wear. The wind danced through your hair, engines roared in the distance, and for a moment, you almost forgot why your heart felt so heavy. Almost. Because even in a crowd that big, part of you was still scanning for the one face you weren’t ready to see—but couldn’t stop hoping you would.

"Are you having fun y/n/n?" Your friend asked, smiling as she examined your tensed features.

You nodded lightly, contemplating whether or not to share your fleeting feelings with her.

She hummed in response as she took a sip on her drink, paying no mind at your not so obvious anxious state.

After a while, the drivers began to roll in, the announcer's voice echoing as each name was called. Cameras zoomed in on each passing figure, but your world slowed down, your heart skipping when they finally called his name. Time seemed to freeze as the crowd cheered, and for a moment, it was like everything else disappeared. All you could hear was the rush of your own heartbeat, the echo of his name ringing in your ears.

You looked away immediately as soon as you took a glance at him. The growing feeling in your heart becoming heavier as you saw a glimpse.

Oscar smiled across the room, unbeknownst to him that you were only a mere meters away from him.

Your eyes couldn’t help but follow him, even when you didn’t want to. You saw how effortlessly happy he was, laughing and smiling with everyone around him. That smile—one you once knew so well—was the same one you had watched fade away when things between you two fell apart.

And then it came—the moment you’d been dreading all night. His eyes finally met yours, and with every passing second, his grin slowly shifted into a frown as your gaze locked.

You looked away, not wanting to feel the heavy pain that came with his eyes. The weight in your chest felt like it might suffocate you, but you fought it off, pushing back the ache. Your focus shifted to something—anything else. The crowd, the noise, the cars racing in the distance—but it was all just background noise now, like everything was happening in slow motion.

For a moment, you thought maybe you'd escape the hurt, but then you felt a tap on your shoulder. You turned, almost startled, to find your friend watching you closely. She knew you too well. "You good?" she asked, her voice soft but firm, like she already knew the answer.

You nodded almost instantly. The beat on your heart not resting. "I uhm i am just.. tired yeah tired." You quipped back.

She looked at you knowingly, her eyes catching the tension in your face—your brows knitted together, your chest rising and falling with each shallow breath, and the slight crack in your voice. It was a habit you had whenever stress hit, and she’d seen it enough times to recognize it instantly.

"Want to go home now?" she asked softly, her voice gentle but carrying the weight of everything unsaid.

You didn’t even hesitate. The weight of the night, the memories, and the sudden rush of emotions all became too much to bear. You nodded, your throat tight as you forced a small, thankful smile.

"Yeah," you whispered, "I think I do."

She didn’t ask anything more, just nodded in understanding, guiding you away from the noise and toward the exit. As you walked, it felt like you were shedding a part of yourself with every step—walking away from a past that had once meant everything to you.

His gaze followed you until you were swallowed by the crowd, the space between you growing wider with each step. He stood there, frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do with the flood of emotions that suddenly hit him. There was a tightness in his chest, an ache he couldn’t shake. He had always been able to read you—knew when something was wrong, even before you said a word—but now, seeing you walk away like that, he felt a sense of helplessness.

He wanted to run after you, to apologize, to fix whatever had broken between you, but the thought of reaching out only felt like a step too late. The moment passed, and all he could do was watch, his heart heavy with regret, as you disappeared into the night.

...

The next morning you woke up like normal— did your usual morning routine but with an unexpected bombarding text from none other than him.

Your hands seem to shake as you reached down to open your phone. You were scared to read what it contained— hesitantly you opened his text.

Oscar [3:43 AM]: i know im probably the last person u wanna hear from right now but i can’t stop thinking about u i saw u today. u looked beautiful. like always. and it hit me all over again i messed up. i know that i was stupid, and i let u walk away without saying what i needed to say can we meet? please just talk. just once i’m sorry y/n. for everything.

You stared at your phone, the screen glowing in the room. His name sat at the top of the message, your heart pounding harder with each word you read. A part of you wanted to cry. Another part wanted to scream. And somewhere deep down, beneath all the hurt, was a quiet voice that still missed him.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, the words forming in your head but never making it to the screen. You locked your phone instead, tossing it gently onto the bed like it might burn you if you held on too long.

You needed time to breathe. To think. Because the wound was still there, barely healing—and reopening it now felt like risking everything all over again.

...

It had been three days since the message. Three days of pacing, rereading, overthinking. But in the end, something in you gave in—not because you were ready, but because a part of you still needed closure. Or maybe hope.

You agreed to meet at a quiet café tucked away from the buzz of the city, the kind of place no one would recognize either of you. You sat by the window, fingers curled around a warm cup, trying to steady your nerves as the minutes ticked by.

Then the door opened.

You didn’t need to look up to know it was him. You felt it—the shift in the air, the way your heartbeat quickened without warning. And when you finally did glance up, there he was. A little tired, a little messy, like sleep hadn’t come easy. But his eyes locked onto yours like they never forgot the way back.

He walked over slowly, uncertain. “Hey,” he said, voice low.

You gave a small nod, unsure of what to say, unsure if anything could ever really fix what had been broken—but you were here. And so was he. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start with.

He slid into the seat across from you, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read the time that passed between you. You sat in silence for a few seconds, the quiet louder than it should’ve been.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, voice a little hoarse.

You shrugged, keeping your gaze steady. “Neither did I.”

He gave a dry chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was drunk when I sent that. But… everything I said—I meant it.”

You looked down at your drink, fingers tracing the rim of the cup. “You always seem to mean things too late, Oscar.”

That stung. You saw it in the way he looked down, his jaw tightening. “I know. I know I hurt you. I was stupid, and I let everything fall apart like it didn’t matter. But it did. You mattered. You still do.”

Your heart twisted. God, part of you wanted to believe him. To rewind everything. But the other part? The one that carried the weight of every sleepless night, every moment you felt like a ghost in his world—that part kept you grounded.

“I’m not here because I forgot what happened,” you said softly. “I’m here because I don’t want to wonder anymore. I need to know if there’s something still worth holding onto… or if I should finally let it all go.”

He leaned forward, eyes pleading. “Then let me prove it. I don’t want to be the storm that ruined you. I want to be the calm after it.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him, really looked at him—and for the first time in a long while, he looked like he meant it.

You let his words hang in the air for a while, unsure if the ache in your chest came from hearing what you’d always wanted—or fearing it wasn’t enough anymore.

“I don’t know if I can go back to how things were,” you finally said, voice barely above a whisper. “Too much has changed. I’ve changed.”

He nodded, his expression gentle but weighed down with guilt. “I don’t want to go back. I want to start from where we are now. Even if it’s slow. Even if you’re unsure. I just… want a chance.”

You looked at him again—really looked. He wasn’t the boy you grew up with, or the one who broke your heart. He was someone in between now. Bruised by life. Regretful. Human.

You exhaled, your chest rising and falling with a strange mix of relief and sadness. “Then don’t say things you don’t plan to follow through with this time.”

“I won’t,” he said quickly, earnestly. “Not again.”

For the first time that evening, a small smile tugged at the corners of your lips. Not out of happiness, not quite—but out of possibility.

“Okay,” you said softly. “One step at a time.”

He smiled, just a little. And this time, it didn’t feel like a distant memory—it felt like something new.

...

Six months later

It didn’t happen overnight.

There were awkward silences, hesitant conversations, and days when the past felt heavier than the present. But there was effort—real, intentional effort. Oscar showed up. Consistently. Whether it was texts just to check in, coffee left at your door, or quiet walks where no one needed to say much—he was there.

You started laughing again. The real kind. The one that filled a room without trying.

He learned how to be patient. You learned how to forgive—not just him, but yourself too.

There were no grand gestures or movie-worthy speeches. Just small, honest moments stitched together over time. A touch on your hand that lingered a little longer. A shared memory that no longer hurt to revisit. A night spent talking about everything and nothing until you both fell asleep on the couch.

And one morning, as sunlight spilled through the window and your head rested on his chest, you realized something.

You were happy.

Not the naïve kind of happy you once were, but the quiet, steady kind that came after the storm. The kind that knew what it was like to lose—and chose, day after day, to stay anyway.

He looked down at you, brushing your hair back gently. “You know,” he whispered, “I think we’re finally okay.”

You smiled, fingers tracing lazy shapes along his arm. “Yeah,” you whispered back, eyes fluttering shut. “We are.”

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like the ending you both deserved—no longer a fairytale, but something even better.

Something real.

...

One Year Later.

The entire weekend had built up to this moment. The pressure, the anticipation, the sweat. But when the checkered flag waved and the world seemed to slow down, it didn’t matter anymore.

Oscar had done it.

P1.

The crowd was roaring, the team was shouting, and the pit crew was cheering as if the whole world had exploded in celebration. But amidst all of that, Oscar wasn’t looking at any of them.

He was looking for you.

He tore off his helmet, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He wasn’t interested in the reporters or the flashing cameras. His eyes were on the one person who had been there from the very beginning.

You.

The moment his gaze locked onto yours, he broke free from the chaos. Pushing past everyone, he sprinted across the track, his heart racing as fast as his car had. The cheers of the crowd faded into the background, the only sound he could hear was the pounding of his feet on the pavement, and the thudding of his heart.

When he finally reached you, there was no hesitation. His arms were around you in an instant, pulling you into him as if he couldn’t bear the thought of being apart, even for another second.

And then, without a word, he kissed you.

It was a kiss that was years in the making—fueled by everything you’d been through, every moment of doubt, every argument, every quiet night spent holding onto each other in the aftermath of pain. But this kiss wasn’t about the past. It was about the future. About all the promises you’d made to one another in whispers and in silence.

He kissed you like he had just won everything that mattered.

“I did it,” he breathed, forehead pressed against yours as he pulled back, still holding you close. “We did it.”

You smiled, your fingers tracing the outline of his jaw, still trying to process the reality of what had just happened. “You’re incredible,” you whispered.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said, his voice filled with emotion. “You were always here, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

The crowd was still cheering, the cameras flashing, but in that moment, it felt like it was just the two of you, standing there on the track, the rest of the world waiting for the celebration.

But to Oscar, this moment—this kiss, this feeling—was the victory that mattered most.

[ofishal-fish-posts]

looks like i have the gift of prophecy because....

AO3 got fucking scraped again for gen AI purposes!

AO3 got scraped for gen AI purposes again, a ton of works were included.

There's been DMCA requests and it looks like some/most? of it has been taken down, thankfully. Still. I highly highly recommend that everyone lock all their works to the archive right now. I can't force you to, but I strongly suggest that you do. Don't let them scrape your work in the future. It sucks losing guest interaction but. Would you rather feed the AI slop?

For people who guest comment: Make an AO3 account! You have to wait a bit for an invite but it's worth it i promise!!

For artists specifically: I recommend that you look into Glaze and/or Nightshade. There's also these disruption filters, it's not clear how well these actually work, but you're welcome to try them. Glaze is supposed to work best, though.

It looks like you can see the status of the datasets here

And how to submit DMCA or copyright violation

I'll say it again: FUCK AI THAT STEALS PEOPLE'S ART AND WRITING!!!!

[pinkfemgurl]

[For Archiving Purposes Only] This Jan 2024 post ended at 14,813 notes!

Ok so I feel like it's important to note that the original post was completed in Jan 2024 with 14,813 notes on the final day. During that time a lot of similar posts have used my image, ideas, or style without any reference or mention to my original post which is a bummer. I should have watermarked the post and learned from it as now I watermark every post I make. Also this post was mysteriously taken down without any reason so I'm just going to repost it to archive this history lol. I'll copy this message at the end too.

300 notes: Use a medium plug now 600 notes: Spend $20 on sissy clothes (must be pink) 900 notes: Wear panties 24/7 from now on 1200 notes: Spend $40 on sissy clothes (must be pink) 1500 notes: Sit on a 6-inch dildo once week for 30 min 1800 notes: Listen to 1 audio file of sissy hypno before bed 2100 notes: Wear androgynous or feminine clothes at home from now on

2400 notes: Practice deepthroating the current sized dildo twice a week 2700 notes: I can cum only once a month 3000 notes: Sit on a 7-inch dildo 2 times a week for 30 min 3300 notes: Wear androgynous or feminine clothing in public from now on 3600 notes: Wear only slutty or pink sissy clothing at home 3900 notes: I have to wear a corset under my clothes everyday 4200 notes: Use a large plug now 4500 notes: Use a smaller cage 4800 notes: I can only watch/listen to girly media, anything masculine or geared towards males is banned 5100 notes: Sit on an 8-inch dildo 3 times a week for 30 min 5400 notes: Listen to sissy hypno every time I do anal 5700 notes: I can only cum when I'm riding a dildo and it's changed to 1 cum every 3 months 6000 notes: Make a Twitter account archiving proof and progress 6300 notes: Every week either post proof/update pics of locked chastity, gif of current dildo riding, gif of current plug insertion, and pics of current sissy outfit that I'm being made to wear from these tasks 6600 notes: I have to permanently use she/her pronouns 6900 notes: Sit on a 9-inch dildo 4 times a week for 30 min 7200 notes: Lock myself in ballet heels for 3 hours every day 7500 notes: From now on edge every day for 2 hours 7800 notes: Use a smaller cage 8100 notes: Every 3 days I have to use a chastity cage with a sounding rod 8400 notes: Buy the most embarrassing humiliating sissy pink dress I can find (with all the ruffles and it locks when zipped up) 8700 notes: I can only wear a dress or skirt in public from now on 9000 notes: Get Started on Estrogen

9300 notes: Every 3 days either post proof/update pics of locked chastity, gif of current dildo riding, gif of current plug insertion, and pics of current sissy outfit that I'm being made to wear from these tasks 9600 notes: I now have to use a sounding chastity cage from now on 9900 notes: Sit on a 9-inch dildo 5 times a week for 1 hour 10200 notes: Once a week, I have to replace my plug with a dildo while I'm out in public for the day 10500 notes: I can only cum once a year 10800 notes: Buy a fucking machine 11100 notes: Buy and use sounding rods 3 times a week for 30 min 11400 notes: Buy breast/nipple pumps and use it twice a week to increase the size 11700 notes: Put on an inverse chastity cage from now on and no more edging or unlocking 12000 notes: Start an OF 12300 notes: Clicker train myself to get horny to the thought of cocks 12600 notes: I can only cum from anal 12900 notes: Make an Amazon Wishlist and add 100 toys and clothes for anyone to buy. Anyone who buys them will get a free show with what they bought 13200 notes: Use an XL plug now 13500 notes: Only use 10-inch toys from now on sit on it 6 times a week for 30 min, once a week use a 12+ inch toy 13800 notes: glue the lock shut, flush the key down the toilet, the only way I'm getting out now is if I hit 15000 notes 14100 notes: Listen to any hypno file people send me (including Bambi Sleep files) 14400 notes: Let anyone make demands in my messages, I have to obey the first message that I see per day 14700 notes: Get blackmailed by someone of my choice 15000 notes: Start the process of sex reassignment surgery

Ok so I feel like it's important to note that the original post was completed in Jan 2024 with 14,813 notes on the final day. During that time a lot of similar posts have used my image, ideas, or style without any reference or mention to my original post which is a bummer. I should have watermarked the post and learned from it as now I watermark every post I make. Also this post was mysteriously taken down without any reason so I'm just going to repost it to archive this history lol. I'll copy this message at the start too.

Also because of my schedule I haven't really done much of the tasks I set out to do with this post lol... sorry about that...

[us-cj]

From 2001 to 2005 there was an ongoing investigation into the Clinton Foundation. A Grand Jury had been impaneled. Governments from around the world had donated to the “Charity”. Yet, from 2001 to 2003 none of those “Donations” to the Clinton Foundation were declared. Now you would think that an honest investigator would be able to figure this out.

Look who took over this investigation in 2005, none other than James Comey. Coincidence? Guess who was transferred into the Internal Revenue Service to run the Tax Exemption Branch of the IRS? None other than, Lois Lerner. Isn’t that interesting?

But this is all just a series of strange coincidences, right? Guess who ran the Tax Division inside the Department of Justice from 2001 to 2005? None other than the Assistant Attorney General of the United States, Rod Rosenstein.

Guess who was the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation during this time frame? Another coincidence (just an anomaly in statistics and chances), but it was Robert Mueller.

What do all four casting characters have in common? They all were briefed and/or were front-line investigators into the Clinton Foundation Investigation. Another coincidence, right?

Fast forward to 2009. James Comey leaves the Justice Department to go and cash-in at Lockheed Martin. Hillary Clinton is running the State Department, official government business, on her own personal email server. The Uranium One “issue” comes to the attention of Hillary. Like all good public servants do, supposedly looking out for America’s best interest, she decides to support the decision and approve the sale of 20% of US Uranium to... the Russians. Now, you would think that this is a fairly straight up deal, except it wasn’t. America got absolutely nothing out of it.

However, prior to the sales approval, BILL CLINTON goes to Moscow, gets paid $500,000 for a one hour speech; then meets with Vladimir Putin at his home for a few hours. Ok, no big deal right? Well, not so fast, the FBI had a mole inside the money laundering and bribery scheme.

Robert Mueller was the FBI Director during this time frame. He even delivered a Uranium Sample to Moscow in 2009. Who was handling that case within the Justice Department out of the US Attorney’s Office in Maryland? None other than, Rod Rosenstein.

And what happened to the informant? The Department of Justice placed a gag order on him and threatened to lock him up if he spoke out about it.

How does 20% of the most strategic asset of the United States of America end up in Russian hands when the FBI has an informant, a mole providing inside information to the FBI on the criminal enterprise?

Very soon after; the sale was approved. $145 million dollars in “donations” made their way into the Clinton Foundation from entities directly connected to the Uranium One deal. Guess who was still at the Internal Revenue Service working the Charitable Division? None other than, Lois Lerner.

Ok, that’s all just another series of coincidences, nothing to see here, right? Let’s fast forward to 2015. Due to a series of tragic events in Benghazi and after the 9 “investigations” the House, Senate and at State Department, Trey Gowdy who was running the 10th investigation as Chairman of the Select Committee on Benghazi discovers that Hillary ran the State Department on an unclassified, unauthorized, outlaw personal email server. He also discovered that none of those emails had been turned over when she departed her “Public Service” as Secretary of State which was required by law. He also discovered that there was Top Secret information contained within her personally archived email.

Sparing you the State Departments cover up, the nostrums they floated, the delay tactics that were employed and the outright lies that were spewed forth from the necks of the Kerry State Department, we shall leave it with this, they did everything humanly possible to cover for Hillary.

Now this is amazing, guess who became FBI Director in 2013? James Comey, who secured 17 no bid contracts for his employer (Lockheed Martin) with the State Department and was rewarded with a $6 million dollar thank you present when he departed his employer? Amazing how all those no-bids just went right through at the State Department. Now he is the FBI Director in charge of the “Clinton Email Investigation” after of course his FBI Investigates the Lois Lerner “Matter” at the Internal Revenue Service and he exonerates her. Nope, couldn’t find any crimes there.

In April 2016, James Comey drafts an exoneration letter of Hillary Rodham Clinton. Meanwhile the DOJ is handing out immunity deals like candy. They didn’t even convene a Grand Jury! Like a lightning bolt of statistical impossibility, like a miracle from God himself, like the true “Gangsta” Comey is, James steps out into the cameras of an awaiting press conference on July 5th of 2016, and exonerates Hillary from any wrongdoing.

Do you see the pattern?

It goes on and on, Rosenstein becomes Assistant Attorney General, Comey gets fired based upon a letter by Rosenstein, Comey leaks government information to the press, Mueller is assigned to the Russian Investigation sham by Rosenstein to provide cover for decades of malfeasance within the FBI and DOJ and the story continues.

FISA abuse, political espionage pick a crime, any crime, chances are this group and a few others did it:

All the same players.

All compromised and conflicted.

All working fervently to NOT go to jail themselves.

All connected in one way or another to the Clinton's.

They are like battery acid; they corrode and corrupt everything they touch. How many lives have these two destroyed?

As of this writing, the Clinton Foundation, in its 20+ years of operation of being the largest International Charity Fraud in the history of mankind, has never been audited by the Internal Revenue Service. Let us not forget that Comey's brother works for DLA Piper, the law firm that does the Clinton Foundation's taxes.

The person that is the common denominator to all the crimes above and still doing her evil escape legal maneuvers at the top of the 3 Letter USA Agencies? Yes, that would be Hillary Rodham Clinton.

Let’s learn a little about Mrs. Lisa H. Barsoomian’s background. Lisa H. Barsoomian, an Attorney that graduated from Georgetown Law, is a protégé of James Comey and Robert Mueller. Barsoomian, with her boss R. Craig Lawrence, represented Bill Clinton in 1998. Lawrence also represented:

Robert Mueller 3 times,

James Comey 5 times,

Barack Obama 45 times,

Kathleen Sebelius 56 times,

Bill Clinton 40 times,

and Hillary Clinton 17 times.

Between 1998 and 2017, Barsoomian herself represented the FBI at least five times.

You may be saying to yourself, who cares about the work history of this Barsoomian woman? Apparently, someone does, because someone out there cares so much that they’ve “purged” all Barsoomian court documents for her Clinton representation in Hamburg vs. Clinton in 1998 and its appeal in 1999 from the DC District and Appeals Court dockets. Someone out there cares so much that even the internet has been “purged” of all information pertaining to Barsoomian.

Historically, this indicates that the individual is a protected CIA operative. Additionally, Lisa Barsoomian has specialized in opposing Freedom of Information Act requests on behalf of the intelligence community. Although, Barsoomian has been involved in hundreds of cases representing the DC Office of the US Attorney, her email address is LisaBarsoomian@NIH.gov. The NIH stands for National Institutes of Health. This is a tactic routinely used by the CIA to protect an operative by using another government organization to shield their activities. It’s a cover, so big deal right? What does one more attorney with ties to the US intelligence community really matter?

It deals with Trump and his recent tariffs on Chinese steel and aluminum imports, the border wall, DACA, everything coming out of California, the Uni-party unrelenting opposition to President Trump, the Clapper leaks, the Comey leaks, Attorney General Jeff Sessions recusal and subsequent 14 month nap with occasional forays into the marijuana legalization mix and last but not least Mueller’s never-ending investigation into collusion between the Trump team and the Russians.

Why does Barsoomian, CIA operative, merit any mention? Because she is Assistant Attorney General Rod

Rosenstein’s wife.

- Tom Tancredo/Team America

[archives-of-a-hidden-writer]

Saved

Thanos / Choi Su-Bong X M/GN!Reader

》Typing... |

》 [Entry No.004 - Saved]|

》 Loading Archive Entry "Saved" |

》 Location of Entry: Archivial's |

》 Tip: Feel free to support the Archiver |

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

》 Summary: Instead of dying to a damn utensil, you were there to save his ass just when things were about to take a turn for the worse on his behalf. |

》 Warnings: SPOILERS FOR EPISODE 6 SEASON 2, Swearing(On the archiver's behalf), Archiver(writer) speaks in between scenes through parentheses, OOC, Blood, Violence, murder/killing, Change of Storyline, Aversion of Story, Mention of Drug Use, MxM but can also be seen as MxGN it's just that reader can go to the men's bathroom, Reader's choice in the voting is unspecified but leans more in the 'X'. |

》 Archive Entry Loaded ◇

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

As the 3rd game came to a close, all 100 remaining players came into a voting of 50 by 50, making it a tie. It was then told how another voting were to occur the next day, giving the players time to choose their options once more.

As things died down between groups, you were peacefully doing your own thing in the restroom until you suddenly heard a commotion outside the stalls, followed by another voice that you recognized all the while ago.

During your time throughout the 3 games, one particular man stood out, Su-bong, aka the rapper Thanos. Although you've heard of the man before the games, you weren't particularly a fan of him to the point you would clutter him like the others during the start of the 1st game. Despite that, you couldn't help but feel something towards the chaotic and high man.

Going outside your stall, you were greeted to the men split into two groups, one siding the ones who chose 'O' last voting and the other group being the ones who chose 'X'. One of the players in the 'X' went in front of the scared man who was you concluded as the man Thanos was after. Yet it seemed to worsen the situation as the player, numbered 333, was the infamous MG coin, the same man who 'milked'(Archiver doesn't know if this is the right word, but I'm rolling with it) his fans of their money for a crypto coin.

Soon, a fight broke loose within the restroom, and none of the guards came in to stop them. The guy originally Thanos was after had already run off, while Thanos was currently choking player 333.

Not knowing what to do or which side to go or help, you ended up knocking and punching a few who tried swinging their fists at you. You just decided to help the person, to you, you knew the most, and that is Thanos.

As Thanos choked out player 333(Myung-gi, but screw it, he'll become irrelevant in this entry anyways), you noticed the player holding something in his hand. You soon noticed it as a fork, 'Shit,' you thought to yourself. Forks are sharp enough to pierce skin with the right pressure. You immediately screamed towards Thanos, tackling and pushing him off the man.

Thanos looked at you confused and irritated, "What the fuck, man?-" He cursed, you took a deep breath, trying to gauge your perspective at him, "He has a fo-" you were about to say until you felt a sharp pain in your shoulder blade. Turning around, you met the same player lodging the same damn fork in your shoulder. You groaned as he pulled the fork out, wanting to aim at another area in your body.

"Why are you helping him?!" The player screamed, about to plunge the fork again.

About to expect the worst, someone behind him pulled him back and started to punch him again and again. It was Thanos' friend, you presumed as you've recognised the man often beside the purple-haired.

Taking a deep breath, completely forgetting the pain in your shoulder for a moment before exhaling heavily. That's when you heard a voice admists the chaos.

"Hey, hey!" Thanos called out, not knowing what to do other than check the wound. "Tsk, dammit!" He cursed before roughly pulling you up and into one of the closest stalls to the two of you. Locking the stall behind him, he made you sit down on the toilet.

Trying to ignore the pain, you spoke out, "You should've ran out," I wheezed out, taking my jacket off before ripping a piece of my shirt to use as a bandage from the wound. Wrapping the cloth around your shoulder, you noticed that he's just standing right there, not doing anything with his head down at the floor. Not knowing what's on his mind, I continued to wrap the item around.

It was until you had to tie the cloth together to prevent it from coming loose, but with your shaking hands and inability to move area from your shoulder to your arm. Wincing, you still attempted until you felt another pair of hands grabbing over the cloth and tying it for you. You looked up to see Thanos tying the cloth for you, an uncharacteristically focused look on his face, but you couldn't help but gaze at him even further.

At this time, as Thanos finished tying the cloth secure, the fight outside the stall had quieted down. The purple-haired man peeked out to see four players dead, with the others being led out by the pink guards, followed by the announcer announcing the player number of each person who died.

Coming out along with the rest, Thanos kept behind me before muttering a 'Thanks, man', you nodded and continued walking until both of you reached the dormitory.

Thanos came back to his friend after such a situation, and you went into your original bed location until you heard someone scream your player number.

"Hey, ■■■!(You guys choose your number)" Thanos called out, waving his hand up as he looked over to you. He hopped and waved his hand, gesturing you to come over, and you not knowing what to do anymore, you decided and fuck it, join them.

As you approached them, Thanos hopped and swung his arm on you, but you quickly noticed how he was careful about his action and considering your wound.

"Welcome, my friend!" Thanos welcomed you to his friend, "This guy right here, they saved my damn life there!" He announced, shaking me lightly, "It was nothing... Really," you tried to start, averting away from them.

"What do you mean it's nothing?! My life was on the line, man!" Thanos replied, patting your chest as he spoke.

After that, the three of you waited for the next day to come by for the revoting of players. Coincidentally, you couldn't help but notice a shift in Thanos' attitude when he speaks to you alongside how his eyes were filled with an emotion you couldn't decipher that isn't his typical high-on-drugs gaze.

As the announcer reminded everyone of the night's out in half an hour, everyone got to their respective beds with you being made to sleep near your now new friends('friends' yeah right).

As you slept on your accord, you didn't notice Thanos on his side, gazing at your sleeping figure. Somehow, a random stranger like you made him feel something other than the high feeling of his 'candies'. Quietly chuckling to himself, he laid back on his back.

Awaiting the next day, little did they know that other players had their own plans for the night rather than sleeping.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

》 Archiver's Notes: Do not mind this as your dear archiver, me, still can't seem to wrap their head around the fact that someone like his character died inside of a damn restroom with a fucking fork.

[aventurineswife]

Hello! I was wondering if I could request Aventurine, Ratio and Dan Heng (separately) with a female S/O who never calls them handsome or hot because in her opinion that's overrated? And instead when she compliments their looks she always calls them something more poetic I guess, like "You're gorgeous", "mesmerizing" or just calls them pretty?

Please and thank you.

More Than a Pretty Face

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Romance, Fluff, Light Humor, Emotional Moments, Introspection.

Aventurine lounged on a velvet chaise in his opulent quarters, his earring catching the light as he idly shuffled a deck of cards. “Tell me, darling,” he said, flashing his signature smile, “on a scale from dashing to devastatingly gorgeous, where do I stand today?”

You chuckled from across the room, rolling your eyes as you adjusted a vase of desert lilies. “I’d say... clever. Maybe a touch insufferable.”

Aventurine’s smile faltered, replaced by a mock pout. “Clever? That’s all? You wound me.”

You turned to him, hands on your hips, your gaze warm but teasing. “Oh, come on. You don’t need me to inflate your ego. You’ve got mirrors for that.”

“True,” he admitted, leaning forward to rest his chin on his hand. “But a man like me thrives on compliments.”

You approached, your voice softening. “Then here’s one you don’t hear enough—you’re brilliant, Aventurine. The way you outmaneuvered those IPC board members today? It was genius. That’s why I’m with you. Not because of your looks.”

For a moment, his facade cracked, and the weight of your words settled over him. He reached for your hand, pulling you onto the chaise beside him. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

You smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “And you’re more than just a pretty face, even if you like pretending otherwise.”

Aventurine laughed, a genuine sound that filled the room. “Darling, you may be the only gamble I’ve ever taken that feels like a sure thing.”

Ratio was deep in thought, sketching out a complex theorem on his holographic tablet. You sat nearby, engrossed in a book, though your eyes occasionally flicked to him. The way the strands of his hair fell into his eyes, his intense focus—it was hard not to admire him.

“Something on your mind?” he asked without looking up, his sharp intuition catching your gaze.

You shrugged. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“How you’re... brilliant. And maybe a little intimidating.”

Ratio finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Brilliant, I’ll accept. Intimidating, though? That’s a first.”

You set your book aside, crossing the room to stand beside him. “You’re intimidating because you always seem so sure of yourself. Like there’s no challenge you can’t overcome.”

He leaned back in his chair, studying you with curiosity. “You could simply call me handsome, you know. It’s what most people resort to when they’re unsure how to express admiration.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Handsome is overrated. Plenty of people are handsome. But how many can look at a problem no one else can solve and find the answer?”

Ratio’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. “Flattery through intellect. Unexpected, but effective.”

You leaned down, brushing a kiss against his temple. “Good. Because that’s the kind of man I fell for—the one who challenges the universe, not just the mirror.”

Dan Heng sat in the archives of the Astral Express, organizing old data files with his usual quiet precision. You entered, carrying two steaming cups of tea. You set one beside him and took a seat across the table, watching him work.

“You don’t have to hover,” he said without looking up, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

“Who’s hovering? I’m just... admiring the view,” you teased.

Dan Heng’s gaze finally met yours, one eyebrow raised. “Admiring?”

You smirked, taking a sip of your tea. “What? You’re not used to me watching you?”

“I’m used to you avoiding words like ‘handsome’ or ‘hot.’ It’s... unusual.”

You set your cup down, leaning forward. “That’s because those words don’t do you justice. You’re more than that.”

His expression softened, the faintest hint of a blush coloring his cheeks. “More than that?”

“Yeah. You’re dependable. Thoughtful. A little too serious sometimes, but it’s part of your charm.” You reached across the table, taking his hand in yours. “You’re the kind of person people can rely on. That’s what makes you special, not just the way you look.”

Dan Heng’s silence spoke volumes, the weight of your words sinking in. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with genuine gratitude. “That means more than you know.”

You smiled, resting your chin in your hand. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me, Mr. Reliable.”

For the first time in a while, Dan Heng allowed himself a small, genuine smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[jjennuine]

ONLY U ────── when their mind is filled with only you and your soft lips.

엔하이픈 형라인 x fem reader / non idol au ────fluff . suggestive . boxer enhypen ♡ skinship . swearing . injuries 1048WC ｡｡ ARCHIVE ( ˶ˆ3ˆ˵ )

- ai’s love note 💌 this is buns but don’t mind it

LEE HEESEUNG

“If I win, can I have a prize?” he teased with a smirk tugged on his face with raised brows that made your heart flutter. “What prize do you want?” His lips curl into a wider smirk seeing you so oblivious to what he truly desires. He cared little to winning another competition — all he craved was one taste of your soft lips that were coated with strawberry chapstick.

You watched him curiously as he gently cupped your cheek, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. “This,” he whispered softly, leaning his face closer. Before he could utter another word, you closed the distance, pressing your lips to his. The kiss was electric, erasing all thoughts about the match in both of your clouded minds.

It was like the world around you two faded, like the only thing you could focus on was each other. Time flowed by quickly and before he knew it, he was ten minutes late to the match — but he didn’t really care. Even with glares from staff and the crowd, the only thing on his mind was your lips which tasted exactly like strawberries.

He effortlessly won the match and swept you into a private room, kissing you hungrily. His phone buzzed with angry texts from his manager, but he could deal with that later. Turning off the notifications, he gently fidgeted with your hair, lost in the moment — his attention only on you.

His thoughts were consumed by you, and only you. Savoring every second of the kiss as if he were a starved man. Each taste of your lips were intoxicating, and he found himself enjoying the sweetness of his prize, a little too much.

PARK JONGSEONG

Jay bit his lip in frustration — struggling to focus with that challenging grin on your face. You looked angelic, and he fought the urge to stare at your soft, cherry-red lips, especially with that cut on your bottom lip. Lost in desire, he was jolted back by a sudden voice.

“Focus! You have a match in seven days” The pout on your face made Jay crazy, and he let out a cough as he brought his attention back to training. His odd behavior puzzled you — he was usualy serious when it came to training. You hit Jay with a gentle punch as he defended and hit a light punch to your shoulder. But before you could think, you slipped on your feet and immediately closed your eyes, ready to fall onto the mattress.

But to your surprise, you opened your eyes to see a hand on your waist and another beneath your head. You breathed out as you saw Jay above you — the air growing tense as you two locked eyes. Jay's gaze shifted to your lips as your thoughts raced in hesitance. You heard Jay mutter for permission, making you immediately nod as he crashed his lips onto yours.

He didn't get anything done today but at least his fantasy came true. He gently bit your lower lip, his fingers lightly touching your hot skin.

SIM JAEYUN

You two sat at an empty parking lot in the middle of the night. Jake, in the driver's seat, was looking at you like you were the most beautiful woman in the world. “Why are you looking at me like that?” You questioned, seeing Jake’s lips curl into a grin.

“You look like an angel” He licked his lips, making your heart race and your cheeks flush a red shade — making Jake chuckle from how adorable you looked. “You feelin shy, pretty girl?” He teased as you hit him playfully on his shoulder.

He bit his lip as he stared at your lips, it looked so soft and he wanted it on his — your heart flutters as you noticed, leaning your face closer to his. But before you could kiss him, your eyes widened as you saw a paparazzi in his car across from you two, making you mutter a curse as you pushed Jake away. He had a pout on his lips seeing you hide your face. He didn't care one bit about the paparazzi trying to snap a photo.

“Come on, princess, let's show the world how much I love you..” He whispered in your ear as you felt some confidence grow in you. You nodded your head as Jake flashed a grin before cupping your cheek and giving you a passionate hot kiss. In the middle of the kiss he couldn't help but smirk at the wide-eyed paparazzi immediately snapping a photo. He had zero care about what the media thought, all he wanted was to show his pretty girl off to the world.

PARK SUNGHOON

You let out a sigh seeing a few dark bruises on your boyfriend's pretty face. He let out a quiet groan as he sat on the couch staring at your face while you were kneeling beside him — holding his chin in your hand. “We talked about getting into fights hoon, I don’t want you to get hurt”

His jaw clenched and he glared, remembering the things they said about you. Yet, when your eyes met his, his expression softened, and he found himself frozen, unable to move, caught in the stars you seemed to have in your eyes.

His lips curled into a grin as you broke free from your trance and continued scolding him. The pout on your lips made his heart race, stirring feelings he couldn’t ignore. You stood up and continued to ramble about how dangerous hurt he could have been and how you’d scold him if he continued to fight carelessly, but Sunghoon couldn't seem to focus — you looked adorable and he couldn't escape the urge to kiss you. “I swear Sunghoon, if you get hurt again i’ll seriously kill you myself-“

Sunghoon stood up, his height towering over yours — surprising you as he lowered his head and held your cheeks in his hands, immediately kissing you hungrily, making you close your eyes.

You could feel the slight cut on his top lip but you didn't care, all you wanted was to feel Sunghoon soft plump lips and he seemed to feel the same, laying you on the kitchen counter.

[noneoutofnone]

Getting whiplash going back to Armored Core VI after playing Starfield

Starfield trips over itself letting you know all of the quests are chill and good actually. The choices in dialogue range from doing a good deed to doing a good deed… for money😈. The only way to join the Space Pirates is to be offered the chance to go undercover first, making sure you see the Pirate but you’re a good guy option. If a persuasion check with someone fails, leaving you only with the prompt [Attack], your companion will say something to the effect of “woof, that was rough. But you did what you had to do.”

The most recent mission I finished in Starfield was for the United Colonies. You stand in front of a council of bureaucrats trying to convince them to hand over banned archival weapon data. This could help stop a small but growing danger to the galaxy. The council argues that it could also lead to that weapon falling into the wrong hands - It was locked away for a reason. It’s a great moment because it was the first time a character in starfield stood up and said to me No, you are in the wrong here, your research could lead to the weapon data leaking, civilians will be put it danger. ALERT. oh no. ALERT. Just as this conversation is happening an entirely contained but also extremely dire attack occurs. ALERT. You rush out and save the day. The threat is proven to be real and the data is necessary. No more questions about is it the right thing to do. Forget about all that other stuff we brought up, you were right. The whole council apologizes to you profusely. Here, take the nuclear launch codes, and here’s a thousand credits as an apology for insinuating that you weren’t the galaxy’s goodest bestest boy.

Mission 1 of Armored Core 6 is called “Illegal Entry”.

In mission 4 “Destroy the transport helicopters” the helicopters are just that. No weapons. Trying to run from you. The rubiconians who stand between you and the helicopters are defending their families. During the fight the enemies bark about you being the bad guy. After the mission your Dad calls you and says “It’s just a Job 621. All of it.” Throughout the entire game you are flooded with voicemails, calls, voices in your head, that all have an opinion on whether what you’re doing is good or bad or just a job.

Starfield is telling you not to think about it too hard. Armored Core is telling you to think about it. A lot. Screaming at you to think about it. What are you doing. It’s not just a job. The game is talking about your actions through all sorts of different lenses.

It’s stepping out of a lazy river and then immediately riding down Niagara Falls in a barrel. Sometimes literally. You see the same safe boring landing cutscene a million times in Starfield. Twice 621 has packed themselves into a barrel and yeeted it into danger.