#than following the singers last second in the final shot

[sweettu1ips]

PAIGE BUECKERS x SINGER!FEM READER

SYNOPSIS: "Between tangled sheets and whispered apologies, they find each other again—lost in heat, regret, and the promise of something new."

WARNING(S): (18+) ⋮ smut ⋮ fuck buddies gone wrong(idfk) ⋮ explicit sexual content ⋮ oral r!recieving ⋮ strap usage ⋮ pnv ⋮ edging(ish) ⋮ overstimulation ⋮ rough(ish) ⋮ dom!Paige ⋮ sub!Reader ⋮ teasing ⋮ praiseing ⋮ light choking (if you squint) ⋮ soft aftercare ⋮ angst ⋮ reconciliation ⋮ aruging ⋮ situationship

WORD COUNT: 18.8k [ yes, I went over board....]

| MAIN MASTER LIST ⋮ PURPLE LACE BRA[P1] |

PAIGE'S POV | THIRD PERSON POV:

THE ECHO OF THE BASKETBALL thudding against the polished wood reverberated through the near-empty gym, a hollow, rhythmic pulse swallowed by the cavernous space. 

Overhead fluorescents flickered faintly, their sterile glow casting elongated shadows across the court, the hum of electricity a quiet, nagging presence. 

The air smelled faintly of sweat, old rubber, and the lingering trace of cleaning solution, a scent so familiar it should have been grounding.

But Paige felt anything but grounded.

Her body moved on autopilot—elbows tucking in, follow-through clean—but the ball clanked against the rim, bouncing off at an awkward angle, a sound that gnawed at her nerves. 

Her rhythm was off. Her mind, untethered. 

Her thoughts stretched thin across miles, pulled toward a place where the lights burned hotter, the air buzzed electric, and a voice—low, raspy, a whisper against her skin—now belonged to a stage, to an audience, to a world that wasn’t hers anymore.

"Paige."

KK’s voice cut through the haze, sharp but laced with the ease of someone who had known her long enough to recognize when she was spiraling. "You look like shit."

Azzi, cross-legged on the floor, barely glanced up from her phone, the glow of the screen illuminating her face, brows drawn in a mix of amusement and mild concern. 

"Like, actually. I was gonna let it slide last week, but we’re two weeks deep now, and you look like a sleep paralysis demon."

Paige exhaled sharply, rolling her eyes, though even that felt exhausting.

 The ball slipped from her hands, bouncing lazily toward the sideline, its rhythmic patter swallowed by the quiet. "Thanks for the support. Really feeling the love tonight."

KK raised a brow, arms crossing over her chest. "Nah, for real. You good? ‘Cause ever since you got back from–– whatever the hell that trip was, you’ve been off."

Paige dragged a hand down her face, the heel of her palm pressing into her eye socket like she could physically rub away the exhaustion clawing at her. "I’m fine, just tired as fuck."

Azzi snorted, finally looking up. "Tired, my ass. You barely miss free throws, and you’ve bricked, like, five in the last ten minutes."

Paige clenched her jaw, the tension so tight it ached.

She didn’t want to talk about it.

Didn’t want to say that every shot that missed felt like another way she was unraveling. That her head wasn’t in the game because it was still trapped in a dressing room somewhere across the state, waiting for something—someone—that never came back.

KK studied her, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Or maybe this has something to do with Y/N?"

The name hit harder than she expected, like a punch to the ribs, sharp and unexpected. Paige stiffened, her breath hitching for just a fraction of a second—too fast, too subtle for most people to catch.

But KK and Azzi weren’t most people.

Azzi sighed, locking her phone and resting her chin against her knee. "Listen, we don’t need the details. But if you wanna talk—"

"There’s nothing to talk about," Paige cut in, too quick, too clipped. Her hands found her hair, fingers gripping at the roots, grounding herself in the pressure. "We fucked, fought. She left. End of story."

KK let out a low whistle, shaking her head. "Damn, man. Y’all really did a number on each other, huh?"

A bitter laugh scratched its way out of Paige’s throat, short and humorless. "She’s fine. She’s out there, killing it, selling out arenas, living the dream. She’s—" Paige swallowed, forcing the words out like they didn’t taste like ash. "She’s good."

Azzi watched her, her voice quieter now. "And you?"

Paige dragged in a breath, held it, then let it out slow. "I’m playing basketball."

KK clicked her tongue. "That ain’t an answer."

Silence settled between them, thick and heavy, pressing against Paige’s ribs like a weight she couldn’t shake. Her fingers twitched at her sides, aching with the urge to check her phone. 

To see if maybe—maybe—Y/N had left something for her. A text. A call. A sign that she hadn’t imagined it all, that she hadn’t been just another fleeting moment in a life too big, too loud, too unstoppable for someone like her to hold onto.

But she knew better.

She had waited in that dressing room too long, let the seconds drag into minutes, let hope stretch thin and fragile in her chest until it finally snapped.

 She had checked her phone too many times since then, only to be met with silence.

She had never known silence could be so deafening.

"It doesn’t matter," she muttered finally, voice tight. "We’re done. Plus–– it ain’t nothin’ serious anyways."

KK and Azzi exchanged a glance, something unspoken passing between them. They didn’t push, didn’t pry. Instead, KK jerked her chin toward the ball rolling idly near the sideline.

"Well, at least get your head out of your ass before practice tomorrow. Geno’s gonna eat you alive if you play like this."

Paige forced a smirk, but it barely touched her eyes. "Wouldn’t want that."

Azzi stood, stretching. "Let’s head back. Maybe you’ll get some actual sleep tonight."

Paige nodded, trailing behind them as they made their way out of the gym. The moment the doors shut behind her, she yanked her phone from her pocket, her chest tightening at the sight of the notification blinking up at her.

@lexington_y/n

New city. New show. New pictures.

Paige stared, thumb hovering over the post, her pulse thrumming in her ears. The images would be the same as always—Y/N bathed in golden stage lights, a crowd screaming her name, a world that Paige had never been a part of.

She locked her phone before she could look.

Before she could wonder if Y/N ever hesitated the way she did. If she ever hovered over Paige’s name, fingers itching to type something but never following through.

The world thought Y/N had left her behind, untouched and unaffected.

Only Paige knew the truth.

She was wrecked.

… and she knew she needed to do something about it. 

Y/N’S POV:

The hum of the jet was constant, a soft vibration that lived in my bones, steady and unwavering—so unlike the storm inside my head. 

It was the only sound in the dimly lit cabin, save for the occasional clink of my wine glass against the polished wood of the table in front of me. 

The turbulence outside was minimal, but inside me? A different kind of turbulence brewed, thick and relentless, curling around my ribs and refusing to let go.

I leaned back against the cool leather seat, exhaling slowly, willing the tightness in my chest to loosen. 

The rim of my glass pressed against my lips, the deep, velvety notes of the wine resting on my tongue, but I barely tasted it. It was expensive—I knew that much.

 A ridiculous, aged bottle that probably had some sommelier waxing poetic about its oaky finish and hints of blackberry, but to me, it might as well have been water.

My gaze drifted to the window, where the night stretched endlessly, a vast ocean of black speckled with distant city lights and constellations too far away to touch. 

Dallas had been electric, the kind of high only a sold-out stadium could bring, the energy of it still clinging to my skin like static. 

My body still hummed with the aftermath of adrenaline, but the crash had begun. And with it, the thoughts returned.

Her.

Paige.

My jaw clenched.

God, why?

Why did she still live in my mind like this, creeping into the quiet spaces, filling them with echoes of things I swore I had left behind? 

I was the one who finally walked away. The one who ended it. The one who told her we couldn’t keep pretending that this thing between us was something it wasn’t.

So why did it still feel like she was holding all the strings?

I closed my eyes for a moment, pressing my temple against the glass, the cold a stark contrast to the warmth burning beneath my skin. 

The tour was exhausting, an endless loop of flashing lights, deafening screams, and hotel rooms that all started to look the same after a while.

 I had convinced myself that it would be enough—enough to drown out the lingering ghosts, enough to forget the way her name still tasted like something sweet and forbidden on my tongue.

But it hadn’t been.

And now I was here, in the sky, suspended between destinations, trying to outrun a feeling that had already caught up to me.

At least I didn’t have to worry.

Paige wouldn’t be in Connecticut.

The team was in Ohio tonight—some game, some tournament, some obligation that kept her far enough away that I could breathe. 

Far enough that I could let my guard down, even just for a day or two, without the risk of seeing those sharp blue eyes and that maddening smirk that always made me forget what I was supposed to be running from.

I sighed, setting my wine glass down, watching the way the liquid swayed inside it—deep red, rich, curling against the sides of the glass like ink bleeding through water.

 I stared at it, the way the light hit it, the way it moved, fluid and restless, a mirror of the thing inside me that refused to settle.

And then my phone buzzed.

A single vibration against the wood, barely a whisper of sound, but it may as well have been a gunshot in the silence of the cabin.

I flinched.

My eyes dropped to the screen, my fingers hesitating for just a fraction of a second before I reached for it, flipping it over.

And just like that, all the air left my lungs.

@paigebueckers liked your post.

The words were simple, harmless even. Just a meaningless notification. A tap of a finger. A fleeting acknowledgment.

But to me, it was a match dropped in gasoline.

A sharp inhale lodged itself in my throat, something heavy pressing against my ribs, spreading through me like wildfire.

It was nothing. It was everything.

It was a ghost of something unfinished. A whisper of a connection that refused to sever completely.

My fingers tightened around the phone, the pad of my thumb hovering over the screen, as if clicking on it would give me something—an answer, a sign, a reason.

But I already knew better.

I set the phone down, flipping it facedown like that would make it disappear, like it could erase the sudden, all-consuming awareness that I was still tethered to her, still caught in the gravitational pull of something I had spent months trying to escape.

The jet hummed around me, steady, relentless, indifferent.

I closed my eyes, trying to breathe past it.

But all I could see was her.

Laughing. Touching me. Kissing me.

And then—slowly, painfully—turning away.

Her fingers, once tangled with mine, slipping free like grains of sand through my grasp, leaving nothing but an aching absence in their wake. 

Her shoulders, tense at first, then relaxing, as if she had made peace with something I hadn't. The subtle hitch in her breath, the fleeting hesitation in her step, before she forced herself to move.

And then she did.

Walking away with the kind of quiet finality that didn’t need words, her silhouette shrinking with every step, swallowed by distance, by time, by everything I wasn’t ready to let go of.

Not once looking back.

I drifted off without realizing, the hum of the jet and the gentle sway of the clouds lulling me into a soft, unspoken surrender. 

The seat, which had once felt stiff beneath me, had now molded to the curve of my body, and the wine glass I had held in my hand had long since gone forgotten. 

Time slipped through my fingers like water, and before I could even blink, three hours had passed in what felt like mere moments.

The jet, with its pristine leather seats and velvet curtains, became a cocoon, a world that moved at its own pace, indifferent to the world below. 

The city lights of Dallas had long faded from view, and in the haze of sleep, the only thing that anchored me was the weight of my thoughts—the ones that were always there, always waiting in the corners of my mind. Paige. That damn blonde. 

The one who had never truly left me, no matter how much I tried to move on.

And then, just as I was lost in the flicker of half-conscious dreams, a soft voice broke through the fog of my mind.

“Miss Y/N?”

I blinked my eyes open, the sudden rush of reality hitting me like a cool wave. Maddy, the flight attendant, stood beside me, her gentle hand on my shoulder, her face lit by the soft glow of the cabin’s lights. 

She had a warmth about her, a kindness I had grown accustomed to during our flights.

She was always so poised, so effortlessly graceful, but tonight, her expression was a little softer, like she knew I needed a nudge back into the world.

“Sorry to wake you, but we’re almost there. You might want to gather your things.”

I nodded, my body sluggish as I sat up, the remnants of sleep still clinging to my eyelids.

 I glanced out the window, and for the first time in hours, I saw the skyline of Connecticut rising like a beacon. It was surreal, the way it hit me in a wave. Time had passed, and the night was creeping forward, inching into the early hours, a place I wasn’t sure I was ready to be.

The jet had barely touched down before my mind was already rushing ahead. I stood up, gathering my carry-on with clumsy fingers, the exhaustion weighing heavy in my chest. 

The quiet hum of the engines seemed louder now, the finality of it all settling in my bones. Connecticut. An hour ahead of Texas, and now, here I was. 1 AM. The darkness outside the plane felt colder somehow, more real, like it was waiting for me to re-enter it.

The doors to the jet opened, and the cool Connecticut air greeted me like a breath of relief. Maddy followed me down the stairs, offering a final, quiet smile as I made my way to the ground. 

The pilot waved from the front, his face still unreadable in the dim light, but there was a comfort in the routine of it. These people, these small moments—strangers who had become familiar—had woven themselves into the fabric of my life, even for just a brief stretch of time.

“Thanks again, Maddy,” I said, my voice a little hoarse, but sincere. “I’ll see you next time.”

“Of course,” she replied, her tone warm and steady. “Safe travels, Y/N.”

I turned to the pilot, offering a quick nod, my muscles still sluggish as I adjusted my bag over my shoulder. The cool night air wrapped around me, and I made my way toward the awaiting car, the sounds of the airport already starting to fade into the background.

As I reached the car, my phone buzzed in my pocket, the vibration cutting through the stillness of the night. I glanced down, my heart giving a small jolt when I saw the name. 

My mom. Of course.

I answered the call with a soft sigh, trying to steady my breath. “Hey, Mom.”

“Y/N? You made it?”

“Yeah, actually,” I replied, stepping into the car and sliding the door shut behind me. “Just landed.”

“Good. You sound tired, honey. Long flight?”

I let out a small laugh, a touch of irony in my voice. “You could say that. But, yeah, I’m exhausted. Gonna head back to the apartment and crash for a bit. Connecticut’s always a bit of a wake-up call after Texas, you know?”

She chuckled, the sound familiar and comforting. “I bet. Well, take it easy. When you’re up, come on by. I’ll make us something to eat. You know how it is.”

“Mhmm,” I said, leaning back into the seat, letting the warmth of my car wrap around me. “I’ll drive down in the morning. Thought I’d spend a couple of days. Bother you guys.” 

The words felt good, slipping out like a secret I hadn’t realized I needed to share. My laughter came easily then, a lightness I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in too long. 

It was something I hadn’t done in what felt like forever—let myself enjoy the simplicity of being home, of being surrounded by the people who knew me best.

“Alright, honey. I’ll see you in the morning then.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I ended the call, the quiet hum of the car filling the space between us, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I let myself exhale. 

Tomorrow would come. It would be messy, it would be complicated, but for now, I had this—a moment of peace, a fleeting one, but it was enough. The city skyline of Hartford glowed in the distance, like a soft pulse in the dark, beckoning me home. 

The wheel in my hands felt familiar, grounding me in a way I didn’t realize I needed. I could already feel the fatigue setting in, my mind heavy with the weight of the past few days, but I pushed it down, keeping my focus on the road. 

The late-night quiet was almost too perfect, the night cradling me in its gentle arms.

The tires hummed steadily beneath me as I veered onto the highway, and I let myself drift for a moment. The city lights twinkled like distant stars, each one a promise, a memory of the home I’d come back to. 

There was something about the cities of Connecticut at night—its streets always quieter, its corners always darker, yet the heart of it still pulsing with life. A small comfort, one I didn’t know I needed until now. 

I could almost taste it, the familiarity. The places, the streets, the air—I knew them all, and for some reason, that felt like enough for tonight.

Then, without warning, Frank Ocean poured from the speakers, smooth and haunting, the first notes of Moon River filling the car and curling around my thoughts like smoke.

 The deep, rich timbre of his voice carried me, a lullaby for the restless. I sighed, one hand still steady on the wheel, the other resting against the window, my fingers tracing the cool glass. 

The wind outside caught against the car, brushing through my hair, a soft reminder of the night, of everything I was trying to escape from.

But then it happened.. again.

the ghost of her.

Her presence slipped in beside me like it always did. A whisper of blonde hair floating in the air beside me, the breeze curling around us, carrying her scent with it. 

I could almost feel her hand on my thigh, warm and familiar, the subtle pressure of her touch making my heart skip in a way I hated, a way I had come to both love and resent.

 The memory of her fingers grazing my skin lingered like the faintest shadow, and for a moment, I allowed myself to sink into the feeling.

But then reality slammed into me. I remembered us—or more accurately, what we weren’t. We weren’t the kind of people who could just exist in a space together, letting the quiet stretch between us, letting the little moments settle in. 

No, we were desperate.

 We always had been. Our time together was a series of fleeting touches, stolen moments, like we were always on the edge of something—something that neither of us dared to cross. 

We weren’t in the car to enjoy each other’s presence, to laugh or linger in the warmth of shared smiles. No, we were there to burn, to need—to satiate a hunger that never seemed to quiet.

The thought of it made my chest tighten.

I couldn’t do this anymore. Not the way she wanted, anyway. I had spent so long pretending that the flashes of passion, the late-night rendezvous, were enough. They weren’t. 

And as much as I missed her, as much as I could feel her presence like a phantom beside me, I couldn’t keep lying to myself. I was exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally. 

A year of this, of whatever this was, had drained me more than I realized. And it wasn’t even just the frustration of endless hookups, of empty promises wrapped in lust. It was the ache of wanting more, of needing something that wasn’t just skin-deep. 

I wanted her—not just in the way she would slip into my bed, leaving with the scent of her still clinging to me. I wanted more than just the raw, desperate need that only came in the dark corners of the night.

I wanted the little moments—the ones that didn’t require a bed or an empty apartment. I wanted her to stay past the hour she always slipped out of, her departure as fleeting as she was.

 I wanted to care about her in a way that went beyond wanting her. I wanted to share more than just the surface. I wanted her here. With me. 

For more than a night. I wanted to wake up beside her, talk to her in the morning, laugh with her like the world wasn’t collapsing at the seams.

And yet, here I was, still stuck in this dance, still lying to myself, pretending that the desperate moments we shared were all I needed. 

How did I let myself slip so far into this? Into her? Into the lie that I could pretend this was all I ever wanted?

Why did I bother answering her DM? Why did I keep coming back, every single time? Was it the thrill of the chase? The danger? 

The way she made me feel like I was alive, like I was seen, but only in the ways that made me feel empty in the end? I had promised myself I wouldn’t get attached. 

I had promised that it would be nothing more than a passing thing, something that didn’t ask anything of me.

But somewhere, deep down, I knew that promise had broken the second I let her back into my life. And now, I was the one paying for it.

I glanced at the rearview mirror, my face reflected back at me—tired, confused, a little worn, but still here. Still alive.

The city was growing closer now, and I could feel the weight of the moment pressing against my chest. 

The road stretched out before me, endless and unwavering, but I was no longer sure where I was headed. Hartford? Yes. But even that felt like just another place to run away from the thing I didn’t want to face.

I gripped the wheel tighter, the song in my ears fading into the background as I let the rhythm of the road take me. 

The soft hum of the tires against the asphalt was all I could hear now, my thoughts swirling like storm clouds above a calm sea. One step at a time, I told myself. One step. But the road ahead felt long—too long. 

The city lights on the horizon flickered, a constellation of possibilities that seemed so far away. And yet, they were right there. Within reach, if only I could hold on long enough.

The exit to Hartford appeared in front of me, the sign flickering in the glow of the streetlights. My heart beat a little faster as I veered off the highway, the familiar roads beneath me pulling me closer to home. 

The city wrapped itself around me like a well-worn sweater, the streets I had walked so many times now feeling like an old friend that I hadn’t seen in too long. 

The familiar hum of the city at night filled my ears, but it didn’t feel comforting—it just felt… there. As though the world was moving on around me, and I was stuck in place.

I drove through the streets of Hartford, past the coffee shops and streetlights, past the bars and restaurants that were closing for the night. 

The city was quiet now, save for the occasional car or the distant sound of laughter from a group of friends lingering on the sidewalk. 

It was the calm after the storm, and for a moment, it felt like I was the only one awake, the only one still carrying the weight of the day.

When I finally pulled into my condo building’s parking lot, the security guard waved at me, opening the gate with a press of a button, like it had done a hundred times before. The metallic squeal of the gate echoed in the silence, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was slipping back into the routine of it all. 

The night was supposed to feel different, but it didn’t. The familiar sights—the guard waving, the low hum of the parking lot lights—felt like a song I had heard too many times. And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to turn it off.

I parked my Bronco in its usual spot, taking a slow breath before I opened the door. The air was crisp, cool against my skin as I grabbed my carry-on bags, the familiar weight of my luggage heavy in my hands. It felt like a thousand tiny reminders of where I was—who I was, and what I was running from.

I made my way to the elevator, the soft click of my boots against the concrete echoing in the underground parking garage. 

My hand brushed against the elevator button, pressing the number five without thinking. The elevator doors slid open, the faint hum of the machinery filling the small, quiet space as I rose upward, toward the floor where everything I had been avoiding waited for me.

The door opened to my floor with a soft ding, and I stepped out, the familiar hallway stretching before me. The soft carpet beneath my feet was a small comfort, but it didn’t stop the weight of everything that had been building up inside me. 

My hand shook slightly as I fumbled for my keypad, my fingers lingering for a moment on the numbers. When the door finally clicked open, I stepped into the condo.

Home.

I hadn’t realized how much I had missed the smell of it—the light fragrance of fresh flowers and the faint undertones of something sweeter, something comforting. 

It enveloped me like a hug, familiar and safe. I shut the door behind me, the soft thunk of it closing resounding in the quiet apartment.

I flicked on the kitchen light, the soft glow of the bulb spilling across the counter, casting long shadows in the dimness. The city below seemed far away now, the lights twinkling like stars scattered across the black sky. 

The world seemed small from up here—almost too small. And yet, I felt lost in it.

I stood there for a moment, leaning against the counter, my eyes tracing the outline of the city below. The noise of the world was muted here, in this space that I had made for myself. 

But even now, in the silence, the questions lingered. The uncertainty. The ache. The longing for something more.

I set down my luggage and carry-ons beside counter, my movements slow and deliberate. There was no rush now. No one waiting for me, no one to answer to. 

The weight of the day—the weight of everything—pressed down on me, but I couldn’t bring myself to unpack just yet. I needed a moment. A breath. A chance to feel like I wasn’t drowning in it all.

I took another step, walking to the large windows that framed the city below. The lights sparkled, distant and cold, like a world I was no longer sure I belonged to.

 I stood there for a while, my hands pressed against the cool glass, watching as the night stretched on. It wasn’t enough to make me feel whole again, but it was something. It was a moment of calm. Of clarity.

I sighed deeply, my breath heavy with the weight of everything that had built up inside me during the day, during the months, during the years. 

The familiar hum of the apartment was a dull comfort, but it felt foreign, like a memory I was trying to hold onto but couldn’t quite grasp. 

My hand lingered against the frame of the window for a second longer than necessary, the cool metal grounding me in the present before I moved on.

My feet made the softest sound against the hardwood floor as I walked through the apartment, checking the locks on the front door with automatic precision, as if these rituals could shield me from the restlessness swirling beneath my skin.

 The lights flickered off one by one, leaving the apartment in shadows that wrapped around me like a second skin. My purse hung loosely from my arm, the weight of it so small, yet it felt like an anchor, like everything I carried in it—the past few weeks, the exhaustion, the unfinished conversations—was pressing on my chest.

I moved toward the stairs, my body aching, each step a reminder of the stiffness from the long flight, the hours spent cramped in a chair, the echoes of the concert still hanging in my bones like some distant memory that refused to fade.

 The smell of airplane air, sterile and empty, clung to my clothes, mixing with the faint remnants of the concert—the noise, the people, the rush of adrenaline. It was all too much, too close, too loud. I needed space. I needed silence.

By the time I reached my bedroom, I was already starting to feel the weight of the day melt off of me—just a little, just enough for the edges to blur. 

My room was just as I had left it: neat, untouched, almost too still. It had been two weeks since I had last stepped through the door, and in that time, everything had moved on, yet nothing had changed here. 

The same soft light from the bedside lamp. The same bed, untouched by anything but the fabric of time. The silence was thick with a thousand unsaid things, and for a moment, I just stood in the doorway, letting it all settle around me.

I dropped my bag onto the bed, the soft thud echoing in the quiet room, before letting out a long, exhausted sound, my shoulders sagging with the release of everything I had been holding in for far too long.

 It was like stepping into an old, worn-out pair of shoes—comfortable, yes, but so very, very tired.

My clothes felt too tight, too heavy against my skin. The material clung to me as if reluctant to let go, still holding on to the remnants of the day.

 The air inside my clothes was suffocating, the lingering scent of airplane disinfectant mixed with sweat and the faint traces of the concert—a place where I had poured every ounce of my energy, but now it felt so far removed from the person I was here, in the stillness of my bedroom. 

I needed to shed it all, to strip away the layers of exhaustion and confusion that clung to me like the weight of my thoughts.

With a soft, almost absent gesture, I pulled my clothes off, one piece at a time, until I was standing in the center of the room, my body bare and exposed. 

I felt a fleeting sense of vulnerability, but it was different now—like the vulnerability had been there all along, just waiting for me to acknowledge it. 

I wasn't sure whether it was the weight of the day, the weight of the weeks of silence between Paige and me, or just the constant ache of being too much and never enough, but I couldn’t stand being in my own skin any longer.

I walked into the bathroom, the cool air of the room brushing against my bare skin as I turned the handle of the shower. The sound of the water starting to run was a relief, like the first breath after holding it in for too long. 

I stood there for a moment, just watching as the steam began to rise, filling the small space with the promise of warmth. 

I didn’t know why, but the sound of the water rushing over my skin always made me feel like I could wash away everything that had been holding me back.

I reached for the shower gel, the familiar scent of lavender and vanilla filling the air, soothing the sharpness of my thoughts. 

The rhythm of my routine was mechanical, each motion automatic, as though the very act of cleansing myself would somehow make everything else disappear. I lathered the soap between my hands, letting the bubbles form before running them over my shoulders, down my arms, across my chest. 

The sensation of the warm water and the smooth gel was comforting, but it didn’t erase the tension from my body. The tightness in my chest. The exhaustion in my bones.

As the last streams of water cascaded down my body, I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the day swirl down the drain with the steam. 

My skin was flushed from the heat, my muscles finally unwinding in a way they hadn’t in weeks. With a tired sigh, I reached for the dial and twisted it off, the sudden absence of water leaving behind a silence that felt deafening.

I stepped out onto the soft bath mat, droplets clinging to my skin, catching in the dim glow of the bathroom light. The mirror was fogged over, a blurred reflection of myself barely visible through the condensation.

 I dragged a hand across it, but the moment my fingers left, the fog returned—like it didn’t want me to see myself too clearly. Maybe that was for the best.

Reaching for the plush white towel hanging on the rack, I wrapped it around my body, securing it just above my chest before moving to my sink. 

My fingers worked methodically, reaching for the cleanser on the marble countertop, twisting the cap open with a soft click. 

The cool gel foamed between my palms as I massaged it into my skin, small circles over my cheeks, my forehead, my jawline—washing away the remnants of the day, the exhaustion, the tension buried in my bones.

Patting my face dry with the towel, I reached for my toner, pressing it into my skin with slow, deliberate motions, letting the calming scent of rose water settle my nerves. 

Next was my serum—three drops onto my fingertips, warming them between my hands before pressing them gently into my face, feeling the way my skin drank it in. Finally, moisturizer—rich and thick, sealing everything in.

 A touch of lip balm. A swipe of eye cream. Routine. Predictable. Safe. The only thing I could control in a world that constantly felt like it was slipping through my fingers.

I let my towel drop to the floor, reaching into my dresser for the first set of lingerie I could find.

 My fingers brushed against lace, soft and delicate, a contrast to the quiet storm inside me. Black. Lacy. The kind of set that made me feel something—powerful, maybe, or just put together in a way I hadn’t felt in a while. 

The thong sat high on my hips, the delicate straps hugging my skin, while the matching lace bra fit perfectly against my chest, a teasing hint of sheer fabric that was for no one’s eyes but my own.

I ran a fresh towel through my damp hair, squeezing out the excess water as I padded barefoot to my bedroom. The air was cool against my skin, sending a small shiver down my spine.

 I reached for my body lotion—warm vanilla and sandalwood, something soft yet deep, something that smelled like home. 

My hands moved slowly, spreading the lotion over my arms, my legs, across my stomach, taking my time, savoring the moment, grounding myself in it.

With a sigh, I made my way to my bed, pulling back the plush duvet, already craving the warmth of the sheets. But just as I was about to slip in, the sharp ding of my doorbell sliced through the silence.

I froze.

Every muscle in my body tensed, the sound sending a jolt of adrenaline through my veins. My heart lurched against my ribs, a sudden, erratic rhythm that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with fear.

My breath caught in my throat as I reached for my phone, fingers hovering over the keypad, ready to dial 911. But something inside me hesitated. Who the fuck would show up at my condo at 2:25 a.m.?

My eyes darted to the clock on my bedside table, the glowing numbers confirming what I already knew—this was not the time for casual visits.

I had watched way too much Criminal Minds to take this lightly.

My mind raced with worst-case scenarios as I silently reached for my nightstand drawer, pulling out my taser with steady hands. The weight of it was reassuring, even if my pulse was anything but.

The doorbell rang again.

I flinched. A sharp inhale. My grip tightened around the taser as I moved quietly, my bare feet soundless against the floor. 

The condo was dark, save for the silver slivers of moonlight streaming in through the windows. Shadows stretched across the walls, making everything feel larger, deeper, more uncertain.

Another ring.

Fuck.

I sucked in a breath, slipping into the kitchen. My fingers wrapped around the cool steel of a knife before I even had time to think about it.

 I really need to invest in a Ring cam, I thought bitterly, my grip tightening around the handle as I moved toward the door.

I didn’t plan on entertaining whoever was on the other side. In fact, I wasn’t even sure why I was creeping toward the peephole instead of calling the cops. 

But curiosity—or maybe sheer stupidity—had me stepping forward, pressing onto the tips of my toes, peering through the tiny glass lens.

And the moment I saw her, a breath of relief escaped me, mixed with frustration so thick it almost choked me.

I let out a groan, my head dropping against the wood for half a second before unlocking the door.

I swung it open, eyes narrowing as I glared at the woman standing before me.

“Why the fuck—”

Paige stood in the dim glow of the hallway lights, wrapped in an oversized hoodie and regret. A mess of contradictions. 

Her eyes flickered—hesitation, exhaustion, something unreadable—but it didn’t matter. Not anymore. I swallowed down the bitterness rising in my throat, gripping the doorframe just to keep steady.

"Is this how you open your door now?" Her voice was sharp, but beneath it, something else—softer, unspoken, maybe even shaken. 

Her gaze raked over me, dragging from my damp hair to the black lace barely covering me, lingering a second too long before landing on the knife in my hand. 

Her lips parted slightly, the muscle in her jaw clenching like she wanted to say something, but I was already scoffing, already done with this before it could even start.

I moved to shut the door in her face, the finality of it sweet on my tongue—but then her hand shot out, fingers curling around the edge, voice suddenly quieter.

"Wait."

I stilled. My teeth ground together as I stared at her, waiting, because that was all I had ever done when it came to Paige—waited for her to come around, waited for her to give a damn, waited for her to realize that I was always right here.

This time, she hesitated. Swallowed. Her fingers tightened on the frame, eyes darting over my face like she was searching for something—something I refused to give her.

"Can I—" Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. She exhaled sharply, blinking hard. "Can I come in?"

I scoffed, shifting my weight, exhaustion settling into my bones like a slow ache. "Why are you even here?" I demanded, arms crossing, fingers tapping against my bicep. "Actually, how the fuck did you even know I was here?"

Her gaze faltered. Guilt flashed across her face, quick but unmistakable.

"I—" She exhaled, dropping her shoulders. "I asked Renee."

Of course, she did.

I shook my head, laughing humorlessly. Disbelief curled in my stomach, bitter and sharp. It was two in the morning.

 I was standing in my damn hallway, barely dressed, exhausted beyond belief, and the girl I had spent the past weeks trying to forget was just standing there like she had every right to be.

I should have slammed the door. Should have told her to go to hell, to find someone else to ruin, to stop haunting me like she didn’t even know she was doing it.

But instead, I exhaled through my nose and widened the door.

Because I was stupid.

Because I was weak.

Because despite everything—despite the ache she had left me with, despite knowing exactly how this night would end—I still wanted her.

Paige stepped inside, slow, careful, but I didn’t miss the way her gaze dragged over my figure, the way her throat bobbed when she caught the scent of my body wash wrapping around her like a taunt.

Her eyes fluttered closed for half a second, inhaling.

I hated that it made my stomach tighten.

Clenching my jaw, I turned and locked the door behind us. The condo was mostly dark, save for the silver glow of the city bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

 Shadows stretched long across the hardwood, over the countertop, over Paige’s silhouette as she stood there, hands stuffed into the pocket of her hoodie like she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with herself.

And for the first time since I opened the door, I became fully aware of how little I was wearing.

It was nothing new—Paige had seen me in far less. Had touched, kissed, devoured. Had mapped out every inch of me like she was the only one who had the right to. 

And yet, standing here now, her eyes flickering between me and the floor, something about it made my skin prickle.

I turned away sharply, scanning the counter for something—anything—to throw on. Placing the knife I had in my palms onto the counter top as I searched.

My lips pressed into a thin line as I grabbed the oversized hoodie draped over the stool, tugging it over my head before facing her again.

Silence.

Thick. Suffocating.

Paige shifted on her feet, glanced at me once before looking away, exhaling like she had something to say but didn’t know where to start.

I broke the silence first.

"Paige," I said, arms crossing over my chest, voice flat. "Why are you here?"

She hesitated. A muscle in her jaw twitched, her lips parting like she was going to say something, then thinking better of it.

"I wanted to talk."

I scoffed, shaking my head. "Seriously? This couldn’t wait until morning?"

Her mouth pressed into a tight line. "Look, I’m sorry for how—"

"There’s nothing to talk about," I cut her off, voice sharp, cold. "You were right, though. I mean, it’s what we agreed to in the beginning, right? No strings attached?" My laugh was bitter, hollow. "It’s my bad for getting too deep."

She exhaled, frustration laced in the breath she let out. "Listen, please."

I shook my head, glaring at her. "Why would I, hm? When all I ever asked was for you to do the same? When all you’ve given me is shit."

Paige winced. Just slightly. But it was enough. Enough to tell me she knew I was right. Enough to tell me that maybe—just maybe—she was feeling it too. Whatever this was.

Her hands twitched at her sides, her tongue running over her bottom lip like she was trying to taste the words before she spoke them.

"I—I don’t know what I’m doing here," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loud would make it real. 

"One second, I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and the next I was…" She sighed, shaking her head. "Standing at your door."

I swallowed down the lump rising in my throat, shoving my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie. "And?"

Her brows furrowed. "And what?"

"And what do you want, Paige?" My voice was quieter now, something softer lurking beneath the edges. Dangerous.

She blinked, looking at me like she didn’t have an answer. Like she hadn’t thought that far ahead. And maybe she hadn’t. 

Maybe she really had just ended up here on autopilot, driven by some force neither of us could name.

The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Her mouth opened, then closed. Her shoulders rose and fell. My heart hammered in my chest, and for the first time since opening the door, I wished I hadn’t.

"Y/N…" She breathed my name like it hurt, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to say it anymore.

I shook my head, stepping back. "No," I said, voice trembling slightly. "You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to show up at my door in the middle of the night and expect me to just—"

"I don’t expect anything," she interrupted, stepping forward, closing the space I’d just put between us. "I just… I don’t know."

I let out a humorless laugh. "That’s your problem, Paige. You never know."

Her breath hitched, and for a split second, I saw something crack behind her eyes. Vulnerability. Uncertainty. Maybe even regret. But I couldn’t let it be my problem anymore.

I turned away, exhaling sharply. "You should go."

Paige hesitated, and I could feel her looking at me, feel the battle waging in her chest. But she didn’t move. Not for a long moment.

And when she finally did, it wasn’t toward the door.

Paige stood there for a heartbeat—just one, but it felt like a thousand years of silence wrapped in a veil of unspoken things. 

Her shoulders hunched as if carrying the weight of the world, the weight of the tension between us, and every single word that hung in the air but never found its way out.

I could feel her eyes on me, tracing the lines of my body like they were searching for something lost. 

She wasn’t looking at me—no, she was looking past me, through me, to the place we used to occupy in each other’s lives. It was suffocating. 

The air thick with memories we’d tried to bury, yet they kept creeping up on us in the quietest moments, like shadows in the corner of a room we couldn’t escape.

She exhaled a shaky breath, as if her lungs had forgotten what it felt like to breathe freely in my presence. I watched her throat work, the muscles in her neck tightening as she swallowed whatever it was she wanted to say but couldn’t. 

And then, with a small, hesitant movement, she stepped forward, closing the gap between us, one inch at a time.

I felt the shift in the air as her presence filled the space around me, the familiar scent of her perfume—something musky, something floral, like fresh rain on dry earth—lingering in the room. 

My heart skipped, once, twice, before sinking, pulling itself back into my chest like a piece of me was being pulled away.

 I wasn’t sure if I hated it or wanted to drown in it.

Paige’s hand reached out, fingers trembling slightly as they hovered in the space between us, a silent invitation, or maybe a plea, for something I wasn’t sure I could give her anymore. 

Her palm wasn’t open, but it wasn’t closed, either—just hovering, a tentative truce waiting to happen, a touch waiting for permission.

My breath hitched in my chest. “Don’t,” I whispered, not trusting my voice, not trusting myself to say the words any louder, any more forcefully. It was a plea and a command all wrapped up in one broken syllable.

But she didn’t stop. Of course, she didn’t.

Her hand gently brushed against my arm, just barely a whisper of skin on skin, but it was enough to send an electric current through my veins, through every nerve I had buried so deep inside me for so long. 

Her touch was a memory—one I had spent months trying to forget—and now it was flooding back, too familiar, too raw, too everything I didn’t want to feel.

I jerked back, but my feet were rooted to the floor, frozen by some invisible force. 

Paige’s face softened, the sharp edges of her expression dissolving into something vulnerable, something real. 

She was searching me, every inch of me, as if she was trying to read the broken lines on my face, the shattered pieces of who I used to be when she was everything to me.

Her voice broke the silence, a whisper that felt like glass, fragile and cutting. “I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d said it, but it felt different this time. It felt like the first time she meant it. “I know I’ve hurt you, Y/N. I—I never meant to, but I did. And I—”

She faltered, and for a moment, she seemed so small, so uncertain, like a shadow of the girl I had once known so well. I opened my mouth to speak, to say anything—don’t apologize, it’s too late—but the words tangled in my throat, too heavy to lift.

I couldn’t do it. Not with her standing here, not with that look in her eyes.

I turned away, needing space, needing distance, needing something to stop the aching, bleeding mess in my chest from spilling out all over the floor.

 I stumbled toward the windows, where the city’s lights flickered below us like distant stars, too far to touch, too far to reach. 

The silence stretched between us again, thick and suffocating, but this time, it felt like an ocean, pulling me under.

I could feel her watching me, feel the weight of her stare on my back like a brand. “Why are you here, Paige?” The words left my mouth before I could stop them, jagged and raw, as if I had been holding them in for far too long.

She didn’t answer at first. She just stood there, her fingers twisting in the hem of her hoodie, unsure, waiting for something, for the right moment to speak. But the right moment never came.

Finally, she spoke, and it wasn’t what I expected. “I came because I wanted to be here. Because I thought… maybe I could fix this. I thought maybe if I could just find the right words…”

Her voice wavered, a tremor in the quiet. “But I don’t even know what I’m supposed to fix.”

It was a punch to the gut, the truth of it, the way she admitted she didn’t know, had never known, that the brokenness between us wasn’t just my fault or hers.

 It was both of us, tangled together in a mess of misunderstandings and mistakes, and now we were just two people standing in the wreckage, pretending we could still build something from the ruins.

My hands balled into fists at my sides. “You can’t fix this, Paige,” I said, the words spilling out sharp, desperate. “You don’t get to waltz back in like suddenly something matters. You don’t get to—”

But I didn’t finish. I couldn’t.

Instead, I turned back toward her, and there she was, standing in the same spot, eyes wide and glistening, her lips trembling like she was trying to keep it together, trying to hold herself together long enough to get through whatever this was.

I wanted to scream. To yell. To do anything to stop this pain from bleeding out of me like a wound I couldn’t close. But there she was, still here, still in front of me.

I stepped closer, closer than I had intended, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I let my gaze soften. “I don’t want this,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, barely even mine anymore. “I don’t want you to hurt me anymore.”

Paige’s breath caught, and the vulnerability in her eyes was enough to break me. “I don’t want to hurt you either.”

But the truth of it, the harsh truth that both of us knew, was that we had already hurt each other too much to ever go back to what we were before. We were too broken, too fractured, too caught in the gravity of our own mistakes.

And as she took a tentative step forward, a single tear slipping from her eye, I knew, deep down, that this was the last time we would ever be standing this close again.

But I couldn’t make her leave. Not yet.

So, we stood there in the silence, the air thick between us, and I hated every single moment of it—yet I couldn’t seem to stop myself from breathing her in once more.

The air felt like it was wrapped in a fine, invisible web, delicate and stretching thin, pulling tighter with every passing second. 

We stood there, both of us, a breath apart, yet separated by miles of unspoken words. The tension between us was a quiet storm, one I could feel pressing in on all sides, suffocating, overwhelming, yet somehow familiar. 

It was the weight of everything we hadn’t said—the things we’d buried underneath layers of silence, of quick kisses, of moments stolen in the dark.

Her eyes never left mine, but there was something different now. A shift, a crack in the armor that had once felt impenetrable. 

Paige’s hand, still hovering in the space between us, slowly fell to her side, like she’d realized the touch she had longed for wasn’t just a reflex anymore. 

It had been something she needed to let go of, something that no longer fit in the puzzle of who we were.

But I wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet. Not when I could still feel her lingering warmth like a bruise on my skin. Not when I had spent the last few weeks pretending I didn’t care—pretending I hadn’t caught feelings, pretending this wasn’t as real as the beating in my chest that seemed to echo every time she said my name.

 “Y/N,” she whispered again, like it was a prayer, like it was a plea, a question she was afraid to ask but couldn’t keep silent anymore.

I looked away, unable to hold her gaze any longer. My heart hammered in my chest, a staccato rhythm that matched the panic clawing its way up my throat.

 I didn’t know how to respond to the weight of her stare, to the question in her eyes that I hadn’t been able to answer before.

 I was supposed to be indifferent, detached, just another name in a long list of names she had danced through. I wasn’t supposed to feel anything. I wasn’t supposed to want anything.

But I did. And that was the part that hurt.

I took a step back, trying to find the space between us, trying to reclaim what was mine before she got too close. “You should have never done this,” I muttered, more to myself than to her, as the words spilled out like regret—too fast, too sharp, too real. “I was fine. I was fine before this. Before you—”

She winced, the pain flashing across her face before she could hide it, before she could shut it down with that same defensive wall she always put up, that wall I had come to recognize but had never wanted to face. 

It had been easier, safer, when we didn’t feel anything—when we were just two bodies in the dark, nothing more than a brief, heated exchange of desire that was never supposed to linger past the morning.

But now, here we were, caught in the aftermath of something that neither of us had planned for.

Paige took a breath, steadying herself, and I could see the fight in her, the fight I knew so well, the one where she refused to let anyone see her break. 

“I know,” she said, her voice tight, rough with emotion she was trying to swallow. “I know I shouldn’t have pushed you away, Y/N. I never should have done that to you. But it was easier to leave before I—”

She stopped, closing her eyes as if the words had cut too deep, too quickly. I could hear the pain in her voice, the rawness that she tried to hide behind her bravado, but it wasn’t enough to cover the cracks. Not anymore.

I couldn’t help it. My chest tightened, the urge to close the distance between us pulling me forward even though every rational part of me screamed to keep my distance.

 “Easier to leave?” I asked, my voice cold, trying to put the distance between us again, trying to keep my emotions wrapped up tight in a box where they belonged. 

“Easier than facing me? Easier than facing what we were?”

She shook her head, her hair falling in waves around her shoulders as she took another step closer, a slow, hesitant movement, as if she was waiting for me to reject her again. 

“It was easier to walk away before I realized I—before I realized how much I was hurting you.”

My breath caught in my throat. I could see it then—the vulnerability in her eyes, the one she never let anyone see. 

“You didn’t think you were hurting me?” I asked, the question dripping with disbelief, the irony of it stinging my tongue. “You didn’t think I’d be hurt when you used me like that?”

The truth was, we were both using each other in ways that pained us both.

She winced again, like my words had pierced something deep inside her. “I didn’t mean to use you. I thought I could handle it. I thought we could just... keep things casual. No strings attached, no feelings.”

Her voice faltered on the last words, and I saw the truth in her eyes. “But then... you kept looking at me like that. Like I was more than just a body. And I—”

Her hands trembled as she reached out again, this time not hovering but fully extending toward me, a plea that wasn’t just physical, wasn’t just the echo of the lust that had driven us together in the first place. It was more than that.

I wanted to pull away. I wanted to step back, keep myself safe, keep my heart locked away from her. But I couldn’t.

Her fingertips brushed against my arm again, this time lingering, as if they were silently asking for something I wasn’t ready to give. But my walls were crumbling, piece by piece, and I could feel it. 

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” I admitted, my voice low, breaking in the middle of the sentence like it was a confession, like it was a sin I couldn’t wash away. 

“I don’t know if I can go back to what we were. But I can’t just—forget, Paige. I can’t just walk away from this.”

She pulled back then, sharply, like I had burned her, like my words had stung too much. But I saw the vulnerability in her eyes. 

The realization that she had messed up, that this was a mess of her own making. And for the first time in this broken dance, I saw her desperate to fix it.

“I wasn’t supposed to care, either,” she said, her voice small now, quieter than I had ever heard it, filled with regret. “I wasn’t supposed to let this get to me. But it did. And now all I want to do is make it right, make you see that I wasn’t playing you, that I—”

I reached for her then, my hand finding her wrist, holding her in place, the skin of my fingers burning where we touched. “I don’t know if you can.”

She swallowed hard, the words so much heavier than either of us had expected. Neither of us was ever supposed to want this, want each other. 

But here we were, tangled in the mess of our own desires, unsure whether we could ever untangle ourselves. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath against the storm between us. “I never meant to hurt you.”

And as the last bit of the distance between us vanished, I couldn’t help but wonder if the damage had already been done. 

Would we be able to fix what we had broken, or were we destined to fall apart in the spaces we had made for each other?

The tension between us was palpable, a charged silence that seemed to stretch out endlessly, heavy with all the things we hadn’t said, all the things we couldn’t say.

 I could feel the weight of her gaze on me, every flicker of emotion she didn’t let herself express—how her eyes betrayed her strength, showing the cracks she thought she could hide, how the uncertainty in them mirrored the chaos in my chest.

I could feel her heart pounding through her chest, the rhythm of her pulse matching the thrum of my own.

 It was as if the air between us was charged, filled with the kind of electricity that made every touch, every glance, every movement feel like an explosion waiting to happen. 

Yet, somehow, it felt fragile—like a delicate thread holding us together, only waiting for one wrong move to snap it in half.

We stood there, locked in an unspoken battle, neither of us willing to give an inch, neither of us knowing where to go from here. 

The weight of everything—of the nights we spent tangled in each other, of the words left unsaid, of the hurt we hadn’t acknowledged—pressed down on us.

 “I didn’t mean to—” she started, her voice shaking slightly, a quiet confession in the space between us.

But I couldn’t hear it anymore. I couldn’t keep listening to her excuses, to her guilt, to the echo of all the things she wished she could take back.

 I was tired of the push and pull, tired of being caught in the back-and-forth, in this constant cycle of wanting something that would never be more than what it was supposed to be. 

Something casual. Something temporary.

I wasn’t sure how we got here, but I knew I was done being patient with the uncertainty. I was done pretending I didn’t care, pretending I didn’t feel the ache in my chest every time I saw her pull away.

 I wasn’t going to let her keep running from this, from me.

I didn’t even realize what I was doing until it was too late. My body moved before my mind could catch up, before I could think it through, before I could stop myself from doing what I knew would hurt but also felt so damned right.

In an instant, we were crashing into each other, the force of it as wild as the storm raging inside me.

 Her lips pressed to mine, barely a whisper at first—clumsy, hesitant—but then it deepened, and I couldn’t stop it. It wasn’t a kiss anymore, not like before. This was something heavier, something realer. 

This was a reckoning.

Her hands, shaking at first, slid over my chest, pressing against the heat of my skin like she was trying to pull herself closer, like she was desperate for something more than just this. 

My hands moved instinctively, fingers tracing over the curve of her waist, feeling the warmth of her body through the thin fabric of her shirt, grounding me in the moment. 

There was no space between us anymore. No distance. We were wrapped up in each other, breathing each other in, every inhale sharp with the need we couldn’t deny any longer.

And yet, even as the kiss deepened, the intensity rising like a tidal wave, I could feel the weight of the past pressing in on me. 

I could feel it in the way her lips trembled against mine, in the way her breath hitched in the space between our kisses. 

We had both been here before—caught in the heat of the moment, tangled in the confusion of everything we had tried to bury—but this time, it was different.

 This time, there was something raw, something unspoken, that neither of us could escape.

Her body pressed against mine, her chest heaving with every breath, and I could feel the frantic urgency in her touch, in the way she grabbed at my hoodie, pulling me closer, as if she was trying to erase all the distance between us, all the walls we had put up. 

Her hands moved over me, frantic and unsteady, like she was searching for something she didn’t know how to find.

I could feel the heat of her skin seeping into mine, every touch igniting something deep inside me, something that felt dangerous, something that felt like it might burn us both. 

But I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop.

We were lost in each other now, lost in the moment, in the intensity of the kiss, in the desperation that had taken over our bodies. 

It was a new kind of intimacy—familiar yet strange, like we were finally seeing each other for the first time in a way we never had before. 

Every movement felt like a step closer to something we hadn’t been ready for, but now couldn’t escape.

My hands roamed over her back, feeling the shudder that rippled through her as if she was trying to ground herself in me, trying to anchor herself in the chaos.

 Her lips left mine, breathless, and before I could think, I found my hands on her neck, pulling her closer, guiding her down to my level. 

She lowered herself to me, her forehead resting gently against mine as we both tried to catch our breath.

For a moment, we were silent. But the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of all the things we hadn’t said, all the things we hadn’t allowed ourselves to feel.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” I whispered, my voice barely audible in the quiet that surrounded us.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she tilted her head, eyes searching mine, her breath still coming in uneven gasps.

 “Neither do I,” she confessed, her voice soft but laced with something raw, something vulnerable. “But I know I can’t keep pretending.”

And in that moment, the world outside ceased to exist. There was no more confusion, no more questions. 

Just the two of us, tangled up in the mess we had created, and the quiet realization that we couldn’t go back. The thread between us, fragile as it was, had already snapped.

The moment Paige's lips found mine again, it was as if the world fell away completely.

 My breath hitched, a soft sigh escaping me as her hands tangled in my hair, fingers threading through the strands of my blond locks with a tenderness that belied the tension between us. 

There was a pull to her touch, an urgency, but also a sense of reverence, like she was trying to memorize every moment, every second of our closeness.

Her hands slid beneath the fabric of my oversized hoodie, the warmth of her fingertips brushing against the exposed skin of my hips. 

I couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through me, her touch igniting a fire inside that burned brighter with every second. Her fingers, so deliberate, so careful at first, traced the line of my skin before dipping lower. 

The thin elastic of my black thong caught between her fingers, a whisper of tension that made my heart race. Her touch became more daring, more possessive as she ran her hand farther down, pulling me closer to her. 

I could feel her every movement, the way her hands shifted, finding their way around the curve of my ass, squeezing softly as she groaned into our kiss.

I pulled away slightly, my lips just a centimeter apart from hers, breath mingling heavily in the space between us.

 My chest heaved, the weight of everything crashing down on me, and all I could manage was a quiet, desperate "Fuck me," slipping out of my mouth like a confession, like a plea.

The words hung in the air between us, raw and vulnerable, yet undeniable. Paige’s breath caught, and for a moment, time seemed to stop.

 Her hands paused, her fingers still buried in the fabric of my hoodie, the weight of her touch as heavy as the silence between us. 

But that silence shattered when her lips crashed against mine once more, this time with a hunger that made my knees weak. She pulled me closer, closing the space between us, her body pressing into mine with a force that left no room for doubt, no room for hesitation.

The intensity of her touch sent waves of heat through my skin, every inch of me coming alive beneath her hands. 

She gripped my hips, pulling me against her, and I felt the unmistakable hardness of her body beneath the thin layers separating us. Her hands were everywhere—sliding up my back, cupping the back of my neck, fingers tangling in the strands of my hair like she couldn’t get enough.

 Her lips left mine only to trail down to my jaw, my neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Each kiss felt like an imprint, like she was marking me as hers, like I was hers—trapped in the pull of her gravity, unable to escape even if I wanted to.

I gasped as her hands moved lower, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin just above my waistband before dipping beneath it, slipping past the fabric of my underwear with a smoothness that made my pulse spike.

 Her touch was steady, sure, like she knew exactly how to make me burn without ever needing to ask. 

My breath hitched again as her hand slid over the curve of my ass, groping, squeezing, pulling me closer still, as if she couldn’t get enough of the feel of me, of the way our bodies fit together so perfectly.

I moaned softly, unable to hold it in, my hands falling to her chest, pressing against the hard planes of her body, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath the fabric of her shirt. 

The sensation of her skin under my fingertips made my thoughts scatter. She was everywhere—her lips, her hands, the heat of her body. I wanted her. I needed her.

"Paige..." My voice was barely a whisper, thick with need, my hands tugging at her shirt as I pulled her even closer, if that was even possible. 

She didn’t wait for me to finish, her lips pressing against mine again, her tongue pushing into my mouth with a force that left no room for anything but her.

"Jump," Paige murmured against my lips, her voice low and filled with intent.

I didn’t hesitate. Without a word, I wrapped my legs around her waist, my arms around her neck, clinging to her as she lifted me effortlessly, her muscles flexing beneath me. 

The air around us felt thick, every movement heavy with the weight of what we were about to do. We didn’t need to speak anymore. 

There was no room for doubt. We were here, caught in the gravity of each other, and nothing else mattered.

As Paige carried me toward the stairs, it was as if our bodies knew the way.

 Even in the pitch black, she navigated her way through my condo with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. 

Every step was instinctual, every movement fluid as she guided us toward the bedroom. I could feel her pulse beneath my fingertips, the rhythm of her breath matching the frantic thrum of my own.

 My mind raced, my thoughts scattered, but all I could focus on was the sensation of her touch, of the heat radiating from her body, of the way she made everything else disappear.

Her hands were everywhere—running along my back, sliding down to my hips, her fingers digging into the flesh of my thighs as she carried me. 

Her touch was possessive, as if she was claiming me in a way that left no room for anyone else, as if she needed me in the same way I needed her. 

The world outside of us was nothing but a distant memory, the noise of the city muted by the sound of our heavy breathing, the pounding of our hearts.

The moment we reached the bedroom, she set me down gently on the bed—but as soon as my body met the softness of the mattress, I was back in her arms, her lips crashing into mine, as if even a second apart was unbearable.

 She hovered over me, her breath mingling with mine, her fingers threading through my hair, tugging just enough to make me shiver.

 My hands were frantic, pulling at her clothes, desperate to feel more of her. Every inch of her skin was like fire against mine, every kiss a promise, every touch a declaration.

 I was lost in her, in the pull of her gravity, in the undeniable need that had taken over both of us.

I could feel the world slipping away, unraveling around us as the distance between us closed. The air, thick with the scent of desire, clung to my skin like a second layer. 

Every brush of Paige’s fingers, every press of her lips, sparked something inside me—something primal, something fierce. She was a wildfire, a storm I could never outrun.

 She consumed me, and I let her.

Her hands—strong and sure—were everywhere. Tugging at the fabric of my hoodie with a desperation that mirrored my own, the fabric slipping easily from my body, falling to the floor like leaves caught in a windstorm. 

She kissed me again, harder this time, her lips urgent against mine, as if trying to force me into the same frenzy that was building in her.

Her tongue, hot and demanding, slid against mine in a dance we’d perfected over the months, and I found myself lost in it, in the way our bodies fit together like two halves of a whole.

 My breath hitched as her fingers ghosted over my skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

Then, she pulled away just enough to look at me, her gaze dark, nearly predatory. 

Paige was practically drooling at the sight beneath her—the way the lacey thong clung to my hips, the delicate bra pushing my breasts together so nicely.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, eyes drinking me in like she’d never seen anything so perfect.

I spread my legs just a little more, inviting her in, watching the way her jaw clenched as she moved up the bed, positioning herself between my thighs.

“Look at you,” she whispered, voice thick with hunger. “So damn pretty.”

And then, she was on me again—touching, tasting, making it impossible to think about anything other than her.

"God, I need you," she murmured against my lips, her voice raw and ragged, thick with emotion. Her breath was hot against my ear as she pressed her body into mine, every inch of her warmth seeping through me, setting me ablaze.

I could feel her heartbeat under my fingertips, steady and strong, as my hands moved over her skin, memorizing every curve, every inch of her. 

My fingers trailed down the hard lines of her arms, her sides, grazing the soft skin of her waist, before slipping lower, finding the familiar curve of her hips. 

She was a map of desire, every part of her calling to me, pulling me closer, deeper into the orbit of her body.

"Paige..." I gasped, my voice trembling, my fingers curling around the drawstring of her gray sweatpants. There was no room for hesitation now—only raw, desperate need.

 I wanted her, wanted to feel every part of her, to melt into her completely. Words felt useless when my hands could say so much more.

She let out a low, guttural sound, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she watched me. Her eyes—dark, smoldering with hunger—never wavered. She didn’t stop me, didn’t rush me. 

Just watched, her lips curving into a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver straight down my spine.

The moment I tugged at the tie, loosening it with deliberate slowness, her breath hitched. I slid the soft fabric down her thighs, my touch lingering, savoring the heat of her skin beneath my fingertips.

Paige exhaled sharply, her own impatience surfacing as she kicked the sweatpants off the rest of the way, tossing them somewhere into the room without a second thought. Her movements were fluid, unbothered, like she knew exactly what she was doing to me.

My hands roamed over her, tracing the curves of her hips, the smooth expanse of her stomach, every inch of warm, inviting skin. 

And when my fingers skimmed the waistband of her boxers, barely brushing the fabric, she gasped—sharp and sudden.

Her eyes met mine then, locked in a silent challenge, an unspoken dare. An invitation.

And I wasn’t about to turn it down

“You’re so beautiful,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion, the weight of the moment pressing into my chest. 

My hands found her again, pulling her closer, desperate to feel every inch of her against me. 

Every touch, every glance, was a promise—a silent confession that neither of us was going anywhere, that we were caught in this storm together.

Her breath hitched as I let my fingers trail lower, slipping past the waistband of her boxers, teasing over the soft warmth between her thighs. 

A quiet gasp left her lips as I traced my fingers through her folds, feeling the heat, the slickness, the way she trembled under my touch.

"Don’t stop," she breathed, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me to her again, her lips crashing into mine in a kiss so intense I thought I might lose myself in it. 

Her hands were everywhere now—pressing against my waist, guiding me closer, urging me to forget the world outside of us, to forget everything but her, but this moment, this feeling that was consuming us both.

I could feel her warmth, the steady pulse of her heart, and the shallow breath she took as it synced with the frantic beat of my own. 

Every inch of her was an electric current running through me, pulling me in closer, as if our bodies were desperate to become one. 

The air between us was thick with the heat of our desire, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid, but still, neither of us could get close enough.

I slowly pulled my hand away from Paige's boxers, my fingers brushing against her skin as if reluctant to let go. She stood before me, her chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths.

 My hands found the familiar curve of her back, my fingers gently gliding up her spine as I pushed both her shirt and her hoodie over her head. 

Her skin was smooth and warm, illuminated by the soft glow of the room's light.

Now standing before me in nothing but her Nike sports bra, Paige's abs were perfectly defined, each muscle a testament to her strength and dedication. 

I couldn't help but trace the subtle lines of her body with my eyes, marveling at how effortlessly beautiful she was.

She let out a soft sigh, and without hesitation, I leaned forward, my lips brushing the curve of her neck.

 I kissed her slowly, savoring the feel of her pulse against my mouth as I moved down to her collarbone, leaving a trail of warmth behind. Each kiss was a mark, a promise, staking my claim on her in the most intimate way possible.

Her hands were back on me, pulling at the waistband of my thong, and I couldn’t stop the moan that slipped from my lips as her fingers skimmed the bare skin of my inner thighs.

 She was always so sure, so confident in everything she did, and I loved it, loved how she knew exactly how to touch me, exactly how to make me lose myself in her.

 She knew my body the way a painter knew their canvas, and each touch, each caress, felt like a stroke of genius.

She paused for a heartbeat, her hands still on me, as though she were savoring the feeling of me beneath her touch. 

Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, a softness in her eyes that only made her intensity more magnetic. 

“Are you sure?” Her voice was a low murmur, a vulnerable question that tugged at something deep within me. Despite the hesitation in her tone, there was an undeniable fierceness in her gaze, a fierce need I could feel just as strongly as she did.

I reached up, my hands trembling slightly as they cupped her face, my thumbs brushing the softness of her cheeks. 

The warmth of her skin burned through me, making my heart race. 

"Yes," I whispered, the word thick with need, with desire, with everything I couldn’t hold back. “Please, baby. I want you.”

Her eyes softened at my words, and I saw the shift—the sudden deepening of the heat between us. It was as though something had cracked wide open, something neither of us could hold back anymore. 

The world seemed to narrow, just the two of us, the air between us charged with the promise of something we both needed desperately.

Then, with an urgency that took my breath away, Paige tore the thong from my body, the fabric tugged roughly from my skin. 

My breath hitched as she widened my legs, a groan escaping her lips as she took in the sight of me laid bare for her– glistening with desperation. 

Her eyes drank me in, hunger evident in every glance, her heat matching my own. I whimpered, the sound slipping from my lips before I could stop it.

“M’gonna take my time with you,” she whispered, her voice thick with raw desire, and there was something about the way she said it, like a promise that sent a shiver down my spine. 

Slowly, deliberately, she lowered herself, never breaking eye contact, her lips trailing over the curve of my body.

 Every touch was a caress, a teasing kiss, a nip that sent jolts of electricity through my veins. I gasped, my body arching toward her as she kissed, licked, and nipped her way down, her lips hot against my skin. 

She paused just above my hips, pressing two gentle kisses against my hip bones, before trailing lower still, teasing me with the lightest touch, until her lips brushed over the most sensitive part of me.

The sensation hit me like a tidal wave, the rush of heat flooding my veins, pulling every breath from my chest, leaving me dizzy with longing.

 Each touch, each kiss, was a jolt of pleasure that surged through my body, igniting every nerve. The intensity was overwhelming—an insatiable craving that I couldn’t escape, couldn’t contain. 

The air around us felt thick, almost suffocating, as the weight of our need pressed in from all sides. My heart raced, my chest tightening as I fought to breathe, and in that singular moment, nothing mattered but her—her touch, her presence, the way she made me feel.

Paige moved slowly, deliberately, settling between my thighs with an ease that was both possessive and tender. She draped my legs over her strong, muscular shoulders, the warmth of her skin radiating against mine.

 I could feel the roughness of her hands as they slid up my thighs, her touch firm but gentle, tracing the sensitive lines of my body like she knew exactly where to make me shiver. 

Her lips were warm against my skin, and as she shifted, I felt her breath against me—soft, almost reverent, before she pressed a long, slow kiss against the inner curve of my leg.

Then her tongue—oh God—her tongue slid up my skin, slow and smooth, until it reached its destination. 

Every inch of me seemed to pulse with the sensation, my body aching with an intensity I couldn’t name. Her groan, deep and guttural, vibrated through me.

 “Fuck, I’ve missed you so much,” she whispered, her voice low and filled with raw, unfiltered desire. It wasn’t just words—it was a confession, a promise, something that was carved into the air between us.

A shiver ran through me at the sound, my entire body responding to her touch, my skin tingling with need. 

“Paige… please,” I begged, my voice barely a whisper, the words thick with desperation.

 I didn’t know if I was asking her to stop or begging her for more; all I knew was that I needed her, needed this, needed her to feel just as consumed as I was.

She didn’t hesitate. 

Her tongue flicked out, teasing me with long, languid strokes that made my back arch and my breath catch in my throat. 

She moved with an expertise that made it feel like time was stretching, each second lasting an eternity as she lavished me with her touch. 

My entire body was alive with sensation—heat pooling low in my stomach, my pulse thrumming in time with her every move. 

When her tongue circled around my clit, the world tilted, spinning out of control. 

My breath hitched, my hips rising instinctively toward her as I felt the first surge of pleasure ripple through me, a wave of warmth that made my body tremble in her grasp.

But she was steady, her hands gripping my thighs, her lips never leaving me, as if she had all the time in the world to make me feel every inch of her. And I wanted it. Needed it. 

Her touch, her breath, the quiet intensity that passed between us, felt like the universe had narrowed down to just this, just us, connected in ways that were raw, beautiful, and endlessly consuming.

Her lips were everywhere, teasing, tasting—each movement calculated but dripping with desire.

 Paige’s hands held my thighs firmly, her fingers pressing into my soft skin as her mouth worked over me, lips wrapping around my sensitive clit, pulling gently, then flicking with quick, precise motions. Each time, I gasped, a desperate sound falling from my lips, my back arching slightly in response.

She alternated between dragging her tongue slowly across my folds and lapping at me with quick, heated strokes, her tongue now darting, now pressing against me, just enough to send tremors through my entire body.

 I tangled my fingers in her hair, my other hand gripping the edge of the bed, barely able to hold on as she continued to drive me wild. I could feel the warmth of her mouth, the sharpness of her movements, and I wanted more.

 "Fuck," I breathed, unable to stop myself as she sucked on my clit, her mouth fully enveloping me. "Don’t stop."

Paige hummed against me, the vibration sending a wave of heat through my core, and I moaned loudly, pushing my hips up in response. 

Her eyes met mine, dark with want, a slow smile curving her lips as she pulled back for just a second.

“You like that, huh?” she asked, her voice dripping with confidence, though it was breathless.

 “You like the way I make you squirm?” Her tongue flicked over my clit, just a quick pass before she pulled back to stare at me, her face inches from mine. She loved watching me unravel.

"God, yes," I gasped, the need coursing through me. "You—" I couldn't finish the thought, my words cut off by the sensation of her tongue plunging deep into me, flicking inside, then pulling back, teasing me just enough to make my head spin. 

My hips bucked, desperate, as she pressed into me, finding the perfect rhythm, sliding in and out with precision, her lips wrapping around my clit, sucking it, pulling it, making me forget everything but her.

Her mouth moved against me like it was an art, a need, every flick, every thrust of her tongue taking me higher. 

"You taste so fucking good," she murmured against my skin, and her voice—low, guttural—sent a fresh wave of heat through me. 

Her tongue flicked back to my entrance, teasing the sensitive area with just enough pressure before pushing in again, her lips kissing my folds as her tongue slipped deeper.

“Shit, Paige," I gasped, my fingers tightening in her hair, pulling her closer. The way she moved, relentless, her tongue flicking in and out of me, then circling my clit with maddening speed... I couldn’t take it much longer. "Please, I need—"

She cut me off with a sharp, deliberate thrust of her tongue, her mouth pressing harder against me as she moved with precision, lips wrapping around the bud once more. 

The tight coil in my stomach tightened, and I couldn’t hold back any longer.

"You're gonna make me cum," I whimpered, my voice rough with need. I felt her smile against me, smug satisfaction radiating from her as she hummed in approval.

“Then do it, baby,” she urged, her words muffled as her tongue flicked across my clit once more, pressure building with every pass. "Let me feel you come all over my face."

And with that, my body gave way. I cried out, my hips jerking as I came undone under her, waves of pleasure crashing over me, my hand gripping her head to keep her against me as my orgasm tore through me. 

Paige didn’t stop, not even when I begged her to. She kept going, her tongue still working against me as I shuddered, my breath coming in gasps. 

Only when I tried to push her away, my hand finally urging her back, did she pull away, her lips glistening with my slick, eyes locked on me with a satisfied grin.

"Fuck," I panted, breathless, utterly wrecked. "You... you know how to make me lose control."

Paige pulled away slowly, her lips still glistening from the mix of my arousal. Her eyes locked onto mine, a smirk spreading across her face as she wiped her thumb over the slick on her chin, collecting it. 

Without breaking eye contact, she slid her thumb into her mouth, sucking it clean, all while keeping that smug, almost predatory grin.

“You taste even better than I remembered,” she purred, her voice thick with satisfaction. “I’ve always known, baby. Jus’ too good.”

Paige hovers over me, her lips finding mine with an urgent heat, a hunger that I can’t help but feel deep in my bones.

 Every kiss she gives me feels like a promise, a slow burn of need that echoes through every part of me. Her mouth on mine is intoxicating, and I feel every inch of it. 

My body is still humming from the pleasure I just felt, the bliss lingering in my core. 

The sensation of her lips against mine only makes it more intense, like a beautiful reminder of what just passed and what’s still to come. 

 My core aches with that emptiness, the quiet pulse that calls for more, even as I try to savor the moment.

When her tongue slides between my lips, I taste myself on her, a raw, sweet flavor that sends another wave of heat through me. 

The realization hits me, and the thought of her carrying my taste on her tongue, the way her lips move against mine, makes my breath hitch. It’s almost too much, the connection, the way it feels like we’re melting into one another.

,Paige’s hands move with purpose, slipping behind my back to unclasp my bra. When the fabric loosens, I feel the heat of her fingertips against my skin, sending shivers all over me. 

The moment my bra falls away, her touch doesn’t stop—it lingers, tracing fire over my skin. But even as the bra drops away, our lips stay locked, refusing to break the connection. 

I feel it in my chest, in my breath, the way she consumes me in every kiss.

I can’t help but return the favor, my hands sliding down to touch her, to feel her. 

My fingers find the waistband of her boxers, already pulling them down, but before I can go any further, she stops me. I look up, confused, and the look on her face is intense. 

Her breath is heavy, and her voice is low, full of desire. “Ride me,” she breathes, her eyes locked on mine with that same hunger, and it shoots straight to my core.

I stare at her for a moment, my brow furrowing. “But what about—”

Before I can finish, she silences me with another kiss, a soft, quick peck that shushes my concerns.

 “Don’t worry about it,” she whispers, her lips brushing against mine as she pulls away. Without another word, she leans over to the bedside drawer, her movements smooth and fluid.

 I watch, feeling my heart race in my chest, my anticipation growing with every motion.

She pulls open the drawer, retrieving the strap-on, and I can’t tear my eyes away from her. 

My breath catches as she begins to slip it on, her legs shifting beneath her as she adjusts the harness, pulling it up her thighs.

 The sound of the strap tightening against her skin fills the room, each deliberate motion heightening the tension between us.

I watch her, feeling my pulse quicken. The heat in the room is thickening, and I can feel the desire between us, an undeniable pull that I can’t escape.

 My body buzzes with the need for her, the ache in my belly growing again as I take in the way she moves, how she looks, how she’s getting ready for what’s to come.

I swallow hard, my breath coming quicker now, my stomach fluttering with excitement and anticipation. I feel that familiar warmth deep within me again, the longing that never seems to fade.

The bed shifts beneath me, the sound of the sheets rustling as Paige settles back onto it, her back sinking against the headboard, her body relaxed but her eyes burning with something dangerous.

 She pats her thigh, the gesture casual but commanding, like she knows exactly what it does to me. “C’mere baby,” she murmurs, the tone rich with unspoken need.

I don’t hesitate. My body moves on instinct, trembling slightly as I climb over her, straddling her thighs.

My skin tingles, the cool air hitting me while the heat between us is palpable, thick enough to taste.

 Paige’s gaze trails over me, from the way my chest rises and falls to the slickness pooling between my legs, and I can feel the pressure of her eyes on me like a physical touch.

She’s watching me carefully, waiting, like she’s savoring the moment before she makes her next move.

 I feel the weight of her gaze as I reach down, my fingers brushing against the smooth surface of the strap. With a quiet breath, I spit into my palm, slicking the strap with my saliva. 

The action feels so simple, yet so intimate, like it's the most natural thing in the world, and yet it stirs something deep inside me.

I stroke it once, twice, feeling the warmth of my hand glide along the silicone, the motion steady and confident. Her breath catches, sharp and shallow, her eyes locked on mine as she watches every movement with hungry anticipation.

“Fuck, ma,” she whispers under her breath, the words thick with desire, sending a shiver down my spine.

"You're so fucking wet," Paige says, voice low and thick. "Look at you baby, want you to ride me." Her words hang heavy in the air, but it's the dark hunger in them that makes my pulse quicken.

My mind spins, a tight knot of desire and uncertainty twisting in my stomach. "Paige, are you sure..." I start to protest, but she cuts me off, her lips brushing over mine in a soft kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s a claim, a promise.

 Her hand slides up to grip my waist, urging me forward with an urgency that stops any further thought.

"Shh," she whispers against my lips, "don’t worry ‘bout me, baby."

Her hands are everywhere—on my hips, guiding me forward, pulling me closer, and I feel myself obeying without question. 

My breath quickens, the tip of the strap brushing against my entrance. The sensation is already so much, yet it’s nothing compared to the aching emptiness inside me.

 I lower myself slowly, inch by inch, each movement deliberate, as the strap stretches me open.

The fullness is immediate, overwhelming, and I gasp, trying to adjust to the slow, steady pressure. 

Every inch fills me more, deeper, until I’m fully seated on her, and I can't help but moan at the sensation—the way it fills me so completely, the way I feel every inch of the length inside my walls.

“S-shit, baby.”

I stay there for a moment, letting the waves of sensation crash over me, feeling the stretch, the heat, the way my body pulses around her. 

Paige’s hands don’t leave my waist, holding me still as her eyes watch me with a mixture of lust and satisfaction.

“Good girl,” she growls, her hands gripping tighter as I begin to move, rocking my hips slowly at first. "Take it all, baby. Show me how much you need it."

Her words break something in me, and I begin to ride her, the motion slow at first but quickly growing desperate. I feel my brow furrow, the way my jaw slackens as I lose myself in the pleasure. 

My body is responding to her, each movement pushing me closer to the edge. The strap slides in and out, the friction making my insides tighten around it, the sensation of fullness overwhelming me.

 I bite my lip to hold back a moan, but it slips out anyway, quiet and needy.

Paige’s gaze is fixed on me, her eyes dark with hunger, watching every inch of me, every little shiver that runs through me. 

“So fucking perfect. The way you move for me, the way you ride my dick—God, you drive me crazy. You’ve got no idea how good you look right now.” She licks her lips, eyes never leaving mine, her voice low and commanding.

“Could watch you fall apart like this for hours, baby. You're fucking breathtaking."

The words send a thrill through me, and my hips move faster, harder, as I try to chase the feeling, that deep ache in my core that won’t stop building. 

“Fuck, Paige,” I mewled, moaning as I felt every inch of the strap stretch me open, the pressure building inside me. I moved with it, desperate for release, each thrust making my breath hitch. 

My chest rose and fell with the rhythm, my hands gripping her thighs for balance as I rocked against her, craving more of the sensation, more of her.

My body is trembling now, on the verge of losing control, the pressure mounting with every second.

“Look at you,” Paige growls, her voice rough with need. “So fuckin’ wet f’me. So desperate.”  She grips my hips tightly, her fingers digging into my flesh as she helps guide my movements. 

“You love the way I make you feel, hm? Love this pussy, fuck– can’t get enough of you.” 

The rawness in her voice pushes me further, and I feel the wave of heat build between my legs. My body is betraying me, aching for more, moving faster on its own as I reach for the release I’ve been desperately chasing. 

My legs tremble, the tension coiling so tightly inside me that I feel like I’m about to snap. My lips part, desperate to form words, but all that spills out are breathless, broken moans.

Paige’s thumb finds my clit, pressing down in slow, deliberate circles, each one sending a fresh wave of pleasure through me, dragging me deeper into the overwhelming bliss.. 

A low, needy whimper slips from my throat as I press harder onto her, my head tilting back slightly, eyes fluttering closed, overwhelmed by the waves of pleasure crashing through me. 

I can’t stop now, not when I’m this close—my hips grinding desperately, each movement drawing me closer to the edge.

“You’re perfect for me, baby. Just like this,” she pants, her voice dripping with praise, her eyes wild with lust. 

“You take me so fucking well. Keep going.” Paige continued to mewl, her teeth grazing her bottom lip as she groaned at the sight of me clenching around her. 

 “Don’t stop, just like that. I’m never going to get enough of you, not when you’re this fucking beautiful.”

"Paige—I can't," I sigh, my words breaking off as my movements grow more erratic. The sensation of her inside me is overwhelming, too much, too fucking good. My hips grind down harder, chasing the intensity that’s building deep in my core. 

My breath comes in shallow bursts, lost in the frenzy of it all. I can't think, can't focus—only the feeling of her filling me, the sharp edge of desire that pushes me forward, deeper into the bliss I crave. Every inch, every movement is too much, yet I can't stop, can't slow down.

“This dick too much for you, ma?” she mocks with a grin, pressing her lips to one of my nipples before pulling away with a soft pop. The heat of her mouth lingers on my skin, and I shiver, my body reacting before my mind can catch up.

“C’mon, baby,” she growls, her hands tightening on my hips, guiding me as I ride her. “So close, I can feel it. You’re so fucking tight, so perfect." Her voice dips low, sending a shock of pleasure through me. "Be a good girl and keep ridin’ me. Move with me, baby—just like that.”

Her words spill from her lips like a command and a promise, urging me to find the rhythm, to move faster, deeper. 

Every thrust is a jolt of electricity, and her hands help pull me closer, pushing me harder onto her. I feel every inch of her inside me, the heat building, and my breath comes out in soft pants as I chase the pleasure she promises.

I obey, my body responding to her command as if it's the only thing that matters in this world. The air around us seems to vanish, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of her filling me, the stretch of the strap deeper than I ever expected. 

The rhythm of our bodies colliding sends shockwaves of pleasure through me, every thrust pulling me further under her control.

 I can hear the slap of skin against skin, the desperate, breathless gasps that escape my lips, and it only makes me want more.

Each inch of her pushes me closer to the edge, the heat between us like an inferno, smoldering beneath the surface. 

The strap is a thick, unrelenting force inside me, and with every stroke, I feel the pressure build, that tight coil of tension winding inside my belly, threatening to snap. 

My legs shake, trembling with need, my body so close to release I can already taste it. The pleasure is a wave, building higher, and my entire being is focused on that one beautiful moment where I can finally let go.

"Shit—baby, I’m gonna come," I gasp, the words spilling from my lips without any thought as my body burns with the need for release.

Paige groans, her grip tightening on my hips as she thrusts harder, faster, making my whole body jerk with each motion. "Yeah? Gonna come on my dick, ma?" she growls, her voice rough, sending an electric thrill through me.

Before I can answer, just as I’m about to lose myself, to surrender to the bliss that’s been building within me, Paige pulls out with a sharp motion, lifting me effortlessly and tossing me to the side. 

The sudden emptiness inside me is a shock, and I can’t help but whine in protest, my mind hazy, still clinging to the remnants of pleasure. 

I open my mouth to argue, to demand that she finish what she started, but my words dissolve into a breathless moan, high-pitched and desperate.

“Paige, please…” I start, but the words catch in my throat, swallowed by the sensation that still lingers in my core.

Before I can say anything more, Paige’s hands grip my thighs, and in one swift motion, she’s back inside me, sliding deep with a single, forceful thrust. 

My legs are immediately lifted, thrown over her shoulders, and my body trembles beneath her power. A gasp escapes my lips, a primal sound that I can't control.

“Oh my fuck!” I yell, my eyes slamming shut as my jaw slackens, the shock of her re-entering me overwhelming every other thought in my mind. 

My body burns, every inch of me pulsing with the deep, heavy sensation of her inside me again, rearranging my guts.

The new angle has me seeing stars, my vision blurring as pleasure crashes over me in dizzying waves, leaving me breathless and utterly undone.

 My moans become louder, more guttural, rising from the depths of my chest as I feel the delicious ache of fullness. 

The pressure builds again, only this time it’s faster, more frantic. I can feel her deep in me, her movements deliberate and slow at first, but I can’t stop myself from pushing against her, desperate for more, aching for release.

Every snap of her hips slams into that devastatingly perfect spot, the one that has my vision blurring, my mouth falling open in a silent cry, my entire body surrendering to the waves of bliss crashing over me.

"Fuck, Paige!" I whine, my voice strained, filled with need. "Don’t stop, please!"

Paige’s groan fills the room as she picks up the pace, her thrusts deep and relentless. "You feel so fucking good, baby. You’re mine, you hear me?" She growls, each word like a command, making me ache even more. "You’re gonna come all over me. I can feel it, ma."

The pornographic moans echo through the room, and my body arches involuntarily, lifting as if I’m trying to take every inch of her, desperate to lose myself in the sensation. 

Paige keeps me trapped beneath her, driving into me with a relentless precision that leaves me trembling, completely at her mercy—my body hers to command, my pleasure hers to ruin. 

Each thrust drags me deeper into a haze of overwhelming sensation, my mind slipping further as she moves against me like she was made for this, like I was made for her.  

“Come for me, baby,” she grits out, her voice thick with need, her grip on my hips tightening as she drives into me.  

The tension inside me snaps, and I break with a choked sob, my entire body seizing as a rush of pleasure consumes me. 

Liquid spills between us, soaking everything—sheets, skin, her lower abdomen. I barely register the wrecked sound Paige makes, nearly undone herself at the sight of me falling apart for her.  

“Oh, fuck,” she groans, grinding into me as she helps me ride it out, dragging out every last wave of bliss until I’m nothing but a trembling, breathless mess beneath her.

“Shit, ma— look at that. Jus’ squirted everywhere.” 

Paige pulls out slowly, deliberately, as if she knows exactly how fragile I am in this moment. A soft whimper escapes me, melting into a breathless moan, my body still trembling from the aftermath. 

My limbs are useless, boneless, my chest rising and falling in uneven, heavy breaths as I lay beneath her, utterly wrecked—flushed, spent, undone.  

She lingers above me, eyes roaming, drinking me in with something raw and possessive.

 I can feel the heat of her gaze mapping every inch of me, lingering on the way my skin glistens, the way I’m still dripping from her, the way the sheets beneath us are damp with the evidence of her destruction. 

Paige exhales, a low, shaky sound, her fingers trailing over my thigh, barely grazing, teasing—because she can. I twitch beneath her, too sensitive, and her lips curl into a smirk before she leans down, capturing my mouth in a slow, languid kiss.  

It’s teasing, indulgent, her teeth grazing my bottom lip just enough to make me exhale a quiet, breathy laugh against her mouth. 

Paige chuckles too, the sound deep, warm, sending a shiver down my spine as she melts into me, pressing closer, stealing another kiss, and then another—soft, lazy, unhurried.  

And then she pulls back just slightly, lips still brushing against mine, voice nothing more than a hushed murmur.  

“Is it too late to tell you I’m releasing another song about you… in an hour?”  

My words take a second to sink in, her mind too dazed, too hazy, before I force my eyes open and glance at the clock on my bedside table. *3:00 AM.* The realization has me groaning, too exhausted to be annoyed but awake enough to tease her.  

“So “Purple Lace Bra was about me,” she muttered, her voice hoarse, thick with exhaustion.  

Paige’s lips curl into a playful grin, her teeth grazing my jaw with a soft, teasing nip before she presses another kiss there—gentle, featherlight, almost too tender for the intensity we just shared. 

Her eyes flicker with a quiet satisfaction as she pulls back, her hands reaching for the strap-on. 

The movement is slow, deliberate, and somehow reverent as she carefully slips it off, tossing it aside with a casual ease that contrasts the wildness of the moment.

“Obviously,” I hums, my voice laced with amusement as Paige rolls onto her side, pulling me against her chest. Her arms settle around me, warm and firm, her fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns against my damp skin.  

We settle into a quiet lull, our laughter fading into something softer, something more fragile. Paige exhales, her hand reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear before she stills, her touch lingering.  

“Hey,” she murmurs, so soft it’s barely above a whisper, as if anything louder might shatter me completely. “I just want you to know that I’m truly sorry.”  

I blink up at her, my breath catching slightly.  

“I’m sorry I was being a dumbass,” she says, her tone edged with something raw, something real.  

I don’t hesitate. I lean in, capturing her lips in a slow, deliberate kiss, not to distract, not to avoid, but to answer. She melts into it instantly, her fingers tightening on my waist as if grounding herself in me. 

And when I pull back, just enough to press my forehead against hers, I murmur, “Why don’t we—” I pause, considering, letting the thought take shape before I say it aloud. “Why don’t we take this slow?”  

Paige exhales, something deep and unspoken passing between us before she nods. “Yeah,” she breathes. “Slow.”  

The moment lingers, stretching into something infinite, before she pulls me closer, wrapping herself around me completely.

 The tension fades into something softer, something warmer, as her hands continue their slow, soothing exploration—tracing, praising, worshipping.  

She whispers against my skin, her voice a low, reverent murmur. “You were so perfect for me, baby. So good. So fuckin’ beautiful.” Her lips find my temple, my jaw, the shell of my ear. 

I hum in response, too exhausted to do anything more than nuzzle into her warmth, and Paige only holds me tighter, whispering soft praises against my skin—again and again—until we finally drift off, tangled in each other, in the quiet, in the aftermath of something that feels like a beginning.

No note today, I go sleep now.

P.S I haven’t written smut in a shit long time, but I hope you enjoyed <3

xoxo,

J.

© sweettu1ips.tumblr 2025 do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[killersfool]

You Might Get What You Want | ROBERT KEATING

PAIRING: robert keating x original f!character

GENRE: childhood frenemies to lovers

SUMMARY: lucia (luz), nieve ella’s keyboardist, has an estranged history with inhaler—especially with the band’s bassist, bobby. their fiery hatred for eachother rapidly blossoms into something sweet, especially when she learns that he wrote a song about her.

WORDS: 5.8k

WARNINGS: kissing, swearing, alcohol use, mild sexual content

Being Nieve Ella's keyboardist has completely altered the course of my life. Only eight months ago, I was doing my second year of uni, trying to get through a Music course and completely regretting all of my life choices. My favourite part of the day would be getting home and sitting at my piano, writing songs and posting them on Tiktok. Views racked up, followers kept coming in and I think I realised how well everything was going when Laufey commented on my cover of 'Like The Movies'. Then about two weeks later, an email shot through my phone—literally like a bullet to skin. I dropped the rectangular device to the ground mid-lecture, hand on my mouth, teeth in my lip. 

Nieve Ella had asked me to join her on tour. With Inhaler.

At first I was laughing, then I was bawling with endless tears of happiness and now I'm on my final show still feeling woozy and adrenaline is banging through my brain. The whole band have become my best friends. And, quite shockingly, me and Inhaler have a weird shared history. I've known them since I was really young. I used to watch their first gigs at tiny venues where they'd run around in the crowd and hardly anyone knew the lyrics. I went to the same school as Bobby, Eli and Ryan who were a bunch of madmen. They'd let me hang out with them backstage or at practice and jam before they finally found a 'proper' keyboardist (Louis). To be honest, I'd always been slightly salty that I never got into the band. But I guess we were never close enough and I could be quite horrible to Bobby — but honestly, he deserved it. He was a whiny, teenage nightmare. Still is. Except he's not a teenager anymore.

Thankfully, Nieve Ella and the band take a train separate to Inhaler. I don't have to hear Bobby's jests 24/7.  Today we're heading to Dublin. The final stop of the Cuts and Bruises tour. It's been a long ride but it's all been worth it. I've had the best time ever. I'm listening to the Strokes, a song Bobby recommended to me a few weeks ago. It's been on my mind ever since and I can't stop hearing the same chords and riffs over and over. Even when my headphones leave my ears. The song is 12:51 and funnily enough Bobby has a tattoo right on his bicep with those exact numbers. The lads gave us a rather enjoyable tattoo tour with reasons for each of their inked designs. 

I lay back my head against the cushioned seat.  I like this, I prefer it to what I was doing before. The constant stress, the exams,  the structure. I like the freedom of doing shows and seeing new people and travelling to new places. Never sure what you're in for. Crowd after crowd with all different energies and enthusiasm. The adrenaline rush is the best part of the day but when you wake up the following morning, it's like the life has been sucked out of you. You feel like nothing. Human. A person with legs and arms. Flailing around with no thoughts in your head. A billion times worse than a hangover. Post concert depression.  The lull after such a powerful high. It's nice to go through that hell with a group of friends who all feel the same way. Becomes a strange group therapy.

For the past hour, I've been begging Josh to tell me what is on the set list. I'm praying they'll add some different songs. Older ones. Seeing as it's the last show of the tour. Something to surprise the fans. Maybe 'Falling In' or 'There's No Other Place' or even my favourite 'You Might Get What You Want'. That was one that was written when Rob was the lead singer of the band. When I'd bang the keys in that garage. When we'd sing the lyrics together and sound like an awful church choir. I never got the chance to listen to it live, performed properly by the band. I'm still heartbroken they didn't leave it on the track list for the album. I have to resort to listening to illegal Spotify versions. 

I feel like crying everytime I remember this is the last show I might ever do with Inhaler. The last time I might see the lot of them. They'll surely disappear off into the shadows once tour is over, making their next album, cutting off all contact to focus solely on their music. After spending so much time with a group of people, then completely losing them from your life, you just feel so very empty. Like a swimming pool with no water. Or a mug of tea left hollow after spilling it all by accident. Last night — I would never dare to admit this to anyone — I cried for two hours straight into the pillow of my hotel room. Tour is a glorious thing. Fun, exciting, terrifying all at the same time. But the thought of finality is what split me into pieces, broke me up and squeezed tear after tear from my eyes.

Fran keeps looking at me with raised eyebrows like she's about to ask a question. She's scribbling on her set list, making sure she knows exactly what's happening and when. Her earrings twinkle as she tilts her head, her eyeliner sharp and perfect. Her mouth parts the slightest bit to reveal white teeth, a small smile. "You alright there, Luz?"

God, anytime someone asks me that, it makes me want to cry ten times more. I look down the train compartment, stare at the bathroom and decide whether to make my move. Do I run and hide in there for the duration of the trip, two hours of crying into mouldy train toilet paper? Or do I try to brave it and tell her how I feel? Or just lie through gritted teeth? She's good at reading me. She'll know that I'm not telling the truth.

"Don't tell Nieve this but I feel like absolute shite." There it is. I said it. Fire sinks into my skin, blood rushes up to my head. I squeeze my cheek to make sure I am actually sitting here and that I'm not hallucinating. Lack of sleep had made me seem some weird shit. I need caffeine. Quick.

"We all do." Fran puts her hand on top of mine. "Look, one more show, then we can sleep for as long as we want."

"That's the thing. I don't want this to end."

Fran gets up from her seat and swivels around the table. She sits down beside me, arms opening up and embraces me until I think I see stars. No one has ever hugged me so tightly. My bones seem to audibly shift. 

"Nieve's doing a few shows in February, remember? And I'm sure next time Inhaler tours, they'll be on their hands and knees begging for us to come back." She strokes my hair. "Although, Bobby might be telling us to bugger off instead. You two need to sort out this drama. It's driving us all mad."

"He started it." I sound like a three-year-old irritated at my brother. 

Fran laughs to herself. "Fucking hell. I bet he did." 

—

Arguing. It's happened again. Our last day together has gone to a great start.

First stop of the day—a random restaurant that Ryan dragged us to. Hugs were shared, kind words uttered, teeth glowing under dim lights. I sit down on a wooden chair, peel my jacket from my body and place it on the back. The cool wind is slamming against the windows. I'd forgotten how cold Dublin was. Especially in November. Some Christmas lights adorn the streets and pubs are lively with masses of people. We were stopped a only once on the way there by a group of fans—even our attempt at scuttling through empty alleyways didn't work when five friends with Inhaler-themed cowboy-hats impeded our trail. They were lovely. Photos taken and compliments exchanged. Sadly, Bobby was in a bad mood. When I say a bad mood, I mean a 'I want to kill everyone on this planet and throw myself on a train track' kind of bad mood. He hid away from the fans, behind me and Nieve. His height wasn't particularly helpful in that instant. The blonde, 'Amelie', had said in her thick French accent, "Is that Bobby? I was wondering where he was."

Caught. Found. He thought staying there for a while longer would make them think he wasn't there at all. Amelie was persistent, however, and said softly, "Please could I take a picture with you?" 

Her friends all started whispering. Eli was tapping his friend on the shoulder to get him to move. He was frozen. Eli frowned and shook his head. 

"Sorry but Rob's being a bit weird today," Josh explained. "I don't think he wants any photos."

Amelie nodded, but the sadness in her eyes was apparent. "That's okay."

I felt bad for the girl. I turned around, looked at Bobby. He was on his phone. Scrolling through Tiktok still crouched down. A quick look at his phone screen showed me that he was watching edits — edits of himself. I had to take a double take to actually believe what I'd just seen. He was staring at clips of himself, smiling, and wouldn't even stand for five seconds next to a girl who'd paid to see his band. He continued to swipe his thumb against the screen, blue eyes lit up by his bright phone.

Then his eyes caught mine and he closed the Tiktok tab. "You didn't see that, did you?" He worriedly spoke so unbelievably quickly, I had to scramble my brain to decipher the words. His smile flipped upside down. Shock written all over him. Blush rising right up to the tips of his ears. 

"The hell is wrong with you?" I muttered. Nieve heard. She stepped away. She did not want to be involved in whatever the two of us were plotting. 

"What's wrong with me?" He breathed. It's like he was asking himself the question but there was an unyielding harshness to his voice, raspy and agitated. I was sure that this argument was going to be just as bad as the Sid Vicious incident, or worse. Halloween Bobby was on a different wavelength — bordering on depravity.

"You're watching fucking Tiktok edits of yourself. Didn't think you could be that self-centered—"

"Can we not do this now? Please?" Bobby tried to get me to calm down. Amelie and her friends were still only metres away, asking Josh about the tour, about the next album. Fran was listening in. She was smiling to herself. Part of her definitely enjoyed the beef between us. 

"Show me your Tiktok."

"No."

"Now."

He sighed. I grabbed his phone, opened Tiktok straight away. His whole 'For You' page was edits of himself. The account he was on was a fake user account. I couldn't believe my eyes.

"What the hell..." Was all I could manage to say.

"I can explain."

"Can you? Go on then."

He didn't say anything. Took his phone back and kicked the brick wall beside him. He shook his phone around like he was going to throw it as well. That wouldn't change anything. I'd seen the worst of it — at least I hoped I'd seen the worst of it.

"Take that photo with those girls and I'll shut up about this." I gave him an option. A way to let him get out of the hole he'd dug for himself. 

He was so tall. Sometimes I forgot that. But there, back straight, no longer slouched and his neck craned to meet my eyes. I couldn't hold eye contact. His clenched jaw was making me nervous. 

"Fine." He finally concluded the argument with a single word. His index finger then pointed towards me, just beneath my neck. "But you don't tell anyone about this."

I grinned. "I promise." 

Stepping over towards Amelie, he smiled widely, put an arm over her shoulder and allowed Fran to take the picture of the group. Moments later he was complaining about his shoes. How they were too small. If Robert Keating had a chance to complain about anything, he'd take it and wouldn't shut up about it. I just knew at that point that we'd be hearing about his shoes for the rest of the day.  

Tension is thick in the restaurant. I can almost taste it in my mouth. Rob sits beside me. I don't want to look at him, don't want to hear him talk, don't want to have anything to do with him. He's only the only person I won't miss once this tour is over.

Before anyone can get a word out, Eli taps his fork against his glass. All eyes fall to him. Grace is next to him, she's appeared out of nowhere. 

"I just want to say thank you to Nieve, Fran, Lucia, Finn and Matt for being such great openers on our tour. We're so grateful for all of you. This wouldn't have been the same without you."

"Aw, Eli, I might cry a bit, please stop." Nieve shakes her head, holding her napkin to her eyes. "This has been such a dream. We should be thanking you for giving us this opportunity."

"We need to do this again sometime." Ryan pitches in. "Next time we tour, you're coming with us."

"Yeah. That would be grand," Josh exclaims, pulling up his pint of Guinness and crashing it against everyone else's.

Bobby, after all his hours of complaining, has gone back to silent, angry mode. Playing around with his fork, he stares blankly at the menu, fingers tracing the lettering. I watch him as the others melt into conversation. I just want to know what is going through his head. Why is he acting like this? Last week, he was fun to be around and we had a good time. Especially when he's drunk, he loosens up a bit and stops with the facade. He even kissed me once. As a joke. I think.

It was a mess of alcohol. A 'midnight tour bus party'. We were in London and instead of going to the hotel, we ended up spending the night in the lovely green tour bus. We all got so drunk we could hardly speak. I can't remember all that we got up to but when we were sobering up, Bobby dragged me outside of the bus. He gave me his jacket, placed it over my shoulders. We sat down on a random doorstep, hugging each other to keep warm. Two penguins. Two people who usually hated eachothers guts, finding comfort in the warmth that emanated from our bodies. I'd never thought his hair was nice until that moment. How it grazed over my neck. How the curls twisted perfectly and his overgrown mullet framed his face. Or how pretty his eyes were as they shone under streetlights. Dreamy, long eyelashes, sea-like waves. He'd kissed me. His long fingers over my cheeks. His pink lips slotting between mine. I pulled away, shocked. Electricity had sparked between us, my heart was pounding, my body was a torch. Then I ran away from him. I couldn't understand what If just felt. I had never seen him in that way. We never mentioned it again.

Maybe that's what has made him colder. I still haven't acknowledged what happened that night. I keep thinking that he was too drunk to even remember it, but maybe he does. I'm not going to bring it up. Especially now. Especially in this restaurant with everyone sat with us.

"I'm sorry, Lucia."

My heart drops. Bobby is looking at me. Downcast. Entire state is disjointed. His mouth just said that, his brain just formulated those words. 

"What?" I must've heard him wrong. Imagining it. This time I must be hallucinating.

"I'm sorry about that night."

Mindreader. He knew what I was thinking about. What my mind has been lingering on. The weather reminds me, his scent reminds me, his hands remind me, his jacket reminds me. That night. London. The night after Troxy. The wind — cut-throat, sharp, steely — the rain, and my tear-stained bedsheets. The taste of his mouth and the dejction locked into his eyes as I left him. Like I'd made a terrible mistake. Like running into my hotel room, alone, was the worst possible option I could've chosen. 

I'm wearing the same earrings as I did that night — these ribbon ones that a fan made for me. Bobby had pointed them out — which he shifted between his fingertips and said they suited me. He's eyeing them now, hands curving, resisting any urge to touch them again, to drag us back to that moment. 

The waiter takes my order. Bobby's words properly forage the depths of my mind, the veins and the arteries circling around my body, the aching crevices of my heart. I ask for the first thing I see on the menu and a Fanta. I want to stay sober. I want to savour all that will happen beyond this second. Bobby also doesn't get alcohol. Shockingly. The Bobby I know would never turn down a pint of Guinness. But he gets a 7up instead and takes a long, hard gulp of it when the waiter comes back. I'm counting the cracks on the table, how squeaky the chair is, the coffee stain on the ceiling — trying to guess how they managed to get up there. Musicians like to occupy their brains. They don't like to think too much - just do. 

"I'm sorry..." I whisper. Finally giving him a reponse after a long pause for thought. 

He had been waiting for an answer. He catches it. Twists uneasily in his seat. Wood creaks. Rain patters.

"...It was wrong of me to leave you." The image of his despair still rings through my bones. I swear when my cells divide they keep trying to recreate that look on his face.

"I shouldn't have..." his voice lowers, heat pf his mouth glides by my ear "...kissed you."

I'm trying to drink my Fanta with no reaction. Sugary greatness. Cold, slightly wet fingers. Orangey flavouring. But his voice is so low, trickling, burning, goosebump-inducing. I can't look at him. He's too close to me. It's too hot in the restaurant. Soundcheck is in 20 minutes. I want to run away again. I always want to run away. 

Down my Fanta, smooth my skirt, breathe in deeply. 

"I liked it." I similarly glide my lips over his ear when he's least expecting it, returning the favour.

He coughs. Chokes a bit on his drink. Then he eats his Pesto pasta with the pinkest neck I've ever seen on a person. Jacket off to reveal long, tattoo-covered arms, and the muscles that have progressively been getting bigger over the months. I join Ryan and Matt's drummer conversation to stop staring. It's weird. Being attracted to him feels wrong. Teenage Lucia would be ashamed. She’d slap some sense into me.

Dinner ends quickly. We're thrusted back into Dublin air before we can even adjust to the complete switch in environment. Running to the venue, through alleyways, shooting splashes of water all over the place, we realise how late we are. I feel better than I did in the morning. That dreaded train ride. Bobbys giving me the silent treatment again. I hate it. I hate it more than when he's being downright horrible to me. 

-

Our set was unbelievable. The best show I've ever done. The crowd was unreal, the size of the place was absurd. We had never sounded so great. Everything went according to plan. We're crying now that we're offstage. We need something to uplift us. Nieve's idea is to party in the back. Which is one of the best parts of the night.

We find a spot just before Inhaler goes on. Screams bleed through the room, adoration written in teenage faces, phones held up to capture the moment. The five lads on stage. One final time. I scream like I'm sixteen all over again, dancing as the first song 'These Are The Days' begins to play. Shouting along, throwing my hands in the air. I don't think I've ever been so happy and fulfilled before.

The setlist is the usual. I didn't expect them to change it. Eli gives a little 'thank you' speech, mentioning us at the end. Then suddenly encore starts and I'm met by a mildly unfamiliar song. The crowd seems just as confused as I am. Bobby is wearing that stupid black vest and I swear his bass has been lowered all the more. The next time they perform, it'll surely be grazing the floor. 

Bobby doesn't normally speak to the crowd at shows. It's always Eli. But as they play the intro, he begins to speak, "Hi everyone. Hope you're all having a good time." Commotion, screams, chanting 'Bobby' as if it's a cult gathering, not a concert. His eyes are searching through the crowd. The party in the back turned into moshpits and luckily I got pushed near to the front. His eyes land on mine. I can tell he's looking at when he plays with his earring — like it's a code between us. He keeps playing the same few notes on the bass lazily as he grabs the mic stand. Everyone is silent and listening as he says, "This is 'You Might Get What You Want'.

I recognise it now. I'm sent back to high school. 6 years ago. Practice room at school. Instrument cases strewn all over tha place, broken drumsticks leant against the wall. I'm sat at the piano as Bobby announces, "This is a new song I wrote." He passes me the chords starts singing. My thoughts are quiet. The external world is too loud for me to think. I'm lost in the music. The song is beautiful — lyrics, chords, arrangement, Bobby's voice. That was the day when I wanted to ask to join the band. Then Bobby was horrible to me so I changed my mind. I even asked him what the song was about. He looked at the Jim Morrison poster on the door, hand against his buzzed head as he thought up a response. "A girl," was his final conclusion. I thanked him for his specificity. He told me, quite frustratedly, it was 'none of my business'. Then he was riled up and told me to leave because I was 'playing it all wrong'. One of the last times I ever played with the band. So when I hear the song again — I'm back, sitting at the piano with my school uniform, waiting for cues to play the next chord.

The crowd goes wild at the fact that Bobby is singing alone. This is unusual. The majority of the crowd don't know the song. Reminds me of their first gigs in tiny venues. I sing along, staring at Bobby as he stares back. I wonder which girl the song was actually about. At seventeen, he hung out with every girl in sight - parties, random town meetups, gigs. The way he is looking at me is shattering me down to my core — eyes painted with affection and how he keeps moving his earring. For some reason, I wish the song is about me. Then he sings, 'You Might Get What You Want' whilst pointing right at me. Has anyone else noticed his staring? Nieve and Fran seem clueless. It could all be in my head. His face appears on the screen. I stare. Not ashamed. Appreciating his beauty for as long as we have left. Only tonight. Then nothing. Only the possibility of seeing eachother once again. It won't be set in stone.

I'm a sweaty mess by the end of the show. Last goodbyes, last waves, last shocked stares at the extent of the crowd. I always forget how boiling it gets in the standing area. I'm almost at the point of suffocating. We leave with the crowd, taking a few selfies with fans along the way. I stand in the merch queue. I need something to remember this. Something I can keep and wear and just be brought back to this venue, to this atmosphere. I buy a black tour shirt with the bubbly lettering, slipping it over my tank top. I just know the change in temperature will murder me. The more layers I have on, the better.

We slip through the crowd. Thankfully, it's quieter after my long time in the merch queue. I'd never seen such a long amalgamation of people. 

Back at the hotel, I crash straight down onto my bed. Don't even turn on the lights or take off my clothes. I just close my eyes and stretch out my body like a cat. It all happened too quickly. I left the band early to head back, although I heard the rest of them were going to the tour bus to get drunk. I've already had so much fun. I just need to relax. Alone time. Silence. Comfort.

A knock on the door.

I jump up. Still in my Inhaler shirt and lacy white skirt, I feel like taking a shower. But whoever just knocked has impeded any plans. I could just pretend I didn't hear them. I could fall asleep and they'll just walk away. 

Another knock. I jolt up this time. It's louder.

This time I reach the door. Sliding the keyhole open, I see him. Of course it's him. Of course. Of all the people that could be here right now. His hair is wet, mussed up. He's holding his jacket under his arm as it's completely drenched. Looking from side to side, he seems to contemplate giving up and leaving me solitary.

I open the door. Let my guard down. I want to talk. Rant. Let out all the garble mixing up and stuffing my skull. He'd listen to me. 

"What are you doing here?" I ask. I don't say it rudely. Make sure to keep my tone quiet and curious. The rise of his head to meet my eyes is almost film-like, tracing along my skin, photographic.

"I need to talk to you."

"Come in then." 

Close the door behind him. He drops his jacket onto the floor. Slides off those shoes with a groan. They really are too small on him. He can hardly untie the laces without sucking in a quick breath. He looks at himself in the dodgy mirror, trying to fix any flying pieces of hair. His beard is growing a little — little moustache fading in above his mouth.

He sits down on a chair by the table.  His lengthy legs reach up to the end of the bed where I'm sat. He picks up a tea bag, sniffs it then puts it back. I'm worried about what he's about to say. He looks like he's gone through hell and back to get here. I've never seen him so dishevelled. 

"You were amazing today." I hate the silence. I fill it up. "You all get better every time."

He's been so serious since he came in but the ghost of a smile haunts his lips. They twitch then fall. "So do you."

“Is this about your weird For You page because I’m pretty fucking worried.” I’m trying to forget I saw any of those edits. 

“It’s not that.” He shakes his head. He's hugging his chest, arms shivering. My eyes narrow. Each hair on his arm is stood to attention.

"Do you want a blanket?" I'm about to look for something to warm him up when his hand clasps around my wrist. He's stood up. I'm sat down, looking up at him. His thumb traces the inside of my wrist, over a bracelet I have. One that he gave me when I was sixteen. A friendship bracelet he'd brought to one of the rehearsal sessions. I wore it just to get a reaction out of him. This is the first time he’s noticed it. 

I want to ask him what he's doing. But then he's sat next to me with his arms around my body and I forget what I was going to say. 

"Robert..." I don't normally say his full name. It's the only word that's coming to mind. His wet hair is dripping all over my skirt, his head is against my chest, he won't look up at me.

When I pick up his face, stretch my hands over his cheeks, I find his crystal eyes glossed over. Tears. He's crying. I don't know how to react. He buries his head back into the crook of my neck like he's embarrassed. Then he's breathing heavily. Heaving. Sniffling.

"What is it?" I whisper. I stroke every inch of his hair, the nape of his neck, the thin material of his vest. I trace the tattoos on his arm. Finally landing on the music notation inked into his wrist.

"I don't want you to leave." He holds onto my waist, under my shirt, cold skin. "Stay here. With me. Please."

I wipe the tears from his face. I must look like a beetroot. I'm boiling. 

"Really?" I think I'm crying as well. I can't help it. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him so unguarded, so helpless.

"I only sang that song so you'd hear it." He looks up at the ceiling, cogs turning in his brain. "It's not just about a girl. It's about you."

"You're kidding." I have to laugh. 

"I'm not. I wrote it during the summer holidays before high school. I had some weird thought that you were going to call me and ask me out. I was always a prick to you so I don't know where that idea was coming from exactly. It's just when you want something so badly—I guess your brain manifests it into reality. Like every time I turned around a corner, I thought you'd magically appear. I thought you'd say that you liked me. But then you went off to Uni, the band got big. And now this. You're in fucking Nieve Ella's band. I thought I was going to throw up when I saw you get out of the train. Everything just came back. I didn't put the song on the album because every time I hear it, I just remember what an idiot I am for not treating you well and for not telling you how I feel. Singing it brought me back to the practice room, to that shitty piano with pedals falling off the hinges. How you made such a disgusting piano sound divine. I don't want to make the same mistake. If I let you go now, I'll be regretting it for the rest of my life."

"So you were looking at me? When you were singing?" I tilt my head, thumb below his eye. 

"I might have been." He's not crying anymore. His voice is less rough. He sounds like normal Bobby again.

"I'll stay with you. As long as you want."

"Forever?"

"Bit too long. I can only deal with you for about three hours at a time."

"Then we should make good use of the—" He looks down at his watch. "—Two hours and 43 minutes we have left."

"What do you have planned?" I'm getting closer to him. His nose bumps against mine.

"What do you want to do, Luz?" He's challenging me. Thumb swirling over my lips. 

"This." I kiss him. Lips to lips. Two notes in perfect harmony. Everything we've been through culminating into one simple kiss. It's a peck. A tease. I pull away as I feel him yank me closer. 

His hands find my ears and it's like that night again. His mouth tastes the same. Sweet. Lukewarm. He still grazes my bottom lip with his teeth when he feels me shift back. 

"You're an angel," he says.

At that, I'm kissing him again. This time with more passion. Exploding fireworks. Jumping into the ocean, water floating around you. The ringing in your eyes after an explosion. An earthquake. A tidal wave. So many feelings at once. He's trying to take my shirt off. I let him. Pulled it over my head so quickly I thought he might get my neck off as well. He throws it onto the nearby chair, looking at me, with those glimmering eyes and perfect eyebrows. Beauty spots and smooth skin. I attempt to take off his shirt too, although it's pretty much stuck to his chest. He helps me out, laughing at my stress. 

"It's not that hard." He smirks, tugging at the top as I manage to unstick the bottom. 

"Fuck off." I roll my eyes. 

He pushes me down onto the bedsheets, helping me up until my head is on the pillow. I look over his frame. Long torso, large biceps, chain around his neck. It's too much to deal with. Hooded eyes, smirk on his lips, happy trail leading down to his belt. He knows how he's making me dizzy. He leans down, curling over me, scent hanging, cool skin against mine. I throw my head back. I've never been touched like this. So precise. So gentle. Like I'm his favourite bass guitar. I'd never noticed how long his fingers were until they were splayed over my bra, until the other hand was sliding up my thigh.

He kisses my neck, my shoulders, my collarbones, the valley between my breasts, tongue flat, teeth sharp. I hold onto his hair, then onto his toned shoulders. This morning, I would never have expected that this would happen. That the boy I loathed was admiring me and tasting me with unrelenting adoration. Now, the thought of leaving him makes me sick to my stomach. I pull him a little closer, kiss him a little harder and remember just how red teenage Bobby's face was after he'd sang that song to me. How defensive he was when I asked him about it. Now it all makes sense.

I won't ever leave him again.

[piratefalls]

i don't have a snarky opening line this week. have fic instead.

masterlist.

(make me) misbehave by r_holland

Alex Claremont-Diaz has done it again. The Texas-born singer-songwriter released his fourth studio album second skin Thursday at midnight. Full of Claremont-Diaz’s signature lyricism, critics are praising the album for the cohesive image it paints. second skin is the result of a young writer at the top of his game, and every lyric depicts for the listener a picture of a sun-drenched secret romance. Fans are clamoring to be the first to uncover the mystery girl at the center of it all, although Claremont-Diaz remains tight-lipped on the subject… -- Or: Alex Claremont-Diaz is a singer-songwriter rising up in the music industry. Henry Fox is the shining star of an acting empire. This is a love story.

NFWMB by cricketnationrise

5 Times Alex Fights Customer Service for Henry + 1 Time He Doesn't Have To

falling in love (in the cruelest way) by coffeecatsme

“Alex?” The name makes Alex stop halfway to the register and look back. Henry is standing in the same spot, shifting from foot to foot, before he juts his chin out. He meets Alex’s eyes. “Where are you traveling to?” Or, Alex picks up a stranger on a road trip, only to realize too late he's the missing Prince of Wales.

We've Got To Stop Meeting like This by everwitch

Alex books an Airbnb studio with a shared bathroom. The other studio is occupied by a man with lush pink lips and impressive personal hygiene — really, he’s super diligent about lathering and rinsing. Alex would know, seeing as the lock to the bathroom is seriously unreliable. Or: the Airbnb romp you didn’t know you needed.

quad shot americano by saintlynomenclature

Like always, Henry’s made it perfectly—the espresso is rich, decidedly not burnt, and the cinnamon tastes like it’s been infused rather than sprinkled in. “How the fuck do you do this?” Alex demands, taking another sip as Henry laughs at him. “If I tell you, you won’t come back.” Henry smiles, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest. Alex lets his eyes follow the line of Henry’s shoulders, falling down to the veins in his forearms after the ends of his bunched-up sleeves. The ring on Henry’s left pinky doesn’t reflect in the lowlight of the back corner—without the sun glinting off of it, Alex can finally see that the surface of it is engraved. “If you think coffee's the only thing keeping me around, sweetheart, then I need to try harder.” The blush coats Henry’s cheeks again. He dips his head bashfully, eyes skating away from Alex’s face. “Whatever will I do with you?” he murmurs under his breath.

- Or, Alex spends an exorbitant amount of money on coffee.

Not So Silent Night by inexplicablymine

Sure, Alex can admit in the deepest recesses of his mind, at two in the morning, when the Liszt is playing forlornly like some kind of bugle call for grief, that whoever the fuck lives next to him is on another level with the keys. Or Alex has no idea who his piano playing neighbor is, but Alex knows one thing for certain… This means war.

Airplane Mode by clottedcreamfudge

Getting into an argument with someone in the airport lounge had probably been a mistake, in hindsight; Alex knows this. But with so many fucking delays and the fact that the signal on his phone is currently making it about as useful as two paper cups joined by a piece of string, he’s kind of on-edge. It’s not entirely his fault that he snaps. Attractive people with perfect hair who take the last almond croissant before Alex can get to it probably just need to understand this. Alex is at the end of his tether, and he will not be swayed by, “Well, I was here first,” in a British accent so smooth it could butter bread.

something more, something right by rizcriz

Alex blinks at him, seemingly entirely unimpressed. “So, you’re just going to pretend we’re not in love with each other?” 

here the whole time by HypnosTheory

Alex frowns, massaging Henry’s scalp. “It feels like you’re getting headaches more often babe. Anything wrong?” “It’s nothing,” Henry says, melting under Alex’s fingers on his scalp. “My suppressants are just killing my head. Think I’ve been taking them too long, I probably need a break soon.” Alex hums thoughtfully. “Or you could get off them for good.” -- Married and bonded, Henry and Alex decide it's about time to get off suppressants and start enjoying their bond fully.

Of Who I Am (Golden) by MayQueen517

There's magic and Henry is hiding something. Alex is determined to figure it out at all costs.

Dependence is a Childhood Illness by aubsoluteaudacity

As he stands by the counter and waits for the kettle to boil, Henry goes over his illness management tactics in his head. Drink lots of tea and water. Take more medication whenever he reasonably can. Never, ever, let anyone see how sick he is. He has been following this mantra since his late teens. Royalty isn’t allowed to miss an event because of a cold. It simply isn’t done to stay in bed when there are hands to press and ribbons to cut.

pictures of you (pictures of me) by yeolocity

alex keeps polaroids.

If You Love Something by allmylovesatonce

Alex calls Henry to tell him a funny incident from his day. When a miscommunication sends them both reeling, both of them are questioning if the other is wanting to end their relationship. Their friends take things upon themselves to get them to see eye to eye.

An Amateur's Guide to Piping That Cream and Beating That Meat by firenati0n

Alex invites Henry to his Extremely Specific and Ethnic Friendsgiving dinner, issuing a stern warning—no beige foods and no colonizer behavior. So basically, Henry's screwed. In an effort to find the perfect recipe, Henry stumbles upon a popular TikTok chef who thirst traps from the neck down and flusters Henry to his core. But his food is banging, along with the bod. A recipe for feral disaster. Or, Alex is an anonymous thirst-trapping chef on TikTok. Henry is an amateur cook who needs a recipe for Friendsgiving. Alex knows Henry's watching. Henry doesn't know it's Alex. Shenanigans ensue.

it's midnight in Texas by viciouslyqueer

When Henry mentions a charity polo match in Connecticut, Alex doesn’t think much of it. When Henry asks him on a date and puts him on a plane to Paris, Alex smiles and lets himself be romanced. When Henry says he wants to do it right, Alex is too in love to protest.

we should get married by smc_27

He’d spent most of the week sitting on the floor with his laptop open on the table, typing away about absolute nonsense in between sessions and phone calls with immigration and a lawyer trying to see if it’s possible there’s any way in the world he can stay in America while this gets sorted. The good news is this doesn’t bar him from trying again and just returning when it all gets sorted. Not that that will be easy, but still. It’s a possibility. He makes the absolutely foolish mistake, after pouring his second drink, of googling ‘marriage visa’ as if that will be the answer to any or all of his problems. Allows himself a brief, excruciating moment to imagine he has someone to marry and make that a reality. But then…he does, does he not? OR, a greencard marriage AU

i need that charles dickens by @whimsymanaged

Henry’s flatmate (and crush) Alex is suddenly obsessed with Charles Dickens. But when Henry asks to borrow Alex’s Dickens, he quickly learns that Alex hasn’t, in fact, been talking about a book.

Amazed at How We Talk (Once, Successfully) by @sparklepocalypse

And, well. Fuck that guy. Alex isn’t about to rub elbows with people who can’t even stand to be in the same room as him. Alex isn’t sulking when he sidles up to the bar and steals a man’s whisky. He also isn’t sulking when he obtains a second glass, this one neat. Or when he snags a large plate of canapés from one of the waitstaff and nonchalantly strolls out of the room. (Movieverse; a riff on the trope that asks, What if Cakegate didn't happen?)

like a bridge over troubled water, i will ease your mind by anincompletelist

And then— relief. So palpable that it sends more tears springing to his eyes, a sob at his lips that Henry quiets with a kiss. Everything from the past week was so much, had been building up pretty much from the moment Henry first left, and leaving him teetering on the edge of fine and definitively, very much not fine, one more useless appearance or shitty headline away from breaking into a million pieces. And shatter he had. But somehow, by some miracle, he’d been able to wait until Henry was here, was back with him in their home, to do it. His safety net, his safe place, his everything; the only one capable of holding all of his broken shards and figuring out how to piece them all back together again in the aftermath. The only one who has asked for the privilege of being there to do it.

Truth by cmere

Alex always does this, hauls every base fucking instinct that Henry has out into the open between them, plain for both to see. And every time it happens, Henry expects him to laugh it off or give him a hard time, but instead he just encourages it with soft, pliant lips and greedy fingers until Henry gives in to himself and his desires. Alex has never made him feel bad, or odd, or disgusting, always treats him with the utmost patience and care. Henry loves him so fucking much. It's just past midnight on Alex's birthday and he's going to get what he wants. Which is, of course, to give Henry what he wants.

as always, if you want me to tag you in future lists just let me know!

@starkfridays @stilesgivesmefeels @midnightsfp

[hotfuss]

the killers in the times, june 20 2009. photos by christopher morris. originally posted by @sealbrandon but i edited it to improve readability. transcription under the cut bc the quality is still not the best

The Killers’ time has come, says Brandon Flowers

Only U2 and Radiohead rank higher in the pantheon of globe-conquering rock bands. But now the Killers’ time has come, says singer Brandon Flowers

The time is 1am in Verona, and deep in the bowels of the Italian city’s 2,000-year-old amphitheatre the Killers are hard at work, rest and play. Eight months into the 20-month world tour in support of their third album Day & Age, it’s the last night before an eight-day break for the band. Thereafter, a summer headlining European festivals beckons.

Dave Keuning, the guitarist, and the bass player Mark Stoermer are slumped in the dressing room, chatting with a squiffy-sounding Juliette Lewis — the Oscar-nominated actress-turned-rocker was tonight’s support act. Drummer Ronnie Vannucci, lubricated by the pink champagne presented by the grateful local promoter — the show was a 10,600-capacity sell-out — is exploring the ancient venue’s murkiest corners. “Hey, is this where the Christians came out?” he shouts as we peer into a barred tunnel, “followed by the lions?”

And Brandon Flowers, the singer? He’s working. The 27-year-old is sitting at a laptop scrutinising pictures of the Killers. They have been taken by their on-tour photographer, Torey Mundkowsky, Flowers’s brother-in-law. Tana, his sister, whom Flowers married in Hawaii four years ago, is about to give birth to the couple’s second child (their son Ammon is now 2).

Flowers, who is five years younger than his bandmates, is a rock star who likes to be in control. So he’s deciding which of the images taken during this sweltering June day in glorious Verona can go out to the world’s media. There are 1,200 to pick from. Despite the prospect of a 6am pick-up for the flight home to Las Vegas, he studies each shot and finally approves a couple of dozen. It is, he insists, more about caution than vanity. As he told me last year: “It’s our destiny that we’re playing with here.” To the same end, he watches past performances on YouTube, alert to deficiencies in the band’s stagecraft. He loves it, he says, when the force of the Killers’ music “takes me away. Sometimes you do become a robot. But the best nights are when you just forget and really become a part of the music and the crowds.”

The Killers are a people’s band with a common touch, an appeal propelled by their huge, singalong choruses and the singer’s matinee idol looks. I’ve seen 100,000 bedraggled kids going bananas for them at Glastonbury; I’ve had Pet Shop Boy and pop sage Neil Tennant rave about Flowers’ talents; and I’ve seen mums in the school playground go weak-kneed at mention of his name.

Still, he clearly thinks he could do better. “Oh, I think I look stiff!” he says, laughing the warbly, yuk-yuk laugh that sounds like Jimmy Stewart. By way of illustration, he mentions one of his idols, Bruce Springsteen. “We played right before them the other night in the Netherlands. They played a lot of their new album. The way that they got the crowd to respond to new songs — they’re such pros! I was in shock.”

Such mastery of the big stage “has made me rethink things. I’ve taken notes.” He laughs — not that he’s joking — in conversation he just laughs a lot, often through nerves. For all his onstage braggadoccio, he’s a friendly but jittery conversationalist. His legs do the St Vitus’ dance, he cracks his knuckles and he sits bolt upright, as if poised to flee.

At the Dutch show, the Pink Pop festival, Flowers joined Springsteen onstage for a duet on Thunder Road. “He watched us play, watched the whole set. And on our way back to our dressing room he asked if I wanted to [sing with him], right after we played. It was great. I was dying! I had a perma-grin.” He says he had imagined sharing a stage with The Boss “easily 150 times”. It was “a dream come true”.

Destiny. Becoming one with the music and the crowd. A dream come true. These are the kind of things Flowers says. In cold print they make him sound too good to be true, a showbiz huckster hailing from Vegas; an entertainer who aspires to the blood and guts of Springsteen but actually couldn’t be more vanilla. He is indeed a practising Mormon who largely refuses alcohol but does allow himself the odd cigarette. It’s his ambition that drives the band towards the multimillion album sales, awards and festival-headlining slots. On the road the group now has the trappings that go with them: two tour buses, one for Stoermer and Keuning (both single), one for Flowers and Vannucci (both married). They are known as the Welcome to the Jungle bus and the James Taylor bus respectively.

“We’ve always talked about our career and how we want the steps; there seems to be a pedestal that’s waiting for us ,” Flowers says. U2 and Radiohead are already on that pedestal. “This is the time [for us] to step up.”

This means big choruses, loud anthems, total vision and a lot of eyeliner. The Killers, particularly Flowers, dress how their music makes them feel. On their debut album, the New Romantic-goe — indie Hot Fuss (2004), they wore make-up and pastel jackets, proof of the young Flowers’ anglophile enthusiasm for New Order and the Smiths. For the Americana of its follow-up, Sam’s Town (2006), they wore bootlace ties and waistcoats. On that second album — named after an old blue-collar Las Vegas casino — Flowers was, in part, acknowledging his working-class roots. He grew up in a close-knit family in smalltown Utah, the youngest (by 12 years) of six; his father worked in grocery stores for 30 years. But American audiences were confused by the volte-face. A damning review in Rolling Stone was a sore point. Did Americans think that the Killers were trying too hard to be American?

“Maybe,” Flowers nods. “We came out and we’re wearing suits and there’s glitz. Definitely they saw [the Sam’s Town vibe] as being contrived. I understand that.” The band, though, believes in change, in moving on.

“There’s a lot of that with all of us,” notes Vannucci of a band that came together in 2001 after Keuning advertised for like-minded musicians (he mentioned the Cure and Oasis). Thus, in their latest move, it’s out with widescreen rock, in with the synth-pop of Day & Age. And in with the Dolce & Gabbana jacket with pheasant feather shoulders that Flowers has been wearing for the past few months.

Flowers is an intriguingly conflicted rock star. He claims that he has some form of telepathy (“persuasions” he calls them) about bad things. He used to fear the number 621 (he was born on June 21) — and hated driving at 6.21pm, for example. He claims he’s come to terms with that now, although he’s still worried about flying.

“One time we happened to be on the same flight as Brian Wilson. And just before we take off he says, ‘If this thing goes down over the Atlantic it’ll be the end of all of our lives!’ He just shouted it out! I was like, ‘Oh s***! Thank you!’ He’s crazy.”

The Air France disaster has preoccupied him of late. “It’s kept me up a lot,” he admits. “I got a cold sore from worrying so much!” he says, fingering his troubled top lip. The man who hymns the strength of his parents’ five decades of marriage in the new single A Dustland Fairytale is about to become a father again. The baby is expected in one of the small gaps in their touring schedule. He has some decisions to make. “I have seen interviews with kids whose dads did what I did, and they all seem to be resentful. I don’t want that. But I also feel like I’ve been given this opportunity... ”

His Mormon faith puts a high premium on the closeness of family. His dad, formerly Roman Catholic and something of a drinker, converted to his mother’s Mormon faith overnight when Flowers was 5. His elder brother Shane, a golfer, could have had a place on the PGA tour (like their cousin, the pro golfer Craig Barlow) but chose not to because it would have meant too long away from home. All religions value family, I point out. “Yes, but ours is slightly different — we believe in being together . . . um,” he hesitates warily, “for ever. Eternity.”

A few short hours later, the Killers scatter for their holiday. Stoermer, who struggles badly with jet lag, is staying near by: he’s taking copies of Dante’s Inferno and some T. S. Eliot to Florence. Keuning is bound for San Diego to see Kylar, his three-year-old son; Vannucci is escaping to his place in the Utah mountains with his wife; and Flowers is going home to Vegas. He’s taking his driving test, and he and his wife are going on a date. His local cinema is showing the 1986 movie Pretty in Pink.

“I’ve already got the tickets, we’ve got the babysitter. I would not be in this band if Pretty in Pink didn’t exist. Echo & the Bunnymen, New Order, the Smiths and Psychedelic Furs — the music on that soundtrack is the stuff that shaped me.”

And what about the film’s underdog hero Duckie, the geeky kid with the secret crush on his best friend? “Well,” Flowers smiles, “we all have a little Duckie inside us.”

[reasoningdaily]

The iconic Queen of Disco has a new documentary out. Many music fans might want to know how Donna Summer died after decades of successful number-one hits and more than 100 million copies of hit singles sold. More than 10 years after her death, a new perspective of the “Last Dance” singer comes in the form of this documentary directed by her daughter Brooklyn Sudano and Oscar winner Roger Ross Williams.

According to the HBO doc’s sypnosis, “Love to Love You, Donna Summer is an in-depth look at the iconic artist as her voice and artistry takes her from the avant-garde music scene in Germany, to the glitter and bright lights of dance clubs in New York. A deeply personal portrait of Summer on and off stage, the film features a wealth of photographs and never-before-seen home video footage – often shot by Summer herself. Through a rich window into the surprising range of her artistry, from songwriting to painting, Love to Love You, Donna Summer explores the highs and lows of a life lived on the global stage.”

So how did Donna Summer die? Read more to find out.

How did Donna Summer die?

How did Donna Summer die? Donna Summer died on May 17, 2012 after a battle with lung cancer. “Early this morning, we lost Donna Summer Sudano, a woman of many gifts, the greatest being her faith,” her family released in a statement. “While we grieve her passing, we are at peace celebrating her extraordinary life and her continued legacy. Words truly can’t express how much we appreciate your prayers and love for our family at this sensitive time.”

Summer was diagnosed with lung cancer and theorized that it was caused by the 9/11 attacks since she did not smoke. She was living in an apartment in downtown Manhattan when the towers were struck. “I was really freaked out by the horrific experiences of that day,” she said of the experience. “I couldn’t go out; I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I had to keep the blinds down and stay in my bedroom. I went to church and light came back into my soul. That heaviness was gone.”

After her death, reports came out about how she got lung cancer attributed to smoking, though the family denied it. “Various reports currently surfacing about the cause of Ms. Summer’s death are not accurate,” representative Brian Edward said.“Obviously, numerous factors can be attributed to the cause of cancer in general, but any details regarding the diagnosis and subsequent treatment of Ms. Summer’s case remain between her family and team of doctors.”

Star tributes

After her death, many musicians celebrated the “Love to Love You, Baby” singer’s legacy with heartfelt tributes.

Elton John released a statement, “That she has never been inducted into the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame is a total disgrace, especially when I see the second-rate talent that has been inducted. She is a great friend to me and to the Elton John Aids Foundation and I will miss her greatly.” Kylie Minogue described her as “one of my earliest musical inspirations.”

Renowned actress and singer Liza Minelli posted, “When you lose a friend you feel like they are gone forever … that is not true with my dear friend Donna. She was a queen, the Queen of disco, and we will be dancing to her music forever. My thoughts and prayers are with her family always.”

Summer was not inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame before her death—something that chairman of the nominating committee Jon Landau wanted to fix according to The New York Times. “There is absolutely no doubt that the extraordinary Donna Summer belongs in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame,” Landau wrote. “Regrettably, despite being nominated on a number of occasions, our voting group has failed to recognize her — an error I can only hope is finally and permanently rectified next year.” Her family accepted the award on her behalf the following year in 2013.

On why she wanted to create a documentary for her mother’s legacy, Brooklyn Sudano told Jezebel, “There were a lot of tears some days. There were certain revelations and conversations that really brought up a lot,” she said. “But I’m so happy that I was able to have them.” Sudano was proud of the doc that was about showing Donna Summer as “a complex, layered artist, not just this figurehead for a movement.”

STYLECASTER: How Did Donna Summer Die? Cause of Death, How She Passed

[violentdevotion]

I was watching a video on how the music in Cats the movie is also terrible but before the guy in the video got into that he started explaining the plot to Cats and I didnt know a thing about it (other than the supposed orgy) but when he got into the meaning of Memory?!?!?! I cried real tears, I felt like Rodrick when he started crying in the theatre (also at Memory) idk the name of the woman that sang it for the stage movie but me and her are fighting because she had no right making me cry at 'touch me, its so easy to leave me' wtf lady, I'm trying to bake some cookies here

[absandersons]

What the Fuck Happened to the SPN Finale?

Okay so here it is, my Charlie Kelly style manifesto.

Before I get into it, I recognize that I will look like this to many of you, and that’s okay, I understand:

Secondly, your personal Takes about the writers don’t interest me, I don’t need to hear them. This, as I’ll explain, is going to remain a writer positive blog, and that’s the end of it.

Third, and most importantly: some of what I’m going to talk about is fact, and some is highly educated speculation. I will notate what is speculation, just so there’s no confusion or hot takes in my inbox that I’m a conspiracy theorist or stirring shit up for no reason.

A list of what I’ll be discussing

The episode in regards to the rest of the season

The episode issues: length, editing

Scene placement and speculation of scenes cut

The scrubbing of Jack, Cas, Eileen

Network involvement and general timeline of when things were cut

Misha: theories on where he was, official company line, why we can’t expect to hear anything directly

The silence of the cast post episode (in Misha’s case, mid episode) and what this might mean

Jensen speaking with Kripke about the ending: why it doesn’t mean what you might think (also why kripke remained positive on the ending)

Walker, and why this episode had a major shift

Why the network would do this or get involved

Why the writers of the show simply aren’t the bad guys here, and what I “want” out of this post, since I know it’ll get asked

This is very long and under a cut, but I hope you’ll give it a read.

The Episode In Regards to the Rest of the Season

So, I’ve discussed this already here, but it’s the most obvious thing to me, and that’s the way this episode simply doesn’t fit with the rest of the season.

These people in this room have, truly, been nothing but consistent when it comes to their arcs, especially this season, and the marked dropoff in quality for the finale episode is just too sus to discount to me.  Dabb’s whole focus has been character-based.  In his seasons, we’ve moved far away from MOTW and bro-codependency, the found family taking it’s place.  Does it really sit right to anyone that that was all thrown away in literally the last episode of the entire show?

This is speculation on my part, but as a writer myself, there is no way I would be happy or willing to stamp my name on something that I didn’t think would, at the very least, wrap up the season+ character arcs that I and my team had been crafting.

And before anyone comes in here saying, “well GOT did that!”  Bruh.  The writing was on the wall for GOT long before the final episode.  You could tell that the showrunners just wanted to be done (not only from the plot, but from the fact that they lobbied for a shorter season).  Miss me with that, it doesn’t apply here.  Andrew has, besides Singer and J2, been with the show longer than anyone.  He cares, he is meticulous and detailed, and this ending feels worse than anything Bucklemming has ever written, let alone Dabb.

Additionally, I’ve seen a lot of people say that Dabb was never behind Destiel, that it was all Bobo and Meredith and no one else.  That is reductive to the point of insult of the work Dabb has done to get this greenlit.  This man did not write the s13 Dean grief arc to be slandered like this.  That being said, YES, Bobo and Meredith were the leads on the DeanCas arc this season, but ANDREW IS THE SHOWRUNNER, TO GET EVEN THE CONFESSION APPROVED BY THE NETWORK HE WOULD HAVE TO HAVE THEIR BACKS.  AND HE DID.

Finale Issues

So, now that we’ve gotten the fact that this episode doesn’t hit on any of the major themes the show was barrelling towards all season, let’s discuss the fact that the episode is just...weird.

Not only is it shorter than any other episode (I think with the intro and the credits/crew thing at the end, it was around 38 mins), but it was also...idk, 90% filler?

One of the lovely humans in the POLOL server did the legwork here, and broke it down:

This is weird, y’all.  Most series finales are LONGER than normal (Lost, SOA, Longmire are the ones I can think of off the top of my head), and for the final episode to be this?  I saw more than one person point out that we only really needed 19 episodes, what was the point of 20?  AND THAT’S EXACTLY IT?  WHAT WAS THE POINT OF THIS FINAL EPISODE IF THIS WAS ALL WE WERE SUPPOSED TO GET?

It simply doesn’t make any sense, the first half of the episode was rushed, a final monster hunt gone wrong, but in the second half?  Nothing really happened?  Sam lived his entire life and Dean just drove around.  It doesn’t make sense to have all the emotional arcs left unaddressed in an episode that definitely needed some kind of spark.

Here’s the speculation I have: the episode seemingly went through a lot of changes between the initial inception of the final season and when we actually got it, but I think it would have been passable (as in, we wouldn’t be sitting here asking each other why each arc feels incomplete) until the editing room got ahold of it.  The only think that makes this episode make sense is network fuckery.  Truly, that is the only thing.  It explains the weird, cuts, the rushed pacing of the first half followed by nothing in the second half, the double montages of “Wayward Son” back to back, and Dean just...driving around for the last half of the episode.

Scene Placement and Speculation of Scenes Cut

Before I get into this section, the info of the shots in the episode I have come from a source that @occamshipper​ got a week or so before the finale.  She’s talked about this here.

So here’s what Min was given:

1-5: 1 INT MEN OF LETTERS – DEAN’S ROOM Dean is greeted by Miracle

6-10: 6 INT MEN OF LETTERS – HALLWAY/SAM’S ROOM Sam has his routine

D1 1 11-15: 15 EXT FARM HOUSE Establishing

N1 1/8 16-20: 19 Dad’s journal, marker, drawing of masked man in journal.

21-25: 23 INT IMPALA – PMP Driver picks the music

N2 1 3/8 1,2 26-30: 28pt2 INT BARN: A face from the past

28pt3 Sam and Dean say goodbye

28pt4 Shot early for technical reasons, presumably the overhead shot

N2 31-45: 41 INT MEN OF LETTERS – SAM’S ROOM Sam’s alarm goes off D4 1/8 1 46-60: 56 INT N7glasses for Sam, laptop.

So...it all fits right?  It all tracks with the actual episode, where it lands, etc.  The issue is between shots 29-40 which were apparently “too big to spoil.”  Uh.  Where are they?  And where’s 28 pt4?

After Dean dies, the next scene is Sam burning him, then shot 31, the shot of his alarm going off.

So.  Where are those 11ish shots?

PLUS we have the boards, which are scenes we KNOW were actually shot:

As well as scenes for 20 that were shot in 19.

It’s just...weird, it’s weird and again hits on the fact that the episode is so short and like 80% montage.

The Scrubbing of Jack, Cas, and Eileen

So now we have to reckon with the fact that Eileen was last mentioned by Sam after she got snapped by Chuck, Jack’s last mention is that he’s off being God somewhere, and Cas’ last mention is a ~knowing look~ between Dean and Bobby.

I’m sorry, make it make sense:

????????  That’s the end if it?  They don’t need to be discussed after this???  It’s just simply not something a writer would do, they would not introduce these characters, these arcs, without thinking there’s going to be some kind of follow through here.

So not only were three major characters (including two leads and both of the original characters’ love interests) completely wiped from the finale episode, it was as though Sam and Dean never even needed them, which just...ain’t it.

So why Eileen and Jack too?  Why not just take Cas out of it if they were afraid of the gay?  Because, ultimately, the episode went back to Kripke’s original story: just the bros, they only need each other and no one else.  They don’t want anyone else, they don’t need anyone else.  Easier to go back to something they knew was successful than trust the writers and their audience and take a big leap.

Alex even said he shot for 20 with “some of the guys” here.  What happened to that footage?

The complete 180 of it all still shocks me, I still cannot believe that we were essentially at the finish line, and the network just stopped short, and decided to go run another race, at the expense of the arc of this fifteen year legacy show.

Network Involvement and When Things Were Cut

Okay, now into the juicy stuff.

So I’ve pretty well established that network fuckery is clear, but how much did they get involved, what was the original intent?

Well again, we may never actually know what Andrew’s original script was, but I think, at the least, it would involve Dean speaking his truth to Cas and Sam living a life with Eileen.

Now, it seems today, that Misha said that Jimmy Novak was supposed to be in the finale in one iteration of the script, and while initially my brain was like “that truly makes no sense and he’s either straight up lying or telling a half truth,” I think what may be happening is Misha talking about as much as he can right now.

So Jimmy right.  Weird as fuck.  Why would he been in the Roadhouse and not Cas?  My current thought (this is about as reachy as I’ll get) is that Jimmy had no lines, could he have been in the Roadhouse as a red herring, like it said “Jimmy” in the script but it was just Cas in human clothes, a way to get around the network saying Cas couldn’t be in the final scene.  Also, you’ll notice that Misha didn’t say that Cas wasn’t supposed to be in the ep at all, just Jimmy in the last scene.

All this to say, there have clearly been multiple versions of the script, getting lighter and lighter with Cas and Eileen as the network pulled further and further back.  Remember, Dabb has to get things approved before they get shot, and if the network kept asking and asking and asking to cut Cas and Eileen, he had to find a way to work around it.  Granted, I still think that if we had been able to get a Dabb script that wasn’t torn to shreds in editing, it wouldn’t be so bad.  It may not be what a lot of us wanted (Dean speaking his truth to Cas and a reciprocation), but doing everything he could to give it to us in subtext or visual clues.

Plus, in all honesty, my man can’t keep his story straight anyway.  He said twice in his panel that the Empty and offscreen Heaven ending weren’t his original ending either.

In addition, remember that Jensen did ADR post episode 18, AND said in a meet and greet last weekend that Dean’s reaction to Cas’ confession was “cut down.” (Source here).  Many of us clowns got excited when we first heard about ADR, because we thought it would be upping the ante on Dean’s reaction, but I remember being a little sus when it was just crying.  My speculation on that is that they cut out Dean actually SAYING something, @winchestersingerautorepair​ spoke about that here.

The biggest sins were, in my opinion, committed during editing, where the network got too gun shy and sliced the episode until it was nothing but a heartless bro-fest of a finale, not mentioning anything about the other major characters that we all love, and letting the boys just suffer in separation until Sam died and finally joined Dean in Heaven.  The editing came by cutting all the major emotional beats between anyone other than Dean and Sam, leaving the skeleton of the story intact, just shorter and less...poignant than it was ever supposed to be.

Misha

We know Misha was in Vancouver, we know he quarantined, but we also know he wasn’t in the final scene, when he spoke about being in the last moment of the show months ago.  We were not crazy, he was there, he quarantined, and, in all likelihood (speculation but fitting with the timeline), he actually may have shot something (not much, but something).

I have sources here, here, here, and here showing where Misha was at that time.

Remember, the man was completely open about coming back until they finished shooting (look at this thread).  The switch happened, just like everything else, halfway through them shooting.

Please also remember Jake Abel posting his “Where’s Misha” video here.  Jake isn’t malicious, he isn’t being nasty here.  Misha was there, and everyone that’s trying to convince people he’s wasn’t just...isn’t telling the truth about it.

This is one of the things that makes me really mad, because they’re literally attempting to gaslight people into thinking, “oh we were totally wrong he was never supposed to be there” WHEN HE WAS THERE, WE KNOW HE WAS THERE.

So we’ve already heard from several people (Meghan Fitzmartin, Jay, a PA on the set of 19 (WHO WAS NOT WORKING FOR 20), Misha himself) that this was all down to Covid restrictions.  Ultimately, as this post says, we’ve heard FIVE versions of where Misha was.  None of it makes sense, but the Covid protocol seems to be the company line that others are repeating.

You may ask: why?  Why lie to all of us when we have questions?  Why, in Jay’s case, say that we’re all spreading false lies to stir up trouble, when we just have questions and things that do not make sense.  Simply?  Warner Brothers is absolutely massive.  These people have their careers to protect and are likely all under NDAs.  They want to work for WB again and don’t want to burn bridges, including Misha.  It sucks, but that’s why it’s unlikely that we’ll hear someone come out and say, “yeah we’re lying to you.”

Silence of the Cast Post Episode

So this is...probably the worst part of all this, at least in my opinion.

The guys had all been pretty excited about the end of the show (especially Jared, but Jensen’s panel last week was Jensen as happy and jokey and positive as I’ve ever seen him.  He was so excited about episode 18, about what it meant for Dean and for Cas, and I just cannot buy that he would have been that excited unless he thought there was something more in the episode.

Misha live-tweeted the episode, and was watching it with his kids.  It’s well known that Misha and the kids don’t watch the show because it’s too scary, and let’s ask ourselves, why would he have them watch an episode that he’s barely even mentioned in?

He also stopped live-tweeting at a very specific point in the episode (Dean’s death) and has not mentioned Supernatural since then. 

None of them, not Jared, Jensen, Misha, or even Alex, said anything about the episode for nearly 36 hours, when Jensen posted a salty photo on instagram.  It’s just...not what you’d expect for the end of a 15 year show, when the cast and crew are so close to the fans, so close to each other. 

My theory?  They didn’t know.  They thought Misha was, at least, going to be in the episode in some way, and when he wasn’t, they decided not to say anything.

You really think that Jensen “Heller” Ackles would have been so excited about the end of the show last week if he thought Cas wasn’t going to be in it at all?  Nah son, doesn’t make any sense.

Even today, in Jared and Misha’s panels, they seemed sad and...more than a little careful, both saying that there were things they couldn’t say, both talking around things that we all have questions on.

Jensen Speaking with Kripke

So this is where a lot of people are getting fodder to take shots at the writers, saying that Jensen hated it from the beginning, but I don’t think so.  I actually think I know what Jensen went to him about, and it wasn’t the lack of Cas or the weird pacing or the montages (which I don’t think were there when Jensen got the script); I think it was the manner of Dean’s death.

I know a lot of people were upset about that, upset with how...normal it was, coming off an episode where they literally beat God.  I actually didn’t mind it, I thought it was an interesting thematic take to be like: you can be a hero all your life, but sometimes shit happens, and you just die.

But imagine how hard that was for Jensen to read.  He would run to Kripke for that, because for him, Dean dying by being impaled by a piece of rebar had to be tough to swallow.

So, why didn’t Kripke say that?  Why didn’t he say, “oh well he had a problem with Dean’s death, none of that other stuff was in the script.”

Guys.  Why would he get involved?  He’s not going to burn bridges any more than anyone else is.  He said the ending was good because it’s the easy thing to do, it’s simple, will cause him no problems in his career, and he can just ignore the people trying to engage with him on it.

Walker

Something else to talk about is the major shift this episode had from the rest of the season: the shift from Dean to Sam.  I am NOT saying that Sam isn’t important, he definitely, absolutely is, but it was DEAN who really needed to wrap up his arc, Sam just needed to move on, get married to Eileen, become the leader he was always meant to.  So what changed?  What was with the shirtless scene, the Austin number and random case there, most of the episode being heavily Sam focused, going through his entire life in a montage?

Anyone else notice the 375 Walker promos, or Jared’s little spiel about Walker and how he hoped SPN fans would “come along for the ride.”

It’s...kinda obvious?  CW wanted to appeal to who they think the key demographic of SPN and Walker is: rural areas in the South.  It would explain a lot, why so much editing, why so Sam focused, the Austin number, the number of Walker promos, all of it.

I’m not saying this is fact, I don’t know that it is, but it is a little suspicious that even in Jared’s panel today, he talked A LOT about Walker and how he hopes SPN fans will watch it.

Why Would the Network Get Involved?

Simply put: $$$

If they think Walker can be the new SPN, and that those crazy SPN fans liked it originally, it’s a lot safer to go with the “original intent” of the show than do something risky (like making one of your two original leads queer).

And?  They don’t care.  They don’t care that the episode didn’t make sense, they don’t care that all the emotional arcs were left hanging, they don’t care by (potentially) smashing together two of Dean’s monologues (one to Sam, one to Cas) that it came of as...gross. ( @curioussubjects​ wrote a beautiful post showing how part of that death speech was likely meant for Dean here).  They don’t care, they never have, they just want to make their money and move on from the too-loud fandom that fought for representation too hard for too long.

It can’t help but feel insidious, which, honestly, it might be, but it really all comes down to the next cash cow, which, they think, is Walker, even at the cost of the fifteen year legacy show.

The Writers and What I Want

So here it is, all this weird, sus shit laid out on the line.  And you know what?  To me, there is no way to blame the writers, because they didn’t want this.

I don’t think Dabb and Bobo would have gone ahead with the confession in 18 without thinking that there would be some closure to that arc, they wouldn’t have done that not only to the fans, but for the sake of their own story as well: no writer wants to start something that they can’t finish. (And this applies to both Cas and Eileen).

Here’s a basic rundown of what I think happened: they had a clear arc from 18-20, ending in reciprocation at some level from Dean, Sam marrying Eileen, Hunter Sam as the new Bobby, Dean in heaven with Cas and big roadhouse reunion at the end. Covid prevented a good amount of that. Network had to stare at big gay 18 for six months, got cold feet. Thought about Walker, target audience and alienation of the rural areas if it went full gay. Misha quarantined and likely shot something (not much), he was then cut by execs and went home. They likely added in lines referencing Eileen and Cas to make it clear but more subtextual. They wrap, editing gets it and hacks it to pieces, so we get a shorter episode that’s mostly montages and jarringly bro-centric with nothing else. Arcs are left hanging. Dabb gets episode but it’s too late, there’s nothing he can do. Actors aren’t told so they can continue to do positive PR for the ending, they all found out at the same time we did: hence almost complete silence about the finale.

And you know what?  They warned us.  I talked about it here, but they’ve been telling us all season that Chuck wasn’t the writer, he’s the network.  I don’t think, still, that they thought it would be cut up like this, into something so unsalvageable that it’s been panned by almost everyone, even people who didn’t care much about Dean and Cas.

Finally, a masterpiece can be ruined by editing, and while I’m not sure even the script they ended up shooting on was a masterpiece (due to the network meddling already), but to me it’s blatantly obvious that it’s no one but the network that caused this, that took away closure for Dean, Cas, and even Sam.

So what do I want?  Nothing really, there’s nothing we can do, but I wrote this mostly to show people that the writers are not your enemy.   In fact, to the people trashing them?  You’re doing exactly what the CW wants you to: blame the obvious targets, blame Misha, blame Jensen and Jared, blame Dabb.  Scream and yell at them on Twitter and about how the show is ruined because of them.  The network keeps their engagement levels high, they don’t get as targeted for their behavior, and just keep moving along.

Just, please, think about who did this,  Mourn the show, be angry, but not at the people who fought tooth and nail for this for literal years, not the people who wanted it more than we did, not the people who cannot say anything because of their careers and the NDAs they’re bound by.

Someone is going to spill eventually, but until then, we just have to wait, and continue to be loud.

[strawwritesfic]

Bruce Banner x Female!Reader: Silent No More

Summary: Natasha tends gets her way, if not always in the way that she expects.

Rating/Warnings: All (song lyrics as dialogue; Song Challenge; Post-Avengers (2012); SHIELD Agent!Reader; Avenger!Reade; Some Crack; Pre-Iron Man 3; Avengers Tower; absent!Thor)

Requester: @flintt

Request:  “Can I […] ask for a Bruce Banner fanfic? I was also wondering if y/n could just be a shield agent doing a singing challenge with co-workers and end up doing Banner (I like to think it’s overwhembled /the Ryan Mack Remix/) and he’s all smitten and in love. Pretty much fluff. Thanks. […] y/n is a really good singer and suggests them and their co-workers play a game, which y/n will summarize the avengers personality/love life/ whatever with a song.”

Tag List: @imaginesfire​

Notes: Credit is given for the music within the work. Also, I must give a shout-out to my best friend IRL for coming up with the ending to this one shot back when I first mentioned what I was working on to her.

Silent No More

Silence had a funny way of turning the most mundane of tasks into an arduous affair. It could do so in more than one way, too. You could endure the thin, anxious silence waiting for the signal to begin acting out a mission. You could handle the heavy, poignant silence at the other end of a phone line when you called a family to inform them a fellow agent had died in the line of duty. But by far the hardest silence to sit through was standing alone in an elevator with your boss while he studiously typed out messages to someone else all the way down.

When the silver doors finally slid open to reveal Avengers Towers common area, you sucked in an enormous breath. Unstifled air at last! But you could not enjoy it for long. Director Fury stepped out onto the tile alongside you with his black coat billowing at his ankles. You struggled to match his long strides as you both headed in the direction of the second lift at the other end of the wide room. Whatever he and Maria were talking about must have been important; he still hadn’t said a single word since you left the interview. Had you screwed things up? Should you bring the question up yourself, or wait for him to start the lecture?

“[Name]!”

A familiar voice forced you to turn before either you or Director Fury reached the elevator to the main lobby. There at the kitchen table sat your close friend, Natasha Romanoff, and fellow SHIELD agent Clint Barton. Behind them in the kitchen itself stood another familiar figure: Bruce Banner, who seemed determined to pretend no one else was anywhere nearby.

Natasha caught your eye and waved you over. You shot Director Fury a questioning look. He was still, for all intents and purposes, your boss, as well as your ride home for the evening. Without even looking up from his communicator, he nodded.

“So, how did it go?” she asked upon your approach.

“Fine,” you answered.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I got the job.”

She and Clint clapped enthusiastically. Maybe it was lingering anxiety from being trapped in a room for an hour while Director Fury, Steve Rogers, and Tony Stark shot questions at you, but their celebratory gesture only made your face grow warm. Then Natasha made things worse by kicking the chair across from her out from under the table and pointing imperiously at the empty seat.

“Sit,” she said.

So used to following her orders were you that you sat without a second thought. From that angle, you had a good view of Bruce’s wide shoulders straining a little against the fabric of his purple shirt. The scent of hot milk and spices rose from whatever he had on the stove; you wondered if he was making tea.

Natasha cleared her throat. Starting, you returned your attention to her—but that didn’t convince her it had always been there. Her green eyes slid knowingly in Bruce’s direction and back to your face. Her smile grew as she pushed an upside-down baseball cap across the table to you. It rustled strangely as it moved, and the reason soon became clear: A number of folded paper slips sat inside.

“Welcome to the team,” she said. “I hope you didn’t think this would get you out of our little game.”

Horrified, you gazed down at the hat. All of the papers inside seemed to writhe around like venomous snakes. Though Clint had not spoken a single word since your arrival, you could see him smirking over the lip of his coffee mug. You knew exactly what he found so amusing, too: The vague warmth against the back of your head told you that Director Fury had followed you to the table—and he was probably still busy talking to Maria. That wouldn’t mean he wasn’t keeping track of your conversation, though; the World Security Council did not pay him to be unobservant.

Did Natasha, your so-called “friend,” have any sympathy for your plight? Of course she didn’t. She just jostled that hat by its brim and reminded you, “This whole thing was your idea.”

“I know,” you moaned.

“So what’s the hold up?”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

You couldn’t help stealing another glance at the back of Bruce’s dark curly head. Was he listening in? How could he not? Nothing else was going on in the common area, and making tea didn’t cause a lot of noise.

“Before I joined the Avengers,” you answered in an undertone.

“Oh, but I have to play? I’ve been an Avenger from the beginning.”

“Then let’s call the whole thing off. I’ll just see you guys tomorrow, shall—”

As you stood to beat a hasty retreat, Clint grabbed your elbow and pulled you back into your chair. “Nice try, [Name].”

“You aren’t chickening out of this now,” said Natasha. “Not after I’ve already completed one round.”

“What? Who did you get?” you demanded.

Clint raised the hand that gripped you into the air.

“That’s not fair. How did you draw your best friend right off the bat? Did she even really sing to you?” you asked Clint.

“Of course she did. Why would I lie about a thing like that?” he asked you in return.

“Because, as previously stated, you’re her best friend.”

“I am shocked and appalled you think I’m capable of such outright dishonesty with such meager motivation.”

“Prove it then. What song did she sing to you?”

Clint opened his mouth, but Natasha put a hand on his shoulder. He grinned, drained the last of whatever was in his cup, and set it down on the table with an exaggerated smack of his lips.

“Sorry, [Name].” He didn’t sound it. “My lips are sealed. Natasha swore me to secrecy, and you know how that goes.”

You sure did, and knowing made you all the more suspicious. Clint and Natasha often acted as a unit. What she wanted, she usually got. If she needed help from her partner in crime, you hadn’t come across a situation yet where he refused to help her. Huffing, you threw yourself back against your chair and crossed your arms over your chest.

“I don’t believe either of you.”

These words bothered Natasha not at all. With a flourish, she pulled her cell phone out, shaking it a little so that its glassy screen caught the lights above your heads. “That’s okay. I’ve got video proof. Oh, I don’t think so,” she added when you made a futile grab for the phone. “You can see the recording after you wrap up your assignment.”

Unconvinced, you looked again at Clint. He might have been willing to do just about anything for Natasha, but lying was not one of those things. Not in circumstances where no one’s life was in danger, at least.

“It was a pretty spectacular show,” he said.

You threw your hands into the air. “Ugh! Fine! Give me the hat.”

She held it out again. You plunged your hand into the waiting pool of slips before you could change your mind. Maybe you’d get lucky. Maybe you’d pick some guy assigned to Helicarrier duty for the next three months. Maybe you'd—

“Oh, that’s perfect!” Natasha said.

The paper unfolded read “Bruce Banner.”

“You rigged this.” You leveled your deadliest glare at her, the one that occasionally caused hardened terrorists to drop their weapons without firing at your team. “I don’t know how you rigged this, but this is all your doing.”

“Don’t be a spoil sport, [Name]. Director, why don’t you go ahead and draw your assignment now?”

She thrust the hat up toward your heretofore wordless boss. When you twisted in your seat, you saw him stop rattling away on his communicator just long enough to look from the hat to Natasha’s face.

“Don’t make me fire you, Agent Romanoff,” he said.

“That’s all right.” She cheerfully sat the hat down at her elbow. “I’ll use that sleight of hand [Name] has accused me of to make sure no one gets to Tony’s slip before you.”

“Hey. What are you guys up to?” asked a new voice.

All four of you slowly moved your heads to see Bruce standing nearby. He had one hand in his pocket; the other held a steaming mug.

“Nothing,” Natasha said with a radiant smile.

“Nothing you’d be interested in,” Clint added.

“Nothing you need to be involved in, Dr. Banner,” said Director Fury. “With the only person capable of wrestling the Hulk into submission still in Asgard, I’d prefer you to keep your stress levels at a minimum.”

A brief pause followed this suggestion. Bruce licked his lips. You watched a faint line on his forehead deepen for a moment. Then the line vanished to be replaced by a thin smile.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll just go see if Tony wants any help in the lab today. Congratulations on making the team, [Name]. Or maybe I should offer you my condolences?”

With that, he took his tea and shuffled off to the elevator you and Director Fury had vacated. Only after he disappeared behind the metal doors did the rest of your group relax.

“That was close,” said Clint.

“Very,” Fury agreed.

The rapid key tapping resumed. Natasha got up from the table to do something in the kitchen. Clint slurped at the nothing that remained in his cup. You, on the other hand, stared wordlessly at the paper clenched between your hands. Keeping Bruce in the dark was part of the game. He couldn’t know what was going on until you revealed it all to him. Had it been your imagination that he looked hurt over being told to stay out of it? Director Fury, at least, sounded awfully sincere about wanting Bruce to avoid all stress.

******

The first steps you took into your new home later that week hardly gave you the opportunity to get a good look at your surroundings. All you could tell was that they were big. As far a cry from D.C. as Manhattan was to begin with, your floor on Avengers Tower could not have been more different than the studio apartment you’d left behind.

Figures filled and moved throughout the area, providing even more distraction. As you and Natasha strode through the lobby of your home, arms laden with moving boxes, a platoon of Iron Man suits kept busy moving, adjusting, unpacking, disposing. And at the center of all this stood Tony Stark himself.

“How much more you got left, [Name]?” he asked as you neared his station in the living room. “Not that these guys need lunch, but I sure could use a break.”

“Why don’t you come downstairs and take a look yourself? We’d get it done faster if one of us wasn’t hanging out up here doing nothing,” Natasha said.

Tony looked affronted. “Nothing? Nothing? If I leave my post, who’s going to supervise this lot? You guys don’t have the control chip installed.”

“They could also help unload the truck.”

“Nope. Sorry. No can do. These boys need to be kept on the D.L. until I’ve got all the kinks worked out.”

“Kinks?” you asked. “What kinks?”

“Nothing you need to worry about. All I’m saying is, I bring them outside just in time for the delivery kid to show up, and bam! One YouTube video later, the whole world knows what I'm—Hey! Mk. XXIV! Don’t you dare drop that! Don’t you—What did I just say?”

A tremendous crashing sound caused the floor to shake.

“No kinks to worry about?” Natasha asked.

“Hold that thought,” Tony said as he stepped around you both and headed back the way you’d come. “Do you want to join DUM-E in the basement? So help me God, I’ll put you on mopping duty if that’s what you’re after!”

“Please tell me that wasn’t my grandmother’s china cabinet,” you said.

Natasha looked over her shoulder at the mess for you. “Doesn’t look like it. Looks like it might have been the coffee table Tony already put up here.”

“Thank God. I don’t have enough furniture to fill this place up as it is.”

“Lucky for you it comes pre-furnished.” Something behind you made a horrible, sharp squealing noise. Tony’s frustrated shouting resumed. “So long as Tony gets his Iron Legion under control.”

“Maybe we should take my dinnerware to a safer location.”

“Good idea.”

The sounds of groaning and crunching faded as you and Natasha slipped into your floor’s private kitchen. None of the drones had come that far back yet. In your hands you carried the first box of cookware. You slid it onto the waiting bar counter, tore it open, and began to pull out drinking glasses before any Iron Legion members could come in and break these as well.

“So,” Natasha said, setting down her own box next to yours. You liked her tone not at all.

“So what?”

“How’s the Song Challenge coming along? Have you picked something for Bruce yet?”

Of course that would be what was on her mind. Ever since she’d read the name on the slip you drew, Natasha had inundated you with texts, voicemails, and video calls about your plan. She seemed to think this was your big chance to show Bruce how you felt about him instead of what it really was: Your big chance to embarrass him and yourself in front of all his coworkers, irrevocably ruining any kind thoughts he had toward you.

“I don’t know if you missed the memo, Nat,” you had to stand on your tiptoes to reach the shelf you wanted, “but I’ve been a little busy this week packing my entire life into numerous boxes.”

“Exactly my point. Plenty of time for you to think. I’ve already wrapped up assignment number two.”

“What? Who did you get for that one?”

More importantly, when did she find the time? Apocalypse-level threats to Earth did not arise every single day, but surely the Avengers kept themselves busy. Why else hire on a seventh member?

Someone from over by the doorway cleared their throat. At first they appeared to be a tower of cardboard boxes on two thick legs. Then the someone stepped into the room and carefully dropped the boxes onto the empty kitchen table. Steve looked a little embarrassed, and it didn’t take long for you to figure out why.

“Speak of the Devil,” Natasha said with a grin.

You glared at her. “Seriously? Steve? You got Steve, and you’ve already sung to him.”

“I’ll have everyone else taken care of, too, at the rate you’re going. Don’t spend long on your break, Steve. And don’t tell her anything.”

With this final warning ringing in the air, she slid around Steve and out into the hall. You tore open the box containing your cutlery. What else could you do? Having worked occasionally with the Avengers as a SHIELD agent didn’t mean you had any clue how to act alone around Captain America.

“If it helps,” he said into the awkward silence, “she isn’t lying.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any proof of that.”

Steve shook his head. “You heard her. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and find out my social security number doesn’t exist anymore. I can’t imagine you want that either.”

“I guess not,” you admitted grudgingly. Steve, at least, could probably get his identity back. Seeing as you didn’t so much as have a code name yet, Natasha could wreak much more havoc on your life if she chose to do so.

“But [Name].”

You looked at him.

“I always tell the truth.”

It would have been impossible to disbelieve him anyway when he furrowed his brows and filled his blue eyes with sincerity like that. Even if hugely muscled, all-American soldiers weren’t your type, Steve looked so handsome and earnest just then that you couldn’t even muster up an eye roll. All you could do was say:

“Right.”

Natasha had told him to not be take much time talking to you; she wouldn’t wait long before she came back to double-check he wasn’t spilling the beans about her song routine. You expected him to leave once you turned your back to fill an open drawer with silverware. Instead, when you went to retrieve a handful of spoons, you found him a few feet away loading plates into a cabinet.

“So, you’re having trouble coming up with something for Dr. Banner?” he asked.

“Er…yeah.” So surprised were you that Steve could speak to you like a normal human being that it took a second or two of staring before you remembered you were supposed to be unpacking. “I know he’ll probably hate the attention either way, but I want to pick something he’ll like—or at least something that won’t embarrass him too badly.”

“Want some help?”

“No thanks. I’ll think of something. I’m not sure that anything from the 1930s would be appropriate for Bruce.”

Steve did not deny listening exclusively to music from his own time period unless Tony forced him to do otherwise. “Well, if you change your mind?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“You’ll think of something good. I think it will be good for Dr. Banner to get a little positive attention.”

“No pressure, right?”

“I didn’t say that to pressure you. For what it’s worth—”

Cardboard scraping against cardboard cut through whatever he intended to say. Speak of the Devil was right! Behind the new boxes stood Bruce of all people. His dark eyes moved between your and Steve’s faces. He, Bruce, seemed to realize he had walked in the middle of something, because he licked his lips and forced a smile, an expression of his you were rapidly growing accustom to.

“Sorry,” he said. “I only managed to carry a couple of boxes up.”

“Every little bit helps,” Steve assured him, but Bruce continued to fidget with his hands.

“The Hulk could probably get the whole truck up here in one go, but—”

“He’d wind up smashing everything to pieces. Better not risk it.”

Color crept into Bruce’s cheeks. “That’s what I was getting at.”

Poor Bruce. He looked so uncomfortable. If only you could say something to crack the sudden tension that filled the kitchen. But what could you say? You got only as far as opening your mouth when he turned, shoulders hunched, to leave the room.

“I’d best get back down there and grab a few more things,” he said. “Can’t have puny Banner failing to pull his own weight, right?”

“Dr. Banner,” Steve began, but Bruce did not pause in his retreat. “Dr. Banner!”

“Bruce? What’s up?” you heard Tony ask from the other room. If Bruce gave him an answer, you didn’t hear it.

Steve let out a sharp sigh.

“I should go apologize. That was out of line. Natasha’s probably looking for me anyway. You good in here alone?”

You nodded as you tore into one of the boxes Bruce brought up. The only current threat nearby was to your material possessions, not to your physical well-being. Nothing more needed to be said after Steve ducked out. If you’d tried to speak, you’d probably have told Captain America that he ought to apologize, and you couldn’t say that to your new boss. Actually, Bruce probably deserved an apology from you as well, assuming he’d heard any part of your conversation with Steve. Maybe you should head down to the lobby, too…

Crash! Bang! Screech!

“Are you kidding me?” Tony cried.

On second thought, your things might be safer if you stayed right where you were.

******

Tony did eventually get his drones to do the jobs he wanted them to do. Unpacking your things became significantly easier after that. In fact, he even got them to put several items of furniture that they had broken back together. Your bookshelves almost looked as good as new—not that you had time to look for obvious cracks when Steve assigned you to training with different team members every day of the remaining week. With so few actual missions on the schedule, it was no wonder Natasha could spend all that time shuttling back and forth between Avengers Tower and SHIELD HQ for the Song Challenge! Meanwhile, the rest of the team kept you so busy you hardly had five minutes to yourself to think of anything for your one challenge.

Friday afternoon provided you the first free hour of time since you’d settled in. Showered and aching, you headed down to the common floor with the hope of overhearing something about Natasha’s efforts. The hope was slim; she had everyone terrified into silence. You stepped into the room to find her, Clint, and Steve crowded around Tony on the sofa. Tony was holding up his cell phone, and from its speakers blared music and the unmistakable sound of Natasha’s singing voice.

The very second the lift doors closed behind you, all four of them looked up. Tony turn off his phone and slipped into his pocket right away. You scowled as you stalked over to collapse on the armchair near them.

“Don’t let me stop you from having a good time,” you said.

“You’re not,” said Tony.

“You’re giving Natasha an excuse to snap our necks,” said Clint.

The woman in question gave Clint a playful smack on the back of his head. He smiled at her.

“Get a room,” you muttered, sliding further into your chair.

“Aw, what’s the matter? Still having trouble with your Song Challenge?” Natasha hopped up from her seat only to come perch on one of your chair arms. The withering look you sent her again had no effect on her.

“Mine is going fine, thank you for asking.”

“Hey, there’s no shame in admitting defeat,” Clint said.

“You don’t know Bruce as well as we do,” Tony put in. “Maybe you should call it quits and see if Romanoff will give you someone else. Someone…simpler?”

“You’re the simplest person around here to understand,” Steve said.

“I only keep things simple for you Cap. We all realize your primitive mind can’t grasp our modern-day nuances.”

“If this is a simpleness competition, I think [Name] wins,” said Clint. “She can’t even think of one song and dance routine to perform for Bruce, and Natasha’s already finished four.”

“Makes you wonder if she’s cut out for the Avengers,” Natasha agreed.

“Oh, shut up.” You knew you sounded sour, but did she have to rub it in? “Anyway, Barton, I don’t know where you get off nagging me. Your deadline is up tomorrow.”

He flicked his hand dismissively. “I took care of Maria on Tuesday.”

This news caused you to bury your face in your hands in frustration. “Is everyone going to beat me to the punch? This whole thing was my idea!”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, but your work on this is not going to reflect well upon you in your next employee review,” Tony said, then added when you lifted your face to glower at him, “We’re teasing you, [Name]. You’re one of us now. You’d better get used to it.”

A quiet whoosh announced yet another addition to the group. Out of the elevator slouched Bruce. He took one look at you all gathered there without him, most everyone smiling, and then quickly looked away. You noticed that Tony’s eyes followed Bruce’s circuitous route around the sitting room into the kitchen just as yours did. There Bruce opened the refrigerator and stuck his head inside it without so much as greeting anyone sitting there a few feet away.

When you looked again at Tony, he smirked. That you found odd—or did, until he called:

“Hey, Bruce. Why don’t you quit hiding in the fridge over there and join us?”

He pulled his head free only far enough that he could see you all. “Huh?”

“There’s room on the couch.” Tony waved Bruce over. “Or [Name]’s other chair arm is free. You could get to know her, since you’ve been avoiding all your training exercises with her.”

That explained why you still hadn’t had gone any rounds with Bruce in the gym upstairs. Why would he avoid you? You tried to surreptitiously give him a good once-over, as though you could glean why he had such an aversion to spending time with you specifically with just a glance. He caught your eye as you did and hastily twisted around so he could hold out his hands, fingers spread wide in front of him.

“That’s okay. You guys look cozy. I’ll just make some tea and be on my way,” he said.

“You could make tea on your own floor if you wanted to be antisocial. Come on. Sit.”

“I really don’t think that’s at all advisable.”

“Sit! Sit! Sit!” Clint started to chant.

“Sit! Sit! Sit!” Natasha joined in.

It didn’t take long for Tony to take up the words himself. Only you and Steve remained silent, and the latter not for long as you watched Bruce try and fail several time to interrupt their chorus, Steve lifted his own hands to his shoulders. His glare succeed in shutting every single one of them, even Tony.

“There’s no need to heckle Dr. Banner,” Steve said. “If he doesn’t want to be around us, he doesn’t have to be.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to be around you guys,” Bruce mumbled.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to us. Trust me, I know how stressful talking to Tony for any length of time can be.”

“Hey! I resemble that remark,” said Tony.

Steve shot him another withering look, then returned his attention to Bruce. “If you ever feel like we get to be too much, leave the room. No one will think any less of you. It’s safer for all of us if you don’t have the temptation to turn.”

“Cap,” Tony began, but his warning tone went nowhere. Bruce broke in by snapping the refrigerator shut behind.

“Yeah, I think I get the gist,” he said.

After that, Bruce tried to make back to the lift. He didn’t notice you standing so abruptly that you nearly knocked Natasha off her perch. He didn’t see you running to intercept him. But he did see you once you stood blocking his path, and he immediately came to a halt.

“[Name]?” he asked, brown eyes wide.

You could feel everyone else’s wide eyes riveted on you as well. Part of you thought things might go smoother for your integration into the team if you did nothing more than apologize to Bruce for making him uncomfortable and sit back down. If you did that, however, you’d never hear the end of it. Tony probably would bring your failure to complete your own challenge up on your employee review just for kicks. Besides, you got the feeling that if you let Bruce vanish on you now, you’d never get another opportunity to show him what you’d thought up.

“Are you all right?” Bruce prompted you, after a good half a minute passed without you saying anything.

To answer his question, you took a deep breath. He looked as though he was going to ask again, so you cut him off by starting to sing:

“I get overwhelmed so easily. My anxiety creeps inside of me, makes it so hard to breathe.”

No, your voice was too quiet. Could the man in front of you hear you? All he was doing was frowning at you still. You continued on with the song, growing a little louder with each line until you reached the first verse at full volume:

“But these doubts are haunting me. Oh, why’s it always right before I fall asleep that—”

“JAR?” Tony said. “Play Overwhelmed by Ryan Mack through the speakers. And rip out the voice track!”

“Of course, sir.”

You dove into the chorus as the music swelled around you. Bruce’s frown slowly faded away. Now he looked incredulous. Probably he could not believe he’d entered a universe in which his new coworker would just belt out a song to him in front of all his friends and other coworkers. Would you let that deter you? Not now. In fact, the musical accompaniment gave you the courage to dance along. Your moves were nothing compared to what you figured Natasha’s were, but at least you weren’t just standing there doing nothing anymore.

“I get over…well, well, well, would you look at that? Another person telling me to just ‘relax.’ 'Calm down and take it easy. Everything will be okay.’ Yeah, sure.”

The astonishment on Bruce’s face twisted into an enormous grin, and he didn’t stop smiling for the rest of your song. All the while, the rest of the Avengers clapped along to the beat piping in from the ceiling.

“I get overwhelmed!”

A brief pause followed this conclusion. Then the group in the living room burst into applause. You couldn’t have cared less about their reaction either way. The only person’s you did care about was Bruce’s. He still hadn’t stopped smiling.

“Is this what Natasha’s been doing all week that everyone’s being so secretive about?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said, then hastened to explain, “It was my idea. We’re all supposed to draw someone’s name out of a hat and pick a song to sing to them that summarizes them.”

“And you just had to go and draw my name.”

“No! I wanted you. Natasha probably made sure I did. I—I think you’re really sweet, Bruce. I realize this might not be the best way to tell you that, though.”

“No, it was. I loved it.”

You gaped at him. “You did?”

“Yeah. It was perfect. Maybe after training sometime, you and I could—”

All the lights on the floor went out.

“Very funny, Tony,” Bruce said.

“It’s not me,” Tony replied. “JARVIS? Lights, please!”

JARVIS did not respond. The only light came now from the button glowing beside the lift down to the tower’s lower floors. Bruce took your hands in his, presumably to shove you behind him if it came down to a fight. You held your breath until the elevator doors slid open to reveal a shadowed figure that stepped out onto the floor.

“Hey, buddy. Bad call breaking into this place,” Clint said.

A spotlight cut through the darkness. You could not make out who the person was at this distance, only that their clothing sparkled. Ominous music began to fill the room.

“You think you came up with piping in your own background music?” Tony said. “Come back when you’ve got something more original.”

The figure said nothing as it drew closer and closer to the Avengers. Multicolored lights swarmed suddenly across everyone’s faces. Whoever it was struck a pose only a few feet from the couch, and it hit you: It was Director Fury, wearing the same outfit he normally did but with glitter covering his trench coat and eye patch. He launched into his own song:

“Make his fight on the hill in the early day, constant chill deep inside.”

“What the hell?” you heard several of those gathered say. Their confusion did not prevent Director Fury from dancing his way right up to a stunned Tony Stark.

“For whom the bell tolls, time marches on. Sing it!”

Slack jawed, Tony did not blink at all between that moment and the end of Director Fury’s performance. No, it was more than that: Tony didn’t move. No one did. By the time the last notes of Metallica’s For Whom the Bell Tolls faded into nothingness and all the lights flicked back on, your hands had grown warm and moist inside of Bruce’s. Everyone one sat staring like that for what felt ages before Tony made a sudden grab for his phone.

Director Fury snatched Tony’s arm and held it in place. “No one will ever believe you.”

Without uttering another word, Director Fury turned, twinkling, to stride back to the elevator doors through which he’d come. You all remained too stunned to speak for several minutes after he vanished behind them.

“Well,” Natasha said at last, “I think we can all agree on who won [Name]’s Song Challenge.”

A murmur of assent rose from the group.

One by one, each member of the team seem to thaw. Bruce squeezed your hands before releasing you at last. Sure, you might have lost out on the overall win, but you’d won his heart. That was something that even Director Fury wouldn’t be stealing away from you any time soon.

[positivexcellence]

Celebrating Supernatural's humanity in its time of dying

It’s also worth noting that the show’s message works, in part, because the people involved in creating it are pretty great themselves. In 2016, when Supernatural won EW’s fan-voted cover contest, I landed my first cover story. It meant traveling to Vancouver for a set visit. It meant having dinner with Jared and Jensen. It meant I was nervous. We sat down to dinner, and within 60 seconds, Jensen ordered tequila shots for the table, followed by Jared thanking me for flying up there because “this means a lot to us.” Instantly, I realized that this interview wasn’t a task that they were dreading. It was a celebration, and they were going to enjoy it. Nothing was more apparent to me during that meal than how much they love Supernatural. They’d pull up old scenes that they were proud of on their phones for all of us to watch. As Jared said to me, “Goddammit, if you’re going to do something that makes a difference then it has to mean something to you.” The other thing that became obvious as the guys talked about the show was that if you loved it too, you were family to them. Much like Sam and Dean, they see the good in people.

As the interview was winding down, and desserts were being ordered, I offered to turn off my tape recorder so that they could speak freely. (It’s something you’ll see a lot as a journalist, the way someone’s body language changes when that red light isn’t staring at them.) Jared reached out and stopped me. “We trust you,” he said. And he had no reason to. But until they see bad in someone, they expect good.

That dinner took place at the start of the show’s 12th season, and the actors talked about how much they still loved their jobs and wanting to wrap things up before that changed. Cut to September 2020, and their last day filming as Sam and Dean. After a five-month hiatus from their characters thanks to COVID-19, it was time for the show to do the one thing it’d never done: Say goodbye. “The feeling I had that day was more like pride, emotional pride,” says Ackles of the final day of filming. “Like, look at what we’ve done. Look how far we’ve come, and look at these people who helped us build this incredible piece of art that we'll get to hang our hats on for the rest of our lives.”

Padalecki recalls the emotional moment when he and Ackles crossed the border back into the United States from Vancouver, marking the reverse of the road trip they'd taken in season 1. "It was right during all the wildfires, so the sky was really weird," says Padalecki. "It felt like a Supernatural episode or something. We crossed the border together and it just felt like a pretty poignant meaningful full-circle [moment]."

Fans will see the series finale, which Padalecki has already deemed his favorite of all time, in a matter of days. With God’s conclusion spelled out in episode 19, we know the installment will feature a more intimate look at the Winchester bros. “We wanted it to, in some ways, hearken back to where the show began, which was two guys on the road saving people, hunting things,” co-showrunner Andrew Dabb says, with co-showrunner Robert Singer adding, “It's a very emotional episode. It's a personal story really about the boys.”

But more than anything, it’s the final story, which leaves us to wonder what the series’ legacy will be. If you ask me, it’s the reminder to see the good in humanity, and to fight for it. That message will transcend every clever twist, every epic stunt scene, and terrifying monster.

Supernatural began as the story of two guys who wanted to do some good, and will end as the story of two guys who did a whole lot of it. When Sam and Dean have worked their last case, ganked their last monster, and eaten their last piece of pie, they can rest easy knowing that, long after they have stopped hunting things, their message will still be saving people.

[hauntedwitch04]

Could we get a 33 & 36 with Andrew Garfield x singer reader? Maybe they’re just friends or not quite at a place in their new relationship where they’re having sex yet. He goes to a show of hers and it’s just too much and he’s turned on and when they’re alone just bam boom pow

Author's note: Hi! I absolutely loved your idea, t's just do fucking great, and I couldn't help but wonder if I should make a longer one-shot form this request. Now I wrote a blurbs but soon maybe will come out a longer one about this. Hope you enjoy it. Have a great day!

Themed masterist I Themed Days I Join Taglist I Smutty Saturday

"Are you trying to turn me on or are you really just that oblivious?”

"You make a sound and it's game over."

I pause for a moment after walking off the stage and just walking backstage. Finally, my two minutes of peace have arrived before returning to the stage to sing for another two hours. I turn around to thank whoever is handing me the water bottle and let a little cry of happiness escape. I throw my arms around his neck and squeeze with all the strength I have.

"Andrew, damn it's been a long time." I shout while greeting my friend, who hugs me back.

"Yeah, I was just passing by and decided to stop by and say hi." He says with an attractive smile. That damn smile, that I fell madly in love with. They don't give me time to exchange a few words and send me back on stage to sing. The two hours pass and I get to the last song in my repertoire, "I wanna be your slave". I start to sing it looking into Andrew's eyes, who can be glimpsed from backstage. He looks back at me, until I'm done singing and I wave to the audience and finish the show. I finally get to go back to my dressing room, to relax after the grueling concert I just endured.

Andrew follows me and sits next to me on the small couch. We remain in silence, enjoying that moment of peace, until he speaks.

"What were you doing on stage?"

"Nothing...I was singing..."

"Were you trying to turn me on or were you really just that oblivious?”

"Why did it work?"

"Damn right it did. You know how cool I think you are when you sing, and especially that song. I was amazed at my ability to not come on stage and kiss you on the spot. And how I'm holding myself back now from doing it."

A shiver runs down my spine at his words as I respond in a low, sensual voice, trying to get him to fall into my trap.

"And why are you doing this? Who told you I didn't want to?" In less than a second he's on top of me, his lips on mine as he kisses me passionately. Then we hear someone knocking on the door, telling us we need to get to the hotel.

"Not now." I say apologetically as he looks at me amused and replies.

"You make a sound and it's game over doll, wait until we are back at your room. We have a long night ahead."

Taglist

• @rainelikerain

• @shadowolf993

• @goldenharrysworld

• @xoxoloverb

• @s-w-e-et-te-a

• @micrososoft

• @ethereal-lovers

• @nyx2021

• @uwiuwi

[herrlindemann]

POP/Rocky review of the 11.05.1997 concert in Munich

Germany will be on fire, the industrial metallers from Rammstein announced in the run-up to their sold-out tour through Germany. 2,800 fans are excited that evening in Munich's "Babylon" to see whether the six musicians from Berlin and Schwerin will make good on their pithy threat. At 9:30 p.m. sharp, the time has come: Till Lindemann, Flake Lorenz, Christoph Schneider, Richard Kruspe, Lars Leider and Paul Block stand on the stage with their legs apart. The fans hold their breath in excitement. Then at the other end of the hall: a rocket ignites and hisses on a metal cable over the heads of the fans to the stage. It explodes with a gigantic bang right next to the six musicians. A flurry of flashbulbs follows and blinds the fans for a few seconds. The explosion has hardly subsided when the hard-hitting Rammstein sound kicks in. Now there is no turning back. The muscular singer Till pulls the fans under his magical spell with the first song "Tier". Suddenly four meter high jets of flame shoot out of the ground right in front of him! The singer seems to be drowning in a sea of ​​flames. But completely unscathed, you see him a few seconds later summoning his audience, who are still frozen in shock. At the same time, the fantastically played guitars of Richard and Paul and the eerily deep bass of Lars transform the concert hall more and more into a melting pot. After just five minutes of the more than half-hour mega show, the atmosphere is as hot as the inside of a blast furnace. Drummer Christoph knows no mercy. Almost like a fighting machine, he hits his drums. At the latest with the super spacy sound of keyboarder Flake, it tears you completely out of reality. The stage is becoming more and more like the horror landscape from the horror shocker “Alien”. More and more colored laser flashes cut through the sooty air. Bombastic explosions shake the hall floor while Rammstein present their powerful new songs (their second album "Sehnsucht" will be released in August). During the song “Spiel mit mir” (a song about child abuse), Till throws a doll around, and red laser beams shoot out of its eyes at the fascinated crowd. During the Sado-Maso song “Bück dich”, the singer suddenly opens his pants and sprays the fans in the front rows soaking wet with a gigantic rubber penis. In the next piece, "Der meister", Rammstein frontman Till holds a monstrous flamethrower in his hand and shoots huge fountains of flames over fans. The heat of the flames can be felt in every corner. At the grandiose finale during the song "Rammstein" then the sensation: Singer Till is on stage in a 30-kilo metal coat, ablaze with flames. Demonic, he sings his last sentences about annihilation, punishment, death, but also about love and longing. Then the Rammstein thunderstorm falls silent. But what is that? All of a sudden, keyboardist Flake explodes! His severed head flies across the stage! The trick: Luckily it's just a deceptively real-looking doll that's been filled with some explosives.

The spring tour of the cult band, which was founded in 1994 and shot into the top ten of the charts in a flash with the single “Engel”, was a successful acid test for the big indoor tour in autumn.

[yutahoes]

Ghost of You

pairing: idol! Yuta (NCT member) x idol! Y/N (solo idol-actress)

word count : 5k words

genre: angst

summary: He was the one who ended everything. But you’re like a ghost that kept haunting him. 

warning : break up, alleged cheating, pregnancy, a fic where you just want to strangle Yuta to death 

Based on this ask. I’m sorry, I tweaked the story and changed some of the song (especially the Olivia Rodrigo one because it doesn’t fit the story) The songs I used are linked in the story. Also, I have no idea how the idol world works and please note that this is just fanfiction. Please Enjoy reading. 

Broken glass, an empty unruly apartment. Signs that a big fight happened. All because of a tabloid article of him seeing his co-host late at night. Yuta argued that she needed someone to talk to and Y/N was angry that he winged their anniversary V-live just for this. “You can tell me if you’re sick of me, Yuta.” she claimed that made him hiss. “Don’t you think I didn’t notice? You’re always making up things just so you can’t meet me.” 

“That’s not true!” Yuta shouted. “I am busy.” 

Tears ran down her face. “Then explain how Jungwoo had lunch with me last Friday when you said that you’re practicing with your members.”    

“Stop saying that I don’t even make time for you.” His voice raised in frustration. “When all you do is hang out with that co-star of yours.” 

The girl scoffed. “So it’s my fault now? It’s work, Yuta.” It’s always the same reason. “I asked you a lot of times if you’re alright with the drama and you never mention anything. Now, you’re using it against me?” 

The guy shook his head. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow. I’m tired.”

“And I’m also tired.” She whispered. “Let’s end this, Yuta.” She threw the promise ring before leaving the apartment. 

The news next day was about Y/N erasing pictures of them in her social media accounts. The breakup news between the solo idol and the NCT member followed. Taeyong just shook his head watching Yuta exit the CEO’s office with droopy shoulders. “I really like her for you, hyung.” Mark claimed when he entered the practice room. 

He didn’t know where it went wrong. They were happy. Everyone likes their relationship. His fans are her fans, and hers are his. They were tagged as the greatest idol couple, often paired in dances since it’s both their strengths. Y/N was casted in a period drama and he’s a supportive boyfriend who visited her the first day of the filming and thanked everyone for taking care of his girlfriend. She filmed romantic scenes, kissing her actor co-star. And he was fine. “It’s work, Yuta.” She would always say. And he would just smile. 

He started hosting a radio show with a female Japanese idol and he was cold at her, wanting to stir away from controversy. But as her drama progressed, with more romantic scenes and more kissing, he felt left out. She’s becoming a star. And he’s becoming Y/N’s idol boyfriend. Slowly, he’s getting fed up with the relationship that’s slowly getting centered on her. 

It felt like a breath of fresh air that it all ended now. Like a thorn removed from his aching heart. 

All the public’s sympathy went to her, as he expected. She’s the star. The more famous one among the two of them. So he just painted himself as the bad guy by confirming that he’s dating his co-host which surprised the other girl. The agency was surprised at the decision but it became such a media frenzy that their radio show got high ratings every week. Even the sales of their album spiked up and he became known as NCT’s Yuta and not as someone’s idol boyfriend.

Everything is getting better. 

-----      

It was the end of the year award show when they crossed paths again. They were doing a great job avoiding each other. Why now? Nine members meant a vacant seat from the round table artists are seated at. The staff repeatedly apologized but as kind as she is, she just smiled and sat between Doyoung and Jaehyun, just across Yuta. She greeted all the members, even complimenting Haechan’s hair and Taeil’s suit. “Congratulations on best album.” she greeted, smiling widely to avoid the awkwardness. 

“Aren’t you releasing an album as well?” Johnny asked that made her nod. “Another dance track?” Taeyong asked but Y/N shook her head saying that it was a ballad album and that she will perform later. The guys were obviously surprised, ballad isn’t her best track. She’s more known for her dancing skills so it is indeed a huge surprise. 

When the best female idol awardee was called, the NCT members all stood up to congratulate her. Jungwoo even helped her with her pink lace gown. She did the usual thank you message: thanking her parents, the almighty being, the management, the staffs, and her fans. “And lastly…” Yuta gasped. Whenever she gets an award, she thanks him lastly for comforting and always supporting her. “Please watch out for my album.” He felt his heart drop, especially when she smiled that angelic smile. Why is she shaking him like this? 

Yuta was already bored. He just wants to go home. The lights dimmed and the emcees announced her as the next performer. Because it’s a live performance, they showed some clips of her photoshoot for her new album. He had to agree that this concept fits her. She looked prettier than when they used to go out.

He was more surprised to see an orchestra accompaniment behind her on stage. Her, seated on a platform, wearing a white sequined dress that shines like stars when the spotlight shone on her. The crowd clapped just as the start of the song played. (Imagine this as the performance.) 

The other members warily glanced at him. A break up song. Why isn’t he surprised? 

My dream changed - instead of a famous singer, I tried to become a good wife

He remembered how she would always try to learn to cook whenever she had extra time. She never mentioned anything to him. It was until one night, they were laying next to each other, when she asked him if he wanted her to continue being an idol. That made him curious that time. She loved performing. Why would she ask that? 

Now, he knew why. 

By the time the second chorus rolled in, he was just amazed at how she could sing those notes while seated down. Her singing really got better. 

Someday you’ll probably call me then I hope you will be a man and congratulate me

Because this is all thanks to you, I’ll prepare a good thank you message for you

He can hear Mark giggling beside him. Johnny pursed his lips as if preventing to laugh. “Hyung, please record her thank you message.” the youngest member teased that made him annoyed. 

Her voice echoed all throughout the venue. Her adlibs hitting notes that she cannot do before and she’s sitting while doing that. 

Slowly, I got over you like that

Their eyes met. Those sparkling eyes. She’s shining. She looks well. She looks better. Without him. 

The fresh air suffocated him, burning his lungs in the process. The thorn that was removed came back and brought friends, a knife tearing his heart into pieces. 

Everything is getting better. For her. Not for him.

The moment he went inside the empty apartment, he felt like breaking down. This is harder than the time she left. He missed her. He’s a wreck without her. A huge mess. Why is he taken over by his jealousy? She deserves to be the center of the relationship. The star. She deserves the whole world. Is it too late for him to get everything back now? He took his phone as a song on the radio played, “Mark, I need your help.” 

Another award show meant another chance to cross paths with her. To Y/N’s surprise, Yuta congratulated her with a wide smile after winning an award. The staffs were repeatedly asking if the members were sure of doing this that made the manager and the leader nod. Johnny was seated in front of the grand piano, Mark on one side with his guitar. Taeil, Doyoung, Jaehyun, and Yuta seated on different chairs in the middle of the stage. (Song)

Johnny started the melody while Mark played his guitar. Jaehyun started the song that made Y/N look at them from the artists’ place. Yuta smiled. Her favorite band. Taeil started singing the chorus with Yuta as back-up vocals. Doyoung sang the second verse while Jaehyun sang the chorus, followed by Taeil. By the end of the song, they lightly glance at Yuta. His last cry for her. 

So I drown it out like I always do

Dancing through our house with the ghost of you

And I chase it down, with the shot of truth

He glanced at her, staring straight to those sparkling eyes. 

That my feet don’t dance like they did with you

The lights dim but he saw her silhouette remain on her seat, shoulders visibly heaving. Behind the spotlight, Yuta finally realized that like a ghost, he cannot shake her off. She’ll keep haunting him because he cannot let go of her. Yuta finally realized that he is still in love with her. 

They had been busy with the concerts abroad and she had been busy with the promotion of her album. Yuta’s co-host quit the radio show and days later, it was announced that she was pregnant. The members were surprised at first but it was her who confirmed that Yuta isn’t the father of the child. The public sympathy went to Yuta for the alleged cheating that the girl had done, making him in the center of the media frenzy once again. 

It was a Japanese radio show when he met Y/N again. He had to promote the Japanese leg of their concert while she promoted her Japanese single. She looked casual greeting him, as if nothing happened but her words echoed in his ears “It’s just work, Yuta.” Maybe it was really nothing to her. 

They were seated next to each other. He watched her put on her headphones then rubbed her palms together. “I kinda forgot Japanese.” she claimed then said a Japanese phrase to introduce herself. “Is that right?” He nodded, his warm gaze still on hers. Too casual. “I’m nervous.” 

He wanted to hug her. Comfort her. Tell her that everything will be alright. That he’s next to her so she doesn’t have to worry about anything. 

But he can’t. She’s not his. 

The host kept on claiming that they looked good together that startled them both. When the staff told him something in Japanese, he kept on apologizing while saying that he doesn’t know that they used to date. She just smiled, shaking her head to avoid the awkwardness. She really did move on. The radio show went smoothly until the last part where they had to sing a duet together. Y/N was obviously surprised. Didn’t she know? “We can skip it if you don’t want to.” Yuta whispered. 

Once again she shook her head. “It’s fine. I just haven’t prepared for it.” she claimed while looking at the music sheet. “The notes are a little high.” 

“You’ll do great. Your singing got better.” She giggled at the reference and he smiled. He missed her laugh. 

Y/N focused on the lyrics, asking the translator to tell her what the words mean or how to pronounce it. Yuta was reading the lyrics, seated next to her when she laughed. “Yuta,” she called and he felt his heart jump from his chest. He missed her voice calling his name. “Should we switch parts?” He looked surprised, curious even. “I mean, the lyrics.” 

Yuta smiled. “Should we?” 

Y/N giggled. “Sometimes I am convinced they’re doing this on purpose.” He smiled while looking at her. He missed her. So much. 

The host was asking repeatedly if they want to continue this, apologizing if it ever makes them uncomfortable but she would just smile and shake her head. He thanked her for being professional and she grinned, making Yuta breathless. He missed her smile. 

They were introduced and she even made a fighting sign at him as the melody started. It was a lonely song and Yuta poured all his feelings on his part. (This is the song they used. Dude, can they just remaster it by asking Yuta to sing this?) 

Long time no see

His eyes turned to her. He missed everything about her. 

We cannot express how we feel

Breath echoes in our ears 

The radio show staff all turned to them in surprise. 

My dear, you’ve already found a new love

She turned to him with her sparkling eyes. 

There is no one like you

I am cheating my heart

He sang while staring at her. She even missed the first beat of her part then smiled while looking at the music sheet in front of them. The bridge of the song came and the staff looked in awe at both of them.  

But you are not mine anymore

They stared at each other while singing those words. By the end of the song, Y/N’s voice was breaking so she stepped farther from the mic immediately. A smile escaped her lips when the host asked if she’s alright, apologizing that she ruined the song. Everyone were giving them compliments, fans commenting on how amazing they deliver the song and wishing that they can do a collab in the future. 

“Y/N,” Yuta called on the hallways of the building. He breathed hard while she just nodded at her manager, asking her to go first. “I…” He started but the words cannot come out of his mouth. I’m sorry. My ego got the worst of me. My insecurity caused our fall. I’m a wreck without you. Please come back to me. 

“Let’s not talk about it, Yuta.” She said while shaking her head. “We were immature. We’re so used to each other that we took each other for granted.” She grinned once again, eyes sparkling. Upon closer look, he figured out why. Her tears were forming. Like little pearls in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Yuta.” The words he cannot tell her. “Let’s be happy, hmm?” 

Yuta smiled, taking the hand she held out. “Can I call you when I am feeling miserable?” 

The girl laughed. “My number didn’t change.” She claimed. “And I still have to give you my thank message.” 

He pulled her close, wrapping her in his arms. “I missed you, Y/N.” 

------

Fans were delighted seeing Y/N and Yuta seated next to each other in the V-live account. A thing they always do every year on their anniversary. She was smiling, her lovely smile, while waving at the camera. Yuta adjusted the camera to capture them both before smiling his angelic smile. 

“I didn’t know your V-live account still works even if it isn’t used for a year.” She claimed, leaning in to read some comments. “I also didn’t know that there are still fans who come in this V-live account.” The number of watching people raised up that startled even Yuta. 

They both introduced themselves in a lively manner before the NCT member explained that they did this V-live as a thank you to fans who trended the song they sang in Japan. “I didn’t know that it would blow up like this.” He claimed and she nodded, even laughing at how embarrassing it is that her voice broke in the end. 

They started reading some comments about how fans missed them together, that they look together, and that their playfulness as a couple came back. “Are you back together?” Yuta read, pointing at the comment. 

“We’re not together together,” Y/N started then emphasized the last word with air quote marks. “We’re just…” She lightly glanced at him who was looking at her, mirroring the same smile she had. “Just patching things up and fixing ourselves.” Yuta continued for her. 

“Is there a possibility of a come back?” 

Y/N giggled before pointing at Yuta. “NCT is coming back with a new album. I’m preparing for a fall comeback.” The guy laughed at that. “Yuta, do you want to be featured in my album?” 

He nodded immediately. “Will you write me a love song?” 

She grinned, shaking her head playfully. “I’m not gonna write you a love song~” she sang before laughing. Yuta chuckled, poking her side playfully. “But we’ll see.” 

The fan asked what they had been up to. Y/N shared that she’s writing songs for her album and Yuta saying that he hangs out with the members often and the preparations for their comeback. “I’ve been hanging out with Jaehyun a lot.” he claimed, “I’ve been liking his music choices lately.” 

“You’re already done with your rocker state?” She asked, feigning a shock. “What song have you been listening to lately?” 

Yuta smiled, taking his phone out of his pocket. He played the song and Y/N smiled that there’s still a rockish feel on it.  (Song)

Oh, all my emotions feel like explosions when you are around

Yuta mouthed the words, trying to look for comments but his gaze was on her while jamming on the song. A smile crept his lips and he saw how one fan pointed out that he’s so in love with her. He is. 

“This song is so nice.” 

“Honestly, it kinda reminds me of you.”

He’s singing ‘She’s a, She’s a lady And I am just a boy’

He’s singing ‘She’s a, She’s a lady’ And I am just a line without a hook’

Oh baby, I am a wreck when I’m without you I need you here to stay

She looked surprised when Yuta sang the lines of the songs. The side of his lips curled up when he saw the sparkle back in her eyes. They talked a bit about what fans should watch out from their respective schedules. They said goodbye in a lively manner before Yuta ended the V-live. 

Y/N leaned on the couch, breathing heavily. She lightly glanced at Yuta and he smiled. “Want to get some sushi?” She nodded, grinning widely. 

Yuta cannot shake her off. Like a ghost, she will keep haunting him. And hopefully, she can come back to him. 

[hobiiwan]

mirror • cpt. rex

pairing: captain rex x gn!reader

warnings: post-order 66 angst, hurt-comfort but i thrive in the hurt

w/c: 1.6k

notes: i'm back with lots and lots of feelings bc i've been ghosted and it's 5 am so i should probably sleep but i hope you enjoy :D

lovely gif credit to @pieklalat!

Framed by distant moons and even further stars, the night sky never seemed more vast. If you closed your eyes, it didn’t take much to picture a Republic Star Destroyer slicing through the atmosphere of the moon whose gravity became inescapable, with you in it.

Glancing over your shoulder at where Rex had made camp for the evening, you could tell he was thinking it too. Though his eyes were closed, it was clear as watching a holofilm; reliving the searing heat of plasma bolts, shot from the blasters of his brothers, the ones he had served beside for years—the same ones he had buried just hours prior.

It felt as though there was a vice wrapped in a deadlock around your heart, constricting your chest until it threatened to collapse in on itself. You exhale sharply, willing yourself to push past the hollow ache of the now-dulled Force connection, the flashing faces of the clones and Jedi who had perished under the Order—the fear they had felt in their final moments. It was now your fear that you would never escape it.

The price of surviving the command settles atop your shoulders, making a home. A bitter, weighted reminder that you are here, alive, when you shouldn’t be—when you aren’t supposed to be.

You collapse onto the ground next to Rex, which pulls him back to the present. His eyelids flutter as he blinks slowly, once at you, then back up to the stretching expanse of the inky black overhead. He lets out a sigh, leaning up on his shoulders to cast a weary glance at his surroundings. “How long was I out?” He questions.

You reply with a thoughtful hum, “Not long. You need the rest, anyway.” It’s true. The day’s events have undoubtedly taken its toll on the both of you. But how does one go about resting after being hunted to the death?

“I’ll take first watch. Get some sleep, cyare.” He says, now sitting upright and then you know there’s no point in fighting it. You both need rest, but with the way Rex’s frame is pulled tense as a bow, his hand twitching ever-so-slightly towards his blaster, you know there’s no way he’d rest easy.

So, you offer him a victory, albeit a minute one. You pull his unarmed hand into yours and close your eyes, feeling the way he lets out a shaky breath, releasing some tension along with it. A victory—you’re still here with him.

Neither of you can be certain how long you stay that way. The low croon emitting from the transceiver is the only sign that time actually passes. Neither of you complain about the noise, either. It didn’t need to be said that the silence—this silence, was much too loud.

You do try to sleep, Rex gives you credit for that. Though, after turning for the fifth time (he counts) you give up and sit up beside him. He’s got his knees pressed to his chest, one hand curled tight around his blaster. In his other, his thumb rubs circles against the back of your hand. The answer to whether it soothes you or himself doesn’t matter.

Wordlessly, your head lowers to his shoulder, propped gently against the curve of muscle.

“Did I ever tell you I wanted to be a singer?” You murmur, glancing at the transceiver. You don’t recognise the singer on broadcast, though you do take note of the melody, slow and mellow.

Rex watches as you even try to hum along, as offbeat as you are.

“No,” he huffs something short of a chuckle, “you didn’t.”

He knows what you’re trying to do, sees it clear as day. Yet, as he watches your feet tap to the tempo of the ballad, he can’t stop himself from humouring your attempt to comfort him.

You nod eagerly, eyes widening as if to express your candor. “I was about to be one, too! Then the Jedi came and…”

Rex waits as you trail off, then clocks the far-off look in your eyes. He picks up where you left off. “Would you sing for me now?”

You return in a split second, your lips pulling into a bashful smile as you avoid his eyes. “I’m definitely rusty by now, I don’t want you losing your hearing because of me.”

The Captain nudges you teasingly, grinning when you break into soft laughter. “It would be an honour, though,” he quips.

He wonders how much of you has been hidden behind the mantle of a Jedi’s title. Who would you have been had you not been brought into the Order, raised from young to be one thing, and one thing only? Who would he be?

Once again, Rex is dragged out of his thoughts. This time, you’re tugging him to his feet. It takes an effort and a half, which you currently lack in your fatigued state.

As he looks up at you questioningly, you motion to the transceiver, dropping his hand to raise the volume. It’s enough to provide a comfortable backdrop instead of a desperate attempt to quell silence.

“Dance with me,” you propose softly, “please?”

“I don’t know how to, mesh’la.”

As if pointedly ignoring his feeble protest, your hand remains outstretched, beckoning his participation.

Maker, he’s only ever seen couples dancing on holofilms and is even more certain he has two left feet. But gazing up at your expectant self is like looking at a promise of escaping the sorrow he now knows as reality.

Really, it’s all up to him.

Rex swears he feels three times lighter from the way you beam in delight when he fits his palm into your smaller ones and helps you lift him to full height.

He stands awkwardly, clueless as to where his hands should go, how he should move. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

Below him, you soften at the uncertainty tainting his features. Taking mercy on the poor man, you lift a hand to cup his cheek, garnering his attention.

“Put your hands on my waist,” you murmur, eyes twinkling when Rex’s hands fly up to root himself to you. Your own arms loop behind his neck and he takes it as a sign to pull you into his chest, no stranger to the position.

“and now we sway.”

Such a simple command, yet Rex feels like a fish out of water. His limbs are stiff, like the serenity of the movement is a stranger. To an extent, it is.

When you take over, moving him to the beat instead, he gratefully surrenders, allowing himself a moment of tranquility.

The only sounds that reach him become the silky notes of the singer and your soft, steady breaths. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend to be in a distant galaxy, where he is not a clone and you are not a Jedi, where the war is nothing more than a brash concept and his brothers are alive and well.

Rex doesn’t realise he’s crying until your thumb smooths away a tear rolling down his face. His eyes stay closed as he wills himself to keep pretending, but he can’t.

He is still a clone but you are no longer a Jedi. His brothers are gone.

You hold him when he finally breaks, cradling his head close when his shoulders tremble with the force of his sobs. His tears soak into the collar of your singed robes, but you truly can’t find the will to care—not when the man you love is falling apart, barely held together by the threads of your embrace.

“It wasn’t them,” he chokes, shaking his head, a wretched attempt to convince himself, “—it couldn’t be.”

At that, you’re positive your heart shatters. Stars, he doesn’t deserve this. You wish with all your might to take the pain away, to rewind every clock in the galaxy and then the next, but all you can do is watch.

“It wasn’t,” you nod, lowering your forehead to press against his, “not the real them. You know they loved you.” And by the Maker, you know.

Rex’s hands clutch tightly at your robes, as if letting go of that would mean letting go of you. The last tether to what is now his past, his only constant.

What if you hadn’t made it off the ship? What if Ahsoka hadn’t gotten the chip out of him in time? What if he had hurt you?

He briefly registers your voice calling his name, cutting through the despondent scenarios that could have, by any deciding factor, become his present.

“Rex, my love,” you plead, “please look at me.”

When he raises his eyes, he finds that yours are a mirror of his own. The anguish that parallels his agony. He feels you, your presence. He’s never understood much about the Force, but he thinks this is pretty damn close.

“I’m here,” you whisper. The promise of those two words anchor you both. “‘M not going anywhere.”

You mean it. If you believed it before, there was no chance in any star in the galaxy that anyone would be able to tear you away from him now.

For the current moment, you weren’t sure if there was a place to go, even if you wanted. Less than twenty four hours ago, you had been anticipating the end of the Clone Wars. Now, it feels like you’ve been thrown onto the losing side.

“What do we do now?” Rex asks, but you both know there isn’t an answer. There’s no precedent to go off of.

Two of the finest leaders in the GAR and the Jedi Order are lost, with no one left to follow them.

There’s nothing to do but move on.

“We keep living,” you say with a heavy sigh, burying your face into the crook of Rex’s neck, “we live for them. We’ll find a way.”

You always do.

[luvdsc]

mark lee sucks at technology.

tap the heart if you have a big, fat, embarrassing crush on your best friend!

pairing :: lee mark x reader genre :: fluff / best friend + social influencer au word count :: 5,883 words warnings :: none playlist :: dumb stuff (lany) ⋆ feeling (coin) ⋆ so far so good (gabrielle aplin) ⋆ electric love (børns) ⋆ love by mistake (bad suns) author’s note :: i was debating if i should post it on his bday instead, but i decided to drop it earlier, so uh, happy (approx. one week early) bday to mister absolutely fully capable (except when it comes to tech stuff) !!!! thank you for blessing us with your god tier raps ♡ ↳ part of the not clickbait series.

In your required upper division business course aptly titled “Essential Marketing Strategies,” you had learned about a concept called personal brands. A personal brand is explained as the first impression a person wishes to perceive based on their own experiences, qualifications, and achievements. Your professor had told you and your classmates to pick three words to define your own brand. For instance, you chose to label yourself as charismatic, fun, and creative.

Your best friend’s brand would be awkward, endearing, and technologically challenged. 

Okay, so that is definitely more than three words, but who’s counting? You might as well tack on “Y/N’s big fat crush” at this rate because everyone and their mother knows that you carry a torch—or more accurately, a blazing wildfire that can easily be spotted from Pluto—for your best friend.

Well, to be more precise, you should probably say everyone, except Mark, knows. And that’s not for lack of trying either. You completely dropped the art of delicate subtlety months ago already. Maybe you should add “hopelessly oblivious” instead.

The rolling end credits to the sixth Harry Potter film are playing on the screen in front of you, signaling the nearing end of your magical movie marathon. You’re seated on the worn down couch in Mark and Donghyuck’s shared apartment, watching the former make his drink with the fancy, gently used Keurig newly settled on the scratched countertop. Johnny dropped it off a few days ago because he had splurged on a better coffee machine (“It even makes Instagram worthy whipped frappuccinos!”) and didn’t want his old, but still perfectly functioning caffeine provider going to waste.

“What’s wrong with this thing?” Mark slaps the side of the machine, and it starts to emit a low whirring noise. “Oh, that’s good, right? That sound is good, you think?”

His question is immediately answered by the sad squirt of hot water speckled with coffee grinds falling into his mug for a few seconds before the machine shuts off.

“What the hell?” he mutters angrily, carding his hand through his hair in frustration, and you finally decide to take pity on your best friend. Getting up from the comfy spot you know you sadly won’t be able to recreate perfectly again later, you stride over to where your best friend stands and flip open the top of the Keurig.

“Hyuck didn’t take out his used coffee pod,” you say, pulling out the incriminating evidence of your best friend’s roommate and disposing it in the trash can next to the refrigerator. “Where’s the espresso one you’re gonna use? Why didn’t you put that in?”

His jaw slackens, and he sheepishly rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze and mumbling, “I thought I’d just open it later and pour it into my hot water.”

“Mark,” you start, placing your hands on his shoulders firmly and staring into his eyes with a serious look on your face. “Please know that I’m saying this in the most loving way possible, but you are an absolute idiot.”

You release your grip on his shoulders and grab the espresso pod dangling from his fingertips before slotting it into the Keurig. You remove the mug he placed underneath the spout and wash out the accidental coffee water before placing it back in its original position and pressing the start button on the machine. With a sigh, you lean against the side of the counter, glancing at your friend who looks like a child being scolded for stealing from the cookie jar.

“If you pour the pod into your mug, are you just going to chug all the loose coffee grinds, too?”

“... I didn’t think that far ahead.” His lips start to unintentionally form a tiny pout, and your eyes (and your heart, too) soften.

You’re very relieved that Donghyuck is off filming with your friend because he definitely would be making fun of your heart eyes that frequently make an appearance around a certain Mark Lee. Which you always deny. Because you certainly do not have a gigantic crush on your technologically inept best friend.

You glance over at him again and have to physically fight yourself to resist the urge to kiss his cute pout away. Okay, so maybe you harbor a very respectable, medium sized crush. But it's no big deal. It’s completely under control. Unless you’re counting the fact that your best friend is still unaware, and you’re running out of ideas to try and see if he likes you back before you actually shoot your shot. Then it’s very much not under control because you’re losing sleep over it and you don’t know what to do to be any more obvious without stating the, well, obvious.

“Well, now you know. If you forget, you can FaceTime me and I’ll give you instructions on how it works.” You pat his shoulder reassuringly before pausing. “Wait, you do know how to FaceTime, right?”

“Yes!” he exclaims, sulking even more before confessing in a quieter, defeated tone, “Hyuck showed me last month.”

Mark grabs his finished drink and follows behind you, settling back onto the couch next to you. The streaming service already has Deathly Hallows Part 1 in the queue and ready to go, and your best friend is ready to click play until he notices your attention being focused on the smaller screen in your hands. He wonders if you’re about to post another one of your popular cooking videos on that app that shares a name with the most iconic song of the 2000s (hint: the name of the song’s singer is made up of four letters and a dollar sign).

“Are you uploading one of your videos?” he implores before taking a sip of his drink with a satisfied smile. Somehow, it always tastes better when you make it, and he can’t figure out why for the life of him. When he went to Johnny’s place, his older friend uses the exact same pod and water ratio for his espresso, and yet, it’s never as good as yours.

“Nah, I’m ordering my grocery delivery before I forget. Do you want anything?” You select the option to load your usual grocery items into your cart before debating on whether or not you should splurge on buying several packages of those seasonal Pillsbury sugar cookies that only come in stock during certain holidays. It seems like such an insult to the entire premise of your Tiktok account based on baking and cooking, but you’re an absolute sucker for those soft pastries.

“Yeah, can you get me a Shin Ramyun ten pack? Hyuck ate the last one two days ago and didn’t tell me.”

“You sure you don’t want ten boxes again?” You decide to get those Pillsbury sugary delights, happily adding three boxes to your cart. Everybody has a weakness, and yours just so happens to be a premade one way ticket to diabetes. You’re here for a good, delicious time, not a long time.

“No! That was an accident!” He objects, flailing his hands around, before falling back against the couch cushions in defeat. “But Hyuck does all the online grocery shopping now.”

“Thank god. You guys finally have quality toilet paper again.”

The past month of bathroom occurrences was plagued with scratchy tissue that felt more like goddamn sandpaper from the horrible depths of hell. To be honest, you probably would have rather used actual sandpaper, given the choice. You even made sure not to drink too much water any time you came over, but today, you decided to splurge on a venti passion fruit iced tea with sweetener from that very popular franchise sporting a mermaid logo and fiscally cosmic name. To your pleasant surprise, your trip to the toilet this time was wonderfully padded with Charmin Ultra Soft, not that absolutely awful off brand one with the gross texture of a dried pinecone from inferno.

“Hey, that toilet paper was a good steal! It was a three for one deal,” Mark protests, and you narrow your eyes at him.

“Wow, I wonder why it was priced so low.” You deadpan, and Mark blanches, recalling all those restroom incidents that were rather rough. Literally.

“Anyway, do you think my viewers wanna see me make chocolate crinkle cookies or mochi doughnuts?” You bring up the two recipes you managed to perfect and add your own spin to on your phone, eyes scanning the ingredient lists.

“Both. And tell me when you’re making them, so I can come over and eat them.” He gives you a wide grin, and you let out a snort at that. His smile only grows as he says happily, “I love your job.”

“You only love it because you can freeload off of me,” you jest, but nevertheless begin to start to add all the ingredients for both recipes to your shopping cart. You always film cooking videos on Tuesdays, edit on Wednesdays, keep Thursdays free for last minute touch ups and emergencies, and post one every week on Fridays with other various random videos uploaded whenever in between. With that in mind, you schedule your upcoming grocery delivery for Monday.

“Hey, you need me. I’m the best taste tester.” He puffs up his chest proudly before hastily tacking on a more genuine reason. “And because I’d starve without you. I can’t live off of instant ramen and frozen chicken nuggets forever. Gordon Ramsay already confirmed my shitty cooking skills. I need you to survive.”

“Oh my god, when I uploaded those pics of your scrambled eggs on Twitter, I lost like a hundred followers in less than a minute.” You confirm the delivery and place your phone on the coffee table, picking up the opened bag of Cheeto puffs before settling back in your seat. “My cooking credibility was completely shot. I had to explain to my fans that I didn’t make those.”

“Yeah, but now everyone calls me Eggy Boi online!” he whines, and you laugh. You have to admit, it’s quite a funny play on the whole “edgy boi” terminology. You wonder if Mark will find it amusing if he discovers his roommate is the culprit behind his new online persona (He probably won’t, and you reckon Donghyuck enjoys living in a safe space where he doesn’t have to sleep with one eye open, so you stay quiet about it. You’ll use it as leverage some other time).

“Okay, Eggy Boi, come by on Tuesday because I’ll be baking in the afternoon,” you say casually, grabbing the remote control from your best friend and pressing play. 

You very narrowly avoid a green gummy bear to the face. It lands somewhere behind the couch, lost forever to the dust bunnies and other snacks that missed its target. You know for a fact that it’ll stay there until the boys decide to move to a new apartment. Mark grumbles at the miss, biting off the head of a red cherry flavored gummy bear perhaps a little harder than necessary.

“I hate you. But I’m still coming over next week because I want a doughnut.”

“No cookie?”

“... and a cookie. Maybe two.”

Wednesday comes faster than you expected, and you’re currently holed up in your apartment’s second bedroom—which you had transformed into a snazzy office space—completing the edits to your second video on mochi doughnuts. You already finished polishing the one about the cookies earlier, thank goodness. If you had to stare at your computer screen for another three hours, you would rather eat those pastries Mark tried to make two months ago, but had mistaken salt for sugar. Adding a cup of salt to any baked good is an extremely effective way to make anyone who tasted your best friend’s brownies experience a trip to the beach. Because they essentially just swallowed a mouthful of sand and ocean water. Because it’s salty as heck. Just like Mark was when you told him.

Speaking of your best friend, he’s currently puttering around in your kitchen doing god knows what. He knows better than to try another recipe and possibly blow up your number one moneymaker—your prized oven—in the process. Your heart nearly drops when your ears pick up the faint chopping sounds of a knife against your wooden cutting board. Is he going to try to temper chocolate again? He nearly burned through your entire stock of dark, milk, and white chocolate last time.

After much contemplation and deciding that you deserve a good procrastination break and a fully intact kitchen, you’re about to go out and see what he’s up to when Mark timidly appears in your doorway, clutching onto a white bowl of watermelon cubes with a fork tucked neatly in it. He shuffles in, dropping the snack on your desk before turning to walk out without a word, not wanting to disturb your work mode. 

Your heart warms up at the sight, and you speak up, a small smile slipping into your face. “What’s this for?”

“Knowing you, you probably haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.” He pauses in the doorway and adds on sheepishly, “And I can't cook anything, so this is what you get.”

Your heart swells tenfold, and your smile widens even more as you spear a piece of fruit with the fork and quickly pop it into your mouth. “Thanks, Marky.”

His cheeks flush with a pretty shade of carmine, and he fails to suppress the little giddy smile that appears on his face at your nickname for him. He walks out of your office, reddened cheeks still rising up higher than ever. “Y-Yeah, of course. No problem.”

By the time you finish adding the final few touches to your edited video, the bowl of watermelon has been picked clean. You save your video and transfer both of your completed projects to your phone, making a mental note to schedule their uploads and add them to your account’s posting queue later. Shoving your phone in the pocket of your sweats after ensuring the successful transfer of your videos, you pick up the empty dish and walk out towards the kitchen, the silver fork clinking against the side of the bowl with every step.

As you wash the dish and utensil, Mark wanders over from his spot on the couch, leaning forward and casually placing his chin on your shoulder. Almost instantaneously, you feel the heat rising to your cheeks as you briefly fantasize about your best friend wrapping his arms around your waist and how domestic and sweet the two of you would look, like one of those cheesy couples the two of you always made fun of.

“What’s up?” you ask, making a conscious effort to hold your voice steady and not waver over the fact that Mark is basically draped over you. After you place the dish on the drying rack, you turn around to face your best friend, sorely miscalculating the distance as mere inches separate your face from his now.

“I—” Puberty decides to make an ugly appearance in the form of an ill timed voice crack, and he internally curses as he takes a step back, willing the incoming blush to go away. Letting out a small cough, he tries again, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

“I, um, Jisung sent me some kind of dance video. He said it’s a challenge? I kinda don’t know what to do with it? Like do I make a new dance, record myself, and send it back? Actually, isn't it easier to just do a dance battle face to face?”

“Can I see the video?” You already have a good idea on what the video will be, but you want to confirm it. Mark fumbles with his phone, pulling up the video in his text messages. He angles the phone towards you for you to see, and you grab his hand, bringing the device a little closer to you for a better look and clicking play.

“Oh, it’s a Tiktok challenge! He’s doing the Say So dance!” you exclaim, recognizing the song almost immediately as your eyes follow the fluid dance moves, completely enthralled. “So a challenge isn’t going up against someone, like a battle. It’s just some kind of trend or concept that you try to copy yourself. You’re supposed to learn the same dance and record yourself for this one. I can show you some other challenges and help you practice and record this one tomorrow if you wanna drop by after work!”

“O-Oh, okay, sounds good.” Mark stumbles over his words, attempting to focus on what you’re saying and the dance Jisung is doing, but all he can think about is the way your body is pressed against his side, hand comfortably wrapped around his. He freezes up as the tips of his ears grow redder and redder with every passing second, and his face sports a similar color. He silently prays for the telltale crimson to go away by the time the dance is over.

When the video ends, you once again realize the close proximity between you and your best friend. Your face burns at this revelation, and you awkwardly take a step back. Clearing your throat, you hastily release Mark’s hand (He inaudibly lets out the breath he’s been holding in this entire time, yet he also already misses the way your hand felt grasping his).

“Uh, anyway, I’m gonna make a latte. Do you want a drink, too?” You walk towards the other side of your kitchen with Mark trailing behind you. You take out a floral, peachy colored mug from your cupboards before pausing and looking at your best friend. “Wait, do you remember how to use a Keurig?”

“Yes!” He says, slightly exasperated as he picks out his own cup from your cabinet. He always uses the same one—a cerulean blue mug with squiggles all over it—and all of your friends and guests know not to use it because it’s unofficially officially Mark’s mug (And perhaps, you did indeed buy it from that overpriced kitschy tableware shop down the street two years ago with your best friend in mind).

“Really?” You select the latte option and press start after you had already positioned the mug beneath the spout and inserted a green tea matcha pod. He finally relents, shoulders sagging and a defeated expression on his face.

“... No.”

You chuckle, taking the mug from him and carefully putting it on the counter. You grab the espresso pod you know he likes from the drawer below and place it next to the cup. “It’s okay, I’ll teach you again.”

Mark tries. He really does. He tries very hard to concentrate on memorizing the simple process, but he keeps getting distracted. His eyes are focused on the correct button to push before they start to trail up to your fingertips. And then, they go from your hand to your arm, then up to the elegant curve of your neck, and finally, to the way your lashes frame your pretty eyes and how the tip of your tongue sticks out slightly as you concentrate until all he can focus on is you, you, you.

Suddenly, in what feels like a blink of an eye, you’re done and handing him his finished drink, complete with a perfectly whipped milk foam on top. You ask him if he knows how to make it now, and all he can do is lie and nod with a barely convincing smile.

After all, how can Mark tell his best friend that the reason he never remembers is because you’re the biggest distraction?

Mark should be here in five minutes, according to his most recent text message. And in the text message below that, your friend had sent you a challenge. More specifically, it’s the one she completed with Donghyuck a few weeks ago. When you said you wanted bold suggestions on how to figure out if your best friend feels the same way about you as you do about him, you didn’t want one this bold. 

Yet, the video link to your friend’s “today I kissed my best friend” challenge along with a winky face from her is staring mockingly at you. While you aren’t one to back down from a challenge, the mere thought of kissing your best friend causes vast colonies of butterflies to erupt in your stomach and your ears to feel as if they have caught on fire. You’re already tongue tied with your head in the clouds, and he isn’t even here yet. How utterly fantastic.

However, your mother definitely did not raise a quitter, so you spring into action when you hear the faint jingling of a key being inserted into your apartment’s door (You had given Mark a copy of your key almost immediately after you had moved in). You move the pretty indoor fern given to you by Jaemin as a housewarming gift last year closer to the edge of your towering bookcase, leaning your phone against it. You quickly position the device to capture a good view of the couch area in your living room and press the record button, arranging a few of the leaves to hide as much of your phone as you possibly can without obstructing the lens.

You run full speed to your bedroom, letting out a sigh of relief when you’re safely inside and hear Mark finally unlocking the door successfully and shuffling in. When he calls out to you, you try to even out your breathing, walking out of your room with your tripod and laptop in hand.

“Hey,” you greet him in the most casual tone you can muster. You place the tripod down and sit before opening your laptop and setting it on the coffee table. “I thought we could watch a few challenges for fun before trying the Say So one. Have you watched Jisung’s videos before?”

“Um, well, no, not really,” he confesses sheepishly, taking a seat next to you on the couch, leg pressing against yours. He squints at the YouTube video you pulled up earlier before he had arrived, reading the title before clicking the space button to start it. “Savage Tiktok dance compilation part two?”

“Wait, hold up.” You pause the video and then turn to face him with an incredulous expression on your face. “You’ve never watched any of Jisung’s dance Tiktoks?”

“No… I don’t even have an account.” His cheeks are dusted with the lightest shade of pink as he quietly admits, “I watch all of yours though.”

Your eyes widen at his confession, face heating up as you stammer out, “O-Oh, well, I can help you make an account later to upload your video.”

“Sounds good.” There’s a few seconds of silence as you mull over his previous words before he speaks up again awkwardly, “Should I, uh, play the video?”

“Oh! Yes, right! Of course, hit play,” you laugh nervously, twisting and playing with the hair tie around your wrist. He starts the video again, and the two of you watch the compilation, slowly relaxing once more as you tap your fingers to the rhythm of the song and he bobs his head to the beat.

“Do I have to change outfits like that?” he questions a few minutes later, eyes growing round as he sees the girl on the screen switch between four different outfits throughout the dance. His closet basically consists of the same five black shirts that he stole from Jaehyun. Even if he did do an outfit swap, there would literally be no difference at all.

“You don’t have to,” you assure him, clicking the enter key to play the next video that’s recommended: another Tiktok dance challenge compilation. “All you have to do is copy the dance.”

Mark nods, taking a glance at the laptop screen before his hand shoots out and he pauses the video, leaning forward to take a closer look at the little recommended video title banner at the top. “Wait! What’s that one?”

He clicks on it, the new video now loading up. The two of you wait patiently for it to begin, waiting for the spinning disc to stop. But it doesn’t. In fact, the whole chrome page goes blank and then, the little pixelated Google Chrome dinosaur pops up on your monitor, announcing that you have no internet connection. Furrowing your eyebrows, you try to reload the page before trying to re-establish your laptop connection to your wifi. Unfortunately, you cannot find your appropriately named “drop it like it’s hotspot” wifi anywhere to connect to.

And that’s when it hits you. Your landlord had sent out a notice to the entire apartment complex last week about the electricity being powered down today from 4 to 6 p.m. for a maintenance check, and a quick glance at the digital clock on your laptop shows that it’s a little past four.

You groan, closing your laptop and flopping back against the couch cushions dramatically. Mark cocks his head, slightly confused, before he pokes you in the arm. “What’s wrong?”

“I completely forgot about the scheduled electricity shutdown for the entire building. We won’t have any wifi for the next two hours.” You pout, your bottom lip jutting out in the slightest, and Mark doesn’t think it’s fair that you get to be this cute and have this much of an effect on his racing heart rate.

“That’s okay, we can… play some board games?” he suggests offhandedly, pushing away the embarrassing thought and nudging your leg with his, and you smile before a sudden idea occurs to you. 

“Or we can still do some Tiktok challenges! What was the challenge you clicked on?” You quickly sit upright, turning to face your best friend, eyes sparkling in excitement. “I memorized a few of the dance ones already! Was it Renegade? I can teach you that one. Jisung showed me how to do it.”

“Um,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. His eyes dart everywhere, except you, as he lets out a feigned cough. “It wasn’t a dance one. It was about, uh, going up to your boyfriend… and um, hugging him... when he’s playing video games.”

“Oh.” You answer lamely, not knowing what to say. You unsuccessfully try to push away the image of you attempting that challenge with your best friend. “Those are really cute.”

“Really?” He says doubtfully, wrinkling his eyebrows and fiddling with the frayed sleeve of his sweater. “Wouldn’t the dude get mad?”

You don’t know what suddenly possessed you to do this (you’ll have to ask Renjun and his paranormal loving ass later), but you thank whatever demon did for that split second because you find yourself gently grabbing Mark’s arm and slipping your head underneath it. You swing one leg over his lap and settle down until you’re securely sitting in his lap, bent legs on either side of his hips, hands curled around the soft fabric of his sweater on both sides and resting on top of your thighs. His arms instinctively go around your waist, wrapping around you securely.

You tilt your head to the side slightly, studying the flustered boy in front of you with a teasing, albeit a little anxious, smile on your lips. “Are you feeling mad?”

Splotches of red litter his cheeks and decorate the tips of his ears, but your best friend furiously shakes his head at your question, bashfully ducking his head afterwards and muttering a soft “No.”

You swallow hard, heart pounding erratically in your chest as you timidly ask, “Would you be mad if I do this?”

Mark looks up at that, confusion written all over his face. His arms start to loosen around your figure, hands now resting on your waist. “If you do what?”

You take a deep breath. “This.”

You lean in and gently press your lips against his. Mark freezes in shock, and you quickly retreat soon after, gnawing at the inside of your cheek as you wait anxiously for his reaction. Your heart feels like it’s about to fall out of your chest and be buried six feet under.

A tiny noise of surprise belatedly escapes from him and crimson spreads across his cheeks like wildfire. His doe eyes are wide and sparkling, staring at you in bewilderment. Your best friend lets out a small laugh of disbelief before a full blown smile breaks out across his face. He gazes at you adoringly, breathing out softly, “I’m not mad at that.”

You perk up at that, draping your arms around his neck as you lean forward, beaming. “Really? You’re not?”

“Definitely not.”

This time, Mark meets you halfway, his lips slotting against yours perfectly and making you feel tingles up and down your spine. Your eyes are closed, and you are so hyper aware of the way his hands grip your hips, how he tugs you closer, and how his lips chase after yours. The number of butterflies from earlier multiply in your stomach, and you have ascended past cloud nine by now.

When the two of you break apart, your eyes flutter open, and you nudge your nose against his affectionately. The brightest grin blooms on his face once again, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck, muffling his little giggles and hiding the awfully vibrant cerise that rapidly blossoms on his face.

“Is this a good time to tell you congrats for completing your first challenge?” you say, resting your cheek against the crown of his head. You pull away when he lifts his head up, surprised.

“I wasn’t playing video games though,” he says slowly, processing your words and thinking back to the challenge that started this all.

“It was a different challenge. It’s the one that Hyuck did a few weeks ago,” you confess, and realization dawns on him, his face lighting up for a split second before a look of horror takes over.

“Oh, no. Is that why you had your phone recording on the bookshelf?” Mark asks, dread beginning to cloud his mind.

“Yes…” you say slowly, a little perplexed. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Oh my god, I ruined your video,” he moans, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder. “I saw your phone when I walked in and thought you were filming earlier and forgot to turn it off, so I turned it off for you.”

When the words finally register in your mind, you can’t stop the laughter from bubbling out of your throat, and he raises his head up to look at you with wide doe eyes at the pretty sound. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!”

You can’t stop laughing at the situation, and he looks at you worriedly, gnawing on his bottom lip slightly. You force yourself to calm down, a soft chuckle leaving your lips before you beam at him, leaning in and placing the softest kiss on the tip of his nose. “It’s okay, Mark. I’m not mad. That video wasn’t important anyway.”

“But still,” he whines before letting out a groan and slapping his hand against his forehead when the realization sinks in even further. “I’m such an idiot.”

“But you’re my idiot now, right?” you say teasingly, albeit a little shyly as well, as you reach over to tug his hand away from his face and lace your fingers with his.

“I mean, I kinda thought I was always your idiot,” Mark laughs softly and a little embarrassedly, eyes averted and cheeks turning pinker than ever. The largest grin spreads across your face at that, and you turn away slightly to hide it. You didn’t think your best friend can possibly be any more endearing, but he manages to prove you wrong every time.

“Well, then now you can add ‘Y/N’s boyfriend’ to your resume,” you say, and he fails to suppress the pleased smile appearing on his face at your remark, his rosy cheeks rising even taller than skyscrapers.

“So, uh, what sort of job description does that have?” He gazes at your intertwined hands in wonder, still completely giddy at the reality of you being his best friend and something more.

“Sharing hoodies, giving me attention, kissing, holding my hand, going on dates, you know, the basics,” you answer, squeezing his hand tenderly, and his doe eyes instantly light up. Mark feels a little bolder than before, and it shows when he grins widely and says:

“Can we do number three again?”

“Yes, we can, Eggy Boi.”

He wrinkles his nose at the name, disgruntled and unimpressed, as he crosses his arms over his chest, sulking. You let out a laugh before leaning in and crashing your lips against his. He immediately relents at that, enthusiastically responding and hugging you closer to him, and you can’t help but smile into the kiss as you feel his own smile appear as well.

At that moment, you decide that you want to change Mark’s personal brand. Because his should be “absolutely wonderful, positively amazing, a cute kisser, your boyfriend, and your bestest friend.” And yes, that is most definitely more than the allotted three words, but again, who’s really counting?

Certainly not you when you’re too preoccupied with kissing your best friend. Correction: best friend and new boyfriend.

One new notification: donutkillmyvibe uploaded a new video!

moominjun commented:

so you’re saying the reason why we didn’t get the highly anticipated best friend challenge video is because @ marklyrawr turned the camera off?

donutkillmyvibe replied: yes 😔 I’m sorry to disappoint everyone 🤧

nanaislove replied: omg no bby it’s ok 🥺🥺💞💓💓💝💗 you didn’t have to make an apology video for that 🥺💗💓💘💖

goofys.chuckle replied: yeah it’s mark’s fault. he’s the disappointment here 🥴

morklyrawr replied: hahahahaha stfu hyuck

tytrack commented:

mark is going through puberty. I apologize

dobunny replied: @.@

goofys.chuckle commented:

are we getting whip(ped)lash pt 2 by eggy boi?

morklyrawr replied: YOU’RE THE ONE WHO STARTED THAT NAME?????

goofys.chuckle replied: uh gotta blast 🚀

showmethemonet replied: @ goofys.chuckle does this mean you’re staying over again?

goofys.chuckle replied: @ showmethemonet yes if you want your super cute, mega talented, very handsome boyfriend to still be alive 🥺

showmethemonet replied: @ goofys.chuckle oh my god I didn’t know I was dating bts jin???

moominjun replied: LMFAOOOOO

goofys.chuckle replied: heart 💔 been broke 📉 so many times ⏰ i don’t know 🤔 what to believe 💯 mama 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 said 🗣 it’s my fault 😢 it’s my fault 🤦🏻‍♂️i wear my heart ❤️ on my sleeve 💪 i think it’s best 👍🏻 I put my heart ❤️ on ice 🧊

jenojam commented:

why am I not surprised……

itsmebetch replied: just mark thingz 🍉

suhprisemf commented:

mark your head looks flat af

jungjaeprince replied: 😂😂😂

10vely replied: @ jungjaeprince be quiet don’t cry

letswonwon commented:

whoop whoop

junguwu commented:

OMG CONGRATS ON YOUR RELATIONSHIP SWEETIE 😍😍

takoyaki_prince commented:

MARK!!!!! you look handsome !! 😘

jisungpwark commented:

rip to @ donutkillmyvibe ’s future videos that mark will ruin. press f in the chat to pay respects 🙏🏻

bigheadking replied: F ✊🏻😔

peachyangel replied: f 🥺🥺

yoitslucas replied: F 🤪🤪🤪 but glad you’re happy, man ❤️

donutkillmyvibe replied: F 💔

morklyrawr replied: @ donutkillmyvibe wtf babe????

officialgordonramsay commented:

didn’t i tell you to get back on tinder ?

apado_god commented:

nice 😎👍🏻

[maraudereestauderelb]

Pool Party

A Vince Neil smut One Shot

Prompt: Your parents are gone for the weekend and you decide to throw a pool party at their estate. Coming home after all those years brings back bad memories but a certain blond singer helps you overcome them...

Warning: Sexual acts

MASTERLIST

The music was blaring loudly over my parent's back lawn. Y/F/N had pulled me into the low end of the pool after pushing a cup filled with vodka-lemon into my hand. I was already feeling a bit tipsy as we started to sway our hips to the music, not a care in the world.

This party was a hit and it seemed like everyone was having the time of their lives. I made out another friend of mine in the crowd playing beer pong with a group of guys, who seemed to be more interested in her outfit than in the actual game. I shook my head amused and found my best guy friend at our outside bar flirting with the bar keeper we had hired. His name was Sanchez and he was from Spain and even I had to admit that he was hot.

Have fun Greg! I grinned but focused back on the music which had changed to a more up-beat song and I placed my arms on Y/F/N's shoulder so we could dance together hoping to get some attention from the guys around us. We were wearing nothing but our bikinis and I could feel pairs of eyes boring into the back of my head.

"Looks like we are attracting some guys over there." I told Y/F/N grinning and watched her head poke around gazing at our little audience until it stopped at a spot right behind me.

"Yeah. Hey, you mind if I just go over there and talk to Nik for a moment. Have barely seen him all night." I turned my head and followed her gaze. Nikki was sitting on one of the deckchairs in black jeans and leather jacket. This dude hasn't even taken off his sunglasses. "Has no one told him that this was a pool party?" I asked my best friend with a grin.

She just shook her head but I could see a little amused smile on her lips: "I might have mentioned it, but you know him. Maybe I get him to change. Be right back."

And with that she waded through the water. I just shrugged and emptied my cup before getting out of the water to refill it again.

It was weird being back home like that. I knew every corner of this house and still, standing here now as this totally new person - compared to my sixteen year old self - it just felt foreign. Like a place I have rented for a party but isn't actually my home.

It never did feel like home, to be honest. More like a prison with golden bars that locked you in, but all everyone always seemed to notice was the gold, not the bars.

I sighed and took another sip to get rid of my melancholy thoughts when from the corner of my right eye I saw the floodlights to the garage light up. Confused that anyone of the guests would be in that area, I grabbed my boho robe which was draped over a bar stool and walked down the little path towards the driveway.

Taking the last turn around the corner I could see one of my dad's Rolls Royce parked in front of the garage and I almost had a little heart attack thinking my parents might have come back home earlier from their summer vacation, when I saw a blonde mop of hair examining the vehicle.

"Vince? What are you doing there?" He almost hit his head on the side mirror, when he heard my voice, shocked that he's been caught.

"I...uhm I was just looking..." His one hand was brushing through his hair nervously while he pointed back at the car. "It's really...I mean man, it's a 1982 Silver Spirit...it's so new, this baby must have cost a fortune!" I had to smile a bit, delighted at his enthusiasm. My dad does always drive one of the best and latest cars, he must have inherited that hobby from my grandfather.

"Yeah, must be pretty new. Actually I haven't seen it before. Usually my dad has his Bentley out. It's probably in the garage." I said nonchalantly, like it was no big deal and leaned against the car, watching Vince's eyes grow big. It was kinda cute how excited he got over cars. "Y-Your dad has a Bentley?" He stuttered and his gaze dropped to the gararge longingly. Again I had to smile to myself, watching Vince stand in the driveway in nothing but his swim shorts, gazing at the garage like a little kid at a toy store.

"You know, if you want...I mean only if you really have the time - you might miss a few hot bitches while you're gone - but if you want ...I can show you the rest of the cars." His head turned back in my direction so fast, for a moment I thought he could have snapped it and he gave me a look like I have told a child it was christmas and his birthday on the same day. "The rest of the cars?", he said with a thin voice, probably trying to hold back an unmanly squeal. This time I couldn't hide the smile and shrugged. "Sure, if we both hadn't had so much alcohol in our blood, I would have even let you drive one." I suggested and walked to the pin pad to open the garage doors. A strange sound left Vince's throat, which sounded like he was holding back an excited scream and I turned around to him and grinned: "Please don't faint." And with a push of the buttons the garage door lifted from the floor.

"What the fuck?!", Vince exhaled and I was afraid his eyes might pop out. We stepped into the hall and I closed the doors again, hoping we wouldn't attract more people who wanted to see the cars.

"Yep, it's a tic he got from my grandpa and surprisingly my dad's also into racing cars. Well watching them..." I rolled my eyes. "The worst thing about those cars is, if I didn't care so much about their value I definitely would have slashed a few holes in some tires." A gasp from Vince signalled me that this wasn't the right answer. "Well, not for the cars' sake." I hit a few swtiches and the hall lit up.

"If you wanna get into a car", I informed him while he roamed around the at least half a dozen vehicles, "just tell me, I got the keys.", pointing at a display cabinet on the wall behind me.

"Dude, is that a 1979 manufactored 450SL Mercedes-Benz?" Vince said excited running to a red convertible Mercedes at the end of the hall. I followed him.

"Yeah, that one is my favourite. That's also...shame on me...the only car I know the exact labelling of. The others in here I'm glad I can name the brand. Dad said I was supposed to get it after I graduated college. Well, you probably know how much my parents love me at the moment, so that went down the toilet hole."

"That's your car?!" Vince was still examining every detail of it. "Was." I corrected him and he finally looked up into my face.

"Oh, your dad sounds like a major asshole by the way."

I shrugged and followed him to the next car. "Sadly, I can't pick where I came from. But enough about me. So, which one is your favourite?"

"The Porsche."

I laughed: "Of course, the porsche."

"Hey, you said I can look at them from the inside." "Yes?"

"Which one is your dad's favourite car?"

"The Roll Royce in the right corner over there. Why?" I replied confused at the sudden change of topic. For the first time I realized how close Vince and I were, leaning against the Mercedes. His exciting demeanor was replaced by a smirk. "Maybe we can't slash holes in those pretty tires, but maybe this is just as good." Before I could ask, Vince had grabbed my waist and pulled me against his tanned chest when our lips collided. I had to moan at the sudden impact and the alcohol, which was already running through my system, clouded my mind. Why was it suddenly so hot in here? And gosh, those lips were soft. Before I could properly comprehend everything, my hands got caught in his hair and I pulled him down deepening the kiss. Vince grabbed my thighs and pick me up pushing my back against the vehicle, which squeaked a bit at the impact.

"Vince..." I mumbled with a satisfied sigh as his lips traced a path down my neck. I still couldn't put his words and his actions together, but his mouth was just too good to stop him.

"Let's have some fun in your dad's favourite car." It finally clicked in my brain and I moved my head to make him look up at me. He first thought my sudden move was a way of disagreeing with his idea and he already had his next words formed in his mouth: "Look I know this-" but he stopped midsentence when he saw my smirk.

"Can I suck you off?" I had no clue where my sudden bluntness was coming from, but I loved Vince's physical reaction to it, feeling the small thrust of his hips and a rather bigger problem poking into my ass. "In the car?"

"Gosh, fuck! You can't just straight forward say such words to a man." I shrugged and put a hand under his chin only to kiss him again.

He started carrying me towards the black car when I stopped him: "Wait. Need to get the keys."

Vince let me back down on my feet and I rushed to the cabinet grabbing the right key.

"Someone's really eager.", he laughed as I reached for his hand and pulled him along. In seconds the driver's door was opened and I pushed Vince into the seat, before straddling his legs. "Fuck, this is hot." His hands grabbed my ass cheeks grinding me down onto his hips. I just let my pelvis rock against his while I looked into his eyes with a grin on my lips.

"I can't believe I'm actually doing this!"

"Me, or in your dad's car?" Vince asked with a smirk.

"Both." I answered and leaned down to kiss him again. With my right hand I was searching for a certain lever and as I found it the seat slid backwards, leaving enough space in the foot compartment for me to kneel in.

I interrupted the kiss and let my lips trail down his neck to his chest, where I kissed my way down over his navel until I reached the waistband of his shorts.

Kneeling between Vince's legs, I let my hands brush over the inside of his thighs, staying

just inches away from his little problem. I could hear him groan and it sent a tender prickle straight to my core.

Without thinking more about it I untied his shorts and let my hand wonder inside to pull out his hard dick. Fuck he was thick. I thought and swallowed hard before opening my mouth and giving his head a tentative first lick. It was already covered in precume and my lips sucked in his head, while my tongue swirled around it. My right hand was still holding the shaft until I decided to swallow him down to the base. His thickness almost made me gag and I felt tears forming in my eyes, when I suddenly heard a deep moan: "Oh, fuck! Fuck! Yes, just like that! Take it all babe!" And then his hands were in my hair and I let him hold my head in place. God, this was hot. I was trying to breathe through my nose but I couldn't keep the moan from escaping my lips, vibrating around his dick. "Yes, fuck!" His hips began to thrust up and his hands pulled my hair back and forth while he kept fucking my mouth. I could feel saliva escape the corner of my lips, but I didn't care, I was too focused on giving him a good blowjob. I slowly opened my eyes, still letting him fuck me and my gaze moved up to look at him. He had his head back in his neck and his eyes closed in ecstasy, but then he groaned: "Fuck, Y/N...I'm gonna cum!" And his head dropped forward and he looked straight into my eyes. "Gosh, fuck- you're so... hot!"

And then I could suddenly feel my mouth filling with his cum, running down my throat and I almost forgot to swallow. His dick slipped out of my mouth and I licked my lips clean with a grin. "That was fun!" I said, too satisfied about the thought that I gave a blowjob in my dad's car. If he knew. My grin grew bigger and I climbed back onto Vince's lap, who was still trying to catch his breath. "Fuck, you're amazing." He mumbled, still dazed from his orgasm. Then he suddenly wrapped his arms back around me and kissed me hungrily. And all I could do was

claw my fingers into his hair, giving myself into this hot kiss, as cold shivers ran down my spine. My body definitely wasn't done yet and it let Vince know by slowly moving its pelvis down onto his hips.

"Pleasetouch me." I begged against his lips and hid my face in the crack of his neck to muffle my moans, as I desperately wanted to feel some release between my legs. This has turned me on more than I would like to admit. But having Vince almost naked underneath me in one of my parent's cars, felt so exhilarated I couldn't stop moving.

Vince's hands reached under my robe and he tried to pull it off my shoulders.

"You're wearing way too much...", he whispered with a hoarse voice into my ear and I helped him get rid of my it. Then his fingers undid my bikini top in seconds and threw it onto the passenger seat. I moaned into his ear as he grabbed my naked breats, massaging them. My heart was beating so fast and all I could think of was feeling this sweet release while my hips rocked against his, trying to find enough friction. "Let's move this to the backseat, princess. So I can pay you back." He let go of my breats and grabbed my thighs again getting out of the car. I could hear him open a door and then I felt leather under my back as he pushed me into the cushions of the backseat. "Much better. Now, let me get rid of that" he hooked his two index fingers into my panties and pulled them down, "and then I wanna hear you scream, princess."

Before I was even able to react, Vince had disappeared between my legs and a second later his lips were sucking hard at my clit. "Fuck...Vince...fuck!" My head slammed back into the leather cushions and he had to grab my thighs to hold me still. Thousands of elictric shocks were running through my body straight to my core and my hips started rocking aginst his tongue. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This felt so good. My hands rushed to his blonde mop of a hair to hold him in place. I could feel how wet I was getting and Vince just kept sucking my clit when suddenly two fingers entered my core at once. "Oh god! Fuck..." I couldn't hold back my voice any longer as his fingers fucked me relentlessly. "Please...please don't stop..." I was so close and my mind wasn't able to think straight anymore, when out of nowhere a third finger entered me. "Oh fuck Vince!" And then I came so hard, my entire body started shaking. I lost control of it and all I was able to do was ride it out until my muscles gave out. I had no idea how Vince had been able able to breathe, the way I had been fucking his face, but moments later he crawled up from between my legs and I slowly opened my eyes, only to be met with the same enthusiastic grin I had given him after the blowjob.

"You good?"

"Yeah...", I said, still trying to catch my breath.

Suddenly he kissed me again and for a while we were just making out heavenly, my fingers clawed into his back, probably leaving red streams. Until he interrupted the kiss and looked back down at me: "And? Better than slashing holes in those pretty tires?"

I grinned satisfied: "Yes..."

"Anytime, babe." He winked and got up. I followed him and grabbed my bathing suit, putting it back on, followed by my robe. "We should go back to the party." I said blushing. "Not that someone is missing us."

"Afraid what they might think if you show up with me?" He joked but all I could do was blush harder. I couldn't tell him, how right he was. Even though I can't deny that my core is still shaken from that orgasm. Gosh, how many girls he had probably done that with already. I shook my head, before trying to fix my hair.

"No, afraid that your friends might have lit my pool on fire." I said with a grin and locked the car doors.

"Hm, there's even a small possibility..."

"Vince!" I exaggerated a shocked voice and then smiled, playfully punching him into his arm. "That's not funny!"

"A little bit!" He grabbed the keys and walked to the display.

"Do you know exactly how many keys are in there?"

"Don't even think about stealing one!"

[julemmaes]

singer of my heart - nightmares

prompt: Az singing to Gwyn when she has a nightmare and it is the only thing that calms her down

warnings: mentions of SA, death

A/N: hoping these won't be the usual warnings, here it comes the first one shot of Singer Of My Heart, my new collection of Gwynriel stories. Many of the people in my taglist might not be really fond of this ship, so if you only comment to say just how much you hate anything that's not Elriel, I ask you not to:D

Word count: 3,263

Gwyn instantly awoke to the dim light of the ever-burning candles in the kitchens of the Sangravah temple. The din hit her immediately afterwards. She could hear the screams of her priestess friends, felt the sharp metal of her enemies cutting through flesh and blocking out those heartbreaking cries. She could distinguish the voices of the people who had lived with her all her life. She knew what was happening. She had been in that place before, that same night, so few years before. They were coming.

She looked down, fixing her eyes on the bright, wide-open eyes of the little girl whose hand she was clutching. Her heart clenched even tighter in her chest and she tried to clear her thoughts before Hybern's soldiers reached them. If she hurried, maybe this time she would be able to get in with them. Maybe she could get to safety, escape the carnage.

She looked at the passage in the wall, where the last of the children had now entered, and let go of little Sankora's hand. The child wailed, shaking her head, but Gwyn had no time for such things, she had to make sure she was safe. They were coming, they were coming.

The footsteps and screams were getting closer by the second, louder and louder behind the large wooden door that separated them from what she knew was certain death. She pushed the little one through the trap door, ordering one of the older children to run as fast as they could down into the catacombs, hiding as best they knew until someone came for them.

Sankora had just disappeared behind the wall when Gwyn heard Hybern running towards her. They were coming.

Knowing what was about to happen, she let go of a throaty noise. She wanted to escape with the children, she knew she could, but her body didn't move until it was too late and she had only time to throw a rug over the trap door and place the table right in front of it so it was no longer visible.

She had just turned to face the opening when the door swung open, slamming into the wall with such force that the pots and pans hanging from the nails shook. Gwyn held her breath, her legs ready to finally run, following what her brain was begging her to do, but the commander saw her and his nostrils flared as he caught her scent.

A creepy smile appeared on the man's face and Gwyn felt the hairs on her arms rise.

She knew what was coming.

And from the looks the guards were giving her, it was as if they, too, had been there before. It was as if they were all actors, doomed to relive that night every time she closed her eyes.

Gwyn shifted her gaze to her sister, to the other priestesses, to return her eyes to the commander. She tried to stand straighter, not to let on.

When the man spoke, she felt her stomach churn so hard she was afraid she would vomit.

"Where are the little girls?" he asked, taking a step towards her. Gwyn took one back, her breath caught in her throat still. "Where are the girls?" he repeated, reaching a hand up to her face, smiling as he took a strand of her hair and curled it around one finger.

When rough fingertips brushed the skin of her cheek, Gwyn closed her eyes.

"They took the mountain road to go get help," she murmured, trying to sound more confident than she actually was.

The guards laughed behind the commander. He grinned, leaning towards her so far that she could smell his breath, felt the air penetrate her soul. She would never forget the alcohol-heavy scent of that beast. "You're lying." he whispered, cupping her face completely and tightening his grip on her head, crushing her ear. Gwyn whimpered, a sound between a sob and a cry of pain, and he laughed. "I can feel your fear," he continued in a louder voice, "you're lying and if you don't tell me the truth soon-" he clicked his tongue, violently pulling his hand away from her delicate face and jerking her forward as her hair got caught in his armour. Gwyn let out a scream of pain, but the sound was choked off when she heard someone else wailing. Catrin looked into her eyes, only pure anger and determination on her face.

Gwyn felt the wave of shock hit her in one breath and felt her knees giving way beneath her.

She knew what was coming.

She knew, as did her body.

She felt the commander ordering her to tell him the truth again. Threaten her. She heard him promise he would kill her sister if she did not speak. She heard the sound of the sword being drawn from its sheath. She heard the final warning and heard the screams as her sister's head rolled before her eyes.

But she did nothing.

It was useless.

She had tried so many times to change the outcome. She had tried so hard to save everyone.

She didn't move from her spot on the floor, her face wet with silent tears, when the commander moved Catrin's decapitated corpse with one foot and bent down to her level and without taking his stare from hers, said to his guards, "Go to work on them."

She heard the cries of her companions, but did not react. It was meaningless.

The smile the commander gave her made her brain scream to run, but it made no sense.

"That one is mine," he spat.

She felt something caress her neck, call her name. She turned her head slowly as the commander took her by force and two other guards pinned her against the table. She felt the same gentle caress on the exposed skin of her face and then all black as the shadows took over.

***

Gwyn woke up screaming, clawing at her chest so that air could flow directly into her lungs.

The figure of the commander she had come to appreciate and trust was too similar to that of her nightmare. The title both men bore was all too equal for Gwyn to realise that Cassian posed no real threat.

When Nesta tried to approach as well, she only screamed louder and the broken sound that came from her throat made her friends curse.

Gwyn tried to gasp for air, failing miserably between sobs and spasms, and it only got worse when Cassian knelt in front of her on the bed, placing one leg on the mattress and shifting the weight of his body towards her.

His outstretched hands to help her up, to see if she needed him, was just another trap in the eyes of the girl who still believed she was trapped in the nightmare.

Gwyn closed her eyes, clutching the blanket in her hands so tightly that the bones rattled in her fingers.

Get out. Get out. Get out-

And a moment later the mattress shifted beneath her once more and a low growl filled the room.

She let out a sigh of relief, of freedom, as she let herself fall back onto the pillows, opening her eyes now tired of struggling, knowing full well what the sound meant.

The Shadowsinger stood beside her bed breathing heavily as he held a sword and kept his gaze fixed on the pair before him as if he had never seen them before. As if they personified his worst nightmare.

Cassian remained lying on his back on the floor as he looked at his brother with wide, confused eyes. Nesta, crouched beside her mate, was shouting at Azriel.

What, Gwyn could not have known, for to her ears all sounds came muffled.

The only voice she heard clearly was that of the dark shadows dancing around her, asking her what had happened, if she was hurt.

Gwyn found the strength to turn her body towards the other wall, whimpering softly as the cold of the room hit her bare back. At that faint cry, another menacing growl made its way into the room, threatening anyone who would even touch Gwyn again that things would not end well for them.

She heard Nesta retort that if she heard her scream again, she would bring Ataraxia too and that he needed to calm the fuck down and stop growling at them.

And Gwyn wanted to tell them to stop. She wanted to shout at them that it wasn't necessary, that they were only scaring her more, that they should leave her alone.

Azriel's shadows danced around her and then shifted, and Gwyn only then realised how clear and sharp they were to her. She reached out a hand towards one of them and-

"Go away," said the Shadowsinger, "If she needs one of you, I will come for you. But now you must go."

It was Cassian who replied, "Az-"

"Please."

Gwyn hadn't even realized she'd spoken, but Nesta's gasp made her realize it.

"I'm fine. Go." she continued in a weak, husky voice.

No one said anything more, and the sound of the door closing behind her friends was the only sign that they had actually left.

But Gwyn knew he remained there.

She could hear his panting breath, could sense his uneasiness. She could feel his heartbeat through the shadow twirling around her fingers. As if they were trying to steady her with that continuos drumming.

Do you want him to leave too?

She held her breath for a second, before realising that the shadows had spoken to her.

"No." she whispered back, not knowing if they would hear her if she just thought the word.

Azriel turned to her, and Gwyn knew that he was just waiting for her to command him, that whatever she would order him to do, he would do.

"Azriel..." she didn't need to say anything else as he shifted and moments later he had crossed the room and was before her, crouched beside the bed with pleading eyes. Gwyn looked up at him and it was like the first time, when he had walked into that kitchen so long ago and saved her.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly.

And the raw emotion, the bitter sorrow that bound each letter made her stomach clench. His eyes had never been so clear and he had certainly never looked at her like that. It was as if he was allowing her to see a small portion of what he actually felt every minute of his eternal days.

Before she could even answer him, he had gotten up and was heading for the door. Only then did she notice that he was wearing only a pair of light black silk trousers.

She spoke before she could repent, "Stay."

Azriel froze in his tracks and the shadows that had so far only looked calm and composed went mad, crawling everywhere on the walls and around his shoulders, over his head. The ones that had remained on her moved with more fierceness and Gwyn felt as if she could touch them, as if they were solid objects around her.

A second later, they were still again, swaying with that deadly calm that belonged only to darkness waiting for something, anything.

He turned slowly towards her, his lips pressed into a thin line, "Why?"

Gwyn blinked, "Stay."

And Az watched her for a few seconds, before placing his sword against the wall and making his way to the bed. He was about to lay down, touch her, but he stopped, holding his breath.

"May I?" he asked in that low tone of his, pointing to the bed.

Gwyn only nodded.

Her room wasn't really meant to house an Illyrian warrior, much less her bed to hold both her and him at the same time, but when Nesta had offered her a room in the House of Wind, neither of them had thought Azriel would be entering her private chambers.

Certainly not so soon.

He was looking at her like she was going to break down at any moment, but she'd stopped crying the second he'd appeared and had resumed breathing normally when Cassian and Nesta had finally left. Her heart was still beating wildly, but her brain couldn't tell if it was because of what she'd seen in her sleep or the presence of the male beside her.

She ran her gaze over his chest, over the intricate weave of ink that marked his skin. Nothing she hadn't seen yet during their training sessions, but this was different. She saw him shiver as her eyes traveled further down, over his sculpted abs, and when she saw the hair on his arms stand up, she went back to look at his face.

"Are you cold?" she heard herself ask.

He gave no sign that he had heard her and for a moment Gwyn thought she had only thought it, but then he looked away, sighing and leaning his head against the headboard. "I haven't felt cold in ages now."

She frowned, ready to ask questions, wondering why then his body was covered in what was obviously goosebumps, but he beat her to it.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Gwyn shook her head, turning on her back and looking up at the ceiling.

"Do you need me to do something for you?"

She repeated the gesture and sighed. Even just his presence would be enough for her until dawn came.

He made a nod of assent, crossing his arms over his chest, and she had to force herself not to look at the way she knew his muscles were pulling on his perfect, solid forearms.

She thought she owed him something though, for coming to her rescue again, for staying.

"Thank you."

Azriel was silent again, and Gwyn thought she should teach him how to have a proper conversation one of these days, because she knew he'd respond in a matter of seconds, but those melodramatic pauses he made every time he had to say something gave her far too much time to admire him, distracting her from the topic.

Besides, how much willpower did you need to say a simple you're welcome-

"I felt you," he murmured. Gwyn's head snapped in his direction. He continued to keep his gaze fixed on the wall. He drew in a deep breath that made his chest heave and his arms move, but she didn't have time to admire the sight, too curious to know what he meant by those words. "I felt you, as you slept. The shadows, they..." he swallowed, "they warned me that you were suffering. That you were in pain."

He finally looked at her and Gwyn's breath caught.

"You were in pain."

She curled up on her side, facing him, "I'm sorry." she said, "I didn't mean to wake you."

Azriel shook his head, almost as if to say that she didn't understand, but Gwyn saw the way he gave up even voicing his doubts, and she had absolutely no mental strength to be able to go so far as to ask him what was flashing through his mind.

There was only one thing she could think of.

"Azriel?" she called to him, despite knowing she had his fullest attention, "A few weeks ago, you told me you sing."

He nodded, now even more on alert.

She managed to crack a small, weak smile and the surprise on his face was like lightning striking her in the chest. A second later it had vanished.

"Would you sing for me?"

He watched her a few moments and hope had already planted its seed in her stomach when he said, "I'm not in the right spirit right now, sorry."

Gwyn huffed softly, getting closer, just a few inches. Nothing that could escape the Shadowsinger, of course, but she noted with no small amount of satisfaction that he didn't move or pull away from her.

He might not have felt the cold for the last five hundred years, but Gwyn was freezing now that the adrenaline was completely gone and the blankets were blocked by his mighty legs.

An idea formed in her head.

"You asked if you could do something for me," she reminded him. Azriel seemed ready to retort that he would not sing right then and she raised a hand just enough to keep him silent. "I won't ask you to sing again. Not tonight, but..." she trailed off, eyeing him suspiciously, "could you hold me?"

He opened his eyes wide and Gwyn thought she had never seen so much emotion on the male's face in the span of so few minutes.

He began to shake his head, "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Please," she begged him, closing her eyes. "Just until I get back to sleep," she lied.

She wasn't going to tell him that she needed to feel his arms around her to know she was safe. To remember the way he'd held her when he'd rescued her that day.

She felt him shift on the mattress, looking for a more convenient position for his wings, and when his hand brushed against her shoulder, he gasped. Gwyn opened her eyes, meeting his, now closer than ever.

His breathing became ragged as he shifted his gaze to his hand and withdrew it.

Gwyn realised she had been wrong to ask him when she recognised the look in his eyes, the pure hatred for those hands she revered and considered her greatest salvation.

She sat up, pulling the sheets from under their legs and, covering herself up to her neck, turned to him, "Is that better? You think you can hold me, if you don't touch me directly?" she asked softly, trying to wipe that look of self-hatred off his face.

Azriel looked at her, blinking once, twice, and then gave a small nod.

She sighed, getting even closer, until one of his arms slipped under her head and she was careful not to touch his hand as the other wrapped around her from behind and pushed her against his chest.

Feeling brave, she put a hand on his pec, resting her head against his chest.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked once they were settled. She merely nodded. "Good."

Minutes passed, hours perhaps, and Azriel didn't move an inch as Gwyn sought sleep more than anything else in the world, mentally exhausted from everything that had happened.

It was only when light began to seep in behind the curtains that the hand over the blanket between them began to trace a path down her back. She smiled in her sleepy state and couldn't hold back her gasp of surprise when he began to hum a tune and it rumbled in his chest.

Gwyn moved her head slightly, pressing her ear against his chest and the arm around her tightened only imperceptibly, but the faint low singing did not stop until she closed her eyes again, finally finding the peace of sleep.

When she awoke hours later, the bed was empty and there was no sign of the male who had kept her company that night.

It wasn't until she pulled herself upright that she saw a shadow hovering in the opposite corner of the room. It seemed to watch her intently for a few seconds and then the uppermost end rolled in on itself, almost as if it were bowing, before sliding under the door and out of her room.

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