#and I still can’t stand billboards

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

The Matchmaker Assassin

Bob Reynolds x reader

Summary: When Bob realizes how lonely he really is Yelena is quick to pick up on it and sets him up quickly with a friend...he won't embarrass himself...right?

Bob wasn’t sure when the loneliness had crept in. Maybe it had always been there -- buried under guilt and power and the slow, aching process of putting himself back together. For years, he’d been too busy surviving to feel much of anything, and now that he was clean in all body, mind, and soul he actually had time to feel it.

And god, it hurt sometimes.

It hurt to come home to an empty apartment. To eat dinner standing by the sink. To wake up in the middle of the night and have no one beside him but the extra blanket he had on his bed.

He’d tried to ignore it. Tried to pour himself into training, into books and rebuilding and fixing what had been broken. But loneliness was a quiet, persistent thing. It lingered in the corners. It spoke in silence.

He even thought about dating apps once. Spent twenty minutes staring at the “bio” section before deleting it entirely. What the hell was he supposed to say? Hi, I used to be an addict then I became a walking bomb basically and now I fold my laundry instead of it just sitting in the basket for weeks and go to therapy. Wanna grab a coffee? He didn’t think that would really work out very well. 

He didn’t want to explain himself to strangers. He wasn’t sure if he was built for small talk anymore.

And of course, Yelena noticed.

“You’re moping,” she said one afternoon, chewing a piece of his leftover pizza without asking. “You get all squinty and broody when you’re touch-starved. It’s pathetic.”

Bob blinked over the rim of his coffee mug. “What the hell kind of diagnosis is that?”

“A correct one,” she replied flatly. “You named your houseplant Maxwell, Bob. I caught you talking to your microwave Tuesday.”

He cringed remembering that conversation, the worse part was that it was a good conversation.“…Okay. I might be a little lonely.”

She grinned like a shark. “Good. I’m setting you up.”

“What? No. No, no. Yelena, I can’t—”

“She’s a friend. A good one too. You’ll like her. You’re going. Tomorrow. Wear a shirt that doesn’t scream ‘man who talks to plants and kitchen appliances.' Do not embarrass me Roberts.”

Bob didn't know anything about you but he was terrified.

You didn’t know much about Bob Reynolds before that night. Yelena told you he was sweet – with “sad golden retriever eyes and the posture of an anxious oak tree.” You thought she was exaggerating. She really wasn’t.

You walked into the little bookstore café near their complex, not expecting much. A favor to a friend is what you expected that’s all. But then you saw him sitting near the back: tall, broad, fidgeting with a napkin like it had personally insulted him. He stood when you approached--actually stood--and smiled like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

And god, that smile.

“I’m Bob,” he said, offering a hand.

“Yeah,” you said, shaking it. “Yelena told me. She also said you cry during dog movies.”

His ears turned red. “Well I mean only the good ones.”

You teased him the entire first hour, but he gave as good as he could-- in a quiet, dry, completely endearing sort of way. He was nervous, sure, but also funny. Surprisingly sharp. He told stories about accidentally vaporizing vending machines he told you how he once won a free T-shirt by correcting a grammar error on a billboard. You laughed so hard you snorted once -- and he beamed like he’d won the lottery.

The real click happened when he walked you home. Neither of you said much until your porch. You turned to him and asked, “Wanna hold my hand or are you gonna keep pretending you’re not dying to?” He huffed a breath of laughter. “You always that direct?” You shrugged. “You always that obvious?” He smiled. “Only with you, apparently.”

__–__–__–__–__–

Later that night, Bob lay in bed staring at the ceiling, fingers still tingling from where they’d brushed yours.

He grabbed his phone and texted Yelena:

Bob: I think I really like her.

She responded in three seconds flat:

Yelena: I know I do have eyes Bobert you should know by now I am genius. You truly should be worshipping me at this point of our friendship.

Bob just smiled. Because maybe -- after everything -- he could have this. Maybe you were exactly what he hadn’t known he was waiting for.  And maybe Yelena Belova was terrifyingly good at matchmaking.

--_--_--_--_

Your second date was set for the weekend. Bob promised he’d plan everything.

He showed up ten minutes early. Not because he was nervous he absolutely was, nor because he’d changed his shirt twice he absolutely had, but because this time, he wanted to get it right. You weren’t casual. You weren’t forgettable. You were sitting-in-the-back-of-his-mind kind of unforgettable. When you arrived, with your gentle smile and bright eyes, he forgot how to breathe for a second.

“Did you plan all this?” you asked, nodding at the little sidewalk café table already laid out with two drinks and what looked like one of everything from the dessert case.

“I may have panicked and ordered like everything,” he admitted cringing while he rubbed the back of his neck. You laughed. “That’s okay. I like a man with a default in chaotic dessert strategies.”

You spent hours talking. Bob nearly cried laughing at one of your stories. You confessed you liked to eavesdrop in public and make up fake love stories for strangers. He told you he thought he’d never be normal enough to date again -- and you just held his hand across the table, steady and sure.

He walked you home again. This time, your hands brushed on purpose.

“You really are sweet,” you said, voice softer now. “Yelena wasn’t lying.”

“She also said I’d trip over myself, which I have so far managed not to—” Bob tripped on a cracked part of the sidewalk.

You caught his arm. “You were saying?”

He groaned slightly embarrassed, “I’m two for two.”

At your door, the pause came. That charged stillness where neither of you moved — both of you waiting.

“So…” you said, grinning. “Do I get a goodnight hug, or is this the part where you awkwardly salute me and run off?”

“I was leaning toward a dramatic bow,” he offered.

“Even though that sounds amazing to see I think I’ll take a hug.”

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you gently; carefully, like you were something precious. You leaned in and didn’t let go until he finally pulled back, eyes flicking to your lips.

Bob hesitated.

Then, with more courage than coordination, he leaned in… and completely misjudged the angle.

Your noses bumped. Your teeth nearly clicked.

“Ow—shit, sorry,” he blurted. You were laughing. “Wow. We are so smooth.”

“Worst kiss attempt in history?”

“Top three. But you’re still cute.” You grabbed the front of his jacket. “Let’s try again. But this time…you tilt left yeah?”

The kiss was better the second time. Still a little too eager, still smiling into each other’s mouths, but warm and real and just… right. And for the first time in years, Bob felt hope in his chest instead of hollowness.

_–_–_–_–_–_

He showed up at complex the next morning looking like he’d been hit by a truck full of sunshine and bad poetry.

Yelena barely glanced up from her coffee. “You kissed her.”

Bob blinked. “How’d you know?!”

“You look like you cried during a Pixar movie and then got laid.”

“Okay look! Everyone cried when we watched Coco…” Yelena raised her eyebrow making Bob sigh and nod, “Yes. I kissed her.”

“And?” she asked, sipping dramatically.

“It was so good,” Bob said, practically glowing. “We bumped noses at first, but then she laughed and actually kissed me and--Yelena, I swear I could feel the planet tilt. She made me feel like I wasn’t some walking disaster. Like I was just… me.”

Yelena rolled her eyes hearing his dreamy sigh. “Disgusting. You’re so in love.”

“I’m not in love!” he insisted. “I mean--I just met her that'd be so soon like scary soon ya know and I don't want to scare her off...but also… maybe?”

She stared him down. “If you mess this up, I will break both your knees.”

“Understandable.”

Then she softened. Just a flicker. “I’m happy for you. Really. You deserve this.”

Bob blinked before getting a teasing smirk on his face. “Wait--was that… are you being nice to me?”

“Shut up,” she snapped, throwing a pen at him. “Go text your little girlfriend before you start writing her poetry in your mission logs.”

He didn’t even deny it. Just grinned and pulled out his phone.

Bob: Last night was perfect. Wanna get dinner tonight?

You: You bumped your nose into mine and still managed to be cute. You’re dangerous, Reynolds.

He melted. Yelena groaned. “God help me. He’s smitten.” And he was.

Because maybe the world was still a mess. Maybe there were still bad days and echoes of old chaos. But now, when he got home, his phone lit up with a text from you. And that quiet ache in his chest?

It didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed :) If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3

Tagging:

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@disillusioniary

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[thesunshinebunny]

The Red Lotus - Part 1

Part 2 - Part 3

Pairings: Saja Boys x F!Reader

Synopsis: You live as normal a life as someone who sees demons on the daily can. You see their marks. You smell their hunger. You know exactly when they're trying to hide. You live quietly, killing what needs killing, keeping your peace. So when a shiny new K-pop boy group literally bursts into your street, reeking of demon energy and bad cologne, your first instinct is to walk away. Too bad they don't take hints. Too bad you're not in the mood. Too bad they picked the wrong girl to haunt.

Warnings: slow-burn (like painfully slow), crack fic, a very long one fic, action, fighting, supernatural beings, blood, angst, eventually smut and adults content (mdni)

It was a morning like any other. I went out to do my thing—no rush, no real motivation—phone in one hand, my thoughts looping like a remix of anxiety and lack of caffeine. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary... until I heard the music. Pop. Bright. As sugary as cotton candy melted in unicorn juice. I only looked up because the air shifted. Like someone had just turned on a blender full of euphoria.

A group of guys was dancing and singing in the middle of the street. No DJ. No stage. Just a ridiculous number of people drooling around them. They called themselves the Saja Boys. Five of them. Each one styled like a walking billboard for “we’re sexy and we know it.” Their moves were so synchronized you’d think they were born dancing. The song? “Soda Pop.” The kind of tune that makes you cringe if you’ve got more than two brain cells. And me—with my two and a half—I stood there, watching them from the curb. Out of curiosity. Out of boredom. Nothing else.

-“This looks like it came out of a gummy bear factory,” I muttered, leaning against a rusted streetlamp.

It’s not that I can’t recognize talent. They danced like the fate of the world depended on each step triggering a chain reaction to save the universe. But there was something… off. A flicker in the air. Shadows that didn’t match the light source. A faint violet shimmer around their movements, like threads weaving into patterns not of this world. Took me a few seconds longer than usual to realize what I was seeing. These weren’t light tricks. No fancy effects hiding in their sleeves. Just patterns—violet, subtle, unsettling.

Demons. And major ones, by the look of it.

But I didn’t say anything. Why would I? Not my problem. Never is, never was, unless they’re close enough for me to stab and send them back to their realm.

One of them saw me. The one with obsidian hair and big-leader energy. Jinu, if the squealing girls on my left were to be believed. The same group that practically fainted when the pink-haired one sent them a flying heart. He locked eyes with me like he expected me to melt on the spot. I just raised an eyebrow.

I smiled. One of those empty, purely decorative smiles. Then turned on my heel. I didn’t have time for demons disguised as idols. Let them have their moment. Their music sucked anyway. I heard them wrap up, announcing some TV performance later that night. The crowd noise spiked as they disappeared… or so I felt.

I took my usual shortcut home. A long alley, lined with graffiti-covered walls and trash bags doubling as accidental urban decor. I turned the corner—and there they were. All five. Standing. Waiting? Their backs to me. Walking slowly, silently. No chatting, no celebrating their “big” debut. I walked faster, eyes glued to my phone. Ten steps. Just ten, and I’d be free of this idol hellscape.

But luck was clearly on vacation. As I passed them, one of them bumped my shoulder, making me stumble. The youngest-looking one, mint-green hair, licking a lollipop like life bored him to death... which, honestly, probably true. He turned around. They all did. Staring.

That kind of stare that scans, waits. For an apology? A scream? Maybe tears?

I gathered myself as quickly as I could. “Sorry,” I muttered, still glued to my phone, head down.

I heard footsteps behind me. One, then another. Then more. Way too close for comfort. Curiosity got the better of me—I turned.

Same black-haired guy. The leader that I assumed so well. Tension crackled in the air like a snapped wire.

-“Seemed like you weren’t too impressed by our debut,” he said. His voice matched his singing—intense.

-“Not a fan of candy-coated K-pop,” I replied, flatly.

His four backup demons gathered around him. Stylish, weird, and painfully unoriginal. Two with pink hair? Try a different bottle next time. The heart-headed one tilted his head like he was trying to read my mind.

-“Maybe give us the benefit of the doubt?” Jinu again.

The tall one with the strong arms chuckled and rested one over Jinu’s shoulder. He scanned me. I scanned back.

That shirt did him no favors color-wise, but those pecs? Definitely eye candy. I’m not blind. I can admit when a body looks damn good. Still didn’t mean I was going to fall for them. Clearly, each member had a persona—some soft, some bold. If that was their strategy, well... good for them.

If I had to say, the two quieter ones—the one with hair in his face and the mint guy—drew more attention by being dead silent. Watching me like they were searching under my skin.

-“I’m hard to impress,” I said, without energy.

And I kept walking. No running. No trembling. But my pulse was tapping out a beat I didn’t sign up for. I planned to leave this boy band in the dust. No interest in seeing them again—not even on TV.

Of course, luck’s never fully on my side. Sometimes it likes to play cute little tricks.

Night fell. I didn’t feel like grocery shopping, but my pantry was basically air. Living alone could be a drag, but I didn’t complain. I love solitude… when demons aren’t around to ruin it. But hey, nothing a knife to the face can’t fix.

The walk to the store wasn’t long, just annoying. If I wanted to be under my blankets by midnight, I had to take the grossest shortcut in town: the alley behind the men’s bathhouse. It smelled like old moisture and expired soap. Every time I passed, I quickened my steps, careful not to draw male attention—inside or out. Being a twenty-year-old girl walking the streets of Seoul at night? Not the safest.

Store trip was short but efficient. Got everything I needed—plus a couple of ice creams from the same freezer stocked with Soda Pop. I choked back a gag. That song still gave me chills. Awful.

I left the store as fast as possible, phone in hand, head down. Distracted but alert. Always alert. If I sped up, I’d be home in five minutes. One more pass through the bathhouse alley. This time, the stench was worse—though only ten minutes had passed. My body tensed before my brain caught up. Something had changed. Whatever it was, it was coming from the bathhouse.

The back door burst open like it had been kicked. Five figures sprinted out. Impeccable. Not wet. Not naked. Clothes intact. Quick steps. Heavy breathing. They were running. From what? No idea. But they clearly weren’t expecting me.

-“Holy fuck” I jumped at the bang.

Because of course. Of course I’d run into the idol boy band again. Twice in one day. From a bathhouse, no less. Scandalous. Didn’t they have a live appearance right now? Not that I had a TV to confirm. Wouldn’t have bothered anyway. Probably a fan chased them in—regardless of gender.

Jinu stopped cold. The others followed.

-“You again?” said the buff one.

-“Don’t worry, I’m not thrilled to see you either.” I gripped my grocery bags and kept walking. And then—time slowed.

I saw him. The old man, seated on a stone bench inside, scrubbing his back. And behind him, like a shadow made of water, a lesser demon began to emerge.

It hovered behind him, opening its mouth, sucking the old man’s soul like it was a buffet. My palms went ice cold. I was close, but not close enough. If I lunged, the guys would notice. I’d raise suspicion—inside the bathhouse and in the alley. I couldn’t save the old man. I just had to watch.

I wanted to leave. Pretend I saw nothing. But the Saja Boys noticed. They saw the tension in my body. The shift in my gaze.

-“Something wrong?” Jinu asked, stepping closer.

-“Just not a great look for a young lady to be surrounded by five guys at night, don’t you think?”

I gripped my bags tighter and turned to leave. But they didn’t let me. Jinu was in front of me in a blink—probably teleportation. The others boxed me in from behind.

Why does everything have to be so damn complicated?

-“You gonna let me go, or are we about to break into a musical number? ‘Cause if it’s the latter, I don’t know your choreography.”

-“What an… interesting creature,” said the lavender-haired one, calm and collected.

-“Oh, so you do speak,” I muttered. Keeping my composure was hard, but I wasn’t here to fight. I didn’t have the gear for it.

Jinu stepped closer, shrinking the gap, suffocating the air between us. This was getting on my nerves. A lot.

Remember what I said? I don’t mess with demons unless they get in my personal space? Well, they were begging for a lesson.

No hesitation. No wasted second. I flicked my wrist, dropped the grocery bags, and the collapsible baton snapped out of my sleeve with a metallic click—sweetest sound in the world. I slammed it into Jinu’s balls with surgical precision.

He collapsed, choking out a sound between agony and outrage. It was art. Pure art.

-“If I were you, I’d rethink the whole ‘intimidating women in alleys’ thing.

I crouched down, picked up my phone—miraculously intact—and the bags. One of them was soaked, reeking of peach. A shattered soju bottle. The one I was looking forward to all week. Dead. Among the eggs and instant ramyeon. Perfect.

I turned to give them a final warning—but I didn’t speak.

Because I felt it.

Behind me. That slimy, hot, rotten presence. The water demon. Now focused on me. I didn’t need to look. I haven’t needed to for a decade. I moved fast. Drew the dagger from my boot and, without turning, flung it backward—right into its face.

It hit the ground with a wet thud. Violet and pink particles burst into the air. Just me and the Saja Boys again, in that disgusting alley.

Note to self: never walk this way again.

I picked up the last fallen bag. All contents safe. The five demons—half beautiful, half boring to my eyes—stared like I’d grown a second head.

-“Watch yourself” I muttered, and walked off like I hadn’t just murdered a cross-dimensional entity.

[luveline]

May I request a Johnny Storm x reader where reader is a spy that was sent to get info out of the fantastic four but ends up falling in love with Johnny

ty for requesting <3 fem, 1.1k “What’s that?” 

“That?”

You nod, fingertip pointing at the box under Johnny’s bed. He, having been sat rather unassumingly in his favourite chair, follows your gaze, and goes completely still.

“That’s my, uh. Collection.”

“Your collection.”

“Uh-huh.”

His collection of what?

You lift yourself up where you’d been laying on his floor and turn onto your stomach, shuffling toward the end of his bed to reach beneath it. The box is slim and flat but hefty, bending your hand where you attempt to grab it one handed. The other hand keeps Johnny away, and your giggling is only a quarter fake at this point as he mutters expletives. 

“Be careful!” he says. 

“I’m not gonna ruin your pornography, Mister Storm,” you croon. 

“I mean with your hand. It’s a heavy box.” 

“Oh.”

His laugh borders maniacal as you pull out his box, but you don’t get why. He’s like, always like this. Always happy. Even when he’s angry, it’s like he’s not truly angry. He runs on fight or flight, flight flight flight, but you’ve learned he gives it good when he needs to. 

He’s half adrenaline, you think. Makes sense for a boy who can spontaneously catch flame whenever suits. 

“What is this, then?” you ask. 

“My box.”

“Thank you, Johnny. You’re truly one of the greatest minds of your generation.”

“Open it.”

You look at him from over your shoulder. He’s joined you on the floor, a warm hand pressed to the small of your back, his blond hair softer in the warm lighting. You’d make a joke about being ginger-headed if you thought he’d take it well. You’re uninterested in becoming human kindling, and you don’t trust Johnny Storm to keep you safe. 

Or, that’s what you insist. 

“I better not see any pin-up girls in here,” you warn lightly. 

Right, ‘cos, unfortunately, unkindly, Johnny Storm thinks you’re in love. Like, you’re going steady, monogamously, and another woman’s photo might piss you off. 

“I wouldn’t have that kind of stuff,” he says. His cheeks seem to pink with your knowing stare. “Anymore! I don’t need pin-up girls, do I? Got the real deal right here.”

“Shut up.” 

He obeys. 

Johnny pulls you into a sitting position. He’s gentle. You want to hit him (you wouldn’t) (it’s about protecting your best interests, even if you know you couldn’t hit him now, not when he’s only ever touched you nicely). 

“Promise it’s not illicit?” you ask. 

“Baby,” he laughs, which is a whole other thing. Like, who does he think you are. “Just open it.”

You crack open the cases latch and flick the lid. The hinges are tightly sprung, and it stands at three-quarter mast by itself. There, inside two velvet borders, lays a circle rattle in the shape of a duck, and a letter folded into a thick square. 

You realise you’ve stumbled onto something precious, but Johnny stops you before you can close the box. 

“That was mine,” he says, “and my mom’s, before.” 

“It’s carved?”

“It’s wood.”

You hesitate to pick it up. “Can I?”

“Sure you can. I told you to open it.”

You put the box between you and Johnny and bring the rattle closer for inspection. Shaking it gently reveals a sound like dried rice plinking against thin walls. There’s a notch at the bottom where the rice might’ve been poured inside. It’s… so human. So fragile. It’s nothing like you thought Johnny would be. 

Even his room. You’d expected a grand, almost palatial sort of thing full of modern gadgets and, perhaps, a few distasteful posters —Johnny Storm, the single sweetheart of Manhattan, you hadn’t believed it for a second. Thought him rude and boyish, scowled at his infomercials and rolled your eyes whenever his infernal billboards darkened your apartment window. You’d figured him out before you got here. You knew exactly how to make him want you: rich boy wants what he can’t have. He needs intrigue, delight, a fight and a good long chase, and then, before he could lose interest, a kiss. Maybe something rather less chaste, only, Johnny doesn’t let you get him into bed. He kisses ardently and laughs into your mouth whenever your fingers flirt with his belt. Talks about movies and shopping and dates, instead. 

“I should’ve given it to Franklin, I know, but I couldn’t, you know. Couldn’t bear to give it away yet,” he says, starting brave, ending soft. 

“That’s okay,” you say, though you can’t work out why. “You don’t have to give it to him yet, or ever. Franklin has enough. You can keep it safe.”

“It was selfish, though. He should get something from his grandma.”

“Mm, maybe. I don’t know, though, baby. I think Franklin has more than enough. You can share it with him later, when he’s older. When he knows how important it is.”

“Yeah.” 

You squint at his tone. “What?” 

“Nothing, just… can’t trust myself to take it out of the box.”

“Why not?” you ask.

“I’m sort of made of fire. Like, I’m made of fire? You’ve seen me do that, right?”

“Sure, but you control it.”

He shrugs. “And one day I won’t be able to.”

“Shut up. You don’t believe that. Shut up!”

His eyes widen slightly. “It’s not always easy.”

“I didn’t say it was. I figure that’s why you’d never do that. It’s not easy, and Johnny doesn’t do easy.” 

“You know I love it when you talk about me like I’m not here–”

You press your hand to his face, annoyed, worse when he licks at your palm, slightly less when he gives it a nibble. 

You place the rattle back carefully into the box and close it.

“You could’ve read it, you know,” he says, taking your damp hand and pressing it to his neck. 

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you let me?”

He doesn’t look sick, but it’s a shade of nausea. Too much sincerity for the poor guy, you think, turning your hand in enough to stroke the slope of his neck. He relaxes some under the touch. The pit of your stomach gives a sickly twist.

“Don’t let me, Johnny,” you say, rubbing at his jaw with your thumb. 

He snorts, turning his head to bite your thumb. “Quit it,” he says, muffled from behind your skin. You wrinkle your nose at him, not that that matters to him. He just keeps on biting you. “Let you do whatever you want. But me first.” 

You take your hand back and wipe his spit into his thigh. You have no idea why it makes him cackle. 

[kunareads]

brat | track three

club classics

producer!suguru x popstar!reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 4k

content: drug/alcohol use, angst, emotional distress + kind of spiral, jealousy + insecurity

taglist is closed!

18+ please <3

Billboard — FESTIVAL SET OR CULT INVITATION? CLUB CLASSICS DEBUT PROVES THE BRAT MOVEMENT HAS NO CEILING

Pitchfork — THE CHURCH OF CLUB CLASSICS: GETO AND YN TURN A PERFORMANCE INTO A POP CULTURAL RELIGION

Complex — IN THE ERA OF THE RELATABLE POP STAR, YN AND SUGURU GETO ARE SEALING THEIR LEGACY INSTEAD

LOLLAPALOOZA NIGHT TWO HEADLINER: YN AND SUGURU GETO

vroom vroom / i love it / speed drive / hot in it / 360 / club classics

your breath comes short as you spin into the final chorus of 360. the bass shakes the barricades. your hair sticks to your neck and your feet ache, but it doesn’t matter. nothing does when sixty thousand people are screaming their favorite song back at you in unison.

when you're in the party b-b-bumpin' that beat 666 with a princess streak

they finish it for you. you take the moment to turn toward suguru—lit in strobes and stage smoke at the boards behind you. his hands stay on the mix, but his eyes are locked on you. shining and a little disbelieving.

and for one strange second, you can’t believe it either.

because not too long ago, the two of you were bottom-row filler on this very lineup. you were the set they tolerated while waiting for someone more famous. now it’s your faces on the livestream banner, your names on the wristbands. the two of you burning bright in front of the biggest crowd you’ve ever seen.

it’s so good it scares you a little.

the last loops of the track dissolve into the night as you take your place next to him. “lollapalooza,” you call into the mic, catching your breath as suguru adjusts your mic cord. “still with me?”

the answer is deafening.

the lights drop.

then they strobe white—blinding, baptismal. your smile glints on a dozen screens like a warning shot.

it starts as a pulse and a warped right now vocal.

“alright,” you say, pacing to the end of the catwalk. “if you came to stand around and look pretty—” you grin. “get the fuck out of my pit.”

screams.

“if you came here to dance to us,” you raise your free hand. “make some fucking noise.”

they do. loud enough to startle you. loud enough to rattle the stage. you crouch down, mic to your lips, voice low and threatening against the bass.

when i go to the club, i wanna hear those club classics club classics—club, club classics

by the third repeat, they’re screaming it back like they’ve known it for longer than twenty seconds. you spring into the post-chorus, bouncing loose and electric, your pulse loud in your ears. when you catch suguru’s eye again, he’s mouthing it back to you with a wink:

yeah, i wanna dance to me i wanna dance to SG

you spin back toward the crowd, catching flashes of smeared eyeliner and poppers and arms outstretched. they’d follow you off a cliff right now.

sweat marks all on my clothes, tight like mike kinda flow yeah, i wanna be blinded by the light, lights, lights

a phone appears, shoved toward stage. security hands it up. you grin, flip the camera, and run.

the lights smear in your vision as you bolt. your heels almost betray you when you toss yourself into his space, but suguru catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist to steady you with a laugh. the video catches both of you beaming into the lens with the knowledge that the world is turning exactly how you asked it to tonight.

he builds the bridge. you pass the phone back without looking, hips still moving, one hand up high.

put your hands up and dance yeah, i’m gonna dance all night, that’s right

and they obey. ten thousand hands. then thirty thousand. then all of them reaching, dancing, worshipping.

the outro detonates—bass pulsing, strobes slicing, bodies surging like tide. and center stage, shoulder to shoulder, you and suguru shine like myth.

the sound cuts. the lights drop. your heart keeps sprinting.

in the dark, suguru kisses the top of your head in benediction. and you believe it. that the two of you were born for this. that every eye on you is a prayer you deserve.

@/ynsdaughter: “i wanna dance to SG” i don’t care if it’s fake i need them to get married like yesterday

@/angelbrat: huge day for bisexuals and music historians everywhere

@/suguruscream: suguru always so serious on stage until she gets close. then it’s just ☺️❤️‍🔥

backstage is chaos.

a manager shoves a water bottle into your hands. production assistants bark about press. security yells about routes and crowd control. stagehands blur past in neon lanyards with too much urgency.

but all you see is suguru.

backlit by the stage, hair plastered to his temples, chest rising fast under a sweat-soaked t-shirt. and he’s smiling. just for you, like he knows everything’s changed.

you don’t realize you’re laughing until he pulls you in—arms tight around your waist, lifting and spinning you once.

“i told you,” he murmurs against your ear. “you fucking killed that.”

you’re still giggling when he kisses you. quick and dizzy, one hand cupping your jaw. your makeup’s a mess and his hair’s undone. but the world feels perfect in that distorted, glittery way.

everything moves in fragments around you. voices come from too many directions, hands pulling you in and out of outfits you don’t remember picking, your face wiped and redone with practiced hands. and then, just as suddenly, it’s quiet.

the car feels like a haven. cool and comfortable, sealed from the noise outside. city lights strobe past tinted windows in slow motion. your legs drape over suguru’s, his fingers tracing light lines on your thigh. neither of you say much. just the occasional whisper, the occasional kiss.

you can still hear it—i wanna dance to me, me, me, me, me. he looks at you like he doesn’t want it to end.

and you don’t wonder if he’s distracted.

you don’t ask what was bothering him on his phone all morning after that night with satoru. or if it even mattered.

you don’t think about it—because this is easier. his undivided attention feels like resolution. like you were right to let it go.

the car slows to a stop. outside, the afterparty’s already a circus—paparazzi this time, not fans. velvet rope, flashbulbs, a security perimeter.

you blink back into the present as suguru leans in, pressing one last kiss to your temple.

“ready?”

you nod. smile. take his hand when he offers it.

flashes go off the second your heel hits pavement. someone shouts your name. someone else yells his. suguru doesn’t let go of you.

the room changes when you walk in together.

or maybe it doesn’t. maybe it was always tilted toward you, eyes snapping to where you entered and refusing to look away.

you’re the last ones on the list to arrive. everyone that matters is already here.

a couple of execs nod from a booth. someone starts a wave of applause. a drink is pressed into your hand—“fucking unbelievable,” someone says. **you don’t know who, and it doesn’t matter. people keep coming—hugging you, whispering praise, passing joints. you let it wash over you. revel in the feeling of being known and wanted.

the high has softened, gone warm and syrupy. everything feels elastic. expansive. your body’s still catching up to the size of your name.

somewhere in the back of your mind, something claws at the edges—soft and stupid and scared. but you smile wider. drown it in praise.

suguru stays close.

his hand rests low on your back, thumb dragging over exposed skin. you glance at him over your shoulder and catch the look in his eyes. it’s not professional. a little admiring, but mostly hungry.

he leans down, lips barely brushing your ear. “everyone loves you,” he says. “gonna tell them who you belong to?”

you turn around fully to meet his gaze, lashes heavy, smile dangerous. “you want me to make a scene?”

he laughs, low and sharp. he doesn’t care if you’re bluffing. he wants you to try.

“come.”

he doesn’t wait for an answer—just takes the drink from your hand, sets it down without looking, and tugs you by the wrist into the center of the room.

the music thickens as you follow—slow, syrupy, slipping into something obscene. he spins you into him, your chest brushing his as you fall into sync. his fingers drag down your spine, the other hand settling at your lower back, guiding you like he has a hundred times in his head.

you show off a little. hips fluid, eyes teasing, smile pure. you sway close enough to breathe each other in. close enough for him to feel you. close enough that it’s obvious to everyone watching.

he just studies you at first—your jaw, your lips, the slick line of your collarbone. you get the sense that he’d drop to his knees right now if you asked nicely.

then he leans in, voice rough. “you don’t know the kind of thoughts you put in people’s heads,” he says. “in mine.”

and maybe you don’t. but you can feel it in the way his hands flex. in the way the room spins around you and not the other way around.

you laugh, lazy and lethal, drunk on the way he watches you. then you twist in his hold, press your back to his chest. his arms lock around your waist. he inhales at your neck, mouths at your jaw like he wants it branded. doesn’t care who sees. someone snaps a picture on film. someone else whistles.

it takes a few songs before you both drift off the floor—laughing and tangled in each other. your section is tucked in the far corner of the lounge. it smells like weed and expensive upholstery and bottle service tucked into ice. a bouncer lifts a velvet rope to let you in.

suguru drops into a low couch, gaze climbing your legs in a habit he hasn’t even tried to break. as far as he’s concerned, you’ve always belonged in his lap.

he offers a hand.

you take it. step between his knees and let him guide you down until your weight sinks onto him, legs draped across one of his. he exhales immediately, relieved and possessive.

his hands find your waist first. then your thigh. then the bare stretch at your ribs. each touch is slow, sunk, claiming.

you loop your arms around his neck. feel the sweat at his hairline, the chain at his throat. he’s warm—in his lap, his chest, the fingers dragging up your leg with a pace that’s not quite innocent. you kiss the corner of his jaw, grinning when he turns into it automatically.

“i should take you home,” he murmurs, voice thick with reverence. “take this dress off you. thank you for tonight.”

you laugh, light and breathy and buzzed. wanted. chosen. undisputed. “are you asking?”

his grip tightens. he presses a kiss below your ear.

“i’m telling you,” he says. “let’s leave.”

thank god, you think. the yes is already forming on your lips. but before you can say it, a voice cuts in, too loud and too close.

“sorry,” someone says. “i hate to interrupt—fuck, you guys were unreal.”

you blink up, disoriented by how quickly the moment unspools. a label rep—important enough to recognize, intrusive enough to resent.

“i just—can i steal you for two seconds? a couple people want to talk VMAs. logistics stuff. you’re the only person who can actually speak to it—”

suguru’s head drops to your shoulder with a low groan. you kiss his temple before sliding off his lap. he catches your hand before you go.

“go do your thing,” he says, lifting your fingers to his lips. he presses a slow kiss there, a little smug. “i’ll be right here.”

@/cultyn (story) 📸 : wide shot of the audience from stage 💬 : you had to be there

@/cultgeto (story) 📸 : black and white photo of reader twirling at the afterparty 💬 : i wanna dance to me 💿

the MTV reps are all smiles and champagne, talking lighting setups and impact and career-defining moments. someone calls you visionary. you lead the conversation and it feels easy. the kind of thing that would’ve paralyzed you three years ago but now feels like momentum. you could do this all night.

but you don’t really want to.

you want to go back to him.

it’s all humming inside you now—the things you used to dream about. the performance. the power. the boy. your set still rings in your teeth and the heat of his hands still aches in your thighs. your body’s drunk on it. your mind, too.

you round the corner. everything tastes like sugar. someone calls your name. someone else reaches for a hug. you smile, brush shoulders, keep moving. you’re thinking about his lap. the way he said let’s leave. his hands on you.

you expect to find that lazy grin as you near your section. the sprawl. the suguru-specific pull he doesn’t seem to notice.

but what you see first isn’t him.

it’s her.

sugar-pink nails on suguru’s tattooed arm. a giggle too bright for the hour. mila hart—pastel and perfect and glowing like a bad omen. laughing at something he said and easing into his space like she belongs here.

and she doesn’t.

you saw the guest list three days ago—she wasn’t on it. this velvet-roped, bottle-service corner of the lounge isn’t for surprise guests*.* no one’s here by accident.

at this hour, in this fucking room? that kind of access has a signature.

your eyes move back to suguru and your mouth goes dry. her hand drifts to his chest. she’s standing too close. she’s breathing the air you were in less than ten minutes ago. the air that belongs to you.

the music feels weird suddenly—dissonant and too sharp at the edges. your fingers buzz, and the base of your neck aches. you recognize it—you’re coming down too fast. you missed the cue to slow it down.

and suguru—

he doesn’t look caught. doesn’t lean away. doesn’t seem to notice at all. just stands there, drink in hand, smiling like he’s immune to consequence.

maybe he is.

because this is what power looks like, isn’t it? the casual kind. the kind that lets things slide because it can fix the mess later.

you recognize it. you have it too.

maybe he’s done this before. maybe he wants her there.

or he hasn’t noticed. he’s too polite to move her hand. he’s caught mid-conversation.

none of it holds.

because the cruelty isn’t mila’s hand or her dress or even the way she looks at him like she won something. the cruelty is the sudden, yawning absence of what you thought was clarity.

your brain starts slotting the night together again. the way he looked at you like he’d bring the stars down if you wanted them. i should take you home. the kiss to your hand. i’ll be right here.

and now this.

now her.

and still, you enter.

you thank the bouncer for lifting the rope. your smile slips back into place like nothing at all just broke in your chest.

suguru doesn’t see you at first, too focused on the story he’s telling to someone else in the circle. one hand loose at his side, his drink in the other. that easy grin. that relaxed, commanding posture.

you’re surrounded before you can think harder—girls you’ve danced with, recorded beside, shared stylists and secrets and cigarettes with. one lifts your hand like a trophy, another kissing your cheek.

there’s a flash of recognition, of celebration, the room itself seeming to brighten just because you entered.

you fucking murdered that set. you’re unreal. i think hot in it is my new favorite—

you laugh. thank them. tilt your head just right for instagram stories you’ll end up reposting. someone hands you a drink. someone else plays a shaky clip of the crowd screaming, and you pretend to be surprised like you didn’t watch it happen from the stage.

somewhere in the excitement, it hits: you weren’t high on triumph.

it was him.

the warmth you’ve been riding all night? it was his hand on your waist. his voice in your ear. the way he looked at you.

you glance behind you instinctively.

he’s already watching. not cold. not distant. that same familiar softness—sure and centered. he smiles, and it feels like a lie he doesn’t know he’s telling.

and it might have helped—might have grounded you—if mila hadn’t brushed imaginary lint off his shoulder in the exact same moment. casual and intimate, like it’s her place to do that.

he doesn’t look at her. doesn’t notice, because his eyes are on you. and it hurts anyway. because you know you’re not making it up.

the girls pull you for one last round of photos. digital cameras flash, drinks clink, someone calls your name for a video that ends up blurry and chaotic. and when the moment finally starts to dissolve—when the conversation shifts to the next thing—you turn back toward the couch.

you see her leaving.

mila blows a kiss to someone—maybe no one in particular. says goodbye like this was her space all along. suguru gives her a half-hearted wave, doesn’t pause his conversation. she vanishes just as easily as she arrived. like she was never really here.

like you imagined the whole thing.

you want to feel better about it. you really do.

but you don’t.

you lower yourself into the seat, fingers closing around the chilled neck of a bottle before you’ve even settled. you pour a shot of something clear, movements measured, like control can be reclaimed in ounces.

and then he’s there.

no delay, no hesitation. as if he’d just been waiting for you to finish your conversations so he could take his place beside you.

he sinks down, knees brushing yours, and reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear with careful fingers.

“missed you,” he says softly.

you tip the shot back. “wasn’t gone that long.”

he doesn’t respond. just watches you for a second too long, his thumb grazing gently against your cheek like he’s realigning both of you. like it matters to him that you’re still with him, still here.

you don’t say anything. neither does he.

and that’s the pattern, isn’t it? both of you knowing, never naming.

he takes the empty glass from your hand and sets it down for you before shifting closer. his mouth tilts—not quite a smirk. something gentler. almost shy, if he were capable of that.

you feel him waiting for the moment to settle.

so you let it. you lean in.

you want to feel the ease. you want the consistency of him, the way he always finds you in the noise.

he tucks your knee over his and rests his hand there, thumb pressing into the soft part of your thigh. you settle into the warmth of him. his cologne, the rise and fall of his chest. close enough to convince yourself that maybe this is still the version of the night that made sense.

for a second, it works.

he murmurs something into your hair. a private thing. low and fond, and probably dumb. you don’t catch all the words, just the stupid softness that makes you want to kiss him despite everything.

you’re already turning your head to ask him to repeat it when his phone lights up on the table.

mila you looked good tonight. thanks again for the invite. wish i stayed <3

your stomach turns. not violently, just enough to make your spine go rigid.

he doesn’t see it. he’s too close to catch the screen, his undivided attention back on you. right where you’d wanted it a few minutes ago.

you stand slowly.

“be right back,” you murmur.

his brows draw in slightly. “you okay?”

you nod too fast. “mhm.”

and you go.

you don’t rush, but you don’t look back either. you smooth your dress as you walk, smile ready to spring back into place if anyone looks too close. the hallway’s freezing. or maybe it’s just the warmth bleeding out of you.

the bathroom is white tile and fluorescent light. too bright, too clean. you lock the door behind you and sit on the toilet lid, hands slack in your lap.

your skin still sparkles, but nothing’s glowing anymore. nothing’s buzzing. just your pulse retreating inward, slow and strange.

you don’t know mila personally, but you know enough. she’s what they mean by relatable. sweet and soft and easy to root for. the version everyone’s supposed to want.

including suguru. that’s why it feels like a glitch.

you were never the traditional pop girl. you’ve always known that. you never even wanted to be.

but tonight, you’d give anything to feel like someone he could explain. someone with a PR-approved personality and soft edges.

through the door, you hear it—your own voice, muffled but unmistakable.

when you’re in the mirror, do you like what you see? when you’re in the mirror, you’re just looking at me

you don’t laugh. you don’t cry. you don’t even blink.

you just sit there, perfectly still, trying to feel like the girl who meant it.

but eventually you stand. you reapply your lipgloss. fix your hair. you come back like nothing happened.

suguru lights up the moment he sees you again. you’re not sure what to make of it, but you let him touch you. hands to your waist and lips to your temple. it feels almost too easy now. and you hate that it works. that you want to let him fix it. that you’re not sure what you’d do if he didn’t.

the section’s more full than you left it—more label people, more phones, too many hands. someone clinks a glass.

“a toast to the stars of this festival. tonight changed everything,” they say. it sounds suspiciously like a warning. “that was a fucking performance.”

a cheer goes up. someone offers you another drink. you wave it off. someone else taps their phone to yours for the picture.

suguru leans closer, chin brushing your shoulder. “you were perfect,” he says.

you smile again. and mean it, kind of.

but you’re not fully here.

your mind is still hovering somewhere before the text, the pastel, the interruption by the overeager label rep.

you think about the way he looked at you earlier—how it felt like the only girl in the world. and how maybe he’s just good at that. maybe it’s not sacred, and it never was. maybe mila’s seen that look too.

the toast fades. conversations resume. you turn into his side.

“can we go?”

it comes out smaller than you meant. like a white flag.

he studies your face a second too long.

then nods. “yeah.”

you nod too.

and the worst part is—you’re not even sure he did anything wrong.

just that you feel stupid for thinking any of it meant something.

for needing it to.

@/deuxmoi BLIND ITEM: pastel princess spotted getting very cozy with a certain dark-haired hit maker at a lollapalooza afterparty. insiders say she wasn’t on the guest list.

[moodygirlzz]

So, I have fixated on the idea of a deaf tiny and a hearing giant.

Can you imagine?

Being so small the world doesn’t just sound different, it doesn’t make a sound at all. You don’t hear a door slam. You feel it. Through the floor. Through your ribs. A boom rolling up your spine like thunder with nowhere to run. You live by those vibrations to avoid being stepped on, you live by those vibrations to know what’s coming next. You have to learn all the pulses. The tremble of movement under your feet like reading waves in still water.

Now imagine your giant. 20-30 feet of heat and mass and motion. A voice you can’t hear but always feel through the floorboards, through your bones, when they laugh, when they sigh, when they hum under their breath and don’t even know they’re doing it. Everything they do moves the world you stand on.

Their lips are the size of a billboard. You have to watch them speak, tilt your head back, squint, follow the slow shape of every syllable like reading clouds. You get good at it. You learn the way their mouth forms “sorry,” or “come here,” or “are you okay?” and it makes your stomach twist in a good way, like vertigo from affection.

Sometimes they try to whisper, forgetting you can’t hear at all. But you feel the whisper, like breath moving the tiny hairs on your arm. That counts for something.

They learn to sign for you.

Not well, not at first. Their fingers are too big, clumsy, slow. They mess up “friend” and “forget” and once accidentally signed “death” instead of “sleep.” You nearly choked laughing.

But they care. They try. And when they want to understand you, really understand, they lean down. All the way down. Their head on the desk, chin resting on their palm. Eye level, leaning closer to make sure they don’t miss anything. Holding their breath so nothing shakes the surface. Watching your hands move like birds. So close their eyes blur and refocus and follow each twitch of your wrist. Not wanting to mess up.

You have to remind them to come close so they can see, you know you’re too small. They get embarrassed when they aren’t paying attention and miss when you sign, generally and whole heartedly trying better to always watch to be sure they don’t miss a thing.

Sometimes, they haven’t learnt certain signs. You have to mime out scenarios so that your giant understands. You once had to flop around on the desk then sign NO to express you didn’t want the fish.

It’s a challenge but always a wholesome experience when the giant gets it right. Smiling sweetly, proud of themselves.

[hannie-bees]

Cut 🎬

Pairing: Actor!Mingyu x Reader

Genre: Angst → Breakup → Reconciliation → Fluff

Word count: ~2,160

You never really watched him on-screen after that.

It wasn’t a conscious choice. You just… didn’t have it in you.

His face, the one you’d kissed goodnight for three years, was suddenly everywhere. In trailers. On billboards. Winning awards with tears in his eyes and your name nowhere near his speech.

You weren’t bitter. Not exactly.

Just… hollow.

The kind of ache that doesn’t show up all at once. It seeps in slow. Quiet. Like the way his apartment felt too clean the day you left. Like the cold side of the bed never warming again. Like the way you stopped ordering iced americanos because they tasted like mornings with him.

And you knew why he did it.

Mingyu had always been ambitious. The kind of man who could make his own dreams come true if he had enough time and focus, and when his breakout role finally came, he said the words you’d been fearing for months:

"I think we need to break up."

You didn’t fight him. You just asked him why.

"Because I don’t know how to love you and chase this at the same time. And I can’t give you halfway."

It had sounded noble. Even kind.

But all you heard was: you’re in the way.

So you walked.

And he let you.

---

Two years later, you met again.

Of all places, a filming set.

You weren’t part of the crew exactly, just helping out a friend who was running costume and wardrobe on short notice. She’d begged you to fill in for a few days.

You didn’t ask who the lead actor was.

You found out the moment you stepped on set.

He was laughing. Head tilted back, hair styled up, makeup still clinging to the corners of his jaw. The same laugh you used to hear at midnight when he burned his toast or tried to freestyle in the kitchen.

Kim Mingyu.

Standing fifteen feet from you like the universe had hit rewind and then pause.

He hadn’t seen you yet. Thank God.

You turned. Walked straight toward the wardrobe tent.

Your heart felt like glass in your chest.

---

But fate, or whatever cruel director she was, didn’t leave it there.

You spent the entire day ducking into racks of clothes and running errands that didn’t exist. But he found you anyway.

It was late. Almost everyone had gone home. You were helping pack up when a voice, lower now but familiar, cut through the soft buzz of the night.

"...Y/N?"

You froze.

Turned slowly.

He looked just the same.

Older, maybe. Sharper jaw. Eyes a little more tired. But the same boy underneath it all. The one who used to get nervous before auditions and bite his lip when he was about to say something real.

"Hey," you said, voice too steady for how hard your heart was pounding.

"I didn’t know you were here."

You shrugged. "Last-minute favor."

He smiled. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. "You look good."

"Thanks. You look… successful."

That earned a soft laugh. "Trying."

Silence.

You fiddled with a hanger. He stepped closer.

"Can we talk?"

You swallowed. "Why?"

He looked like he’d been waiting to ask for years.

"Because I didn’t stop missing you."

---

You ended up sitting on a prop bench in the corner of the lot. Everything else was packed up. It felt too quiet.

Mingyu sat beside you, hands clasped together, elbows on his knees like he was bracing for impact.

"I thought about you every day," he said quietly.

"You were on TV every day. Kind of hard to forget."

He flinched a little. "I didn’t want to leave like that."

"Then why did you?"

He didn’t answer for a second. Just stared at his hands.

"Because I loved you too much to ask you to wait."

Your heart twisted.

"That wasn’t your choice to make."

He looked at you then, really looked. The way he used to when he was trying to memorize your face.

"You were already giving up so much for me. Your time, your peace, your patience. I felt like I was holding you back. I didn’t want you to build your life around me."

"But I wanted to."

"I know." He looked down again. "That’s what scared me."

The wind blew gently through the empty lot. You crossed your arms over your chest.

"So you broke my heart for what? So I could be free?"

He winced. "I told myself it was mercy."

"And did it feel like mercy to you?"

"No."

Silence again. But this time, it didn’t feel as sharp.

"I watched our movie premiere alone," he said quietly. "Everyone was celebrating. I just kept wishing you were next to me."

You didn’t answer.

He went on.

"I got so much of what I wanted. And none of it felt right without you."

You swallowed, eyes burning.

"So why now?"

He looked up at you.

"Because I don’t want to win anything else if I can’t come home to you."

---

It wasn’t a fairytale.

You didn’t fall into each other’s arms under a spotlight. He didn’t kiss you under fake snow or cry through an apology monologue.

You just sat there, side by side. Two people who had broken, grown, and maybe, just maybe, still fit.

And finally, finally, you let your hand fall over his.

He looked at it like it was a miracle.

You gave a small smile. "So... are you gonna take me to your next premiere?"

He laughed, eyes shining. "Only if I can say you’re my date."

---

Six Months Later.

You stood next to him at the premiere. A proper red carpet this time.

Mingyu wore black. You wore navy. He held your hand like it was the only real thing in the room.

When they asked who you were, he didn’t hesitate.

"The love of my life."

🌸Masterlist🌸

[starkeyszn]

I NEED A MINUTE ⌇

pairings: rafe cameron x popstar!reader

song: revolving door by tate mcrae

warnings: pure angst, brief panic attack.

you built a life without him. you were in big cities, doing tours, interviews, having screaming fans who chanted your name.

you weren’t the girl from the cut anymore, the one that used to sneak into tannyhill through the side gate just to see him.

you were pop’s new obsession, a platinum selling voice with heartbreak behind her eyes. a triple threat, singer, dancer and songwriter.

but you weren’t bulletproof. especially when it came to rafe cameron.

it always started the same way, it was predictable with him. late night messages or calls, he said your name like it belonged to him: sweetheart. 

he wouldn’t use your real name, maybe because that girl, the one who once loved him with an open heart, the one who scribbled song lyrics into her notebook on her bed—was long gone.

two years ago

you had dreams, building it big, your name on billboards, your face plastered on posters across cities announcing your tour. you didn’t want to be in this town anymore, but rafe cameron would look at you with a silent promise behind his eyes, and maybe you feel you was the only thing keeping him afloat.

you fell fast, you fell for his sweet words, his lies.

he was older and dangerous, but he promised he’d keep you safe. he listened when no one else did, his eyes softening as you sung the words in your notebook.

he kissed you like he was drowning, and you was his only source of air.

“i need you.” he whispered, his forehead pressing to yours. he just had a fight with his dad, showed up to your house, pouting, a single tear rolling down his cheek as he was standing out in the rain.

you took him in, staying by his side. you stayed even when he started lying, when he would randomly go m.i.a, and leave you worried for days.

he’d act like nothing happened when he came back—returning giving you a kiss, and whispering reaffirming words.

rafe messaged you, he messaged saying he would take you on a trip, to boston, saying this would be his way of making it up to you.

you knew what would happen—and it did happen, that trip ended in the “i’m sorry’s” tangled in his breath as he kissed you. he was always good at making you forget.

you were too tired to resist, you let rafe do what he wanted, you let him ruin you in the silk sheets—let him tell you he missed your voice while pressing his lips down on your collarbone. you let yourself believe, just for that night, that maybe he meant it this time. and that he would stay.

but as soon as you both came back. rafe hadn’t messaged you in over 2 weeks, he hadn’t showed up outside your house, knocked on your window. nothing.

present day

you had just been getting ready for soundcheck, taking a sip of your water, checking yourself in the mirror.

instead, you stood frozen in the doorway of your hotel suite, staring at the boy who haunted every lyric you’ve written.

“sweetheart.” the nickname rolled off his tongue, saying it like it was still his right.

he looked the same, messy hair, eye bags under his eyes, casting a shadow. but something about him had always been magnetic— you hated him.

“what do you want?” you asked, your voice coming out sharper.

he leaned against the wall, like he had time. like he hadn’t blown you off over eight months ago and left you hurt.

“you.”

you laughed bitterly, “no you want something-theres a difference.”

he stepped closer, making you step back. “i miss you.”

“no rafe! you miss what i do for you, you only come back when you’re broke, high or spiralling! i can’t provide for you anymore!” you snapped, making his eyes widen.

you pointed your head towards the door, a sign for him to leave. he didn’t deny your words, he couldn’t. not when it was the truth.

your boston show was right around the corner, your managers voice boomed through the walls, “where is she?”

your dancers were stretching, going over choreography, the mic check was done, the arena was full, fans were waiting for your entrance. but you was in the bathroom, knees to your chest, makeup running down your cheeks, your breath came in short gasps, like the walls were closing in on you.

“i need a minute.” you gasped, over and over, like it was a prayer.

your assistant knocked on the door gently, “10 minutes.”

10 minutes until you had to go on stage, but how could you go out there and sing? in the city where it changed it all for you? that night in boston. the trip in boston. he promised not to hurt you ever again, he promised to stay, he promised to go to rehab.

but he broke all of those promises.

you looked at yourself in the mirror, you didn’t even recognised the girl staring back, this was supposed to be everything you wanted. you quickly cleaned yourself up, smoothing down your bodysuit, pressing powder under your eyes.

the lights dimmed, your dancers stood next to you, with the revolving door props, the crowd screamed and phones were out, recording you.

you walked out, glittering under the rainbow lights, the revolving door props glowing, while your dancers held them. your mic trembled in your grip, but your voice didn’t, you couldn’t let it. the intro kicked in, you opened your mouth, not for him, but for you.

the crowd sung, knowing your song off by heart. your dancers danced along with you, as you sung the words.

“i still think ‘bout that night in the boston.”

your cheeks were damp with sweat, as you sat backstage, you were wrecked. and then your assistant rushed in, your phone in her hand.

“it’s him.” she said quietly, “he’s in the arena.”

you took the phone, reading the message, just four words, “come down. i’m sorry.”

you didn’t reply, you didn’t smile or cry, you had a straight face, before you clicked on his contact, pressing ‘block.’

your assistant met your gaze, giving you a proud smile. you stood up, looking at yourself in the mirror, taking off your earrings, “let him chase.”

because you were done chasing. you were done playing his games, he can play his own. you had more cities waiting for you, more bigger things.

and a heart that finally belonged to yourself.

STARKEYSZN — 2025 my first time writing angst on here.. how did i do 😅 i love tate mcrae so so so so so much. i couldn’t help but make a one shot based on one of her songs 😉😉

[souliebird]

[[and then I met you || ch. 34]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s while Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

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Words: 4.3k 🌶️🌶️

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It is not often that you get a night to yourself. 

Usually, once you get Minnie down, you dive into your laptop to clock into work, but tonight there is server maintenance, and you are free to do as you please. You wish you had checked your e-mail before Matt had given himself over to the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, but alas, you did not think that far ahead. 

You don’t mind too much, however, as you use the opportunity to stretch out on the couch, relax, and binge trash entertainment. You allow yourself to be half tucked under a throw blanket that Matt’s cologne clings to and try to turn off your brain. You do not want to think or follow a plot and quickly wind up watching catty women start drama over things like seating charts and the differences between the color lilac and the color lavender. It is fun without being too serious and easily keeps your attention.

You decide you need a glass of wine after two episodes of your show. Even with the distraction, your eyes won’t stop darting to the corner of the screen to check the time and with each siren in the distance, you tense up. You know Matt’s plan is to be out late, combing the Kitchen in search of clues to lead him to people who butchered Enhanced children, but you can’t help but worry. 

Daredevil is more than capable of taking care of himself - you have heard and read plenty of stories about his fighting prowess - but whoever is out there seemingly has no morals and that can lead to situations where enhanced senses and fists don’t cut it. You trust Matt to know his limits - only if that trust comes from knowing he would never do anything that would make his daughter cry.  

Mouse’s happiness outweighs all of Matt’s faults - at least according to Foggy. 

But you will still stay awake until he is safely in bed with you, and you can fall asleep to his steady heartbeat. It is the least you can do for him and under the multicolored glow of the billboard across the street, you lounge, caught up in a world that is so far from your own, trying to enjoy your brief time alone. 

You don’t hear it when a pair of feet land firmly on the roof above you and you don’t hear it when the access door creaks open, but when a streak of moonlight shines across worn hardwood floors, you do notice. 

You pause your show as you lurch up into sitting, heart racing. You know no one other than Matt would be coming down the stairs, but you weren’t expecting him for hours, and your panic is pointing out you are woefully unprepared for any type of fight. There’s not even a baseball bat laying around so you can pretend you can defend yourself. 

Luckily for you, you would recognize the silhouette that comes through the door anywhere - Matt in his ‘Man in Black’ outfit - and your heart turns from panic to worry. You scramble up, shoving the blanket you had been bundled under to the side, and hurry to meet him at the foot of the stairwell. 

As he enters into the area of the apartment with enough light for you to actually see in, your heart catches in your throat while simultaneously sending the pulse in your nethers into overdrive. 

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen clearly had a very different night from you. Dried and drying blood cakes his face - coming down from his nose and mouth with smudges on his jaw line. His Muay Thai ropes are grimy and disgusting, and you can just barely see how they are tinted red. His shirt is ripped in various places, and it clings to his torso like it has been drenched in sweat. It has ridden up quite a bit from all his movement, so a band of skin shows, teasing the firm muscles that lie beneath, and his pants hang low, giving a hint of that V you so admire.

Despite the state of him, he oozes confidence and danger. He’s standing straight, head held high, and shoulders pushed back to emphasize how broad he is. Every muscle is pulled taut - ready to jump into action at the slightest of provocation. His chest is rising and falling with each breath, and it makes you wonder if he ran back to the apartment or if he is having trouble breathing through his nose. Either way, it is animalistic, and you are reminded of documentaries showing a predator before it pounces on its prey.  

In the dim light, your eyes zero in on Matt’s mouth and you watch with an intensity you know he can feel as he pulls his lips back into a slight sneer and runs his tongue over his teeth. 

You decide then and there that you are going to do something Matt has been denying you the chance of for weeks. 

You are going to suck his dick. 

You have found Matt loves to tease you sexually. Little touches here and there and sly comments with double meanings are his game of choice. He likes to get you nice and worked up and to deliver on his promises with his mouth to the point you are pretty sure enjoys oral more than the act of penetration. While you very much are thrilled being on the receiving end, it doesn’t mean you don’t also want to indulge in giving. Having his cock on your tongue has been a fantasy for quite a while and it is high time you turned it into a reality. 

After making sure he isn’t about to bleed out on the floor. 

“You’re home early,” you breathe out as a greeting, gaze still firmly locked on his cut lips. You want to kiss and bite them, but not in their current state. As much as you want to jump him, you do not know whose, or what’s, blood is covering his face, and you do not want it getting in your mouth.

The man in front of you tips his chin up just slightly, head tilting in a way you know means he is examining you. By the way his sneer turns into a smirk, you know exactly what inputs he is receiving. You don't need super smell to know your panties are already soaked through.

“Didn’t expect the Irish to be setting up shop in the tunnels,” he replies, voice low and rumbly and going right to your core. You let the shiver run through you and try to not react as your nipples pebble under your shirt.

“They certainly don’t belong there.”

You force yourself to turn away from him then. You don’t want to fall into the trap of becoming flustered while Matt teases you - if he gets his hands or mouth on you, he will be insistent on pleasuring you and you won’t get what you truly desire. 

He follows you like a shadow into the kitchen, barely letting you stay a literal step in front of him. You can feel the heat from his body against your back and the smell of his sweat and whatever he rolled in is wrapped around you like an all-consuming cloud. He practically boxes you in as you grab some paper towels and when you go to wet them, he looms over you. 

When you do turn to face him, your breast just barely brush against his torso. You have a feeling he wants to crowd you into a corner and get you onto the counter so he can eat you out, but you won’t allow it. Your body is thrumming with need and want and that is overruling in any anxiety and doubt you may have. 

You know he likes to tease. You know he likes to banter and push back and that helps to embolden you as you reach up and begin to wipe his face. You want to play his game right along with him.

“They aren’t the ones hurting the kids, are they?” You start, trying so hard to be nonchalant. You know you are both very aware how your bodies are responding to each other, but that is part of the teasing.

He allows you to clean away the blood, but he doesn’t lean into your touch - he remains tall and cocky, like he’s still on the streets. “No, they’ve got a warehouse with an access hatch. They were trying to store things. Probably weapons.”

You hum, taking in the information as you dap up gore that may or may not be his. He does not appear to be particularly injured, but you know he can hide that pretty easily - and stories and your own experiences tell you he will pretend he is perfectly okay, even when he isn’t. But, still, you probe because you want to be thorough in your care before you get your mouth on him. 

“Do you need any stitches?”

He huffs in response, and you take that as a ‘no’, which makes things much easier. You aren’t sure how much your desire would fade if you had to focus on needles and thread. 

As you begin to finish running the paper towel over his face, Matt moves impossibly closer to you - he presses forward, his knee starting to wedge between your legs, and it takes everything within you to not adjust so he can slide fully between them. He ducks his head to be closer to your face and tells you in that low, growly voice of his, “I might need a chest wrap, though. Why don’t you check to see if you agree?”

You understand the challenge he is giving you and you accept it. You toss the dirty paper towel into the sink, then drop your hands to hover in front of the hem of his shirt. Your heart pounds loudly in your chest, in your ears, in your cunt, as you hook your thumbs under the fabric and push it up. You go at a snail’s pace, letting your touch ghost over defined abs and feeling them flex under you. You only look down to examine the damage once his torso is almost fully exposed.

He will most definitely need a chest wrap. Bruises are already blooming around his ribs, and you can see they go around to his back. 

You make a soft, sympathetic noise in the back of your throat, “I think you might be right.” 

Again, Matt moves. His hands skirt over your hips, teasing at the fabric there and you are fully aware you are probably right where he wants you. This is confirmed when he bumps his nose, which is still hidden under his mask, against your cheek and drags it up to your ear.

“Do you know what else I think?” he breathes, voice pitched low enough to make your entire being quake in want. 

You know he is about to say something absolutely filthy, something that will make your knees give out - something that will have him winning this little game. 

And you can’t allow that. 

So, you tilt your head to the side and up, brushing your nose against his, and say in your own low voice, hoping you sound alluring, “I think you should go sit on the couch.”

Fabric crinkles as Matt’s brows raise in surprise and a tinge of Pride shoots through you at that. It’s clear he wasn’t expecting push back from you and his mouth curls up into amusement.

“Mmmm, and why should I do that?”

You resist the urge to wet your lips, not wanting to seem weak. Instead, you slowly start to guide his shirt back down, so he is covered again.

“Because I want you there.” 

“You want me there?” He confirms as he pulls his head back enough you can see his full face. His hands, however, are defiant - they finally settle on your hips, and with the slightest of tugs, you are flush against him and can feel his hardness pressed against you. Your cunt clenches around nothing in desire and you mentally chastise it as Matt grins like the Cheshire cat. “I think you want me here.”

Your mind races for a solution. As long as your body is weeping for his touch, Matt is not going to back down about getting what he wants but you need him to let you be in control. With his senses and with his suaveness, he has the upper hand. You need to undermine that.  

You need to use his advantages against him. 

Plus, the one unique advantage that he has given to you. 

You decide the only way to control the Devil is to tell him exactly why he is going to listen to you. 

You bite your lip, trying to be a bit coy, then whisper out as confidently as you can, “I want you on the couch so that I can get on my knees and get my mouth on your cock. So, you are going to do that because I know you can smell and taste how wet the idea of sucking you off makes me, and you said that you are mine. You are mine and this is what I want, so that is what you will do. Understood?”

Matt doesn’t respond at first and you try to not panic about pushing the boundaries too far.

But then his lips part just slightly, and his nose flares and you can practically see all of his bravado crumbling. He tightens his grip on your shirt for just a moment before he lets you go and slowly, slowly steps back. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he finally replies, his voice not as growly, not as deep. 

“Good boy.” 

You watch him back away from you until he pivots to be able to head towards the couch, relief flooding through you. You wait until he has actually sat down to grab the first aid kit from its hidden cupboard and make your way to the living room. 

Matt has manspread so that you can comfortably kneel between his tree-trunk thighs, and as much as you want to take your place there, you do need to actually wrap his chest. His Muay Thai wraps are going to keep him from taking his shirt off, but you don’t mind that much. The idea of him staying in the Man in Black outfit is rather thrilling.

As you go to sit beside him and open the first aid kit, you direct him, “lift your shirt up.” 

You expect a comment or resistance, based on his teasing earlier, but he is surprisingly quick to obey you. He sits up straight and tugs his shirt up as high as it will go, giving you plenty of room to work with.

Wrapping is one of the things you have practiced doing on some of Minnie’s toys, so you feel well versed in the task. The gauze is much better quality than what you have, but the motions are the same and Matt is stoic as you bind his ribs. With each rise and fall of his chest, your cunt drips with anticipation, and you wonder if his dick is twitching with the same. You consider taking your time with wrapping, but you don’t want to drag things out for yourself. 

You want your reward for taming the Devil.

You clean up your mess once finished and set the kit on the coffee table, so it is out of the way. Matt’s attention on you is nearly physical in how aware of it you are. It makes your insides bubble with delight.

You let yourself make a show of standing up and stepping to stand between his legs. Matt’s hands are planted on the couch, and you watch the way his fingers flex and curl as you lower yourself to your knees. 

“This is what you want?” he confirms as you settle yourself. His voice is losing that harsh edge, and he sounds so much more like the Matt you are used to. 

“Very much,” you purr. “It’s all I’ve thought about for days.”

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat in response, and you watch it as you place your hands on the inners of his thighs and slowly push them up towards his crotch. You then deviate, going around where you know he wants you to touch him and going instead for the buckle of his belt. As you do, you lean up and forward to kiss at the skin just under the gauze. 

You give light, soft little pecks as you make your way down his stomach and Matt arches up into it, fully giving himself to you and stopping with his tough guy act. Pleased with this reaction, you nuzzle him before sinking your teeth into his flesh and starting to suck, determined to make a mark. 

Under you, Matt hisses in pleasure. His hips buck up with want and all his former words about wanting to be scratched and bit flood your mind. He likes the bruises. He likes the pain. 

So, who are you to deny him when he is being so good for you and you very much like the idea of him having reminders of why it’s a good idea to listen to you. 

You treat his washboard abs like a canvas - you bite and suck and scratch, leaving all sorts of different traces of you on him. Matt paws at the cushions, unwilling to put his hands on you for some reason, as his breathing turns harsher and needier. He doesn’t moan, but your name starts to slip out like a prayer and that is the motivation you need to keep going.

You are not satisfied until you’ve touched all the bare skin on the front of his body. 

Only then do you undo his belt and pop the button keeping you from your prize. 

Hard doesn’t begin to describe Matt’s cock - it's swollen and red and leaking like a faucet. If you didn’t know better, you would have thought he had already cum all over himself and wouldn’t that have been the ego boost of the century?

His musk is nearly intoxicating as you dip down to rub your nose and lips against his head, smearing precum all over yourself. 

“Please,” Matt begs from above you, voice ragged and needy. It sends an electric thrill through you and you can’t help but want to tease him.

“Please, what?” You ask, throwing it back at him like he always does with you when you are a mess. “Use your words, baby.” 

“Put your mouth on me. Please suck my cock,” he mumbles, rolling his head back and pushing his hips up like you have no clue where to find what he is asking for. “Please. Take what you want. I’m yours. Please.” 

“Don’t worry, my good boy, I’ll take care of you,” you promise before wrapping your mouth around him. 

The burst of saltiness has you moaning and very suddenly your goal shifts from taking care of Matt to taking care of yourself. You’ve thought so long and so much about this experience, and you want to enjoy it exactly how you have imagined it. 

You haven’t given a blowjob in a very long time, so you take your time adjusting and exploring. Your tongue swirls around as you bob up and down, taking more and more in each time until it feels like too much. Then you back off and start again, continuing the process over and over until you no longer gag around him. 

He is heavy on your tongue, filling your mouth and making your jaw work to take him. It's perfect and how you pictured it in your mind. You know, in another time when you weren't so determined with your task, you could get lost in him fucking your throat.

The thought makes you drool, and you pay no mind to the spit gathering in your mouth and dripping down to soak Matt’s pants. 

You know he doesn’t mind being messy. 

When you feel you have thoroughly mapped Matt’s cock by swallowing it do you switch tactics. He whimpers and writhes as you pull off of him only to start panting when you attach your lips to the underside of it. Years of reading dirty books and sex tips has you knowing the frenulum is sensitive and you imagine Matt’s is doubly so. You are proven correct when you start moving your tongue and the filthiest sound you’ve ever heard comes from deep in his chest. 

You relish in how you are undoing Matt. You drag your lips and tongue up and down his length, sucking and flicking your tongue to get different responses. You want to know which one gets him moaning the most, so you are sure to take your time experimenting and learning. One hand wraps around his base to pump slowly, so no part of his cock is neglected, while the other reaches up to resume clawing at his skin. 

Praise and need and begging come pouring down from above you and you want more. You want Matt to feel as good as you do when he lays you out under him. You swallow him again, taking as much as you possibly can in, and when you reach your limit, you stay there. Your hand above you finds the gauze you wrapped around his chest and you move it to where you know the worst of the bruising is hidden. 

Then you press down. 

His cock twitches hard in your throat, a single salty spurt coating your insides, and you know he is right on the edge with the way he moans your name. 

You want more. 

You need more. 

Your cunt is pulsing and gushing at how much you want to make the Devil into a pretty mess, and you know just how to do it. 

You pull back to give yourself room to maneuver, but you keep your mouth on him, worshiping the tip of his cock as the hand wrapped around his base drops to go between your thighs. It is easy to push your sleeping shorts and panties to the side, and you begin to coat your fingers in your own slick. You are so very wet, and your own touch leaves you quivering, but you know your time for physical pleasure will be soon enough. 

You make sure your fingers are absolutely dripping before you remove them from between your legs and enact your plan.

With your mouth still on him, you reach up, your fingers pointed forward and Matt does not need to be told what you are wanting of him. He practically dives for them, slurping them up greedily - like he is parched, and they are his salivation. You push your fingers more into him, until the heel of your hand is flush with his chin, making him start to gag and drool around them. 

As you do that, you swallow him down again and dig your other palm into his bruised ribs. 

The result is instant, and you get no warning as Matt’s hips buck and stutter and he fills your throat with his seed. 

You drink it as greedily as he drinks you down when he is between your legs. You very much understand the pleasure he gets from it - you’ve barely just finished, and you already want to lay him out again. Pulling away from him feels like a Herculean Trial - you yearn to stay there with his cock in your mouth until it gets hard again, but you know you should check on him to make sure he enjoyed himself. 

You give one last tease as you drag your fingers from his mouth, though, letting them tug as his lips and smear spit and slick down his chin, timing it so his cock falls from your mouth at the same time. 

You can only see the bottom half of his face, but he looks pretty blissed out. Matt’s lips are puffy and red, and he has this dopey, pleased smile on his face - something very contrasting from his all-black outfit. You are gentle as you tuck him back into his pants and even more so as you push yourself up so you can climb into his lap, straddling him. 

His hands are on your hips immediately, looping around to tug you flush against his chest. You brace yourself on his shoulders and smile down at the masked man. 

“Did you like that?” you ask, pitching your voice to be sweet and flirty. 

His response is to lean in and begin to kiss your neck, nice and slow and leisurely. You tilt your head to give him better access and he makes his way up to your ear, purring out a ‘yes, ma’am’ as he does. 

His breath against your skin has your core thrumming and reminding you that you need your own release, and you do not plan to deny yourself of that. 

So, as Matt begins to nuzzle and nip at your neck, you pull his mask from his head, tossing it to the side before you tangle your fingers into his hair. You let yourself be rough as you yank his head back so his sightless eyes can stare up into yours, all while clawing your other hand into his shoulder. You then contrast that by giving him the sweetest peck on the lips.

“Good. Because you still need a shower, and I need your cock in my pussy for at least an hour. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

---

This one goes out to @pastafossa . Matt always needs a good Domming session.

--

@two-unbeatable-beaters @kiwwia-wiwwia @1988-fiend @xblueriddlex @loves0phelia @ninacotte @lovelyygirl8 @littlenosoul @ednaaa-04  @astridstark13 @hashcakes

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[oimitocat]

YOU TELL ME | OS

༘۠ hyunjin x artist! m!reader

༘۠ falling in love + nsfw + one night stand + fan (hyunjin) x artist (reader) + masturbation + teasing + getting together

༘۠ a/n; nothing else to add, just that the nsfw is more like a flashback than full blown smut

“this week’s biggest news! artist y/n is doing a world tour! the rising artist had caught a lot of attention not only from his new album that has reached top fifty on the billboard charts but also prying eyes from his recent attendance at a fashion event in seoul, korea! the artist has spoken about his—”

hyunjin zones out after half of the video. the video of y/n smiling catching his full attention. you have a beautiful smile, one he had fallen in love with even more the moment he saw you in person at the fashion event. up until now he’s only been seeing you through his phone, hoping for a chance in his schedule to visit your concerts and get an autograph.

“how about i sign you instead of this picture?” you ask with a mischievous grin.

“—the artist is dropping his tour list today at eight pm. comment down where you live and if you’re excited to hear his newest album in person!”

hyunjin look at the time at the top of his phone screen. it’s 6:30 am right now. which means the tour list already dropped. he quickly goes to your instagram and squeals at the sight of the post. his eyes rack the list but his smile falters after a while. you’re going to the usa, italy, portugal, germany and spain. not korea. of course, no one really comes to korea. he sighs, turning his phone off and staring out into the darkness of his room.

“i’m sorry?” he asked, confused at what you had said. “sign me?”

immediately, a paper is held up to hyunjin by a man standing next to y/n. hyunjin recognizes the paper, he doesn’t even have to read what’s on it. he knows. he looks up at you, startled and bewildered. is this… for real?

he had managed to get you on the way to the restroom. the event was still going, everyone is still sitting and socializing. he turns to his own escort. he’s never been in this situation, he himself has never asked a fan to sign the nda contract. as exhilarating as this is, it’s also very… embarrassing.

“hyunjin, right?” you ask, snapping him out of his mental turmoil. “don’t you want to get to know me?”

hyunjin swallows, “pen?”

the sight of your grin growing makes him want to combust in the spot.

he turns over, groaning out of embarrassment. did he have to sound so stupidly nervous? he can’t complain though, at the end of the day he got to experience something even better with you. the memory itself makes him a hot mess. all he had asked was when your new album would drop. he made conversation for once because it was literally a once in a lifetime opportunity.

and well…

the hotel. you were escorted to the hotel thirty minutes away from the event. the whole event you kept glancing at him. eye fucking him. not just him though, he was aware of everyone else eyeing him — yet, your eyes were what mattered most to him. he’s smiling to himself, biting his thumb until the time arrives.

he even texted felix, letting him know he’s on the verge of throwing up from nerves. all he received was a ‘liar, stop being delusional’. to which he replies with a picture of you serving him a glass of wine.

he pulls up that exact picture, eyeing your side profile. your hands— “oomf,” he groans, shoving his face into the pillow. those same hands that roamed his body.

he doesn’t exactly know what to say, he just listens to you talk. yet, his eyes are on you hand. the rings that decorate your fingers. you have one on each finger except the thumb.

he asked about it after you finish talking about how the event security did another artist dirty. you pause, looking at him intensely before smiling.

“it’s more aesthetically pleasing that way. don’t worry though, i’ll have my hands clean for you.” he stares at you with wide eyes as you lean in, after all, i want to feel you under them.”

and he leans in to kiss you.

hyunjin turns his phone off again, screaming into his pillow. the nerve he had! to kiss you! what if you thought he was desperate. well, regardless, what’s done is done. you had him and he had you. the desperation was both sided…

“you know you’re beautiful, right? why say it?” you say as you slide your hands up his inner thighs, feeling the firmness of his muscles. “you’re already a work of art,” he whines when your hand grazes his hardened member. “let me add some final touches though.”

you kiss his jaw, slowly going further down his neck. there’s a spot that get a gasp out of him. you kiss and lick, humming and moaning at his noises. he sounds so beautiful. you kiss down his collabone, his chest. as you reach his nipple, you bring your other hand up to his neck. the weight of your hand— ringless, because you had taken them off before bringing him to the bed— making him whimper. you suck and nibble on his hardened bud. he jolts and writhes under you, you have to add some pressure on his neck to get him to behave.

it’s hot. really hot. hyunjin almost cums from your attention alone. you kiss further down, your hand leaving his neck and coming down to his thighs. he gasps and buckles his hips when you kiss his leaking tip.

“don’t worry pretty,” you breathe out, smiling at how undone he’s becoming in your hands, “you’ll get what you want.” and you take him in your mouth.

hyunjin moans as he cums in his hand. he goes limp on his bed, airy breaths leaving his mouth. he closes his eyes, the last smile you threw at him before leaving the hotel replaying in his head. he remembers how weak his legs were after hours of you pounding him into the sheets. after coming four times and the aftercare that came with it.

it was so much.

yet so little.

——

weeks pass by. months. hyunjin is stuck reminiscing on the past, at some point he doesn’t. his schedule gets hectic again. there is hope though. hope that one day you two could do something again or maybe just text. it’s not possible though, his management wouldn’t allow it unless the two of you undergo some sort of process. which sucks.

he’s being delusional, especially now with how he was told two months ago that they will be attending an award ceremony. the billboard awards.

the practice is crazy. the schedule is hectic. he wants to barf at some point because you’re going to be somewhere near his seat and the thought alone makes him nervous. will you treat him indifferently? will you act like nothing happened?

“you good?” felix asks, snapping him out of his thoughts.

they’re backstage now, ready to perform.

“i wanna throw up,” he confesses, giving felix a look.

the younger catches on fast. almost everyone in the group already knows now, his anxiety as the day of the awards drew near was too worrying. they all assured him they’ll have his back, yet he still doesn’t know what he’ll do if he really does become another person on your list that was a one time thing. obviously, it’s better for both of you for it to not repeat.

yet, he can’t help but be hopeful. as much as he knows it’s for the best… as much as he knows that the contract strictly says this will not be repeated… why is his heart so yearning?

he doesn’t mean to. he looks across the stage and glides over the countless faces before them when they finish their stage.

“wonderful work out there!” their managers yell out as they all file backstage. “if anyone needs to use the bathroom go now.”

“i’m good,” seungmin shrugs.

“come with me?” felix asks hyunjin, who nods.

hyunjin and felix are the only ones that go. felix happily praises him for “not spilling your guts out! see? all good!”

hyunjin rolls his eyes and shoves felix into the stall. he waits outside by the sinks, looking at himself in the mirror. he’s damp with sweat, his hair is still a little messy, they’ll do touch ups once they return.

the door opens, he’s not a social person, so he shies away and doesn’t dare look at the person.

“hey hyunjin,” you say loud enough for him to hear. he turns around, almost getting whiplash. you were standing before him, smiling warmly. “you look great,” you grin, “i’ve always wanted to see you perform…”

“ah, th-thank you, you perform in a bit, r-right?” hyunjin can’t believe it.

“yeah but…” you look around, “we could perform something else together later…”

hyunjin blinks. he wants to be swallowed up whole right now. felix is here. “i- uh…”

“hey, sorry, i don’t want us to just be hooking up… it’s hard to get past your management,” you hum, “let’s stay in contact. i liked talking to you, yeah we had fun but i like hearing your stories.”

hyunjin swallows, “ah yeah… me too, um, i could fight something out for us.”

“i’ll give you my personal number,” you offer, “just for you.”

you’re a lot closer now. he looks down at your lips, “okay, i’d like that.”

“awesome, good to know we’re on the same page.” you chuckle. “wanna wish me good luck on the stage?”

hyunjin can’t help but give you a look, “you don’t need luck, y/n.” he leans in and pecks your lips, “a kiss yes, but luck?”

you’re quite taken aback, really. yet, you grin, “yeah, i need you more.”

“ah, my teammate is here,” he ushers, panicked.

“ah,” you laugh. “okay then, one more kiss will do just fine.”

hyunjin’s heart could practically leap out of his chest.

and he kisses you, arms around your neck. he doesn’t want to let go, but with how sweet you’re being, he knows he’ll see you a lot sooner again. the hug you give him feels so good, he wishes you two had more time.

later, when you win an award. the words that come out of your mouth makes him want to die then and there.

“-and i also want to thank that person that gave me a good luck charm before coming here. i was good with just that but now having this award it feels like i have it all, thank you all for supporting me until now! i hope you continue to support me!”

felix’s side eye is something hyunjin might never live down.

[amirawrah]

⭐︎Distant love

with JOBE BELLINGHAM⭐︎REQUESTED BY ANON!

synopsis: In a world of distance and spotlight love finds its way back—every time.

amirah: the anon requested a Jobe x Ghanian reader so warning here.

You never imagined love could stretch itself across oceans and time zones, but somehow, with Jobe, it did. You were a socialite in Accra—your days woven between luncheons, brand deals, charity galas, and magazine shoots. Your face graced billboards, your name trended every time you posted, and yet, no amount of flashing cameras or curated images filled the space Jobe left when he wasn't near.

You met him in London. A random night, an art event you almost didn’t go to. You wore gold—he told you later it made his heart skip. What followed was a whirlwind of weeks, texts, and dates that ended in airport hugs and whispered promises to try.

And somehow, you did.

You tried. You both tried.

Now, it’s been three months since you last touched him. Three months of FaceTimes falling asleep, sending each other photos of what you're eating for dinner, and crossing off calendar days until his next break.

Today, your morning starts the way most do—fresh fruit on the balcony, your PA reading out invites, your phone blowing up from a new photo of you going viral. But the glow of the sun doesn’t warm the emptiness. Your heart aches a little when you see the date: it’s the first weekend of May. You were supposed to be in Birmingham, but a brand obligation anchored you home.

You miss him.

You tell yourself not to text. He has training. But then your fingers betray you.

you: miss you a little extra today. i wore that shirt you love.

You don’t expect a response, but it comes a few minutes later, a picture of his tired face.

jobe: i miss you too. can’t lie, today’s dragging. can’t wait for you to wear it in front of me again.

You smile. That ache eases a bit.

Later that night, you’re in a white robe, your skin glowing from a body oil shoot, your makeup still intact, when your phone lights up again.

FaceTime: Jobe

You pick up instantly. He’s lying down, one side of his curls smushed into the pillow, lips slightly swollen with tiredness. Still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“Hi, baby,” he says, voice low and soft.

You melt. “Hi.”

“I hate this,” he mutters, closing his eyes for a second. “I hate not being there. You’re everywhere I wanna be.”

You wrap the robe tighter around yourself and sit cross-legged on your bed. “You’re doing what you love. I’m proud of you.”

He groans, rubbing his face. “Still. I want to be able to pull up to your place at midnight just because I miss you. I want to surprise you at brunch in your ‘rich auntie’ outfit. I want to be in the front row when you walk that charity runway next month.”

You bite your lip, heart thudding. “I want all of that too.”

There’s a pause.

“Come home this summer,” he says.

You blink. “Home?”

“To me. Come spend it in England. Please.”

You can’t speak right away. It’s not that you don’t want to. You do. God, you do. But your life in Ghana is full. Overflowing.

Still, what’s fullness if your heart feels half?

“I’ll talk to the team,” you whisper. “Maybe I can move some things.”

He looks at you like you just handed him the world. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His smile is boyish and warm. You see the seventeen-year-old in him again. The one who shyly asked for your number in that crowded gallery, standing there in a tracksuit while you wore gold.

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” he murmurs.

“You always do.”

When you finally see him again, it’s at Kotoka Airport.

He flew in.

He wasn’t supposed to. But you see him walking out of Arrivals, dragging one suitcase, hoodie over his head, looking so casual and yet—

Like air. Your life.

You run.

He drops his bag and opens his arms, and you crash into him like waves against sand. You cling to him, breathing him in. He smells like clean laundry and the cologne you left at his place.

That night, you’re barefoot in your kitchen, cooking him waakye because he asked so sweetly, music playing low. He comes up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, and sways you gently, lips grazing your shoulder.

You laugh. “You’re tired.”

“I missed you more.”

And you think—maybe love does stretch across oceans. Maybe it grows in the space between calls, and flourishes in faith.

Because somehow, here you are.

And he’s still yours.

footballwagupdates

liked by iwannabelovedlikethis, footieupdatz, bellihoes and 50K others

@footballwagupdates: Jobe Bellingham landed in Accra and it’s safe to say he got the warmest welcome possible. The midfielder was spotted embracing his longtime girlfriend and media influencer y/n l/n. Jobe is also set to be attending the charity gala in which his girlfriend also took a part organising. The pair have been together for 4 years despite how private their relationship is. Long-distance love winning again? We think yes. #JobeBellingham #y/n #love

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@bellihoes: Long distance could NEVER be me but I’m rooting for them fr 😭❤️

@randommanlover: Not me zooming in to see the matching bracelets 😩💍

@lovelovelove: I’d give anything to be loved like this ngl 😭

@needabellinghamx: This is why we stan real love

It’s been three days since Jobe arrived, and the house feels fuller in the best way. Your family home in Accra is already a lively place—cousins weaving in and out, uncles dropping by unannounced, aunties setting down trays of meat pies and chilled sobolo as if summoned by scent. But with Jobe around? Everything feels lighter. Brighter.

He fits in effortlessly, dapping up your older brothers like he’s known them forever and helping your mum carry bags from the car. He even holds his own in heated football debates with your uncle, which is basically a rite of passage.

But there’s one thing you don’t miss.

Ama.

Your cousin.

Sweet, giggly, always polished influencer Ama, who’s suddenly a little too present whenever Jobe enters the room.

It starts small—her choosing to sit beside him during family dinners, asking him about football like she just discovered the sport yesterday, offering him pineapple juice before you can even stand up.

You clock it.

So do your sisters.

The four of you sit cross-legged on your bed that night, silk bonnets and gossip in full rotation.

“Mmmh,” says Joy, your second sister. “Did you see how she leaned into him as she laughed?”

“She laughed like she saw Chris Hemsworth,” Sade snorts.

Nala, the youngest, folds her arms. “It’s giving i want your man, your a threat energy.”

You press a pillow to your face and scream into it.

They burst out laughing.

“No, but seriously,” Joy says, sobering. “You’re not worried, are you?”

You shake your head, pulling the pillow away. “No. I trust him. And besides, he’s not dumb. He probably sees it.”

Joy raises a brow. “Men don’t see anything until it bites them.”

You laugh. “Nah Jobe’s different.”

And he is.

Later that evening, you find him outside on the veranda, lying on the couch, scrolling through his phone. The sky is soft and violet, the air warm with the scent of grilled suya and night-blooming jasmine.

He sees you and immediately holds out a hand. “Come here.”

You curl into his side, your head resting against his chest.

“She’s laying it on a bit thick?” he says suddenly.

You blink. “Who?”

He gives you a look. “Your cousin.”

You giggle, relaxing. “You noticed?”

“I’d have to be blind not to. She’s not even slick with it.”

You look up at him. “Does it bother you?”

He kisses your forehead. “Only because it bothers you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your heart softens into syrup.

The next day, Ama tries again—offering to show him around the neighbourhood, talking about a beach party she’s “sure he’d love.”

Jobe’s polite but distant, always redirecting the conversation back to you, always finding your hand with his.

At dinner, when your uncles are arguing over Ghana Jollof vs. Nigerian Jollof and your mum is telling Jobe he looks too skinny (again), he leans in and kisses your cheek—soft and slow in front of everyone—you swear Ama's smile twitches just slightly.

But that’s not your problem.

He’s yours.

And your whole family knows it.

yourusername

liked by jobebellingham, golloria, yoursisters and 900K others

@yourusername: Home🤎

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@beautyisblack: This whole post is just fine fine fine. Like?? The genetics are disrespectful

@musilover: Whew, God took his time with the three of you

@deluluismeiam: + jobe!

@belligoalzzz: i want my man like jobe

The SUV door clicks shut behind you as your heels touch the red carpet. Flashbulbs go off in quick succession, and the sound is instant—cameras snapping, voices calling your name, phones recording, people whispering.

And Jobe?

He’s standing beside you in a tailored black suit, lapel pin glittering under the lights, one hand on your waist like he was made to be there.

“Are you ready?” he asks softly.

You glance up at him, your dark green gown hugging your body like a second skin, braids twisted up into a crown, diamonds twinkling at your ears. You smile.

“I am.”

It’s the biggest charity gala of the season—a collaboration between designers, some diplomats, and athletes—and this is the first time you and Jobe are attending something this public together.

You’ve been to events alone. You’ve been the “it girl” in Ghana since you were seventeen. Socialite. Business consultant. Brand darling. But being on his arm tonight? This feels different. Like a soft launch that’s actually the main event.

As you glide through the entrance, cameras follow, murmurs ripple, and you know they’re talking.

"That’s Jobe Bellingham, right?"

"Is that his girlfriend?"

"She’s even prettier in person."

Inside, the ballroom glows with amber light and gold accents. A string quartet plays softly while waiters float by with champagne flutes and delicate canapés. The crowd parts slightly as you two enter, and for a second, it feels like a movie.

Then you feel a familiar nudge.

“Babe, that’s—” you start, but Jobe’s already seen it.

Your cousin Ama, in a crimson dress, cutting through the room like she’s on a mission.

You blink. “Oh Lord, here we go.”

But Jobe doesn’t flinch. He takes your hand, fingers lacing through yours, and leans in close like he only sees you.

“I’m only here for one woman,” he murmurs into your ear.

Ama finally reaches you two with a plastic smile. “Oh my gosh, you look stunning,” she says, eyes not leaving Jobe. “And Jobe! I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

He gives a polite nod. “Evening.”

You step in smoothly. “We wouldn’t miss it. You know I helped organise this right?”

Her smile tightens. “Right, right. I saw the posts.”

The conversation doesn’t last long—Jobe keeps it short, and Ama eventually drifts away, her expression unreadable.

Later, as you both settle into your seats at the main table—next to ambassadors, CEOs, and two Afrobeats artists—you feel Jobe’s hand resting on your thigh beneath the tablecloth. A quiet, constant reminder: I’m with you.

After the keynote speeches and a performance, the auction begins. Items flash across the stage—art pieces, designer gowns, luxury getaways. You whisper something snarky in Jobe’s ear about one of the overly dramatic bidding wars, and he chokes on his drink, laughing silently into his napkin.

And then…

“One of our final auction items,” the host announces, “is a private training session and signed jersey from our special guest, Mr. Jobe Bellingham of Sunderland AFC.”

The crowd erupts in applause as Jobe stands and waves modestly.

You beam up at him with pride.

He sits back down, cheeks a little flushed, eyes only on you.

After the event winds down and the cameras finally stop flashing, you slip into the backseat of the car and kick off your heels with a dramatic sigh.

“I need banku,” you mumble.

Jobe laughs. “You’re stunning, you just pulled off an entire gala, and you’re thinking about food right now?”

“Food is a priority, babe.”

He leans over, lips brushing your jaw. “You handled yourself like a queen tonight. I’m proud of you.”

You look at him.

“No, I’m proud of you. Do you know how big of a deal this is? You being here, being with me—openly—in front of all these people? You didn’t have to. And you still did.”

He pauses. “I meant it when I said I’m not going anywhere.”

You nudge him with your foot. “Even if Ama shows up in a wedding dress next time?”

“Especially then,” he smirks.

You both laugh, the night soft around you.

And somewhere between the flashbulbs and the whispered rumours, you know one thing for sure.

This man is yours. And everyone knows it.

yourusername

liked by jobebellingham, outlandermagazine ,temsbaby and 950K others

@yourusername: Last night was magic 🥂, A dress, a little sparkle, a whole lot of love…@jobebellingham🤎

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@jobebellingham: Beautiful❤️

liked by yourusername @randombellighamlover: this should’ve been me but Jobe didn’t check his DMs.

@temsbaby: Golden💛

@yourusername: erm have you looked at the mirror😍

@jobedailynews: I need a documentary and a wedding date immediately.

The next day you wake to the sound of rustling luggage.

The sun hasn’t fully risen yet, just pale streaks of gold breaking through the gauzy curtains. Your body is still wrapped in silk sheets, and your cheek is pressed against Jobe’s pillow—still faintly smelling of his cologne and the hint of your body lotion from when he curled around you last night.

You sit up slowly. He’s standing by the window in a white T-shirt and grey sweats, zipping up his duffle bag.

And just like that, the ache begins.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually leaving this early,” you croak, voice thick with sleep.

He turns immediately, guilt written across his face. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

You frown, swinging your legs off the bed. “You should’ve. I hate goodbyes where you just vanish.”

Jobe steps toward you, kneeling in front of you where you sit on the edge of the bed. “I know. I’m sorry. I just… the flight’s in two hours and the driver’s downstairs already. They want me in Sunderland by nightfall.”

You look at him.

His eyes are soft, a little tired, but full of the same warmth they always carry when he’s around you. He takes your hands in his, kissing your knuckles gently.

“I wish I could stay longer,” he whispers.

You sigh, resting your forehead against his. “I know. I hate this part every time.”

He brushes a hand over your bare thigh. “I hate it too. But it’s not forever.”

“Feels like it sometimes.”

Silence.

You let yourself stare at him for a moment—at the boy who’s somehow become your safest place. At the way he looks at you like the world starts and ends in your eyes. At the fact that, no matter how loud your life is in Ghana, the silence he leaves behind is always louder.

“I’ll call when I land,” he says.

“You better. Don’t pull a ‘do not disturb’ after scoring two goals again.”

He laughs, low and sleepy. “I was celebrating!”

You lean in, lips brushing his. “You celebrate with me next time.”

“I will. Next break, I’m flying you out. Promise.”

You kiss him again, slower this time. Memorizing.

He stands reluctantly, grabbing his bag. You follow him out to the door, his hand never leaving yours until the last second. One final kiss in the entryway. One final “I love you” against your ear before the door closes behind him.

And just like that, he’s gone.

You press your back against the door, exhaling hard.

You miss him already.

yourusername posted on their story

[omw🤎]

The air at the stadium buzzes with that familiar match-day electricity — chants echoing, scarves twirling, tension pulsing like a heartbeat.

You sit in the family section. His mum is beside you, cool and composed as always, her nails done, sunglasses perched in her head but you can see it in the way she squeezes your hand when the starting whistle blows: she’s as nervous as you are.

“He’s been off all week,” she murmurs.

You glance at her. “Because of the game?”

She tilts her head knowingly. “Because he misses you.”

You smile faintly, watching him down on the pitch. Number 7. Your boy. Focused, pacing, his shoulders rising and falling like the game already weighs on him.

“He doesn’t show it,” you whisper, arms crossed tight.

“He doesn’t show anything. But I know my son,” she says gently. “I know what he’s like when you’re not around. And it’s not this.” She points down at him. “When you’re in the stands, he plays like the stadium doesn’t exist — like it’s just you watching.”

You don’t say anything, because if you do, your voice might crack.

The game starts. Fast. Rough. Jobe is locked in from the beginning — pressing high, tracking back, moving like the match means everything.

But you know better.

The second he steals the ball and breaks away down the wing, he glances up.

And sees you.

You swear his whole face shifts. Not a smile — just a softness. A flicker of warmth behind the sharpness of his jaw.

His mum notices too. “See?”

You keep watching, frozen to your seat as he crosses the ball perfectly, setting up a clean finish that sends the crowd roaring.

He doesn’t run to the fans. Doesn’t celebrate with his teammates. Just points — directly at you.

Your heart squeezes.

A subtle “this is for you.”

By halftime, he’s assisted again and drawn a foul just outside the box. You and his mum walk down the tunnel to greet him quickly in the player lounge before he heads into the locker room.

He spots you first.

Sweat-slicked, flushed, his curls a little damp. But his eyes go soft the second they land on you.

He barely says hello — just wraps his arms around you and presses his forehead to yours, breathing like it’s the first full breath he’s had in days then he kisses your cheek — gently, like he’s grounding himself — and walks back to the locker room.

---

The final whistle blows.

The stadium explodes in noise, fans leaping to their feet, chants roaring into the night. Jobe’s name echoes through the stands like a heartbeat — JOBE! JOBE!

He doesn’t bask in it.

He barely even reacts.

Because you’re still up there in the stands, waiting — and he’s already moving through the crowd of teammates, brushing off pats on the back and reporters calling his name. His eyes flick to the tunnel. Focused. Intent.

You’re waiting just past security with his mum, hands tucked into your sleeves, the kind of tired that comes from missing someone too long. He finds you fast, his long stride urgent, and then he’s in front of you — warm, flushed, eyes soft.

“Hey,” he breathes, stepping into your space like he can’t help it.

You barely get a word out before he cups your jaw and kisses you.

Not rushed. Not public. Just… his. A slow pull, a gentle press, like his lips know the shape of you too well to forget. His hand finds the small of your back. Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt.

When he pulls back, you both exhale at the same time.

“I’m taking her,” he tells his mum, already lacing his fingers through yours.

She smirks knowingly. “I figured.”

His flat is dim when you walk in, the curtains drawn, the hum of the city muffled behind glass. The ride over was quiet — your thigh against his, his fingers tracing small circles into your palm, the kind of silence that only builds tension.

The second the door closes, his hands are on your waist.

“I missed you,” he mumbles against your neck, kissing the skin just beneath your ear.

“I was only gone a few weeks,” you whisper, but it comes out breathless.

He doesn’t reply — just lifts you gently and walks backward toward the couch, your legs around his waist, your mouth finding his. The kind of kiss that feels like a question and an answer at the same time.

You tug the collar of his shirt. He groans low in his throat. His hands are everywhere — careful but needing, like he’s starved for you.

“You smell like sweat,” you tease, fingers in his curls.

“You smell like home,” he whispers back, voice hoarse.

He lays you down slowly, hovering above, forehead pressed to yours.

“I didn’t sleep right when you weren’t here.”

“You never sleep right anyway.”

“Yeah, but at least with you next to me, I’m calm.”

Your breath catches.

He brushes his nose along your cheek, his hand under the hem of your hoodie now, resting on your bare waist.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he asks, voice almost shaky. “Just being near you…”

You run your fingers down the side of his face, grounding him.

“I’m here now.”

“Don’t leave tomorrow.”

You hesitate. “Jobe…”

“Stay another day,” he begs. “I’ll cancel whatever. I don’t care. I just want to wake up with you in my arms again. I don’t even need anything else.”

Your body relaxes beneath him.

“Okay.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since you left.

And then he kisses you again — deep, grateful, like your yes was all he needed to unravel.

jobebellingahm posted a new story

[caption: 🤎📷]

[lucy-literates]

Hey.. I’m back.. 🤕

So Malachi and reader have been dating for a while, reader is a well known singer making tops hits and getting on billboards for years, but ever since she turned 18+ she’s started making lightly explicit music, and I assume you know Billie Eilish, and how she be kinda freaky on her stage. Reader starts doing that but they only do it when Malachi can’t make it to her shows, and it’s not like it’s a secret reader tells him about it, but he feels left out. So to make him feel better she makes a new song about him FOR him, to play at her next show, and she does her freaky stuff..

I KNOW this is a lot and if you don’t wanna write this that is perfectly fine!!

A/N: Welcome back! I love this, soooo much!! I had so much fun writing it, I hope you enjoy ittttt :)

All For You

Malachi had seen the clips.

He wasn’t stalking you, exactly — but Twitter didn’t make it easy to avoid when your name was trending every other week. And the moment he saw “Y/N wild on stage again 🥵🔥” under a blurry clip of you straddling a mic stand like it had personally offended you? His stomach twisted.

You were incredible. Confident, famous, powerful. You deserved the world.

But God, he hated not being there.

He wasn’t possessive — not really. You told him everything. You warned him before your image pivoted, even let him hear the demos first. He’d said he was cool with it. And he was, mostly.

He just wasn’t cool with the fact that the rest of the world got that version of you… The version that arched your back on stage. The one that dropped low and licked your lips between lyrics. The one who moaned lightly into the mic on the second chorus.

All of it — except when he was there.

Because when Malachi was backstage, you didn’t do any of it.

Not the eye contact with fans. Not the hips. Not the growl in your voice when you said “baby.”

He never said anything. He couldn’t. You were being respectful, right? It still didn’t stop the ache in his chest.

Until your next show.

He didn’t even know he was going to make it until that morning. You’d sent a casual, “wish you could be here tonight 🖤” and he’d booked the next flight.

You had no clue.

He watched from the wings of the stage, hood up, arms crossed — just another stagehand as far as anyone knew. The lights dropped. The crowd screamed.

And then you came out in leather and mesh, soft red lighting behind you.

And your voice purred:

“You like the clean girl on camera, but she’s dirty when she’s home…” “Singin’ sweet for the world, but I’m only real on the phone…” “You think I tease the crowd, baby—nah. I tease you when you're gone.”

Malachi’s eyes widened.

“Don’t want them touchin’, just want you fussin’…” “Backstage, hands on my hips, tell me how I should’ve done it.”

The audience was going insane. But you weren’t looking at them. You were staring dead at the wings. At him.

“This one’s for you, baby,” you said into the mic, voice velvet-sweet and low. “Sorry I’ve been making them sweat when I should’ve been making you blush.”

And then you danced. No, performed — just like you did when he wasn’t there.

You were unapologetic and sensual, body rolling through the bridge, throwing in a wink, tossing your hair, biting your lip during the last chorus.

The screens behind you flashed with lyrics in bold red:

“NOT FOR THEM.” “ALL FOR HIM.” “ALL. FOR. YOU.”

After the show, Malachi didn’t even wait for your team. He found your dressing room and walked in without knocking.

You spun around, still in stage clothes, glowing with sweat and adrenaline. Your eyes widened when you saw him. “Baby—! You came?!”

He kissed you so hard he backed you into the vanity table, hands on your hips, breathing like he’d just run through fire.

“I knew it,” he whispered against your lips. “I knew you were saving it for me.”

You grinned, breathless. “Did you like your song?”

His voice was low, wrecked. “I need to hear it again. Preferably while you're not wearing that.”

You laughed. “How ‘bout live in private?”

Tag List:

@laylayschipzz

@purplerose291

@imnotnotgabrielle

@imnotjadaddy

@23swife

@mysticmarble222

@saphiraelise

@coffeeonvenus 

@casey1-2007

[velarisdusk]

Lying Is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off

word count: 1.9k author's note: i had the idea for this one literally AS i was writing the last one im annoyed i didnt write it right after bc i know i had GREAT ideas that i literally cannot remember anymore sigh ✦ . AU Masterlist . ✦ ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

The venue hums with the kind of energy you’d expect for a band as big as Wings of Illyria, the low chatter and country rock playing in the background almost drowned out by the buzz around the meet-and-greet booth.

Cassian, the life of the party you always imagined him to be, is already surrounded by fans, effortlessly drawing people in with that easy grin of his. But security is quick to move in, ushering people away with practiced calm, the crowd reluctantly shifting to make room for the band’s massive presence.  Rhysand sits beside him, polished and smooth as ever, his gaze flicking between the crowd and the band’s merch, playing the role of the charming frontman like he was born for it. But Azriel—Azriel looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

You spot him leaning back in his chair, a half-smirk barely visible beneath the dark fringe of his hair, eyes scanning the room with a look that says he’s mentally checked out. The cigarette tucked behind his ear, defying the “No Smoking” sign above the booth, is the least surprising thing about him.

You can’t help but notice how effortlessly Azriel leans into the atmosphere, the way his posture seems to say he’s both above it all and fully in control of the space around him. The black leather jacket slung over his chair, the way his fingers casually thrum against the table, it’s all effortlessly cool. But before you can linger on him too long, a voice cuts through the room, sharp and high-pitched enough to make your teeth ache. 

The girl in front of you is practically vibrating, her hands shaking as she clutches her phone to her chest like it’s a lifeline. “Oh my God, oh my God,” she whispers to her friend, barely able to hold it together. “What if I say something dumb? What if they laugh at me? What if Az doesn’t even look at me? I have to tell him how much I—”

It’s the way she says Az—not like she’s just a fan, but like she’s personally on a nickname basis with him—that makes your eye twitch. You don’t want to judge, but fuck, could people just enjoy things without this level of intensity? She’s decked out in enough Wings of Illyria merch to make you wonder if she owns anything that isn’t branded. Her denim jacket is practically a billboard for the band, from the patches to the pins to the shirts she’s stacked under it, all so bright and loud it’s almost cartoonish. She looks exactly like the kind of people you’ve seen mocked in those “fan stereotype” posts, and it grates on you more than it should.

You bite back a sigh, trying to ignore the discomfort gnawing at your nerves. It’s not her fault, right? People can like things however they want. But as you stand there, you can’t shake the tightness in your chest, the buzz of unease you’ve been carrying all day. You hadn’t gotten much sleep last night—too busy running through every possible scenario, obsessing over the idea that maybe, just maybe, you’d misinterpreted the song. What if it wasn’t about you at all? What if you’d been foolish to even think it was? You’d spent so much time convincing yourself this was the right thing to do, that you could handle whatever confrontation came with it. But now, with the weight of it all on your shoulders, doubts have started to creep in. 

To each their own, you remind yourself, trying to shake the jittery feeling in your stomach. 

The line inches forward, and you shuffle along with it, caught between your own nerves and the chaos around you. Every second stretches and the girl ahead of you is still whispering furiously to her friend about all the reasons this moment is life-changing for her. You try to tune it out, focusing instead on the distant hum of the music overhead, and the faint shuffle of feet, the air heavy with anticipation.

And then, it’s your turn. 

Cassian is the first to notice you, his smile broad and infectious, like he’s genuinely thrilled to meet every single person who steps up to the booth. “Hey!” he greets warmly, his voice loud enough to carry over the din. “You excited for the show?”

“Yeah, definitely,” you reply, shifting your weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. “I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks.”

Cassian beams like you’ve just made his night. “That’s what I like to hear! First time seeing us live?”

You shake your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Second. Saw you guys in Orlando last year.”

“No shit?” he says, leaning forward slightly. “That was a great crowd. One of the best on that leg of the tour. You catch the whole set?”

“Most of it,” you admit. “I got stuck in traffic and missed the first couple of songs.”

Rhysand, who’s been quietly observing, chuckles at that. “Typical,” he says, his voice smooth and amused. “Traffic in that city is practically a right of passage.”

“Right?” you say, laughing despite yourself. “I swear I left two hours early and still barely made it in time for ‘Bloodlines.’”

Cassian gives you a mock sympathetic look. “Tragic. That’s one of my favorites to play live.”

“It’s a good one,” you say, your nerves easing just a little. You glance between the two of them, noting how Rhys’s sharp gaze is fixed on you like he can tell there’s another reason you’re here. 

“So,” Rhys says, tilting his head slightly. “What’s your favorite track?”

How the hell—

“I mean, the whole album is great,” you say, “but ‘Sear My Skin’ has been on repeat lately.”

It’s a calculated choice, and you don’t miss the quirk of Azriel’s brow in your peripheral. 

“Interesting pick,” Rhys says, his smirk widening. “That one’s been causing a bit of a stir lately.”

Cassian chuckles. “Yeah, Az really knocked it out of the park with that one.”

And there it is—the perfect segue. You glance past them, finally letting your gaze settle on Azriel, who’s been silent this whole time. 

He’s leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable as his dark eyes meet yours. For a second, the noise of the room seems to fade, and you realize your heart is pounding in your chest, 

“Azriel,” you say, his name coming out steadier than you expected. “Can I ask you something?”

He quirks that brow again, the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “You just did.”

Cassian groans dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “Come on, man. Don’t make it harder than it needs to be,” he mutters.

Azriel ignores him, his gaze still fixed on you. “What’s the question?”

You take a breath, forcing yourself to hold his stare. “The song—’Sear My Skin.’ Is it about me?”

Rhysand doesn’t bother hiding his laughter, leaning back in his chair like he’s settling in for a show. Cassian’s drink nearly slips out of his hand, and he mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, Oh, shit.

Azriel doesn’t react immediately. He just stares at you, his expression unreadable, until the silence stretches so thin you think it might snap. 

“Who are you?” he asks finally, his tone maddeningly calm. 

You blink, thrown off by the audacity of the question. “You seriously don’t remember me?”

He leans back, shrugging one shoulder. “I don’t remember half the women I sleep with.” Cassian chokes on his drink, Rhysand’s grin stretching wide enough to show teeth, but you’re not about to let Azriel off that easily. 

“Pressed against the door, your lips trace the ache?” You quote the line pointedly, crossing your arms as you glare at him. The memory rushes back—how he’d tasted on your tongue, how his hands had threaded through your hair before all hell broke loose. “Sound familiar?”

“It’s not that deep,” Azriel replies, his tone dismissive, though his gaze sharpens ever so slightly. 

“Really?” you counter, your tone dripping with incredulity. “Right before I finish, your body’s all I feel, breathed in your ear ‘you feel too good to be real.’” Your voice rises, your chest tightening as the words leave your mouth. “You literally said that to me while you were balls deep in me against a wall.”

Azriel freezes, his lips parting slightly as a faint flicker of surprise breaks through his carefully guarded expression. For a split second, it’s almost satisfying. 

Cassian’s reaction is anything but subtle. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor as he doubles over in laughter, nearly spilling his drink again. He gasps, pounding the table. “Yo, what the fuck?!”

Rhysand isn’t fairing much better, his laughter barely contained as he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his amusement still sharp but with a more controlled edge than Cassian’s, to his credit.

Azriel’s jaw tightens, and he finally breaks eye contact, glancing down at the table. “Okay,” he mutters, the word barely audible over the laughter. “Maybe it’s a little about you.”

Cassian claps a hand over his mouth, trying and failing to muffle another loud “Yo!” Rhysand smirks, watching the two of you closely. 

But you shake your head, not about to let him off with just that. “A little? Really? You practically narrated the whole thing—I deserve royalties.”

Azriel raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that response. “Royalties?” he repeats, half-laughing, but still avoiding eye contact.

Before he can properly respond, a security guard steps forward, tilting their head toward the door, a silent gesture that your time is up. 

You roll your eyes but shoot Azriel a teasing smile. “Guess I’m out of time for royalties. But I’ll be expecting them in the mail.”

As the security guard ushers you forward, Rhysand speaks up. “Well, nice to meet you, Sear My Skin,” he says, voice dripping with humor. 

You grin back at him, a little cheeky. “My name—”

“It’s (y/n),” Azriel interrupts, dragging a hand over his face as he speaks, his tone casual but something darker in his gaze that would’ve stopped you in your tracks if not for the man guiding you away.

You blink at him, and can’t help the smile blooming on your face. He remembered you. Really remembered you. 

Just as you’re about to take another step toward the exit, Cassian shouts from behind you, “Wait, wait, wait!” His voice is a mix of urgency and excitement. 

You turn around, confused, as Cassian's already talking to someone behind the merch table. The team member nods, already moving to grab something and hand it over to you. Cassian looks at you with that mischievous grin you’re so used to seeing on video. “We’ll set you up for the show. Don’t leave without saying hi to us again, yeah?”

You look at the woman heading your way and take the slip she hands you, your heart stopping when you read the words Backstage Pass. You’re not sure what’s happening, but the thrill of it courses through you. “Uh—Yeah, thank you?”

“Anytime, princess,” Cassian says with a wink, leaning back in his chair as he makes a show of lounging. 

You glance at Azriel one last time before being nudged along by the guard. He looks back at you for a moment, unreadable as ever, but there’s something in his eyes. But he says nothing, and it’s enough to make your chest tighten, a mix of anticipation and confusion bubbling in your stomach. 

[jungwnies]

wrong time, right person - carlos sainz (2/4)

୨ৎ : pairing : carlos sainz x fem!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis : years after a bitter breakup, you and carlos sainz reunite unexpectedly. old wounds resurface, but so does undeniable love. will history repeat itself?

୨ৎ : genre : romance, angst, humor, drama ୨ৎ : tws : mild language, arguing, friendships ending, bantering, suggestive humor, mentions of alcohol consumption. ୨ৎ : wc : 817

part one | part two | part three | part four

The past was supposed to stay behind you.

You told yourself that more times than you could count. Every time you saw his name trending, every time another headline mentioned his transfer from Ferrari to Williams, every time a new interview clip surfaced on your feed. Carlos Sainz this, Carlos Sainz that.

Your old friends and family still brought him up like he was a permanent fixture in your life.

"Did you hear? He’s moving to Williams." "I saw an interview, he looks different now." "You must be so proud of him."

But you weren’t sure if proud was the right word. Not because he didn’t deserve it, he did, he always did, but because it didn’t involve you anymore.

"That life is behind me." You’d repeat it like a prayer, like if you said it enough times, you’d start to believe it.

And for the most part, you had moved on. Your career had skyrocketed, your face was on billboards in every major city, your name carried weight in the industry. People didn’t just recognize you, they admired you. They wanted to be you.

Carlos couldn’t escape you.

Your face was everywhere he went. Every city, every airport, every magazine stand outside his hotels. It wasn’t just the memories of you haunting him, it was you.

A photo of you staring down at him from a massive billboard in Times Square when he landed in New York for press. A video of you at Paris Fashion Week playing on the airport TV in Italy. A poster of you in a London boutique window while he was out for a run.

He could ignore the memories, the what-ifs, the moments that replayed in his head at night. But how was he supposed to ignore you when you were everywhere?

“Dude, it’s been years,” Alex Albon muttered beside him as they walked through the Williams headquarters. “You need to let it go.”

Carlos scoffed, shaking his head. “It’s not about letting it go.”

Alex gave him a look, unimpressed. “Then what is it about?”

He exhaled sharply. “I just… regret how it ended.”

Alex clapped a hand on his shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, well, you can’t change the past. Just focus on the season ahead, alright?”

Carlos nodded, but deep down, he knew it wasn’t that easy.

(timeskip)

When your manager called, you weren’t expecting that.

“They want you to attend a Formula 1 race.”

You nearly dropped your phone. “What?”

“It’s a great PR move. You’re at the peak of your career, and showing up at a global sporting event keeps your name relevant in different markets.”

You didn’t miss the hidden implication. F1 fans never really let go of things. You knew exactly what kind of reaction this would get.

“No,” you said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

Your manager sighed. “Look, I get it. But this isn’t about him, it’s about you. You’re bigger than a past relationship. You’re a global name now, and this only makes sense.”

You hesitated, but they kept pushing. “It’s just one weekend. You don’t even have to see him. Go, do the interview, wave at some cameras, and leave.”

You exhaled, rubbing your temples. One weekend.

“…Fine.”

It had been a while since you were last in a Formula 1 city. The sounds, the buzz, the energy. It felt familiar in a way that made your chest tighten.

But this wasn’t for him. This was for you.

You reminded yourself of that as you stepped out onto the bustling streets of Melbourne, sunglasses perched on your nose, blending in as best as you could while shopping for some last-minute outfits before the paddock appearance.

And then it happened.

You turned a corner and froze.

Carlos Sainz was standing right there.

For a split second, neither of you moved.

His expression flickered between shock and something else, something unreadable. Your breath caught in your throat, time stretching impossibly long between the two of you.

He looked different, but also exactly the same. A little older, a little sharper. Still Carlos.

“Hey,” he finally said, voice careful, hesitant.

You swallowed. “Hey.”

The air between you felt too heavy, too thick, too much.

More words could have been said. More things could have been fixed, or shattered even further. But neither of you let it happen.

Instead, there was just an awkward pause, a polite nod, and then,

“Goodbye, Carlos.”

You walked away.

And the paparazzi caught all of it.

Within hours, the internet exploded.

"Old friends reunite in Melbourne?! Is there tension between Carlos and Y/N?" "The past comes crashing back. Will 2025 be Carlos’ season, on and off the track?" "Y/N spotted ahead of the Australian GP. What does this mean for Carlos Sainz?"

The headlines didn’t stop. The photos were everywhere.

And for the first time in years, the world started watching you and Carlos again.

taglist : @willowsnook , @its-avalon-08 , @f1fantasys, (comment to be added)

© 2024 jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

[ijustwannabecool]

Unexpected Vows

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Breakups suck. Especially when your ex is a world-famous F1 driver. Especially when he looks that good in Ferrari red.

You haven’t seen Lewis Hamilton since last summer, and things were supposed to stay that way—until a New Year’s Eve kiss turned into a one-night stand… and a surprise wedding.

Oops.

Now it’s race season, he’s ready to win you back, and you’re stuck figuring out how to say, “Hey, so funny story… we’re actually married.”

No pressure, right?

Trigger Warnings: Alcohol consumption, memory loss due to intoxication, implied sexual content, emotional topics related to breakups and relationships.

⸻

You haven’t seen him since the summer.

Not really, anyway. There were glimpses—on TV, plastered across social media, billboards on your way to work. Lewis Hamilton in Ferrari red. A new chapter. A new team. A new life. One that didn’t seem to have room for you anymore.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was mutual. Clean break, no mess. You both needed time, space, clarity. But the truth is you never stopped missing him—not when you buried yourself in work, not when you tried dating again, not even when you found it.

The envelope.

The certificate.

Your name and his, in cursive black ink.

Married.

New Year’s Eve had been a blur. Champagne, music, friends—and then him. Lewis. The way he looked at you like no one else ever had. You remember a kiss at midnight. A hotel suite. Laughter, hands roaming, clothes on the floor. You remember waking up next to him, head pounding, heart light, thinking: God, I still love him. And then he rolled over and mumbled something about how wild the night had been, how funny it was that you’d ended up together again.

Neither of you remembered the vows. The officiant. The witnesses. But the papers were real.

You’ve read them a hundred times since.

You’re married to Lewis Hamilton.

And he doesn’t know.

⸻

The first race of the season is in Bahrain. The world watches. Cameras flash as Lewis steps out in red for the first time, and the air practically buzzes with anticipation. New era. New energy. New Lewis.

But when his eyes scan the crowd, past the fans, past the chaos, they land on you.

Everything stops.

Your breath catches, and you can’t tell if it’s from nerves or the desert heat or just… him. Still him, always him.

He walks past his team, past the paddock, and comes straight toward you. Like there’s no one else in the world.

“You’re here,” he says, and his voice is soft, like a secret.

You nod. “Didn’t want to miss your first race.”

His eyes search yours, like he’s trying to find pieces of himself in them. “I’ve been thinking about you. A lot.”

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your fingers twitch toward the envelope in your bag, the one you’ve carried around for weeks, the one you keep meaning to hand him.

“I miss you,” he continues. “I thought time would fix it, but it hasn’t. It’s made it worse. And I know we’re not… I mean, we haven’t talked since the break, but—Y/N, I love you. I never stopped. And I want to fight for you. For us.”

You swallow hard. This is the moment. Tell him, your mind screams.

But the words won’t come.

So instead, you smile, half-hearted and trembling, and say, “We should talk. Later.”

He nods. “Promise?”

You promise.

And you mean it.

⸻

That night, you slip into the Ferrari hospitality suite after most people have left. The trophy is in his hands—third place, but you can tell by the look on his face that all he’s thinking about is you.

“Can we talk now?” he asks.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you hand him the envelope.

He frowns as he opens it, and you watch his eyes skim the certificate. Once. Twice. Then a third time, slower. He doesn’t speak.

Then—

A laugh.

A real one. Deep. Shocked. Disbelieving.

“We got married?” he says, like the words are too big to fit in his mouth. “You’re serious?”

You nod. “I found it a few weeks ago. I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t even remember… until I saw the date, and then some things started coming back.”

He just stares at you, quiet for a long moment. And then, to your surprise, his smile grows.

“Married,” he repeats. “So… I already won you back. I just didn’t know it.”

“Lewis—”

“I’m not mad. I’m relieved.” He takes your hands, grips them tight. “This… this is fate. I was ready to beg you to come back, to give us another shot, but this—this means we never really ended. We’re already on chapter two.”

His excitement makes your head spin.

“You still want to be with me?” you whisper.

“I want it all,” he says. “You. Us. A home. Kids. The whole messy, beautiful ride.”

You blink back tears, wondering how this could be real. Wondering if maybe, just maybe, the universe knows what it’s doing after all.

And then his phone buzzes.

He glances at the screen, and his expression shifts. Just slightly.

You notice.

“Everything okay?” you ask.

He hesitates. “Yeah. Just… something I should probably tell you too.”

You raise an eyebrow, pulse quickening. “What is it?”

But he doesn’t answer.

Not yet.

⸻

TO BE CONTINUED…

Part 2

⸻

I hope you love it. Please let me know if you guys want a part 2. Enjoy🫶

[cupcakeslushie]

Happy holidays!

It’s hard to say how Donnie would react in every circumstance, especially an AU, which ya know, is where I kinda live lol. But even with my EW Donnie growing up with different experiences, there are moments where i actively want him to be different, but moments i have to sit and think about how he’s still the same lovable purple guy.

Canon Donnie is such a people pleaser. Donnie’s love language is clearly acts of service/gift giving, creating inventions to make the family’s lives easier…and when they don’t, Donnie tends to either go into a denial mode, refusing any criticism, or fix it mode.

He can’t handle the idea of just dropping a project—not until he has no other choice. When Shelldon literally destroyed the lair and nearly killed them all, Donnie insisted he could improve him. When he saw the billboard for Purple Game 2, he was still 100% invested in getting that game, despite knowing full well how much damage his obsession caused, and that it was a ploy created by the Purple Dragons. When April went to Witch Town, instead of him, he took that as the highest insult to his talents. If Donnie’s got a worm in his brain for something, he’s not going to let anything stop him—sometimes even, to the detriment of his family’s health.

He loves them, obviously, but he can still be very self involved, and it often blinds him to how he’s hurting them. I personally think this comes from having Raph and Leo always there to be his safety net/older siblings. If something goes awry, they’ll take care of it, Donnie is the results guy, not the plan guy. I see a lot of fanon Donnie taking on everything— taking charge in a emergency—and I’m not ragging, I even enjoy seeing that trope of Donnie working himself to death, doing it all, when it’s written very well—but in canon, Donnie relies a lot on Raph and Leo as team leaders for support and guidance. I think if something were to happen to both of them, he’d need some time to panic and pull himself together. He trusts their judgment (only ever pushing back with a few follow up questions) and backs them up. They come up with the plan, and he figures out how to implement it, or just follows along until his intelligence (or sarcasm) is needed. The times we do see Donnie take charge, he has zero patience for it lol (see Mind Meld). He will stand back, if he doesn’t have much to do and snark about what’s going wrong.

If it’s a fight situation, Donnie’s usually not the one to charge in headfirst. In both Shredder fights (and a few others), he allows the others to go in swinging before he takes a go, and then right off the bat, he pulls out some pretty big final moves (whether they worked as final moves, well 😬) so I think Donnie tends to leave the super physical stuff to the other three, unless it’s a one vs one, or if he can see they need help. He IS a great fighter, that’s for damn sure, but I think if he can go last, and make it into a big show, he has more fun with it.

There is the attention seeking, seeing as he’s a middle child. This is where I get into heavy head canon territory…

We can maybe, safely assume from canon, that Splinter gives Donnie the least amount of attention. I do think the Splinter attention goes-> Mikey, Leo (tho most of that attention is negative from being reprimanded lol), Raph, then Donnie. And while Leo tells himself the negative attention he gets from being a little shit is the same as any attention, I think Donnie desperately needs positive attention, and someone to validate all his creations.

I hope any of that made sense. I’m not the best at writing down my thoughts on a character’s motivations and personality lol. I’m mostly going off vibes when I write.

[spiriteddreams]

in exile, seeing you out

Hiraeth: (n.) a homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was notes: sunday x reader — angst with a hopeful ending, lots of feelings wc: 2.2k

i.  The story begins before his fall. It starts with the comforting warmth of lovers who do not notice the cracks that begin to snake beneath both of your feet. You are bathed in golden light, a product of the star-filled dream he has worked to build and sustain for the two of you to stand beneath now, to impress you, to show you what he can offer you in this world. The sun does not rise in this sweet dream beneath the stars so neither of you will burn if you get too close. But this story of Icarus starts with the falters in your relationship, the missed signs and the words that you couldn't translate for one another.

"Sunday, are you alright?" you don't fully address him by his name often, but the rise in his sleepless nights and his days spent out longer at work have raised your concerns.

"It's nothing you need to worry about, my dear,” he doesn’t look up from his work. This isn’t the first time you’ve approached him out of worry, but it comes to a point when you wonder when it will be the last.

You sigh and try your luck again. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, you need to rest—“

“Well if it's not me to take on this mantle then who?” his pen stops scratching against the paper. It is silent now that Sunday looks up at you, holding your gaze with something swimming in his eyes, something you can’t quite decipher. He looks exhausted, wings drooping behind him, hand clutching his pen so tightly as if it is the only thing tethering him to this place. 

“What mantle? Sunday, what are you talking about?” you scoff. “You’ve been speaking cryptically for weeks, can you please tell me what’s going on or how I can help you?” He refuses to divulge anymore than he already has. With the Charmony Festival just around the corner and esteemed guests arriving to join in the festivities, you feel as if Sunday is closing himself away from everyone in sweet dream. And what is the opposite of the sweet dream but the harshness of the sun?

“Nothing. It's nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he sighs sharply then takes a deep breath. In a more gentle tone he continues, “Now if you would, please, I need to finish this. I'll join you for dinner, I promise.”

He joins you, just as he said and apologizes for his harsh words. He brings you home and his hands do not stray far. After all, at the end of the day you are both just lovers, with tangled hands and swollen lips, sweet nothings breathed onto skin. But even then, you can still trace the lines of tension etched across his face, the tightness to his words, the slight pulling away that you are unable to prevent the more times this pattern repeats. He locks himself up in work, snaps for your exit, then whispers bittersweet apologies later.

You think you’ve seen this film before. In a movie perhaps, one with Penaconian stars whose faces are plastered on billboards, a teaser of two tragic lovers whose paths ultimately diverge. You don’t quite like the ending to that, and yet you wonder if that was a warning, some sort of ridiculous sign you should have read into.

Another instance passes and he refuses to hear you out. You exit this narrative before Sunday has the chance to bring you down with him.

ii.  He’s not quite sure what hurts more: the train that barrels into him or the sting he feels at the sight of both you and Robin standing with the Astral Express. The sight of your horrified expression doesn’t suit you, and yet you are still standing there, hand wrapped around your own weapon as if you would not hesitate to strike. If you and Robin stand on the opposite end of all that he has built, he can’t help but wonder, in this split second of grace that he can afford, what is he defending now?

The train hurts more, physically of course. But with how fast everything has happened, he can’t quite piece things together, this scheme that had bloomed behind his back. The last time you both had spoken, it was a quiet and cold exchange of words with one another, fueled by both his and your exhaustion and frustration. Sunday hadn’t quite realized just how distant you had grown until you were packing up the last of your things, reclaiming the bits and pieces of your life that you had left in his care. It felt like only five minutes had passed after you both had quieted down and you had left, leaving him alone at the end of the hall.

But this feels like a betrayal in his eyes. Amidst the fighting his head spins, reeling between separate conversations with Robin and Gopher Wood. One urges him to lay down to rest, while the other sneers at him to continue this fight he is so rapidly losing. He tries to recall the signs, if there were any, that he may have missed that have led to this point.

“Love, don’t you think you should take a break, you’ve been working for hours non-stop.” He's not sure why this conversation has surfaced but he indulges in the memory for just a moment. A break sounds nice right now. And when was the last time you used such a term of endearment when addressing him? This memory of you is blurred, both by the heat of the fight and the distance in time but he hears himself saying, “There’s no need for you to worry, this is only a menial task I need to take care of. I’ll join you shortly.”

You open your mouth, hesitate, then close it. Sunday waits for what you have to say, but he can feel the paper at his fingertips begging for his attention. When you say nothing he looks back down. Even with his Halovian abilities, he’s no mind reader, but he figures that if you had something to say, you would’ve come out to say it. 

(When does concern turn to unease?)

Now, he can’t bring himself to meet your eyes. He knew that you and Robin were close, but he’s not quite sure how you ended up in this position. Yet he doesn’t have the grace of time to consider how and why you now know his secrets. But if anything, it gives him the drive to win, to craft this sweet dream within a dream for you and ensure that you will never have to see something like this again, with golden blood pouring down and a scorching sun that threatens to melt away all that he has built. 

All of a sudden everything around him feels like it’s burning. He can feel the wind rushing against his back as he reaches skyward for something, he’s not sure what this time. 

“Brother,” Robin’s soft voice surrounds him. “The dream is over.”

He rests his eyes and pretends that he falls into your embrace.

iii.  He can’t turn things around anymore, time never favors the fallen. But there are always other factors, unknown variables who enter the playing field, bargaining for his freedom. And when Sunday returns in search of a farewell, he realizes that his self exile from penacony is also an exile from you. 

He chooses to watch from a distance as you pick up the pieces he left behind for himself. He knows he has left his mark and that his time with you is far too ingrained for it to be washed away like all else. You are not Robin, so he can't find it in him to face you, even in this disguise.

So he doesn't quite understand your fleeting movements, never staying in place for long until he learns that you have been spending more time with the Nameless. You’re retracing his steps, he realizes, and that’s what leads you to stand next to Dan Heng. Jealousy bubbles in his chest from where he stands, within your field of view but still, he thinks, hidden in the shadows.

From this distance, he can't hear the words you exchange with Dan Heng, nor is he familiar with this expression on your face (he is, but he chooses to read it differently). You look excited, thrilled even, and Sunday wonders what could make you smile so brightly right now. He scoffs at the thought that you might continue to seek out this Nameless again, that you’re planning to move on. Would you hear him out, one last time?

He’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he misses the way you catch him staring, his disguise long gone, alter ego for once, quiet. You find it almost endearing that Sunday doesn’t feel the need to be in disguise around you, but that feeling is washed away by the reminder that he can’t even find the courage to face you. Robin’s told you of the little time she was able to spend with him, even if it was in disguise. What makes it so different for you?

Exile is a cruel word. It carries the weight of one’s memories, a haunted past that can eat one alive if they do not find it in themselves to seek out that closure. But Dan Heng reminds you that exile is not a word that can stretch out longer than time itself. 

“We all find our way back, one way or another,” he says. “The Express will remain here for a bit longer, you’re always a welcome guest so do visit. If I cannot convince you of that, I’ll have to send March after you.” 

“Then when you leave for your next destination, I’ll bid you all farewell,” you promise.

Sunday feels like he’s been hit by the Astral Express again. You stand in front of him and for a second he thinks he must be dreaming, because all this time, he thought he had done a good job at hiding his disguised return from everyone. 

“Sunday,” you greet him curtly. His mind races, trying to decipher the tone that you use. He’s speechless and it hits him that the rest of the crew have so conveniently decided to make their exit. It is just you and him and the two ends of a rope that each of you hold.

He swallows thickly. “You’re here. I… I wasn’t expecting this.” 

“I can go if you want—”

“No! Please don’t,” his words come out more rushed than he intended. You look thoroughly unimpressed and he can only wonder what could possibly be going through your head for you to be so composed and he be the one grasping at air. 

“I’m sorry,” he isn’t sure where to start. Now isn’t the time for him to be picking his words carefully but the anxiety in him festers because he worries nothing he says will be enough.

“Do you know what you’re sorry for?” As gentle as you say it, they still sting. He can hear the hurt that’s etched into the words and that’s enough for him to give in. Sunday has never been one to let his composure fall, but if the last few months have proven anything, it’s that he’s exhausted. So he lets his resolve crumble, in only a way that one might in front of a lover. And while that’s not the term he can rightfully use anymore, he still feels it when you pull him in and let him sink into your embrace.

He doesn’t hide his words as well as he thinks he does, but you still let him, even though it hurts that he still can’t find it in him to be completely honest. The Sunday in front of you is the same man, though scarred. His mannerisms still give away his festing anxiety and you’re not a fool to the way he subtly tries to reach for you. But he can’t stay, you know that.

When you both finally have a proper conversation, Sunday feels lighter. Exile no longer feels like a curse. Perhaps a ‘see you soon,’ in a twisted sort of manner.

“I’m surprised you’ve chosen to journey with the Express, even if it’s just temporary,” you hum. The two of you stand side by side, staring out one of the Express windows. Your hands curl around the window sill and Sunday has half a mind to wrap your hand with his. 

You continue. “I think this will be good for you. Look beyond the stars, at least try to.”

“And how about you and I?” Sunday asks. “Are we going to try again?”

You hesitate. The two of you know that with the Nameless, it's the stars that lead the way.

“It’s time for you to go, I’m sure we’ll meet someday soon,” you avoid the question. Sunday smiles to himself, you’re just as hesitant as he is. It’s just the truth that he must learn to confront if, no, when you meet again.

“Wait for me?” he asks.

“I will.”

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! <3 note: not rly content with the ending but i was listening to hadestown and this is what came of it